Mrs George de Horne Vaizey (continued 5)

“Could you—I want to go to an hotel, a good hotel. It must be very good, but not—not too fashionable,” said Mary, with a blush, and the kindly Cockney ran a twinkling glance over her attire, and took in the position in a trice.

“You leave it to me, ma’am. I’ll fix you up,” he said genially, and sprang to his wheel. “Northumberland Avenue’s her touch,” he said to himself with a grin, and presently Mary was alighting before a great, gloomy-looking building, and entering a hall which to her inexperienced eyes seemed alarmingly large and luxurious. There were groups of people sitting here and there, who had apparently no other occupation but to stare at new-comers; but after the most cursory glance no one stared at Mary. The fashionably attired women averted their eyes with an air of having wasted trouble for nothing.

At the office, the clerk gave the same quick scrutiny, and saw a chance of letting an unpopular room. He rang a bell, gave instructions to an underling, and Mary mounted in a lift to inspect a grim, box-like apartment, papered in yellow, from which the nearness of a neighbouring building excluded every ray of sun. The smart chambermaid played her part with skill, throwing open the wardrobe, and arranging towels on the stand with a confidence which froze Mary’s objections unsaid. Perhaps, after all, there was nothing to say; perhaps all hotel bedrooms were alike!

Mary washed her hands, smoothed her already smooth hair, and betook herself to the great dining-hall where luncheon was in process. The room was more than half filled, and the waiter led the way to a table some distance from the door, a dreaded ordeal on which Mary wasted much unnecessary nervousness. Despite her experience in the hall, she still dreaded the scrutiny of strange eyes, and in imagination felt herself the observed of all observers. A strange figure in Chumley High Street attracted general curiosity; to walk up the church aisle in a new dress, was to hear every pew creak behind one. At the private hotels which she had visited at the seaside, the arrival of a new inmate roused the whole establishment to animation; to a lesser extent Mary was prepared to be of importance in London also. But no one looked at her. Not a single head turned as she trotted with short, nervous steps in the wake of the foreign waiter; when, tentatively, she lifted her eyes from her plate, diners to right and left were consuming their food with an utter disregard of her presence. Mary took courage, and began to look about on her own account; presently she realised that no courage was required. Seated in the midst of a crowd she was virtually as much alone as on a desert island. After lunch she dressed herself, and went out into the street. On the broad outer step of the hotel she hesitated, uncertain in which direction to turn, and the porter enquired if she wished a taxi. It seemed easier to assent than refuse, so she allowed herself to be assisted into the tonneau of a passing car, and for the second time that day faced the problem of deciding where to go. The reflection of her own hat in a strip of mirror settled the question,—the hat which had aged unaccountably since morning! She directed the man to drive to a good milliner’s, and was set down before the door of a noted robber in head-gear.

The next half-hour was a nightmare of discomfort. It began with the opening of the swing door, and the view into the luxurious, the terrifying luxurious salon within. The floor was covered with the softest of carpets, cushioned lounges were set round the walls, reflected in mirrors were the figures of nymph-like forms, with wonderful coiffures of gold and auburn. The same mirrors reflected the small, navy-blue figure standing in the doorway, and the contrast was not encouraging.

One of the nymphs floated forward, bowed Mary to a chair, and took off her hat and veil, the which she placed in horrible conspicuousness on a marble-topped table. This done she floated away, leaving Mary to face her own reflection, and give surreptitious touches to her flattened locks. Never had she harboured any delusions about her own appearance, but it had remained for that moment to show her the extent of her limitations. When the nymph came back she bore in her hand a helmet erection, from which two brush-like feathers protruded at unexpected angles. Mary’s exclamation expressed unmitigated distaste, but the nymph was plainly accustomed to such manifestations, and not to be discouraged thereby. She merely proceeded to drop it in place, like a basin covering a mould, remarking in airy tones that “it looked different on the head.”

It did. Sheer horror at her own appearance gave Mary strength to tear it off, and declare that nothing would induce her to be seen in such a monstrosity, whereupon the nymph smiled with an ineffable forbearance, and produced another model more exaggerated than the first. It was during the sixth sortie for fresh supplies that Mary seized her own hat, and thrust in the pins with feverish haste. Not another moment would she remain to be tortured. Was not her mind already stored with six nightmare portraits of her own visage, staring horror-stricken beneath preposterous erections? She would say that she was pressed for time; that she would call again; that she was sorry that she cared for nothing... but the nymph on returning allowed no time for explanations. She exhibited no surprise at the visible signs of the customer’s revolt; it appeared indeed that she was prepared for their appearance, and for her own counter-movement. She wheeled round, sent a Marconi signal towards the far end of the room, and from behind the shelter of a screen stepped a new and formidable apparition, that of a woman of middle age, of more than middle age, for beneath the elaborate coiffure of golden hair, the large, chalk-white face was deeply lined and furrowed. It was a horrible face, hiding beneath a stereotyped smile the marks of a cruel, unprincipled soul. To Mary’s country-bred eyes there was something inhuman not only in the face, but also in the figure. The enormous bust was moulded into a sheath of black satin, and thence to the hips the body presented a straight, unbending line. The effect was like the trunk of a tree, rather than that of a woman,—solid, shapeless, unyielding, and the tightness about the lower limbs, the smallness of the silk-shod feet, added to the unnaturalness of the effect.

Mary realised at once that she was in the presence of the august head of the establishment, and felt courage ooze from every pore, and in truth she was helpless as a fly in the hands of this woman, whose work in life consisted in bullying her customers into buying what they did not desire.

Madame approached, took up her position by Mary’s side, and began to speak. Her tone was honey, and her words were soft, but the meaning thereof was plain. “You don’t find a hat that suits you, don’t you?... Did you imagine that you would?... Look in that glass, and see yourself as you are!—I have here the best selection of models in town, and if you are not satisfied, it is your taste that is to blame, not mine. I do not employ a staff of assistants to have their time wasted by the like of you. Out of this shop you do not go until you have paid the price! Make your choice, and be quick about it.”

Mary made no attempt to rebel; she knew too well that she was beaten. She bought the least exaggerated of the models, paid down a cool four guineas, and emerged into the freshness of the outer air with the feeling of one escaping from a noisome animal. Never in her life had she beheld a woman so repellent, so terrible. She thought of the fate of the young girls who were caged up with her all day long, and shivered. She wondered of what fibre were those other women, through whose patronage such a harpy lived and prospered. She hoped, for the credit of the sex, that the majority of customers were casuals, like herself!

For the next hour Mary wandered to and fro, finding interest in the study of shop windows. At first she made her pauses in tentative fashion, for she had heard lurid stories of the dangers of London streets, and went in fear of a tall, gentlemanly-looking individual who would suddenly appear out of space, and whisper in her ear, requesting to be allowed to buy her a dress, or a blouse. Such incidents had happened to girls of her acquaintance; she distinctly remembered the horror and perturbation with which they had related the details, but it appeared that there was no such molestation to be expected in her case. She remained as unnoticed as in the dining-room of the hotel.

At four o’clock she retired into a confectioner’s shop, and refreshed herself by a daintily served tea. The room was empty, but as time went on the scattered tables filled up one by one, mostly with young couples, the men tall and immaculately groomed, but far from manly in expression; the girls attractive, despite their handicap of fashionable garments, in an age when grace is a forgotten joy. They looked a different race from the girls who paced daily up and down the Chumley High Street, and Mary, beholding them, felt a dawning of interest in her four-guinea hat. It was at least a becoming colour, and the feather was a beauty,—so thick and long and gracefully curved. Reduced in height, pressed into a less noticeable shape, the hat might turn out not a discreditable purchase after all. She felt a distinct relief at the thought that after to-day she would see the reflection of that blue feather in the innumerable mirrors which lined the streets.

After tea Mary went into the Park and sat on a chair, watching the stream of fashionable life flow to and fro. She wished she had someone with her to explain who was who, and was on the whole disappointed with the appearance of the crowd, but the flowers were beautiful. She determined to come again in the morning, and enjoy the flowers undisturbed by the bustling crowd. All the chairs were occupied; the moment that they were vacated they were instantly seized by other loiterers, who appeared to have been waiting for the chance. A man and woman seated themselves by Mary’s side, and fell into conversation with an absolute disregard of her presence. A few moments sufficed to prove that they were husband and wife, but they belonged to widely different types. The woman had a worn, handsome face, and a figure fashionably attenuated. She was faultlessly attired, and with a royal disregard of cost, but both voice and manner betrayed a ceaseless discontent. Every word was a grumble in disguise, reference to events past and to come were invariably supplemented by protestations of being “bored to death,” and all the time the big, jovial-looking husband smiled, and soothed, and skilfully steered the way on to subjects new. There was no effort in his air; if there had been a time when his wife’s grumblings had power to distress him, that time was past, now the tricklings of the thin voice flowed off him, like water from a duck’s back. He listened, laughed, and began again. Mary realised with a thrill of surprise that this man actually loved the bundle of nerves whom he called his wife. There was no mistaking the fact. There was love in his voice, in his face, in the sound of the deep, kindly laugh. He loved her, was proud of her, found pleasure in her society. She watched the couple move away at the end of a quarter of an hour, the wife languidly leading the way through the crowd, the man following, his eyes bent on her in proud approval, and afterwards for long minutes she sat pondering on the nature of the tie which held a man’s heart faithful to such a mate. Was it the remembrance of a past, before years and gold had left their mark,—a past so sweet that it lived in undying memory? Was it that beneath an outer querulousness of manner there still lingered recurrences of tenderness, of passion, which kept alight old fires,—was it simply that the man did not feel?

