"It's hopeless, Dane; it's hopeless! There is too much between. You must banish me from your life, and make the most of what is left. Isn't it strange how in one of our first real talks we discussed makeshifts, and I asked you if you could manage to be happy, if you were denied the best. You answered so certainly; seemed to think it so poor-spirited to waste life in regrets. My poor Dane, now you will have to turn your words into deeds!

"By the time we return home, you will probably have left Chumley. I can feel that it would be better so. The agony of knowing that you were near, not seeing you, or seeing you only in public, would be more than I could bear, and--there is your engagement! I can't write of that, or of her--but surely for a time at least, you would be better apart! And we must school ourselves, Dane--we must get accustomed.

"Oh, beloved, just once, before it is good-bye, I thank you for loving me,--I thank you for all you have given, I thank you for all you have received. It was only for a little time, but you _did_ open the gates of Eden! we _did_ walk in Paradise; we did taste and know the perfection of content! It was all beautiful, all clean, all white, and because it can't live on and keep its beauty, we'll bury it, Dane, deep in our hearts, and live on as bravely as we may!

"Ca.s.sandra."

Dane's reply came by return of post:

"Beloved! Mrs Beverley sent for me and gave me your message. I have been to see her every day since you left. I don't know how I should have existed without her. Every day has seemed a year. I made sure you would write; I knew you _must_ write, but it was a long waiting.

"Yes! I willed you to come to me that night. I nearly succeeded, it appears. G.o.d forgive me, I wish it had been quite! Every hour of those long days I hoped against hope for a summons from you, and then at last Wednesday came, and I made sure of meeting.--I nearly went mad, sitting in that summer-house, realising that you were not coming, imagining all kinds of wild, impossible things. It was balm to know that at least you had _wanted_ to come.

"G.o.d bless you, my beautiful, for your sweet, words! My love for you has been the glory of my life. From the first moment that we met, you have been my Queen, and I your servant, waiting to obey. I will obey you now. Since it will be easier for you if I am at a distance, I will arrange to leave Chumley at once. Things fit in easily. I dropped Paley a hint that I was unsettled, and he sends me the kindest invitation to join him in Italy. I shall go there, I think, for the next few months, and your wonderful Grizel is already planning for the future. There are a number of wealthy relations, so to speak, at her feet, having come into their wealth through her disinterestedness in marrying Beverley, and amongst them such a thing as a small land agency should be easily obtained.

"We'll see! I can't think about the future at present, or anything but just--_thee_! There is much in your letter that I can't answer; daren't trust myself to answer. How could a man grow cold? But it is not for me to make things more difficult. When I realise how little I have to offer and how much you stand to lose, my lips are sealed. There could be no happiness for me, if I ruined your life.

"Mrs Beverley has done me good. I was a madman when I went to her, but she has calmed me into my right mind. She understands. I retract all I have ever said in disparagement of 'Grizel.' But I was jealous of her happiness, seeing You sad.

"One word I must add... My engagement will formally continue. I have explained everything. She knows that at any time a word from you would bring me to your side; but she still wishes me to take no public step, until a year has pa.s.sed. If I were to remain in Chumley the thing would be impossible, but at a distance,--as it makes things easier for her, I can hardly refuse. She is very generous to me, Ca.s.sandra; very sweet.

I wish I could love her as she deserves. For her sake, and yours, I am torn with regret; for my own, even now in the first smart of the wound, I have none. When I philosophised so lightly, I spoke without experience. I had never known the best. Now I do know, and the knowledge is worth its price. Our own door is barred, Ca.s.sandra, but we have a key in our hands which opens many doors!

"Dane."

CHAPTER TWENTY NINE.

MAJOR MALLISON, OR THE DART OF DEATH.

It was a spring morning, a year from the day when Mary Mallison had left home, and the remaining three members of the family at the Cottage were seated round the breakfast table. The pa.s.sage of a single year leaves little impression in the appearance of grown men and women, but this instance was the exception to the rule, for an observant eye would have noted in each countenance something that had been missing twelve months before.

The Major had aged, in spirit as well as body. He ate little, but moved his lips continually in nerve-racked fashion, his faded eyes wandered here and there with a pitiful unrest. Mrs Mallison had noted the symptoms and ordered cod-liver oil, and the Major swallowed the doses with resignation, feeling the cure less obnoxious than continuous argument. A large bottle of the oil stood in readiness on a table near the door.

Mrs Mallison was stout and bustling as ever, but had lost her erstwhile complacency. In truth, though the good lady kept up a valiant presence in public, she was little pleased with the way things were going with her two daughters. A year ago both had been on the wave of prosperity, but the wave had floated them into a backwater, rather than to the haven where she would have them be. Mary was still wandering about the Continent, and mentioning no date for her return.

