Chapter Seventeen.Realisation.By nine o’clock in the evening the Swedish masseur had arrived, and begun his manipulations. He promised that his patient should walk by the end of five or six days, and at the Squire’s request agreed to put up at the Court for that period, giving several treatments a day. His fee made Peignton grimace, but he had to admit that it was cheap in comparison with weeks of inactivity. A telephone message brought a couple of bags filled with his clothes and toilette accessories, and he settled down to rest with the satisfaction of a man relieved from pain, and agreeably expectant of the future. Raynor was a good fellow; no one could have been kinder, and it certainly was a comfort to have the services of a trained man at this point, and to be housed in a big establishment, where there were possibilities of moving from room to room on the same floor, or even of being carried up and downstairs without feeling oneself too intolerable a burden. There were always two or three lazy fellows hanging about, who would be the better for using their muscles. Peignton gave a little shudder of distaste at the thought of the fluster which would have accompanied every movement, if he had accepted Mrs Mallison’s invitation to the Cottage. Teresa, dear girl! had offered to nurse him, but the thing was not possible. Convention would have forbidden her attending him in bed, and how the deuce was he to get up with no one to help? He wondered between a laugh and a groan, if Mrs Mallison would have offered motherly services! And then he thought of Cassandra, standing slim and straight, the little deer-like head turned over her shoulder, looking at him with questioning eyes. What a picture she had made! Thinking of it conjured up other pictures. He envisaged them one by one, as he lay in the darkness. Cassandra on the day of Grizel Beverley’s reception seated beside him in the closed car, the softness of chinchilla beneath her chin; Cassandra playing bridge, tapping the green baize with the long, lovely hand on which the emerald flashed; Cassandra at the church decorations standing with upraised arms against a background of leaves; Cassandra looking at him down the length of her own dining-table, the bare slimness of her throat rising above the bank of flowers. Each picture seemed more beautiful, more appealing than the last. He wondered dreamily what it was which formed this quality of appeal. Was it the touch of physical fragility which underlaid her bloom, or a finer spiritual need which called to a force within his own breast, a force which recognised the call! Always in Cassandra’s presence he had the consciousness of waiting for an opportunity to serve; always he had the consciousness of need. He told himself he would be a happier man if it were ever given to him to be of service to Cassandra Raynor.And then, with a real tenderness, he thought of hisfiancée,—the loving, kind-hearted woman-girl who was to be his wife. The mysterious glamour of a Lady Cassandra was far removed from the practical common sense of Teresa Mallison; but life was largely composed of the commonplace, and he knew that not once, but a hundred times over in the days to come, he would have cause to be thankful for a wife who could be a partner in deed as well as in name. He thought of Teresa’s voice as she said: “I should have liked to nurse you, Dane!” and felt a pang of remorse. He hoped he had not been inconsiderate. He hoped the dear girl was not hurt. He would write her a line in the morning and explain that... that really... Well, hang it! it was simple enough... There was only one spare room at the Cottage. Where could the masseur have slept? There were many adequate reasons for his choice which he could advance in a letter; now that he was quietly settled in bed they crowded into his mind, but looking back at the moment of decision, he knew he had acted from no definite reason, but simply from an overpowering desire. The chance of staying at the Court had been given him. It was not in him to refuse.The next morning immediately after his treatment Peignton was wheeled into an upstairs sitting-room, where his couch was placed in a window affording a view of the terraced gardens. Cassandra came in dressed for driving, made a few arrangements for his comfort, and immediately disappeared; later on the Squire lounged in, smoked a pipe, and discussed items in the morning paper, and disappeared in his turn. By noon Dane was alone, and the hour and a half before luncheon hung heavily. Luncheon was served to him in his room,—a solitary repast, and the sense of disappointment grew when the table was cleared, and still no one appeared to bear him company. Books and papers galore were within reach, an electric bell would at any moment summon an attendant, but a man accustomed to an outdoor life soon wearies of reading, and as minute after minute ticked away, Peignton became conscious of an overpowering impatience. He threw down his book, seized the electric bell, and pressed his finger on the button. In less than two minutes a manservant appeared in the doorway. “Is the Squire in the house?”“I am not sure, sir. I will enquire.”“Ask him to come up, will you? Tell him I’m lonely.”The man bowed, and retired. Five minutes passed, and the sound of light footsteps was heard from without; the door opened and Cassandra looked at him, smiling under raised brows.“Not asleep?”“Asleep! Why should I be asleep?”“Invalids always sleep after lunch.”“I’m not an invalid. I’m a well man tied by the leg. I don’t know how a real invalid feels, but I never was further off sleep in my life! I sent to ask the Squire to take pity on me. I’m so confoundedly tired of myself.”“He is out, but Teresa will be here soon after four. I invited her to tea.”Peignton looked at the clock, and his face fell.“It’s only three. There’s an hour and more, before then.”“Does that mean that you want—”She stopped, smiling, and he answered with eager haste:“Yes,please! Could you? You are not engaged?”“Oh, no, I am very seldom engaged. I was in my boudoir working at my embroidery. I’ll have it brought in here.”She disappeared, to come back a few minutes later followed by a maid carrying an oak stand, which she placed near the couch. The stand proved to be the latest improvement in embroidery frames, the stretched work being swung between upright wooden supports, which were connected at their base by a cross-beam, so as to do service as a footstool. The while Cassandra selected her chair and a small table for working materials, Peignton peered with awed curiosity at the work in process. He beheld what appeared at first sight to be a water-colour painting, the subject a Southern garden, wherein a marble balustrade was overhung by an orange tree in fruit. The distance showed a glimpse of a blue lake, against which three dark cypress trees were sharply outlined. Beside the balustrade walked the lady of the garden, a stately dame, in a robe of gold-embroidered brocade, ermine lined, and falling open over a petticoat of shimmering blue. Her hair was caught in a golden net, she carried in her arms a sheaf of lilies. On the ground by her feet fluttered a flock of pigeons.Several parts of the background were unfinished, but enough had been done to give the effect of completion, and Peignton’s admiration and astonishment were equally great. It was the first example of needlework painting which he had seen, and he was full of interest, craning forward on his seat to watch, while Cassandra seated herself, placed her feet on the cross-board, and tilting the frame to the right angle, plied her silks in quick, sure stitches, holding the right hand above, and the other beneath the frame. She was completing a corner of the under-dress, and she showed him how, to gain the desired shot effect, she had twisted together half-threads of green and blue.“It is the most difficult thing in the world to get silks that are indefinite enough to work the little odd bits,” she explained. “You can get every colour—exquisite colours, but they are so clear, and strong, and new, and unpicturesque! I have to take refuge in all sorts of dodges. I dip the white silks in tea, and coffee, to take off the glare; and the greys in ink, to make them cloudy, and the rose and blue in acids to tone them down into an old-world softness. Sometimes I dye one end of a skein, and leave the other untouched; that gives quite a good effect. I’m always on the look out for old silks, but they are difficult to find, and the ordinary fancy-work emporium-keeper has not awakened to the needs of pictures. When I asked one the other day for a colour to work an old brick wall, she gaped at me as if I were mad. However, with cunning and ingenuity, I have managed to collect quite a useful selection...”“You don’t—excuse me! treat them with much consideration, now that you have got them,” Peignton said, lifting a tangled mass of colour from the table, and smoothing it with careful fingers. “I remember my mother doing crewel-work in the days of my youth, and having each separate shade run through a kind of tunnel business in a roll of linen. You pulled a thread from the roll, and—there you were!Theynever grew matted into balls.”“Ah, yes! My mother did too, but—excuse me, they lacked the real artistic temperament. People with real artistic temperaments invariably tangle their silks, if only for the joy of seeing the glorious mass of colour they make matted together. Of course, if they chance to possess an idle friend, whose hands are itching for work—”“May I? Oh, that’s splendid. I have a passion for unravelling string. This will keep me quiet for quite a long time. Tell me what colour you want next, and I’ll coax him out!”“Green; blue. A strand of each. If you like to experiment you can try untwisting them, and mixing the shades.”Cassandra stitched on, a smile on her lips, but Dane, having extracted the desired threads with unexpected ease, was too much engrossed in watching to make any further effort on his own account. The graceful, wholly feminine pose was another picture to add to the mental gallery. His eyes followed the sweep of the right hand, and he said involuntarily:“That’s a beautiful ring! I noticed it the first time I played bridge with you. I’ve never seen you without it. It’s the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.”She stayed her work to turn her hand and look at the ring with a scrutinising glance. “Yes; it’s a good stone. I like it too. It was my mother’s,” she said calmly. There was no consciousness in her face of the beauty of the hand itself. The thoughtful look was the result of a puzzling question. As Peignton’s admiration for emeralds was so great, why had he not given one to hisfiancéeinstead of the orthodox row of diamonds? As though one personal remark called forth another, she turned suddenly to him and asked, “How did you fall yesterday? Everyone told a different tale. Were you really climbing over the rockery?”“I was. I’m afraid I did some damage to the bulbs as well as myself, but you had told me that the saxifrages were partial to boots. I thought I was perfectly safe. Iwas, until by bad luck I stepped on to one of those big—er—”“Clinkers?”“Clinkers—yes! that’s it, and it rolled over and brought me with it, with my foot twisted beneath me.”“It had probably been put in this year. The old, moss-covered stones are safe enough. I’m sorry if I misled you. What did you want to do?”To her surprise the colour rose in his cheeks. He took up the tangled silks and smoothed them out with elaborate precaution.“I wanted a sprig of that sweet stuff for my coat. The sweet stuff you wore the afternoon we ran away.”There was a tone in his voice which quickened the beat of Cassandra’s heart, but she shrugged her shoulders with an affectation of resignation.“You are determined to put the blame on me! By your own account I seem to have lured you on by both precept and example. What would men do without the poor women to carry the blame? Bernard is never really consoled about any mishap until he has traced its origin back to me. It’s difficult sometimes when it’s some matter connected with the land, about which I know nothing, but he had a bright inspiration about that one day, and declared that things had gone wrong because Ididn’tinterest myself! If Ihadtaken an interest, the deal would have been a success! I used to defend myself at one time. Now I don’t. I know that one of the ways I can help him is by letting him work off his irritation by blaming someone else. In his heart he knows perfectly well that he is talking nonsense. At least, I suppose he does!Ialways know when I’m deceiving myself.”The blood rushed to her face as she finished speaking, for an inner voice seemed to jeer at the spoken words, to laugh with a saturnine unbelief. She hurried breathlessly on: “In your case, I do really seem to blame. I did mislead you. I was in a truant mood that afternoon, and forgot my responsibilities. You must forgive me, and let me do all I can to help your convalescence.”“Thanks,” Peignton said absently. He sighed with profound regret. “That summer-house is so far away. I shan’t be able to get so far. I should have enjoyed another tea. What about the Bath chair?”Cassandra shook her head.“That summer-house is my own special property. I admit a friend on occasion, but never more than one. I even put up with tinned milk, rather than let the household know where I disappear for so many of the missing teas. If one of the men wheeled your chair for you, there would be no more chance of running away.”Peignton’s look showed a latent jealousy.“Whom have you taken there besides myself?”“Not many. One or two only, until the last months. Then—pretty often—Mrs Beverley.”The jealousy was still to the fore.“You are very devoted to Mrs Beverley?”“I’m thankful to say, I am! I needed a woman friend, and we were friends at once. There were no preliminary stages. At our second meeting it seemed absurd to address each other by formal titles. I knew her better at that early stage, than many of the women who have been my neighbours for years.”“I should have thought,” Peignton said slowly, “that at this period of her existence Mrs Beverley was too much engrossed with her man to have any interest to spare for an outside friendship.”The latent grudge sounded in his voice. Cassandra discerned it, and turned upon him with a smile. Without troubling to think why or wherefore, she knew that he was jealous of her intimacy with Grizel, and the knowledge was balm to her soul.“I’ll tell you a secret!” she said, stopping her work to emphasise her words with uplifted finger. “Noman can altogether engross a woman! However good, and fine, and tender he may be, there’s still a need within her that only a woman can fill. The happiest married woman needs a woman friend. The better the husband, the more she needs her. A good man is so aggravatingly free from littlenesses. He objects to grumbling; he makes the best of misfortunes; he refuses to repeat gossip; he has a tiresome habit of imagining that his wife means everything she says. If a woman is to endure a good husband with any resignation, she must have another woman near by with whom she can let herself go!”They laughed together, and Cassandra stretched out her hand for the silks which Dane was smoothing between his palms. Just for a moment the two hands touched, but after that moment there followed a pause of mutual self-consciousness. Cassandra bent her head, unwinding and re-winding her silks with careful deliberation. Dane played with the tangled ball, longing, yet not daring to ask what shade would be next required. He looked with distaste upon the two separate threads; wondering how long they would take to work. When Cassandra spoke again, she surprised him by a personal question:“How soon are you to be married, Captain Peignton?”For a moment he stared in surprise. Then he laughed.“Apropos of good husbands?”“I was not thinking of the connection, but let us hope itisapropos. Soon, I suppose? Men are generally impatient.”