Cassandra lifted her head and stared blankly, then with cold
displeasure, into the intruder's face. There was not the faintest tinge
of embarrassment in her mien, nothing but surprise, and anger, and an
intolerable impatience. She sat in silence, struggling to collect her
thoughts, and the while she stared, Grizel stepped lightly over the
threshold, and seated herself on one of the scattered chairs. It was
done so quickly that there was no time for protest, if protest had been
possible, and Cassandra, biting her lip, turned towards Dane for
support. He had risen to his feet, and looked miserable and embarrassed
as a man is bound to do when placed in an awkward situation. Cassandra
looked for signs of an anger corresponding to her own, failed to find
it, and in consequence felt angrier than before. Her voice was steely
in its hauteur.
"Did you wish to see me?"
"Please!" said Grizel softly. Her hazel eyes met Peignton's with a
long, straight glance, whose message he could not misunderstand. He
flushed, and held out his hand.
"I'll go... Good-bye--"
"I shall see you again. I am free on Wednesday and on Friday."
Cassandra spoke in a heightened voice, as though scorning an attempt at
deceit. "You will meet me here?"
"Yes. Yes. I'll let you know--"
He dropped her hand, bowed slightly to Grizel, and swung rapidly away,
leaving the two women alone.
"Grizel Beverley," said Cassandra deliberately, "I hate you!"
"Poor darling!" said Grizel, trembling. "Of course you do!" She shook
out a minute handkerchief, and wiped the moisture from her face. It
dawned on Cassandra's perceptions that she was deathly pale.
"Why did you come?"
"I don't know."
"Was it just chance?"
Grizel's lip trembled.
"Cassandra, I loathe to preach; but I don't believe it _was_!"
"How did you get here?"
"I walked. It's the longest walk I've ever taken. I never came in by
the north gate before. I've never turned up this path. I just--came!"
"I see. It was a coincidence, which you are trying to turn into a
special guidance of Providence on my behalf. I'm sorry that I cannot
recognise it in that light. I wish with all my heart that you had
stayed away... What good do you suppose you are going to do?"
"The Lord knows," said Grizel, shrugging. The next moment, with a
startled air, she continued. "He _does_ know! I said that without
thinking, but it's true... Won't you let me help you, darling? I'm not
a bit shocked, you see. I knew before, and I'm not a chicken,--I'm
twenty-eight. I know that love doesn't work to order. I was horribly
afraid for you before that day on the cliff, and then of course I
_knew_!"
"How many people have you told?"
Grizel was silent. Cassandra moved her shoulders with an impatient
shrug.
"I beg your pardon. I didn't mean that. But--your husband?"
"Not one word."
"I thought you told him everything?"
"About myself I do. Not about friends."
"Thank you for that, at least," Cassandra said ungraciously. The next
moment she threw out her hands with a gesture of hopeless appeal. "Oh,
Grizel, I'll have to forgive you, for I need you so much, but it was
hard! You needn't have grudged us that little time... I could have
killed you for coming in just then. As you know everything, tell me
what we are to _do_?... I feel as if I were going mad... What are we
to do?"
"What does he suggest?"
"He asked me to go away with him to-night. I've told you, so now you
can go and warn Bernard. Perhaps Providence will throw you up against
him on the way home!"
Grizel mopped her eyes with the little handkerchief.
"Why sneer?" she asked softly. "It's bad enough, goodness knows,
without that to make it worse... And are you going, dear?"
The voice was so tranquil that Cassandra started in surprise.
"What would you say, if I said I was?"
"I think--at this moment, I rather expect that you will! I should have
said `Yes' myself at this point."
"Well, I didn't! I am stronger than you. I refused, because of the
boy. But you needn't praise me. I deserve no praise. I'm going to do
my duty, but I'm not doing it from my heart. I _want to go_, and I told
him so. Did you know I was a bad woman? I didn't. I was rather proud
of myself for being so unflirtatious all these years. It was only
because I had not been tempted. The moment I am tempted, I go to
pieces. If we are judged by our thoughts, I'm a wicked woman. I'd give
everything I possess in life, if I were free to go to him to-night!"
