"I'll tell you a secret!" she said, stopping her work to emphasise her words with uplifted finger. "_No_ man can altogether engross a woman!

However good, and fine, and tender he may be, there's still a need within her that only a woman can fill. The happiest married woman needs a woman friend. The better the husband, the more she needs her. A good man is so aggravatingly free from littlenesses. He objects to grumbling; he makes the best of misfortunes; he refuses to repeat gossip; he has a tiresome habit of imagining that his wife means everything she says. If a woman is to endure a good husband with any resignation, she must have another woman near by with whom she can let herself go!"

They laughed together, and Ca.s.sandra stretched out her hand for the silks which Dane was smoothing between his palms. Just for a moment the two hands touched, but after that moment there followed a pause of mutual self-consciousness. Ca.s.sandra bent her head, unwinding and re-winding her silks with careful deliberation. Dane played with the tangled ball, longing, yet not daring to ask what shade would be next required. He looked with distaste upon the two separate threads; wondering how long they would take to work. When Ca.s.sandra spoke again, she surprised him by a personal question:

"How soon are you to be married, Captain Peignton?"

For a moment he stared in surprise. Then he laughed.

"Apropos of good husbands?"

"I was not thinking of the connection, but let us hope it _is_ apropos.

Soon, I suppose? Men are generally impatient."

"Are they?" He knit his brows, and appeared to consider the subject.

"I don't know that I am impatient. Being engaged is quite a pleasant condition. It's an opportunity of getting thoroughly acquainted. It doesn't seem fair on the girl to rush her into a hasty marriage. And in the meantime I have no settled home. I could leave the Moat at any time, if there were a sufficient reason, but Paley will be home in autumn. I should like to stay on until his return. It has fitted in very well for me having the run of the place while he is away, and I don't want to make a convenience of him. He wants me to put up at the Moat over Christmas, and have some hunting, and then, if I can find it, I'd like a small agency just to add the jam to my own bread. Perhaps next spring..."

A year from now! Ca.s.sandra was conscious of mingled dismay and relief.

A year more of friendship and understanding; a year more of unrest. For her own sake she could not decide whether she were glad or regretful, but she thought of Mrs Mallison and the pile of catalogues on a table when she had paid her visit of congratulation, and from her heart she was sorry for Teresa.

"I was engaged for six weeks," she said, shrugging, and Dane opened his lips eagerly, choked back the coming words, and mumbled a conventional astonishment. She longed to know what he had been about to say!

For the next half-hour Ca.s.sandra st.i.tched steadily at the under-robe of the pictured dame, but Peignton had not another chance of feeling the electric thrill of contact as his fingers met hers. She declared that he ruffled the surface of the silks, and insisted upon unravelling for herself.

At half-past four a manservant announced Teresa's arrival. She had been shown into the drawing-room, and Ca.s.sandra rose to go to her, gathering her work materials together on the table. Peignton's eyes were wistful as they followed her movements; again she had the impression that he was on the point of speaking some eager words, but again he checked himself, and was silent.

"I will bring Teresa up to you," she said quickly. "You will enjoy a talk with her before tea."

At five o'clock tea was carried into the Den, and the Squire and Ca.s.sandra came in to share in the meal. They found Teresa sitting close to the couch, in a somewhat aggressive att.i.tude of possession. She had less colour than usual, and her eyes looked tired, and Peignton's first words concerned her health.

"This girl has no business to be out," he said kindly. "She is quite hoa.r.s.e and wheezy. I tell her she is a dozen times worse than I am.

I'm afraid she has taken a chill."

"Oh, Teresa, _don't_ be ill after my bulb party!" Ca.s.sandra entreated.

"Every year I have a batch of colds on my conscience, and this year there is an ankle thrown in. I'll order the car for you later on, and you must take half a dozen remedies to-night, to nip it in the bud."

"It's no use," Teresa said gloomily. "All the remedies in the world won't stop my colds when they once get a start. They begin on my chest, and work steadily up to my head, and I'm fit for nothing but a desert island for a week or ten days. I came out to-day because I knew it would be my last chance. I shall be worse for it, of course; but I don't care. I had to see Dane."

"Well!" cried Peignton with an air of imparting solace, "if you are going to drive home there is no need to hurry. Now that the Squire is in and we are a four, what about a game of bridge?"

"Well thought of! So we will! Good idea!" cried the Squire heartily.

Teresa smiled; a thin, artificial smile.

At seven o'clock Ca.s.sandra wrapped her visitor in a warm coat, and walked beside her down the staircase. During the pauses of the game the wheezing of which Dane had spoken had been distinctly audible, and there was no doubt that the girl was in the initial stage of a chest cold.

She was low-spirited too, impatient with the contrariety of fate.