“Are they?” He knit his brows, and appeared to consider the subject. “I don’t know that I am impatient. Being engaged is quite a pleasant condition. It’s an opportunity of getting thoroughly acquainted. It doesn’t seem fair on the girl to rush her into a hasty marriage. And in the meantime I have no settled home. I could leave the Moat at any time, if there were a sufficient reason, but Paley will be home in autumn. I should like to stay on until his return. It has fitted in very well for me having the run of the place while he is away, and I don’t want to make a convenience of him. He wants me to put up at the Moat over Christmas, and have some hunting, and then, if I can find it, I’d like a small agency just to add the jam to my own bread. Perhaps next spring...”A year from now! Cassandra was conscious of mingled dismay and relief. A year more of friendship and understanding; a year more of unrest. For her own sake she could not decide whether she were glad or regretful, but she thought of Mrs Mallison and the pile of catalogues on a table when she had paid her visit of congratulation, and from her heart she was sorry for Teresa.“I was engaged for six weeks,” she said, shrugging, and Dane opened his lips eagerly, choked back the coming words, and mumbled a conventional astonishment. She longed to know what he had been about to say!For the next half-hour Cassandra stitched steadily at the under-robe of the pictured dame, but Peignton had not another chance of feeling the electric thrill of contact as his fingers met hers. She declared that he ruffled the surface of the silks, and insisted upon unravelling for herself.At half-past four a manservant announced Teresa’s arrival. She had been shown into the drawing-room, and Cassandra rose to go to her, gathering her work materials together on the table. Peignton’s eyes were wistful as they followed her movements; again she had the impression that he was on the point of speaking some eager words, but again he checked himself, and was silent.“I will bring Teresa up to you,” she said quickly. “You will enjoy a talk with her before tea.”At five o’clock tea was carried into the Den, and the Squire and Cassandra came in to share in the meal. They found Teresa sitting close to the couch, in a somewhat aggressive attitude of possession. She had less colour than usual, and her eyes looked tired, and Peignton’s first words concerned her health.“This girl has no business to be out,” he said kindly. “She is quite hoarse and wheezy. I tell her she is a dozen times worse than I am. I’m afraid she has taken a chill.”“Oh, Teresa,don’tbe ill after my bulb party!” Cassandra entreated. “Every year I have a batch of colds on my conscience, and this year there is an ankle thrown in. I’ll order the car for you later on, and you must take half a dozen remedies to-night, to nip it in the bud.”“It’s no use,” Teresa said gloomily. “All the remedies in the world won’t stop my colds when they once get a start. They begin on my chest, and work steadily up to my head, and I’m fit for nothing but a desert island for a week or ten days. I came out to-day because I knew it would be my last chance. I shall be worse for it, of course; but I don’t care. I had to see Dane.”“Well!” cried Peignton with an air of imparting solace, “if you are going to drive home there is no need to hurry. Now that the Squire is in and we are a four, what about a game of bridge?”“Well thought of! So we will! Good idea!” cried the Squire heartily.Teresa smiled; a thin, artificial smile.At seven o’clock Cassandra wrapped her visitor in a warm coat, and walked beside her down the staircase. During the pauses of the game the wheezing of which Dane had spoken had been distinctly audible, and there was no doubt that the girl was in the initial stage of a chest cold. She was low-spirited too, impatient with the contrariety of fate.“Just my luck!” she said crossly. “Now, of all times, when Dane has this tiresome ankle, and needs me to cheer him up. A man hates sitting still, and of course you have a hundred engagements. If he’d been with us, I could have amused him all day long.”“It wouldn’t have been very amusing for him, if you had been in bed with an attack of bronchitis! Itishard luck, Teresa. But you must nurse yourself, and get better quickly. Captain Peignton will soon be able to come to see you. Till then, I’ll do everything I can.”“Oh, I know you will. Of course. You are most awfully kind. Butstill!” cried Teresa eloquently.Cassandra went back to her boudoir, and stood face to face with her own thoughts. What a complex thing was human nature; how many separate selves went up to make a whole! One part of her was sorry, quite honestly and unfeignedly sorry for Teresa, in that she was debarred from ministering to her lover during his confinement; another part rejoiced with a ruthless joy. For three or four days out of a lifetime, fate had decreed that Dane should be left in her own charge, dependent upon her for society. She clutched at her chance with greedy hands.“They are all I shall have. I shall have to live on them all my life,” Cassandra said in her heart. Then her lips trembled, and she spoke aloud in a low, trembling voice. “I suppose I love him. I suppose that’s what it means.—IknowI love him! Oh, Teresa, it won’t hurt you to spare him to me for just four days!”
By nine o’clock in the evening the Swedish masseur had arrived, and begun his manipulations. He promised that his patient should walk by the end of five or six days, and at the Squire’s request agreed to put up at the Court for that period, giving several treatments a day. His fee made Peignton grimace, but he had to admit that it was cheap in comparison with weeks of inactivity. A telephone message brought a couple of bags filled with his clothes and toilette accessories, and he settled down to rest with the satisfaction of a man relieved from pain, and agreeably expectant of the future. Raynor was a good fellow; no one could have been kinder, and it certainly was a comfort to have the services of a trained man at this point, and to be housed in a big establishment, where there were possibilities of moving from room to room on the same floor, or even of being carried up and downstairs without feeling oneself too intolerable a burden. There were always two or three lazy fellows hanging about, who would be the better for using their muscles. Peignton gave a little shudder of distaste at the thought of the fluster which would have accompanied every movement, if he had accepted Mrs Mallison’s invitation to the Cottage. Teresa, dear girl! had offered to nurse him, but the thing was not possible. Convention would have forbidden her attending him in bed, and how the deuce was he to get up with no one to help? He wondered between a laugh and a groan, if Mrs Mallison would have offered motherly services! And then he thought of Cassandra, standing slim and straight, the little deer-like head turned over her shoulder, looking at him with questioning eyes. What a picture she had made! Thinking of it conjured up other pictures. He envisaged them one by one, as he lay in the darkness. Cassandra on the day of Grizel Beverley’s reception seated beside him in the closed car, the softness of chinchilla beneath her chin; Cassandra playing bridge, tapping the green baize with the long, lovely hand on which the emerald flashed; Cassandra at the church decorations standing with upraised arms against a background of leaves; Cassandra looking at him down the length of her own dining-table, the bare slimness of her throat rising above the bank of flowers. Each picture seemed more beautiful, more appealing than the last. He wondered dreamily what it was which formed this quality of appeal. Was it the touch of physical fragility which underlaid her bloom, or a finer spiritual need which called to a force within his own breast, a force which recognised the call! Always in Cassandra’s presence he had the consciousness of waiting for an opportunity to serve; always he had the consciousness of need. He told himself he would be a happier man if it were ever given to him to be of service to Cassandra Raynor.
And then, with a real tenderness, he thought of hisfiancée,—the loving, kind-hearted woman-girl who was to be his wife. The mysterious glamour of a Lady Cassandra was far removed from the practical common sense of Teresa Mallison; but life was largely composed of the commonplace, and he knew that not once, but a hundred times over in the days to come, he would have cause to be thankful for a wife who could be a partner in deed as well as in name. He thought of Teresa’s voice as she said: “I should have liked to nurse you, Dane!” and felt a pang of remorse. He hoped he had not been inconsiderate. He hoped the dear girl was not hurt. He would write her a line in the morning and explain that... that really... Well, hang it! it was simple enough... There was only one spare room at the Cottage. Where could the masseur have slept? There were many adequate reasons for his choice which he could advance in a letter; now that he was quietly settled in bed they crowded into his mind, but looking back at the moment of decision, he knew he had acted from no definite reason, but simply from an overpowering desire. The chance of staying at the Court had been given him. It was not in him to refuse.
The next morning immediately after his treatment Peignton was wheeled into an upstairs sitting-room, where his couch was placed in a window affording a view of the terraced gardens. Cassandra came in dressed for driving, made a few arrangements for his comfort, and immediately disappeared; later on the Squire lounged in, smoked a pipe, and discussed items in the morning paper, and disappeared in his turn. By noon Dane was alone, and the hour and a half before luncheon hung heavily. Luncheon was served to him in his room,—a solitary repast, and the sense of disappointment grew when the table was cleared, and still no one appeared to bear him company. Books and papers galore were within reach, an electric bell would at any moment summon an attendant, but a man accustomed to an outdoor life soon wearies of reading, and as minute after minute ticked away, Peignton became conscious of an overpowering impatience. He threw down his book, seized the electric bell, and pressed his finger on the button. In less than two minutes a manservant appeared in the doorway. “Is the Squire in the house?”
“I am not sure, sir. I will enquire.”
“Ask him to come up, will you? Tell him I’m lonely.”
The man bowed, and retired. Five minutes passed, and the sound of light footsteps was heard from without; the door opened and Cassandra looked at him, smiling under raised brows.
“Not asleep?”
“Asleep! Why should I be asleep?”
“Invalids always sleep after lunch.”
“I’m not an invalid. I’m a well man tied by the leg. I don’t know how a real invalid feels, but I never was further off sleep in my life! I sent to ask the Squire to take pity on me. I’m so confoundedly tired of myself.”
“He is out, but Teresa will be here soon after four. I invited her to tea.”
Peignton looked at the clock, and his face fell.
“It’s only three. There’s an hour and more, before then.”
“Does that mean that you want—”
She stopped, smiling, and he answered with eager haste:
“Yes,please! Could you? You are not engaged?”
“Oh, no, I am very seldom engaged. I was in my boudoir working at my embroidery. I’ll have it brought in here.”
She disappeared, to come back a few minutes later followed by a maid carrying an oak stand, which she placed near the couch. The stand proved to be the latest improvement in embroidery frames, the stretched work being swung between upright wooden supports, which were connected at their base by a cross-beam, so as to do service as a footstool. The while Cassandra selected her chair and a small table for working materials, Peignton peered with awed curiosity at the work in process. He beheld what appeared at first sight to be a water-colour painting, the subject a Southern garden, wherein a marble balustrade was overhung by an orange tree in fruit. The distance showed a glimpse of a blue lake, against which three dark cypress trees were sharply outlined. Beside the balustrade walked the lady of the garden, a stately dame, in a robe of gold-embroidered brocade, ermine lined, and falling open over a petticoat of shimmering blue. Her hair was caught in a golden net, she carried in her arms a sheaf of lilies. On the ground by her feet fluttered a flock of pigeons.
Several parts of the background were unfinished, but enough had been done to give the effect of completion, and Peignton’s admiration and astonishment were equally great. It was the first example of needlework painting which he had seen, and he was full of interest, craning forward on his seat to watch, while Cassandra seated herself, placed her feet on the cross-board, and tilting the frame to the right angle, plied her silks in quick, sure stitches, holding the right hand above, and the other beneath the frame. She was completing a corner of the under-dress, and she showed him how, to gain the desired shot effect, she had twisted together half-threads of green and blue.
“It is the most difficult thing in the world to get silks that are indefinite enough to work the little odd bits,” she explained. “You can get every colour—exquisite colours, but they are so clear, and strong, and new, and unpicturesque! I have to take refuge in all sorts of dodges. I dip the white silks in tea, and coffee, to take off the glare; and the greys in ink, to make them cloudy, and the rose and blue in acids to tone them down into an old-world softness. Sometimes I dye one end of a skein, and leave the other untouched; that gives quite a good effect. I’m always on the look out for old silks, but they are difficult to find, and the ordinary fancy-work emporium-keeper has not awakened to the needs of pictures. When I asked one the other day for a colour to work an old brick wall, she gaped at me as if I were mad. However, with cunning and ingenuity, I have managed to collect quite a useful selection...”
“You don’t—excuse me! treat them with much consideration, now that you have got them,” Peignton said, lifting a tangled mass of colour from the table, and smoothing it with careful fingers. “I remember my mother doing crewel-work in the days of my youth, and having each separate shade run through a kind of tunnel business in a roll of linen. You pulled a thread from the roll, and—there you were!Theynever grew matted into balls.”
“Ah, yes! My mother did too, but—excuse me, they lacked the real artistic temperament. People with real artistic temperaments invariably tangle their silks, if only for the joy of seeing the glorious mass of colour they make matted together. Of course, if they chance to possess an idle friend, whose hands are itching for work—”
“May I? Oh, that’s splendid. I have a passion for unravelling string. This will keep me quiet for quite a long time. Tell me what colour you want next, and I’ll coax him out!”
“Green; blue. A strand of each. If you like to experiment you can try untwisting them, and mixing the shades.”
Cassandra stitched on, a smile on her lips, but Dane, having extracted the desired threads with unexpected ease, was too much engrossed in watching to make any further effort on his own account. The graceful, wholly feminine pose was another picture to add to the mental gallery. His eyes followed the sweep of the right hand, and he said involuntarily:
“That’s a beautiful ring! I noticed it the first time I played bridge with you. I’ve never seen you without it. It’s the most beautiful ring I have ever seen.”
She stayed her work to turn her hand and look at the ring with a scrutinising glance. “Yes; it’s a good stone. I like it too. It was my mother’s,” she said calmly. There was no consciousness in her face of the beauty of the hand itself. The thoughtful look was the result of a puzzling question. As Peignton’s admiration for emeralds was so great, why had he not given one to hisfiancéeinstead of the orthodox row of diamonds? As though one personal remark called forth another, she turned suddenly to him and asked, “How did you fall yesterday? Everyone told a different tale. Were you really climbing over the rockery?”
“I was. I’m afraid I did some damage to the bulbs as well as myself, but you had told me that the saxifrages were partial to boots. I thought I was perfectly safe. Iwas, until by bad luck I stepped on to one of those big—er—”
“Clinkers?”
“Clinkers—yes! that’s it, and it rolled over and brought me with it, with my foot twisted beneath me.”
“It had probably been put in this year. The old, moss-covered stones are safe enough. I’m sorry if I misled you. What did you want to do?”
To her surprise the colour rose in his cheeks. He took up the tangled silks and smoothed them out with elaborate precaution.
