Chapter Twenty Four.The Chain Holds.The next day Cassandra was still confined to bed. Grizel said that it would probably be some time before she was able to be about, and announced her own intention of acting as nurse, while her husband played golf with the Squire. So plain an intimation that visitors would bede tropwent beyond a hint, and in truth Dane had already made up his mind to return home by the first possible train. That being so, it was obvious that Teresa must return with him, since it had been solely on his account that she had been invited at all. Peignton looked across the breakfast table around which the little party were seated, and Teresa met his eye, and said instantly as though she had been waiting for the sign:“I think, Dane, it would be better if you and I went home this morning! I am afraid we can do nothing to help, and shall only be in the way. Could I have the carriage for the eleven o’clock train, Mrs Beverley?”“I will come with you, of course,” Dane added, and Grizel shrugged her shoulders, and held out her hands with an eloquent little gesture of appeal.“Dear people, it’s most inhospitable and horrid, but I think so too! I shan’t have a moment to spare. I expect we shall be rushing home ourselves by the end of the week.”The Squire and Martin looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. Plainly they also thought that the lovers would be better away, so Teresa excused herself and went upstairs to pack her box, an operation which she could not be persuaded to leave to a maid. With care and contrivance she could contrive to give the effect of a wardrobe that was sufficient, though not in any degree to be compared to those of her two hostesses, but the gimlet-like eyes of a lady’s maid would speedily discover and despise the little contrivances inevitable to small means. Teresa had the true middle-class dread of what servants would “think.” She had discussed with other Chumley girls the horror of staying in houses where a maid “poked about.” One friend in especial had recounted a thrilling incident which had befallen her on a recent visit. For the purpose of impressing the maid she had borrowed from a married sister her very smartest “nightie,” a cobweb confection of lawn and lace, which, discreetly crumpled, was hung over a chair in the morning, the while the utility flannelette was locked in a drawer. All went well, until one fateful morning, when, on the arrival of early tea, drowsiness overcame discretion, and the flanneletted figure had reared upright in the bed.“My dear,” concluded the sufferer tragically, “I could havedied!... After that her manner entirely changed.”It was a sorry task, refilling that box which had been packed with such high hopes. As she folded ribbons, and stuffed tissue paper into the sleeves of dresses, Teresa could recall the exact sentiments which had been in her mind as she had gone through the same process a few days before. Dane liked blue, so she had decided to wear the new blue dress on the first evening. The new sports coat was green, which suited her fairness almost as well as blue. She would wear that when they went out walking together, and he would slip his hand through her arm. There was a filmy white scarf which she had intended to throw over her shoulders when they escaped together into the garden after dinner. That scarf had never been taken out of its wrappings. It had never been required. The visit to which she had looked forward, as she had looked forward to nothing else in her life, had ended in tragedy and upheaval.An ordinary girl would have assuredly shed tears over such a packing, but Teresa was not given to tears; moreover, in another hour she would be starting on atête-à-têtejourney with Dane, and a disfigured face would not help her cause. She recognised the fact, and set her lips, refusing to give way to the choky sensation in her throat, to the pricking at the back of her eyes. Tears were for those who had lost hope, and she had not yet come to that pass. If much was lost, a great deal remained. She would go on fighting.Downstairs Teresa made her adieux with smiling composure. It was Grizel who cried, crumpling her tiny handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at her eyes without an effort at concealment. The curse of a vivid imagination was presenting to her the inner tragedy of the journey ahead, when the two who were supposedly lovers were left alone together for leaden hours which should have been winged with joy. She envisaged the home-coming too, the flood of maternal questionings, the blankness of spirit which would descend upon the girl when she attempted to settle down. While Teresa had been packing her trunk Grizel had been with her in spirit, feeling the reflex of every pang, and now as the carriage drove from the door she cried unrestrainedly, to her husband’s mingled bewilderment and concern.“Are you sorry they are gone? You said you would have no time...”“I haven’t. I’m glad; but, oh, Martin, IamTeresa at this moment, and it hurts! I know exactly how she suffers...”“That’s impossible. Teresa could never feel in your way, and besides, dearest, why should she suffer? She’s not such a baby as to grouse over a few days’ visit. Especially when she has her man.”Martin knew nothing of the awkwardness of the position, and Grizel realised that she must appear hysterical in his eyes, and longed to pour out the whole tale, but it would not do; for everyone’s sake it would not do. There might come a time when his unconsciousness would be the greatest boon to all concerned.“It’s all the fault of my beastly imagination!” she sniffed ruefully. “I’m always living through other people’s dramas, and tearing my heart to fiddle-strings imagining how I should agonise and despair if I were in the same place. You said one day that it was easy to be philosophical about a neighbour’s toothache, but it isn’t easy to me. I feel the horrid thing leaping inside my own mouth, and stabbing up to my own ear, and taste the nasty chlorodyney cotton-wool in my own mouth. I’m such a sensitive little thing!”“You’re a little goose,” Martin said, laughing. “In nine cases out of ten, while you have been torturing yourself, the toothache has stopped, or the poor martyr has shaken off his troubles, and gone off to play golf. We can’t carry other people’s burdens for them, darling, they’ve got to struggle through by themselves. It’s curious with your happy temperament, that you should have such a lurid imagination.”“No, it isn’t! Not a bit curious.”“Isn’t it? Why not? I’m interested to hear.”“Because I imagine happy things as well, stupid, and they come out top. If I worry over other people’s troubles, I glory in their joy. You can’t do one without the other; if you don’t feel one you can’t feel the other. You may never shed a tear in your life over an imaginary woe, buthaveyou ever wakened in the morning and thanked God because the housemaid’s young man had come home from abroad?—Have you ever felt your soul flooded with joy when you saw the sun shining in through pink and white curtains on to a brand-new wall-paper you had just chosen? Did you feel as if you could have jumped over the moon, when the Czarina had a son?”“I—I was very glad.”“Well, I wasn’t! I cried with joy, and said my prayers all day long, and thought of her lying there, and hugged the thought of her happiness, the poor, beautiful, tragic thing! Whatdoyou do, may I ask, if one of your own friends is in trouble, and doesn’t see the way out?”“I—er,—well, if I can help him, I invariably do. For my own sake, as well as his. I like helping. Take it all round, it is the most agreeable sensation one can have. If the other fellow feels as light-hearted and generally bucked up afterwards as I do myself, he is jolly well off. But if I can’t—”“Yes?”“Well! I don’t worry. What’s the use? It would do him no good for me to be miserable as well as himself.”“The thought of him doesn’t follow you wherever you go, like a nightmare, squeezing up your heart?”“Don’t mix your metaphors, darling. That squeezes. Certainly not. I should call it weakness. I dismiss it from my mind.”“Well, I think you are a callous wretch, and I like my own disposition a million times better than yours.”“There is no discussion on that point is there? because I most heartily agree.”“There you are, then!” cried Grizel triumphantly. “But youwillargue.”She shook out the damp ball of a handkerchief, and held it flag-ways to the breeze, tilting her head to look into her husband’s face. “Do I look very plain?”“Comparatively speaking—yes!” replied Martin, seizing on his revenge, whereupon Grizel proceeded to declaim in a loud, artificial voice:... “‘Teardrops still lingered on the long eyelashes; the lovely, mutinous face was wasted and ravaged with grief, yet never in her most queenly moments had she appeared to him more alluring and sweet. For weal or woe his life was in her hands.’ ... Another fine instalment to be given in our next number!” She waved her hand and turned back to the house, while Martin, laughing, walked across the lawn to join the Squire.Meantime Peignton and Teresa had reached the station, and he was unhappily facing a two hours’ journey which might easily devolve itself into atête-à-tête, since considerate travellers have a habit of avoiding carriages occupied by interesting-looking young couples. He was divided between a horror of a repetition of the scene in the garden the day before, and an overpowering sympathy for the girl whom he wished to avoid. Her set composure went to his heart when he recalled the radiance of the face which had beamed at him in the same place only a few days before. She had been so happy, poor girl, so fond, so unsuspicious; and now...Teresa turned towards him hastily.“You will go in a smoker, Dane, won’t you? I am tired out. I expect I shall sleep all the way. Come for me at the Junction, in case I am carried on.”She stepped into a carriage, and moved towards the farther side, arranging impedimenta upon the seat, with her back turned towards him. There was no time to wait, for he was obliged to move along quickly to take his own seat, but though the alertness of relief showed in his movements, his heart went out towards hisfiancéewith a rush of gratitude. How kind, how considerate, how singularly wise and far-seeing! Most girls, he was convinced, would have manoeuvred for atête-à-tête, and turned the journey into a torture of tears and reproaches, but Teresa had voluntarily sent him away, and had done so, moreover, in a natural, commonplace fashion free from trace of offence.Bravo, Teresa! As he took his seat in a corner of the smoker Peignton was probably more warmly her admirer than at any previous moment in their acquaintance. A sensible, level-headed woman, who would help, not hinder through the hard moments of life. Mentally he took off his cap to Teresa; but when he had lighted a cigarette he fell back into dreams of another woman who was neither practical nor level-headed, as admirers of sensible women are apt to do.As for Teresa, she cursed herself a hundred times over for having thrown away a valuable opportunity, but her resolution not to harass Dane in this first miserable day of indecision sprang into life again at the sight of his worn face when he came to join her at the Junction, and she braced herself afresh to help him through the ordeal of arrival.Mrs Mallison had been prepared by wire for her daughter’s sudden return, and her curiosity was at boiling point as to the reasons thereof. The statement that Lady Cassandra was ill, and Mrs Beverley engaged in nursing, was far too vague to prove satisfying. She wanted to hear what nature of ill, how long an ill, how serious an ill, with details of the premonitory symptoms, and the precise circumstances under which they had developed. She waved the way towards the dining-room, explaining that lunch had been delayed half, an hour for the travellers’ benefit. Of course Dane would stay and take pot luck. Mutton haricot and gooseberry fool. “You can tell us all about it over lunch, and afterwards,” she added meaningly, “Teresa and you can have a nice quiet afternoon!”Peignton quailed at the prospect, but once again Teresa came to the rescue.“Dane is very tired, mother. We are both tired. He is going straight home to rest. Be sure youdorest, Dane,” she added, turning towards him, and holding out her hand. “I shan’t expect to see you again until Sunday.”“I am quite sure he won’t agree tothat!” Mrs Mallison declared, and continued to protest volubly against Dane’s departure, and to sing the praises of the haricot and fool, but her flutters had no power against the inflexibility of Teresa’s calm, and finally she realised her defeat, and scurried back to shut the dining-room door, with the obvious intention of giving privacy to a tender farewell.