The old Mater was not unconscious. The mysterious physical lightning
had smitten the left side of the body, left a drawn, disfigured face,
and a helpless arm and leg, but the spirit within was untouched. By the
time that her son arrived, the old Mater had realised what had happened
to her, and was seething with bitterness and rebellion. It was a
terrible sight to see the blaze of the living eye in the dead face; a
piteous thing to listen to the mumbled words which proceeded from the
twisted lips.
The tears came into the Squire's eyes as he stood by his mother's bed,
he knelt on the floor beside her, and stroked her brow with his big
sunburnt hand; with extraordinary sharpness he divined the meaning of
her muffled speech. Throughout that evening, and for hours at a time
throughout the days which followed, he sat by her bedside, ministering
to her wants with clumsy eagerness. Cassandra was for the time being
too intensely absorbed with the tragedy of her own life to feel any
active interest in what was passing before her eyes, but subconsciously
the various pictures photographed themselves on her mind. Bernard
smiling, indifferent to snubs, persuading his mother to eat, to swallow
her medicine; Bernard, suppressing yawns, sitting up to the small hours
to be "at hand"; Bernard holding the cold hand between his own warm
palms, and by force of his strong electric current soothing the patient
to sleep. He was not _trying_ to be patient; he _was_ patient, out of
pure loving kindness and compassion. Slowly, gradually, the knowledge
penetrated into Cassandra's brain, and she asked herself sadly wherein
she had failed, that this quality of tenderness was so lacking towards
herself! For some months after their marriage Bernard had been the most
ardent of lovers, then passion waned, and with no appreciable second
stage, neglect had taken its place. She had been bitterly surprised,
bitterly wounded, but what had she done to recapture her husband's love,
and turn it into a more enduring form? Had she once realised, as Grizel
Beverley had realised in the midst of her bridal joy, that love is a
tender plant, which can only preserve its fragrance when tended with
unremitting care? Cassandra looked back and saw herself retiring into a
chilly reserve, meeting neglect with neglect, indifference with
indifference, disdaining to invite a love which was not voluntarily
bestowed. It had seemed, at the time, the only way of preserving her
dignity, but as she watched her husband by his mother's bedside, there
came a sudden realisation that if she had thought less of pride, and
more of love, the barrenness of their joint lives might have been
averted. If she had used her woman's wiles,--smiled, cajoled, even in
those early days, wept a few,--just a few, pretty, becoming tears, to
enforce her need, the barrier would never have grown so high: Cassandra
had been accustomed to put all the blame on her husband's shoulders, and
to congratulate herself on being immaculately free from blame; never
till this moment had she realised that to a man of the Squire's
temperament, her attitude of chill detachment, and smiling indifference,
was of all things the most exasperating. If she had blazed in anger,
even to the extent of facing an occasional battle royal, the corroding
bitterness would have found a vent, and reconciliation opened the way to
fresh tenderness.
"It's my fault as much as his!" Cassandra acknowledged, and the
admission softened her heart.
The old Mater did not die. The critical days dragged slowly past, and
she grimly held her own. In all human probability she would live on for
months, for years, until the lightning fell for the third time. To
Cassandra such a recovery seemed a piteous thing, but the Squire's
rejoicings were whole-hearted, and the old Mater herself wore an air of
triumph. Apparently life was dear to her still, and the prospect of
lying in bed, with one half of her body already dead, held more
attractions than the celestial choirs on which she pinned her faith.
There was a grim irony in hearing the twisted lips murmur fragments of
her favourite hymn--"Oh, Lamb of God, I come!" and Cassandra's sense of
humour could not resist the reflection that the old lady was exceedingly
loath to go!
Grizel wrote that she had given Dane the necessary explanation, and
after four days' incessant consideration, Cassandra wrote and despatched
the following letter:
"I was coming to you, as I promised; I had counted every moment of every
day as it passed, longing for the time to arrive; in another minute I
should have been on my way, and then,--what was it?--fate, chance,
providence, God?--_Something_ intervened, and it became impossible for
me to meet you, then, or later. I don't know how long we shall be here.
My husband's mother is recovering, but she cannot bear him out of her
sight. He is an angel of goodness to her, and in some wonderful way
seems to be able to lend her some of his own strength. We may be here
for months; it will certainly be many weeks; so I can't come, Dane, I
can't have the one joy I longed for... the one more hour together,
before we said good-bye!
"It may be for the best. I may look back in years to come, and be
thankful, but I'm not thankful now. It seems hard, and cruel, and
unjust, that I could not have that little hour, and it made it harder,
being so near. Oh, Dane, that journey! Can you for a moment imagine
how desperately, achingly miserable I was, steaming farther and farther
away with every moment; thinking of you sitting waiting! I wonder what
you thought.--I wonder what you feared? But you must have been sure of
one thing, at least,--that my heart was with you!
"Dane! I want you to burn this letter after you have read it. I must
tell you all that is in my heart, but it is best for both of us that it
should not be preserved. I was going to say, that you should forget it,
but I know that will not be possible.
