Dane awoke next morning to face a long and difficult day. Idle hours
are proverbially dedicated to temptation, and despite many resolutions
his thoughts drifted continually towards Cassandra, continually
emphasised her nearness, and dallied with the possibility of a meeting.
He swore that such a meeting should not be his own doing, but what if
chance brought it about?
For some moments he permitted himself to envisage possibilities, then
sternly called himself to order. Teresa in sorrow demanded an undivided
loyalty; her tenderness during the past year riveted her claims. He
determined to telephone to the Squire, apologise for his own inability
to call at the Court, and try to arrange a meeting in town, but half an
hour later as he stood on the step of the hotel, he saw the familiar
dog-cart driving towards him, and heard himself hailed in loud,
well-known tones.
"Halloa, Peignton! Heard you were here. Drove round to say how d'you
do." The Squire gave the reins to the groom. "I'll come inside and
have a smoke... Poor old fellow went off in a hurry, eh? S'pose you
are staying over the funeral?"
"Yes. Till Friday morning. I'm glad you called. I was going to ring
you up, and explain that I should have no time to pay calls..."
"No. No. Of course not. Son of the house; you'll have the whole show
on your hands. And Teresa, eh? Bit of lost time to make up, what?
Thought you were never going to turn up again... You know your own
business best, of course..."
"I do," Dane said firmly, but the Squire was not sensitive to rebuffs.
"Well!"--he said slowly--"that is as it may be. All the same, if you
leave things much longer, and she falls to pieces as she's been doing
lately, there'll be no Teresa left... Bad business this money trouble!
Who would have thought that solemn old buffer could have been such a
giddy owl?"
Dane sat, unlighted cigarette in hand, gazing at him in dismay.
"What money trouble?"
"Mean to say you don't _know_? They didn't tell you?"
"Not a word. Money was not mentioned."
"Odd!" The Squire cocked a suspicious eyebrow. "_Very_ odd,
considering your position. Evans told me. No secret about it. It's
over the whole place. The old man had been selling out shares, and
reinvesting under the advice of some unprincipled scoundrel. The old
story--a huge fraud, got up for the special benefit of rural investors,
ten per cent, interest, paid once; and then--smash! The poor old fellow
got the news at the breakfast table, called out to his wife that he was
ruined, and fizzled up, then and there. Had a stroke, and died in her
arms. Far as Evans understands there'll be nothing left for 'em but a
twopenny pension."
Dane was silent, digesting the startling news. The _menage_ at the
Cottage had suggested a comfortable, if modest income; in the one
official interview which he had had with the Major, he had been informed
that Teresa would eventually inherit some seven or eight thousand
pounds. Now, by all accounts, the prospective fortune had vanished, and
she was left penniless, dependent on--? On what? The answer to that
question came in a rush of tender understanding. Poor, poor, little
girl! Was _this_ the reason of her coldness? Did she fear that a sense
of duty would urge him to a marriage from which his heart still shrank?
Poor, proud, little girl! While she had something to give, she could
plead her own cause, but a penniless Teresa would accept no favour. On
the whole the news of the Major's losses brought Dane more relief than
sorrow. It solved the mystery of his chilling reception.
"Humph--yes! bad business--bad business," soliloquised the Squire.
"Eldest daughter came in for a bit of money, but she's kicked over the
traces... Rather a pill for her to settle down again with the old
woman,--what? Of course, you can look after Teresa..."
"I can," Dane said. After a moment's pause he continued deliberately.
"I shall arrange for our marriage to take place as early as possible.
Mrs Mallison may have conventional scruples... she probably will, but
she'll have to give way. I can't stay longer than Friday, and I must
get things settled before I leave." He rose, and straightened his
shoulders with the air of a man throwing off a weight. "You--er--you
will tell Lady Cassandra my plans, and explain to her that my time is so
limited that I--er--"
"Certainly. Certainly. She wouldn't expect it, my dear man. As a
matter of fact she and Mrs Beverley are off in town for the day,--
frock-hunting, I believe. They're always at it. Ripping little woman,
Mrs Beverley! lots of fun, but plenty of common sense tucked away
inside. Been a regular godsend to Cassandra..."