“You are very good to me, Teresa,” Dane said. The next second he realised that he was expressing gratitude to hisfiancée, for giving him a chance of escaping her own society, and the realisation infused an added warmth into his last words. “Thankyou, dear.”Quite simply and naturally Teresa lifted her arms, and clasped them round his neck. She did not kiss him, but she laid her fresh, cool cheek against his, and said:“I love you, Dane. I shall always be good to you.”Peignton went out into the road hating himself because the sound of that “always” had dried up the spring of tenderness. God help him, he wanted nothing of this girl which should last for always! If he were free of her to-day he would remember her all his life with gratitude and affection, but those twining arms chafed him like a chain.Peignton took Teresa at her word, and paid no visit to the Cottage for the rest of the week. He sent down a hamper of flowers, however, with an envelope enclosing a short note written on his thickest paper, which to the maternal eye might give the effect of length. He would not be less careful of Teresa’s feelings than she had been of his, and he knew well that to allow three days to pass without visit or message would stamp him in Mrs Mallison’s eyes as neglectful and unappreciative. The best flowers which the hothouses afforded were collected to fill that hamper.Since the announcement of his engagement it had been an understanding that Peignton should spend Sunday with the Mallisons, appearing in time for early dinner, and remaining until after the eight o’clock supper. In the afternoon he and Teresa sat in the morning room together, or walked into the country, and after tea he played a game of chess with the Major, while from the drawing-room came the sound of hymn tunes played on a cracked piano. Mrs Mallison had been “brought up to hymn tunes” after tea on Sunday afternoons, and commandeered her daughters to produce her old favourites for her delectation. “The Church’s one foundation” led the way to “Onward, Christian soldiers,” while “Oh come, all ye faithful,” enjoyed a vogue independent of time or season. Sometimes Teresa sang the words in a strong soprano voice, an excellent voice for a choir, but a trifle harsh when heard by itself, but one afternoon, during one of the protracted pauses which preceded the Major’s moves, Peignton’s ear was attracted by a new tune, played with a softer touch, and presently another voice began to sing, a soft, somewhat tremulous voice, with a quality of extraordinary sweetness. The hymn was “Abide with me,” and the sound of the well-known words sung in that soft, tremulous voice brought back a hundred boyish memories. That was the hymn which he had liked best in the old knickerbocker days when he trotted to church with his parents; that was the favourite closing hymn at the school chapel; away on the Indian plains he had heard his men whistling it over their work. On the impulse of the moment Peignton pushed back his chair, and crossed the little hall to the drawing-room. The door was intentionally left ajar, owing to Mrs Mallison’s persistent belief that “Papa liked to hear the music,” so that Dane found himself able to see, without being seen. Teresa was not present, Mrs Mallison lay back in an easy chair, her eyes closed, her head swaying to and fro in time with the music; at the piano sat—could he believe the evidence of his senses?—Mary Mallison herself, that machine-like automaton in human form, whom he had believed incapable of feeling! Through the chink of the door Peignton stared for one incredulous moment at the bloodless lips through which breathed those low, crooning notes, then drew noiselessly back, with a tingling in his veins which was curiously like shame. He had caught a glimpse of a naked soul, and the revelation filled him with distress. No woman could have that note in her voice, and not possess the power of feeling an acuteness of joy or grief. No woman could have it who had not already tasted the sweets and bitters of experience.But if Mary could feel, how could she endure the life that was hers? As he went slowly back to his game, Peignton had his first glimpse into the tragedy of the life of a woman to whom nature has bequeathed a sensitive heart, and a plain and unattractive exterior.Sunday in the Mallisonménagewas not at the best of times a cheerful occasion, though hitherto Teresa’s society had made it bearable; under the new conditions it became a penance difficult to endure. The one o’clock dinner was invariably the same. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, a pie made of the fruit in season, flanked by custard in glasses; biscuits and cheese, and a sketchy dessert. Mrs Mallison invariably discussed the morning’s sermon. Teresa invariably disagreed, and the Major preserved a dejected silence.To Peignton’s supersensitive sight it had appeared sometimes as if each daughter had assumed a startling likeness to a separate parent. Mary had her father’s features, her father’s shrinking air. Teresa—why had he never noticed it before?—Teresa was a youthful replica of her mother. Given another twenty years she would develop into the same stout, bustling matron. His flesh crept at the thought of sitting opposite to her in the Major’s place.In the afternoon Teresa suggested reading in the garden as an alternative to the usual walk; she also announced that Mr Hunter and his sister were “coming in” to tea, an innovation in the day’s programme for which Peignton was devoutly thankful. He had met the young doctor and his sister, and knew them to be lively, talkative young people, eminently capable of rolling the conversation ball. Their presence would prevent personalities, and keep the talk away from dreaded topics. Never in his life had he accorded a more cordial welcome to comparative strangers.The table was set beneath a tree in the garden, and Teresa in her white dress made an attractive figure against the green of the background. Her hair was carefully dressed, a touch of blue at the throat intensified the blue of her eyes; there was in her manner that touch of self-consciousness and artificiality which to a discerning eye bespoke the presence of an admiring male. Roused to a momentary interest, Peignton realised that the admirer was not himself in this instance, but Hunter, the young doctor. He hovered about the table with eager looks; he discovered what Teresa needed, as soon as she found it out for herself, and darted forward to help. When she moved, his eyes followed her; when she spoke, he was all ears; and once, turning from the tea table, the young fellow knitted his brows, and stared fixedly into Peignton’s face.—“What does she see inYou?”—said that look as plainly as words could speak, and Dane, knowing himself to look weary and absent, felt an answering sympathy.He roused himself to take part in the conversation, and for the rest of the evening was careful not to relapse into silence, but the whole thing was like a dream, a dull, long-drawn-out dream which had no connection with life. He was moving as in a dream, speaking with forced, unnatural words, but presently he would awake. All day long the sense of waiting was upon him, of doing time until a a certain period was reached. If this sort of thing were to continue, it would be unbearable, but it would not continue. There was a limit to his endurance. In a few days, in a week at longest, Cassandra would be home again, and they would meet! The sense of waiting grew stronger...
The next day Cassandra was still confined to bed. Grizel said that it would probably be some time before she was able to be about, and announced her own intention of acting as nurse, while her husband played golf with the Squire. So plain an intimation that visitors would bede tropwent beyond a hint, and in truth Dane had already made up his mind to return home by the first possible train. That being so, it was obvious that Teresa must return with him, since it had been solely on his account that she had been invited at all. Peignton looked across the breakfast table around which the little party were seated, and Teresa met his eye, and said instantly as though she had been waiting for the sign:
“I think, Dane, it would be better if you and I went home this morning! I am afraid we can do nothing to help, and shall only be in the way. Could I have the carriage for the eleven o’clock train, Mrs Beverley?”
“I will come with you, of course,” Dane added, and Grizel shrugged her shoulders, and held out her hands with an eloquent little gesture of appeal.
“Dear people, it’s most inhospitable and horrid, but I think so too! I shan’t have a moment to spare. I expect we shall be rushing home ourselves by the end of the week.”
The Squire and Martin looked uncomfortable, but said nothing. Plainly they also thought that the lovers would be better away, so Teresa excused herself and went upstairs to pack her box, an operation which she could not be persuaded to leave to a maid. With care and contrivance she could contrive to give the effect of a wardrobe that was sufficient, though not in any degree to be compared to those of her two hostesses, but the gimlet-like eyes of a lady’s maid would speedily discover and despise the little contrivances inevitable to small means. Teresa had the true middle-class dread of what servants would “think.” She had discussed with other Chumley girls the horror of staying in houses where a maid “poked about.” One friend in especial had recounted a thrilling incident which had befallen her on a recent visit. For the purpose of impressing the maid she had borrowed from a married sister her very smartest “nightie,” a cobweb confection of lawn and lace, which, discreetly crumpled, was hung over a chair in the morning, the while the utility flannelette was locked in a drawer. All went well, until one fateful morning, when, on the arrival of early tea, drowsiness overcame discretion, and the flanneletted figure had reared upright in the bed.
“My dear,” concluded the sufferer tragically, “I could havedied!... After that her manner entirely changed.”
It was a sorry task, refilling that box which had been packed with such high hopes. As she folded ribbons, and stuffed tissue paper into the sleeves of dresses, Teresa could recall the exact sentiments which had been in her mind as she had gone through the same process a few days before. Dane liked blue, so she had decided to wear the new blue dress on the first evening. The new sports coat was green, which suited her fairness almost as well as blue. She would wear that when they went out walking together, and he would slip his hand through her arm. There was a filmy white scarf which she had intended to throw over her shoulders when they escaped together into the garden after dinner. That scarf had never been taken out of its wrappings. It had never been required. The visit to which she had looked forward, as she had looked forward to nothing else in her life, had ended in tragedy and upheaval.
An ordinary girl would have assuredly shed tears over such a packing, but Teresa was not given to tears; moreover, in another hour she would be starting on atête-à-têtejourney with Dane, and a disfigured face would not help her cause. She recognised the fact, and set her lips, refusing to give way to the choky sensation in her throat, to the pricking at the back of her eyes. Tears were for those who had lost hope, and she had not yet come to that pass. If much was lost, a great deal remained. She would go on fighting.
Downstairs Teresa made her adieux with smiling composure. It was Grizel who cried, crumpling her tiny handkerchief into a ball, and dabbing at her eyes without an effort at concealment. The curse of a vivid imagination was presenting to her the inner tragedy of the journey ahead, when the two who were supposedly lovers were left alone together for leaden hours which should have been winged with joy. She envisaged the home-coming too, the flood of maternal questionings, the blankness of spirit which would descend upon the girl when she attempted to settle down. While Teresa had been packing her trunk Grizel had been with her in spirit, feeling the reflex of every pang, and now as the carriage drove from the door she cried unrestrainedly, to her husband’s mingled bewilderment and concern.
“Are you sorry they are gone? You said you would have no time...”
“I haven’t. I’m glad; but, oh, Martin, IamTeresa at this moment, and it hurts! I know exactly how she suffers...”
“That’s impossible. Teresa could never feel in your way, and besides, dearest, why should she suffer? She’s not such a baby as to grouse over a few days’ visit. Especially when she has her man.”
Martin knew nothing of the awkwardness of the position, and Grizel realised that she must appear hysterical in his eyes, and longed to pour out the whole tale, but it would not do; for everyone’s sake it would not do. There might come a time when his unconsciousness would be the greatest boon to all concerned.
“It’s all the fault of my beastly imagination!” she sniffed ruefully. “I’m always living through other people’s dramas, and tearing my heart to fiddle-strings imagining how I should agonise and despair if I were in the same place. You said one day that it was easy to be philosophical about a neighbour’s toothache, but it isn’t easy to me. I feel the horrid thing leaping inside my own mouth, and stabbing up to my own ear, and taste the nasty chlorodyney cotton-wool in my own mouth. I’m such a sensitive little thing!”
“You’re a little goose,” Martin said, laughing. “In nine cases out of ten, while you have been torturing yourself, the toothache has stopped, or the poor martyr has shaken off his troubles, and gone off to play golf. We can’t carry other people’s burdens for them, darling, they’ve got to struggle through by themselves. It’s curious with your happy temperament, that you should have such a lurid imagination.”
“No, it isn’t! Not a bit curious.”
“Isn’t it? Why not? I’m interested to hear.”
“Because I imagine happy things as well, stupid, and they come out top. If I worry over other people’s troubles, I glory in their joy. You can’t do one without the other; if you don’t feel one you can’t feel the other. You may never shed a tear in your life over an imaginary woe, buthaveyou ever wakened in the morning and thanked God because the housemaid’s young man had come home from abroad?—Have you ever felt your soul flooded with joy when you saw the sun shining in through pink and white curtains on to a brand-new wall-paper you had just chosen? Did you feel as if you could have jumped over the moon, when the Czarina had a son?”
“I—I was very glad.”
“Well, I wasn’t! I cried with joy, and said my prayers all day long, and thought of her lying there, and hugged the thought of her happiness, the poor, beautiful, tragic thing! Whatdoyou do, may I ask, if one of your own friends is in trouble, and doesn’t see the way out?”
“I—er,—well, if I can help him, I invariably do. For my own sake, as well as his. I like helping. Take it all round, it is the most agreeable sensation one can have. If the other fellow feels as light-hearted and generally bucked up afterwards as I do myself, he is jolly well off. But if I can’t—”
“Yes?”
“Well! I don’t worry. What’s the use? It would do him no good for me to be miserable as well as himself.”
“The thought of him doesn’t follow you wherever you go, like a nightmare, squeezing up your heart?”
“Don’t mix your metaphors, darling. That squeezes. Certainly not. I should call it weakness. I dismiss it from my mind.”
“Well, I think you are a callous wretch, and I like my own disposition a million times better than yours.”
“There is no discussion on that point is there? because I most heartily agree.”
“There you are, then!” cried Grizel triumphantly. “But youwillargue.”
