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. 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!" 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. _Did_ she 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 I _do_ know. 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 she _knew! Why_ did 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--"
"What _are_ we 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 up _now_! But he _would_
care!... 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 her _new_?"
"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 about _Me_?"
"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 me _your_ orders," 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 have _something_ for 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!"