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 be _de
trop_ went 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 have _died_!...
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 a _tete-a-tete_ journey 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, I _am_ Teresa 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,
but _have_ you 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! What _do_ you 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 you _will_
argue."
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 a _tete-a-tete_, 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 his _fiancee_ with a rush of
gratitude. 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 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 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 gratitude 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. 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 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
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 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, Cassandra would be home again, and they would
meet! The sense of waiting grew stronger...