She shook out the damp ball of a handkerchief, and held it flag-ways to the breeze, tilting her head to look into her husband’s face. “Do I look very plain?”
“Comparatively speaking—yes!” replied Martin, seizing on his revenge, whereupon Grizel proceeded to declaim in a loud, artificial voice:
... “‘Teardrops still lingered on the long eyelashes; the lovely, mutinous face was wasted and ravaged with grief, yet never in her most queenly moments had she appeared to him more alluring and sweet. For weal or woe his life was in her hands.’ ... Another fine instalment to be given in our next number!” She waved her hand and turned back to the house, while Martin, laughing, walked across the lawn to join the Squire.
Meantime Peignton and Teresa had reached the station, and he was unhappily facing a two hours’ journey which might easily devolve itself into atête-à-tête, since considerate travellers have a habit of avoiding carriages occupied by interesting-looking young couples. He was divided between a horror of a repetition of the scene in the garden the day before, and an overpowering sympathy for the girl whom he wished to avoid. Her set composure went to his heart when he recalled the radiance of the face which had beamed at him in the same place only a few days before. She had been so happy, poor girl, so fond, so unsuspicious; and now...
Teresa turned towards him hastily.
“You will go in a smoker, Dane, won’t you? I am tired out. I expect I shall sleep all the way. Come for me at the Junction, in case I am carried on.”
She stepped into a carriage, and moved towards the farther side, arranging impedimenta upon the seat, with her back turned towards him. There was no time to wait, for he was obliged to move along quickly to take his own seat, but though the alertness of relief showed in his movements, his heart went out towards hisfiancéewith a rush of gratitude. How kind, how considerate, how singularly wise and far-seeing! Most girls, he was convinced, would have manoeuvred for atête-à-tête, and turned the journey into a torture of tears and reproaches, but Teresa had voluntarily sent him away, and had done so, moreover, in a natural, commonplace fashion free from trace of offence.
Bravo, Teresa! As he took his seat in a corner of the smoker Peignton was probably more warmly her admirer than at any previous moment in their acquaintance. A sensible, level-headed woman, who would help, not hinder through the hard moments of life. Mentally he took off his cap to Teresa; but when he had lighted a cigarette he fell back into dreams of another woman who was neither practical nor level-headed, as admirers of sensible women are apt to do.
As for Teresa, she cursed herself a hundred times over for having thrown away a valuable opportunity, but her resolution not to harass Dane in this first miserable day of indecision sprang into life again at the sight of his worn face when he came to join her at the Junction, and she braced herself afresh to help him through the ordeal of arrival.
Mrs Mallison had been prepared by wire for her daughter’s sudden return, and her curiosity was at boiling point as to the reasons thereof. The statement that Lady Cassandra was ill, and Mrs Beverley engaged in nursing, was far too vague to prove satisfying. She wanted to hear what nature of ill, how long an ill, how serious an ill, with details of the premonitory symptoms, and the precise circumstances under which they had developed. She waved the way towards the dining-room, explaining that lunch had been delayed half, an hour for the travellers’ benefit. Of course Dane would stay and take pot luck. Mutton haricot and gooseberry fool. “You can tell us all about it over lunch, and afterwards,” she added meaningly, “Teresa and you can have a nice quiet afternoon!”
Peignton quailed at the prospect, but once again Teresa came to the rescue.
“Dane is very tired, mother. We are both tired. He is going straight home to rest. Be sure youdorest, Dane,” she added, turning towards him, and holding out her hand. “I shan’t expect to see you again until Sunday.”
“I am quite sure he won’t agree tothat!” Mrs Mallison declared, and continued to protest volubly against Dane’s departure, and to sing the praises of the haricot and fool, but her flutters had no power against the inflexibility of Teresa’s calm, and finally she realised her defeat, and scurried back to shut the dining-room door, with the obvious intention of giving privacy to a tender farewell.
“You are very good to me, Teresa,” Dane said. The next second he realised that he was expressing gratitude to hisfiancée, for giving him a chance of escaping her own society, and the realisation infused an added warmth into his last words. “Thankyou, dear.”
Quite simply and naturally Teresa lifted her arms, and clasped them round his neck. She did not kiss him, but she laid her fresh, cool cheek against his, and said:
“I love you, Dane. I shall always be good to you.”
Peignton went out into the road hating himself because the sound of that “always” had dried up the spring of tenderness. God help him, he wanted nothing of this girl which should last for always! If he were free of her to-day he would remember her all his life with gratitude and affection, but those twining arms chafed him like a chain.
Peignton took Teresa at her word, and paid no visit to the Cottage for the rest of the week. He sent down a hamper of flowers, however, with an envelope enclosing a short note written on his thickest paper, which to the maternal eye might give the effect of length. He would not be less careful of Teresa’s feelings than she had been of his, and he knew well that to allow three days to pass without visit or message would stamp him in Mrs Mallison’s eyes as neglectful and unappreciative. The best flowers which the hothouses afforded were collected to fill that hamper.
Since the announcement of his engagement it had been an understanding that Peignton should spend Sunday with the Mallisons, appearing in time for early dinner, and remaining until after the eight o’clock supper. In the afternoon he and Teresa sat in the morning room together, or walked into the country, and after tea he played a game of chess with the Major, while from the drawing-room came the sound of hymn tunes played on a cracked piano. Mrs Mallison had been “brought up to hymn tunes” after tea on Sunday afternoons, and commandeered her daughters to produce her old favourites for her delectation. “The Church’s one foundation” led the way to “Onward, Christian soldiers,” while “Oh come, all ye faithful,” enjoyed a vogue independent of time or season. Sometimes Teresa sang the words in a strong soprano voice, an excellent voice for a choir, but a trifle harsh when heard by itself, but one afternoon, during one of the protracted pauses which preceded the Major’s moves, Peignton’s ear was attracted by a new tune, played with a softer touch, and presently another voice began to sing, a soft, somewhat tremulous voice, with a quality of extraordinary sweetness. The hymn was “Abide with me,” and the sound of the well-known words sung in that soft, tremulous voice brought back a hundred boyish memories. That was the hymn which he had liked best in the old knickerbocker days when he trotted to church with his parents; that was the favourite closing hymn at the school chapel; away on the Indian plains he had heard his men whistling it over their work. On the impulse of the moment Peignton pushed back his chair, and crossed the little hall to the drawing-room. The door was intentionally left ajar, owing to Mrs Mallison’s persistent belief that “Papa liked to hear the music,” so that Dane found himself able to see, without being seen. Teresa was not present, Mrs Mallison lay back in an easy chair, her eyes closed, her head swaying to and fro in time with the music; at the piano sat—could he believe the evidence of his senses?—Mary Mallison herself, that machine-like automaton in human form, whom he had believed incapable of feeling! Through the chink of the door Peignton stared for one incredulous moment at the bloodless lips through which breathed those low, crooning notes, then drew noiselessly back, with a tingling in his veins which was curiously like shame. He had caught a glimpse of a naked soul, and the revelation filled him with distress. No woman could have that note in her voice, and not possess the power of feeling an acuteness of joy or grief. No woman could have it who had not already tasted the sweets and bitters of experience.
But if Mary could feel, how could she endure the life that was hers? As he went slowly back to his game, Peignton had his first glimpse into the tragedy of the life of a woman to whom nature has bequeathed a sensitive heart, and a plain and unattractive exterior.
Sunday in the Mallisonménagewas not at the best of times a cheerful occasion, though hitherto Teresa’s society had made it bearable; under the new conditions it became a penance difficult to endure. The one o’clock dinner was invariably the same. Roast beef and Yorkshire pudding, a pie made of the fruit in season, flanked by custard in glasses; biscuits and cheese, and a sketchy dessert. Mrs Mallison invariably discussed the morning’s sermon. Teresa invariably disagreed, and the Major preserved a dejected silence.
To Peignton’s supersensitive sight it had appeared sometimes as if each daughter had assumed a startling likeness to a separate parent. Mary had her father’s features, her father’s shrinking air. Teresa—why had he never noticed it before?—Teresa was a youthful replica of her mother. Given another twenty years she would develop into the same stout, bustling matron. His flesh crept at the thought of sitting opposite to her in the Major’s place.
In the afternoon Teresa suggested reading in the garden as an alternative to the usual walk; she also announced that Mr Hunter and his sister were “coming in” to tea, an innovation in the day’s programme for which Peignton was devoutly thankful. He had met the young doctor and his sister, and knew them to be lively, talkative young people, eminently capable of rolling the conversation ball. Their presence would prevent personalities, and keep the talk away from dreaded topics. Never in his life had he accorded a more cordial welcome to comparative strangers.
The table was set beneath a tree in the garden, and Teresa in her white dress made an attractive figure against the green of the background. Her hair was carefully dressed, a touch of blue at the throat intensified the blue of her eyes; there was in her manner that touch of self-consciousness and artificiality which to a discerning eye bespoke the presence of an admiring male. Roused to a momentary interest, Peignton realised that the admirer was not himself in this instance, but Hunter, the young doctor. He hovered about the table with eager looks; he discovered what Teresa needed, as soon as she found it out for herself, and darted forward to help. When she moved, his eyes followed her; when she spoke, he was all ears; and once, turning from the tea table, the young fellow knitted his brows, and stared fixedly into Peignton’s face.—“What does she see inYou?”—said that look as plainly as words could speak, and Dane, knowing himself to look weary and absent, felt an answering sympathy.
He roused himself to take part in the conversation, and for the rest of the evening was careful not to relapse into silence, but the whole thing was like a dream, a dull, long-drawn-out dream which had no connection with life. He was moving as in a dream, speaking with forced, unnatural words, but presently he would awake. All day long the sense of waiting was upon him, of doing time until a a certain period was reached. If this sort of thing were to continue, it would be unbearable, but it would not continue. There was a limit to his endurance. In a few days, in a week at longest, Cassandra would be home again, and they would meet! The sense of waiting grew stronger...