"Lady Cassandra is quite well?"
"Humph!" the Squire protruded his under lip. "So, so. Had a bit of a
breakdown in autumn. We had a hard time of it, after you left. My old
Mater had a stroke, and we were down in Devonshire looking after her for
a couple of months. She got on like a house on fire: helpless, you
know--couldn't stir out of bed, but keen as a needle, took in all that
was going on. Cassandra nursed her."
The Squire flicked the ash from his cigarette with a ruminating air.
"Rum things, women! Hated each other like poison, those two. That's to
say the Mater hated Cass; jealous, because she was my wife. Cass didn't
hate her... too much trouble. She was simply bored. She's given to
being bored; you know that. She's bored with your Teresa. Grizel's the
passion nowadays. Grizel is always perfect. But she was good to the
old Mater. Nursed her like a brick, and the old Mater lay there by the
hour staring at Cass. The last words she spoke to me,--did I tell you
she had a third stroke, and died suddenly, just as we were coming
home?--her last words were about Cass. Thought she needed looking
after, ... cheering up.--It was a great comfort to me, Peignton, that
the old Mater and Cass were on good terms at the last!"
"I am quite sure it was," Dane said sincerely. He was trying to banish
a picture that rose before him, of the paralysed old woman with the dead
body, and the live eyes that watched, hour after hour, the beautiful
tragic face of her son's wife. How much had the old Mater seen? How
much had she divined?
The next morning Dane stood by Teresa's side in the graveyard of the old
church, and drove back to the Cottage by her side. In the afternoon he
paid a second visit, and found the Vicar and his wife drinking tea with
the mourners. The two girls were silent and self-contained, but the
emotions of the day had had an exciting effect on Mrs Mallison's
nerves, with the gruesome result that she appeared to be in the highest
of spirits. Her voluble tongue discussed times past, present, and to
come, and very pointedly she gave her hearers to understand that no
condolences were necessary on the score of poverty.
"We shall give up the Cottage--it is unnecessarily large now that Papa's
two rooms will be empty. Is there any chance of Oak Lea falling vacant,
Mrs Evans? That's the kind of house that would suit us, wouldn't it,
Mary? Two nice sitting-rooms, three or four bedrooms, and not too much
garden to manage with a man once a week. I should like to keep on the
cart. So useful for paying calls at a distance. There _is_ a small
stable at Oak Lea, I think? We'll see! We'll see! I shall quite enjoy
a small, compact house. Mary and I don't need much space. Teresa says
we are not to count on her."
Everyone looked at Teresa, and Teresa stared fixedly at her cup. Not a
tinge of colour stole into her cheek.
When the Vicar rose to leave, his wife slipped her hand through Mary's
arm, and led her across the hall into the dining-room. At such a time
it was natural that there should be "private words" and no one exhibited
any surprise. Mrs Evans closed the door behind her, and held Mary's
hand in a firm, motherly grasp.
"Mary, dear--I am a very old friend,--may I give you a word of advice?
In these days of grief and emotion, don't be tempted into making plans,
which you may regret later on. Wait until you have had time to
consider."
"Thank you, Mrs Evans, but what is there to consider? If Mother has no
money, what can I possibly do but give her mine?"
"You must share it with her, of course; no right-minded daughter could
do less. But--there are different ways of doing it, Mary, dear! It is
your own money. You ought to reserve to yourself the right to decide,
and to order your own life."
But Mary shook her head.
"You don't know Mother. I do. There would be no peace. I'll leave it
to her to do as she likes. I've had my fling, Mrs Evans, a whole year
of being alone, and free to do as I liked. I--I was very lonely. I
shan't be altogether sorry..."
Mrs Evans was silent, her keen eyes fixed upon Mary's face searching
for some sign of change or growth, but there was none to be seen. The
vagrant year had come and gone, and had left no mark. Its end found her
prepared to settle down into her old attitude of dumb submission, "not
altogether sorry!" Mrs Evans kissed her silently, and said no more.
In the drawing-room Dane and Teresa faced each other across the tea
table. At last they were alone, safe from interruption. As the door
shut behind the departing guests Dane held out his arm with a gesture of
invitation, but Teresa shook her head, holding him off with a lifted
hand.