After several months in Switzerland she had crossed the frontier into Italy, had visited Rome and Florence and Venice, and was now domiciled in Paris. She wrote regularly once a fortnight, but her letters were extraordinarily unenlightening. Travellers' letters are as a rule boring in their minutiae, but Mary never attempted a word of description. She simply gave a list of the things she had seen, with an occasional addition of "it was very beautiful," which fact, as Mrs Mallison tartly remarked, her readers knew without being told. She sent home no presents as mementoes to the stay-at-homes. As a rich, independent daughter Mary could not be considered a success.

Teresa's marriage hung fire! Mrs Mallison was a talkative woman, and it was to her credit that even to her husband she had not allowed her growing distrust of Dane Peignton to find vent in words. But day after day she asked herself the same question. Since the man cared enough for Teresa to ask her to be his wife, why did he not show a natural desire to be married? It was no question of means, for the new agency was sufficiently good, and included the use of a delightful house. It could be no question of health, since he had not been laid up a day the whole winter, and if, as was represented, his responsibility was such that he could not spare even a week at Christmas to visit Chumley, all the more reason that he should have a wife to look after his home! Teresa herself appeared to accept the delay as a matter of course, but her mother's eyes were sharp enough to see through the pretence. The girl was unhappy; the girl was fretting; her persistent cheerfulness was a cloak to cover a wound; when she thought herself un.o.bserved her face fell into weary lines. Yes! Teresa was unhappy, but with a mother's jealous pride in a daughter's attractiveness, Mrs Mallison told herself that, thank goodness! it hadn't spoiled the girl's good looks. She looked thinner perhaps; a trifle older, but there was something which added to her charm. She did not acknowledge in so many words that a hard face had softened, but told herself rea.s.suringly that Dane would notice the improvement,--when he returned!

Anxiety about her daughters had made Mrs Mallison more than usually un.o.bservant of her husband during the last few months. She cherished one or two axioms concerning him which lived on unchanged from year to year. One was that "Papa was always ailing," another that "Papa was so tiresome," a third that in dealing with Papa, it was wisdom to "take no notice." The cod-liver oil was the only concession she had made to the increasing weakness which she could not ignore.

Breakfast was finished, and half a dozen letters were distributed round the table. Teresa turned over her share with an eager hand, and paled into indifference. It was with an obvious effort that she tore open an envelope, and made a pretence of reading. This morning at least she had made sure of a letter from Dane. It was eight days since she had heard from him last, and up till now he had written regularly once a week.

They were not lover-like letters, those chronicles of daily doings, and allusions to the leading events of the day, but such as they were, they made the sum of Teresa's life. She read each letter many times, yearning to find in it some trace of returning love, and once or twice of late she had believed the search successful. On one occasion her own weekly letter had been delayed, and Dane wrote that he had been uneasy all day fearing that she was ill. Again, writing of the loneliness of a life among strangers, he had afterwards inserted a closely written phrase: "_Less lonely after your sweet words_!" Teresa read that sentence with a thrill of intensest relief. Throughout the months of separation, she had persistently written to Dane in the same outspoken loving manner as she had done before the fateful visit to Gled Bay. He knew that she loved him, she was trusting to that love as the magnet which should draw him back to her side, and would not allow pride to stand in its way. Nevertheless, receiving those formally written answers, it was inevitable that she should experience moments of smarting doubt. Was she humbling herself to reap only impatience and contempt? And then, after five long months, had come that blessed rea.s.surement.

"Less lonely, after your sweet words!"

Teresa had gone proudly after the receipt of that message, but she was hungry for more. The waiting seemed longer than ever, now that hope revived.

This morning at breakfast Teresa's thoughts were so busily occupied with her _fiance_ that she barely realised the meaning of the words on the sheet before her. She was automatically turning to read them once more when her attention was attracted by a movement at the end of the table where her father had his place.

A moment before the Major had opened a long business-like letter which he still clasped in both hands, but he had fallen back in his chair, and his face was blanched and terrible to behold. As Teresa stared in amaze it seemed to her that with every second his body was changing, growing smaller, and more helpless. "Father!" she cried loudly. "Father!" but he had no eyes for her, he was staring across the table into his wife's face.

"Margaret!" he gasped. "Margaret. It is ruin! I am a murderer, Margaret, a thief--I've played with the money that belonged to you, and the children, and it's gone. We are ruined, Margaret!--it is all gone.

What have I done! What have I done!"