Chapter Twenty Five.A Crowded Hour.An interminable period seemed to elapse before Peignton heard the news for which he was waiting.He had received one or two post-card bulletins from Grizel, and knew that the shock of the accident had left no lasting effect on Cassandra, but it was not until the morning of the tenth day that he heard of her arrival at the Court. His informant was a workman on the place, who mentioned having seen her ladyship driving, as a proof of that more interesting event, the Squire’s return.The natural enquiry, “How did she look?” could, of course, not be asked under the circumstances, but Peignton knew that it would be impossible to exist for another twenty-four hours without settling that question for himself. If he had been asked what plans were in his mind he would have replied that he had none, yet deeply, subconsciously, during every one of those long ten days a plan had been shaping. When he left the house after lunch that afternoon, he knew exactly where he was going, and although he might delude himself that he was following a sudden impulse, it would have been in just that direction that he would have directed his steps on any one of the previous days.Half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to the northern gate leading into the Squire’s grounds. It was the farthest entrance from the house, but Peignton had no intention of visiting the house. The gate was but a short distance from the secluded summer-house in which Cassandra had given him tea on the afternoon on which they had run away from the incursion of afternoon callers, and it was to the summer-house that he was bound.Cassandra would be there. He knew it as certainly as though he had had her written word of promise, and he knew also that she would be awaiting his arrival. Such knowledge is not to be accounted for in ordinary terms, nor is it given to all, but those who have once heard the voice recognise and obey.Peignton quickened his footsteps as he passed the lodge, then turned down a small grassy path, followed its windings for a few hundred yards, and saw before him the timbered roof, with its drapings of ivy. The window was in front, level with the door, so that he could not see into the interior; but if Cassandra were there she would hear his footsteps and know that he was approaching. The last yards stretched long as a mile, the laboured beating of his heart seemed to mount to his throat, he set his teeth, and went forward.The next moment he saw her, even as his mind had pictured, seated on a low cane chair, her hands clasping its arms, her face bent forward to greet him. She wore a white dress over which a knitted silk coat of a bright rose-red hung loosely apart; her hat lay on the table by her side, and the dark wings of her hair fell low over her brow. Seen through the arch of greenery which covered the doorway, the colours of her dress attained an added vividness, and the beauty of face and figure were thrown into fullest relief. She looked like a princess imprisoned by the evil genii of the forest; like an enchanted princess watching for the prince who should set her free.For one moment Peignton paused silently, his eyes meeting hers, then he crossed the threshold and stood by her side. Neither had spoken, neither had affected any sign of astonishment, and now as he stood waiting, Cassandra lifted her face to his and said simply:“I knew you would come. I was waiting for you.”“I knew you would be here,” replied Peignton as simply. He sat down on the seat next hers and looked into her face with a long, lingering glance. The last time he had seen that face it had been marked with bruises made by his own hands; the bruises had disappeared, nevertheless this was not Cassandra’s face as he had known it; there was something new in its expression, something wonderful, something that thrilled to his heart. Instinctively he held out his hand, and in an instant hers lay inside it, warm and close. The great lady had disappeared; it was a girl who was sitting beside him, a girl with soft Irish eyes and a soft Irish voice which spoke impulsively, asking tremulous question:“Dane! Is it my fault?”“Your fault that I...care? Only in so far as you are yourself... Once I had met you, the rest was bound to follow; but I never dreamt... I never dared to dream that you—”“But I did,” she said quickly. “I did! I cared first; before you thought of me... That is why I asked if it was my fault.”“I have always loved you, but I didn’t understand... Cassandra, there are some things a man can’t say, but that night—I had no intention of getting engaged to Teresa. We... the car... there was an accident... she was afraid. Ihadintended to propose to her months before, when I knew you only as a name. I had given her every reason to suppose that I should... There is not a word to be said against Teresa, butthatnight I had come straight from you... I don’t want you to think—”“Ah!” Cassandra turned her hand to clasp his more firmly. “Need we talk of her now? I know. I understand! We make mistakes; haven’t I made my own? but they are past, they can’t be helped, and now—we are together! I have waited so long. I don’t want to talk of her, or of anyone else, but just ourselves...”Her eyes met his; their message was the same as that of the lips, the beautiful vivid face was close to his own, he saw it with a clearness of detail which had never before been possible. The dark eyelashes grew thickly on the lower lids; underneath the lids the skin had a faint bluish shade. Was that the explanation of the tired look which, even in moments of animation, gave a touch of pathos to her air? The quality of pathos was there at that moment, and with it a fragility which gripped at Dane’s heart. He forgot everything but the dearness of her, the nearness of her, the wonder of her love. With an impetuous movement he held out his arms and she met him half-way, swaying into them with a soft murmur of joy.That which Dane had foreseen had come to pass: he had confessed his love to his friend’s wife, and she lay wrapped in his arms, yet there was no feeling of guilt in his heart at that moment, and he knew that Cassandra herself felt equally guiltless. The overpowering forces of nature had hurled them together, and they clung helplessly, like two children, dismayed by the dark.“Dane! Dane!” sighed Cassandra tremblingly, “I wanted you, I wanted you! It has been so long lying there alone, all these days, hearing nothing, knowing nothing, having no one to speak to...”“Mrs Beverley—?”“I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure. It was all so misty and confused at the time that I did not know how much the others had heard... Your voice sounded to me like a trumpet call, bringing me back to life, but it might have been only a whisper. I couldn’t tell if she knew, and until I did, I couldn’t speak.”“And she never—?”“No! Grizel wouldn’t. She was just her natural self.Didshe know then? You talk as if... Did they both know?”Peignton bowed his head.“Yes. Both. There was no disguise. There was only one thing in the world for me at that moment, and that was you. Heaven knows what I said, but it was enough. Fate has been against us all the way. If it had not been for that accident, no one need have known.—I could have kept it to myself.”“Oh, Dane, would that have been better? Do you think that would have helped me?” Cassandra asked pitifully. “There is only one thing that makes life endurable at this moment, and that is that Idoknow. It’s wicked; it’s selfish; but it’s true! I was starving with loneliness. All those dreadful days at the sea when she was there, and I saw you together, I was longing to die. It seemed as if I could not endure to go on with life, but when death really came near, I was frightened. It’s terrible to feel your breath go. I think for a few moments I must have lost consciousness, for I remember nothing after you seized hold of me, until I was lying—like this—with my head on your shoulder, and you were saying—saying...”Peignton’s breath came in a groan.“Did I say it? I mean, am I more responsible than for the breath I drew? What I said to you then, Cassandra,said itself. If I had been in my sane senses, I would have killed myself rather than have said them then—before her!”Cassandra lifted her fringed eyelids in a questioning gaze.“For my own sake I am glad; but it was hard for her. Poor Teresa! Was she—did she... What has happened between you, Dane?”“Nothing has happened. We had it out, of course. The next day. Before we came home I wanted to set her free, but she refused.”“Refused! But how could she? When sheknew! Whydid she refuse?”Dane flushed in miserable discomfort.“If you had been free, she would have broken the engagement herself, but she believes that it would make things harder for—for us both, if she stood aside. She thinks we might be tempted to—to—”“Whatarewe going to do, Dane?” Cassandra asked simply. “Isn’t it strange how one comes up against problems in life, and how different they are in reality from what one has imagined? I’ve heard of married women falling in love with other men, and meeting them, as we have met now. It seemed so despicable and mean. I felt nothing but contempt, but we are not contemptible; we have done no wrong. We needed each other, and all the barriers in the world couldn’t keep us apart. We are sitting—like this!—but I don’t feel that I am doing wrong. It helps me. If I could meet you here—not often—just now and then for half an hour, a quarter of an hour, and could put my head on your shoulder, and feel your arms holding me tight—I could go on... I could be better—”Peignton shook his head, and a dreary travesty of a smile passed over his face. He was marvelling for the hundredth time at the extraordinary difference between a woman’s sense of honour, and that of a man. He could have set his teeth and stolen his friend’s wife, carrying her off boldly in the face of the world, prepared to pay the price, but it would have been impossible for him to continue a series of clandestine meetings, however innocent, and still hold out the hand of friendship. Cassandra was not the type of woman to desert her home and child. She had made a vow, and she would keep it, yet she could declare that she would be the stronger for such meetings. Poor darling! she meant it in all sincerity. He would never allow her the misery of discovering her mistake.“No,” he said firmly. “Never that, Cassandra. It has to be all or nothing. There’s no midway course possible for you and me. I love you; there’s nothing in the wide world that counts with me, beside you. If you could trust yourself to me, I would swear to serve you until my death, and it would be joy, the truest joy I could know. It is for you to order, Cassandra, and I shall obey...”He felt her shrink in his arms; her voice trembled, but she forced herself to speak.“What do you mean? Say it plainly, Dane, please, quite plainly. Let me understand!”“If you will come with me, Cassandra, we’ll go abroad. I’ll take a villa in some quiet spot, out of the tourist beat. We could stay there, together, until... He would divorce you; he is not the kind of man to shirk that. The case would be undefended, so you would not have to appear... In less than a year we could be legally married.”“But—but—my boy!” cried Cassandra, trembling. She passed her right hand against Peignton’s shoulder, the hand with the emerald ring, and raised herself from his embrace. There was a look in her eyes which he had not seen before, the mother-look on guard for her young. It was not of the stolid, freckled-faced schoolboy that Cassandra was thinking at that moment, but of the small, soft-breathing thing which had been the reward of her anguish, which she had greeted with such a passion of joy.“Dane! have you forgotten my boy?”“No. I have forgotten nothing. Is the boy more to you than I am, Cassandra?”“No. No,” she turned to him with eager penitence. “Not so much; not so much; but he is mine; I am responsible. And he is growing so big—in a few years he would understand. ... Even now the other boys—I have done very little for him in his life. I have been allowed to do so little, and he isn’t affectionate. It isn’t me personally that he would miss... a new gun, or a pony would more than make upnow! But hewouldcare!... The time would come when he would be ashamed.—I couldn’t bear my own little son to be ashamed of me, Dane!”There was no answer to be made to that protest. Dane stared at the ground, miserably conscious of the hopelessness of the situation. He was determined to keep to his resolution that it should be all or nothing between Cassandra and himself, yet the prospect of parting was intolerable.“Are you thinking entirely of the boy?” he asked slowly, after a pause. “Your husband? Doesn’t he enter into your calculations?”Cassandra’s face hardened.“No,” she said coldly. “I am not thinking of Bernard. If there were only Bernard to consider, it would be different. Bernard has not kept his promise to love and cherish me all his life. I am a live woman, and he treats me like a machine. A man like that has no right to a wife. If I left him, it would open his eyes to his own selfishness, and do him good. He would marry again, and his second wife would reap the benefit. You need me more than Bernard needs me, and I need you... But there’s the boy—”“And,” said Peignton heavily, “Teresa!”Cassandra glanced at him swiftly, and into her eyes came fear.“Dane... will you, can you,—marry hernew?”“I have told her that it’s impossible, but she insisted on keeping on the engagement. I stood out, but she said that possibly your name might be dragged in if the engagement were broken off just now, after our visit to you.—I could not stand the risk of that, so—it was left!”“And you are engaged to her still?”“Nominally. Yes. She is very considerate. She makes it as easy for me as she can... That’s a hateful thing to say! I hate myself for saying it. If it’s hard for us, it’s harder for her. She’s the one left out. She might have made things unbearable. Can you imagine what it would have been if she had blurted out the whole tale,—told it to her own people, to have it handed round the neighbourhood, with a hundred exaggerations within twenty-four hours? A girl might so easily have lost her head under the circumstances, but she—I don’t think she reproached me once! She seemed all the way through to think of me more than herself.—I never saw her more sweet!”A vision of Teresa had come into his mind as with flushing cheeks she had said, “There might be children!” Many times over had he recalled that moment, and always with the same tenderness and pain. Cassandra recognised the note in his voice, and felt a very human pang of jealousy.“What did she say aboutMe?”“You and I count as one. We must do. There’s no considering us apart. She fears that if I were free, it would be one barrier removed, and we should be the more tempted.—By holding me to my word, she is doing all that is in her power to prevent—”Cassandra’s short upper lip curved with a touch of scorn. It touched her pride that insignificant Teresa Mallison should presume to lay down rules for her guidance. It had pleased her to admit the girl to a certain amount of intimacy, but always it had been she who had condescended, Teresa who gratefully received. Cassandra was not a snob, but she was an Earl’s daughter, and the consciousness of her birth was very present at that moment.“It seems,” she said coldly, “that we are in Teresa’s hands! She has given you her orders, and you have obeyed.”Then Peignton looked at her, and she quailed before the passion in his eyes.“Give meyourorders,” he said thickly, “and she goes, everything goes! I’ll throw over the whole thing to-night, work, honour, friends—everything there is, if you will give me yourself—if you’ll come to me to-night, and let me take you away—Oh, my Beautiful, if you only would...”“Dane! Dane!” cried Cassandra sharply, “I want to!” She covered her face with her hands, and he wrapped her close to his heart. “Am I wicked? Am I wicked? I’ve always called a woman wicked who felt like this, but it seems now as if it would be so right, so natural: so much more natural than saying good-bye! But I can’t—I can’t do it. I’m bound with chains. It’s the boy’s home...”They clung together in silence. On this point at least there was nothing more to be said, and each realised as much. The chains might tear Cassandra’s heart, but they would not give way, for they were forged out of the strongest sentiment of the human heart. The mother in her would not stain her boy’s home. In the midst of his misery, Peignton loved her the more for her loyalty.Presently she spoke again in a low, exhausted voice:“Dane—what shall you do?”“I? I don’t know. Leave Chumley as soon as possible. Go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where. Nothing matters. But I must clear out of this.”“Is it necessary? If we meet very seldom? Never, if you think it better, in private! Would it really be easier if you never saw me? I don’t feel as if I can live if I lose you altogether. Even to see you driving past in the street—”Peignton shook his head.“It’s impossible. The thing could not be worked. The Squire would ask me here. I could not always refuse. I couldn’t stand it, Cassandra; it would be too much for flesh and blood. It must be all or nothing.”“You won’t go at once? I must see you again; I must! I must! There is so much to say. I’m going to do what is right, Dane. I’m strong enough for that, but I must havesomethingfor myself! You will meet me again, just once, to—to say good-bye—”Her voice broke, and the tears poured down her cheeks. Dane kissed them away, murmuring passionate words, promising everything she asked. If they were to part for a lifetime, fate need not grudge them a short hour. He promised, and Cassandra lay silent with closed eyes, her hands clinging to his, her cheek touching his own. In both minds was the thought of the barren years to come when they would remember this hour as a treasure snatched from fate. This was the golden time, the fleeting glory,—let them realise, let them make the most!Neither spoke; it seemed a waste of time to speak. Dane lifted the beautiful hands and gazed at them with adoring eyes; Cassandra lifted his in her turn, and found their sun-baked strength every whit as beautiful. They looked into each other’s eyes, deeply, endlessly, as lovers look who are about to part, and the world and all that is in it has ceased to exist.Footsteps came along the winding path but they did not hear; light, tripping footsteps drawing nearer and nearer. They reached the summer-house, and halted before the opened door.“Cassandra!” said a quiet voice. “It’s me. It’s Grizel!”
