It was late on the following morning when Teresa, sitting over her
embroidery in the garden, saw Dane Peignton making his way towards her
across the lawn. It was his first appearance since the return from the
fateful picnic, and Teresa, looking at him, marvelled at the change
which twenty-four hours had wrought. She herself had suffered from
shock and disillusionment, yet the mirror had shown no change, the fresh
pink colour had not faded from her cheeks, her eyes were clear and blue.
The first realisation of the truth of Grizel's words came to her at the
sight of Dane's lined face. At the glance of his wan eyes, the forced
smile faded from her lips. A shiver of dread passed through her at the
realisation that there was to be no covering up of the ugly truth. The
grim determination of Peignton's mien showed that he was braced for the
ordeal of confession.
They shook hands, and he seated himself beside her. A clump of shrubs
hid the windows of the house, no path broke the smooth stretch of green;
they were alone, free from the fear of interruption.
"I hope you feel better this morning," said Teresa primly. She was
embroidering a large entwined monogram on a square of green velvet. The
monogram was Peignton's own, and the square was designed for the back of
a blotter for his writing table. He had watched its progress from the
first stitches onward, and had given his opinion on contrasting shades.
His face twisted with pain as he watched the sweep of the needle with
the long brown thread.
"Thank you, yes. I am better.--I was--very tired!"
Teresa sewed on, her eyes downcast, the needle rhythmically lifting and
falling to take up another neat, accurate stitch. Her low muslin collar
showed the line of the young bending throat.
Peignton's eyes softened into tenderness as he watched her. He
stretched out his hand, and intercepted another upward sweep.
"Dear! Put that down... We've got to have this out... There is so
much that we have to say to each other, Teresa!"
Teresa disengaged her hand, folded her work, and turned a resolutely
composed face.
"Why need we say anything at all?"
"_Why_?" He stared at her in perplexity. "You ask me that when you
know... you have seen..."
"I must forget. We must both forget. I mustn't judge you for... for
what happened _then_. I think it will be best if we never speak of it
again."
Peignton was silent, stricken dumb by amazement, and the paralysing
feeling of helplessness which Grizel had experienced at a similar
moment. The crass certainty of Teresa's common sense appeared at this
moment the most baffling of barriers. He stared at her hopelessly for a
long minute, before making his reply.
"That is impossible. There could be no peace for either of us. In
justice to myself, I must explain. It seems an extraordinary thing to
say, but it is the simple truth that until I came down here--until a
couple of days ago, I did not know that I loved Lady Cassandra. Only
yesterday morning I had decided to make an excuse to go home, to put
myself out of temptation; then, an hour later, I saw her, as it seemed,
dying before my eyes, and I forgot everything else. It was wrong, of
course, confoundedly unkind,--humiliating for you. I apologise with all
my soul, Teresa, but can't you see how inevitable it was?"
"If you loved her in the first instance, I suppose it was inevitable,"
said Teresa steadily. "But you were engaged to me." She lifted her
eyes with a reproachful glance. "You chose _me_. You said you loved
me... All these weeks we have gone on peacefully, without a hitch. I
never noticed any change. As you insist on talking about it, I should
like to understand one thing.--Is it that you grew tired of me? Was I
different from what you expected? When did you stop--caring for me at
all?"
"My dear, I have not stopped! I do care. You have been all that is
sweet and kind. I tell you honestly that I care for you more, not less,
than when we were first engaged."
"Then--Why? I _don't_ understand!"
"Ah, Teresa, neither did I... That's the pity of it. It was a mistake
from the beginning. I was lonely, and I wanted a wife, and I liked you
better than any of the other girls. I was honestly fond of you, dear.
I am now,--but, Teresa! it was affection, not love. I had no idea what
that meant.--It is only the last few days that I have known... There is
a world of difference between the two things."
The colour flamed in Teresa's cheeks.
"There _is_ a world of difference. One is right. The other is--sin!
It is wicked to love your friend's wife."
Dane's lips twisted in a grim smile.
"It is a misfortune, Teresa, a horrible misfortune for us all, but there
is nothing that could possibly be called wicked about it, as matters
stand to-day. Don't be too hard on me. I am about as miserable as a
man can be. There seems no way out of it. I'd give everything I
possess, if I could go back and be as I was when we were first engaged,
content and happy, with the prospect of happiness to come."