"So would I, so would I,--if it had been Martin," cried Grizel, sobbing.
"Everything that belonged to myself. And it _isn't_ wrong; it isn't
wicked; it's the human nature in us that we can't help. Every
consideration for oneself goes down like ninepins before the one big
thing. They don't count... It's the _other_ people who block the way!"
"One other person in my case. Bernard doesn't count. I am nothing to
him. Why should I ruin my life by staying with a man who doesn't want
me? If it were not for the boy, I'd go to-night. You know what my
married life has been,--would you think I was doing wrong if I left the
pretence to take the reality? It would be a truer marriage, even if it
were not blessed by the Church. Yet people would think we were wicked.
Would you think so too?"
Grizel hesitated.
"Sure I may speak straight out?"
"Of course. Of course. I asked you. I'm hurt so much already that you
can't hurt me any more."
But for several minutes Grizel sat silently, her hands folded on her
knee, her eyes steadily gazing ahead. And as she sat, gradually,
surely, the expression of her face changed. The sparkle died out of her
eyes and left them soft and grave, the curling lips took on a new
tenderness. It was as though she were deliberately banishing the things
of this world, gathering to herself a strength to help in time of need.
The little face grew tense with earnestness; when she spoke her voice
had a deepened note.
"Yes, dear, I think it would be wicked. Not so much for your own sake,
as for all the people around. You know the inwardness of things, but
they don't. They would see only the bare, ugly fact... `Lady Cassandra
has eloped with her husband's friend!' It would be a bad breath
stealing out, infecting wherever it went; searching out weak places, and
weakening them still more,--If you three were alone on a desert island,
I wouldn't hesitate a moment in your place. I should go to my mate, and
there would be no sin on my soul, but we're not in the desert, we're in
a crowd, and you, poor darling! are perched high up. You are a big
person here in this little place; down to the very school-children,
everyone notices, everyone copies, everyone takes you as an example of
what should be. And they have to keep the laws themselves, poor souls!
whether they like them or not... How do you think it would look to them
if you, who have so much, threw over your duties, just to please
yourself?"
Cassandra shook her head with a dreary indifference.
"But I don't care, you see; I don't care. Nothing matters to me at this
moment but just our two selves! It's so easy for you to talk, Grizel.
You are more than happy; you are content! I've never been content in
all my life. I've been starved of all that really matters in a woman's
life, and now, when I am offered a full meal, I must give it up and be
hungrier than before! I am going to do what is right, for there is
something in me which is stronger than passion, an inheritance, I
suppose, from generations of stiff old Protestant ancestors,--but the
doing of it will break my heart. According to the old ideas it should
make me happy. Oh, Grizel, Grizel, it isn't true! How can I be happy
if I give up Dane?"
Grizel shook her head.
"You can't. Not for a long, long time. You'll be miserable... There's
only one thing, darling!"
"Yes?"
"It would be worse if you didn't! You may be unhappy as Bernard's wife,
but you would be a hundred times more miserable as--Dane's mistress!"
Cassandra flushed hotly.
"He would marry me!"
"I'm sure of it. If he could. But--"
"Well, well! why discuss it; it is not going to happen. I'm going to
live on at the Court, and set an example to the school-children, and
keep Bernard's accounts... and grow old, and die, and be buried. That
is all I have to look forward to, and you have this to remember, Grizel
Beverley, that it was _you_ interrupted the one hour of perfect
happiness that I have ever known!"
"I'll stay away on Wednesday," Grizel said meekly, and they laughed
together in feeble, halfhearted fashion. "But I'll come up later, and
say everything all over again," she continued presently, "and I'll go
_on_ saying it, as often as you need it, and do my penance that way...