“If I had a husband—If he had cared for me!” Mary repeated to herself for the thousandth time. The sentence never reached a conclusion, it was simply an exclamation of amazement that a woman should be blessed with love, and yet know discontent.

She sat on until the crowd began to diminish, and the rows of chairs to show empty spaces. There was nothing else to do, and the hotel bedroom made no appeal. Already it seemed days since she had left Chumley; she calculated how much money she had already spent, multiplied it, to discover what rate of expenditure per annum was represented, and was startled by the result. Perhaps it would be wise not to take a regular dinner to-night. After such an extensive lunch she was not hungry. She decided on a cutlet in the restaurant.

Later on, on rising from her chair Mary received a severe shock. Her sunshade had disappeared. It was a new one, a birthday present from the family; navy-blue silk, with a handle topped with gold. She had rested it in all confidence against the back of her seat, and now... With flushing cheeks she recalled the different people who had occupied the chair next to her own. The jovial husband, an elderly woman in black, with a rope of pearls to match large solitaire earrings; a pretty flapper in white; a young girl, fashionably attired, with cheeks suspiciously pink; one or two young men. It was not possible, it was not conceivable, that one of the number could have stolen a modest sunshade! But the sunshade had disappeared—no trace of it was to be seen. Mary told herself that there had been a mistake. Some woman had picked it up without thinking. How sorry she would be!

When she reached the hotel the hat box was waiting in her bedroom. She opened it, and took the hat to the window to examine. The first feeling was disappointment. She had believed the feather to be much handsomer,—softer, longer, of a more delicate shade. She held it up, regarding it with puzzled eyes. How had she come by so mistaken an impression? Finally she decided that it was a question of light. She sighed patiently, and returned the hat to its box.

Chapter Nineteen.

Adrift.

Mary spent a week in the London hotel, the longest week she had ever known. She rose late, and went to bed early, nevertheless the days stretched to an interminable length, and she was driven to extraordinary devices to get through the hours. One day, attracted by a line of flaring posters, she spent the morning in a Turkish bath; another afternoon she drifted into a barber’s shop and had her hair waved and coiffured, a process which so altered her appearance that she hurried to a similar establishment a few hundred yards away, and underwent a drastic shampoo. Another day, after lunching in the restaurant of a great store, she whiled away half an hour by having her nails manicured. From morning till night no one noticed her, no one spoke to her, she herself had no need to speak, yet all around was a babel of tongues, an endless, ever-passing stream of fellow-creatures. If she had felt herself superfluous in Chumley, the feeling was accentuated a thousand times in this metropolis of the world, wherein she walked as on a desert island. And yet, through all the desolation of soul pierced golden moments, when the sense of freedom filled her with joy. To be able to rest without comment or questioning; to rise in the morning, and retire to bed, according to preference, not rule; to choose her own food, to go out, or stay within, as fancy prompted,—such simple matters as these came as happy novelties to the woman of thirty-two.

Mary had despatched a post card announcing her arrival, and giving the address of her hotel but she received no message in reply. Mrs Mallison was on her dignity, and would wait until she had received an orthodox letter. The Major never wrote, and Teresa presumably was busy. For a week or more the silence caused Mary no trouble, but by that time the continued silence of her life awoke the exile longing for news from home. She despatched a colourless letter, filling with difficulty three sides of a sheet, and waited the result. It came, according to her happiest hopes, in the shape of a missive from Teresa.

“Dear old Mary,

“I hope you are enjoying your liberty as much as you expected, and having a real good time. It’s pretty strenuous here without you. I am running about all day long, and being instructed meantime to lie down, and take things easy! I never in my life felt so irritated and depressed. It’s borne in on me, old thing, that you have been a buffer between me, and—er—shall we say circumstances? and that I never appreciated you properly until you had gone!

“You don’t say much about your doings. Do you go to the theatres? I suppose you can go to matinées, if it isn’t proper to go alone at night. Have you bought any clothes? You might look out for an evening dress for me—white or pink—not blue this time, and not more than three or four pounds. The Raynors and Beverleys have taken a house together at the sea near good links. Dane is to join them for part of the time, and I am asked for a day or two at the end of his visit, so I need a new dress. The invitation came from Mrs Beverley. I haven’t once been asked to the Court since you left. Lady Cassandra is dropping me now that she has her beloved Grizel. Altogether I think her behaviour is rather queer. You would have thought, after Dane staying there over a week, and getting so intimate, as they must have done, that he would at least have been asked to tea since he left, but not once! I asked him straight out, so I know. He won’t acknowledge that he thinks it odd—you know how close men are.—but I can see he does from his manner. I shall go to Gled Bay for his sake. He would be so disappointed if I refused. He has given me a gold bangle, just the sort I like: a plain, flat band. He looks thin still. Mother thinks he worried a great deal while I was ill. Of course it was hard for him being tied by the leg (literally!), and not able to do a thing for me. Dane doesn’t say much, but his feelings are awfully deep.

“I wonder if it isn’t a mistake to conceal one’s feelings? I’m beginning to think that it is. We have been brought up to be undemonstrative, but if I have children, I’ll teach them quite differently. What’s the good of thinking nice things in your heart, if the person you care for doesn’t get the benefit? Mary! I’m sorry I haven’t been nicer to you. I’m sorry I was selfish, and let you do so much. If it’s any satisfaction to you to know it, I’m paying up now! I do hope Dane will want to be married soon. I don’t think I can last out much longer. I have thought so often of what you told me the night we were engaged, about your own love story, I mean. How could you bear it, and live quietly on at home? I couldn’t. If Dane treated me like that, I should—marry Mr Hunter! I’d like to see your face when you read that! But it’s true. Much more sensible, too, than the river, or growing sour at home!

“Good-bye. Write soon.

“Your affectionate sister,

“Teresa.”

Mary put the letter back in its envelope, and went out to look for Teresa’s evening dress. She paid for it out of her own money, and decided to offer it in the shape of an advance birthday present. In any case she would have to give something in October; it might just as well be bought now. She experienced a torpid satisfaction in the transaction, but it soon faded, and left her mind empty as before. Teresa’s appreciation and affection came too late. Five years ago they might have transformed her life, but they had not been given. Of what use to offer them now when their lives lay apart? Speculations as to Lady Cassandra Raynor, even as to Peignton himself, aroused no flicker of interest. They had been mummers in a play, and she had escaped into the open air. The only person of whom she had cared to hear was her father, and concerning him Teresa was mute.

Another week passed, and still another. Mary left the big hotel, and moved into a smaller one, of the glorified boarding-house type. Here, if she had chosen, she might have been less lonely, for there were half a dozen solitary women like herself, who would have been glad to include her in games of cards, or to exchange confidences over afternoon tea, but Mary had played a duty game of whist every week night for a dozen years, and had vowed never to touch another card. Moreover, she shrank from the furious curiosity of these women, who seemed capable of asking personal questions for hours at a time. She left the boarding-house and took furnished apartments, but the hot weather came on with a rush, and the rooms grew stuffy and breathless, so for the third time she was faced with the problem, of where to go next.

One afternoon she sat at tea at one of the little tables belonging to the outdoor restaurant near Victoria Gate, and essayed the difficult task of making up her own mind. In a limited sense the world was before her, but the very largeness of the choice made it the more difficult. If she could but think of something which interested... something for which she really cared! No answer came to the question, yet of a certainty she was happier under some conditions than others. Looking back over the blank stretch of days, there were hours which stood out from the rest, hours in which she had felt restful,—almost content. Mary lived those hours, trying to draw from them a conclusion. There were hours spent in the Park, not in the afternoon, but the morning, when it was comparatively empty. The rhododendrons were in full bloom in the beds near Rotten Row; she heard people say that they had never been finer than this year. There had been other hours in the Abbey, both during the services and after; there had been an afternoon on an excursion steamer plying up the river to Oxford; and a drive on the top of an omnibus on a misty night, when the lights twinkled in softened radiance, and the great buildings assumed a mysterious splendour. One by one, Mary recalled the hours, but the conclusion could not be found.

Then suddenly her ears were opened to a woman’s voice talking at the table next to her own.

“Switzerland,” she was saying. “Of course! As soon as I can run away. I am longing for the time to come. I have been there every summer for the last ten years, and if it rests with me, I shall go every year till I die. I’ve tried Norway, I’ve tried the Tyrol, but I’ve gone back to my old love, and I shall never wander again. Switzerland gives me what I need. I go there and feed upon it. It’s the tonic that braces me up for another year of hard, ugly life.”

There was a moment’s silence, then another voice asked:

“But what exactly do you feed on? What is the name of the tonic which helps you so much?”

“Beauty!” said the woman deeply.

The blood rushed to Mary’s cheeks. She had found her clue! That word showed her the secret of her heart. All her life she had fed on prose; now unconsciously she was craving the tonic of beauty. It had been beauty in one form or another, which had brought her few hours of content.

The next morning she packed her box, and took a ticket for Berne.

Chapter Twenty.

Barriers.

