By nine o'clock in the evening the Swedish masseur had arrived, and
begun his manipulations. He promised that his patient should walk by
the end of five or six days, and at the Squire's request agreed to put
up at the Court for that period, giving several treatments a day. His
fee made Peignton grimace, but he had to admit that it was cheap in
comparison with weeks of inactivity. A telephone message brought a
couple of bags filled with his clothes and toilette accessories, and he
settled down to rest with the satisfaction of a man relieved from pain,
and agreeably expectant of the future. Raynor was a good fellow; no one
could have been kinder, and it certainly was a comfort to have the
services of a trained man at this point, and to be housed in a big
establishment, where there were possibilities of moving from room to
room on the same floor, or even of being carried up and downstairs
without feeling oneself too intolerable a burden. There were always two
or three lazy fellows hanging about, who would be the better for using
their muscles. Peignton gave a little shudder of distaste at the
thought of the fluster which would have accompanied every movement, if
he had accepted Mrs Mallison's invitation to the Cottage. Teresa, dear
girl! had offered to nurse him, but the thing was not possible.
Convention would have forbidden her attending him in bed, and how the
deuce was he to get up with no one to help? He wondered between a laugh
and a groan, if Mrs Mallison would have offered motherly services! And
then he thought of Cassandra, standing slim and straight, the little
deer-like head turned over her shoulder, looking at him with questioning
eyes. What a picture she had made! Thinking of it conjured up other
pictures. He envisaged them one by one, as he lay in the darkness.
Cassandra on the day of Grizel Beverley's reception seated beside him in
the closed car, the softness of chinchilla beneath her chin; Cassandra
playing bridge, tapping the green baize with the long, lovely hand on
which the emerald flashed; Cassandra at the church decorations standing
with upraised arms against a background of leaves; Cassandra looking at
him down the length of her own dining-table, the bare slimness of her
throat rising above the bank of flowers. Each picture seemed more
beautiful, more appealing than the last. He wondered dreamily what it
was which formed this quality of appeal. Was it the touch of physical
fragility which underlaid her bloom, or a finer spiritual need which
called to a force within his own breast, a force which recognised the
call! Always in Cassandra's presence he had the consciousness of
waiting for an opportunity to serve; always he had the consciousness of
need. He told himself he would be a happier man if it were ever given
to him to be of service to Cassandra Raynor.
And then, with a real tenderness, he thought of his _fiancee_,--the
loving, kind-hearted woman-girl who was to be his wife. The mysterious
glamour of a Lady Cassandra was far removed from the practical common
sense of Teresa Mallison; but life was largely composed of the
commonplace, and he knew that not once, but a hundred times over in the
days to come, he would have cause to be thankful for a wife who could be
a partner in deed as well as in name. He thought of Teresa's voice as
she said: "I should have liked to nurse you, Dane!" and felt a pang of
remorse. He hoped he had not been inconsiderate. He hoped the dear
girl was not hurt. He would write her a line in the morning and explain
that... that really... Well, hang it! it was simple enough... There
was only one spare room at the Cottage. Where could the masseur have
slept? There were many adequate reasons for his choice which he could
advance in a letter; now that he was quietly settled in bed they crowded
into his mind, but looking back at the moment of decision, he knew he
had acted from no definite reason, but simply from an overpowering
desire. The chance of staying at the Court had been given him. It was
not in him to refuse.
The next morning immediately after his treatment Peignton was wheeled
into an upstairs sitting-room, where his couch was placed in a window
affording a view of the terraced gardens. Cassandra came in dressed for
driving, made a few arrangements for his comfort, and immediately
disappeared; later on the Squire lounged in, smoked a pipe, and
discussed items in the morning paper, and disappeared in his turn. By
noon Dane was alone, and the hour and a half before luncheon hung
heavily. Luncheon was served to him in his room,--a solitary repast,
and the sense of disappointment grew when the table was cleared, and
still no one appeared to bear him company. Books and papers galore were
within reach, an electric bell would at any moment summon an attendant,
but a man accustomed to an outdoor life soon wearies of reading, and as
minute after minute ticked away, Peignton became conscious of an
overpowering impatience. He threw down his book, seized the electric
bell, and pressed his finger on the button. In less than two minutes a
manservant appeared in the doorway. "Is the Squire in the house?"
"I am not sure, sir. I will enquire."
"Ask him to come up, will you? Tell him I'm lonely."
The man bowed, and retired. Five minutes passed, and the sound of light
footsteps was heard from without; the door opened and Cassandra looked
at him, smiling under raised brows.
"Not asleep?"
"Asleep! Why should I be asleep?"
"Invalids always sleep after lunch."