An interminable period seemed to elapse before Peignton heard the news for which he was waiting.
He had received one or two post-card bulletins from Grizel, and knew that the shock of the accident had left no lasting effect on Cassandra, but it was not until the morning of the tenth day that he heard of her arrival at the Court. His informant was a workman on the place, who mentioned having seen her ladyship driving, as a proof of that more interesting event, the Squire’s return.
The natural enquiry, “How did she look?” could, of course, not be asked under the circumstances, but Peignton knew that it would be impossible to exist for another twenty-four hours without settling that question for himself. If he had been asked what plans were in his mind he would have replied that he had none, yet deeply, subconsciously, during every one of those long ten days a plan had been shaping. When he left the house after lunch that afternoon, he knew exactly where he was going, and although he might delude himself that he was following a sudden impulse, it would have been in just that direction that he would have directed his steps on any one of the previous days.
Half an hour’s brisk walking brought him to the northern gate leading into the Squire’s grounds. It was the farthest entrance from the house, but Peignton had no intention of visiting the house. The gate was but a short distance from the secluded summer-house in which Cassandra had given him tea on the afternoon on which they had run away from the incursion of afternoon callers, and it was to the summer-house that he was bound.
Cassandra would be there. He knew it as certainly as though he had had her written word of promise, and he knew also that she would be awaiting his arrival. Such knowledge is not to be accounted for in ordinary terms, nor is it given to all, but those who have once heard the voice recognise and obey.
Peignton quickened his footsteps as he passed the lodge, then turned down a small grassy path, followed its windings for a few hundred yards, and saw before him the timbered roof, with its drapings of ivy. The window was in front, level with the door, so that he could not see into the interior; but if Cassandra were there she would hear his footsteps and know that he was approaching. The last yards stretched long as a mile, the laboured beating of his heart seemed to mount to his throat, he set his teeth, and went forward.
The next moment he saw her, even as his mind had pictured, seated on a low cane chair, her hands clasping its arms, her face bent forward to greet him. She wore a white dress over which a knitted silk coat of a bright rose-red hung loosely apart; her hat lay on the table by her side, and the dark wings of her hair fell low over her brow. Seen through the arch of greenery which covered the doorway, the colours of her dress attained an added vividness, and the beauty of face and figure were thrown into fullest relief. She looked like a princess imprisoned by the evil genii of the forest; like an enchanted princess watching for the prince who should set her free.
For one moment Peignton paused silently, his eyes meeting hers, then he crossed the threshold and stood by her side. Neither had spoken, neither had affected any sign of astonishment, and now as he stood waiting, Cassandra lifted her face to his and said simply:
“I knew you would come. I was waiting for you.”
“I knew you would be here,” replied Peignton as simply. He sat down on the seat next hers and looked into her face with a long, lingering glance. The last time he had seen that face it had been marked with bruises made by his own hands; the bruises had disappeared, nevertheless this was not Cassandra’s face as he had known it; there was something new in its expression, something wonderful, something that thrilled to his heart. Instinctively he held out his hand, and in an instant hers lay inside it, warm and close. The great lady had disappeared; it was a girl who was sitting beside him, a girl with soft Irish eyes and a soft Irish voice which spoke impulsively, asking tremulous question:
“Dane! Is it my fault?”
“Your fault that I...care? Only in so far as you are yourself... Once I had met you, the rest was bound to follow; but I never dreamt... I never dared to dream that you—”
“But I did,” she said quickly. “I did! I cared first; before you thought of me... That is why I asked if it was my fault.”
“I have always loved you, but I didn’t understand... Cassandra, there are some things a man can’t say, but that night—I had no intention of getting engaged to Teresa. We... the car... there was an accident... she was afraid. Ihadintended to propose to her months before, when I knew you only as a name. I had given her every reason to suppose that I should... There is not a word to be said against Teresa, butthatnight I had come straight from you... I don’t want you to think—”
“Ah!” Cassandra turned her hand to clasp his more firmly. “Need we talk of her now? I know. I understand! We make mistakes; haven’t I made my own? but they are past, they can’t be helped, and now—we are together! I have waited so long. I don’t want to talk of her, or of anyone else, but just ourselves...”
Her eyes met his; their message was the same as that of the lips, the beautiful vivid face was close to his own, he saw it with a clearness of detail which had never before been possible. The dark eyelashes grew thickly on the lower lids; underneath the lids the skin had a faint bluish shade. Was that the explanation of the tired look which, even in moments of animation, gave a touch of pathos to her air? The quality of pathos was there at that moment, and with it a fragility which gripped at Dane’s heart. He forgot everything but the dearness of her, the nearness of her, the wonder of her love. With an impetuous movement he held out his arms and she met him half-way, swaying into them with a soft murmur of joy.
That which Dane had foreseen had come to pass: he had confessed his love to his friend’s wife, and she lay wrapped in his arms, yet there was no feeling of guilt in his heart at that moment, and he knew that Cassandra herself felt equally guiltless. The overpowering forces of nature had hurled them together, and they clung helplessly, like two children, dismayed by the dark.
“Dane! Dane!” sighed Cassandra tremblingly, “I wanted you, I wanted you! It has been so long lying there alone, all these days, hearing nothing, knowing nothing, having no one to speak to...”
“Mrs Beverley—?”
“I couldn’t. I wasn’t sure. It was all so misty and confused at the time that I did not know how much the others had heard... Your voice sounded to me like a trumpet call, bringing me back to life, but it might have been only a whisper. I couldn’t tell if she knew, and until I did, I couldn’t speak.”
“And she never—?”
“No! Grizel wouldn’t. She was just her natural self.Didshe know then? You talk as if... Did they both know?”
Peignton bowed his head.
“Yes. Both. There was no disguise. There was only one thing in the world for me at that moment, and that was you. Heaven knows what I said, but it was enough. Fate has been against us all the way. If it had not been for that accident, no one need have known.—I could have kept it to myself.”
“Oh, Dane, would that have been better? Do you think that would have helped me?” Cassandra asked pitifully. “There is only one thing that makes life endurable at this moment, and that is that Idoknow. It’s wicked; it’s selfish; but it’s true! I was starving with loneliness. All those dreadful days at the sea when she was there, and I saw you together, I was longing to die. It seemed as if I could not endure to go on with life, but when death really came near, I was frightened. It’s terrible to feel your breath go. I think for a few moments I must have lost consciousness, for I remember nothing after you seized hold of me, until I was lying—like this—with my head on your shoulder, and you were saying—saying...”
Peignton’s breath came in a groan.
“Did I say it? I mean, am I more responsible than for the breath I drew? What I said to you then, Cassandra,said itself. If I had been in my sane senses, I would have killed myself rather than have said them then—before her!”
Cassandra lifted her fringed eyelids in a questioning gaze.
“For my own sake I am glad; but it was hard for her. Poor Teresa! Was she—did she... What has happened between you, Dane?”
“Nothing has happened. We had it out, of course. The next day. Before we came home I wanted to set her free, but she refused.”
“Refused! But how could she? When sheknew! Whydid she refuse?”
Dane flushed in miserable discomfort.
“If you had been free, she would have broken the engagement herself, but she believes that it would make things harder for—for us both, if she stood aside. She thinks we might be tempted to—to—”
“Whatarewe going to do, Dane?” Cassandra asked simply. “Isn’t it strange how one comes up against problems in life, and how different they are in reality from what one has imagined? I’ve heard of married women falling in love with other men, and meeting them, as we have met now. It seemed so despicable and mean. I felt nothing but contempt, but we are not contemptible; we have done no wrong. We needed each other, and all the barriers in the world couldn’t keep us apart. We are sitting—like this!—but I don’t feel that I am doing wrong. It helps me. If I could meet you here—not often—just now and then for half an hour, a quarter of an hour, and could put my head on your shoulder, and feel your arms holding me tight—I could go on... I could be better—”
Peignton shook his head, and a dreary travesty of a smile passed over his face. He was marvelling for the hundredth time at the extraordinary difference between a woman’s sense of honour, and that of a man. He could have set his teeth and stolen his friend’s wife, carrying her off boldly in the face of the world, prepared to pay the price, but it would have been impossible for him to continue a series of clandestine meetings, however innocent, and still hold out the hand of friendship. Cassandra was not the type of woman to desert her home and child. She had made a vow, and she would keep it, yet she could declare that she would be the stronger for such meetings. Poor darling! she meant it in all sincerity. He would never allow her the misery of discovering her mistake.
“No,” he said firmly. “Never that, Cassandra. It has to be all or nothing. There’s no midway course possible for you and me. I love you; there’s nothing in the wide world that counts with me, beside you. If you could trust yourself to me, I would swear to serve you until my death, and it would be joy, the truest joy I could know. It is for you to order, Cassandra, and I shall obey...”
He felt her shrink in his arms; her voice trembled, but she forced herself to speak.
“What do you mean? Say it plainly, Dane, please, quite plainly. Let me understand!”
“If you will come with me, Cassandra, we’ll go abroad. I’ll take a villa in some quiet spot, out of the tourist beat. We could stay there, together, until... He would divorce you; he is not the kind of man to shirk that. The case would be undefended, so you would not have to appear... In less than a year we could be legally married.”
“But—but—my boy!” cried Cassandra, trembling. She passed her right hand against Peignton’s shoulder, the hand with the emerald ring, and raised herself from his embrace. There was a look in her eyes which he had not seen before, the mother-look on guard for her young. It was not of the stolid, freckled-faced schoolboy that Cassandra was thinking at that moment, but of the small, soft-breathing thing which had been the reward of her anguish, which she had greeted with such a passion of joy.
“Dane! have you forgotten my boy?”
“No. I have forgotten nothing. Is the boy more to you than I am, Cassandra?”
“No. No,” she turned to him with eager penitence. “Not so much; not so much; but he is mine; I am responsible. And he is growing so big—in a few years he would understand. ... Even now the other boys—I have done very little for him in his life. I have been allowed to do so little, and he isn’t affectionate. It isn’t me personally that he would miss... a new gun, or a pony would more than make upnow! But hewouldcare!... The time would come when he would be ashamed.—I couldn’t bear my own little son to be ashamed of me, Dane!”
There was no answer to be made to that protest. Dane stared at the ground, miserably conscious of the hopelessness of the situation. He was determined to keep to his resolution that it should be all or nothing between Cassandra and himself, yet the prospect of parting was intolerable.