The house at Gled Bay was situated at some distance from the cliff, which was the spot most desired by its female tenants, but at the very gates of the golf links, which presented the be-all of existence to the two men. It was one of the aggressively new-looking edifices, which the house-hunters of to-day regard with dismay, protesting with unnecessary violence that nothing would induce them to make so prosaic a choice. That is stage number one. Stage number two consists in an inspection of cheerful rooms, wide windows, and sunny balconies, and a grudging admission that new houses have their points. Stage number three follows hard on the discovery of rats in the kitchen of the panelled house of dreams, and consists in a sceptical wonder if the villa could possibly “do.” Stage number four marks the signing of a lease, and the planting of innumerable creepers. In the case of the villa rented by Martin and the Squire in conjunction, the creepers had already mounted to the second story, so that it was possible to pick roses out of bedroom windows, and forget the glaring brick and imitation timber hidden beneath the clustering leaves. Cassandra and Grizel had rooms which opened on the same balcony, and there was a covered verandah which ran the length of the south side of the house, in the shade of which they partook of tea together, what time their lords were absent on the links.

The mental attitude of the two women towards the masculine absorption differed naturally. Cassandra was unfeignedly thankful to have her husband kept in good temper, and to be left alone to amuse herself. Grizel began each morning in a mood of exemplary unselfishness, rejoiced in the prospect of healthful exercise for her student, and speeded him on his course with the sunniest of smiles, but when tea-time brought no sign of return, her eyes showed sparks of light, and her lips tightened. This meant that the men had started on a third round, and would not appear until six, at which hour they would be graciously pleased to repose themselves on the verandah, drink cooling draughts, and smile benignly upon waiting wives, until it should be time to dress for dinner. On such occasions it was Grizel’s habit to leave the house shortly before six o’clock and start on an hour’s walk over the country in a directly opposite direction to that of the links. If a man elected to spend the whole day apart from his wife,—if he found his pleasure in so doing... far be it from her to say him nay, but on his return she would not be found sitting in an appointed place, meekly awaiting the light of his countenance. “That smacks too much of the harem for my taste!” quoth Mistress Grizel with a shrug.

These perverse excursions invariably ended in a pursuit by a tired Martin, when Grizel would be inwardly overwhelmed with remorse, and would make vows of forbearance for the future, which vows were fated to be broken with all speed. A state of mind for which no excuse is offered, but which is commended to the sympathy of the wives of golfing bridegrooms!

Sometimes Cassandra disappeared for long walks on her own account, and Grizel realised that she went forth to wrestle in solitude for a medicine of which her soul was in need. She was a restless Cassandra in these days, sometimes moody, often irritable, and anon almost obtrusively gay. For all their intimacy Grizel had a consciousness of being kept at a mental distance, or whenever their talks together took a deeper turn, Cassandra was ready with a laugh or jest to switch it back into light impersonality. So does a man with a maimed limb instinctively shield it from touch. Thus the first fortnight passed by, and brought the day when Dane Peignton was due to make his appearance.

He arrived at tea-time, looking tired and pale beside the tanned golfers, who had shortened their day in his honour, and were not above letting him realise their generosity. They were too pleasantly engaged describing the crack strokes of the day, to allow the new-comer much chance of speaking, but he had an air of abundant content as he drank his tea, vouchsafed appreciative murmurs of admiration, and took in the charming details of the scene. Grizel, as hostess ex officio, presided at the tea table. The two women had discussed the question of housekeeping during the joint month’s tenancy. Who should be the nominal head? Who should give orders? To whom should the servants apply? Since to possess two mistresses was anathema to everything in cap and apron, it was evident one must sacrifice herself for the common good. “It had better be me, then,” Grizel said, shrugging, “for I shan’t worry, and you will!” and Cassandra shrugged in her turn, and added, “Also if things go wrong, Bernard won’t growl at you.” And so the matter was arranged.

Cassandra’s swing chair was drawn close enough to the rails of the verandah to allow the rays of the sun to touch her hair as she tilted gently to and fro, and give an added lustre to the points of gold in the thick, wreath-like braid. She wore a white dress, which to masculine eyes appeared the acme of simplicity, and Peignton, watching her, believed that the style of coiffure and dress alike was the outward proof of inward simpleness of heart, and lack of feminine vanity. Wherein he was mistaken. After the first greeting he had never directly addressed himself to Cassandra, but his eyes wandered continually towards the white, swinging figure.

“We’ve fixed up your game all right, Peignton,” the Squire informed him. “Found a decent fellow at the club, who’s keen to make up a foursome. I think you can give him about two strokes. He’s to meet us to-morrow at ten o’clock. We ought to get in some good days before Saturday. Of course when the fair Teresa arrives you’ll want to knock off.”

Grizel made an expressive grimace.

“Seeing that she is—not his wife! Oh, matrimony, where are the charms our mothers have seen in thy face? There ought to be a second line to that.—La la la,—la la la, la la la La... since golf has taken our place! I shall have a word to say in Teresa’s ear.”

“No use!” cried Peignton, laughing. “She’s caught the fever herself. No small player either. The first time I met her was on the golf links. She won’t have the usual plea of desertion, as we shall probably spend our spare time playing together.”

“Community of interests, eh?” The Squire made a wry face. “Very idyllic, no doubt, but I’m not keen on a wife as a partner at golf. Cassandra can’t bit a ball to save her life, and I’ve always thought it one of her chief virtues. Women are the deuce when they fancy themselves at games. I gave up tennis parties for that very reason. Never do more now than ask up three other fellows to make a four. Girls are all very well in their place. I like girls, but I’d choose a man every time when it comes to a game.”

Grizel cocked her head at him with a challenging air.

“What do you bet I don’t beat you hollow at croquet, before the clock strikes seven?”

“Nothing! Ain’t going to play.”

“Oh, yes, you are,” Grizel said coolly. “You’ve been amusing yourself all day; now you are going to amuse me for a change. Croquet is about the only game I can play, and I have a fancy that it would do you good to be beaten. Does anyone want any more tea? They can’t have it if they do, for there’s none left. Anyway, you’ve all had three cups.” She held out her arm in mocking fashion. “Come along, and be butchered!”

The Squire shrugged, and submitted.

“That’s all right, Mrs Beverley. Delighted. Never said I objected to other fellows’ wives...”

They moved off round the corner of the house; Martin glanced after them, yawned, and stretched his legs. In Grizel’s absence he became very conscious of his tired body, and the two hours which had still to elapse before dinner assumed formidable proportions. It entered his head to excuse himself and retire to his own room, for a read, followed by a leisurely bath, then he remembered his duties as host, and resigned himself to stay at his post, and his two companions, noticing his sigh and yawn, read his thoughts as a book, and waited in a tensity of suspense for his decision. Peignton was in no doubt as to his own feelings,—he longed with all his heart for the fellow to take himself off, and leave him to talk to Cassandra alone; Cassandra believed that she wished precisely the opposite, but to both came the same sharp pang of disappointment, as Martin took out his cigarette case, and settled himself in a lounge chair.

After a quarter of an hour’s casual conversation Cassandra rose, and entered the house. She felt too impatient to continue the three-sided conversation, but, inside the drawing-room, she lingered on pretence of rearranging the flowers in the tall green vases, while her ears strained to hear what was happening without. If Dane cared enough to follow, it would be so easy, so natural, to ask to be taken a walk of inspection round the gardens! Those minutes of waiting had been sufficient to prove the fallacy of her pretence, and she knew that she was hungering for the time when they should be alone together, when she could look into his eyes, and hear his voice speaking in the deep, full tones which had made music in her ears during the stolen days of convalescence. She had gone hungry for weeks, and for a moment it had seemed that she might be fed. If only Martin had obeyed his first impulse, and taken himself away! She stayed her hand, and stood motionless listening with strained ears. From the balcony without came the sound of a masculine voice, running on in a smooth, even flow. The feminine element being withdrawn, Martin had embarked on a serious discussion which sounded as if it might be prolonged to an interminable length. At that moment Cassandra hated Martin Beverley.

Half an hour later, from an upper window which gave a view of the verandah, Cassandra beheld the two men playing chess with every appearance of absorption.

After dinner, bridge occupied the hours till bedtime, the men cutting in and out. The next day they disappeared from ten until six, and after being fed and refreshed, were keen for bridge once more. The Squire was keen, that is to say, and the others acquiesced with more or less readiness. The second and third days brought little variation in the programme. The golfers arrived home a little later, a little earlier, sat smoking and talking on the verandah, or rested their limbs, and occupied their brains with contests at chess. Frequently Martin disappeared to his own room. He had some short articles on hand, which he was anxious to finish; moreover, being accustomed to long hours in his study, he grew weary of the sound of voices, and felt at liberty to take an occasional hour of solitude, now that the Squire was provided with a companion. So it came about that Dane could never count upon ten minutes to himself. In the short part of the day which he spent in the villa, he was continually shadowed by the Squire’s big, bronzed presence; the big voice boomed continually in his ear, challenging him to fresh contests, haranguing on politics, laying down the law on the eternal subject of land, and with every hour that passed, there grew in Dane’s breast a smouldering fire of rebellion. The time was passing, was flying fast; he had the feeling of being continually baffled and outflanked. In another two days Teresa would arrive, and her coming seemed to mark the end of,—of what? Peignton did not acknowledge to himself in so many words that he was crazed with disappointment at the impossibility of spending five uninterrupted minutes in Cassandra’s company; it was easier to skirt round the subject, and declare that he was tired of golf, bored with the Squire’s eternal bluster, yet reluctant to approach the end of a visit from which he had expected much.