"I'm not an invalid. I'm a well man tied by the leg. I don't know how
a real invalid feels, but I never was further off sleep in my life! I
sent to ask the Squire to take pity on me. I'm so confoundedly tired of
myself."
"He is out, but Teresa will be here soon after four. I invited her to
tea."
Peignton looked at the clock, and his face fell.
"It's only three. There's an hour and more, before then."
"Does that mean that you want--"
She stopped, smiling, and he answered with eager haste:
"Yes, _please_! Could you? You are not engaged?"
"Oh, no, I am very seldom engaged. I was in my boudoir working at my
embroidery. I'll have it brought in here."
She disappeared, to come back a few minutes later followed by a maid
carrying an oak stand, which she placed near the couch. The stand
proved to be the latest improvement in embroidery frames, the stretched
work being swung between upright wooden supports, which were connected
at their base by a cross-beam, so as to do service as a footstool. The
while Cassandra selected her chair and a small table for working
materials, Peignton peered with awed curiosity at the work in process.
He beheld what appeared at first sight to be a water-colour painting,
the subject a Southern garden, wherein a marble balustrade was overhung
by an orange tree in fruit. The distance showed a glimpse of a blue
lake, against which three dark cypress trees were sharply outlined.
Beside the balustrade walked the lady of the garden, a stately dame, in
a robe of gold-embroidered brocade, ermine lined, and falling open over
a petticoat of shimmering blue. Her hair was caught in a golden net,
she carried in her arms a sheaf of lilies. On the ground by her feet
fluttered a flock of pigeons.
Several parts of the background were unfinished, but enough had been
done to give the effect of completion, and Peignton's admiration and
astonishment were equally great. It was the first example of needlework
painting which he had seen, and he was full of interest, craning forward
on his seat to watch, while Cassandra seated herself, placed her feet on
the cross-board, and tilting the frame to the right angle, plied her
silks in quick, sure stitches, holding the right hand above, and the
other beneath the frame. She was completing a corner of the
under-dress, and she showed him how, to gain the desired shot effect,
she had twisted together half-threads of green and blue.
"It is the most difficult thing in the world to get silks that are
indefinite enough to work the little odd bits," she explained. "You can
get every colour--exquisite colours, but they are so clear, and strong,
and new, and unpicturesque! I have to take refuge in all sorts of
dodges. I dip the white silks in tea, and coffee, to take off the
glare; and the greys in ink, to make them cloudy, and the rose and blue
in acids to tone them down into an old-world softness. Sometimes I dye
one end of a skein, and leave the other untouched; that gives quite a
good effect. I'm always on the look out for old silks, but they are
difficult to find, and the ordinary fancy-work emporium-keeper has not
awakened to the needs of pictures. When I asked one the other day for a
colour to work an old brick wall, she gaped at me as if I were mad.
However, with cunning and ingenuity, I have managed to collect quite a
useful selection..."
"You don't--excuse me! treat them with much consideration, now that you
have got them," Peignton said, lifting a tangled mass of colour from the
table, and smoothing it with careful fingers. "I remember my mother
doing crewel-work in the days of my youth, and having each separate
shade run through a kind of tunnel business in a roll of linen. You
pulled a thread from the roll, and--there you were! _They_ never grew
matted into balls."
"Ah, yes! My mother did too, but--excuse me, they lacked the real
artistic temperament. People with real artistic temperaments invariably
tangle their silks, if only for the joy of seeing the glorious mass of
colour they make matted together. Of course, if they chance to possess
an idle friend, whose hands are itching for work--"
"May I? Oh, that's splendid. I have a passion for unravelling string.
This will keep me quiet for quite a long time. Tell me what colour you
want next, and I'll coax him out!"
"Green; blue. A strand of each. If you like to experiment you can try
untwisting them, and mixing the shades."
Cassandra stitched on, a smile on her lips, but Dane, having extracted
the desired threads with unexpected ease, was too much engrossed in
watching to make any further effort on his own account. The graceful,
wholly feminine pose was another picture to add to the mental gallery.
His eyes followed the sweep of the right hand, and he said
involuntarily:
"That's a beautiful ring! I noticed it the first time I played bridge
with you. I've never seen you without it. It's the most beautiful ring
I have ever seen."
She stayed her work to turn her hand and look at the ring with a
scrutinising glance. "Yes; it's a good stone. I like it too. It was
my mother's," she said calmly. There was no consciousness in her face
of the beauty of the hand itself. The thoughtful look was the result of
a puzzling question. As Peignton's admiration for emeralds was so
great, why had he not given one to his _fiancee_ instead of the orthodox
row of diamonds? As though one personal remark called forth another,
she turned suddenly to him and asked, "How did you fall yesterday?