“Are you thinking entirely of the boy?” he asked slowly, after a pause. “Your husband? Doesn’t he enter into your calculations?”
Cassandra’s face hardened.
“No,” she said coldly. “I am not thinking of Bernard. If there were only Bernard to consider, it would be different. Bernard has not kept his promise to love and cherish me all his life. I am a live woman, and he treats me like a machine. A man like that has no right to a wife. If I left him, it would open his eyes to his own selfishness, and do him good. He would marry again, and his second wife would reap the benefit. You need me more than Bernard needs me, and I need you... But there’s the boy—”
“And,” said Peignton heavily, “Teresa!”
Cassandra glanced at him swiftly, and into her eyes came fear.
“Dane... will you, can you,—marry hernew?”
“I have told her that it’s impossible, but she insisted on keeping on the engagement. I stood out, but she said that possibly your name might be dragged in if the engagement were broken off just now, after our visit to you.—I could not stand the risk of that, so—it was left!”
“And you are engaged to her still?”
“Nominally. Yes. She is very considerate. She makes it as easy for me as she can... That’s a hateful thing to say! I hate myself for saying it. If it’s hard for us, it’s harder for her. She’s the one left out. She might have made things unbearable. Can you imagine what it would have been if she had blurted out the whole tale,—told it to her own people, to have it handed round the neighbourhood, with a hundred exaggerations within twenty-four hours? A girl might so easily have lost her head under the circumstances, but she—I don’t think she reproached me once! She seemed all the way through to think of me more than herself.—I never saw her more sweet!”
A vision of Teresa had come into his mind as with flushing cheeks she had said, “There might be children!” Many times over had he recalled that moment, and always with the same tenderness and pain. Cassandra recognised the note in his voice, and felt a very human pang of jealousy.
“What did she say aboutMe?”
“You and I count as one. We must do. There’s no considering us apart. She fears that if I were free, it would be one barrier removed, and we should be the more tempted.—By holding me to my word, she is doing all that is in her power to prevent—”
Cassandra’s short upper lip curved with a touch of scorn. It touched her pride that insignificant Teresa Mallison should presume to lay down rules for her guidance. It had pleased her to admit the girl to a certain amount of intimacy, but always it had been she who had condescended, Teresa who gratefully received. Cassandra was not a snob, but she was an Earl’s daughter, and the consciousness of her birth was very present at that moment.
“It seems,” she said coldly, “that we are in Teresa’s hands! She has given you her orders, and you have obeyed.”
Then Peignton looked at her, and she quailed before the passion in his eyes.
“Give meyourorders,” he said thickly, “and she goes, everything goes! I’ll throw over the whole thing to-night, work, honour, friends—everything there is, if you will give me yourself—if you’ll come to me to-night, and let me take you away—Oh, my Beautiful, if you only would...”
“Dane! Dane!” cried Cassandra sharply, “I want to!” She covered her face with her hands, and he wrapped her close to his heart. “Am I wicked? Am I wicked? I’ve always called a woman wicked who felt like this, but it seems now as if it would be so right, so natural: so much more natural than saying good-bye! But I can’t—I can’t do it. I’m bound with chains. It’s the boy’s home...”
They clung together in silence. On this point at least there was nothing more to be said, and each realised as much. The chains might tear Cassandra’s heart, but they would not give way, for they were forged out of the strongest sentiment of the human heart. The mother in her would not stain her boy’s home. In the midst of his misery, Peignton loved her the more for her loyalty.
Presently she spoke again in a low, exhausted voice:
“Dane—what shall you do?”
“I? I don’t know. Leave Chumley as soon as possible. Go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where. Nothing matters. But I must clear out of this.”
“Is it necessary? If we meet very seldom? Never, if you think it better, in private! Would it really be easier if you never saw me? I don’t feel as if I can live if I lose you altogether. Even to see you driving past in the street—”
Peignton shook his head.
“It’s impossible. The thing could not be worked. The Squire would ask me here. I could not always refuse. I couldn’t stand it, Cassandra; it would be too much for flesh and blood. It must be all or nothing.”
“You won’t go at once? I must see you again; I must! I must! There is so much to say. I’m going to do what is right, Dane. I’m strong enough for that, but I must havesomethingfor myself! You will meet me again, just once, to—to say good-bye—”
Her voice broke, and the tears poured down her cheeks. Dane kissed them away, murmuring passionate words, promising everything she asked. If they were to part for a lifetime, fate need not grudge them a short hour. He promised, and Cassandra lay silent with closed eyes, her hands clinging to his, her cheek touching his own. In both minds was the thought of the barren years to come when they would remember this hour as a treasure snatched from fate. This was the golden time, the fleeting glory,—let them realise, let them make the most!
Neither spoke; it seemed a waste of time to speak. Dane lifted the beautiful hands and gazed at them with adoring eyes; Cassandra lifted his in her turn, and found their sun-baked strength every whit as beautiful. They looked into each other’s eyes, deeply, endlessly, as lovers look who are about to part, and the world and all that is in it has ceased to exist.
Footsteps came along the winding path but they did not hear; light, tripping footsteps drawing nearer and nearer. They reached the summer-house, and halted before the opened door.
“Cassandra!” said a quiet voice. “It’s me. It’s Grizel!”
Chapter Twenty Six.Enter Grizel.Cassandra lifted her head and stared blankly, then with cold displeasure, into the intruder’s face. There was not the faintest tinge of embarrassment in her mien, nothing but surprise, and anger, and an intolerable impatience. She sat in silence, struggling to collect her thoughts, and the while she stared, Grizel stepped lightly over the threshold, and seated herself on one of the scattered chairs. It was done so quickly that there was no time for protest, if protest had been possible, and Cassandra, biting her lip, turned towards Dane for support. He had risen to his feet, and looked miserable and embarrassed as a man is bound to do when placed in an awkward situation. Cassandra looked for signs of an anger corresponding to her own, failed to find it, and in consequence felt angrier than before. Her voice was steely in its hauteur.“Did you wish to see me?”“Please!” said Grizel softly. Her hazel eyes met Peignton’s with a long, straight glance, whose message he could not misunderstand. He flushed, and held out his hand.“I’ll go... Good-bye—”“I shall see you again. I am free on Wednesday and on Friday.” Cassandra spoke in a heightened voice, as though scorning an attempt at deceit. “You will meet me here?”“Yes. Yes. I’ll let you know—”He dropped her hand, bowed slightly to Grizel, and swung rapidly away, leaving the two women alone.“Grizel Beverley,” said Cassandra deliberately, “I hate you!”“Poor darling!” said Grizel, trembling. “Of course you do!” She shook out a minute handkerchief, and wiped the moisture from her face. It dawned on Cassandra’s perceptions that she was deathly pale.“Why did you come?”“I don’t know.”“Was it just chance?”Grizel’s lip trembled.“Cassandra, I loathe to preach; but I don’t believe itwas!”“How did you get here?”“I walked. It’s the longest walk I’ve ever taken. I never came in by the north gate before. I’ve never turned up this path. I just—came!”“I see. It was a coincidence, which you are trying to turn into a special guidance of Providence on my behalf. I’m sorry that I cannot recognise it in that light. I wish with all my heart that you had stayed away... What good do you suppose you are going to do?”“The Lord knows,” said Grizel, shrugging. The next moment, with a startled air, she continued. “Hedoesknow! I said that without thinking, but it’s true... Won’t you let me help you, darling? I’m not a bit shocked, you see. I knew before, and I’m not a chicken,—I’m twenty-eight. I know that love doesn’t work to order. I was horribly afraid for you before that day on the cliff, and then of course Iknew!”“How many people have you told?”Grizel was silent. Cassandra moved her shoulders with an impatient shrug.“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean that. But—your husband?”“Not one word.”“I thought you told him everything?”“About myself I do. Not about friends.”“Thank you for that, at least,” Cassandra said ungraciously. The next moment she threw out her hands with a gesture of hopeless appeal. “Oh, Grizel, I’ll have to forgive you, for I need you so much, but it was hard! You needn’t have grudged us that little time... I could have killed you for coming in just then. As you know everything, tell me what we are todo?... I feel as if I were going mad... What are we to do?”“What does he suggest?”“He asked me to go away with him to-night. I’ve told you, so now you can go and warn Bernard. Perhaps Providence will throw you up against him on the way home!”Grizel mopped her eyes with the little handkerchief.“Why sneer?” she asked softly. “It’s bad enough, goodness knows, without that to make it worse... And are you going, dear?”The voice was so tranquil that Cassandra started in surprise.“What would you say, if I said I was?”“I think—at this moment, I rather expect that you will! I should have said ‘Yes’ myself at this point.”“Well, I didn’t! I am stronger than you. I refused, because of the boy. But you needn’t praise me. I deserve no praise. I’m going to do my duty, but I’m not doing it from my heart. Iwant to go, and I told him so. Did you know I was a bad woman? I didn’t. I was rather proud of myself for being so unflirtatious all these years. It was only because I had not been tempted. The moment I am tempted, I go to pieces. If we are judged by our thoughts, I’m a wicked woman. I’d give everything I possess in life, if I were free to go to him to-night!”“So would I, so would I,—if it had been Martin,” cried Grizel, sobbing. “Everything that belonged to myself. And itisn’twrong; it isn’t wicked; it’s the human nature in us that we can’t help. Every consideration for oneself goes down like ninepins before the one big thing. They don’t count... It’s theotherpeople who block the way!”“One other person in my case. Bernard doesn’t count. I am nothing to him. Why should I ruin my life by staying with a man who doesn’t want me? If it were not for the boy, I’d go to-night. You know what my married life has been,—would you think I was doing wrong if I left the pretence to take the reality? It would be a truer marriage, even if it were not blessed by the Church. Yet people would think we were wicked. Would you think so too?”Grizel hesitated.“Sure I may speak straight out?”“Of course. Of course. I asked you. I’m hurt so much already that you can’t hurt me any more.”But for several minutes Grizel sat silently, her hands folded on her knee, her eyes steadily gazing ahead. And as she sat, gradually, surely, the expression of her face changed. The sparkle died out of her eyes and left them soft and grave, the curling lips took on a new tenderness. It was as though she were deliberately banishing the things of this world, gathering to herself a strength to help in time of need. The little face grew tense with earnestness; when she spoke her voice had a deepened note.“Yes, dear, I think it would be wicked. Not so much for your own sake, as for all the people around. You know the inwardness of things, but they don’t. They would see only the bare, ugly fact... ‘Lady Cassandra has eloped with her husband’s friend!’ It would be a bad breath stealing out, infecting wherever it went; searching out weak places, and weakening them still more,—If you three were alone on a desert island, I wouldn’t hesitate a moment in your place. I should go to my mate, and there would be no sin on my soul, but we’re not in the desert, we’re in a crowd, and you, poor darling! are perched high up. You are a big person here in this little place; down to the very school-children, everyone notices, everyone copies, everyone takes you as an example of what should be. And they have to keep the laws themselves, poor souls! whether they like them or not... How do you think it would look to them if you, who have so much, threw over your duties, just to please yourself?”Cassandra shook her head with a dreary indifference.“But I don’t care, you see; I don’t care. Nothing matters to me at this moment but just our two selves! It’s so easy for you to talk, Grizel. You are more than happy; you are content! I’ve never been content in all my life. I’ve been starved of all that really matters in a woman’s life, and now, when I am offered a full meal, I must give it up and be hungrier than before! I am going to do what is right, for there is something in me which is stronger than passion, an inheritance, I suppose, from generations of stiff old Protestant ancestors,—but the doing of it will break my heart. According to the old ideas it should make me happy. Oh, Grizel, Grizel, it isn’t true! How can I be happy if I give up Dane?”Grizel shook her head.