“I wanted a sprig of that sweet stuff for my coat. The sweet stuff you wore the afternoon we ran away.”
There was a tone in his voice which quickened the beat of Cassandra’s heart, but she shrugged her shoulders with an affectation of resignation.
“You are determined to put the blame on me! By your own account I seem to have lured you on by both precept and example. What would men do without the poor women to carry the blame? Bernard is never really consoled about any mishap until he has traced its origin back to me. It’s difficult sometimes when it’s some matter connected with the land, about which I know nothing, but he had a bright inspiration about that one day, and declared that things had gone wrong because Ididn’tinterest myself! If Ihadtaken an interest, the deal would have been a success! I used to defend myself at one time. Now I don’t. I know that one of the ways I can help him is by letting him work off his irritation by blaming someone else. In his heart he knows perfectly well that he is talking nonsense. At least, I suppose he does!Ialways know when I’m deceiving myself.”
The blood rushed to her face as she finished speaking, for an inner voice seemed to jeer at the spoken words, to laugh with a saturnine unbelief. She hurried breathlessly on: “In your case, I do really seem to blame. I did mislead you. I was in a truant mood that afternoon, and forgot my responsibilities. You must forgive me, and let me do all I can to help your convalescence.”
“Thanks,” Peignton said absently. He sighed with profound regret. “That summer-house is so far away. I shan’t be able to get so far. I should have enjoyed another tea. What about the Bath chair?”
Cassandra shook her head.
“That summer-house is my own special property. I admit a friend on occasion, but never more than one. I even put up with tinned milk, rather than let the household know where I disappear for so many of the missing teas. If one of the men wheeled your chair for you, there would be no more chance of running away.”
Peignton’s look showed a latent jealousy.
“Whom have you taken there besides myself?”
“Not many. One or two only, until the last months. Then—pretty often—Mrs Beverley.”
The jealousy was still to the fore.
“You are very devoted to Mrs Beverley?”
“I’m thankful to say, I am! I needed a woman friend, and we were friends at once. There were no preliminary stages. At our second meeting it seemed absurd to address each other by formal titles. I knew her better at that early stage, than many of the women who have been my neighbours for years.”
“I should have thought,” Peignton said slowly, “that at this period of her existence Mrs Beverley was too much engrossed with her man to have any interest to spare for an outside friendship.”
The latent grudge sounded in his voice. Cassandra discerned it, and turned upon him with a smile. Without troubling to think why or wherefore, she knew that he was jealous of her intimacy with Grizel, and the knowledge was balm to her soul.
“I’ll tell you a secret!” she said, stopping her work to emphasise her words with uplifted finger. “Noman can altogether engross a woman! However good, and fine, and tender he may be, there’s still a need within her that only a woman can fill. The happiest married woman needs a woman friend. The better the husband, the more she needs her. A good man is so aggravatingly free from littlenesses. He objects to grumbling; he makes the best of misfortunes; he refuses to repeat gossip; he has a tiresome habit of imagining that his wife means everything she says. If a woman is to endure a good husband with any resignation, she must have another woman near by with whom she can let herself go!”
They laughed together, and Cassandra stretched out her hand for the silks which Dane was smoothing between his palms. Just for a moment the two hands touched, but after that moment there followed a pause of mutual self-consciousness. Cassandra bent her head, unwinding and re-winding her silks with careful deliberation. Dane played with the tangled ball, longing, yet not daring to ask what shade would be next required. He looked with distaste upon the two separate threads; wondering how long they would take to work. When Cassandra spoke again, she surprised him by a personal question:
“How soon are you to be married, Captain Peignton?”
For a moment he stared in surprise. Then he laughed.
“Apropos of good husbands?”
“I was not thinking of the connection, but let us hope itisapropos. Soon, I suppose? Men are generally impatient.”
“Are they?” He knit his brows, and appeared to consider the subject. “I don’t know that I am impatient. Being engaged is quite a pleasant condition. It’s an opportunity of getting thoroughly acquainted. It doesn’t seem fair on the girl to rush her into a hasty marriage. And in the meantime I have no settled home. I could leave the Moat at any time, if there were a sufficient reason, but Paley will be home in autumn. I should like to stay on until his return. It has fitted in very well for me having the run of the place while he is away, and I don’t want to make a convenience of him. He wants me to put up at the Moat over Christmas, and have some hunting, and then, if I can find it, I’d like a small agency just to add the jam to my own bread. Perhaps next spring...”
A year from now! Cassandra was conscious of mingled dismay and relief. A year more of friendship and understanding; a year more of unrest. For her own sake she could not decide whether she were glad or regretful, but she thought of Mrs Mallison and the pile of catalogues on a table when she had paid her visit of congratulation, and from her heart she was sorry for Teresa.
“I was engaged for six weeks,” she said, shrugging, and Dane opened his lips eagerly, choked back the coming words, and mumbled a conventional astonishment. She longed to know what he had been about to say!
For the next half-hour Cassandra stitched steadily at the under-robe of the pictured dame, but Peignton had not another chance of feeling the electric thrill of contact as his fingers met hers. She declared that he ruffled the surface of the silks, and insisted upon unravelling for herself.
At half-past four a manservant announced Teresa’s arrival. She had been shown into the drawing-room, and Cassandra rose to go to her, gathering her work materials together on the table. Peignton’s eyes were wistful as they followed her movements; again she had the impression that he was on the point of speaking some eager words, but again he checked himself, and was silent.
“I will bring Teresa up to you,” she said quickly. “You will enjoy a talk with her before tea.”
At five o’clock tea was carried into the Den, and the Squire and Cassandra came in to share in the meal. They found Teresa sitting close to the couch, in a somewhat aggressive attitude of possession. She had less colour than usual, and her eyes looked tired, and Peignton’s first words concerned her health.
“This girl has no business to be out,” he said kindly. “She is quite hoarse and wheezy. I tell her she is a dozen times worse than I am. I’m afraid she has taken a chill.”
“Oh, Teresa,don’tbe ill after my bulb party!” Cassandra entreated. “Every year I have a batch of colds on my conscience, and this year there is an ankle thrown in. I’ll order the car for you later on, and you must take half a dozen remedies to-night, to nip it in the bud.”
“It’s no use,” Teresa said gloomily. “All the remedies in the world won’t stop my colds when they once get a start. They begin on my chest, and work steadily up to my head, and I’m fit for nothing but a desert island for a week or ten days. I came out to-day because I knew it would be my last chance. I shall be worse for it, of course; but I don’t care. I had to see Dane.”
“Well!” cried Peignton with an air of imparting solace, “if you are going to drive home there is no need to hurry. Now that the Squire is in and we are a four, what about a game of bridge?”
“Well thought of! So we will! Good idea!” cried the Squire heartily.
Teresa smiled; a thin, artificial smile.
At seven o’clock Cassandra wrapped her visitor in a warm coat, and walked beside her down the staircase. During the pauses of the game the wheezing of which Dane had spoken had been distinctly audible, and there was no doubt that the girl was in the initial stage of a chest cold. She was low-spirited too, impatient with the contrariety of fate.
“Just my luck!” she said crossly. “Now, of all times, when Dane has this tiresome ankle, and needs me to cheer him up. A man hates sitting still, and of course you have a hundred engagements. If he’d been with us, I could have amused him all day long.”
“It wouldn’t have been very amusing for him, if you had been in bed with an attack of bronchitis! Itishard luck, Teresa. But you must nurse yourself, and get better quickly. Captain Peignton will soon be able to come to see you. Till then, I’ll do everything I can.”
“Oh, I know you will. Of course. You are most awfully kind. Butstill!” cried Teresa eloquently.
Cassandra went back to her boudoir, and stood face to face with her own thoughts. What a complex thing was human nature; how many separate selves went up to make a whole! One part of her was sorry, quite honestly and unfeignedly sorry for Teresa, in that she was debarred from ministering to her lover during his confinement; another part rejoiced with a ruthless joy. For three or four days out of a lifetime, fate had decreed that Dane should be left in her own charge, dependent upon her for society. She clutched at her chance with greedy hands.
“They are all I shall have. I shall have to live on them all my life,” Cassandra said in her heart. Then her lips trembled, and she spoke aloud in a low, trembling voice. “I suppose I love him. I suppose that’s what it means.—IknowI love him! Oh, Teresa, it won’t hurt you to spare him to me for just four days!”
Chapter Eighteen.Out of the Cage.Teresa’s attack of bronchitis kept her on the sick list for several weeks, and it was not until she was able to go about the house as usual, that Mary found an opportunity for escape.Every morning when Mrs Mallison was fresh and vigorous after a night of uninterrupted sleep, she informed the wearied night nurse that no money in the world could be so sweet as the privilege of ministering to a dear one in the hour of suffering: every evening when she was fatigued by the day’s fussings to and fro, she prophesied her own imminent decease, and put it to Mary, as a Christian woman, how she would feel if she took her hand from the yoke! Out of her husband’s hearing also she sang constant laments on the price of patent foods and fresh eggs, and gave instructions that on the first moment of sickening, she herself was to be despatched to the district hospital. Teresa, tossing restlessly on her pillows, would interpose an impatient, “Oh, mother, don’t be silly!” but Mary had relapsed into her old silence, and automatically continued the work in hand, vouchsafing no reply. But in her bedroom the big new box was packed ready for flight, and every evening before she went to bed, she took her cheque-book from her desk, and fingered it with reverent touches.Everything was ready. Quietly and steadily she had made her preparations, and on the morning when Teresa made her first reappearance at breakfast, the last barrier was withdrawn.“Sonice to be all together again!” Mrs Mallison cried gushingly. “Plenty of fresh air, and you will soon look quite yourself, dear child. The Captain would be sad if you lost your pretty colour. Mary shall take you a nice walk this morning. Elm Road, and round by the larches. That will be sunny and sheltered. You can start at eleven.”“I shall not be able to take Teresa a walk. I am going to London this morning by the 10:50,” said Mary quietly.There was a moment’s silence. Teresa bit her lip to repress a laugh, Mrs Mallison, crimson-cheeked, checked herself on the verge of angry words, and cast a glance at her husband.“My dear,” said the Major courteously, “I wish you a very pleasant time. I will order a fly to take your luggage.”No one accompanied Mary to the station. Mrs Mallison detained Teresa on the score of draughts. Everybody knew that stations were the most draughty places in the world; since there was now no one to help, she herself must take Teresa a walk. They could go round by the fish shop, and order a sole. Since she was to be left alone to cope with the household, she must get into the habit of fitting things in. The Major retired to his study, obviously ill at ease, and reappeared only at the last moment, to peck at his daughter’s cheek with chilly lips, and reiterate, “My dear, I wish you a pleasant time,” but Mary caught a glimpse of his bald head at the window as the fly crawled down the lane, and it did not raise her spirits to remember that she had wounded her father’s heart. That morning, for the first time in her life, Mary travelled in a first-class carriage, an experience far from exciting, since it meant remaining in solitary splendour for the whole of the journey. She found little improvement in comfort, but so far from regretting the expenditure of extra shillings, dwelt on it as the only satisfying part of the proceeding. It was a real joy to her to have disbursed eighteen shillings, when only six were necessary, for to a woman who has escaped the miser taint, the mere action of spending has a lure, and Mary had counted pennies all her life. She sat staring out of the dusty windows, wondering even at this eleventh hour where she should go when she reached her destination. The question was not solved, when she found herself seated in a taxi, with the driver’s head peering through the window, awaiting instructions.“Could you—I want to go to an hotel, agoodhotel. It must be very good, but not—not too fashionable,” said Mary, with a blush, and the kindly Cockney ran a twinkling glance over her attire, and took in the position in a trice.“You leave it to me, ma’am. I’ll fix you up,” he said genially, and sprang to his wheel. “Northumberland Avenue’shertouch,” he said to himself with a grin, and presently Mary was alighting before a great, gloomy-looking building, and entering a hall which to her inexperienced eyes seemed alarmingly large and luxurious. There were groups of people sitting here and there, who had apparently no other occupation but to stare at new-comers; but after the most cursory glance no one stared at Mary. The fashionably attired women averted their eyes with an air of having wasted trouble for nothing.At the office, the clerk gave the same quick scrutiny, and saw a chance of letting an unpopular room. He rang a bell, gave instructions to an underling, and Mary mounted in a lift to inspect a grim, box-like apartment, papered in yellow, from which the nearness of a neighbouring building excluded every ray of sun. The smart chambermaid played her part with skill, throwing open the wardrobe, and arranging towels on the stand with a confidence which froze Mary’s objections unsaid. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing to say; perhaps all hotel bedrooms were alike!Mary washed her hands, smoothed her already smooth hair, and betook herself to the great dining-hall where luncheon was in process. The room was more than half filled, and the waiter led the way to a table some distance from the door, a dreaded ordeal on which Mary wasted much unnecessary nervousness. Despite her experience in the hall, she still dreaded the scrutiny of strange eyes, and in imagination felt herself the observed of all observers. A strange figure in Chumley High Street attracted general curiosity; to walk up the church aisle in a new dress, was to hear every pew creak behind one. At the private hotels which she had visited at the seaside, the arrival of a new inmate roused the whole establishment to animation; to a lesser extent Mary was prepared to be of importance in London also. But no one looked at her. Not a single head turned as she trotted with short, nervous steps in the wake of the foreign waiter; when, tentatively, she lifted her eyes from her plate, diners to right and left were consuming their food with an utter disregard of her presence. Mary took courage, and began to look about on her own account; presently she realised that no courage was required. Seated in the midst of a crowd she was virtually as much alone as on a desert island. After lunch she dressed herself, and went out into the street. On the broad outer step of the hotel she hesitated, uncertain in which direction to turn, and the porter enquired if she wished a taxi. It seemed easier to assent than refuse, so she allowed herself to be assisted into the tonneau of a passing car, and for the second time that day faced the problem of deciding where to go. The reflection of her own hat in a strip of mirror settled the question,—the hat which had aged unaccountably since morning! She directed the man to drive to a good milliner’s, and was set down before the door of a noted robber in head-gear.The next half-hour was a nightmare of discomfort. It began with the opening of the swing door, and the view into the luxurious, the terrifying luxurioussalonwithin. The floor was covered with the softest of carpets, cushioned lounges were set round the walls, reflected in mirrors were the figures of nymph-like forms, with wonderful coiffures of gold and auburn. The same mirrors reflected the small, navy-blue figure standing in the doorway, and the contrast was not encouraging.One of the nymphs floated forward, bowed Mary to a chair, and took off her hat and veil, the which she placed in horrible conspicuousness on a marble-topped table. This done she floated away, leaving Mary to face her own reflection, and give surreptitious touches to her flattened locks. Never had she harboured any delusions about her own appearance, but it had remained for that moment to show her the extent of her limitations. When the nymph came back she bore in her hand a helmet erection, from which two brush-like feathers protruded at unexpected angles. Mary’s exclamation expressed unmitigated distaste, but the nymph was plainly accustomed to such manifestations, and not to be discouraged thereby. She merely proceeded to drop it in place, like a basin covering a mould, remarking in airy tones that “it looked different on the head.”It did. Sheer horror at her own appearance gave Mary strength to tear it off, and declare that nothing would induce her to be seen in such a monstrosity, whereupon the nymph smiled with an ineffable forbearance, and produced another model more exaggerated than the first. It was during the sixth sortie for fresh supplies that Mary seized her own hat, and thrust in the pins with feverish haste. Not another moment would she remain to be tortured. Was not her mind already stored with six nightmare portraits of her own visage, staring horror-stricken beneath preposterous erections? She would say that she was pressed for time; that she would call again; that she was sorry that she cared for nothing... but the nymph on returning allowed no time for explanations. She exhibited no surprise at the visible signs of the customer’s revolt; it appeared indeed that she was prepared for their appearance, and for her own counter-movement. She wheeled round, sent a Marconi signal towards the far end of the room, and from behind the shelter of a screen stepped a new and formidable apparition, that of a woman of middle age, of more than middle age, for beneath the elaborate coiffure of golden hair, the large, chalk-white face was deeply lined and furrowed. It was a horrible face, hiding beneath a stereotyped smile the marks of a cruel, unprincipled soul. To Mary’s country-bred eyes there was something inhuman not only in the face, but also in the figure. The enormous bust was moulded into a sheath of black satin, and thence to the hips the body presented a straight, unbending line. The effect was like the trunk of a tree, rather than that of a woman,—solid, shapeless, unyielding, and the tightness about the lower limbs, the smallness of the silk-shod feet, added to the unnaturalness of the effect.Mary realised at once that she was in the presence of the august head of the establishment, and felt courage ooze from every pore, and in truth she was helpless as a fly in the hands of this woman, whose work in life consisted in bullying her customers into buying what they did not desire.Madame approached, took up her position by Mary’s side, and began to speak. Her tone was honey, and her words were soft, but the meaning thereof was plain. “You don’t find a hat that suits you, don’t you?... Did you imagine that you would?... Look in that glass, and see yourself as you are!—I have here the best selection of models in town, and if you are not satisfied, it is your taste that is to blame, not mine. I do not employ a staff of assistants to have their time wasted by the like of you. Out of this shop you do not go until you have paid the price! Make your choice, and be quick about it.”Mary made no attempt to rebel; she knew too well that she was beaten. She bought the least exaggerated of the models, paid down a cool four guineas, and emerged into the freshness of the outer air with the feeling of one escaping from a noisome animal. Never in her life had she beheld a woman so repellent, so terrible. She thought of the fate of the young girls who were caged up with her all day long, and shivered. She wondered of what fibre were those other women, through whose patronage such a harpy lived and prospered. She hoped, for the credit of the sex, that the majority of customers were casuals, like herself!For the next hour Mary wandered to and fro, finding interest in the study of shop windows. At first she made her pauses in tentative fashion, for she had heard lurid stories of the dangers of London streets, and went in fear of a tall, gentlemanly-looking individual who would suddenly appear out of space, and whisper in her ear, requesting to be allowed to buy her a dress, or a blouse. Such incidents had happened to girls of her acquaintance; she distinctly remembered the horror and perturbation with which they had related the details, but it appeared that there was no such molestation to be expected in her case. She remained as unnoticed as in the dining-room of the hotel.At four o’clock she retired into a confectioner’s shop, and refreshed herself by a daintily served tea. The room was empty, but as time went on the scattered tables filled up one by one, mostly with young couples, the men tall and immaculately groomed, but far from manly in expression; the girls attractive, despite their handicap of fashionable garments, in an age when grace is a forgotten joy. They looked a different race from the girls who paced daily up and down the Chumley High Street, and Mary, beholding them, felt a dawning of interest in her four-guinea hat. It was at least a becoming colour, and the feather was a beauty,—so thick and long and gracefully curved. Reduced in height, pressed into a less noticeable shape, the hat might turn out not a discreditable purchase after all. She felt a distinct relief at the thought that after to-day she would see the reflection of that blue feather in the innumerable mirrors which lined the streets.After tea Mary went into the Park and sat on a chair, watching the stream of fashionable life flow to and fro. She wished she had someone with her to explain who was who, and was on the whole disappointed with the appearance of the crowd, but the flowers were beautiful. She determined to come again in the morning, and enjoy the flowers undisturbed by the bustling crowd. All the chairs were occupied; the moment that they were vacated they were instantly seized by other loiterers, who appeared to have been waiting for the chance. A man and woman seated themselves by Mary’s side, and fell into conversation with an absolute disregard of her presence. A few moments sufficed to prove that they were husband and wife, but they belonged to widely different types. The woman had a worn, handsome face, and a figure fashionably attenuated. She was faultlessly attired, and with a royal disregard of cost, but both voice and manner betrayed a ceaseless discontent. Every word was a grumble in disguise, reference to events past and to come were invariably supplemented by protestations of being “bored to death,” and all the time the big, jovial-looking husband smiled, and soothed, and skilfully steered the way on to subjects new. There was no effort in his air; if there had been a time when his wife’s grumblings had power to distress him, that time was past, now the tricklings of the thin voice flowed off him, like water from a duck’s back. He listened, laughed, and began again. Mary realised with a thrill of surprise that this man actually loved the bundle of nerves whom he called his wife. There was no mistaking the fact. There was love in his voice, in his face, in the sound of the deep, kindly laugh. He loved her, was proud of her, found pleasure in her society. She watched the couple move away at the end of a quarter of an hour, the wife languidly leading the way through the crowd, the man following, his eyes bent on her in proud approval, and afterwards for long minutes she sat pondering on the nature of the tie which held a man’s heart faithful to such a mate. Was it the remembrance of a past, before years and gold had left their mark,—a past so sweet that it lived in undying memory? Was it that beneath an outer querulousness of manner there still lingered recurrences of tenderness, of passion, which kept alight old fires,—was it simply that the man did not feel?“IfIhad a husband—If he had cared forme!” Mary repeated to herself for the thousandth time. The sentence never reached a conclusion, it was simply an exclamation of amazement that a woman should be blessed with love, and yet know discontent.She sat on until the crowd began to diminish, and the rows of chairs to show empty spaces. There was nothing else to do, and the hotel bedroom made no appeal. Already it seemed days since she had left Chumley; she calculated how much money she had already spent, multiplied it, to discover what rate of expenditure per annum was represented, and was startled by the result. Perhaps it would be wise not to take a regular dinner to-night. After such an extensive lunch she was not hungry. She decided on a cutlet in the restaurant.Later on, on rising from her chair Mary received a severe shock. Her sunshade had disappeared. It was a new one, a birthday present from the family; navy-blue silk, with a handle topped with gold. She had rested it in all confidence against the back of her seat, and now... With flushing cheeks she recalled the different people who had occupied the chair next to her own. The jovial husband, an elderly woman in black, with a rope of pearls to match large solitaire earrings; a pretty flapper in white; a young girl, fashionably attired, with cheeks suspiciously pink; one or two young men. It was not possible, it was not conceivable, that one of the number could have stolen a modest sunshade! But the sunshade had disappeared—no trace of it was to be seen. Mary told herself that there had been a mistake. Some woman had picked it up without thinking. How sorry she would be!When she reached the hotel the hat box was waiting in her bedroom. She opened it, and took the hat to the window to examine. The first feeling was disappointment. She had believed the feather to be much handsomer,—softer, longer, of a more delicate shade. She held it up, regarding it with puzzled eyes. How had she come by so mistaken an impression? Finally she decided that it was a question of light. She sighed patiently, and returned the hat to its box.
Teresa’s attack of bronchitis kept her on the sick list for several weeks, and it was not until she was able to go about the house as usual, that Mary found an opportunity for escape.
Every morning when Mrs Mallison was fresh and vigorous after a night of uninterrupted sleep, she informed the wearied night nurse that no money in the world could be so sweet as the privilege of ministering to a dear one in the hour of suffering: every evening when she was fatigued by the day’s fussings to and fro, she prophesied her own imminent decease, and put it to Mary, as a Christian woman, how she would feel if she took her hand from the yoke! Out of her husband’s hearing also she sang constant laments on the price of patent foods and fresh eggs, and gave instructions that on the first moment of sickening, she herself was to be despatched to the district hospital. Teresa, tossing restlessly on her pillows, would interpose an impatient, “Oh, mother, don’t be silly!” but Mary had relapsed into her old silence, and automatically continued the work in hand, vouchsafing no reply. But in her bedroom the big new box was packed ready for flight, and every evening before she went to bed, she took her cheque-book from her desk, and fingered it with reverent touches.
Everything was ready. Quietly and steadily she had made her preparations, and on the morning when Teresa made her first reappearance at breakfast, the last barrier was withdrawn.
“Sonice to be all together again!” Mrs Mallison cried gushingly. “Plenty of fresh air, and you will soon look quite yourself, dear child. The Captain would be sad if you lost your pretty colour. Mary shall take you a nice walk this morning. Elm Road, and round by the larches. That will be sunny and sheltered. You can start at eleven.”
“I shall not be able to take Teresa a walk. I am going to London this morning by the 10:50,” said Mary quietly.
There was a moment’s silence. Teresa bit her lip to repress a laugh, Mrs Mallison, crimson-cheeked, checked herself on the verge of angry words, and cast a glance at her husband.
“My dear,” said the Major courteously, “I wish you a very pleasant time. I will order a fly to take your luggage.”
No one accompanied Mary to the station. Mrs Mallison detained Teresa on the score of draughts. Everybody knew that stations were the most draughty places in the world; since there was now no one to help, she herself must take Teresa a walk. They could go round by the fish shop, and order a sole. Since she was to be left alone to cope with the household, she must get into the habit of fitting things in. The Major retired to his study, obviously ill at ease, and reappeared only at the last moment, to peck at his daughter’s cheek with chilly lips, and reiterate, “My dear, I wish you a pleasant time,” but Mary caught a glimpse of his bald head at the window as the fly crawled down the lane, and it did not raise her spirits to remember that she had wounded her father’s heart. That morning, for the first time in her life, Mary travelled in a first-class carriage, an experience far from exciting, since it meant remaining in solitary splendour for the whole of the journey. She found little improvement in comfort, but so far from regretting the expenditure of extra shillings, dwelt on it as the only satisfying part of the proceeding. It was a real joy to her to have disbursed eighteen shillings, when only six were necessary, for to a woman who has escaped the miser taint, the mere action of spending has a lure, and Mary had counted pennies all her life. She sat staring out of the dusty windows, wondering even at this eleventh hour where she should go when she reached her destination. The question was not solved, when she found herself seated in a taxi, with the driver’s head peering through the window, awaiting instructions.
“Could you—I want to go to an hotel, agoodhotel. It must be very good, but not—not too fashionable,” said Mary, with a blush, and the kindly Cockney ran a twinkling glance over her attire, and took in the position in a trice.
“You leave it to me, ma’am. I’ll fix you up,” he said genially, and sprang to his wheel. “Northumberland Avenue’shertouch,” he said to himself with a grin, and presently Mary was alighting before a great, gloomy-looking building, and entering a hall which to her inexperienced eyes seemed alarmingly large and luxurious. There were groups of people sitting here and there, who had apparently no other occupation but to stare at new-comers; but after the most cursory glance no one stared at Mary. The fashionably attired women averted their eyes with an air of having wasted trouble for nothing.
At the office, the clerk gave the same quick scrutiny, and saw a chance of letting an unpopular room. He rang a bell, gave instructions to an underling, and Mary mounted in a lift to inspect a grim, box-like apartment, papered in yellow, from which the nearness of a neighbouring building excluded every ray of sun. The smart chambermaid played her part with skill, throwing open the wardrobe, and arranging towels on the stand with a confidence which froze Mary’s objections unsaid. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing to say; perhaps all hotel bedrooms were alike!