"I _did_ make you happy for a time, then, even though it wasn't--the
best?" Teresa's face relaxed from its hard composure; a faint twitching
showed at the corner of the mouth. "Dane! what was it? Tell me! I
must know. What was it made you love her more? She's beautiful, but
I'm pretty too, and so much younger, and she wears lovely clothes, but
you liked me to be simple; and she's clever and amusing--sometimes! but
other times she's quite dull, and we had always plenty to say, you and
I. I took an interest in all you did."
Dane's sigh was compounded of pity for Teresa, and for himself at the
memory of that "interest." It was true that she had questioned him
ceaselessly about his affairs, and had on frequent occasions offered
advice concerning their management. He had been mildly bored, mildly
amused; looking back on his intercourse with _his fiancee_, a contented
boredom seemed to have been his normal condition. And she compared
herself with Cassandra, wanted--pitiful heavens! to have the difference
defined. He shook his head in dumb helplessness, but Teresa's flat
voice obstinately repeated the request.
"Dane! You must tell me _why_?"
"Teresa, it's impossible. Good God, don't you realise how impossible it
is? Why did you care for me instead of other fellows, younger, better
looking--that young Hunter, for example?"
"Mr Hunter never paid me any attention."
"You mean to say," he stared at her blankly, "that if he had, if _any_
man had--"
But at that she showed a wholesome anger.
"You know I don't. You know I would not. At once, from the very
beginning I cared for you. I prayed every night of my life that you
would love me back. I used to watch for you wherever I went. If I saw
you drive past in the dog-cart, I was happy for hours. When you were
ill that time I was ill too. They thought it was a chill, but it
wasn't, it was misery, and not being able to help. One day there was a
button hanging loose on your coat. I _longed_ to mend it! That's all I
wanted,--just to be able to look after you, and mend your things, and
make you comfortable, and sit beside you in the evenings and talk, and
watch you smoke. I'm old-fashioned and domesticated. Lady Cassandra
used to laugh at me, and call me Victorian and men laugh too. They say
they like old-fashioned girls, but they don't. They may be `fond' of
them, as you are fond of me, but they get tired, and then--then... they
meet the Cassandras... and forget everything! duty, faithfulness--
honour--"
"There is no loss of honour in this case, Teresa. That is one of the
things you must not say. This is a bad enough business for us all--
don't make it worse than it is! There has been no deceit, no double
dealing. It was only two days ago that I realised how things were, and
then I determined to leave. It was that accident which took us
unawares."
Before he realised his slip, Teresa had pounced upon the word.
"_Us_! You mean that? _She_ cares too? How do you know? How do you
know?"
"I did not mean to imply anything of the kind," Peignton said sternly,
and his eyes sent forth a warning flash. Not for the world would he
have answered, not for a hundred worlds have confessed to a living
creature--the wondrous, incredible fact that even in her deadly
exhaustion Cassandra had understood, and responded to his love. Her
eyes had met his, her lips had moved, the tiny flutterings of movement
had brought her nearer to his heart. He knew that her spirit had
responded, and through all the bristling difficulties of the moment the
knowledge brought joy. "We will leave Lady Cassandra's name out of the
discussion," he said coldly. "You are not concerned with her, only with
me. It's banal to go on repeating that I'm sorry, you know that well
enough. The question now is,--how can we break off our engagement in
the way least unpleasant for _you_? It's bound to be unpleasant, but--
things pass! In a year or two you'll meet another fellow, and look back
upon this episode, and be glad that it came to nothing. I'm giving you
a lot of trouble, but I've not made a hash of your whole life, as I have
of my own... Think of that, Teresa, and try to forgive me!"
"I shall never care for another man while you are unmarried, and I
should be miserable living on at home, as Mary has done, year after
year, with nothing happening to break the monotony. So you _would_
spoil my life as well as your own. And what would you do living alone?
You are not strong. You said you needed a home. You'll have to leave
this place and go away among strangers. You'll be miserable!"
"Very miserable, Teresa!"
"And I shall be miserable too. It's senseless. Dane! will you do
something for me--to show that you really are sorry, and to help us both
to,--to get over this?"
"I will indeed, Teresa. Only try me."
"Then marry me at once, and let us go away together to live in another
place."
He stared at her, stunned, incredulous. Of all the wild, impossible
requests this was the last which he had expected. He could hardly
believe that he had heard aright.