“You can’t. Not for a long, long time. You’ll be miserable... There’s only one thing, darling!”“Yes?”“It would be worse if you didn’t! You may be unhappy as Bernard’s wife, but you would be a hundred times more miserable as—Dane’s mistress!”Cassandra flushed hotly.“He would marry me!”“I’m sure of it. If he could. But—”“Well, well! why discuss it; it is not going to happen. I’m going to live on at the Court, and set an example to the school-children, and keep Bernard’s accounts... and grow old, and die, and be buried. That is all I have to look forward to, and you have this to remember, Grizel Beverley, that it wasyouinterrupted the one hour of perfect happiness that I have ever known!”“I’ll stay away on Wednesday,” Grizel said meekly, and they laughed together in feeble, halfhearted fashion. “But I’ll come up later, and say everything all over again,” she continued presently, “and I’ll goonsaying it, as often as you need it, and do my penance that way... Take long views, Cassandra, darling, take long views! One isn’t always young and ardent; it’s only for a little spell, after all, and all the long, long time stretches ahead, when one has to be middle-aged, and elderly, and old... Think how thankful you’ll be at forty, when the boy comes of age. Think how thankful you’ll be at fifty, when the grandchildren begin to appear. Think what a far-off tale it will seem at sixty, when you don’t want romance any more, but just to be quiet, and comfortable, and respected. And when you are seventy—”Cassandra stopped her with a hasty hand.“I’m not a bit interested in what I shall feel at seventy. I want to be happynow. I could say all these things to you, Grizel, if you were in my place, but they wouldn’t help. I want to be loved!”Grizel sighed. She knew better than to advance the reality of her own affection at that moment, for the truest friendship on earth can never feel the gap left by love. There was only one person on earth who in any fashion could console Cassandra for Peignton’s loss, and he was the one for whom she was making her sacrifice. The glimpse she had had of Bernard junior during an exeat spent at home, was not inspiring, but Grizel’s indomitable optimism surmounted all difficulties.“The boy will love you, darling,” she said softly. “That will come! He is getting to the age when he will appreciate your beauty, and that means so much. He will begin by being proud of you, and the rest will follow. And he will mean more to you after this. When you have sacrificed so much for a person, he becomes more precious... You’ll grow together. I know it, I feel it! In a few years’ time he will be your devoted companion. I’m going to have a son like that myself some day, but I shan’t have the right to him that you have. I shan’t have paid such a big price!”The tears welled slowly into Cassandra’s eyes. She turned her head aside, and sat gazing into the mist of green which formed the outer world. A son’s love would be sweet, but it was at present merely a possibility, while Dane’s love was real, and near, and strong. And other women had both! Blessed women on whom husbands and sons waited with rival devotion. The bitter problem of inequality, old as the earth itself, tore at Cassandra’s heart, demanding why she should starve, while others sat at a feast; why the narrow path should sometimes be strewn with flowers, and again with jagged stones. She fought it out in her mind while Grizel sat waiting, but to-day she had no power to find comfort for herself. Body and mind alike were spent and weary. She was thankful to feel the presence of a friend...“Are you one of the people, Grizel, who preach that all lots in life are equally good?”“I should hope not. I have some common sense.”“Oh, it’s not a question of common sense; it’s a question of faith. Mrs Evans would say they were. She says every heart knows its own bitterness, that people may appear very fortunate, but one can never tell that there is not a skeleton locked away. And if other people are terribly poor, or chronic invalids, or anything desperate like that, she says that they have a temperament that makes up, or that we can only see the present, and not life as a whole...”“I’ve known,—by sight and hearsay,—many whole lives, and they’ve been a martyrdom, nearly all the way through. I’ve known others, in the same way, which were nearly all sunshine. Rainstorms, of course, and an occasional squall, but never, never the whirlwind or the lightning. Life isnotevened out; it’s folly to pretend it. It’s fifty times harder for some than for others.”“But why? Why? It doesn’t seem fair. It’snotalways their own fault?”“Of course not. That’s absurd. Some of the best people have the most trials. We’re bound to have our training, Cassandra, dear, and to go on being trained till we’ve mastered our lessons. In that way we all fare alike, but some of us get most of it in this life, and so have the less to learn over there. Whatever happens to us after we die, we are not going to be metamorphosed in a moment into perfected saints; we shall have to go on working our way up, and oh, Cassandra, wouldn’t it be a discouraging feeling to be done with earth, and still drag about the same old sins? How thankful we’ll be when we awake, for every struggle which had thrown off a bit of the load! That’s my explanation of life’s inequalities, and it has helped me more than anything. When the troubles came along,—there were plenty of them, my dear, in the old days—just as a detail I was in love with Martin for eight years before we were engaged!—I used to say to myself: ‘No use shirking; if you don’t fight it out to-day, you’ll have to do it to-morrow.’ It will wait for you, my dear!... Set your teeth, and get it over.”Cassandra looked at her with thoughtful eyes.“Eight years!” she repeated softly, “eight years!” and stared again, wistful and perplexed. “You are a continual joy to me, Grizel, and a continual surprise.—I didn’t know that you were a religious woman!”“But I am,” Grizel said nodding. “Very! In my own way. The worst of it is, it isn’t other people’s way, and they are always getting shocked at me, which is hard lines, for I’m never shocked at them. I’ve needed lots of help all those years, and I’ve always found it, and I wish I could hand over my secrets to you ready made, but it would be no use. We’ve got to worry them out for ourselves, and it takes time before the comfort begins to soak in...”“I don’t want to learn lessons. I want to be happy,” Cassandra repeated piteously. All the long lean years of her marriage added force to the yearning to take advantage of the long-deferred joy now that it was within her reach. “And I want him to be happy too, but not—with her! Grizel, did you know that she wishes to keep him to his engagement?”“Yes. I know. She told me.”“Toldyou!” Cassandra’s voice took the old haughty ring. “Then she discussed me with you also, and her altruistic efforts on my behalf! Dane is to remain engaged to her as a safeguard against myself. That’s the idea, isn’t it?—Life is a curious business. I never imagined that the time would come when Teresa Mallison would dictate to me!”Grizel smiled mischievously.“And doesn’t it rouse the devil in you when she does! Never mind! I’m pleased to see it. It’s a healthy sign under the circumstances. You’ll need a good supply of that pride to see you through the next month, and I guess there’s no fear of its running out.” Then her face sobered, and her voice took a serious tone. “Cassandra! you must try to be fair to Teresa. She’s young and crude, and opinionated, but this has been a great big test, and she’s been rather—fine. I never admired anything more than her composure that day on the cliff. It wasn’t because she didn’t feel. The slight must have been all the worse, just because she is so complacent and sure of herself. She went through torture with her lips shut. She’s even more to be pitied than you, Cassandra, for shewashappy, and she believed so firmly that she was going to be happy ever after, and now—at the best—it can never be the same—”Cassandra interposed with a sharp-cut question.“What do you mean by ‘the best’?”“From her point of view,—that he should eventually marry her, and make the best of what remains. It’s pretty hard on a girl of twenty-four to know that her lover has to nerve himself up to take her like a disagreeable tonic which may eventually do him good. I could not have stood it; I’m quite sureyoucouldn’t, but Teresa can. The bull-dog quality in her won’t let go; she can sit tight and wait, and it’s the waiters who win. She will go through a bad time, but in the end—” Grizel met Cassandra’s flashing eyes, and said gently, “Dear! if you had the choice, wouldn’t you rather think of him in the future with a home and children, happy again, if not just in the same way, rather than as a lonely man, eating his heart out for what he couldn’t have?”“No!” cried Cassandra defiantly. “No! I want him to remember. Iwanthim to think. I’d rather anything happened than that he should forget...”Then Grizel laughed, a soft, tender little laugh, and looking back on that scene in the days which followed, Cassandra knew that more than for any words of comfort, she was grateful for that laugh. There was in it the tenderness which a nurse bestows upon the railings of pain-racked sufferers, and with it a beautiful incredulity which refused to believe mere words, and set her faith on the force within, content to wait until it should resume the mastery.The task of a comforter is only less difficult than that of the sufferer himself. He has need of infinite tenderness, infinite tolerance, above all, of infinite patience. Not in one hour, or one week, or one month will his solace work its effect; again and again must he open his heart, and pour forth all that is his of wisdom, and strength and inspiration, only to find himself thrown back to the very position from which he started.“Oh, Grizel!” cried Cassandra sharply. “Why did you come? Why did you interrupt us? And oh, what are we to do? What shall we do?”
Cassandra lifted her head and stared blankly, then with cold displeasure, into the intruder’s face. There was not the faintest tinge of embarrassment in her mien, nothing but surprise, and anger, and an intolerable impatience. She sat in silence, struggling to collect her thoughts, and the while she stared, Grizel stepped lightly over the threshold, and seated herself on one of the scattered chairs. It was done so quickly that there was no time for protest, if protest had been possible, and Cassandra, biting her lip, turned towards Dane for support. He had risen to his feet, and looked miserable and embarrassed as a man is bound to do when placed in an awkward situation. Cassandra looked for signs of an anger corresponding to her own, failed to find it, and in consequence felt angrier than before. Her voice was steely in its hauteur.
“Did you wish to see me?”
“Please!” said Grizel softly. Her hazel eyes met Peignton’s with a long, straight glance, whose message he could not misunderstand. He flushed, and held out his hand.
“I’ll go... Good-bye—”
“I shall see you again. I am free on Wednesday and on Friday.” Cassandra spoke in a heightened voice, as though scorning an attempt at deceit. “You will meet me here?”
“Yes. Yes. I’ll let you know—”
He dropped her hand, bowed slightly to Grizel, and swung rapidly away, leaving the two women alone.
“Grizel Beverley,” said Cassandra deliberately, “I hate you!”
“Poor darling!” said Grizel, trembling. “Of course you do!” She shook out a minute handkerchief, and wiped the moisture from her face. It dawned on Cassandra’s perceptions that she was deathly pale.
“Why did you come?”
“I don’t know.”
“Was it just chance?”
Grizel’s lip trembled.
“Cassandra, I loathe to preach; but I don’t believe itwas!”
“How did you get here?”
“I walked. It’s the longest walk I’ve ever taken. I never came in by the north gate before. I’ve never turned up this path. I just—came!”
“I see. It was a coincidence, which you are trying to turn into a special guidance of Providence on my behalf. I’m sorry that I cannot recognise it in that light. I wish with all my heart that you had stayed away... What good do you suppose you are going to do?”
“The Lord knows,” said Grizel, shrugging. The next moment, with a startled air, she continued. “Hedoesknow! I said that without thinking, but it’s true... Won’t you let me help you, darling? I’m not a bit shocked, you see. I knew before, and I’m not a chicken,—I’m twenty-eight. I know that love doesn’t work to order. I was horribly afraid for you before that day on the cliff, and then of course Iknew!”
“How many people have you told?”
Grizel was silent. Cassandra moved her shoulders with an impatient shrug.
“I beg your pardon. I didn’t mean that. But—your husband?”
“Not one word.”
“I thought you told him everything?”
“About myself I do. Not about friends.”
“Thank you for that, at least,” Cassandra said ungraciously. The next moment she threw out her hands with a gesture of hopeless appeal. “Oh, Grizel, I’ll have to forgive you, for I need you so much, but it was hard! You needn’t have grudged us that little time... I could have killed you for coming in just then. As you know everything, tell me what we are todo?... I feel as if I were going mad... What are we to do?”
“What does he suggest?”
“He asked me to go away with him to-night. I’ve told you, so now you can go and warn Bernard. Perhaps Providence will throw you up against him on the way home!”
Grizel mopped her eyes with the little handkerchief.
“Why sneer?” she asked softly. “It’s bad enough, goodness knows, without that to make it worse... And are you going, dear?”
The voice was so tranquil that Cassandra started in surprise.
