Chapter Thirty One.

Chapter Thirty One.The Second Best.Dane awoke next morning to face a long and difficult day. Idle hours are proverbially dedicated to temptation, and despite many resolutions his thoughts drifted continually towards Cassandra, continually emphasised her nearness, and dallied with the possibility of a meeting. He swore that such a meeting should not be his own doing, but what if chance brought it about?For some moments he permitted himself to envisage possibilities, then sternly called himself to order. Teresa in sorrow demanded an undivided loyalty; her tenderness during the past year riveted her claims. He determined to telephone to the Squire, apologise for his own inability to call at the Court, and try to arrange a meeting in town, but half an hour later as he stood on the step of the hotel, he saw the familiar dog-cart driving towards him, and heard himself hailed in loud, well-known tones.“Halloa, Peignton! Heard you were here. Drove round to say how d’you do.” The Squire gave the reins to the groom. “I’ll come inside and have a smoke... Poor old fellow went off in a hurry, eh? S’pose you are staying over the funeral?”“Yes. Till Friday morning. I’m glad you called. I was going to ring you up, and explain that I should have no time to pay calls...”“No. No. Of course not. Son of the house; you’ll have the whole show on your hands. And Teresa, eh? Bit of lost time to make up, what? Thought you were never going to turn up again... You know your own business best, of course...”“I do,” Dane said firmly, but the Squire was not sensitive to rebuffs.“Well!”—he said slowly—“that is as it may be. All the same, if you leave things much longer, and she falls to pieces as she’s been doing lately, there’ll be no Teresa left... Bad business this money trouble! Who would have thought that solemn old buffer could have been such a giddy owl?”Dane sat, unlighted cigarette in hand, gazing at him in dismay.“What money trouble?”“Mean to say you don’tknow? They didn’t tell you?”“Not a word. Money was not mentioned.”“Odd!” The Squire cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Veryodd, considering your position. Evans told me. No secret about it. It’s over the whole place. The old man had been selling out shares, and reinvesting under the advice of some unprincipled scoundrel. The old story—a huge fraud, got up for the special benefit of rural investors, ten per cent, interest, paid once; and then—smash! The poor old fellow got the news at the breakfast table, called out to his wife that he was ruined, and fizzled up, then and there. Had a stroke, and died in her arms. Far as Evans understands there’ll be nothing left for ’em but a twopenny pension.”Dane was silent, digesting the startling news. Theménageat the Cottage had suggested a comfortable, if modest income; in the one official interview which he had had with the Major, he had been informed that Teresa would eventually inherit some seven or eight thousand pounds. Now, by all accounts, the prospective fortune had vanished, and she was left penniless, dependent on—? On what? The answer to that question came in a rush of tender understanding. Poor, poor, little girl! Wasthisthe reason of her coldness? Did she fear that a sense of duty would urge him to a marriage from which his heart still shrank? Poor, proud, little girl! While she had something to give, she could plead her own cause, but a penniless Teresa would accept no favour. On the whole the news of the Major’s losses brought Dane more relief than sorrow. It solved the mystery of his chilling reception.“Humph—yes! bad business—bad business,” soliloquised the Squire. “Eldest daughter came in for a bit of money, but she’s kicked over the traces... Rather a pill for her to settle down again with the old woman,—what? Of course, you can look after Teresa...”“I can,” Dane said. After a moment’s pause he continued deliberately. “I shall arrange for our marriage to take place as early as possible. Mrs Mallison may have conventional scruples... she probably will, but she’ll have to give way. I can’t stay longer than Friday, and I must get things settled before I leave.” He rose, and straightened his shoulders with the air of a man throwing off a weight. “You—er—you will tell Lady Cassandra my plans, and explain to her that my time is so limited that I—er—”“Certainly. Certainly. She wouldn’t expect it, my dear man. As a matter of fact she and Mrs Beverley are off in town for the day,—frock-hunting, I believe. They’re always at it. Ripping little woman, Mrs Beverley! lots of fun, but plenty of common sense tucked away inside. Been a regular godsend to Cassandra...”“Lady Cassandra is quite well?”“Humph!” the Squire protruded his under lip. “So, so. Had a bit of a breakdown in autumn. We had a hard time of it, after you left. My old Mater had a stroke, and we were down in Devonshire looking after her for a couple of months. She got on like a house on fire: helpless, you know—couldn’t stir out of bed, but keen as a needle, took in all that was going on. Cassandra nursed her.”The Squire flicked the ash from his cigarette with a ruminating air. “Rum things, women! Hated each other like poison, those two. That’s to say the Mater hated Cass; jealous, because she was my wife. Cass didn’t hate her... too much trouble. She was simply bored. She’s given to being bored; you know that. She’s bored with your Teresa. Grizel’s the passion nowadays. Grizel is always perfect. But she was good to the old Mater. Nursed her like a brick, and the old Mater lay there by the hour staring at Cass. The last words she spoke to me,—did I tell you she had a third stroke, and died suddenly, just as we were coming home?—her last words were about Cass. Thought she needed looking after, ... cheering up.—It was a great comfort to me, Peignton, that the old Mater and Cass were on good terms at the last!”“I am quite sure it was,” Dane said sincerely. He was trying to banish a picture that rose before him, of the paralysed old woman with the dead body, and the live eyes that watched, hour after hour, the beautiful tragic face of her son’s wife. How much had the old Mater seen? How much had she divined?The next morning Dane stood by Teresa’s side in the graveyard of the old church, and drove back to the Cottage by her side. In the afternoon he paid a second visit, and found the Vicar and his wife drinking tea with the mourners. The two girls were silent and self-contained, but the emotions of the day had had an exciting effect on Mrs Mallison’s nerves, with the gruesome result that she appeared to be in the highest of spirits. Her voluble tongue discussed times past, present, and to come, and very pointedly she gave her hearers to understand that no condolences were necessary on the score of poverty.“We shall give up the Cottage—it is unnecessarily large now that Papa’s two rooms will be empty. Is there any chance of Oak Lea falling vacant, Mrs Evans? That’s the kind of house that would suit us, wouldn’t it, Mary? Two nice sitting-rooms, three or four bedrooms, and not too much garden to manage with a man once a week. I should like to keep on the cart. So useful for paying calls at a distance. Thereisa small stable at Oak Lea, I think? We’ll see! We’ll see! I shall quite enjoy a small, compact house. Mary and I don’t need much space. Teresa says we are not to count on her.”Everyone looked at Teresa, and Teresa stared fixedly at her cup. Not a tinge of colour stole into her cheek.When the Vicar rose to leave, his wife slipped her hand through Mary’s arm, and led her across the hall into the dining-room. At such a time it was natural that there should be “private words” and no one exhibited any surprise. Mrs Evans closed the door behind her, and held Mary’s hand in a firm, motherly grasp.