Take long views, Cassandra, darling, take long views! One isn't always
young and ardent; it's only for a little spell, after all, and all the
long, long time stretches ahead, when one has to be middle-aged, and
elderly, and old... Think how thankful you'll be at forty, when the boy
comes of age. Think how thankful you'll be at fifty, when the
grandchildren begin to appear. Think what a far-off tale it will seem
at sixty, when you don't want romance any more, but just to be quiet,
and comfortable, and respected. And when you are seventy--"
Cassandra stopped her with a hasty hand.
"I'm not a bit interested in what I shall feel at seventy. I want to be
happy _now_. I could say all these things to you, Grizel, if you were
in my place, but they wouldn't help. I want to be loved!"
Grizel sighed. She knew better than to advance the reality of her own
affection at that moment, for the truest friendship on earth can never
feel the gap left by love. There was only one person on earth who in
any fashion could console Cassandra for Peignton's loss, and he was the
one for whom she was making her sacrifice. The glimpse she had had of
Bernard junior during an exeat spent at home, was not inspiring, but
Grizel's indomitable optimism surmounted all difficulties.
"The boy will love you, darling," she said softly. "That will come! He
is getting to the age when he will appreciate your beauty, and that
means so much. He will begin by being proud of you, and the rest will
follow. And he will mean more to you after this. When you have
sacrificed so much for a person, he becomes more precious... You'll
grow together. I know it, I feel it! In a few years' time he will be
your devoted companion. I'm going to have a son like that myself some
day, but I shan't have the right to him that you have. I shan't have
paid such a big price!"
The tears welled slowly into Cassandra's eyes. She turned her head
aside, and sat gazing into the mist of green which formed the outer
world. A son's love would be sweet, but it was at present merely a
possibility, while Dane's love was real, and near, and strong. And
other women had both! Blessed women on whom husbands and sons waited
with rival devotion. The bitter problem of inequality, old as the earth
itself, tore at Cassandra's heart, demanding why she should starve,
while others sat at a feast; why the narrow path should sometimes be
strewn with flowers, and again with jagged stones. She fought it out in
her mind while Grizel sat waiting, but to-day she had no power to find
comfort for herself. Body and mind alike were spent and weary. She was
thankful to feel the presence of a friend...
"Are you one of the people, Grizel, who preach that all lots in life are
equally good?"
"I should hope not. I have some common sense."
"Oh, it's not a question of common sense; it's a question of faith.
Mrs Evans would say they were. She says every heart knows its own
bitterness, that people may appear very fortunate, but one can never
tell that there is not a skeleton locked away. And if other people are
terribly poor, or chronic invalids, or anything desperate like that, she
says that they have a temperament that makes up, or that we can only see
the present, and not life as a whole..."
"I've known,--by sight and hearsay,--many whole lives, and they've been
a martyrdom, nearly all the way through. I've known others, in the same
way, which were nearly all sunshine. Rainstorms, of course, and an
occasional squall, but never, never the whirlwind or the lightning.
Life is _not_ evened out; it's folly to pretend it. It's fifty times
harder for some than for others."
"But why? Why? It doesn't seem fair. It's _not_ always their own
fault?"
"Of course not. That's absurd. Some of the best people have the most
trials. We're bound to have our training, Cassandra, dear, and to go on
being trained till we've mastered our lessons. In that way we all fare
alike, but some of us get most of it in this life, and so have the less
to learn over there. Whatever happens to us after we die, we are not
going to be metamorphosed in a moment into perfected saints; we shall
have to go on working our way up, and oh, Cassandra, wouldn't it be a
discouraging feeling to be done with earth, and still drag about the
same old sins? How thankful we'll be when we awake, for every struggle
which had thrown off a bit of the load! That's my explanation of life's
inequalities, and it has helped me more than anything. When the
troubles came along,--there were plenty of them, my dear, in the old
days--just as a detail I was in love with Martin for eight years before
we were engaged!--I used to say to myself: `No use shirking; if you
don't fight it out to-day, you'll have to do it to-morrow.' It will
wait for you, my dear!... Set your teeth, and get it over."