"_Marry_ you? Teresa! You can't mean it. When you know that I love--"
She held up a warning hand.
"I thought she was not to be mentioned! Yes! I do mean it, Dane. It's
the best thing for you, as well as for me. Can't you see that it's the
best thing?"
"I see that it's impossible. Excuse me, if I'm brutal. If you could do
it, I couldn't. I should be wretched. I should make you wretched."
"You weren't wretched when we were first engaged! You chose me, and you
were satisfied, until this happened. If we were far away in a new
place, you would be satisfied again--I could make you satisfied.--I...
I don't say--" the even voice quavered over the admission--"that it
would be the _same_. It can never be the same for either of us, it
would be better than nothing. We would find a little home, and make it
pretty. You would be interested in the land. There'd be the shooting,
and you could keep a horse, and hunt. We'd grow all our own fruit and
vegetables. There would be neighbours... They would ask us out, and we
could give little parties in return. Quite cheaply. There would be
quite a lot of things to interest you, and fill up the time. And...
there might be children!"
These last words came with a gasp, rendered additionally touching by the
effort which they entailed. Teresa did not approve of such allusions,
and did violence to her own feelings in giving them utterance. It was
only the desperation of her need which made her daring. Her chin
quivered with a childlike helplessness, and Dane looking on felt a pang
of tenderness and remorse.
"You poor little girl! You dear little girl! You are too kind to me.
I don't deserve it, but I'll be grateful to you all my life. I'll never
forget you, but, I can't do it, dear--I can't! Try to understand. Put
yourself in my place... _I'm in love_."
"But it's no use," Teresa repeated stolidly. "It's no use." She was
fighting doggedly with her back to the wall, fighting for love, and for
something only less precious than love, the preservation of her own
position among her neighbours. In the estimation of the village Teresa
Mallison was a social success. Lady Cassandra had "taken her up," and
while other girls hung on season after season without sign of an
admirer, Teresa at twenty-two had become engaged to the most eligible
bachelor of the neighbourhood. At the present moment she had reached
the zenith of her success, and was actually visiting "in the county."
Only those who have had their habitation in country towns can realise
the devastating burden of public opinion. In the first bitterness of
disappointed love, Teresa could still think with a shudder of what
"they" would say; could imagine eyes peering from behind short blinds,
hear the jangle of the bell announcing callers, sympathetically curious,
and full of commiseration for the "Poor Dear!..." It was torture to
Teresa to think of becoming a Poor Dear!
"It's no use. You can't live here. It would only mean--Dane! have you
thought for a moment what it _would_ really mean? Of course you will
have to leave Chumley."
"Is it `of course'?"
Her eyes rebuked him for his weakness.
"It would be _wicked_ to stay. The Squire would never have you in his
house if he knew, but he would _not_ know, and he would keep worrying
you to go... if you stayed away you would have to lie and pretend; if
you went, it would be just the same--lies and pretence! And it would
get worse, not better. There could be no happiness meeting each other
like that. Only misery and deceit. Think of what it would be, and then
of the other life, the life with me... Doing right... Comfort.
_Peace_."
The tears came now, and rolled down her cheeks. She looked very young,
and pitiful, and appealing, with her hand stretched out towards him, the
hand on which shone the ring he had given!
Dane took that hand and folded it between his own, he was touched into
tenderness by the girl's clinging devotion, and his conscience told him
that she was right in her prophecies. He was one of the many Englishmen
whose religion amounted to a determination to be straight in their
dealings with their fellows. He knew himself to be guilty of many
failings, but it had seemed inconceivable that he could ever stoop to
double dealing, far less to the extremity of deceit involved in making
love to the wife of a friend. Six months ago had such a case been
presented to him he would have tolerated no excuse, no palliation, would
have poured forth condemnation with relentless lips, but now... God
knew his ideals were unchanged, God knew he wished to do the right, but
he was no longer confident of his own strength. If in the future he
found himself alone with Cassandra, and she looked at him as she had
looked for that one breathless moment, if her hand clung again to his,
as it had clung, what about honour then, what about loyalty to his
friend, and fealty to the girl to whom he was engaged? By the beat in
his heart, by the throb in his veins, he knew that such considerations
would be but straws upon the wind, to be hurled aside by the rushing
forces of nature. Despicable, base, unworthy it might be, but if that
moment came, it would find Cassandra in his arms!