“Mary, dear—I am a very old friend,—may I give you a word of advice? In these days of grief and emotion, don’t be tempted into making plans, which you may regret later on. Wait until you have had time to consider.”“Thank you, Mrs Evans, but what is there to consider? If Mother has no money, what can I possibly do but give her mine?”“You must share it with her, of course; no right-minded daughter could do less. But—there are different ways of doing it, Mary, dear! It is your own money. You ought to reserve to yourself the right to decide, and to order your own life.”But Mary shook her head.“You don’t know Mother. I do. There would be no peace. I’ll leave it to her to do as she likes. I’ve had my fling, Mrs Evans, a whole year of being alone, and free to do as I liked. I—I was very lonely. I shan’t be altogether sorry...”Mrs Evans was silent, her keen eyes fixed upon Mary’s face searching for some sign of change or growth, but there was none to be seen. The vagrant year had come and gone, and had left no mark. Its end found her prepared to settle down into her old attitude of dumb submission, “not altogether sorry!” Mrs Evans kissed her silently, and said no more.In the drawing-room Dane and Teresa faced each other across the tea table. At last they were alone, safe from interruption. As the door shut behind the departing guests Dane held out his arm with a gesture of invitation, but Teresa shook her head, holding him off with a lifted hand.“Not now. ... Wait! There is so much to be said.—Sit down, Dane. I hope you didn’t think me unkind not seeing you yesterday. I couldn’t! It has been such a shock. I had to think things out. The money question alters everything. There has not been time to go into business matters, but from all we have heard, from what the letter said, it seems that this loss was the last of a series. Poor Father! he must have suffered horribly, but he said nothing; only speculated more wildly than ever, hoping to put things straight. It’s a mercy Mary has her money. She will look after Mother. It’s her duty, but I am different. I could never live on Mary.” She raised her voice, silencing the words on Danes’ tongue. “I have told them that I shall look after myself.”“I shan’t let you do that! Dear, I have only been waiting till you gave me a chance of speaking. As soon as it can possibly be arranged we must—”But again Teresa’s voice interrupted, hastily drowning his own.“Wait, please! You must wait. I’ll tell you my plans, but first, there’s something I must give you back.” To his dismay he saw her draw the diamond circlet from her finger; she held it towards him on an open palm. Her lips twisted in a painful effort at a smile. “You wanted to have it a year ago, and I refused. I must have seemed very bold. I have often wondered since how I could have brought myself to do it. I was thinking of myself, of course. I don’t deny it. I could not bear to give you up, and I hated the thought of the gossip, and the sympathy, and the staring eyes. It hurt my pride to think of being jilted, when I’d been so proud... But most of all—mostof all, I thought of you! Dane! tell me one thing! It would help me to know... Has it been any help having my letters this year? Did being engaged to me—as much as we were engaged—make things better or worse? Were you one little scrap less lonely because I cared?”Dane had refused to take the ring. It was still lying on Teresa’s palm. He stood over her, very pale, very drawn, his eyes gazing unfalteringly into her own.“Teresa, you have saved me! If it had not been for you I should have taken my life. You have been an angel of patience. It has been your sweetness which saved me from despair. I have taken everything from you in my own trouble, and now, when I am cured, when you have cured me, you want me no more! What about those reasons that influenced you last year? Don’t they still exist? Have you grown tired of me, Teresa?”She shook her head, refusing to reply.“God knows it would be no wonder if you had; not one girl in a thousand would have had your forbearance. And—those other reasons? Have you outgrown your fear of what people may say?”“No, I haven’t. I’m afraid I never shall. But,—it’s over, you see,” Teresa said quickly. “Ithashappened. A whole year has passed, Dane, and you have never once been to see me. Chumley has been sorry for me for months; itexpectsme to be jilted. You need not worry about my sufferings in that respect. The worst is over... Besides, I have no intention of staying in Chumley.”Dane muttered a furious word, controlled himself, and put another question.“What exactly is your intention, Teresa?”“I shall take up some work. Girls always say that, and people laugh. I don’t mind if they do. They won’t laugh long. I shall succeed. I am the sort of person who does succeed. I like work, and I like to do it well... For two or three years I shall work hard,—so hard that I shall have no time to think...”She stopped, leaving the effect of an unfinished sentence, but Dane had no difficulty in divining her thoughts. The sting of jealousy added force to the impulses which swept him forward to her side. This time he ignored her protests, seizing her hands and drawing her close, until her face touched his own.“We’re talking nonsense, we’re talking nonsense, little girl! What do we care what people say? What does it matter what the whole world chooses to believe? You belong to me, and I’m not going to give you up! You’ve had your own way; now it’s my turn. You are not going to have a chance of succeeding at anything, except at being my wife! Marry me, dear girl, marry me quickly! I need you badly.”Teresa did not stir. Seen close at hand, her face looked fair, and sweet, and young, but pitifully sad. In the blue eyes there was the same sadness, and the sound of his eager words seemed but to deepen the pain. She had an air of waiting with all her being for the sound of something that had not come. Dane looked into her eyes, and understood. Still with his arms around her he pressed her into a chair, and knelt on the floor at her feet.“Teresa, answer! Have I always told you the truth?”She gave a startled look, but answered unhesitatingly “Yes!”“You can trust me to say just what is in my heart?”She nodded slightly, motionless in his grasp.“Teresa, darling,” said Dane softly, “I love you truly. I love you with a full heart. It isn’t remorse, and it isn’t pity, and it isn’t friendship... it’s love, Teresa! Look in my eyes, and see if I am speaking the truth?”But she had no need to look; the music of love was in his voice, and, God knew, she was hungry to be convinced. A year’s suffering had carried her beyond the point of finding content in mere possession, but the knowledge of Dane’s love was a salve which healed all wounds. The “something fine” in Teresa’s nature showed itself at this moment in a generosity of reticence infinitely endearing to the masculine mind. Dane waited shrinkingly to hear Cassandra’s name, but he waited in vain. Teresa asked no questions, demanded no vows,—all that was past, it was buried for ever out of mind, at the moment when for the second time she promised herself to Dane Peignton and felt his kiss of betrothal on her lips.