As he was dressing in the morning he debated how he could escape from the links, but the solution was difficult to find. Each day’s game was arranged in advance, his own willingness being taken for granted. Had he not been invited for the special purpose of playing golf?

Again, if in the evening he were to cry off bridge, it would simply mean that Cassandra was chained to the table. The only chance of a tête-à-tête lay during the interval between the return from the links and the serving of dinner, and so persistently was fate against him at those times, that Dane began to suspect an abetting human agency. Not the Squire, not Martin, but Grizel herself! It did not seem possible that it was owing to chance alone that the pawns on the board were so consistently moved to block his approach!

There is nothing so irritating to the nerves as the fret of continual disappointment, and in both looks and manner Peignton showed signs of the mental strain through which he was passing. Cheerfulness forsook him, he grew silent and preoccupied, only by the hardest struggle did he prevent an outburst of actual ill-temper.

Looking back he realised that it was the intimacy of that week spent at the Court a month before, which made the present condition so unbearable. Then, day after day, Cassandra had sat alone by his side, now working at her embroidery, and again dropping her thread, and sitting with folded hands, while they talked together—that talk which never jarred, never wearied, never seemed more than just begun. He had tried at times to recall what exactly they had talked about during those lengthening hours, but he could not remember. The subject had seemed of so little importance, it had been but a vehicle to convey the inward sympathy and understanding, an opportunity of hearing Cassandra’s voice, and watching the lights pass over her beautiful, vivid face. It had been a happy face in those days, but it was not happy to-day. A look of strain was upon it which corresponded to his own; there were moments of suspense when he sensed that she also was holding her breath; moments of exasperated check, when his own anger leapt to meet an answering flame.

On the morning of the day on which Teresa was to arrive, Peignton made a determined revolt. Breakfast was over, and the five members of the party had strolled on to the verandah to enjoy the fresh air. When the Squire sounded the usual cry of haste, Dane nerved himself, and spoke out:

“I think I shall stay at home this morning. I feel inclined to laze. You’ll enjoy a single for a change.”

There was a moment’s silence. Dane was conscious that to each of the four hearers his words had come with the effect of a shock. Cassandra strolled a yard or two away, and stood with her back towards him. Grizel’s golden eyes were fixed on his face.

“What’s this? What’s this?” cried the Squire, breaking the silence. “Can’t bear to be out of the way, can’t you? I’ll tell Miss Teresa what a devoted lover she’s got! Upon my word, it’s a mercy she’s coming, for the strain has been getting too much for you these last days. Quite ratty once or twice, wasn’t he, Beverley? It’s all right, old man, it’s all right! We understand. Been there ourselves, haven’t we, Beverley? It’s a stage—a stage. Painful at present, but ’twill cease before long, as the little hymn says. Eh, what? Look at Beverley! Only been married six months, and as callous as the best of us. Goes off comfortably, day after day, and leaves his wife behind. Never gives her a thought till he comes back. Do you, Beverley?”

“Not one,” said Martin. He looked across into Grizel’s eyes, and Grizel looked back at him, and in that glance was concentrated all the poetry, and all the music and all the pure and lovely things that have lived and blossomed, since the beginning of time. But the Squire saw none of it, because his eyes were blind.

“Don’t be a fool!” he continued bluffly, addressing himself to his guest. “The time will pass twice as quickly if you’ve something to do. We’ll be back for lunch; that will give you time to walk comfortably to the station. As a matter of fact, my dear fellow, you’re bound to come, for we’ve fixed up the game. We’ll let you off to-morrow, but you can’t chuck us to-day!”

He turned back into the house to collect his clubs, which lay in the gun-room half a dozen yards away. Martin and Grizel followed, and for the moment Cassandra and Dane were alone. She stood still and rigid, her hands clasping the rail of the verandah, her eyes staring straight ahead. Peignton drew nearer; so near that his arm almost touched hers. His heart pounded within him with sickening thuds. It seemed to him that if she would give him one glance of understanding and sympathy, he could hold himself in, as he had done a dozen times before, but she stood immovable, vouchsafing no sign, and suddenly he found himself at the end of his endurance. He bent his head to hers, and his voice came in a thick, broken whisper:

“I wish to God!” he gasped, “I could break my ankle again!”

The next moment the Squire returned calling loudly for Martin to follow. The three men shouldered their clubs, and crunched down the garden path.

That afternoon at tea-time, Teresa arrived.

Chapter Twenty One.

“Thin-Spun Life.”

During the next two days Grizel was haunted by a prevision of danger. She rose with it in the morning, carried it in her heart all day, was pursued by it in her dreams. On the surface all seemed smooth and placid,—a pretty house, a charming garden, a party of friends enjoying the summer weather. There were games, there was laughter, there was a flow of words, but beneath it all, her sensitive nature sensed the rumbling of a storm.

The third morning the sun blazed from a cloudless sky, but within and without the air was still and lifeless, and the members of the house party, gathered round the breakfast table, showed signs of an unrefreshing night in pale and listless faces. Conversation flagged, and Grizel sounded a frank note of warning:

“I’m in a vile temper. Be careful, all of you. If anyone annoys me, I’ll snap. Nothing seems right this morning. Martin, the shape of your head gets on my nerves! I can’t think why I married you.”

“Neither can I, darling. Have some cream!” Martin carried the jug round the table, and tried to pour cream over a plate of strawberries, but Grizel pushed him aside.

“Don’t fuss! If I want cream, I can ask for it. Some people have no tact. Why wasn’t breakfast set in the garden? Nobody thinks of anything in this house, unless I see after it myself... Let’s have a picnic lunch!”

Martin looked at the Squire, the Squire looked at Martin. Their plans were made for a long day’s golf, and each felt a pang of anticipatory regret; moreover, each hated picnics, with a true man’s hatred. Grizel’s quick eyes caught the glance, and had no difficulty in understanding its meaning. It seemed indeed that she was thankful of an opportunity to snap.

“Pray, don’t trouble yourselves. We don’t want anyone to come on sufferance. Captain Peignton will look after Teresa, and Cassandra and I are perfectly happy alone. Go off on your horrid old golf. We don’t want you!”

“I apologise for my wife, Raynor. She is usually quite polite to her visitors. Just a little atmospheric disturbance. Take no notice. She’ll be sorry by and by.”

Grizel looked across the table, and made two separate and deliberate grimaces, one at the Squire, the other at her husband.

“That’s nothing to what I can do, if I choose! Better be careful! Captain Peignton, do you want to come? You’re engaged, of course, and engaged men used to wish to be with their fiancées, but that’s all changed since they began to play golf. I’m a bride of six months, and my husband vowed before hundreds of witnesses to cherish me all his life, and you see how he scowls if I ask him to spare me an hour! Teresa, be warned by me, and break it off unless he gives up golf. I hate and detest golf. Golf has ruined my life. We’ll look after you, Teresa dear, don’t worry! We’ll have chicken and mayonnaise, and fruit and lemonade, and Cassandra and I will dry your tears.”

“But I’m coming; I want to come!” Peignton assured her. “It’s too hot for golf, and a picnic would be good fun if we can find a spot where there’s some air, and not too much undergrowth. I like to eat at a picnic, not to be eaten myself. I was up half a dozen times last night anointing myself with ammonia.”

“I know a place. I spotted it a week ago. Just beyond Queensdom, the cliff shelves steeply and leaves a patch of shade open to all the air there is. It’s quite a short walk,—a mile or a mile and a half; the servants can leave the baskets, and come back for their own lunch, and in the afternoon we’ll sleep, Cassandra and I, and discuss the iniquities of husbands, while you two go off on your lone, and come back to us for tea... What it is to be engaged!”

Teresa smiled happily, Martin raised his eyes to the ceiling in tragic self-vindication.

“Who is always holding forth on the necessity of exercise? Who is always warning me against the danger of a sedentary life? Who insisted upon a house near to golf links? Who goads me every night of her life to arrange a match for the next day?”

“I do,” cried Grizel. “Of course. It’s my duty. And then I’m furious when you go. Of course again. Any wife is. Do you expect me to be pleased?”

“It would seem a natural inference.—If you really mean what you say.”

“I do mean it. I want you to have everything you like; I’m a monster of unselfishness over night, but to sit still in the morning, watching you dressing yourself up, polishing your clubs, starting off grinning from ear to ear, so happy to go off without me, and to feel pleased at the time—no! that’s beyond me!” Grizel declared vigorously. “I’m human, my good man. Don’t expect me to act like an angel.”

Bernard Raynor glanced across at his wife and laughed; his slow, complaisant laugh.

“You must be a full-blown angel, Cass. What? Never gives you any qualms! Wait a bit, Mrs Beverley, and you’ll find it comes easy enough. In another year you’ll be thankful to be rid of him. Deadly mistake to hang together all the time! Go your own way, and allow the other to do the same; that’s the sure tip for matrimony. Then you jog on contentedly, and avoid spars.”