“What would you say, if I said I was?”
“I think—at this moment, I rather expect that you will! I should have said ‘Yes’ myself at this point.”
“Well, I didn’t! I am stronger than you. I refused, because of the boy. But you needn’t praise me. I deserve no praise. I’m going to do my duty, but I’m not doing it from my heart. Iwant to go, and I told him so. Did you know I was a bad woman? I didn’t. I was rather proud of myself for being so unflirtatious all these years. It was only because I had not been tempted. The moment I am tempted, I go to pieces. If we are judged by our thoughts, I’m a wicked woman. I’d give everything I possess in life, if I were free to go to him to-night!”
“So would I, so would I,—if it had been Martin,” cried Grizel, sobbing. “Everything that belonged to myself. And itisn’twrong; it isn’t wicked; it’s the human nature in us that we can’t help. Every consideration for oneself goes down like ninepins before the one big thing. They don’t count... It’s theotherpeople who block the way!”
“One other person in my case. Bernard doesn’t count. I am nothing to him. Why should I ruin my life by staying with a man who doesn’t want me? If it were not for the boy, I’d go to-night. You know what my married life has been,—would you think I was doing wrong if I left the pretence to take the reality? It would be a truer marriage, even if it were not blessed by the Church. Yet people would think we were wicked. Would you think so too?”
Grizel hesitated.
“Sure I may speak straight out?”
“Of course. Of course. I asked you. I’m hurt so much already that you can’t hurt me any more.”
But for several minutes Grizel sat silently, her hands folded on her knee, her eyes steadily gazing ahead. And as she sat, gradually, surely, the expression of her face changed. The sparkle died out of her eyes and left them soft and grave, the curling lips took on a new tenderness. It was as though she were deliberately banishing the things of this world, gathering to herself a strength to help in time of need. The little face grew tense with earnestness; when she spoke her voice had a deepened note.
“Yes, dear, I think it would be wicked. Not so much for your own sake, as for all the people around. You know the inwardness of things, but they don’t. They would see only the bare, ugly fact... ‘Lady Cassandra has eloped with her husband’s friend!’ It would be a bad breath stealing out, infecting wherever it went; searching out weak places, and weakening them still more,—If you three were alone on a desert island, I wouldn’t hesitate a moment in your place. I should go to my mate, and there would be no sin on my soul, but we’re not in the desert, we’re in a crowd, and you, poor darling! are perched high up. You are a big person here in this little place; down to the very school-children, everyone notices, everyone copies, everyone takes you as an example of what should be. And they have to keep the laws themselves, poor souls! whether they like them or not... How do you think it would look to them if you, who have so much, threw over your duties, just to please yourself?”
Cassandra shook her head with a dreary indifference.
“But I don’t care, you see; I don’t care. Nothing matters to me at this moment but just our two selves! It’s so easy for you to talk, Grizel. You are more than happy; you are content! I’ve never been content in all my life. I’ve been starved of all that really matters in a woman’s life, and now, when I am offered a full meal, I must give it up and be hungrier than before! I am going to do what is right, for there is something in me which is stronger than passion, an inheritance, I suppose, from generations of stiff old Protestant ancestors,—but the doing of it will break my heart. According to the old ideas it should make me happy. Oh, Grizel, Grizel, it isn’t true! How can I be happy if I give up Dane?”
Grizel shook her head.
“You can’t. Not for a long, long time. You’ll be miserable... There’s only one thing, darling!”
“Yes?”
“It would be worse if you didn’t! You may be unhappy as Bernard’s wife, but you would be a hundred times more miserable as—Dane’s mistress!”
Cassandra flushed hotly.
“He would marry me!”
“I’m sure of it. If he could. But—”
“Well, well! why discuss it; it is not going to happen. I’m going to live on at the Court, and set an example to the school-children, and keep Bernard’s accounts... and grow old, and die, and be buried. That is all I have to look forward to, and you have this to remember, Grizel Beverley, that it wasyouinterrupted the one hour of perfect happiness that I have ever known!”
“I’ll stay away on Wednesday,” Grizel said meekly, and they laughed together in feeble, halfhearted fashion. “But I’ll come up later, and say everything all over again,” she continued presently, “and I’ll goonsaying it, as often as you need it, and do my penance that way... Take long views, Cassandra, darling, take long views! One isn’t always young and ardent; it’s only for a little spell, after all, and all the long, long time stretches ahead, when one has to be middle-aged, and elderly, and old... Think how thankful you’ll be at forty, when the boy comes of age. Think how thankful you’ll be at fifty, when the grandchildren begin to appear. Think what a far-off tale it will seem at sixty, when you don’t want romance any more, but just to be quiet, and comfortable, and respected. And when you are seventy—”
Cassandra stopped her with a hasty hand.
“I’m not a bit interested in what I shall feel at seventy. I want to be happynow. I could say all these things to you, Grizel, if you were in my place, but they wouldn’t help. I want to be loved!”
Grizel sighed. She knew better than to advance the reality of her own affection at that moment, for the truest friendship on earth can never feel the gap left by love. There was only one person on earth who in any fashion could console Cassandra for Peignton’s loss, and he was the one for whom she was making her sacrifice. The glimpse she had had of Bernard junior during an exeat spent at home, was not inspiring, but Grizel’s indomitable optimism surmounted all difficulties.
“The boy will love you, darling,” she said softly. “That will come! He is getting to the age when he will appreciate your beauty, and that means so much. He will begin by being proud of you, and the rest will follow. And he will mean more to you after this. When you have sacrificed so much for a person, he becomes more precious... You’ll grow together. I know it, I feel it! In a few years’ time he will be your devoted companion. I’m going to have a son like that myself some day, but I shan’t have the right to him that you have. I shan’t have paid such a big price!”
The tears welled slowly into Cassandra’s eyes. She turned her head aside, and sat gazing into the mist of green which formed the outer world. A son’s love would be sweet, but it was at present merely a possibility, while Dane’s love was real, and near, and strong. And other women had both! Blessed women on whom husbands and sons waited with rival devotion. The bitter problem of inequality, old as the earth itself, tore at Cassandra’s heart, demanding why she should starve, while others sat at a feast; why the narrow path should sometimes be strewn with flowers, and again with jagged stones. She fought it out in her mind while Grizel sat waiting, but to-day she had no power to find comfort for herself. Body and mind alike were spent and weary. She was thankful to feel the presence of a friend...
“Are you one of the people, Grizel, who preach that all lots in life are equally good?”
“I should hope not. I have some common sense.”
“Oh, it’s not a question of common sense; it’s a question of faith. Mrs Evans would say they were. She says every heart knows its own bitterness, that people may appear very fortunate, but one can never tell that there is not a skeleton locked away. And if other people are terribly poor, or chronic invalids, or anything desperate like that, she says that they have a temperament that makes up, or that we can only see the present, and not life as a whole...”
“I’ve known,—by sight and hearsay,—many whole lives, and they’ve been a martyrdom, nearly all the way through. I’ve known others, in the same way, which were nearly all sunshine. Rainstorms, of course, and an occasional squall, but never, never the whirlwind or the lightning. Life isnotevened out; it’s folly to pretend it. It’s fifty times harder for some than for others.”
“But why? Why? It doesn’t seem fair. It’snotalways their own fault?”
“Of course not. That’s absurd. Some of the best people have the most trials. We’re bound to have our training, Cassandra, dear, and to go on being trained till we’ve mastered our lessons. In that way we all fare alike, but some of us get most of it in this life, and so have the less to learn over there. Whatever happens to us after we die, we are not going to be metamorphosed in a moment into perfected saints; we shall have to go on working our way up, and oh, Cassandra, wouldn’t it be a discouraging feeling to be done with earth, and still drag about the same old sins? How thankful we’ll be when we awake, for every struggle which had thrown off a bit of the load! That’s my explanation of life’s inequalities, and it has helped me more than anything. When the troubles came along,—there were plenty of them, my dear, in the old days—just as a detail I was in love with Martin for eight years before we were engaged!—I used to say to myself: ‘No use shirking; if you don’t fight it out to-day, you’ll have to do it to-morrow.’ It will wait for you, my dear!... Set your teeth, and get it over.”
Cassandra looked at her with thoughtful eyes.
“Eight years!” she repeated softly, “eight years!” and stared again, wistful and perplexed. “You are a continual joy to me, Grizel, and a continual surprise.—I didn’t know that you were a religious woman!”
“But I am,” Grizel said nodding. “Very! In my own way. The worst of it is, it isn’t other people’s way, and they are always getting shocked at me, which is hard lines, for I’m never shocked at them. I’ve needed lots of help all those years, and I’ve always found it, and I wish I could hand over my secrets to you ready made, but it would be no use. We’ve got to worry them out for ourselves, and it takes time before the comfort begins to soak in...”
“I don’t want to learn lessons. I want to be happy,” Cassandra repeated piteously. All the long lean years of her marriage added force to the yearning to take advantage of the long-deferred joy now that it was within her reach. “And I want him to be happy too, but not—with her! Grizel, did you know that she wishes to keep him to his engagement?”
“Yes. I know. She told me.”
“Toldyou!” Cassandra’s voice took the old haughty ring. “Then she discussed me with you also, and her altruistic efforts on my behalf! Dane is to remain engaged to her as a safeguard against myself. That’s the idea, isn’t it?—Life is a curious business. I never imagined that the time would come when Teresa Mallison would dictate to me!”
Grizel smiled mischievously.
“And doesn’t it rouse the devil in you when she does! Never mind! I’m pleased to see it. It’s a healthy sign under the circumstances. You’ll need a good supply of that pride to see you through the next month, and I guess there’s no fear of its running out.” Then her face sobered, and her voice took a serious tone. “Cassandra! you must try to be fair to Teresa. She’s young and crude, and opinionated, but this has been a great big test, and she’s been rather—fine. I never admired anything more than her composure that day on the cliff. It wasn’t because she didn’t feel. The slight must have been all the worse, just because she is so complacent and sure of herself. She went through torture with her lips shut. She’s even more to be pitied than you, Cassandra, for shewashappy, and she believed so firmly that she was going to be happy ever after, and now—at the best—it can never be the same—”
Cassandra interposed with a sharp-cut question.
“What do you mean by ‘the best’?”
“From her point of view,—that he should eventually marry her, and make the best of what remains. It’s pretty hard on a girl of twenty-four to know that her lover has to nerve himself up to take her like a disagreeable tonic which may eventually do him good. I could not have stood it; I’m quite sureyoucouldn’t, but Teresa can. The bull-dog quality in her won’t let go; she can sit tight and wait, and it’s the waiters who win. She will go through a bad time, but in the end—” Grizel met Cassandra’s flashing eyes, and said gently, “Dear! if you had the choice, wouldn’t you rather think of him in the future with a home and children, happy again, if not just in the same way, rather than as a lonely man, eating his heart out for what he couldn’t have?”
“No!” cried Cassandra defiantly. “No! I want him to remember. Iwanthim to think. I’d rather anything happened than that he should forget...”
Then Grizel laughed, a soft, tender little laugh, and looking back on that scene in the days which followed, Cassandra knew that more than for any words of comfort, she was grateful for that laugh. There was in it the tenderness which a nurse bestows upon the railings of pain-racked sufferers, and with it a beautiful incredulity which refused to believe mere words, and set her faith on the force within, content to wait until it should resume the mastery.
The task of a comforter is only less difficult than that of the sufferer himself. He has need of infinite tenderness, infinite tolerance, above all, of infinite patience. Not in one hour, or one week, or one month will his solace work its effect; again and again must he open his heart, and pour forth all that is his of wisdom, and strength and inspiration, only to find himself thrown back to the very position from which he started.
“Oh, Grizel!” cried Cassandra sharply. “Why did you come? Why did you interrupt us? And oh, what are we to do? What shall we do?”