Dane awoke next morning to face a long and difficult day. Idle hours are proverbially dedicated to temptation, and despite many resolutions his thoughts drifted continually towards Cassandra, continually emphasised her nearness, and dallied with the possibility of a meeting. He swore that such a meeting should not be his own doing, but what if chance brought it about?

For some moments he permitted himself to envisage possibilities, then sternly called himself to order. Teresa in sorrow demanded an undivided loyalty; her tenderness during the past year riveted her claims. He determined to telephone to the Squire, apologise for his own inability to call at the Court, and try to arrange a meeting in town, but half an hour later as he stood on the step of the hotel, he saw the familiar dog-cart driving towards him, and heard himself hailed in loud, well-known tones.

“Halloa, Peignton! Heard you were here. Drove round to say how d’you do.” The Squire gave the reins to the groom. “I’ll come inside and have a smoke... Poor old fellow went off in a hurry, eh? S’pose you are staying over the funeral?”

“Yes. Till Friday morning. I’m glad you called. I was going to ring you up, and explain that I should have no time to pay calls...”

“No. No. Of course not. Son of the house; you’ll have the whole show on your hands. And Teresa, eh? Bit of lost time to make up, what? Thought you were never going to turn up again... You know your own business best, of course...”

“I do,” Dane said firmly, but the Squire was not sensitive to rebuffs.

“Well!”—he said slowly—“that is as it may be. All the same, if you leave things much longer, and she falls to pieces as she’s been doing lately, there’ll be no Teresa left... Bad business this money trouble! Who would have thought that solemn old buffer could have been such a giddy owl?”

Dane sat, unlighted cigarette in hand, gazing at him in dismay.

“What money trouble?”

“Mean to say you don’tknow? They didn’t tell you?”

“Not a word. Money was not mentioned.”

“Odd!” The Squire cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Veryodd, considering your position. Evans told me. No secret about it. It’s over the whole place. The old man had been selling out shares, and reinvesting under the advice of some unprincipled scoundrel. The old story—a huge fraud, got up for the special benefit of rural investors, ten per cent, interest, paid once; and then—smash! The poor old fellow got the news at the breakfast table, called out to his wife that he was ruined, and fizzled up, then and there. Had a stroke, and died in her arms. Far as Evans understands there’ll be nothing left for ’em but a twopenny pension.”

Dane was silent, digesting the startling news. Theménageat the Cottage had suggested a comfortable, if modest income; in the one official interview which he had had with the Major, he had been informed that Teresa would eventually inherit some seven or eight thousand pounds. Now, by all accounts, the prospective fortune had vanished, and she was left penniless, dependent on—? On what? The answer to that question came in a rush of tender understanding. Poor, poor, little girl! Wasthisthe reason of her coldness? Did she fear that a sense of duty would urge him to a marriage from which his heart still shrank? Poor, proud, little girl! While she had something to give, she could plead her own cause, but a penniless Teresa would accept no favour. On the whole the news of the Major’s losses brought Dane more relief than sorrow. It solved the mystery of his chilling reception.

“Humph—yes! bad business—bad business,” soliloquised the Squire. “Eldest daughter came in for a bit of money, but she’s kicked over the traces... Rather a pill for her to settle down again with the old woman,—what? Of course, you can look after Teresa...”

“I can,” Dane said. After a moment’s pause he continued deliberately. “I shall arrange for our marriage to take place as early as possible. Mrs Mallison may have conventional scruples... she probably will, but she’ll have to give way. I can’t stay longer than Friday, and I must get things settled before I leave.” He rose, and straightened his shoulders with the air of a man throwing off a weight. “You—er—you will tell Lady Cassandra my plans, and explain to her that my time is so limited that I—er—”

“Certainly. Certainly. She wouldn’t expect it, my dear man. As a matter of fact she and Mrs Beverley are off in town for the day,—frock-hunting, I believe. They’re always at it. Ripping little woman, Mrs Beverley! lots of fun, but plenty of common sense tucked away inside. Been a regular godsend to Cassandra...”

“Lady Cassandra is quite well?”

“Humph!” the Squire protruded his under lip. “So, so. Had a bit of a breakdown in autumn. We had a hard time of it, after you left. My old Mater had a stroke, and we were down in Devonshire looking after her for a couple of months. She got on like a house on fire: helpless, you know—couldn’t stir out of bed, but keen as a needle, took in all that was going on. Cassandra nursed her.”

The Squire flicked the ash from his cigarette with a ruminating air. “Rum things, women! Hated each other like poison, those two. That’s to say the Mater hated Cass; jealous, because she was my wife. Cass didn’t hate her... too much trouble. She was simply bored. She’s given to being bored; you know that. She’s bored with your Teresa. Grizel’s the passion nowadays. Grizel is always perfect. But she was good to the old Mater. Nursed her like a brick, and the old Mater lay there by the hour staring at Cass. The last words she spoke to me,—did I tell you she had a third stroke, and died suddenly, just as we were coming home?—her last words were about Cass. Thought she needed looking after, ... cheering up.—It was a great comfort to me, Peignton, that the old Mater and Cass were on good terms at the last!”

“I am quite sure it was,” Dane said sincerely. He was trying to banish a picture that rose before him, of the paralysed old woman with the dead body, and the live eyes that watched, hour after hour, the beautiful tragic face of her son’s wife. How much had the old Mater seen? How much had she divined?

The next morning Dane stood by Teresa’s side in the graveyard of the old church, and drove back to the Cottage by her side. In the afternoon he paid a second visit, and found the Vicar and his wife drinking tea with the mourners. The two girls were silent and self-contained, but the emotions of the day had had an exciting effect on Mrs Mallison’s nerves, with the gruesome result that she appeared to be in the highest of spirits. Her voluble tongue discussed times past, present, and to come, and very pointedly she gave her hearers to understand that no condolences were necessary on the score of poverty.

“We shall give up the Cottage—it is unnecessarily large now that Papa’s two rooms will be empty. Is there any chance of Oak Lea falling vacant, Mrs Evans? That’s the kind of house that would suit us, wouldn’t it, Mary? Two nice sitting-rooms, three or four bedrooms, and not too much garden to manage with a man once a week. I should like to keep on the cart. So useful for paying calls at a distance. Thereisa small stable at Oak Lea, I think? We’ll see! We’ll see! I shall quite enjoy a small, compact house. Mary and I don’t need much space. Teresa says we are not to count on her.”

Everyone looked at Teresa, and Teresa stared fixedly at her cup. Not a tinge of colour stole into her cheek.

When the Vicar rose to leave, his wife slipped her hand through Mary’s arm, and led her across the hall into the dining-room. At such a time it was natural that there should be “private words” and no one exhibited any surprise. Mrs Evans closed the door behind her, and held Mary’s hand in a firm, motherly grasp.

“Mary, dear—I am a very old friend,—may I give you a word of advice? In these days of grief and emotion, don’t be tempted into making plans, which you may regret later on. Wait until you have had time to consider.”

“Thank you, Mrs Evans, but what is there to consider? If Mother has no money, what can I possibly do but give her mine?”

“You must share it with her, of course; no right-minded daughter could do less. But—there are different ways of doing it, Mary, dear! It is your own money. You ought to reserve to yourself the right to decide, and to order your own life.”