Everyone told a different tale. Were you really climbing over the
rockery?"
"I was. I'm afraid I did some damage to the bulbs as well as myself,
but you had told me that the saxifrages were partial to boots. I
thought I was perfectly safe. I _was_, until by bad luck I stepped on
to one of those big--er--"
"Clinkers?"
"Clinkers--yes! that's it, and it rolled over and brought me with it,
with my foot twisted beneath me."
"It had probably been put in this year. The old, moss-covered stones
are safe enough. I'm sorry if I misled you. What did you want to do?"
To her surprise the colour rose in his cheeks. He took up the tangled
silks and smoothed them out with elaborate precaution.
"I wanted a sprig of that sweet stuff for my coat. The sweet stuff you
wore the afternoon we ran away."
There was a tone in his voice which quickened the beat of Cassandra's
heart, but she shrugged her shoulders with an affectation of
resignation.
"You are determined to put the blame on me! By your own account I seem
to have lured you on by both precept and example. What would men do
without the poor women to carry the blame? Bernard is never really
consoled about any mishap until he has traced its origin back to me.
It's difficult sometimes when it's some matter connected with the land,
about which I know nothing, but he had a bright inspiration about that
one day, and declared that things had gone wrong because I _didn't_
interest myself! If I _had_ taken an interest, the deal would have been
a success! I used to defend myself at one time. Now I don't. I know
that one of the ways I can help him is by letting him work off his
irritation by blaming someone else. In his heart he knows perfectly
well that he is talking nonsense. At least, I suppose he does! _I_
always know when I'm deceiving myself."
The blood rushed to her face as she finished speaking, for an inner
voice seemed to jeer at the spoken words, to laugh with a saturnine
unbelief. She hurried breathlessly on: "In your case, I do really seem
to blame. I did mislead you. I was in a truant mood that afternoon,
and forgot my responsibilities. You must forgive me, and let me do all
I can to help your convalescence."
"Thanks," Peignton said absently. He sighed with profound regret.
"That summer-house is so far away. I shan't be able to get so far. I
should have enjoyed another tea. What about the Bath chair?"
Cassandra shook her head.
"That summer-house is my own special property. I admit a friend on
occasion, but never more than one. I even put up with tinned milk,
rather than let the household know where I disappear for so many of the
missing teas. If one of the men wheeled your chair for you, there would
be no more chance of running away."
Peignton's look showed a latent jealousy.
"Whom have you taken there besides myself?"
"Not many. One or two only, until the last months. Then--pretty
often--Mrs Beverley."
The jealousy was still to the fore.
"You are very devoted to Mrs Beverley?"
"I'm thankful to say, I am! I needed a woman friend, and we were
friends at once. There were no preliminary stages. At our second
meeting it seemed absurd to address each other by formal titles. I knew
her better at that early stage, than many of the women who have been my
neighbours for years."
"I should have thought," Peignton said slowly, "that at this period of
her existence Mrs Beverley was too much engrossed with her man to have
any interest to spare for an outside friendship."
The latent grudge sounded in his voice. Cassandra discerned it, and
turned upon him with a smile. Without troubling to think why or
wherefore, she knew that he was jealous of her intimacy with Grizel, and
the knowledge was balm to her soul.
"I'll tell you a secret!" she said, stopping her work to emphasise her
words with uplifted finger. "_No_ man can altogether engross a woman!
However good, and fine, and tender he may be, there's still a need
within her that only a woman can fill. The happiest married woman needs
a woman friend. The better the husband, the more she needs her. A good
man is so aggravatingly free from littlenesses. He objects to
grumbling; he makes the best of misfortunes; he refuses to repeat
gossip; he has a tiresome habit of imagining that his wife means
everything she says. If a woman is to endure a good husband with any
resignation, she must have another woman near by with whom she can let
herself go!"
They laughed together, and Cassandra stretched out her hand for the
silks which Dane was smoothing between his palms. Just for a moment the
two hands touched, but after that moment there followed a pause of
mutual self-consciousness. Cassandra bent her head, unwinding and
re-winding her silks with careful deliberation. Dane played with the
tangled ball, longing, yet not daring to ask what shade would be next
required. He looked with distaste upon the two separate threads;
wondering how long they would take to work. When Cassandra spoke again,
she surprised him by a personal question:
"How soon are you to be married, Captain Peignton?"
For a moment he stared in surprise. Then he laughed.
"Apropos of good husbands?"
"I was not thinking of the connection, but let us hope it _is_ apropos.
Soon, I suppose? Men are generally impatient."
"Are they?" He knit his brows, and appeared to consider the subject.