Cassandra looked at her with thoughtful eyes.
"Eight years!" she repeated softly, "eight years!" and stared again,
wistful and perplexed. "You are a continual joy to me, Grizel, and a
continual surprise.--I didn't know that you were a religious woman!"
"But I am," Grizel said nodding. "Very! In my own way. The worst of
it is, it isn't other people's way, and they are always getting shocked
at me, which is hard lines, for I'm never shocked at them. I've needed
lots of help all those years, and I've always found it, and I wish I
could hand over my secrets to you ready made, but it would be no use.
We've got to worry them out for ourselves, and it takes time before the
comfort begins to soak in..."
"I don't want to learn lessons. I want to be happy," Cassandra repeated
piteously. All the long lean years of her marriage added force to the
yearning to take advantage of the long-deferred joy now that it was
within her reach. "And I want him to be happy too, but not--with her!
Grizel, did you know that she wishes to keep him to his engagement?"
"Yes. I know. She told me."
"_Told_ you!" Cassandra's voice took the old haughty ring. "Then she
discussed me with you also, and her altruistic efforts on my behalf!
Dane is to remain engaged to her as a safeguard against myself. That's
the idea, isn't it?--Life is a curious business. I never imagined that
the time would come when Teresa Mallison would dictate to me!"
Grizel smiled mischievously.
"And doesn't it rouse the devil in you when she does! Never mind! I'm
pleased to see it. It's a healthy sign under the circumstances. You'll
need a good supply of that pride to see you through the next month, and
I guess there's no fear of its running out." Then her face sobered, and
her voice took a serious tone. "Cassandra! you must try to be fair to
Teresa. She's young and crude, and opinionated, but this has been a
great big test, and she's been rather--_fine_. I never admired anything
more than her composure that day on the cliff. It wasn't because she
didn't feel. The slight must have been all the worse, just because she
is so complacent and sure of herself. She went through torture with her
lips shut. She's even more to be pitied than you, Cassandra, for she
_was_ happy, and she believed so firmly that she was going to be happy
ever after, and now--at the best--it can never be the same--"
Cassandra interposed with a sharp-cut question.
"What do you mean by `the best'?"
"From her point of view,--that he should eventually marry her, and make
the best of what remains. It's pretty hard on a girl of twenty-four to
know that her lover has to nerve himself up to take her like a
disagreeable tonic which may eventually do him good. I could not have
stood it; I'm quite sure _you_ couldn't, but Teresa can. The bull-dog
quality in her won't let go; she can sit tight and wait, and it's the
waiters who win. She will go through a bad time, but in the end--"
Grizel met Cassandra's flashing eyes, and said gently, "Dear! if you had
the choice, wouldn't you rather think of him in the future with a home
and children, happy again, if not just in the same way, rather than as a
lonely man, eating his heart out for what he couldn't have?"
"No!" cried Cassandra defiantly. "No! I want him to remember. I
_want_ him to think. I'd rather anything happened than that he should
forget..."
Then Grizel laughed, a soft, tender little laugh, and looking back on
that scene in the days which followed, Cassandra knew that more than for
any words of comfort, she was grateful for that laugh. There was in it
the tenderness which a nurse bestows upon the railings of pain-racked
sufferers, and with it a beautiful incredulity which refused to believe
mere words, and set her faith on the force within, content to wait until
it should resume the mastery.
The task of a comforter is only less difficult than that of the sufferer
himself. He has need of infinite tenderness, infinite tolerance, above
all, of infinite patience. Not in one hour, or one week, or one month
will his solace work its effect; again and again must he open his heart,
and pour forth all that is his of wisdom, and strength and inspiration,
only to find himself thrown back to the very position from which he
started.
"Oh, Grizel!" cried Cassandra sharply. "Why did you come? Why did you
interrupt us? And oh, what are we to do? What shall we do?"