But Mary shook her head.

“You don’t know Mother. I do. There would be no peace. I’ll leave it to her to do as she likes. I’ve had my fling, Mrs Evans, a whole year of being alone, and free to do as I liked. I—I was very lonely. I shan’t be altogether sorry...”

Mrs Evans was silent, her keen eyes fixed upon Mary’s face searching for some sign of change or growth, but there was none to be seen. The vagrant year had come and gone, and had left no mark. Its end found her prepared to settle down into her old attitude of dumb submission, “not altogether sorry!” Mrs Evans kissed her silently, and said no more.

In the drawing-room Dane and Teresa faced each other across the tea table. At last they were alone, safe from interruption. As the door shut behind the departing guests Dane held out his arm with a gesture of invitation, but Teresa shook her head, holding him off with a lifted hand.

“Not now. ... Wait! There is so much to be said.—Sit down, Dane. I hope you didn’t think me unkind not seeing you yesterday. I couldn’t! It has been such a shock. I had to think things out. The money question alters everything. There has not been time to go into business matters, but from all we have heard, from what the letter said, it seems that this loss was the last of a series. Poor Father! he must have suffered horribly, but he said nothing; only speculated more wildly than ever, hoping to put things straight. It’s a mercy Mary has her money. She will look after Mother. It’s her duty, but I am different. I could never live on Mary.” She raised her voice, silencing the words on Danes’ tongue. “I have told them that I shall look after myself.”

“I shan’t let you do that! Dear, I have only been waiting till you gave me a chance of speaking. As soon as it can possibly be arranged we must—”

But again Teresa’s voice interrupted, hastily drowning his own.

“Wait, please! You must wait. I’ll tell you my plans, but first, there’s something I must give you back.” To his dismay he saw her draw the diamond circlet from her finger; she held it towards him on an open palm. Her lips twisted in a painful effort at a smile. “You wanted to have it a year ago, and I refused. I must have seemed very bold. I have often wondered since how I could have brought myself to do it. I was thinking of myself, of course. I don’t deny it. I could not bear to give you up, and I hated the thought of the gossip, and the sympathy, and the staring eyes. It hurt my pride to think of being jilted, when I’d been so proud... But most of all—mostof all, I thought of you! Dane! tell me one thing! It would help me to know... Has it been any help having my letters this year? Did being engaged to me—as much as we were engaged—make things better or worse? Were you one little scrap less lonely because I cared?”

Dane had refused to take the ring. It was still lying on Teresa’s palm. He stood over her, very pale, very drawn, his eyes gazing unfalteringly into her own.

“Teresa, you have saved me! If it had not been for you I should have taken my life. You have been an angel of patience. It has been your sweetness which saved me from despair. I have taken everything from you in my own trouble, and now, when I am cured, when you have cured me, you want me no more! What about those reasons that influenced you last year? Don’t they still exist? Have you grown tired of me, Teresa?”

She shook her head, refusing to reply.

“God knows it would be no wonder if you had; not one girl in a thousand would have had your forbearance. And—those other reasons? Have you outgrown your fear of what people may say?”

“No, I haven’t. I’m afraid I never shall. But,—it’s over, you see,” Teresa said quickly. “Ithashappened. A whole year has passed, Dane, and you have never once been to see me. Chumley has been sorry for me for months; itexpectsme to be jilted. You need not worry about my sufferings in that respect. The worst is over... Besides, I have no intention of staying in Chumley.”

Dane muttered a furious word, controlled himself, and put another question.

“What exactly is your intention, Teresa?”

“I shall take up some work. Girls always say that, and people laugh. I don’t mind if they do. They won’t laugh long. I shall succeed. I am the sort of person who does succeed. I like work, and I like to do it well... For two or three years I shall work hard,—so hard that I shall have no time to think...”

She stopped, leaving the effect of an unfinished sentence, but Dane had no difficulty in divining her thoughts. The sting of jealousy added force to the impulses which swept him forward to her side. This time he ignored her protests, seizing her hands and drawing her close, until her face touched his own.

“We’re talking nonsense, we’re talking nonsense, little girl! What do we care what people say? What does it matter what the whole world chooses to believe? You belong to me, and I’m not going to give you up! You’ve had your own way; now it’s my turn. You are not going to have a chance of succeeding at anything, except at being my wife! Marry me, dear girl, marry me quickly! I need you badly.”

Teresa did not stir. Seen close at hand, her face looked fair, and sweet, and young, but pitifully sad. In the blue eyes there was the same sadness, and the sound of his eager words seemed but to deepen the pain. She had an air of waiting with all her being for the sound of something that had not come. Dane looked into her eyes, and understood. Still with his arms around her he pressed her into a chair, and knelt on the floor at her feet.

“Teresa, answer! Have I always told you the truth?”

She gave a startled look, but answered unhesitatingly “Yes!”

“You can trust me to say just what is in my heart?”

She nodded slightly, motionless in his grasp.

“Teresa, darling,” said Dane softly, “I love you truly. I love you with a full heart. It isn’t remorse, and it isn’t pity, and it isn’t friendship... it’s love, Teresa! Look in my eyes, and see if I am speaking the truth?”

But she had no need to look; the music of love was in his voice, and, God knew, she was hungry to be convinced. A year’s suffering had carried her beyond the point of finding content in mere possession, but the knowledge of Dane’s love was a salve which healed all wounds. The “something fine” in Teresa’s nature showed itself at this moment in a generosity of reticence infinitely endearing to the masculine mind. Dane waited shrinkingly to hear Cassandra’s name, but he waited in vain. Teresa asked no questions, demanded no vows,—all that was past, it was buried for ever out of mind, at the moment when for the second time she promised herself to Dane Peignton and felt his kiss of betrothal on her lips.