Mary washed her hands, smoothed her already smooth hair, and betook herself to the great dining-hall where luncheon was in process. The room was more than half filled, and the waiter led the way to a table some distance from the door, a dreaded ordeal on which Mary wasted much unnecessary nervousness. Despite her experience in the hall, she still dreaded the scrutiny of strange eyes, and in imagination felt herself the observed of all observers. A strange figure in Chumley High Street attracted general curiosity; to walk up the church aisle in a new dress, was to hear every pew creak behind one. At the private hotels which she had visited at the seaside, the arrival of a new inmate roused the whole establishment to animation; to a lesser extent Mary was prepared to be of importance in London also. But no one looked at her. Not a single head turned as she trotted with short, nervous steps in the wake of the foreign waiter; when, tentatively, she lifted her eyes from her plate, diners to right and left were consuming their food with an utter disregard of her presence. Mary took courage, and began to look about on her own account; presently she realised that no courage was required. Seated in the midst of a crowd she was virtually as much alone as on a desert island. After lunch she dressed herself, and went out into the street. On the broad outer step of the hotel she hesitated, uncertain in which direction to turn, and the porter enquired if she wished a taxi. It seemed easier to assent than refuse, so she allowed herself to be assisted into the tonneau of a passing car, and for the second time that day faced the problem of deciding where to go. The reflection of her own hat in a strip of mirror settled the question,—the hat which had aged unaccountably since morning! She directed the man to drive to a good milliner’s, and was set down before the door of a noted robber in head-gear.
The next half-hour was a nightmare of discomfort. It began with the opening of the swing door, and the view into the luxurious, the terrifying luxurioussalonwithin. The floor was covered with the softest of carpets, cushioned lounges were set round the walls, reflected in mirrors were the figures of nymph-like forms, with wonderful coiffures of gold and auburn. The same mirrors reflected the small, navy-blue figure standing in the doorway, and the contrast was not encouraging.
One of the nymphs floated forward, bowed Mary to a chair, and took off her hat and veil, the which she placed in horrible conspicuousness on a marble-topped table. This done she floated away, leaving Mary to face her own reflection, and give surreptitious touches to her flattened locks. Never had she harboured any delusions about her own appearance, but it had remained for that moment to show her the extent of her limitations. When the nymph came back she bore in her hand a helmet erection, from which two brush-like feathers protruded at unexpected angles. Mary’s exclamation expressed unmitigated distaste, but the nymph was plainly accustomed to such manifestations, and not to be discouraged thereby. She merely proceeded to drop it in place, like a basin covering a mould, remarking in airy tones that “it looked different on the head.”
It did. Sheer horror at her own appearance gave Mary strength to tear it off, and declare that nothing would induce her to be seen in such a monstrosity, whereupon the nymph smiled with an ineffable forbearance, and produced another model more exaggerated than the first. It was during the sixth sortie for fresh supplies that Mary seized her own hat, and thrust in the pins with feverish haste. Not another moment would she remain to be tortured. Was not her mind already stored with six nightmare portraits of her own visage, staring horror-stricken beneath preposterous erections? She would say that she was pressed for time; that she would call again; that she was sorry that she cared for nothing... but the nymph on returning allowed no time for explanations. She exhibited no surprise at the visible signs of the customer’s revolt; it appeared indeed that she was prepared for their appearance, and for her own counter-movement. She wheeled round, sent a Marconi signal towards the far end of the room, and from behind the shelter of a screen stepped a new and formidable apparition, that of a woman of middle age, of more than middle age, for beneath the elaborate coiffure of golden hair, the large, chalk-white face was deeply lined and furrowed. It was a horrible face, hiding beneath a stereotyped smile the marks of a cruel, unprincipled soul. To Mary’s country-bred eyes there was something inhuman not only in the face, but also in the figure. The enormous bust was moulded into a sheath of black satin, and thence to the hips the body presented a straight, unbending line. The effect was like the trunk of a tree, rather than that of a woman,—solid, shapeless, unyielding, and the tightness about the lower limbs, the smallness of the silk-shod feet, added to the unnaturalness of the effect.
Mary realised at once that she was in the presence of the august head of the establishment, and felt courage ooze from every pore, and in truth she was helpless as a fly in the hands of this woman, whose work in life consisted in bullying her customers into buying what they did not desire.
Madame approached, took up her position by Mary’s side, and began to speak. Her tone was honey, and her words were soft, but the meaning thereof was plain. “You don’t find a hat that suits you, don’t you?... Did you imagine that you would?... Look in that glass, and see yourself as you are!—I have here the best selection of models in town, and if you are not satisfied, it is your taste that is to blame, not mine. I do not employ a staff of assistants to have their time wasted by the like of you. Out of this shop you do not go until you have paid the price! Make your choice, and be quick about it.”
Mary made no attempt to rebel; she knew too well that she was beaten. She bought the least exaggerated of the models, paid down a cool four guineas, and emerged into the freshness of the outer air with the feeling of one escaping from a noisome animal. Never in her life had she beheld a woman so repellent, so terrible. She thought of the fate of the young girls who were caged up with her all day long, and shivered. She wondered of what fibre were those other women, through whose patronage such a harpy lived and prospered. She hoped, for the credit of the sex, that the majority of customers were casuals, like herself!
For the next hour Mary wandered to and fro, finding interest in the study of shop windows. At first she made her pauses in tentative fashion, for she had heard lurid stories of the dangers of London streets, and went in fear of a tall, gentlemanly-looking individual who would suddenly appear out of space, and whisper in her ear, requesting to be allowed to buy her a dress, or a blouse. Such incidents had happened to girls of her acquaintance; she distinctly remembered the horror and perturbation with which they had related the details, but it appeared that there was no such molestation to be expected in her case. She remained as unnoticed as in the dining-room of the hotel.
At four o’clock she retired into a confectioner’s shop, and refreshed herself by a daintily served tea. The room was empty, but as time went on the scattered tables filled up one by one, mostly with young couples, the men tall and immaculately groomed, but far from manly in expression; the girls attractive, despite their handicap of fashionable garments, in an age when grace is a forgotten joy. They looked a different race from the girls who paced daily up and down the Chumley High Street, and Mary, beholding them, felt a dawning of interest in her four-guinea hat. It was at least a becoming colour, and the feather was a beauty,—so thick and long and gracefully curved. Reduced in height, pressed into a less noticeable shape, the hat might turn out not a discreditable purchase after all. She felt a distinct relief at the thought that after to-day she would see the reflection of that blue feather in the innumerable mirrors which lined the streets.
After tea Mary went into the Park and sat on a chair, watching the stream of fashionable life flow to and fro. She wished she had someone with her to explain who was who, and was on the whole disappointed with the appearance of the crowd, but the flowers were beautiful. She determined to come again in the morning, and enjoy the flowers undisturbed by the bustling crowd. All the chairs were occupied; the moment that they were vacated they were instantly seized by other loiterers, who appeared to have been waiting for the chance. A man and woman seated themselves by Mary’s side, and fell into conversation with an absolute disregard of her presence. A few moments sufficed to prove that they were husband and wife, but they belonged to widely different types. The woman had a worn, handsome face, and a figure fashionably attenuated. She was faultlessly attired, and with a royal disregard of cost, but both voice and manner betrayed a ceaseless discontent. Every word was a grumble in disguise, reference to events past and to come were invariably supplemented by protestations of being “bored to death,” and all the time the big, jovial-looking husband smiled, and soothed, and skilfully steered the way on to subjects new. There was no effort in his air; if there had been a time when his wife’s grumblings had power to distress him, that time was past, now the tricklings of the thin voice flowed off him, like water from a duck’s back. He listened, laughed, and began again. Mary realised with a thrill of surprise that this man actually loved the bundle of nerves whom he called his wife. There was no mistaking the fact. There was love in his voice, in his face, in the sound of the deep, kindly laugh. He loved her, was proud of her, found pleasure in her society. She watched the couple move away at the end of a quarter of an hour, the wife languidly leading the way through the crowd, the man following, his eyes bent on her in proud approval, and afterwards for long minutes she sat pondering on the nature of the tie which held a man’s heart faithful to such a mate. Was it the remembrance of a past, before years and gold had left their mark,—a past so sweet that it lived in undying memory? Was it that beneath an outer querulousness of manner there still lingered recurrences of tenderness, of passion, which kept alight old fires,—was it simply that the man did not feel?
“IfIhad a husband—If he had cared forme!” Mary repeated to herself for the thousandth time. The sentence never reached a conclusion, it was simply an exclamation of amazement that a woman should be blessed with love, and yet know discontent.
She sat on until the crowd began to diminish, and the rows of chairs to show empty spaces. There was nothing else to do, and the hotel bedroom made no appeal. Already it seemed days since she had left Chumley; she calculated how much money she had already spent, multiplied it, to discover what rate of expenditure per annum was represented, and was startled by the result. Perhaps it would be wise not to take a regular dinner to-night. After such an extensive lunch she was not hungry. She decided on a cutlet in the restaurant.
Later on, on rising from her chair Mary received a severe shock. Her sunshade had disappeared. It was a new one, a birthday present from the family; navy-blue silk, with a handle topped with gold. She had rested it in all confidence against the back of her seat, and now... With flushing cheeks she recalled the different people who had occupied the chair next to her own. The jovial husband, an elderly woman in black, with a rope of pearls to match large solitaire earrings; a pretty flapper in white; a young girl, fashionably attired, with cheeks suspiciously pink; one or two young men. It was not possible, it was not conceivable, that one of the number could have stolen a modest sunshade! But the sunshade had disappeared—no trace of it was to be seen. Mary told herself that there had been a mistake. Some woman had picked it up without thinking. How sorry she would be!
When she reached the hotel the hat box was waiting in her bedroom. She opened it, and took the hat to the window to examine. The first feeling was disappointment. She had believed the feather to be much handsomer,—softer, longer, of a more delicate shade. She held it up, regarding it with puzzled eyes. How had she come by so mistaken an impression? Finally she decided that it was a question of light. She sighed patiently, and returned the hat to its box.
Chapter Nineteen.Adrift.Mary spent a week in the London hotel, the longest week she had ever known. She rose late, and went to bed early, nevertheless the days stretched to an interminable length, and she was driven to extraordinary devices to get through the hours. One day, attracted by a line of flaring posters, she spent the morning in a Turkish bath; another afternoon she drifted into a barber’s shop and had her hair waved and coiffured, a process which so altered her appearance that she hurried to a similar establishment a few hundred yards away, and underwent a drastic shampoo. Another day, after lunching in the restaurant of a great store, she whiled away half an hour by having her nails manicured. From morning till night no one noticed her, no one spoke to her, she herself had no need to speak, yet all around was a babel of tongues, an endless, ever-passing stream of fellow-creatures. If she had felt herself superfluous in Chumley, the feeling was accentuated a thousand times in this metropolis of the world, wherein she walked as on a desert island. And yet, through all the desolation of soul pierced golden moments, when the sense of freedom filled her with joy. To be able to rest without comment or questioning; to rise in the morning, and retire to bed, according to preference, not rule; to choose her own food, to go out, or stay within, as fancy prompted,—such simple matters as these came as happy novelties to the woman of thirty-two.Mary had despatched a post card announcing her arrival, and giving the address of her hotel but she received no message in reply. Mrs Mallison was on her dignity, and would wait until she had received an orthodox letter. The Major never wrote, and Teresa presumably was busy. For a week or more the silence caused Mary no trouble, but by that time the continued silence of her life awoke the exile longing for news from home. She despatched a colourless letter, filling with difficulty three sides of a sheet, and waited the result. It came, according to her happiest hopes, in the shape of a missive from Teresa.“Dear old Mary,“I hope you are enjoying your liberty as much as you expected, and having a real good time. It’s pretty strenuous here without you. I am running about all day long, and being instructed meantime to lie down, and take things easy! I never in my life felt so irritated and depressed. It’s borne in on me, old thing, that you have been a buffer between me, and—er—shall we saycircumstances? and that I never appreciated you properly until you had gone!“You don’t say much about your doings. Do you go to the theatres? I suppose you can go to matinées, if it isn’t proper to go alone at night. Have you bought any clothes? You might look out for an evening dress for me—white or pink—not blue this time, and not more than three or four pounds. The Raynors and Beverleys have taken a house together at the sea near good links. Dane is to join them for part of the time, and I am asked for a day or two at the end of his visit, so I need a new dress. The invitation came from Mrs Beverley. I haven’t once been asked to the Court since you left. Lady Cassandra is dropping me now that she has her beloved Grizel. Altogether I think her behaviour is ratherqueer. You would have thought, after Dane staying there over a week, and getting so intimate, as they must have done, that he would at least have been asked to tea since he left, but not once! I asked him straight out, so I know. He won’t acknowledge that he thinks it odd—you know how close men are.—but I can see he does from his manner. I shall go to Gled Bay for his sake. He would be so disappointed if I refused. He has given me a gold bangle, just the sort I like: a plain, flat band. He looks thin still. Mother thinks he worried a great deal while I was ill. Of course it was hard for him being tied by the leg (literally!), and not able to do a thing for me. Dane doesn’t say much, but his feelings are awfully deep.“I wonder if it isn’t a mistake to conceal one’s feelings? I’m beginning to think that it is. We have been brought up to be undemonstrative, but if I have children, I’ll teach them quite differently. What’s the good of thinking nice things in your heart, if the person you care for doesn’t get the benefit? Mary! I’m sorry I haven’t been nicer to you. I’m sorry I was selfish, and let you do so much. If it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, I’m paying up now! I do hope Dane will want to be married soon. I don’t think I can last out much longer. I have thought so often of what you told me the night we were engaged, about your own love story, I mean. How could you bear it, and live quietly on at home? I couldn’t. If Dane treated me like that, I should—marry Mr Hunter! I’d like to see your face when you read that! But it’s true. Much more sensible, too, than the river, or growing sour at home!“Good-bye. Write soon.“Your affectionate sister,“Teresa.”Mary put the letter back in its envelope, and went out to look for Teresa’s evening dress. She paid for it out of her own money, and decided to offer it in the shape of an advance birthday present. In any case she would have to give something in October; it might just as well be bought now. She experienced a torpid satisfaction in the transaction, but it soon faded, and left her mind empty as before. Teresa’s appreciation and affection came too late. Five years ago they might have transformed her life, but they had not been given. Of what use to offer them now when their lives lay apart? Speculations as to Lady Cassandra Raynor, even as to Peignton himself, aroused no flicker of interest. They had been mummers in a play, and she had escaped into the open air. The only person of whom she had cared to hear was her father, and concerning him Teresa was mute.Another week passed, and still another. Mary left the big hotel, and moved into a smaller one, of the glorified boarding-house type. Here, if she had chosen, she might have been less lonely, for there were half a dozen solitary women like herself, who would have been glad to include her in games of cards, or to exchange confidences over afternoon tea, but Mary had played a duty game of whist every week night for a dozen years, and had vowed never to touch another card. Moreover, she shrank from the furious curiosity of these women, who seemed capable of asking personal questions for hours at a time. She left the boarding-house and took furnished apartments, but the hot weather came on with a rush, and the rooms grew stuffy and breathless, so for the third time she was faced with the problem, of where to go next.One afternoon she sat at tea at one of the little tables belonging to the outdoor restaurant near Victoria Gate, and essayed the difficult task of making up her own mind. In a limited sense the world was before her, but the very largeness of the choice made it the more difficult. If she could but think of something which interested... something for which she really cared! No answer came to the question, yet of a certainty she was happier under some conditions than others. Looking back over the blank stretch of days, there were hours which stood out from the rest, hours in which she had felt restful,—almost content. Mary lived those hours, trying to draw from them a conclusion. There were hours spent in the Park, not in the afternoon, but the morning, when it was comparatively empty. The rhododendrons were in full bloom in the beds near Rotten Row; she heard people say that they had never been finer than this year. There had been other hours in the Abbey, both during the services and after; there had been an afternoon on an excursion steamer plying up the river to Oxford; and a drive on the top of an omnibus on a misty night, when the lights twinkled in softened radiance, and the great buildings assumed a mysterious splendour. One by one, Mary recalled the hours, but the conclusion could not be found.Then suddenly her ears were opened to a woman’s voice talking at the table next to her own.“Switzerland,” she was saying. “Of course! As soon as I can run away. I am longing for the time to come. I have been there every summer for the last ten years, and if it rests with me, I shall go every year till I die. I’ve tried Norway, I’ve tried the Tyrol, but I’ve gone back to my old love, and I shall never wander again. Switzerland gives me what I need. I go there and feed upon it. It’s the tonic that braces me up for another year of hard, ugly life.”There was a moment’s silence, then another voice asked:“But what exactlydoyou feed on? What is the name of the tonic which helps you so much?”“Beauty!” said the woman deeply.The blood rushed to Mary’s cheeks. She had found her clue! That word showed her the secret of her heart. All her life she had fed on prose; now unconsciously she was craving the tonic of beauty. It had been beauty in one form or another, which had brought her few hours of content.The next morning she packed her box, and took a ticket for Berne.