The blue, shallow eyes roved round the table, complacently seeking approval; complacently unconscious of the artificiality of the smiles vouchsafed. Cassandra held her head high, disdaining a reply. Grizel hugged a glorious certainty that there would be no “jogging” for her. Storms perchance, half-serious, half-pretence, clearing the atmosphere, and opening the way for a glorious “make up”; but a “jog,”—never! never! Teresa mentally condemned both, and reflected how much more wisely she herself would manage her husband. From the beginning there should be a fair arrangement—so much time for sport, so much for home. One would not want a man pottering round all the time.

Grizel’s good-humour returned with characteristic speed, nevertheless conversation still flagged. An atmosphere of strain lay over the little company, and silenced the usual merry banter. Dane and Cassandra had not looked at each other since the first greeting. They had agreed to the proposal of the picnic out of polite necessity, but to each the prospect was drearily unwelcome. A partie carrée afforded no opportunities for the talks à deux, which were the only things for which they cared. Cassandra saw herself sitting on the cliff-side watching the two figures walk away side by side until they disappeared round the headland. What would they do when they were alone together, with no onlookers but the seagulls swirling overhead? Would he take her in his arms, would his calmness disappear, and his eyes grow dark with love and longing? Would they sit entwined together, beatifically content, asking from the wealth of the universe nothing more than this,—to be together, to be alone? Never in her life had Cassandra experienced that sensation, yet she could imagine it with mysterious, with horrible distinctness. She could project herself into Teresa’s place, and feel the tingling current of joy. And she must sit afar off in the shade, and pretend to sleep...

At ten o’clock the two men started off for the golf links, but it was not until noon that the picnic party followed suit. As there was no new ground to explore, and as the eating of lunch seemed to be the raison d’être of the excursion, it was plainly foolish to start until the luncheon hour approached. The servants had gone on in advance to unpack the hampers, and after the walk cross the bare, unshaded fields, it was a refreshment to sit down in the cool patch of shade, and taste the refreshing sea breeze. Immediately in front the cliff curved sharply inland, so that the lap of blue waters surrounded two sides of the little platform. Marking the farther side of the narrow bay, a white headland jutted into the sea, and the sharp glare of the sun intensified each colour in its turn, blue sea, bluer sky, white cliff, crowned by a tangle of green. Inland, to the rear of the headland, lay fields of oats and barley, interspersed with patches of yellow groundsel, and the blaze of myriad poppies.

Cassandra’s colour-loving eyes dwelt lingeringly upon the scene. There was not a human creature in sight; a few white-sailed yachts alone broke the surface of the waters. The soft lap of the waves added to the impression of rest and peace. She lay drinking in the beauty of it, while the final preparations for the meal were being made. In her mind was no prevision that in future years that scene was to be associated in her mind with an extremity of pain and fear, with the dawning of a joy that hurt more sharply than pain. She was conscious only of rest to her tired limbs, of satisfaction to her craving for beauty, acutely conscious of Dane Peignton’s presence, as he stood talking to Teresa, helping her to arrange the cushioned seats. For the rest, she was weary and discouraged, and oh! overpoweringly lonely! But nowadays she always felt lonely...

The servants pronounced all ready, and retraced their way across the field path. Grizel made a tour of inspection and gave a favourable verdict.

“It looks—scrum! Why are stray meals always so much more attractive than proper ones, and why are men so stupid that they can’t understand that they are? That’s one of the many distinctions between the sexes. All women adore picnics. All men—don’t! Why?”

“Perhaps,” Dane volunteered, seating himself in front of the cloth, in response to a gesture of invitation, “perhaps because—they have longer legs.”

“Well, you must tuck them up somehow. They can’t take up the whole side!” Grizel objected, sinking down in a compact little mass in which her own legs apparently ceased to exist. “Let me see. Where do we begin? Savoury eggs, chicken mayonnaise. We’ll start on the eggs as a hors d’oeuvre, and dull the first fierceness of our appetites before getting on to the real business.—I hope everyone is hungry. Let’s be polite, and eat very slowly to make it last out. It’s such a blank feeling at a picnic when the feed’s over,—like a wedding when the bride has gone. When we’ve done, the gulls shall have their turn. Do gulls eat mayonnaise?”

Cassandra was conscious of a certain effort in the light babble. She suspected that Grizel was forcing herself to talk, to ease the strain, which like a low rumble of thunder had underlain the peace of the last week. In the midst of her own pain, she felt a pang of regret for her hostess,—a pang of compunction for her own shortcomings. If only Bernard would be induced to return home! but as long as fine weather and good play were his portion, no persuasion would be of any avail. There was nothing for it but to set her teeth and endure, and—incidentally!—to make things as little trying as possible for other people. She sent a smile across the table to cheer Grizel’s heart.

“I’m too lazy to be hungry. It seems a waste of time to eat, instead of peacefully feeding one’s mind on the beauty of it all. All the same these eggs are mighty good. I wonder how often before tea we shall refer to a painted sail upon a painted ocean.”

“Yes, but try not!” Grizel pleaded earnestly. She was relieved to see Peignton help himself to a second egg, and consume it with relish; relieved to see Teresa carefully sifting sugar into her lemonade. Such simple, homely acts seemed to keep at bay the creeping dread. It was so easy for Grizel to be happy, to banish fear, and plant hope in its place. She was as quick to pounce upon signs of good, as most people are upon menaces of evil, and Cassandra’s smile was sufficient to send her spirits racing upwards. She ate and she talked; few people can do the two things at one time with out neglecting one or the other, but Grizel came triumphantly through the ordeal, keeping her listeners in a gentle ripple of laughter, and demanding nothing of them but an occasional word of response. Then in the middle of a complicated sentence she stopped, and looked sharply at her friend.

“What’s the matter?”

Cassandra rose with a hasty movement, struggled to speak, and pointed to her throat. “A... bone... Don’t!”

The “Don’t” was accompanied by a gesture of the arm, as though to thrust away any offer of help. She walked away a few yards’ distance and stood facing the sea, while her companions looked at one another, sympathetic but calm.

“A bone! In the salad. The Wretch! I’ll give her notice to-night. Poor dear!”

“It’s horrid swallowing a bone. I did it once. It was rabbit. Mother was quite frightened.”

Peignton said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the white figure outlined against the blue, on the shoulders which rose and fell. He filled a tumbler with water and sat waiting, glass in hand. A moment passed, the upheave of the shoulders became more pronounced, he rose swiftly and walked to Cassandra’s side.

She stepped away from him as he approached, waving him away, but he had seen her face and kept steadily on.

“Drink this. Gulp it! It will carry it down.”

The waving fingers spilled half of the liquid, he steadied it with his own hand, while she gulped, and panted, and gulped again, and struggled choking away. The drink had not dislodged the bone, it had served only to hinder the sharpened breath.

Peignton hurried back to the table and seized a lump of bread. Grizel and Teresa stared wide-eyed, and silent. Even in the moment which it had taken to go and to come, Cassandra’s face had taken a deeper hue; the damp stood on her forehead, but she made a gallant effort at composure, standing with her back resolutely turned to her companions, so that they might be spared the sight of her struggles.

“I’ve brought you some bread. That moves it often when water fails. Chew it for a moment, then gulp it whole. As big a piece as you can. It’s a wretched feeling, but it will pass. A big bite now!... Swallow it whole.”

She snatched it from him, crammed it in her mouth, struggled with a force that was frightening to see, choked and retched, and staggered against his arm. The bone had not moved.

From behind came a murmur of consternation. Grizel and Teresa swept forward, calling out confused instructions.

“More water!”

“Kneel down; bend your head!... Massage your throat. Press downwards! More bread; gulp hard!”

Cassandra faced them suddenly, her lips curved back from her teeth. She struggled to speak, but the hoarse sounds had no coherence, her eyes rolled from one face to the other, and on each as she looked there fell the dawning of mortal fear. They had read the terror in Cassandra’s eyes, the next moment they saw it afresh in the sudden violent breakdown of her composure. She no longer avoided them, but came nearer, stretching out her hands in appeal. Her face was red and mottled, and strangely, horribly changed.

Grizel was white as paper, but she kept her composure better than the girl by her side, and spoke in calm, level tones.

“Cassandra, try, try to be quiet! You make things worse by rushing about. We will help you. It will be all right. Try pushing something down... Here’s the handle of my fan. Try that. Hard! Push it well down. Oh, don’t, don’t give up!”

For after one desperate trial Cassandra had sent the fan spinning into space over the edge of the cliff. For a moment in her desperation she looked inclined to follow herself, and Dane quickly moved his position so as to stand between her and danger.

How many moments had elapsed since they had been happily seated on the grass? So few,—so pitifully few, yet enough to wreck the exquisite machine of life! Not alone to Cassandra herself, but also to the anguished onlookers, came now the realisation that this accident was no trifling happening of a moment, but a grim battle between life and death. The bone was a long one, lodged in such a manner that to attempt to move it by the usual means was but to accelerate the process of suffocation.

Cassandra was being suffocated; moment by moment the inhalations of breath became more difficult, her strength was weakening beneath the strain, but still she struggled and fought, and raised wild arms to the sky, while moment by moment, youth, beauty, and charm fell away from the blackening face, leaving behind nothing but a mask of torture and despair.

Both the women were weeping, but they were unconscious of their tears. At that moment existence meant nothing more than an anguished realisation of helplessness. Theirs was the most lacerating trial of life,—the torture of looking on helplessly, and watching a fellow-creature done to death.