Chapter Thirty Two.Teresa’s marriage.Teresa’s marriage was arranged for the following August, a month which Mrs Mallison appeared to believe was clearly appointed by Providence.Three months was the shortest interval which could respectably elapse between a funeral and a wedding: three months, taken in conjunction with the date of half-yearly sales, was the period necessary for the preparation of a trousseau; quarter-day falling in September, there would be time to prepare for a removal after the wedding was over. It must be a quiet wedding, of course, very quiet, butwhite. Certainly Teresa must have a white wedding. It had been talked of so much, her young friends had been asked to be bridesmaids. Papa would not have liked a hole-and-corner affair. Papa dead was an even more convenient Jorkins than Papa living, and, to judge from his widow’s reminiscences, would seem to have entertained strong opinions concerning the weddings of young girls. Simple, of course; quite simple, but a white dressandbridesmaids,andan assemblage of friends. So sweet to be surrounded by loving hearts! And a cold collation. Champagne cup. Handed roundafterthe tea and coffee. Two or three bottles would be ample. “Teresa,” said the widow beaming, “will look beautiful in charmeuse!”Peignton, like every other prospective bridegroom, would have preferred to be married in an empty church, but Teresa sparkled at the prospect of recovering her prestige in the eyes of the neighbourhood, and it was not for him to refuse her the satisfaction.The day after the funeral Peignton left Chumley. Teresa took it for granted that he would not return until the date of the wedding, but it was arranged that during the interval she should procure the chaperonage of a married friend, and pay a week’s visit to her future home, when such important questions as carpets and wall-papers could be discussed.“We won’t be in a hurry to furnish the whole house. We’ll start with just what is necessary, and amuse ourselves with picking up the superfluities one by one. It will be jolly collecting treasures on our honeymoon. If we go off the beaten route, we shall find lots of happy hunting grounds. It will give the sticks an added value to remember how we bought them,—eh, little girl?” Peignton said, smiling. The old-time interest in the prospect of introducing Teresa to the beauties of new lands was struggling into new life. The prospect of a home gained hourly in sweetness.During the next few days the Chumley matrons garbed themselves in black, and, with discreetly lengthened visages, repaired to the Cottage on visits of condolence, to emerge half an hour or so later, considerably shocked and bewildered. They were prepared to mourn with a widow for the loss her husband; with a householder for the loss of income, with a mother whose daughter was neglected by her lover—they beheld instead a complacent personage in weeds, shedding a dutiful tear for “Papa,” and hastily whisking it away at the remembrance of “many blessings.”“So much to be thankful for! Mary home, and so useful. Taken up her old duties, and dear little Trissie so happy! The Captain,devoted. His house to be done up, regardless of expense. The marriage in August. Quiet of course, but white. Just,” the widow declared with a sigh, “as Papa had planned!”On the subject of finance the good lady was equally complacent. “There had been losses... poor Papa had been ill-advised, but if income were to be reduced, so, most appropriately, would be expenses also. No one but Mary and myself to think of. Between you and me,” said Mrs Mallison to each visitor in turn, “I believe we shall feel quite rich!”Grizel Beverley delivered a spirited account of her own interview with the widow for the benefit of Cassandra on her first subsequent visit to the Court. She thought it probable that rumour had already carried the announcement of the marriage, but preferred to make sure of this in indirect fashion, rather than by an open question.“Oh, she is a wonderful woman, is Mrs Mallison,” she quoted mischievously. “The Vicar says she is bearing up wonderfully,Isay she is having the time of her life. Notices in the paper, references in church, flocks of callers, everyone talking about her,—what could she wish for more? She looks so imposing, too, in her bombazines. Have you the slightest idea what bombazines are? Neither have I, but you may take my word for it—she’s got ’em! Poor Papa is quite a useful stalking horse, and has a tear dropped to his memory, before she enters upon therealsubject of interest.”“I know,” Cassandra said quietly, “Teresa’s marriage. It’s arranged for August, I hear. I knew it must be. Teresa’s not the sort of girl to live on her sister’s income, and Dane couldn’t,—after all this time, he couldn’t let her turn out to work!” She sat silent for a few minutes, her eyes gazing sightlessly over the terraced gardens. “So at long last, this is the end, Grizel!”“And at long last—are you still sorry, Cassandra?”“I—don’t—know!” sighed Cassandra slowly. “In one way I shall be almost glad when the strain is over. I’ve come to see that, for him, it’s the best way out. He wasn’t made to live alone. She will make him happy—not so happy as I could have done, but he has wasted enough time, and it’s useless waiting on... Oh, he will patch up his life, Grizel.—It will be all new—so many interests cropping up.—He won’t have time to think. And I shall settle down better when it’s all over. Teresa’s husband won’t be my Dane! ... My poor little love story! it had a very short course.—I wonder if any other married woman ever loved so wisely and so well!”Grizel made an eloquent gesture.“Hundreds! Thousands! Do you suppose you are the only woman who has met the right man too late? Do you suppose you are the only woman who has the decency to keep to her bond? There are thousands of them! You meet them in every street. But they are silent. It’s theotherwomen you hear of,—the women who fill the divorce courts; the women whodon’tstay at home, and do their duty...”“As I am doing mine!” sighed Cassandra again. Then suddenly the colour flew to her face. “There’s one thing, Grizel, that I cannot face, and that is being here for the marriage. Think of the fuss and commotion—all the town agog, flags out of the windows, the church bells ringing... They’ll ring them at Beston, too, at his old church... Grizel.—I could not endure those bells.”“You won’t hear them. We’re going away. I’ve planned it all, and you’ve nothing to do but to obey. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” announced Grizel, with a smirk. “Poor young wife! So sad. Ordered abroad, and her husband absolutelytiedat home: obliged to finish a book. Lady Cassandra has taken her. Some sort of retreat, they say. Sounds very suspicious,—but she alwayswasexcitable! Pitiful for him, poor man! Hissecondwife!”“Grizel! How can you?” In spite of herself Cassandra was laughing now. “But you are a darling. It would be salvation. If I were at home I should be obliged to go to the wedding, which would be torture for myself, and they would be happier without me! Oh, let us go, do let us go! I’d be so thankful...”“Wearegoing. There’s no doubt about that, but it’s as well to be prepared for emergencies. Do you think the Squire will object.”“Oh no. Not now. He’ll be quite pleased. I have an idea, Grizel, that his mother said something to him about me before she died. She knew I was unhappy, I could see it in her eyes, and ever since he has been more,—how shall I put it?—not affectionate, that’s over,—morehuman, shall we say? He doesn’t take mequiteso much for granted. It occasionally enters his head that I’m not very strong. He would be quite willing for me to have a change, even without the excuse of your breakdown. Poor young wife! ... And where is the Retreat?”“In France. In Normandy. It’s a convent, my dear, where they take a fewpensionnaires, but I’ll arrange that there shall be no one there but ourselves. I’ve been before when I needed a rest,—not the bodilyI, but the other bit, whatever you choose to call it, the bit thatfeels! Being a good Protestant I should logically hate convents. As a solid fact, I get more good in this particular one than anywhere else in the world. The nuns are so sweet; they have such selfless, crystalline, child-hearts. After you have been with them a few days, some of their calm begins to steal into your own heart, and the fret to die out. You feel such a long, long way from the outside world, that you look at everything from a new perspective. It came upon me with quite a shock that all my trouble had been about myself! ... My own waiting, my own loss. But these sweet things have buried self... Oh, it does one good, Cassandra, and the regular Spartan life, the bare floors, the exquisite, exquisite, cleanliness,—it’s all a tonic and an inspiration. It’s not dull either; don’t think that it’s dull! I take my prettiest clothes, and an assortment of selected jokes. They love ’em, the dear things! I believe they love me too.”“I’m quite sure of that.”“Well!” Grizel smirked complacently, “so am I. To tell you the truth I’m a tonic to them, so I give as much as I take. They do me good, and I shock them, so we’re both happy. The Reverend Mother once felt it her duty to reprove me, but her eyes danced, so I went steadfastly on, and did it again.”“And the services? Do you go to the services too?”“Of course, and enjoy them so much that they have fond hopes of converting me altogether. They won’t; but that’s a detail. Thank goodness, I am so constituted that it’s always the similarity between creeds that strikes me, never the difference, so I find help in them all... We’ll allow a month for the convent,—I can’t decently recover from a nervous breakdown in less than a month,—but we’ll take a few days off now and then for excursions in the neighbourhood, andthen, darling, we come home by Paris! Food for the spirit, and food for the flesh...Nothingis more reviving than a becoming hat. We’ll buy hats, Cassandra, and be blowed to expense... What’s the very most you have ever spent on a hat?”“I never have told, and I never will,” Cassandra said firmly, “but it had a real lace veil.” She sighed with melancholy resignation. “Somehow, Grizel, even hats lose their savour, when there’s no one to care...”“Rubbish!” cried Grizel tersely, “and you know it. A woman buys hats to please herself. Half the time her husband calls them ‘The Limit’! and her friends wonder how shecan, but so long as she and the mirror are agreed, it doesn’t make a rap of difference. She wears it to the end... Cassandra, darling, I feel it in my bones that I’m going to find the hat of my life! Oughtn’t we to be dreadfully thankful that we go in for different styles? All would be over between us, if we fell in love with the same model!”