"I don't know that I am impatient. Being engaged is quite a pleasant
condition. It's an opportunity of getting thoroughly acquainted. It
doesn't seem fair on the girl to rush her into a hasty marriage. And in
the meantime I have no settled home. I could leave the Moat at any
time, if there were a sufficient reason, but Paley will be home in
autumn. I should like to stay on until his return. It has fitted in
very well for me having the run of the place while he is away, and I
don't want to make a convenience of him. He wants me to put up at the
Moat over Christmas, and have some hunting, and then, if I can find it,
I'd like a small agency just to add the jam to my own bread. Perhaps
next spring..."
A year from now! Cassandra was conscious of mingled dismay and relief.
A year more of friendship and understanding; a year more of unrest. For
her own sake she could not decide whether she were glad or regretful,
but she thought of Mrs Mallison and the pile of catalogues on a table
when she had paid her visit of congratulation, and from her heart she
was sorry for Teresa.
"I was engaged for six weeks," she said, shrugging, and Dane opened his
lips eagerly, choked back the coming words, and mumbled a conventional
astonishment. She longed to know what he had been about to say!
For the next half-hour Cassandra stitched steadily at the under-robe of
the pictured dame, but Peignton had not another chance of feeling the
electric thrill of contact as his fingers met hers. She declared that
he ruffled the surface of the silks, and insisted upon unravelling for
herself.
At half-past four a manservant announced Teresa's arrival. She had been
shown into the drawing-room, and Cassandra rose to go to her, gathering
her work materials together on the table. Peignton's eyes were wistful
as they followed her movements; again she had the impression that he was
on the point of speaking some eager words, but again he checked himself,
and was silent.
"I will bring Teresa up to you," she said quickly. "You will enjoy a
talk with her before tea."
At five o'clock tea was carried into the Den, and the Squire and
Cassandra came in to share in the meal. They found Teresa sitting close
to the couch, in a somewhat aggressive attitude of possession. She had
less colour than usual, and her eyes looked tired, and Peignton's first
words concerned her health.
"This girl has no business to be out," he said kindly. "She is quite
hoarse and wheezy. I tell her she is a dozen times worse than I am.
I'm afraid she has taken a chill."
"Oh, Teresa, _don't_ be ill after my bulb party!" Cassandra entreated.
"Every year I have a batch of colds on my conscience, and this year
there is an ankle thrown in. I'll order the car for you later on, and
you must take half a dozen remedies to-night, to nip it in the bud."
"It's no use," Teresa said gloomily. "All the remedies in the world
won't stop my colds when they once get a start. They begin on my chest,
and work steadily up to my head, and I'm fit for nothing but a desert
island for a week or ten days. I came out to-day because I knew it
would be my last chance. I shall be worse for it, of course; but I
don't care. I had to see Dane."
"Well!" cried Peignton with an air of imparting solace, "if you are
going to drive home there is no need to hurry. Now that the Squire is
in and we are a four, what about a game of bridge?"
"Well thought of! So we will! Good idea!" cried the Squire heartily.
Teresa smiled; a thin, artificial smile.
At seven o'clock Cassandra wrapped her visitor in a warm coat, and
walked beside her down the staircase. During the pauses of the game the
wheezing of which Dane had spoken had been distinctly audible, and there
was no doubt that the girl was in the initial stage of a chest cold.
She was low-spirited too, impatient with the contrariety of fate.
"Just my luck!" she said crossly. "Now, of all times, when Dane has
this tiresome ankle, and needs me to cheer him up. A man hates sitting
still, and of course you have a hundred engagements. If he'd been with
us, I could have amused him all day long."
"It wouldn't have been very amusing for him, if you had been in bed with
an attack of bronchitis! It _is_ hard luck, Teresa. But you must nurse
yourself, and get better quickly. Captain Peignton will soon be able to
come to see you. Till then, I'll do everything I can."
"Oh, I know you will. Of course. You are most awfully kind. But
_still_!" cried Teresa eloquently.
Cassandra went back to her boudoir, and stood face to face with her own
thoughts. What a complex thing was human nature; how many separate
selves went up to make a whole! One part of her was sorry, quite
honestly and unfeignedly sorry for Teresa, in that she was debarred from
ministering to her lover during his confinement; another part rejoiced
with a ruthless joy. For three or four days out of a lifetime, fate had
decreed that Dane should be left in her own charge, dependent upon her
for society. She clutched at her chance with greedy hands.
"They are all I shall have. I shall have to live on them all my life,"
Cassandra said in her heart. Then her lips trembled, and she spoke
aloud in a low, trembling voice. "I suppose I love him. I suppose
that's what it means.--I _know_ I love him! Oh, Teresa, it won't hurt
you to spare him to me for just four days!"