"Not now. ... Wait! There is so much to be said.--Sit down, Dane. I
hope you didn't think me unkind not seeing you yesterday. I couldn't!
It has been such a shock. I had to think things out. The money
question alters everything. There has not been time to go into business
matters, but from all we have heard, from what the letter said, it seems
that this loss was the last of a series. Poor Father! he must have
suffered horribly, but he said nothing; only speculated more wildly than
ever, hoping to put things straight. It's a mercy Mary has her money.
She will look after Mother. It's her duty, but I am different. I could
never live on Mary." She raised her voice, silencing the words on
Danes' tongue. "I have told them that I shall look after myself."
"I shan't let you do that! Dear, I have only been waiting till you gave
me a chance of speaking. As soon as it can possibly be arranged we
must--"
But again Teresa's voice interrupted, hastily drowning his own.
"Wait, please! You must wait. I'll tell you my plans, but first,
there's something I must give you back." To his dismay he saw her draw
the diamond circlet from her finger; she held it towards him on an open
palm. Her lips twisted in a painful effort at a smile. "You wanted to
have it a year ago, and I refused. I must have seemed very bold. I
have often wondered since how I could have brought myself to do it. I
was thinking of myself, of course. I don't deny it. I could not bear
to give you up, and I hated the thought of the gossip, and the sympathy,
and the staring eyes. It hurt my pride to think of being jilted, when
I'd been so proud... But most of all--_most_ of all, I thought of you!
Dane! tell me one thing! It would help me to know... Has it been any
help having my letters this year? Did being engaged to me--as much as
we were engaged--make things better or worse? Were you one little scrap
less lonely because I cared?"
Dane had refused to take the ring. It was still lying on Teresa's palm.
He stood over her, very pale, very drawn, his eyes gazing unfalteringly
into her own.
"Teresa, you have saved me! If it had not been for you I should have
taken my life. You have been an angel of patience. It has been your
sweetness which saved me from despair. I have taken everything from you
in my own trouble, and now, when I am cured, when you have cured me, you
want me no more! What about those reasons that influenced you last
year? Don't they still exist? Have you grown tired of me, Teresa?"
She shook her head, refusing to reply.
"God knows it would be no wonder if you had; not one girl in a thousand
would have had your forbearance. And--those other reasons? Have you
outgrown your fear of what people may say?"
"No, I haven't. I'm afraid I never shall. But,--it's over, you see,"
Teresa said quickly. "It _has_ happened. A whole year has passed,
Dane, and you have never once been to see me. Chumley has been sorry
for me for months; it _expects_ me to be jilted. You need not worry
about my sufferings in that respect. The worst is over... Besides, I
have no intention of staying in Chumley."
Dane muttered a furious word, controlled himself, and put another
question.
"What exactly is your intention, Teresa?"
"I shall take up some work. Girls always say that, and people laugh. I
don't mind if they do. They won't laugh long. I shall succeed. I am
the sort of person who does succeed. I like work, and I like to do it
well... For two or three years I shall work hard,--so hard that I shall
have no time to think..."
She stopped, leaving the effect of an unfinished sentence, but Dane had
no difficulty in divining her thoughts. The sting of jealousy added
force to the impulses which swept him forward to her side. This time he
ignored her protests, seizing her hands and drawing her close, until her
face touched his own.
"We're talking nonsense, we're talking nonsense, little girl! What do
we care what people say? What does it matter what the whole world
chooses to believe? You belong to me, and I'm not going to give you up!
You've had your own way; now it's my turn. You are not going to have a
chance of succeeding at anything, except at being my wife! Marry me,
dear girl, marry me quickly! I need you badly."
Teresa did not stir. Seen close at hand, her face looked fair, and
sweet, and young, but pitifully sad. In the blue eyes there was the
same sadness, and the sound of his eager words seemed but to deepen the
pain. She had an air of waiting with all her being for the sound of
something that had not come. Dane looked into her eyes, and understood.
Still with his arms around her he pressed her into a chair, and knelt
on the floor at her feet.
"Teresa, answer! Have I always told you the truth?"