Teresa’s marriage was arranged for the following August, a month which Mrs Mallison appeared to believe was clearly appointed by Providence.

Three months was the shortest interval which could respectably elapse between a funeral and a wedding: three months, taken in conjunction with the date of half-yearly sales, was the period necessary for the preparation of a trousseau; quarter-day falling in September, there would be time to prepare for a removal after the wedding was over. It must be a quiet wedding, of course, very quiet, butwhite. Certainly Teresa must have a white wedding. It had been talked of so much, her young friends had been asked to be bridesmaids. Papa would not have liked a hole-and-corner affair. Papa dead was an even more convenient Jorkins than Papa living, and, to judge from his widow’s reminiscences, would seem to have entertained strong opinions concerning the weddings of young girls. Simple, of course; quite simple, but a white dressandbridesmaids,andan assemblage of friends. So sweet to be surrounded by loving hearts! And a cold collation. Champagne cup. Handed roundafterthe tea and coffee. Two or three bottles would be ample. “Teresa,” said the widow beaming, “will look beautiful in charmeuse!”

Peignton, like every other prospective bridegroom, would have preferred to be married in an empty church, but Teresa sparkled at the prospect of recovering her prestige in the eyes of the neighbourhood, and it was not for him to refuse her the satisfaction.

The day after the funeral Peignton left Chumley. Teresa took it for granted that he would not return until the date of the wedding, but it was arranged that during the interval she should procure the chaperonage of a married friend, and pay a week’s visit to her future home, when such important questions as carpets and wall-papers could be discussed.

“We won’t be in a hurry to furnish the whole house. We’ll start with just what is necessary, and amuse ourselves with picking up the superfluities one by one. It will be jolly collecting treasures on our honeymoon. If we go off the beaten route, we shall find lots of happy hunting grounds. It will give the sticks an added value to remember how we bought them,—eh, little girl?” Peignton said, smiling. The old-time interest in the prospect of introducing Teresa to the beauties of new lands was struggling into new life. The prospect of a home gained hourly in sweetness.

During the next few days the Chumley matrons garbed themselves in black, and, with discreetly lengthened visages, repaired to the Cottage on visits of condolence, to emerge half an hour or so later, considerably shocked and bewildered. They were prepared to mourn with a widow for the loss her husband; with a householder for the loss of income, with a mother whose daughter was neglected by her lover—they beheld instead a complacent personage in weeds, shedding a dutiful tear for “Papa,” and hastily whisking it away at the remembrance of “many blessings.”

“So much to be thankful for! Mary home, and so useful. Taken up her old duties, and dear little Trissie so happy! The Captain,devoted. His house to be done up, regardless of expense. The marriage in August. Quiet of course, but white. Just,” the widow declared with a sigh, “as Papa had planned!”

On the subject of finance the good lady was equally complacent. “There had been losses... poor Papa had been ill-advised, but if income were to be reduced, so, most appropriately, would be expenses also. No one but Mary and myself to think of. Between you and me,” said Mrs Mallison to each visitor in turn, “I believe we shall feel quite rich!”

Grizel Beverley delivered a spirited account of her own interview with the widow for the benefit of Cassandra on her first subsequent visit to the Court. She thought it probable that rumour had already carried the announcement of the marriage, but preferred to make sure of this in indirect fashion, rather than by an open question.

“Oh, she is a wonderful woman, is Mrs Mallison,” she quoted mischievously. “The Vicar says she is bearing up wonderfully,Isay she is having the time of her life. Notices in the paper, references in church, flocks of callers, everyone talking about her,—what could she wish for more? She looks so imposing, too, in her bombazines. Have you the slightest idea what bombazines are? Neither have I, but you may take my word for it—she’s got ’em! Poor Papa is quite a useful stalking horse, and has a tear dropped to his memory, before she enters upon therealsubject of interest.”

“I know,” Cassandra said quietly, “Teresa’s marriage. It’s arranged for August, I hear. I knew it must be. Teresa’s not the sort of girl to live on her sister’s income, and Dane couldn’t,—after all this time, he couldn’t let her turn out to work!” She sat silent for a few minutes, her eyes gazing sightlessly over the terraced gardens. “So at long last, this is the end, Grizel!”

“And at long last—are you still sorry, Cassandra?”

“I—don’t—know!” sighed Cassandra slowly. “In one way I shall be almost glad when the strain is over. I’ve come to see that, for him, it’s the best way out. He wasn’t made to live alone. She will make him happy—not so happy as I could have done, but he has wasted enough time, and it’s useless waiting on... Oh, he will patch up his life, Grizel.—It will be all new—so many interests cropping up.—He won’t have time to think. And I shall settle down better when it’s all over. Teresa’s husband won’t be my Dane! ... My poor little love story! it had a very short course.—I wonder if any other married woman ever loved so wisely and so well!”

Grizel made an eloquent gesture.

“Hundreds! Thousands! Do you suppose you are the only woman who has met the right man too late? Do you suppose you are the only woman who has the decency to keep to her bond? There are thousands of them! You meet them in every street. But they are silent. It’s theotherwomen you hear of,—the women who fill the divorce courts; the women whodon’tstay at home, and do their duty...”