Then suddenly the scene changed. Cassandra’s limbs gave way, and she fell to the ground, and as she fell Peignton fell after her, and knelt by her side. To the onlookers the man’s face was as unrecognisable as that of the woman; in both was the same terror, the same despair, almost it appeared, the same suffering. It was a voice which they had never heard before, which spoke now, uttering wild appealing words:

“Cassandra—Darling! Oh, my precious, what can I do for you?... God show me what to do! Oh, my God, to standby and see this... I’d give my soul... It can’t be.—It can’t. It’s not possible!... Cassandra, try, try! For my sake, for my sake, darling... How am I to live...”

The wild words surged on. Did anyone hear? or hearing understand? Even to Teresa herself they seemed for the moment to voice nothing but the cry of her own heart. The shadow of death had obliterated the things of life; nothing counted, nothing mattered, but Cassandra, and her struggle for breath. With every moment her strength was ebbing, the faint whistling sounds emerged less frequently from her writhing lips, the black tint deepened on her cheeks, even as she gazed, the staring eyes rolled and fixed.

Then Peignton pounced. Like a wild beast leaping on its prey, he pounced upon the prostrate form, and lifting it in his arms he shook and tore, he dragged and bent. The two women shrieked, and hid their faces. Of all the terrors that had been, the most ghastly and blood-curdling of all was the sight of this maniac figure with its superhuman strength, and the jointless, lifeless form, tossed to and fro; beaten, abused. The onlookers thought,—if thought were possible,—that Dane had gone mad. It seemed the crowning horror that in death Cassandra’s body should be so outraged; but they had no strength to move or protest.

Suddenly came a cry; a cry of triumph, not grief. Peignton had sunk to the ground, but Cassandra lay in his arms, and the breath was once more whistling through her lips.

“It has moved!” he cried. “It has moved! She breathes. For God’s sake, Water!”

In a second it was in his hand, and Teresa knelt, holding the jug, while he sprinkled drops on the dark brow, and moistened the cracking lips. The face resting against his shoulder was still unrecognisable, still terrible to see, but momentarily life was flowing back. The brutal wildness of Dane’s assault had done its work in removing the block, and air was rushing back into the flattened lungs. The marvellous intricacy of the machine of life was at work once more...

Peignton bathed, and the two women knelt by his side, watching with fascinated eyes. Gradually as the dark hue faded, other marks came into view, the marks of bruises left by frenzied fingers. There were marks on Cassandra’s brow, on her cheek, on the slim column of her throat, on her hands, on the arms beneath the torn fragments of sleeves. Everywhere there were bruises. The women held their breath at the sight, Peignton groaned and shuddered as with a nausea of horror, but he went on bathing, his hand resolutely steadied to hoard the precious drops. Only once, with an uncontrollable impulse, he bent and pressed his lips against the most cruel of the marks, holding her close the while, crooning over her in a passion of tenderness, and as he lifted his head Cassandra’s eyes opened, and looked upward into his face. They were conscious eyes, and the opening of them brought back the first resemblance to that Cassandra who had so horribly lost her identity. Deeply, darkly blue they stared out of the disfigured face, met Dane’s adoring gaze, and gazed back. For a moment it seemed as though the wraith of a smile were dawning in their depths, then pain claimed her once more, and she groaned and winced, lifting a hand to her bruised throat. It was a piteous little action, and Dane’s self-possession broke down at the sight. Once more he bent his head to hers. Once more the caressing words burst forth.

“Darling, forgive me! I had to do it!...” Then for the first time Grizel felt a tremor pass through the figure of the girl by her side, and looked with a pang into a set white face. Through her quick mind flashed the realisation that here was another threatened death,—the death of Teresa’s youth... She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and spoke in brisk, commonplace tones:

“She must be laid down. Collect the cushions and make a bed. She will come round more quickly lying flat.”

Teresa rose and with automatic obedience set about her work. Grizel took advantage of her absence to seize Dane’s arm between a vigorous finger and thumb. Her eyes met his with a gleam of anger.

“Pull yourself together! Think what you are saying. Have you forgotten that Teresa is here?”

Apparently he had. Even now when he was reminded, his blank look showed that his mind was incapable of realising her existence. Grizel wasted no more words. Nor indeed was there time, for Teresa came back carrying the piled cushions. Their gay colour accentuated the pallor of her own face, but she was composed as ever, and arranged an impromptu bed on the grass with firm, capable hands.

“That’s right. Perfectly flat; her head must not be raised. Now, Captain Peignton! this way a please! Pacing the sea.”

Peignton’s answer was to entwine his arms more firmly; it seemed to the watching eyes as if Cassandra herself nestled closer in response. Grizel bent downwards, and forcibly unloosed the clasped hands.

“I am accustomed to nursing... you must obey me, please. You are doing her harm, keeping off the air. Lay her down here. At once!”

Grizel had different ways of enforcing her will, but they were invariably successful. The stem tone of command roused Peignton into obedience. With painful effort he rose, laid his burden on the cushions, and stood over her, straightening his cramped arms. The mad output of strength which had saved Cassandra’s life had left him almost as much exhausted as herself, but so far he had had no time to think of himself. Now that his work was over, the realisation would come. Grizel poured out a glass of wine, and forced it into his hands.

“Drink it—this moment! You can’t afford to break down, there’s too much to be done. We will stay with her here. You must go home for help!”

“No!”

“Don’t dispute, please... You will do as I say. Nature will help her now; we can only leave her alone. You must go home and telephone,—to the Club House for her husband, to the village for the doctor. They must come straight here. And the car,—it must drive to the nearest point, and wait. Possibly in an hour she may be able to walk. If not, she can be carried.”

“I’ll carry her!”

“Her husband will carry her, or the men. Tell two men to come, and bring brandy, smelling-salts, anything you think of. If you are wise you will lie down yourself. You are worn out, and can do no good here. We don’t want two invalids. Now, please!”

For a moment Peignton stood gazing down at the motionless figure on the grass. Then hunching his shoulders, turned inland, and took the field path.

Teresa straightened herself to watch him as he went. She was kneeling by Cassandra’s side, but he had no glance for her. She watched him pass swiftly down the narrow path between the barley and the oats. The poppies blazed their brightest red; the patches of groundsel shone golden in the sun.

Cassandra lay motionless, with closed eyes, her breathing growing momentarily more natural and regular. Grizel smoothed the hair from her brow, laid a practised finger on her pulse, and crept away, beckoning Teresa to follow.

“All right! doing well. Leave her alone. The air is her best medicine. Perhaps she will sleep. Teresa, dear! get me some wine.”

She collapsed in a limp little heap on the grass, and raised a piteous face. To evoke Teresa’s pity for herself, not to pity Teresa, that was her inspiration, and to this intent she made the most of the natural exhaustion. Teresa waited upon her deftly, and then quite calmly and sensibly proceeded to wait upon herself. Grizel’s eyes widened with amaze as she beheld the girl with a wine-glass in one hand, and a sandwich, in the other, eating and drinking with as much apparent composure as if the tragic interruption had never occurred.

To the ardent, impulsive nature such composure seemed unnatural, almost brutal. “How can she?” Grizel asked herself blankly. “How can she? Oh, Martin, dear, to know your love gone, and to sit down quietly to eat sandwiches! Chewing.—Chewing! What can it feel like to be made like that? It’s marvellous, it’s magnificent, mais ce n’est pas la femme! Poor, poor little Teresa, and my poor, beautiful Cassandra, and poor Dane Peignton, poor Squire, poor Everybody! God help us all... We’re in a rare muddle! What is to happen next?”

Her breath caught in an involuntary sob, and Teresa put out a protecting arm. Grizel leant against it, careful still to demand, rather than offer consolation, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, hand clasped in hand, while the minutes dragged past. From time to time Grizel rose and tiptoed across the grass to look at Cassandra’s face. Once she breathed her name, and the blue eyes opened in a recognising glance, but instantly they closed again, and the whole pose of the figure proclaimed an extremity of fatigue.

“But it will pass; it will pass!” Grizel whispered to Teresa on her return. “It was a maddening experience. We were all mad, I think. It was enough to make us mad. Millions of people go through life, and never even imagine such a horror. But it was so short... only a few minutes... it will pass... it will pass!”

“Oh, yes!” said Teresa steadily, “it will pass.” The healthy colour had come back to her cheeks. Beyond a certain hardness in the set of the lips, the smooth young face showed no sign of the recent conflict.

A quarter of an hour dragged by; half an hour. Cassandra’s breath came in deep, steady respirations, her hands lay slack by her side, she slept the sleep of exhaustion, and the two women sat silently watching her from afar. Three-quarters of an hour, an hour, and then at last, over the shimmer of barley came the sight of hurrying figures,—the Squire and Martin running to the rescue.

Grizel rose, crossed to Cassandra’s side, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She must be prepared for the men’s appearance. There must be no more shocks.

“Wake up, dear. It’s time. The men will be here in a minute to take us home. Sit up! You are such a dishevelled old dear. Let me tidy you up.”

Cassandra had started painfully at the first touch, but she sat up now, supporting herself on her hands, while Grizel smoothed the straying hair, and gave deft touches to the disordered attire. On the colourless face the bruises stood out with increasing distinctness, the lips were swollen, the eyes seemed to have retreated into the head. Grizel seized a light scarf, tied it hoodwise under the chin, and pulled forward the screening folds. She had a woman’s tender commiseration for the loss of beauty, a woman’s natural instinct to conceal it from masculine eyes. Thus the Squire, hurrying forward, beheld his wife sitting erect, orderly in attire, with face discreetly shaded.