"I am going to stay at my post, Dane, and try to make more of it than
I've done till now. I told you that in making my decision I had no
consideration for Bernard, but that was a mistake. I _must_ consider
him, for he is the principal person in life. He does not love me, but
since coming here, I have begun to see that that is partly my own fault.
I was very young when we married, and I took it for granted that he
would remain for ever an adoring lover. When he grew cool and
careless--it was humiliatingly soon!--my miserable pride made me treat
him as indifferently as he treated me, and so we have grown apart. I
thought he was incapable of tenderness, but watching him with his
mother, I wonder if it is simply that I have shown no need. Oh! I've
made a failure of it all--with the boy too, it seems, though I _did_
love him; I did pour out my love... What is wrong with me, that the
people who should love me _don't_, and when someone comes along who
does, we must be parted?
"Did you think I should come to you that night? Now that it is past and
over, I can tell you that I very nearly did! An impulse came over me
about nine o'clock, so overwhelmingly strong, that it was all I could do
not to rush out, as I was, and make my way to you, bareheaded, across
the park. The effort to resist left me cold and faint.--I wondered if
you were thinking of me, willing me to come! And once again, though
never quite so violently, the impulse returned, but each time I
resisted, and the end finds me here, tied in a sick room, doing my duty,
and bidding you goodbye.
"It's hopeless, Dane; it's hopeless! There is too much between. You
must banish me from your life, and make the most of what is left. Isn't
it strange how in one of our first real talks we discussed makeshifts,
and I asked you if you could manage to be happy, if you were denied the
best. You answered so certainly; seemed to think it so poor-spirited to
waste life in regrets. My poor Dane, now you will have to turn your
words into deeds!
"By the time we return home, you will probably have left Chumley. I can
feel that it would be better so. The agony of knowing that you were
near, not seeing you, or seeing you only in public, would be more than I
could bear, and--there is your engagement! I can't write of that, or of
her--but surely for a time at least, you would be better apart! And we
must school ourselves, Dane--we must get accustomed.
"Oh, beloved, just once, before it is good-bye, I thank you for loving
me,--I thank you for all you have given, I thank you for all you have
received. It was only for a little time, but you _did_ open the gates
of Eden! we _did_ walk in Paradise; we did taste and know the perfection
of content! It was all beautiful, all clean, all white, and because it
can't live on and keep its beauty, we'll bury it, Dane, deep in our
hearts, and live on as bravely as we may!
"Cassandra."
Dane's reply came by return of post:
"Beloved! Mrs Beverley sent for me and gave me your message. I have
been to see her every day since you left. I don't know how I should
have existed without her. Every day has seemed a year. I made sure you
would write; I knew you _must_ write, but it was a long waiting.
"Yes! I willed you to come to me that night. I nearly succeeded, it
appears. God forgive me, I wish it had been quite! Every hour of those
long days I hoped against hope for a summons from you, and then at last
Wednesday came, and I made sure of meeting.--I nearly went mad, sitting
in that summer-house, realising that you were not coming, imagining all
kinds of wild, impossible things. It was balm to know that at least you
had _wanted_ to come.
"God bless you, my beautiful, for your sweet, words! My love for you
has been the glory of my life. From the first moment that we met, you
have been my Queen, and I your servant, waiting to obey. I will obey
you now. Since it will be easier for you if I am at a distance, I will
arrange to leave Chumley at once. Things fit in easily. I dropped
Paley a hint that I was unsettled, and he sends me the kindest
invitation to join him in Italy. I shall go there, I think, for the
next few months, and your wonderful Grizel is already planning for the
future. There are a number of wealthy relations, so to speak, at her
feet, having come into their wealth through her disinterestedness in
marrying Beverley, and amongst them such a thing as a small land agency
should be easily obtained.
"We'll see! I can't think about the future at present, or anything but
just--_thee_! There is much in your letter that I can't answer; daren't
trust myself to answer. How could a man grow cold? But it is not for
me to make things more difficult. When I realise how little I have to
offer and how much you stand to lose, my lips are sealed. There could
be no happiness for me, if I ruined your life.
"Mrs Beverley has done me good. I was a madman when I went to her, but
she has calmed me into my right mind. She understands. I retract all I
have ever said in disparagement of `Grizel.' But I was jealous of her
happiness, seeing You sad.
"One word I must add... My engagement will formally continue. I have
explained everything. She knows that at any time a word from you would
bring me to your side; but she still wishes me to take no public step,
until a year has passed. If I were to remain in Chumley the thing would
be impossible, but at a distance,--as it makes things easier for her, I
can hardly refuse. She is very generous to me, Cassandra; very sweet.
I wish I could love her as she deserves. For her sake, and yours, I am
torn with regret; for my own, even now in the first smart of the wound,
I have none. When I philosophised so lightly, I spoke without
experience. I had never known the best. Now I do know, and the
knowledge is worth its price. Our own door is barred, Cassandra, but we
have a key in our hands which opens many doors!
"Dane."