Mrs Mallison rose from her seat and hurried round the table. She opened her arms as she went; they were wide open when she reached her husband's side, and he shrank into them, his head sliding downward on her shoulder with a strange unnatural looseness. "As if he had no neck," Teresa thought to herself as she looked on, "as if he had no neck!"

"There, my dear, there!" cried the wife tenderly, "don't get upset!

Whatever you've done, you meant it for the best. We know you well enough to be sure of that. There, my dear, there! You've been good to us for thirty-five years--we're not going to blame you if you've made a mistake now... Teresa! speak to your father... comfort him... Henry, look up!... My G.o.d... Henry, _speak_!"

Her voice rose to a wail, for even as she spoke, even as she cradled him in her arms, the bolt fell,--so suddenly, so swiftly, that one second it was not, and the next it was there. One side of the face crumpled and fell, the eye closed, the mouth stretched in a ghastly grin. His wife seized his right arm, and shook it violently, but it fell to his side, heavy as lead. Within the loose tweed coat the shoulder seemed to disappear.

"Mother, Mother!" cried Teresa wildly, "you were so kind to him. You were so kind... You didn't blame him one bit."

They got him to bed and sent for the doctor, but he never regained consciousness. Before the afternoon was over he had breathed his last.

"And now, I suppose," Mrs Mallison said dully, "Mary will come home."

CHAPTER THIRTY.

A MEETING.

Mary came speeding home by the first train after receipt of the telegraphic message, and arrived at the Cottage on the afternoon of the following day.

A strange maid with a scared expression opened the door, and stared aghast as the new arrival pushed past her into the dining-room.

The room was empty, and Mary stood upon the threshold looking round the familiar scene, which seemed so strangely altered by her year's absence.

The blinds were drawn, but even in the half-lights its proportions appeared shrunken, its furnishings shabby and poor. On the centre table stood a bowl of spring flowers, and two or three store catalogues, certain pages of which were marked with strips of writing paper. It seemed to Mary that those books had lain in identically the same positions on the morning on which she had left home, but then the marked pages had been those of Trousseaux, and now... Instinctively she opened the nearest volume, and shrank at the sight of monumental stones and crosses.

The next moment the door opened, and Mrs Mallison entered the room.

From an upper room she had heard the sounds of arrival, and for the moment the mother in her forgot everything but the fact that her child had returned. She held out her arms, and smiled with twitching lips, and Mary ran to her, and clung round her neck, with arms which seemed as if they would never let go. It was not the thought of her father that prompted that close embrace, it was the remembrance of a year of days spent in establishments, a year of aimless hours, a year of living among strangers, who cared nothing, noticed nothing! neither praised nor blamed. She had tasted liberty, and liberty had been sweet, but there was a great loneliness in her heart, and the clasp of mother arms were as balm to a wound.

"Mother, Mother!" gasped Mary sobbing.

"Mary, Mary!" quavered Mrs Mallison in reply, then at last they drew apart, regarding each other, with half-shy scrutiny. Mrs Mallison had rushed into the orthodox fitments with a haste which seemed to Teresa positively indecent, but it obviously soothed the widow to don her new cap, and st.i.tch muslin cuffs and collar on a black silk dress. The result, taken in conjunction with a natural paleness of complexion, was undoubtedly softening, and made a further appeal to Mary's heart.

"You look pale, Mother. You are not ill? Oh, don't be ill! We can't spare you too!"

"No, no, my dear. I am quite well. It was a great shock... but there was no nursing. It would have been worse if he'd been ill long. Sit down, my dear... You must have some milk... He came down to breakfast quite himself, but depressed. He had been depressed--" She saw Mary wince, and hurried into explanations.--"About business... Not you, my dear! He had got over that. So interested in your letters... Poor Papa! investments had been bad, and he was led into speculation. I never suspected.--He never confided in me. He knew that I should object. Papa could be very self-willed. It's the way with these mild characters; all of a sudden they get the bit in their teeth, and there's no stopping them." She saw Mary wince again, and gave a peal to the bell. "You must have some milk! Or tea? Shall I hurry up tea? Tea, please, Mason, and don't toast the m.u.f.fin until you've brought in the tray. It was cold yesterday.--I was telling you, Mary, that he had had bad news... opened a letter after breakfast and there it was.--He read it through, and called out to me: 'Margaret! Margaret!'..." The large, complacent face shivered suddenly into tears. "It was years--years-- since he had called me that!"

Mary took out her handkerchief, and wiped her own eyes. She was sorry for her mother, but the habit of thinking first of herself had grown too strong to be overcome.

"Did he--did he speak of me?"

"My dear, there was no time. It fell on him at that very moment--the stroke! He never spoke again. Those were his last words, 'Margaret!

Margaret!'--as he used to call to me when we were young, before you children were born."