Lady Cassandra Part 35

"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 his _fiancee_ with a rush of grat.i.tude. How kind, how considerate, how singularly wise and far-seeing! Most girls, he was convinced, would have manoeuvred for a _tete-a-tete_, 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 hara.s.s 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 Ca.s.sandra 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 circ.u.mstances 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 you _do_ rest, 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 to _that_!" 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 grat.i.tude to his _fiancee_, for giving him a chance of escaping her own society, and the realisation infused an added warmth into his last words. "_Thank_ you, 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. G.o.d 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 grat.i.tude 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 pa.s.s 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 c.h.i.n.k 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 Mallison _menage_ was 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 gla.s.ses; 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 a.s.sumed 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 in _You_?"--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, Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra, 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 circ.u.mstances, 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 Ca.s.sandra 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.

Ca.s.sandra 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 pa.s.sed the lodge, then turned down a small gra.s.sy 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 Ca.s.sandra 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, Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra'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... Ca.s.sandra, 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. I _had_ intended 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, but _that_ night I had come straight from you... I don't want you to think--"

"Ah!" Ca.s.sandra 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 pa.s.s: 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 Ca.s.sandra 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 Ca.s.sandra 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. _Did_ she know then? You talk as if... Did they both know?"