It came to this then, that there was only one course open to him as an
honourable man, and that course was--flight! He must leave Chumley, put
a barrier of distance between himself and his temptation, and start life
afresh.
"I made you happy once.--I could do it again if we were alone."
Teresa's voice broke in upon his reverie, repeating her former argument
in insistent tones. Her blue eyes were so wistful that it seemed cruel
to point out the difference between then and now. Nevertheless it had
to be done.
"I am afraid it would not be so easy. At that time I had no other
thought. Now I _know_!"
"It is not going to make you happy to hanker after a married woman. It
will make you wicked. You will begin to wish in your own heart that he
would--die! It would be like committing a murder in your heart. We are
taught to pray to be delivered from temptation, it would be walking into
it deliberately to stay here,--to allow yourself to go on caring... Oh,
Dane, wouldn't it be better for you, wouldn't it, wouldn't it, to have
me beside you, loving you, helping you, making a home? I don't say it
could be the best thing--the best thing is over--but wouldn't it,
wouldn't it, be better than loneliness, and wandering, or... sin?"
Peignton looked at her helplessly. The deadly logic of her words there
was no denying. A man must have been a stone who had failed to be
touched by her earnestness.
"Teresa, if it were possible--anything that is possible I would promise
at once. But I cannot face marrying just now."
"But you won't break it off!" Teresa cried eagerly. She had now the
first advantage in the fight, and her eye lightened with hope. "Promise
me that, and we will leave the rest... You can make an excuse and go
abroad. There was no time fixed for our wedding, so no one will talk.
And in a few months I could come out to you, and we could be married
abroad, and travel until you heard of another post. I've always wanted
to travel. You said you looked forward to showing me things."
It was quite true. Dane as a world-traveller had found amusement in the
country-bred girl's primitive ideas of sightseeing, and had occupied
occasional spare hours in sketching out programmes of imaginary tours.
The remembrance came back to him with the remoteness of a childish
dream, from which years had sapped the savour. Then he had been
interested, amused; it had seemed a goodly task to act as Teresa's
guide; now the prospect filled him with dreary dread. He saw a mental
picture of himself walking the sunlit streets, with a leaden heart,
dragging through interminable lengths of galleries, sitting over
_tete-a-tete_ meals in crowded restaurants, obliged to talk, obliged to
smile, and act the bridegroom's part. With a wince of pain he saw
himself and Teresa ensconced in a dream-like hotel on a dream-like
Italian lake, watching happy lovers wander about a garden of almost
unearthly beauty. Oh God, that beauty! How it would intensify every
longing; how hopelessly, maddeningly wretched a man might be, alone, in
Eden!
He did not speak, but his face spoke for him, and Teresa flushed and
winced. She had humbled her pride to the dust, but it was impossible
any longer to blind herself to the fact that for the time being her
influence over Dane was dead. He had no feeling left but the kindly
pity which was but another stab to her heart. Mind and heart alike were
so filled by another image that there was no loophole by which she could
enter in. For a bitter moment Teresa digested the fact, and faced the
truth. She had done her utmost and she had failed, there remained to
her but one hope--time! Given time and separation from the temptation
her chance might return, but for the present she must stand aside. One
more argument remained to her, and that she had hoped need not be made.
She braced herself now to deliver it.
"For Lady Cassandra's sake, it would be better if our engagement were
not broken off now, when we are staying in the same house. People have
noticed that you admire her. They might talk."
He looked up quickly, and stretched out an impetuous hand.
"That's good of you--to think of that! I wouldn't for the whole world
drag her name into it. They've no right to talk; I've given them no
cause, but if there's any fear... _Thank_ you, Teresa!"
His hand gripped hers, but for the first time the girl's fingers
remained limp and irresponsive in his grasp. She was horribly sore,
horribly wounded, her endurance was at an end, she wanted to get away to
her own room, and hide her head and cry. She rose and faced him with a
grave young dignity.
"I want you to understand that if she, Lady Cassandra, were free, I
would give you back your promise at once! You would not have needed to
ask me, I should have spoken myself; but if I set you free because you
love a married woman, I am helping you to--sin! I won't do it. You are
engaged to me, and I shall keep you to your promise. It isn't nice for
a girl to have to force herself upon a man. If I didn't love you I
couldn't do it, but I do love you, and I know that some day you will
understand, and be grateful to me."
She turned without allowing him time for a reply, and marched stiffly
across the lawn towards the house.