Mary spent a week in the London hotel, the longest week she had ever known. She rose late, and went to bed early, nevertheless the days stretched to an interminable length, and she was driven to extraordinary devices to get through the hours. One day, attracted by a line of flaring posters, she spent the morning in a Turkish bath; another afternoon she drifted into a barber’s shop and had her hair waved and coiffured, a process which so altered her appearance that she hurried to a similar establishment a few hundred yards away, and underwent a drastic shampoo. Another day, after lunching in the restaurant of a great store, she whiled away half an hour by having her nails manicured. From morning till night no one noticed her, no one spoke to her, she herself had no need to speak, yet all around was a babel of tongues, an endless, ever-passing stream of fellow-creatures. If she had felt herself superfluous in Chumley, the feeling was accentuated a thousand times in this metropolis of the world, wherein she walked as on a desert island. And yet, through all the desolation of soul pierced golden moments, when the sense of freedom filled her with joy. To be able to rest without comment or questioning; to rise in the morning, and retire to bed, according to preference, not rule; to choose her own food, to go out, or stay within, as fancy prompted,—such simple matters as these came as happy novelties to the woman of thirty-two.
Mary had despatched a post card announcing her arrival, and giving the address of her hotel but she received no message in reply. Mrs Mallison was on her dignity, and would wait until she had received an orthodox letter. The Major never wrote, and Teresa presumably was busy. For a week or more the silence caused Mary no trouble, but by that time the continued silence of her life awoke the exile longing for news from home. She despatched a colourless letter, filling with difficulty three sides of a sheet, and waited the result. It came, according to her happiest hopes, in the shape of a missive from Teresa.
“Dear old Mary,“I hope you are enjoying your liberty as much as you expected, and having a real good time. It’s pretty strenuous here without you. I am running about all day long, and being instructed meantime to lie down, and take things easy! I never in my life felt so irritated and depressed. It’s borne in on me, old thing, that you have been a buffer between me, and—er—shall we saycircumstances? and that I never appreciated you properly until you had gone!“You don’t say much about your doings. Do you go to the theatres? I suppose you can go to matinées, if it isn’t proper to go alone at night. Have you bought any clothes? You might look out for an evening dress for me—white or pink—not blue this time, and not more than three or four pounds. The Raynors and Beverleys have taken a house together at the sea near good links. Dane is to join them for part of the time, and I am asked for a day or two at the end of his visit, so I need a new dress. The invitation came from Mrs Beverley. I haven’t once been asked to the Court since you left. Lady Cassandra is dropping me now that she has her beloved Grizel. Altogether I think her behaviour is ratherqueer. You would have thought, after Dane staying there over a week, and getting so intimate, as they must have done, that he would at least have been asked to tea since he left, but not once! I asked him straight out, so I know. He won’t acknowledge that he thinks it odd—you know how close men are.—but I can see he does from his manner. I shall go to Gled Bay for his sake. He would be so disappointed if I refused. He has given me a gold bangle, just the sort I like: a plain, flat band. He looks thin still. Mother thinks he worried a great deal while I was ill. Of course it was hard for him being tied by the leg (literally!), and not able to do a thing for me. Dane doesn’t say much, but his feelings are awfully deep.“I wonder if it isn’t a mistake to conceal one’s feelings? I’m beginning to think that it is. We have been brought up to be undemonstrative, but if I have children, I’ll teach them quite differently. What’s the good of thinking nice things in your heart, if the person you care for doesn’t get the benefit? Mary! I’m sorry I haven’t been nicer to you. I’m sorry I was selfish, and let you do so much. If it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, I’m paying up now! I do hope Dane will want to be married soon. I don’t think I can last out much longer. I have thought so often of what you told me the night we were engaged, about your own love story, I mean. How could you bear it, and live quietly on at home? I couldn’t. If Dane treated me like that, I should—marry Mr Hunter! I’d like to see your face when you read that! But it’s true. Much more sensible, too, than the river, or growing sour at home!“Good-bye. Write soon.“Your affectionate sister,“Teresa.”
“Dear old Mary,
“I hope you are enjoying your liberty as much as you expected, and having a real good time. It’s pretty strenuous here without you. I am running about all day long, and being instructed meantime to lie down, and take things easy! I never in my life felt so irritated and depressed. It’s borne in on me, old thing, that you have been a buffer between me, and—er—shall we saycircumstances? and that I never appreciated you properly until you had gone!
“You don’t say much about your doings. Do you go to the theatres? I suppose you can go to matinées, if it isn’t proper to go alone at night. Have you bought any clothes? You might look out for an evening dress for me—white or pink—not blue this time, and not more than three or four pounds. The Raynors and Beverleys have taken a house together at the sea near good links. Dane is to join them for part of the time, and I am asked for a day or two at the end of his visit, so I need a new dress. The invitation came from Mrs Beverley. I haven’t once been asked to the Court since you left. Lady Cassandra is dropping me now that she has her beloved Grizel. Altogether I think her behaviour is ratherqueer. You would have thought, after Dane staying there over a week, and getting so intimate, as they must have done, that he would at least have been asked to tea since he left, but not once! I asked him straight out, so I know. He won’t acknowledge that he thinks it odd—you know how close men are.—but I can see he does from his manner. I shall go to Gled Bay for his sake. He would be so disappointed if I refused. He has given me a gold bangle, just the sort I like: a plain, flat band. He looks thin still. Mother thinks he worried a great deal while I was ill. Of course it was hard for him being tied by the leg (literally!), and not able to do a thing for me. Dane doesn’t say much, but his feelings are awfully deep.
“I wonder if it isn’t a mistake to conceal one’s feelings? I’m beginning to think that it is. We have been brought up to be undemonstrative, but if I have children, I’ll teach them quite differently. What’s the good of thinking nice things in your heart, if the person you care for doesn’t get the benefit? Mary! I’m sorry I haven’t been nicer to you. I’m sorry I was selfish, and let you do so much. If it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, I’m paying up now! I do hope Dane will want to be married soon. I don’t think I can last out much longer. I have thought so often of what you told me the night we were engaged, about your own love story, I mean. How could you bear it, and live quietly on at home? I couldn’t. If Dane treated me like that, I should—marry Mr Hunter! I’d like to see your face when you read that! But it’s true. Much more sensible, too, than the river, or growing sour at home!
“Good-bye. Write soon.
“Your affectionate sister,
“Teresa.”
Mary put the letter back in its envelope, and went out to look for Teresa’s evening dress. She paid for it out of her own money, and decided to offer it in the shape of an advance birthday present. In any case she would have to give something in October; it might just as well be bought now. She experienced a torpid satisfaction in the transaction, but it soon faded, and left her mind empty as before. Teresa’s appreciation and affection came too late. Five years ago they might have transformed her life, but they had not been given. Of what use to offer them now when their lives lay apart? Speculations as to Lady Cassandra Raynor, even as to Peignton himself, aroused no flicker of interest. They had been mummers in a play, and she had escaped into the open air. The only person of whom she had cared to hear was her father, and concerning him Teresa was mute.
Another week passed, and still another. Mary left the big hotel, and moved into a smaller one, of the glorified boarding-house type. Here, if she had chosen, she might have been less lonely, for there were half a dozen solitary women like herself, who would have been glad to include her in games of cards, or to exchange confidences over afternoon tea, but Mary had played a duty game of whist every week night for a dozen years, and had vowed never to touch another card. Moreover, she shrank from the furious curiosity of these women, who seemed capable of asking personal questions for hours at a time. She left the boarding-house and took furnished apartments, but the hot weather came on with a rush, and the rooms grew stuffy and breathless, so for the third time she was faced with the problem, of where to go next.
One afternoon she sat at tea at one of the little tables belonging to the outdoor restaurant near Victoria Gate, and essayed the difficult task of making up her own mind. In a limited sense the world was before her, but the very largeness of the choice made it the more difficult. If she could but think of something which interested... something for which she really cared! No answer came to the question, yet of a certainty she was happier under some conditions than others. Looking back over the blank stretch of days, there were hours which stood out from the rest, hours in which she had felt restful,—almost content. Mary lived those hours, trying to draw from them a conclusion. There were hours spent in the Park, not in the afternoon, but the morning, when it was comparatively empty. The rhododendrons were in full bloom in the beds near Rotten Row; she heard people say that they had never been finer than this year. There had been other hours in the Abbey, both during the services and after; there had been an afternoon on an excursion steamer plying up the river to Oxford; and a drive on the top of an omnibus on a misty night, when the lights twinkled in softened radiance, and the great buildings assumed a mysterious splendour. One by one, Mary recalled the hours, but the conclusion could not be found.
Then suddenly her ears were opened to a woman’s voice talking at the table next to her own.
“Switzerland,” she was saying. “Of course! As soon as I can run away. I am longing for the time to come. I have been there every summer for the last ten years, and if it rests with me, I shall go every year till I die. I’ve tried Norway, I’ve tried the Tyrol, but I’ve gone back to my old love, and I shall never wander again. Switzerland gives me what I need. I go there and feed upon it. It’s the tonic that braces me up for another year of hard, ugly life.”
There was a moment’s silence, then another voice asked:
“But what exactlydoyou feed on? What is the name of the tonic which helps you so much?”
“Beauty!” said the woman deeply.
The blood rushed to Mary’s cheeks. She had found her clue! That word showed her the secret of her heart. All her life she had fed on prose; now unconsciously she was craving the tonic of beauty. It had been beauty in one form or another, which had brought her few hours of content.
The next morning she packed her box, and took a ticket for Berne.