“Good God, Cass, you gave me a fright! I’ve run all the way... Swallowed a bone, eh? Beastly carelessness. Peeling all right now?”

For a moment Grizel felt inclined to repent that shrouding veil!

“She’s not at all right, Mr Raynor. It was a terrible time... We must get her home as quickly as possible, and put her to bed.”

“Poor old Cass!” said the Squire kindly. “Feel a bit played out, eh? It’s all over, you know; all over now. We’ll soon have you all right. Think you could walk, if I gave you an arm? The car is waiting, at the end of the field.”

Cassandra rose with unexpected strength, and the Squire tucked her arm in his, with a pat of reassurement. “That’s a good girl. Told you you weren’t half as bad as you thought! You’ll feel A1 after an hour’s rest.”

The two figures passed on in advance, Cassandra’s head bowed low over her breast, and the three who were left, stared after them in dumb amaze. Martin had passed his arm round Grizel’s shoulder, and she clung to him, trembling with mingled misery and indignation.

“Martin! Martin! she nearly died... she was fighting for her life before our eyes! It was horrible,—the most ghastly horror. We felt as if we should go mad, too. She has been down to the very gates of death, and he smiles, he jokes,—he is as calm as if nothing had happened! Has he no heart?”

“No imagination, dearest. That’s the trouble. Nothing is real to him that he hasn’t seen. You poor girls! you look worn out yourselves. Come! there will be room for you in the car, and you will want to look after her when she gets home. I’ll come back, and wait till the men arrive for the hampers.”

He held out his free hand and slid it through Teresa’s arm.

“Your man is chasing the doctor. You’ll find him waiting at home. What a comfort that he was with you!”

“He saved her life,” Teresa said. “Not one man in a thousand would have done as he did. He was so brave.”

“I know someone braver!” said Grizel in her heart.

Chapter Twenty Two.

Judgment of Youth.

For the rest of the afternoon the house was still as the grave, each member of the little party preserving a rigorous silence for the sake of those others who were presumably asleep, but with the exception of Cassandra sleep was conspicuous by its absence. The Squire retired to a distant corner of the garden, and practised putting by himself, reflecting ruefully on his interrupted game. Martin sat by Grizel’s couch, mentally abusing himself for the morning’s desertion. Grizel had asked him to join the picnic, and he had preferred to go off on his own devices. Probably if he had been present, the accident would have happened just the same, but he would have been beside her to help and support. Excuse himself as he might, the fact remained that Grizel had gone through an appalling experience alone. The thought filled him with a passion of tenderness and remorse, and even in the depths of her mental and physical exhaustion, Grizel luxuriated in the consciousness, and lured him on with tender wiles. It was all the rest she wanted, just to lie still, holding Martin’s hand, to feel his touch on her forehead. The unconsciousness of sleep would have been poor in comparison, for her heart needed healing more than her body. A few hours, a few days at most, and even Cassandra herself would have surmounted the physical strain of the morning, but what of the hidden danger from which the veil had been torn aside? Now that it had been revealed—what was to happen to those three young lives?

Grizel had given her husband a detailed account of the accident, but she had refrained from telling him of Dane’s mad words. Whether or not she would ever tell him, would depend on future events. He had a right to know everything that concerned herself, but she would have felt it to be a disloyalty to her friends to have betrayed the new complication which had come into their lives. It was for them to work out their own salvation; for her, as the onlooker, to be silent, and wait.

As for Martin, he was too much absorbed in his wife to display undue curiosity, and his eyes had discovered nothing mysterious in the condition of either Teresa or Dane himself.

“The fellow is played out. He must have been half crazed to do what he did. No man would have the strength in a normal condition. In the great moments of life we draw drafts on our reserve forces, and no effort seems too great. But we have to pay up. Peignton condensed the energy of months into three or four minutes, and for the moment he is bankrupt. It must have been a blood-curdling sight for you, my darling,—and that poor girl, Teresa! She seemed the calmest of the party, by the way.”

“Calmness is comparative—everything is comparative. It’s impossible to know how much people feel... Oh, Beloved, there are so many sorts, and if they don’t feel our way, it may be just as bad to them! Martin! we’ve been married six months, we know each other six hundred times better than when we began, and there’s this virtue about me—I don’t pretend! You know the worst of me, as well as the best. Honestly—on your solemnest oath,—have you ever been sorry?”

Martin did not reply. He smiled a smile of ineffable content. Grizel tilted her head on the cushion, and smiled back. “I knew you haven’t. That’s why I asked. If there had been the faintest doubt, I couldn’t have faced it to-day. But there are so many months—life is so long. Martin! you might change!”

Martin’s face sobered. His thoughts flew back to the girl wife who, for a few short months, had shared his life; at whose death life itself had seemed to end. He had been but twenty-five at the time, and he had suffered with all the fierce intensity of youth. If Juliet had made a similar suggestion in those far-off days, he would have refuted it with scorn, yet he had changed; the young image had faded, and a living woman now filled his heart. Was it the remembrance of Juliet, which made Grizel doubt?

“So long as you live, Grizel, it isn’t possible that I could change. A man who had once loved you could never be satisfied with an ordinary woman. And I am a man now, not a boy. Even—even if I were alone again—”

She leant forward in a quick caress.

“You are not going to be alone! I am not going to leave you, Honey! If I were, I should not ask for promises. It’s because I intend to live on to eighty or ninety, that I’m anxious. I couldn’t bear it if you grew cool and cold. I wouldn’t try to bear it! Prosaic matrimony would drive me to the devil. I can’t tell you what sort of devil,—there might be several, but a devil it would certainly be. But if you’ll love me, dear, I’ll grow nearer the angels!”

He laid his head beside hers on the cushion, and they sat silently, through blessed moments of communion. In heart and love they were at one, but their thoughts carried them on different voyages. When he spoke again, it was to say in tones of kindly toleration:

“Don’t be too hard on the poor Squire. He’s a good fellow, and, as you say, there are all sorts. Presumably she loved that sort. She chose him, you know.”

“Unfortunately she didn’t. She chose a waking man, who fell asleep the moment he’d got her, and has slept on steadily ever since. He was in love, you see, and love galvanised him into a show of life, and poor, dear Cassandra saw the miracle, and believed it was going to last. You’re a man, my dear, and you’re an author, and you write very clever books, but you don’t realise for a moment how intoxicating it is for a woman to hold the reins in her own hands, while a lord of creation kneels trembling at her feet! It’s the one little time of her life when she is master, and it goes to her head. He tells her that she is the sun, and the moon, and the eleven stars, and that his only object in life is to adore her for evermore, and that if she won’t have him he’ll pine away and die on Wednesday week, and the poor dear thing believes every word, and is so touched to find herself of such importance after being just an ordinary, superfluous girl, that she will promise anything he likes to ask. I am talking, of course,” said Grizel markedly, “of country girls! Girls like Cassandra, shut up in moated granges a dozen miles from the nearest anywhere. Not of myself! It was no novelty to me to have men squirming!”

“What a very undignified word! Don’t dare to apply it to me. I’ll kneel, as much as you like, but I refuse to squirm!” Martin stretched himself, and rose to his feet. Grizel was better, beginning to talk in her natural vein, and his conscience began to prick him about his guest. “Do you think you could manage to get a little deep now! I really ought to look after poor old Raynor.”

Grizel accorded a gracious permission, and submitted meekly to an irritating process which Martin called “making her comfortable.” When the door was closed behind him, she deftly rearranged all the accessories which he had misplaced, and composed herself for the long-deferred rest, but it was not to be. In less than five minutes a knock sounded at the door, and after a moment’s pause was repeated in a more insistent fashion.

“Come in!” cried Grizel clearly, and Teresa’s head peeped enquiringly round the corner of the door.

“You are alone?” she asked. “I hoped you would be. I couldn’t rest, and I knew you couldn’t either. Do you mind if I sit down and talk a few minutes?”

“Do, dear; I’d like it,” Grizel said kindly, her eyes fixed on the girl’s figure, with an astonished admiration. Teresa had taken off her dress, and put on a plainly made blue cashmere dressing-gown, the loose folds of which disguised the somewhat ungainly lines of her figure, and gave to it an effect of dignity and height. Her hair had been unloosed and hung in two heavy plaits to her waist, giving a Gretchen-like expression to the fair, blue-eyed face. Teresa had prepared herself for her siesta with characteristic thoroughness, but apparently without avail. She seated herself beside Grizel’s couch, folded her hands on her knee, and asked a level question:

“I wanted to know. Have you told your husband everything that happened?”

“Everything about the accident itself. Nothing more, Teresa.”

For a moment the blue eyes lightened with gratitude.

“I thought you wouldn’t. But most women would. Thank you. I’d rather no one was told.”

“No one shall hear anything from me. It is not my business. I shall forget it, Teresa!”

The girl shook her head.

“You can’t do that. I don’t think I want you to forget. It’s a help to have someone who understands. Mrs Beverley—do you think he meant it?”

Grizel sat upright on the sofa, her small hands locked on her knee, and for a long silent minute blue eyes and hazel met in a steady gaze. There were no secrets between the two women at the end of that minute.