“As I am doing mine!” sighed Cassandra again. Then suddenly the colour flew to her face. “There’s one thing, Grizel, that I cannot face, and that is being here for the marriage. Think of the fuss and commotion—all the town agog, flags out of the windows, the church bells ringing... They’ll ring them at Beston, too, at his old church... Grizel.—I could not endure those bells.”

“You won’t hear them. We’re going away. I’ve planned it all, and you’ve nothing to do but to obey. I’m going to have a nervous breakdown,” announced Grizel, with a smirk. “Poor young wife! So sad. Ordered abroad, and her husband absolutelytiedat home: obliged to finish a book. Lady Cassandra has taken her. Some sort of retreat, they say. Sounds very suspicious,—but she alwayswasexcitable! Pitiful for him, poor man! Hissecondwife!”

“Grizel! How can you?” In spite of herself Cassandra was laughing now. “But you are a darling. It would be salvation. If I were at home I should be obliged to go to the wedding, which would be torture for myself, and they would be happier without me! Oh, let us go, do let us go! I’d be so thankful...”

“Wearegoing. There’s no doubt about that, but it’s as well to be prepared for emergencies. Do you think the Squire will object.”

“Oh no. Not now. He’ll be quite pleased. I have an idea, Grizel, that his mother said something to him about me before she died. She knew I was unhappy, I could see it in her eyes, and ever since he has been more,—how shall I put it?—not affectionate, that’s over,—morehuman, shall we say? He doesn’t take mequiteso much for granted. It occasionally enters his head that I’m not very strong. He would be quite willing for me to have a change, even without the excuse of your breakdown. Poor young wife! ... And where is the Retreat?”

“In France. In Normandy. It’s a convent, my dear, where they take a fewpensionnaires, but I’ll arrange that there shall be no one there but ourselves. I’ve been before when I needed a rest,—not the bodilyI, but the other bit, whatever you choose to call it, the bit thatfeels! Being a good Protestant I should logically hate convents. As a solid fact, I get more good in this particular one than anywhere else in the world. The nuns are so sweet; they have such selfless, crystalline, child-hearts. After you have been with them a few days, some of their calm begins to steal into your own heart, and the fret to die out. You feel such a long, long way from the outside world, that you look at everything from a new perspective. It came upon me with quite a shock that all my trouble had been about myself! ... My own waiting, my own loss. But these sweet things have buried self... Oh, it does one good, Cassandra, and the regular Spartan life, the bare floors, the exquisite, exquisite, cleanliness,—it’s all a tonic and an inspiration. It’s not dull either; don’t think that it’s dull! I take my prettiest clothes, and an assortment of selected jokes. They love ’em, the dear things! I believe they love me too.”

“I’m quite sure of that.”

“Well!” Grizel smirked complacently, “so am I. To tell you the truth I’m a tonic to them, so I give as much as I take. They do me good, and I shock them, so we’re both happy. The Reverend Mother once felt it her duty to reprove me, but her eyes danced, so I went steadfastly on, and did it again.”

“And the services? Do you go to the services too?”

“Of course, and enjoy them so much that they have fond hopes of converting me altogether. They won’t; but that’s a detail. Thank goodness, I am so constituted that it’s always the similarity between creeds that strikes me, never the difference, so I find help in them all... We’ll allow a month for the convent,—I can’t decently recover from a nervous breakdown in less than a month,—but we’ll take a few days off now and then for excursions in the neighbourhood, andthen, darling, we come home by Paris! Food for the spirit, and food for the flesh...Nothingis more reviving than a becoming hat. We’ll buy hats, Cassandra, and be blowed to expense... What’s the very most you have ever spent on a hat?”

“I never have told, and I never will,” Cassandra said firmly, “but it had a real lace veil.” She sighed with melancholy resignation. “Somehow, Grizel, even hats lose their savour, when there’s no one to care...”

“Rubbish!” cried Grizel tersely, “and you know it. A woman buys hats to please herself. Half the time her husband calls them ‘The Limit’! and her friends wonder how shecan, but so long as she and the mirror are agreed, it doesn’t make a rap of difference. She wears it to the end... Cassandra, darling, I feel it in my bones that I’m going to find the hat of my life! Oughtn’t we to be dreadfully thankful that we go in for different styles? All would be over between us, if we fell in love with the same model!”

Chapter Thirty Three.“It’s Just—Life!”Grizel came slowly down the long, straight path leading from the convent to the orchard wall, which marked the boundary of the grounds. It was a high wall rising some eight or ten feet above the path, and serving as a support for fruit trees, but at the farther end a sloping gangway of grass led to a terraced walk from which a view could be obtained over the low-lying country stretching towards the sea. On the terrace stood Cassandra, her white figure strongly outlined against the blue of the skies. She turned at her friend’s approach, and beheld that in Grizel’s eyes which startled her into attention.“You have something to tell me?”“Yes!”“What is it, Grizel?”“It is a confession. I have told you a lie... I told it deliberately, for your own good.”“What did you tell me?”“I said that the wedding day was to be on the twenty-fifth. That would be next Wednesday.”“Yes?”“That was the lie! I told you the wrong date. They were married on the tenth,—twelve days ago. It is all over. The meeting is over, the ceremony is over, the honeymoon is nearly over too. They will soon be thinking of going home.”Cassandra looked at her, and the blood rushed over her face. A tremor passed over it, of shock, of anguish, of incredulous surprise. Her lips quivered, and the fingers of her hands interlaced till the muscles showed white beneath skin. She asked no more questions, and Grizel stood by her side, watching in silence for the first sight of that which was to be her reward. She waited many minutes, but it came at last, shining forth more and more strongly as the shock and the pain lost their keenness,—a look of relief!Cassandra’s shoulders heaved, she drew a long, fluttering breath, and her eyes grew moist with tears.“Oh, thank God.Over! I have been dreading, how I have been dreading... Grizel, Grizel, if you only knew—”“Ididknow! Every minute of the day you would have been with them,—following them, seeing, imagining,hearing, torturing yourself, squandering your strength! My dear, I am a woman too! I did know. So I lied, and the day passed by in peace, here with the dear nuns, and you knew nothing—nothing!”“Thank God!” cried Cassandra again. “It was a blessed lie. I shall be thankful to you all my life for what it spared me, Grizel. It’s a weight rolled off.”She stood silent, with drawn brows, nerving herself to the new facts. Dane married. Dane a husband. Dane happy with his girl wife. For hewouldbe happy. Cassandra realised that fact, and the acknowledgment brought with it, not joy, but at least a chastened relief. He would never altogether forget the woman who had been his ideal mate, but as a sane, honest man he would thrust the thought of her farther and farther into the background, while the tendrils of affection would twine more closely round wife and child. Teresa had been brave and patient; now she would have her reward. The husband of the future would be more her lover than the bridegroom of to-day.Cassandra leant her arms on the low walls, and gazed over the country beneath. All was flat, and bare, and uninteresting, one square meadow succeeding another, divided by the same dwarfed line of hedgeway; a monotonous outlook, beautified only where the sun lent the glory of colour.“And so,” said Cassandra slowly, “it all ends! ... I waited for a big thing to fill my heart, and it came, and was more wonderful, more beautiful, than I had ever imagined... And it passed, and I am left to go on. All my life is before me, but the big thing has passed. Grizel! it doesn’t seem possible that it should all be over...”“You are thirty-two, Cassandra. The big things of life are not all over at thirty-two.”Cassandra sighed sharply.“So you say—so you say... You are thinking of the future, of long years ahead, but I have to face life to-day; to walk along a flat, dull road, and leave the sunshine behind.” She flung out her arms towards the country below. “Look at it, Grizel! My lot lies there. And I’ve been on the heights!”“You are thirty-two, Cassandra,” Grizel said. “The heights are not all over at thirty-two.”But again Cassandra refused the comfort.“Oh, of all the things that might have happened to me, this was the last that I expected—to have come through so much,—to have loved, and been loved, to have fought and won, and to be left with—Nothing! No change, no difference. That seems just the hardest ending of all! If there had been a big upheaval, and outside things had changed to match, even if it had been for the worse, it would be easier than to go back,—a woman whose whole nature has been revolutionised,—and fit oneself into the same narrow groove, knowing that the page is turned for ever, and that there is no more hope.”“You are thirty-two, Cassandra,” Grizel said a third time. “No pages are turned for ever at thirty-two.”“But, oh, Grizel, Grizel, when you read of these things happening to people in books, there is alwaysSomethingtangible to take hold of... It may be tragedy, or it may be joy, but at least there isSomethingto mark the difference, and I have nothing, but a memory which I must try to kill... There’s no poetry in it, Grizel, there’s no romance. It isn’t even—fair!”“No,” sighed Grizel softly. “It’s just—Life!”The End.