"Just my luck!" she said crossly. "Now, of all times, when Dane has this tiresome ankle, and needs me to cheer him up. A man hates sitting still, and of course you have a hundred engagements. If he'd been with us, I could have amused him all day long."

"It wouldn't have been very amusing for him, if you had been in bed with an attack of bronchitis! It _is_ hard luck, Teresa. But you must nurse yourself, and get better quickly. Captain Peignton will soon be able to come to see you. Till then, I'll do everything I can."

"Oh, I know you will. Of course. You are most awfully kind. But _still_!" cried Teresa eloquently.

Ca.s.sandra went back to her boudoir, and stood face to face with her own thoughts. What a complex thing was human nature; how many separate selves went up to make a whole! One part of her was sorry, quite honestly and unfeignedly sorry for Teresa, in that she was debarred from ministering to her lover during his confinement; another part rejoiced with a ruthless joy. For three or four days out of a lifetime, fate had decreed that Dane should be left in her own charge, dependent upon her for society. She clutched at her chance with greedy hands.

"They are all I shall have. I shall have to live on them all my life,"

Ca.s.sandra said in her heart. Then her lips trembled, and she spoke aloud in a low, trembling voice. "I suppose I love him. I suppose that's what it means.--I _know_ I love him! Oh, Teresa, it won't hurt you to spare him to me for just four days!"

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN.

OUT OF THE CAGE.

Teresa's attack of bronchitis kept her on the sick list for several weeks, and it was not until she was able to go about the house as usual, that Mary found an opportunity for escape.

Every morning when Mrs Mallison was fresh and vigorous after a night of uninterrupted sleep, she informed the wearied night nurse that no money in the world could be so sweet as the privilege of ministering to a dear one in the hour of suffering: every evening when she was fatigued by the day's fussings to and fro, she prophesied her own imminent decease, and put it to Mary, as a Christian woman, how she would feel if she took her hand from the yoke! Out of her husband's hearing also she sang constant laments on the price of patent foods and fresh eggs, and gave instructions that on the first moment of sickening, she herself was to be despatched to the district hospital. Teresa, tossing restlessly on her pillows, would interpose an impatient, "Oh, mother, don't be silly!"

but Mary had relapsed into her old silence, and automatically continued the work in hand, vouchsafing no reply. But in her bedroom the big new box was packed ready for flight, and every evening before she went to bed, she took her cheque-book from her desk, and fingered it with reverent touches.

Everything was ready. Quietly and steadily she had made her preparations, and on the morning when Teresa made her first reappearance at breakfast, the last barrier was withdrawn.

"_So_ nice to be all together again!" Mrs Mallison cried gushingly.

"Plenty of fresh air, and you will soon look quite yourself, dear child.

The Captain would be sad if you lost your pretty colour. Mary shall take you a nice walk this morning. Elm Road, and round by the larches.

That will be sunny and sheltered. You can start at eleven."

"I shall not be able to take Teresa a walk. I am going to London this morning by the 10:50," said Mary quietly.

There was a moment's silence. Teresa bit her lip to repress a laugh, Mrs Mallison, crimson-cheeked, checked herself on the verge of angry words, and cast a glance at her husband.

"My dear," said the Major courteously, "I wish you a very pleasant time.

I will order a fly to take your luggage."

No one accompanied Mary to the station. Mrs Mallison detained Teresa on the score of draughts. Everybody knew that stations were the most draughty places in the world; since there was now no one to help, she herself must take Teresa a walk. They could go round by the fish shop, and order a sole. Since she was to be left alone to cope with the household, she must get into the habit of fitting things in. The Major retired to his study, obviously ill at ease, and reappeared only at the last moment, to peck at his daughter's cheek with chilly lips, and reiterate, "My dear, I wish you a pleasant time," but Mary caught a glimpse of his bald head at the window as the fly crawled down the lane, and it did not raise her spirits to remember that she had wounded her father's heart. That morning, for the first time in her life, Mary travelled in a first-cla.s.s carriage, an experience far from exciting, since it meant remaining in solitary splendour for the whole of the journey. She found little improvement in comfort, but so far from regretting the expenditure of extra shillings, dwelt on it as the only satisfying part of the proceeding. It was a real joy to her to have disbursed eighteen shillings, when only six were necessary, for to a woman who has escaped the miser taint, the mere action of spending has a lure, and Mary had counted pennies all her life. She sat staring out of the dusty windows, wondering even at this eleventh hour where she should go when she reached her destination. The question was not solved, when she found herself seated in a taxi, with the driver's head peering through the window, awaiting instructions.

"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 c.o.c.kney 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 a.s.sent than refuse, so she allowed herself to be a.s.sisted into the tonneau of a pa.s.sing 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 surrept.i.tious 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.