Chapter Twenty.Barriers.The house at Gled Bay was situated at some distance from the cliff, which was the spot most desired by its female tenants, but at the very gates of the golf links, which presented the be-all of existence to the two men. It was one of the aggressively new-looking edifices, which the house-hunters of to-day regard with dismay, protesting with unnecessary violence that nothing would induce them to make so prosaic a choice. That is stage number one. Stage number two consists in an inspection of cheerful rooms, wide windows, and sunny balconies, and a grudging admission that new houses have their points. Stage number three follows hard on the discovery of rats in the kitchen of the panelled house of dreams, and consists in a sceptical wonder if the villa could possibly “do.” Stage number four marks the signing of a lease, and the planting of innumerable creepers. In the case of the villa rented by Martin and the Squire in conjunction, the creepers had already mounted to the second story, so that it was possible to pick roses out of bedroom windows, and forget the glaring brick and imitation timber hidden beneath the clustering leaves. Cassandra and Grizel had rooms which opened on the same balcony, and there was a covered verandah which ran the length of the south side of the house, in the shade of which they partook of tea together, what time their lords were absent on the links.The mental attitude of the two women towards the masculine absorption differed naturally. Cassandra was unfeignedly thankful to have her husband kept in good temper, and to be left alone to amuse herself. Grizel began each morning in a mood of exemplary unselfishness, rejoiced in the prospect of healthful exercise for her student, and speeded him on his course with the sunniest of smiles, but when tea-time brought no sign of return, her eyes showed sparks of light, and her lips tightened.Thismeant that the men had started on a third round, and would not appear until six, at which hour they would be graciously pleased to repose themselves on the verandah, drink cooling draughts, and smile benignly upon waiting wives, until it should be time to dress for dinner. On such occasions it was Grizel’s habit to leave the house shortly before six o’clock and start on an hour’s walk over the country in a directly opposite direction to that of the links. If a man elected to spend the whole day apart from his wife,—if he found his pleasure in so doing... far be it from her to say him nay, but on his return she would not be found sitting in an appointed place, meekly awaiting the light of his countenance. “Thatsmacks too much of the harem for my taste!” quoth Mistress Grizel with a shrug.These perverse excursions invariably ended in a pursuit by a tired Martin, when Grizel would be inwardly overwhelmed with remorse, and would make vows of forbearance for the future, which vows were fated to be broken with all speed. A state of mind for which no excuse is offered, but which is commended to the sympathy of the wives of golfing bridegrooms!Sometimes Cassandra disappeared for long walks on her own account, and Grizel realised that she went forth to wrestle in solitude for a medicine of which her soul was in need. She was a restless Cassandra in these days, sometimes moody, often irritable, and anon almost obtrusively gay. For all their intimacy Grizel had a consciousness of being kept at a mental distance, or whenever their talks together took a deeper turn, Cassandra was ready with a laugh or jest to switch it back into light impersonality. So does a man with a maimed limb instinctively shield it from touch. Thus the first fortnight passed by, and brought the day when Dane Peignton was due to make his appearance.He arrived at tea-time, looking tired and pale beside the tanned golfers, who had shortened their day in his honour, and were not above letting him realise their generosity. They were too pleasantly engaged describing the crack strokes of the day, to allow the new-comer much chance of speaking, but he had an air of abundant content as he drank his tea, vouchsafed appreciative murmurs of admiration, and took in the charming details of the scene. Grizel, as hostessex officio, presided at the tea table. The two women had discussed the question of housekeeping during the joint month’s tenancy. Who should be the nominal head? Who should give orders? To whom should the servants apply? Since to possess two mistresses was anathema to everything in cap and apron, it was evident one must sacrifice herself for the common good. “It had better be me, then,” Grizel said, shrugging, “for I shan’t worry, and you will!” and Cassandra shrugged in her turn, and added, “Also if things go wrong, Bernard won’t growl at you.” And so the matter was arranged.Cassandra’s swing chair was drawn close enough to the rails of the verandah to allow the rays of the sun to touch her hair as she tilted gently to and fro, and give an added lustre to the points of gold in the thick, wreath-like braid. She wore a white dress, which to masculine eyes appeared the acme of simplicity, and Peignton, watching her, believed that the style of coiffure and dress alike was the outward proof of inward simpleness of heart, and lack of feminine vanity. Wherein he was mistaken. After the first greeting he had never directly addressed himself to Cassandra, but his eyes wandered continually towards the white, swinging figure.“We’ve fixed up your game all right, Peignton,” the Squire informed him. “Found a decent fellow at the club, who’s keen to make up a foursome. I think you can give him about two strokes. He’s to meet us to-morrow at ten o’clock. We ought to get in some good days before Saturday. Of course when the fair Teresa arrives you’ll want to knock off.”Grizel made an expressive grimace.“Seeing that she is—nothis wife! Oh, matrimony, where are the charms our mothers have seen in thy face? There ought to be a second line to that.—La la la,—la la la, la la laLa... since golf has taken our place! I shall have a word to say in Teresa’s ear.”“No use!” cried Peignton, laughing. “She’s caught the fever herself. No small player either. The first time I met her was on the golf links. She won’t have the usual plea of desertion, as we shall probably spend our spare time playing together.”“Community of interests, eh?” The Squire made a wry face. “Very idyllic, no doubt, but I’m not keen on a wife as a partner at golf. Cassandra can’t bit a ball to save her life, and I’ve always thought it one of her chief virtues. Women are the deuce when they fancy themselves at games. I gave up tennis parties for that very reason. Never do more now than ask up three other fellows to make a four. Girls are all very well in their place. I like girls, but I’d choose a man every time when it comes to a game.”Grizel cocked her head at him with a challenging air.“What do you bet I don’t beat you hollow at croquet, before the clock strikes seven?”“Nothing! Ain’t going to play.”“Oh, yes, you are,” Grizel said coolly. “You’ve been amusing yourself all day; now you are going to amuse me for a change. Croquet is about the only game Icanplay, and I have a fancy that it would do you good to be beaten. Does anyone want any more tea? They can’t have it if they do, for there’s none left. Anyway, you’ve all had three cups.” She held out her arm in mocking fashion. “Come along, and be butchered!”The Squire shrugged, and submitted.“That’s all right, Mrs Beverley. Delighted. Never said I objected to other fellows’ wives...”They moved off round the corner of the house; Martin glanced after them, yawned, and stretched his legs. In Grizel’s absence he became very conscious of his tired body, and the two hours which had still to elapse before dinner assumed formidable proportions. It entered his head to excuse himself and retire to his own room, for a read, followed by a leisurely bath, then he remembered his duties as host, and resigned himself to stay at his post, and his two companions, noticing his sigh and yawn, read his thoughts as a book, and waited in a tensity of suspense for his decision. Peignton was in no doubt as to his own feelings,—he longed with all his heart for the fellow to take himself off, and leave him to talk to Cassandra alone; Cassandra believed that she wished precisely the opposite, but to both came the same sharp pang of disappointment, as Martin took out his cigarette case, and settled himself in a lounge chair.After a quarter of an hour’s casual conversation Cassandra rose, and entered the house. She felt too impatient to continue the three-sided conversation, but, inside the drawing-room, she lingered on pretence of rearranging the flowers in the tall green vases, while her ears strained to hear what was happening without. If Dane cared enough to follow, it would be so easy, so natural, to ask to be taken a walk of inspection round the gardens! Those minutes of waiting had been sufficient to prove the fallacy of her pretence, and she knew that she was hungering for the time when they should be alone together, when she could look into his eyes, and hear his voice speaking in the deep, full tones which had made music in her ears during the stolen days of convalescence. She had gone hungry for weeks, and for a moment it had seemed that she might be fed. If only Martin had obeyed his first impulse, and taken himself away! She stayed her hand, and stood motionless listening with strained ears. From the balcony without came the sound of a masculine voice, running on in a smooth, even flow. The feminine element being withdrawn, Martin had embarked on a serious discussion which sounded as if it might be prolonged to an interminable length. At that moment Cassandra hated Martin Beverley.Half an hour later, from an upper window which gave a view of the verandah, Cassandra beheld the two men playing chess with every appearance of absorption.After dinner, bridge occupied the hours till bedtime, the men cutting in and out. The next day they disappeared from ten until six, and after being fed and refreshed, were keen for bridge once more. The Squire was keen, that is to say, and the others acquiesced with more or less readiness. The second and third days brought little variation in the programme. The golfers arrived home a little later, a little earlier, sat smoking and talking on the verandah, or rested their limbs, and occupied their brains with contests at chess. Frequently Martin disappeared to his own room. He had some short articles on hand, which he was anxious to finish; moreover, being accustomed to long hours in his study, he grew weary of the sound of voices, and felt at liberty to take an occasional hour of solitude, now that the Squire was provided with a companion. So it came about that Dane could never count upon ten minutes to himself. In the short part of the day which he spent in the villa, he was continually shadowed by the Squire’s big, bronzed presence; the big voice boomed continually in his ear, challenging him to fresh contests, haranguing on politics, laying down the law on the eternal subject of land, and with every hour that passed, there grew in Dane’s breast a smouldering fire of rebellion. The time was passing, was flying fast; he had the feeling of being continually baffled and outflanked. In another two days Teresa would arrive, and her coming seemed to mark the end of,—ofwhat? Peignton did not acknowledge to himself in so many words that he was crazed with disappointment at the impossibility of spending five uninterrupted minutes in Cassandra’s company; it was easier to skirt round the subject, and declare that he was tired of golf, bored with the Squire’s eternal bluster, yet reluctant to approach the end of a visit from which he had expected much.As he was dressing in the morning he debated how he could escape from the links, but the solution was difficult to find. Each day’s game was arranged in advance, his own willingness being taken for granted. Had he not been invited for the special purpose of playing golf?Again, if in the evening he were to cry off bridge, it would simply mean that Cassandra was chained to the table. The only chance of atête-à-têtelay during the interval between the return from the links and the serving of dinner, and so persistently was fate against him at those times, that Dane began to suspect an abetting human agency. Not the Squire, not Martin, but Grizel herself! It did not seem possible that it was owing to chance alone that the pawns on the board were so consistently moved to block his approach!There is nothing so irritating to the nerves as the fret of continual disappointment, and in both looks and manner Peignton showed signs of the mental strain through which he was passing. Cheerfulness forsook him, he grew silent and preoccupied, only by the hardest struggle did he prevent an outburst of actual ill-temper.Looking back he realised that it was the intimacy of that week spent at the Court a month before, which made the present condition so unbearable. Then, day after day, Cassandra had sat alone by his side, now working at her embroidery, and again dropping her thread, and sitting with folded hands, while they talked together—that talk which never jarred, never wearied, never seemed more than just begun. He had tried at times to recall what exactly they had talked about during those lengthening hours, but he could not remember. The subject had seemed of so little importance, it had been but a vehicle to convey the inward sympathy and understanding, an opportunity of hearing Cassandra’s voice, and watching the lights pass over her beautiful, vivid face. It had been a happy face in those days, but it was not happy to-day. A look of strain was upon it which corresponded to his own; there were moments of suspense when he sensed that she also was holding her breath; moments of exasperated check, when his own anger leapt to meet an answering flame.On the morning of the day on which Teresa was to arrive, Peignton made a determined revolt. Breakfast was over, and the five members of the party had strolled on to the verandah to enjoy the fresh air. When the Squire sounded the usual cry of haste, Dane nerved himself, and spoke out:“I think I shall stay at home this morning. I feel inclined to laze. You’ll enjoy a single for a change.”There was a moment’s silence. Dane was conscious that to each of the four hearers his words had come with the effect of a shock. Cassandra strolled a yard or two away, and stood with her back towards him. Grizel’s golden eyes were fixed on his face.“What’s this? What’s this?” cried the Squire, breaking the silence. “Can’t bear to be out of the way, can’t you? I’ll tell Miss Teresa what a devoted lover she’s got! Upon my word, it’s a mercy she’s coming, for the strain has been getting too much for you these last days. Quite ratty once or twice, wasn’t he, Beverley? It’s all right, old man, it’s all right! We understand. Been there ourselves, haven’t we, Beverley? It’s a stage—a stage. Painful at present, but ’twill cease before long, as the little hymn says. Eh, what? Look at Beverley! Only been married six months, and as callous as the best of us. Goes off comfortably, day after day, and leaves his wife behind. Never gives her a thought till he comes back. Do you, Beverley?”“Not one,” said Martin. He looked across into Grizel’s eyes, and Grizel looked back at him, and in that glance was concentrated all the poetry, and all the music and all the pure and lovely things that have lived and blossomed, since the beginning of time. But the Squire saw none of it, because his eyes were blind.“Don’t be a fool!” he continued bluffly, addressing himself to his guest. “The time will pass twice as quickly if you’ve something to do. We’ll be back for lunch; that will give you time to walk comfortably to the station. As a matter of fact, my dear fellow, you’re bound to come, for we’ve fixed up the game. We’ll let you off to-morrow, but you can’t chuck us to-day!”He turned back into the house to collect his clubs, which lay in the gun-room half a dozen yards away. Martin and Grizel followed, and for the moment Cassandra and Dane were alone. She stood still and rigid, her hands clasping the rail of the verandah, her eyes staring straight ahead. Peignton drew nearer; so near that his arm almost touched hers. His heart pounded within him with sickening thuds. It seemed to him that if she would give him one glance of understanding and sympathy, he could hold himself in, as he had done a dozen times before, but she stood immovable, vouchsafing no sign, and suddenly he found himself at the end of his endurance. He bent his head to hers, and his voice came in a thick, broken whisper:“I wish to God!” he gasped, “I could break my ankle again!”The next moment the Squire returned calling loudly for Martin to follow. The three men shouldered their clubs, and crunched down the garden path.That afternoon at tea-time, Teresa arrived.