Grizel came slowly down the long, straight path leading from the convent to the orchard wall, which marked the boundary of the grounds. It was a high wall rising some eight or ten feet above the path, and serving as a support for fruit trees, but at the farther end a sloping gangway of grass led to a terraced walk from which a view could be obtained over the low-lying country stretching towards the sea. On the terrace stood Cassandra, her white figure strongly outlined against the blue of the skies. She turned at her friend’s approach, and beheld that in Grizel’s eyes which startled her into attention.

“You have something to tell me?”

“Yes!”

“What is it, Grizel?”

“It is a confession. I have told you a lie... I told it deliberately, for your own good.”

“What did you tell me?”

“I said that the wedding day was to be on the twenty-fifth. That would be next Wednesday.”

“Yes?”

“That was the lie! I told you the wrong date. They were married on the tenth,—twelve days ago. It is all over. The meeting is over, the ceremony is over, the honeymoon is nearly over too. They will soon be thinking of going home.”

Cassandra looked at her, and the blood rushed over her face. A tremor passed over it, of shock, of anguish, of incredulous surprise. Her lips quivered, and the fingers of her hands interlaced till the muscles showed white beneath skin. She asked no more questions, and Grizel stood by her side, watching in silence for the first sight of that which was to be her reward. She waited many minutes, but it came at last, shining forth more and more strongly as the shock and the pain lost their keenness,—a look of relief!

Cassandra’s shoulders heaved, she drew a long, fluttering breath, and her eyes grew moist with tears.

“Oh, thank God.Over! I have been dreading, how I have been dreading... Grizel, Grizel, if you only knew—”

“Ididknow! Every minute of the day you would have been with them,—following them, seeing, imagining,hearing, torturing yourself, squandering your strength! My dear, I am a woman too! I did know. So I lied, and the day passed by in peace, here with the dear nuns, and you knew nothing—nothing!”

“Thank God!” cried Cassandra again. “It was a blessed lie. I shall be thankful to you all my life for what it spared me, Grizel. It’s a weight rolled off.”

She stood silent, with drawn brows, nerving herself to the new facts. Dane married. Dane a husband. Dane happy with his girl wife. For hewouldbe happy. Cassandra realised that fact, and the acknowledgment brought with it, not joy, but at least a chastened relief. He would never altogether forget the woman who had been his ideal mate, but as a sane, honest man he would thrust the thought of her farther and farther into the background, while the tendrils of affection would twine more closely round wife and child. Teresa had been brave and patient; now she would have her reward. The husband of the future would be more her lover than the bridegroom of to-day.

Cassandra leant her arms on the low walls, and gazed over the country beneath. All was flat, and bare, and uninteresting, one square meadow succeeding another, divided by the same dwarfed line of hedgeway; a monotonous outlook, beautified only where the sun lent the glory of colour.

“And so,” said Cassandra slowly, “it all ends! ... I waited for a big thing to fill my heart, and it came, and was more wonderful, more beautiful, than I had ever imagined... And it passed, and I am left to go on. All my life is before me, but the big thing has passed. Grizel! it doesn’t seem possible that it should all be over...”

“You are thirty-two, Cassandra. The big things of life are not all over at thirty-two.”

Cassandra sighed sharply.

“So you say—so you say... You are thinking of the future, of long years ahead, but I have to face life to-day; to walk along a flat, dull road, and leave the sunshine behind.” She flung out her arms towards the country below. “Look at it, Grizel! My lot lies there. And I’ve been on the heights!”

“You are thirty-two, Cassandra,” Grizel said. “The heights are not all over at thirty-two.”

But again Cassandra refused the comfort.

“Oh, of all the things that might have happened to me, this was the last that I expected—to have come through so much,—to have loved, and been loved, to have fought and won, and to be left with—Nothing! No change, no difference. That seems just the hardest ending of all! If there had been a big upheaval, and outside things had changed to match, even if it had been for the worse, it would be easier than to go back,—a woman whose whole nature has been revolutionised,—and fit oneself into the same narrow groove, knowing that the page is turned for ever, and that there is no more hope.”

“You are thirty-two, Cassandra,” Grizel said a third time. “No pages are turned for ever at thirty-two.”

“But, oh, Grizel, Grizel, when you read of these things happening to people in books, there is alwaysSomethingtangible to take hold of... It may be tragedy, or it may be joy, but at least there isSomethingto mark the difference, and I have nothing, but a memory which I must try to kill... There’s no poetry in it, Grizel, there’s no romance. It isn’t even—fair!”

“No,” sighed Grizel softly. “It’s just—Life!”

The End.

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