“Yes, Teresa,” said Grizel unsteadily. “I think he did.”

“You know he did,” corrected Teresa gravely. She was silent for another moment, sitting motionless with downcast eyes, then deliberately raised them again and continued:

“At the time he did mean it... She is so beautiful, and fascinating. Everyone admires her. And it was terrible to watch her choking before one’s eyes. It wrung one’s heart. What he said at the time should not be counted. He was not sane. I am thinking of the time before.—Do you,—do you think he meant it before?”

Grizel did not speak. To her impetuous ardent nature, the girl’s composure seemed terrible and unnatural. It affected her more strongly than the most violent hysteria. She sat crunched up into the corner of the sofa, looking white and scared, and helpless, flinching before the steady scrutiny of the blue eyes.

“Please tell me.”

“Teresa, I—wondered! It troubled me. Lately I felt sure. I was sorry it had been arranged to come here together. I tried to alter it; you know I tried... Did you never suspect?”

Teresa hesitated. The colour had faded from her cheek, but she was still calm and collected.

“Not—that! I knew he admired her—that was of course. I knew he liked to be with her whenever he could. Once or twice I felt—lonely! But she was married.—I never dreamt of this. I have read of men falling in love with married women, but I have never known it in real life. I did not think he was that sort.” Scorn spoke in her voice, a youthful intolerance and contempt. It was not only on her own account that she was suffering. Peignton had been to her the ideal man, and the ideal had fallen. The whole structure of life seemed shaken under her feet.

Grizel looked at her, with a saddened glance.

“Poor, dear, little girl! It’s hard for you, but you must try to understand. You’ve lived in a very sheltered little corner, dear, where the difficult things of life have been hidden away out of sight. It’s hard for you to be quite fair, and see the other point of view as well as your own. But you must try. You mustn’t condemn poor Dane. He was engaged to you, and he has fallen in love with another woman. It sounds bad enough on the face of it, but you and I who know him, and have watched him these last months, know that there has been nothing deliberate about it, nothing guilty or underhand. He was engaged to you and he was faithful to you—in intent. He wanted to be faithful. The other thing was just a great trial wave which overtook him and swept him off his feet.”

Teresa set her lips, her face hard and cold.

“It could not have swept him, if he had been firm! If he had been faithful to me, he could not have noticed any other woman in that way. I never noticed another man. I don’t understand it.”

Grizel sighed. The youthful arrogance of the girl was at once pitiful and menacing. To her there existed but the two hard lines, a right and a wrong, the maze of intersecting paths had no existence in her eyes. Her judgment, like that of all young untried things, was relentlessly hard.

Grizel sat looking at her, pondering what to say.

“When you first knew Cassandra you were fascinated by her. You felt a longing to see her again. Every time you saw her, you admired her more. You have told me about it, so often. In a feminine way you fell in love with her yourself, Teresa. You ought to understand.”

“He was engaged to me!” echoed Teresa obstinately. Suddenly her face quivered with pathos “And—I’m young—I’m pretty.—I loved him. Why? Why? Why?”

“Oh, my poor child!” Grizel cried sharply, and the tears started to her eyes. Poor, ignorant, complaisant Teresa fighting against the mysteries of life, demanding explanation of the inexplicable,—what tenderness, what forgiveness was to be expected from such an attitude?

“He chose me,” she insisted. “It was his own doing. Nobody made him. It was his own choice. And he had met her before he asked me. We used to talk about her together.—I was glad when he was enthusiastic... She was my friend, and a married woman with a husband and—that big boy! He is ten years old. She must be thirty at the least.” All the arrogance of the early twenties rang in Teresa’s voice. “It’s such folly—such madness! It isn’t as if she could ever—love him back.”

Silence. Teresa looked up sharply, held Grizel’s eyes in a hard, enquiring stare and deliberately repeated the pronouncement.

“It isn’t possible that she could care for him.”

“Did you find it so difficult, Teresa?”

“Why do you compare her with me? It’s different. You know it’s different.”

“Yes, I do know. You were a free, happy girl with your life ahead. Her youth, the best part of her youth has gone, and she has never had the joy that every woman needs. You know what I mean. We need not go into it. Some men mean well, but they have no right to be husbands! The women who have to live with them are slowly starved to death.”

“She has her boy.”

“Yes, she has her boy. For a few weeks in the year.”

“He is her son all the year round.”

“That’s perfectly true, Teresa.”

“A married woman with a son ought not to love another man.”

“That’s perfectly true, Teresa. Do you never by any chance do anything you should not? Can’t you find the least scrap of pity in your heart for other people who are more unhappy than yourself?”

“I am not sorry for people who do wrong. It’s easy to talk, Mrs Beverley. Suppose it was your own husband, and you had seen him, as I did to-day, with another woman—with Cassandra herself. How would you feel?”

Grizel’s grimace was more expressive than words.

“My dear, I can’t imagine it. I’d rather not. I should certainly not be calm. I’m an impetuous person who is bound to let off steam, and there would be a considerable amount of steam on that occasion, but I’m older than you, and have seen more of the world, so that perhaps it would come easier—after the first explosion—to be sorry for them as well as myself.”

“Why should one be sorry?”

“Because they are in the wrong, and are bringing sorrow on others, whereas you are the injured martyr, who is sinned against. There’s considerable balm in the position—for those who like it. How do you suppose poor Dane will feel at the prospect of his next interview with you?”

Teresa’s face quivered again.

“He hasn’t wanted many interviews lately. We’ve hardly been alone an hour since we came here. I suppose I—should have suspected... but I didn’t. He has never been demonstrative, but he chose me, he said he loved me. I trusted him.”

There was pathos in the lingering on those last words. Grizel made a little crooning sound of tenderness, and stretched out a consoling hand, but Teresa ignored it, and rose slowly to her feet.

“Thank you. You’ve told me all I wanted to know. And I’m grateful to you for not telling your husband. Please don’t mention anything to a single person. The less that is said about it the easier it will be to—”

“To—?” Grizel’s eyes dilated. She sat upright on the sofa, her whole body a-quiver with eagerness. “To what, Teresa?”

“To put things right,” said Teresa, and marched stolidly from the room.

Chapter Twenty Three.

Between Two Women.

It was late on the following morning when Teresa, sitting over her embroidery in the garden, saw Dane Peignton making his way towards her across the lawn. It was his first appearance since the return from the fateful picnic, and Teresa, looking at him, marvelled at the change which twenty-four hours had wrought. She herself had suffered from shock and disillusionment, yet the mirror had shown no change, the fresh pink colour had not faded from her cheeks, her eyes were clear and blue. The first realisation of the truth of Grizel’s words came to her at the sight of Dane’s lined face. At the glance of his wan eyes, the forced smile faded from her lips. A shiver of dread passed through her at the realisation that there was to be no covering up of the ugly truth. The grim determination of Peignton’s mien showed that he was braced for the ordeal of confession.

They shook hands, and he seated himself beside her. A clump of shrubs hid the windows of the house, no path broke the smooth stretch of green; they were alone, free from the fear of interruption.

“I hope you feel better this morning,” said Teresa primly. She was embroidering a large entwined monogram on a square of green velvet. The monogram was Peignton’s own, and the square was designed for the back of a blotter for his writing table. He had watched its progress from the first stitches onward, and had given his opinion on contrasting shades. His face twisted with pain as he watched the sweep of the needle with the long brown thread.

“Thank you, yes. I am better.—I was—very tired!”

Teresa sewed on, her eyes downcast, the needle rhythmically lifting and falling to take up another neat, accurate stitch. Her low muslin collar showed the line of the young bending throat.

Peignton’s eyes softened into tenderness as he watched her. He stretched out his hand, and intercepted another upward sweep.

“Dear! Put that down... We’ve got to have this out... There is so much that we have to say to each other, Teresa!”

Teresa disengaged her hand, folded her work, and turned a resolutely composed face.

“Why need we say anything at all?”

“Why?” He stared at her in perplexity. “You ask me that when you know... you have seen...”

“I must forget. We must both forget. I mustn’t judge you for... for what happened then. I think it will be best if we never speak of it again.”

Peignton was silent, stricken dumb by amazement, and the paralysing feeling of helplessness which Grizel had experienced at a similar moment. The crass certainty of Teresa’s common sense appeared at this moment the most baffling of barriers. He stared at her hopelessly for a long minute, before making his reply.

“That is impossible. There could be no peace for either of us. In justice to myself, I must explain. It seems an extraordinary thing to say, but it is the simple truth that until I came down here—until a couple of days ago, I did not know that I loved Lady Cassandra. Only yesterday morning I had decided to make an excuse to go home, to put myself out of temptation; then, an hour later, I saw her, as it seemed, dying before my eyes, and I forgot everything else. It was wrong, of course, confoundedly unkind,—humiliating for you. I apologise with all my soul, Teresa, but can’t you see how inevitable it was?”

“If you loved her in the first instance, I suppose it was inevitable,” said Teresa steadily. “But you were engaged to me.” She lifted her eyes with a reproachful glance. “You chose me. You said you loved me... All these weeks we have gone on peacefully, without a hitch. I never noticed any change. As you insist on talking about it, I should like to understand one thing.—Is it that you grew tired of me? Was I different from what you expected? When did you stop—caring for me at all?”