And then, with a real tenderness, he thought of his _fiancee_,--the loving, kind-hearted woman-girl who was to be his wife. The mysterious glamour of a Lady Ca.s.sandra was far removed from the practical common sense of Teresa Mallison; but life was largely composed of the commonplace, and he knew that not once, but a hundred times over in the days to come, he would have cause to be thankful for a wife who could be a partner in deed as well as in name. He thought of Teresa's voice as she said: "I should have liked to nurse you, Dane!" and felt a pang of remorse. He hoped he had not been inconsiderate. He hoped the dear girl was not hurt. He would write her a line in the morning and explain that... that really... Well, hang it! it was simple enough... There was only one spare room at the Cottage. Where could the ma.s.seur have slept? There were many adequate reasons for his choice which he could advance in a letter; now that he was quietly settled in bed they crowded into his mind, but looking back at the moment of decision, he knew he had acted from no definite reason, but simply from an overpowering desire. The chance of staying at the Court had been given him. It was not in him to refuse.

The next morning immediately after his treatment Peignton was wheeled into an upstairs sitting-room, where his couch was placed in a window affording a view of the terraced gardens. Ca.s.sandra came in dressed for driving, made a few arrangements for his comfort, and immediately disappeared; later on the Squire lounged in, smoked a pipe, and discussed items in the morning paper, and disappeared in his turn. By noon Dane was alone, and the hour and a half before luncheon hung heavily. Luncheon was served to him in his room,--a solitary repast, and the sense of disappointment grew when the table was cleared, and still no one appeared to bear him company. Books and papers galore were within reach, an electric bell would at any moment summon an attendant, but a man accustomed to an outdoor life soon wearies of reading, and as minute after minute ticked away, Peignton became conscious of an overpowering impatience. He threw down his book, seized the electric bell, and pressed his finger on the b.u.t.ton. In less than two minutes a manservant appeared in the doorway. "Is the Squire in the house?"

"I am not sure, sir. I will enquire."

"Ask him to come up, will you? Tell him I'm lonely."

The man bowed, and retired. Five minutes pa.s.sed, and the sound of light footsteps was heard from without; the door opened and Ca.s.sandra looked at him, smiling under raised brows.

"Not asleep?"

"Asleep! Why should I be asleep?"

"Invalids always sleep after lunch."

"I'm not an invalid. I'm a well man tied by the leg. I don't know how a real invalid feels, but I never was further off sleep in my life! I sent to ask the Squire to take pity on me. I'm so confoundedly tired of myself."

"He is out, but Teresa will be here soon after four. I invited her to tea."

Peignton looked at the clock, and his face fell.

"It's only three. There's an hour and more, before then."

"Does that mean that you want--"

She stopped, smiling, and he answered with eager haste:

"Yes, _please_! Could you? You are not engaged?"

"Oh, no, I am very seldom engaged. I was in my boudoir working at my embroidery. I'll have it brought in here."

She disappeared, to come back a few minutes later followed by a maid carrying an oak stand, which she placed near the couch. The stand proved to be the latest improvement in embroidery frames, the stretched work being swung between upright wooden supports, which were connected at their base by a cross-beam, so as to do service as a footstool. The while Ca.s.sandra selected her chair and a small table for working materials, Peignton peered with awed curiosity at the work in process.

He beheld what appeared at first sight to be a water-colour painting, the subject a Southern garden, wherein a marble bal.u.s.trade was overhung by an orange tree in fruit. The distance showed a glimpse of a blue lake, against which three dark cypress trees were sharply outlined.

Beside the bal.u.s.trade walked the lady of the garden, a stately dame, in a robe of gold-embroidered brocade, ermine lined, and falling open over a petticoat of shimmering blue. Her hair was caught in a golden net, she carried in her arms a sheaf of lilies. On the ground by her feet fluttered a flock of pigeons.

Several parts of the background were unfinished, but enough had been done to give the effect of completion, and Peignton's admiration and astonishment were equally great. It was the first example of needlework painting which he had seen, and he was full of interest, craning forward on his seat to watch, while Ca.s.sandra seated herself, placed her feet on the cross-board, and tilting the frame to the right angle, plied her silks in quick, sure st.i.tches, holding the right hand above, and the other beneath the frame. She was completing a corner of the under-dress, and she showed him how, to gain the desired shot effect, she had twisted together half-threads of green and blue.

"It is the most difficult thing in the world to get silks that are indefinite enough to work the little odd bits," she explained. "You can get every colour--exquisite colours, but they are so clear, and strong, and new, and unpicturesque! I have to take refuge in all sorts of dodges. I dip the white silks in tea, and coffee, to take off the glare; and the greys in ink, to make them cloudy, and the rose and blue in acids to tone them down into an old-world softness. Sometimes I dye one end of a skein, and leave the other untouched; that gives quite a good effect. I'm always on the look out for old silks, but they are difficult to find, and the ordinary fancy-work emporium-keeper has not awakened to the needs of pictures. When I asked one the other day for a colour to work an old brick wall, she gaped at me as if I were mad.