The house at Gled Bay was situated at some distance from the cliff, which was the spot most desired by its female tenants, but at the very gates of the golf links, which presented the be-all of existence to the two men. It was one of the aggressively new-looking edifices, which the house-hunters of to-day regard with dismay, protesting with unnecessary violence that nothing would induce them to make so prosaic a choice. That is stage number one. Stage number two consists in an inspection of cheerful rooms, wide windows, and sunny balconies, and a grudging admission that new houses have their points. Stage number three follows hard on the discovery of rats in the kitchen of the panelled house of dreams, and consists in a sceptical wonder if the villa could possibly “do.” Stage number four marks the signing of a lease, and the planting of innumerable creepers. In the case of the villa rented by Martin and the Squire in conjunction, the creepers had already mounted to the second story, so that it was possible to pick roses out of bedroom windows, and forget the glaring brick and imitation timber hidden beneath the clustering leaves. Cassandra and Grizel had rooms which opened on the same balcony, and there was a covered verandah which ran the length of the south side of the house, in the shade of which they partook of tea together, what time their lords were absent on the links.
The mental attitude of the two women towards the masculine absorption differed naturally. Cassandra was unfeignedly thankful to have her husband kept in good temper, and to be left alone to amuse herself. Grizel began each morning in a mood of exemplary unselfishness, rejoiced in the prospect of healthful exercise for her student, and speeded him on his course with the sunniest of smiles, but when tea-time brought no sign of return, her eyes showed sparks of light, and her lips tightened.Thismeant that the men had started on a third round, and would not appear until six, at which hour they would be graciously pleased to repose themselves on the verandah, drink cooling draughts, and smile benignly upon waiting wives, until it should be time to dress for dinner. On such occasions it was Grizel’s habit to leave the house shortly before six o’clock and start on an hour’s walk over the country in a directly opposite direction to that of the links. If a man elected to spend the whole day apart from his wife,—if he found his pleasure in so doing... far be it from her to say him nay, but on his return she would not be found sitting in an appointed place, meekly awaiting the light of his countenance. “Thatsmacks too much of the harem for my taste!” quoth Mistress Grizel with a shrug.
These perverse excursions invariably ended in a pursuit by a tired Martin, when Grizel would be inwardly overwhelmed with remorse, and would make vows of forbearance for the future, which vows were fated to be broken with all speed. A state of mind for which no excuse is offered, but which is commended to the sympathy of the wives of golfing bridegrooms!
Sometimes Cassandra disappeared for long walks on her own account, and Grizel realised that she went forth to wrestle in solitude for a medicine of which her soul was in need. She was a restless Cassandra in these days, sometimes moody, often irritable, and anon almost obtrusively gay. For all their intimacy Grizel had a consciousness of being kept at a mental distance, or whenever their talks together took a deeper turn, Cassandra was ready with a laugh or jest to switch it back into light impersonality. So does a man with a maimed limb instinctively shield it from touch. Thus the first fortnight passed by, and brought the day when Dane Peignton was due to make his appearance.
He arrived at tea-time, looking tired and pale beside the tanned golfers, who had shortened their day in his honour, and were not above letting him realise their generosity. They were too pleasantly engaged describing the crack strokes of the day, to allow the new-comer much chance of speaking, but he had an air of abundant content as he drank his tea, vouchsafed appreciative murmurs of admiration, and took in the charming details of the scene. Grizel, as hostessex officio, presided at the tea table. The two women had discussed the question of housekeeping during the joint month’s tenancy. Who should be the nominal head? Who should give orders? To whom should the servants apply? Since to possess two mistresses was anathema to everything in cap and apron, it was evident one must sacrifice herself for the common good. “It had better be me, then,” Grizel said, shrugging, “for I shan’t worry, and you will!” and Cassandra shrugged in her turn, and added, “Also if things go wrong, Bernard won’t growl at you.” And so the matter was arranged.
Cassandra’s swing chair was drawn close enough to the rails of the verandah to allow the rays of the sun to touch her hair as she tilted gently to and fro, and give an added lustre to the points of gold in the thick, wreath-like braid. She wore a white dress, which to masculine eyes appeared the acme of simplicity, and Peignton, watching her, believed that the style of coiffure and dress alike was the outward proof of inward simpleness of heart, and lack of feminine vanity. Wherein he was mistaken. After the first greeting he had never directly addressed himself to Cassandra, but his eyes wandered continually towards the white, swinging figure.
“We’ve fixed up your game all right, Peignton,” the Squire informed him. “Found a decent fellow at the club, who’s keen to make up a foursome. I think you can give him about two strokes. He’s to meet us to-morrow at ten o’clock. We ought to get in some good days before Saturday. Of course when the fair Teresa arrives you’ll want to knock off.”
Grizel made an expressive grimace.
“Seeing that she is—nothis wife! Oh, matrimony, where are the charms our mothers have seen in thy face? There ought to be a second line to that.—La la la,—la la la, la la laLa... since golf has taken our place! I shall have a word to say in Teresa’s ear.”
“No use!” cried Peignton, laughing. “She’s caught the fever herself. No small player either. The first time I met her was on the golf links. She won’t have the usual plea of desertion, as we shall probably spend our spare time playing together.”
“Community of interests, eh?” The Squire made a wry face. “Very idyllic, no doubt, but I’m not keen on a wife as a partner at golf. Cassandra can’t bit a ball to save her life, and I’ve always thought it one of her chief virtues. Women are the deuce when they fancy themselves at games. I gave up tennis parties for that very reason. Never do more now than ask up three other fellows to make a four. Girls are all very well in their place. I like girls, but I’d choose a man every time when it comes to a game.”
Grizel cocked her head at him with a challenging air.
“What do you bet I don’t beat you hollow at croquet, before the clock strikes seven?”
“Nothing! Ain’t going to play.”
“Oh, yes, you are,” Grizel said coolly. “You’ve been amusing yourself all day; now you are going to amuse me for a change. Croquet is about the only game Icanplay, and I have a fancy that it would do you good to be beaten. Does anyone want any more tea? They can’t have it if they do, for there’s none left. Anyway, you’ve all had three cups.” She held out her arm in mocking fashion. “Come along, and be butchered!”
The Squire shrugged, and submitted.
“That’s all right, Mrs Beverley. Delighted. Never said I objected to other fellows’ wives...”
They moved off round the corner of the house; Martin glanced after them, yawned, and stretched his legs. In Grizel’s absence he became very conscious of his tired body, and the two hours which had still to elapse before dinner assumed formidable proportions. It entered his head to excuse himself and retire to his own room, for a read, followed by a leisurely bath, then he remembered his duties as host, and resigned himself to stay at his post, and his two companions, noticing his sigh and yawn, read his thoughts as a book, and waited in a tensity of suspense for his decision. Peignton was in no doubt as to his own feelings,—he longed with all his heart for the fellow to take himself off, and leave him to talk to Cassandra alone; Cassandra believed that she wished precisely the opposite, but to both came the same sharp pang of disappointment, as Martin took out his cigarette case, and settled himself in a lounge chair.
After a quarter of an hour’s casual conversation Cassandra rose, and entered the house. She felt too impatient to continue the three-sided conversation, but, inside the drawing-room, she lingered on pretence of rearranging the flowers in the tall green vases, while her ears strained to hear what was happening without. If Dane cared enough to follow, it would be so easy, so natural, to ask to be taken a walk of inspection round the gardens! Those minutes of waiting had been sufficient to prove the fallacy of her pretence, and she knew that she was hungering for the time when they should be alone together, when she could look into his eyes, and hear his voice speaking in the deep, full tones which had made music in her ears during the stolen days of convalescence. She had gone hungry for weeks, and for a moment it had seemed that she might be fed. If only Martin had obeyed his first impulse, and taken himself away! She stayed her hand, and stood motionless listening with strained ears. From the balcony without came the sound of a masculine voice, running on in a smooth, even flow. The feminine element being withdrawn, Martin had embarked on a serious discussion which sounded as if it might be prolonged to an interminable length. At that moment Cassandra hated Martin Beverley.
Half an hour later, from an upper window which gave a view of the verandah, Cassandra beheld the two men playing chess with every appearance of absorption.
After dinner, bridge occupied the hours till bedtime, the men cutting in and out. The next day they disappeared from ten until six, and after being fed and refreshed, were keen for bridge once more. The Squire was keen, that is to say, and the others acquiesced with more or less readiness. The second and third days brought little variation in the programme. The golfers arrived home a little later, a little earlier, sat smoking and talking on the verandah, or rested their limbs, and occupied their brains with contests at chess. Frequently Martin disappeared to his own room. He had some short articles on hand, which he was anxious to finish; moreover, being accustomed to long hours in his study, he grew weary of the sound of voices, and felt at liberty to take an occasional hour of solitude, now that the Squire was provided with a companion. So it came about that Dane could never count upon ten minutes to himself. In the short part of the day which he spent in the villa, he was continually shadowed by the Squire’s big, bronzed presence; the big voice boomed continually in his ear, challenging him to fresh contests, haranguing on politics, laying down the law on the eternal subject of land, and with every hour that passed, there grew in Dane’s breast a smouldering fire of rebellion. The time was passing, was flying fast; he had the feeling of being continually baffled and outflanked. In another two days Teresa would arrive, and her coming seemed to mark the end of,—ofwhat? Peignton did not acknowledge to himself in so many words that he was crazed with disappointment at the impossibility of spending five uninterrupted minutes in Cassandra’s company; it was easier to skirt round the subject, and declare that he was tired of golf, bored with the Squire’s eternal bluster, yet reluctant to approach the end of a visit from which he had expected much.
As he was dressing in the morning he debated how he could escape from the links, but the solution was difficult to find. Each day’s game was arranged in advance, his own willingness being taken for granted. Had he not been invited for the special purpose of playing golf?
Again, if in the evening he were to cry off bridge, it would simply mean that Cassandra was chained to the table. The only chance of atête-à-têtelay during the interval between the return from the links and the serving of dinner, and so persistently was fate against him at those times, that Dane began to suspect an abetting human agency. Not the Squire, not Martin, but Grizel herself! It did not seem possible that it was owing to chance alone that the pawns on the board were so consistently moved to block his approach!
There is nothing so irritating to the nerves as the fret of continual disappointment, and in both looks and manner Peignton showed signs of the mental strain through which he was passing. Cheerfulness forsook him, he grew silent and preoccupied, only by the hardest struggle did he prevent an outburst of actual ill-temper.
Looking back he realised that it was the intimacy of that week spent at the Court a month before, which made the present condition so unbearable. Then, day after day, Cassandra had sat alone by his side, now working at her embroidery, and again dropping her thread, and sitting with folded hands, while they talked together—that talk which never jarred, never wearied, never seemed more than just begun. He had tried at times to recall what exactly they had talked about during those lengthening hours, but he could not remember. The subject had seemed of so little importance, it had been but a vehicle to convey the inward sympathy and understanding, an opportunity of hearing Cassandra’s voice, and watching the lights pass over her beautiful, vivid face. It had been a happy face in those days, but it was not happy to-day. A look of strain was upon it which corresponded to his own; there were moments of suspense when he sensed that she also was holding her breath; moments of exasperated check, when his own anger leapt to meet an answering flame.
On the morning of the day on which Teresa was to arrive, Peignton made a determined revolt. Breakfast was over, and the five members of the party had strolled on to the verandah to enjoy the fresh air. When the Squire sounded the usual cry of haste, Dane nerved himself, and spoke out:
“I think I shall stay at home this morning. I feel inclined to laze. You’ll enjoy a single for a change.”
There was a moment’s silence. Dane was conscious that to each of the four hearers his words had come with the effect of a shock. Cassandra strolled a yard or two away, and stood with her back towards him. Grizel’s golden eyes were fixed on his face.
“What’s this? What’s this?” cried the Squire, breaking the silence. “Can’t bear to be out of the way, can’t you? I’ll tell Miss Teresa what a devoted lover she’s got! Upon my word, it’s a mercy she’s coming, for the strain has been getting too much for you these last days. Quite ratty once or twice, wasn’t he, Beverley? It’s all right, old man, it’s all right! We understand. Been there ourselves, haven’t we, Beverley? It’s a stage—a stage. Painful at present, but ’twill cease before long, as the little hymn says. Eh, what? Look at Beverley! Only been married six months, and as callous as the best of us. Goes off comfortably, day after day, and leaves his wife behind. Never gives her a thought till he comes back. Do you, Beverley?”
“Not one,” said Martin. He looked across into Grizel’s eyes, and Grizel looked back at him, and in that glance was concentrated all the poetry, and all the music and all the pure and lovely things that have lived and blossomed, since the beginning of time. But the Squire saw none of it, because his eyes were blind.
“Don’t be a fool!” he continued bluffly, addressing himself to his guest. “The time will pass twice as quickly if you’ve something to do. We’ll be back for lunch; that will give you time to walk comfortably to the station. As a matter of fact, my dear fellow, you’re bound to come, for we’ve fixed up the game. We’ll let you off to-morrow, but you can’t chuck us to-day!”
He turned back into the house to collect his clubs, which lay in the gun-room half a dozen yards away. Martin and Grizel followed, and for the moment Cassandra and Dane were alone. She stood still and rigid, her hands clasping the rail of the verandah, her eyes staring straight ahead. Peignton drew nearer; so near that his arm almost touched hers. His heart pounded within him with sickening thuds. It seemed to him that if she would give him one glance of understanding and sympathy, he could hold himself in, as he had done a dozen times before, but she stood immovable, vouchsafing no sign, and suddenly he found himself at the end of his endurance. He bent his head to hers, and his voice came in a thick, broken whisper:
“I wish to God!” he gasped, “I could break my ankle again!”
The next moment the Squire returned calling loudly for Martin to follow. The three men shouldered their clubs, and crunched down the garden path.
That afternoon at tea-time, Teresa arrived.