However, with cunning and ingenuity, I have managed to collect quite a useful selection..."

"You don't--excuse me! treat them with much consideration, now that you have got them," Peignton said, lifting a tangled ma.s.s of colour from the table, and smoothing it with careful fingers. "I remember my mother doing crewel-work in the days of my youth, and having each separate shade run through a kind of tunnel business in a roll of linen. You pulled a thread from the roll, and--there you were! _They_ never grew matted into b.a.l.l.s."

"Ah, yes! My mother did too, but--excuse me, they lacked the real artistic temperament. People with real artistic temperaments invariably tangle their silks, if only for the joy of seeing the glorious ma.s.s of colour they make matted together. Of course, if they chance to possess an idle friend, whose hands are itching for work--"

"May I? Oh, that's splendid. I have a pa.s.sion for unravelling string.

This will keep me quiet for quite a long time. Tell me what colour you want next, and I'll coax him out!"

"Green; blue. A strand of each. If you like to experiment you can try untwisting them, and mixing the shades."

Ca.s.sandra st.i.tched on, a smile on her lips, but Dane, having extracted the desired threads with unexpected ease, was too much engrossed in watching to make any further effort on his own account. The graceful, wholly feminine pose was another picture to add to the mental gallery.

His eyes followed the sweep of the right hand, and he said involuntarily:

"That's a beautiful ring! I noticed it the first time I played bridge with you. I've never seen you without it. It's the most beautiful ring I have ever seen."

She stayed her work to turn her hand and look at the ring with a scrutinising glance. "Yes; it's a good stone. I like it too. It was my mother's," she said calmly. There was no consciousness in her face of the beauty of the hand itself. The thoughtful look was the result of a puzzling question. As Peignton's admiration for emeralds was so great, why had he not given one to his _fiancee_ instead of the orthodox row of diamonds? As though one personal remark called forth another, she turned suddenly to him and asked, "How did you fall yesterday?

Everyone told a different tale. Were you really climbing over the rockery?"

"I was. I'm afraid I did some damage to the bulbs as well as myself, but you had told me that the saxifrages were partial to boots. I thought I was perfectly safe. I _was_, until by bad luck I stepped on to one of those big--er--"

"Clinkers?"

"Clinkers--yes! that's it, and it rolled over and brought me with it, with my foot twisted beneath me."

"It had probably been put in this year. The old, moss-covered stones are safe enough. I'm sorry if I misled you. What did you want to do?"

To her surprise the colour rose in his cheeks. He took up the tangled silks and smoothed them out with elaborate precaution.

"I wanted a sprig of that sweet stuff for my coat. The sweet stuff you wore the afternoon we ran away."

There was a tone in his voice which quickened the beat of Ca.s.sandra's heart, but she shrugged her shoulders with an affectation of resignation.

"You are determined to put the blame on me! By your own account I seem to have lured you on by both precept and example. What would men do without the poor women to carry the blame? Bernard is never really consoled about any mishap until he has traced its origin back to me.

It's difficult sometimes when it's some matter connected with the land, about which I know nothing, but he had a bright inspiration about that one day, and declared that things had gone wrong because I _didn't_ interest myself! If I _had_ taken an interest, the deal would have been a success! I used to defend myself at one time. Now I don't. I know that one of the ways I can help him is by letting him work off his irritation by blaming someone else. In his heart he knows perfectly well that he is talking nonsense. At least, I suppose he does! _I_ always know when I'm deceiving myself."

The blood rushed to her face as she finished speaking, for an inner voice seemed to jeer at the spoken words, to laugh with a saturnine unbelief. She hurried breathlessly on: "In your case, I do really seem to blame. I did mislead you. I was in a truant mood that afternoon, and forgot my responsibilities. You must forgive me, and let me do all I can to help your convalescence."

"Thanks," Peignton said absently. He sighed with profound regret.

"That summer-house is so far away. I shan't be able to get so far. I should have enjoyed another tea. What about the Bath chair?"

Ca.s.sandra shook her head.

"That summer-house is my own special property. I admit a friend on occasion, but never more than one. I even put up with tinned milk, rather than let the household know where I disappear for so many of the missing teas. If one of the men wheeled your chair for you, there would be no more chance of running away."

Peignton's look showed a latent jealousy.

"Whom have you taken there besides myself?"

"Not many. One or two only, until the last months. Then--pretty often--Mrs Beverley."

The jealousy was still to the fore.

"You are very devoted to Mrs Beverley?"

"I'm thankful to say, I am! I needed a woman friend, and we were friends at once. There were no preliminary stages. At our second meeting it seemed absurd to address each other by formal t.i.tles. I knew her better at that early stage, than many of the women who have been my neighbours for years."

"I should have thought," Peignton said slowly, "that at this period of her existence Mrs Beverley was too much engrossed with her man to have any interest to spare for an outside friendship."

The latent grudge sounded in his voice. Ca.s.sandra discerned it, and turned upon him with a smile. Without troubling to think why or wherefore, she knew that he was jealous of her intimacy with Grizel, and the knowledge was balm to her soul.