There was evident solace in the remembrance, despite the tears which it evoked. Mary made a futile effort to conjure up a picture of youthful parents, loving each other, living in happy comradeship, and then reverted to her mother's words of a few moments before.

"Bad news! Speculations?... How much had he lost?"

Mrs Mallison's hands twitched, she clasped them tightly upon her knee.

"He said--all! He said--ruin! It's too early yet to be sure. Mr Maitland will make enquiries... I knew he had been selling out shares.

I thought it was to reinvest in some better security. Papa was always close about business. If he speculated with the princ.i.p.al, and it has gone, it will be"--the hands jerked once more--"ruin!"

"You will have five hundred a year, Mother," Mary said quietly. "Teresa will marry, and you and I--we can be quite comfortable on five hundred a year."

Mrs Mallison's eyes shot out a sideways glance, and beheld before her the Mary of old, seated with bowed back and bowed head in her old chair in the corner by the fire-place, and the year that had pa.s.sed rolled from her memory like a worrying dream.

"Of course," she said briskly, "we must remove. There will be no necessity for so many rooms. If we put out the washing we can manage quite nicely with one maid, and you to a.s.sist in the mornings. After being idle for so long, you will enjoy making yourself of use."

"I think I shall," said Mary. And she meant it.

The maid brought in the tray at that moment, the subject was necessarily dropped. Probably a fortune of ten thousand pounds has never changed hands so swiftly and silently! From that hour to the day of her death, Mrs Mallison showed no sign of realising that she was living on her daughter's money, not her own.

The tea was poured out, the m.u.f.fin was brought in, piping hot, under its silver cover, before Teresa made her appearance, and Mary, staring with blank eyes at a tall, thin girl, with pale cheeks and listless eyes, felt that this was not the Teresa of yore, but a stranger with whom she had no acquaintance.

The sisters embraced, in silence, and with a listlessness as p.r.o.nounced on one side as the other. There was no sign in Teresa's manner of the remorseful affection which her letter had expressed. "She looks--like me!" said Mary to herself, and her eyes strayed to her sister's left hand. The flash of diamonds showed that there was no avowed breach with Dane, though the mystery of the deferred marriage was still to be solved. Mary found no clue thereto in her mother's continued monologue, though it was discursive enough to take in the whole countryside.

"Teresa will be glad to have you back--so much to do... The bell has been ringing all day long. Lovely flowers! A wreath of lilies from the Court. And there will be the cards... We shall have to draw one out.

There _were_ no kind enquiries, so we can't thank for them. It was so sudden; only a few minutes. He called out for me--I went to him, and held his poor head. Teresa said I was kind. Of course I was kind! He called me 'Margaret,' and then--in a minute... wasn't it only a minute, Teresa? he was gone!... Poor Henry! Poor Papa! The shock was too much... 'Mrs and the Misses Mallison return warm thanks for kind sympathy in their sad and sudden bereavement,' something like that...

They have a book at the stationer's, with a selection drawn out. I've seen them at the end of the Christmas mottoes. We'll telephone... The Vicar will be in again presently. Most attentive. He enquired for you, Mary. I said we had wired. He felt quite sure you would come. Mrs Evans sent a cross. Mrs Beverley's were coloured. Pale pink roses, and a note with them. Very feeling, I must say. Being an orphan herself, she can understand. Only cards from the Court. We've seen nothing of them this last year. The Squire's mother died, so they don't entertain, and Lady Ca.s.sandra and Mrs Beverley are always together. Of course, as I tell Teresa, she's so much younger. Teresa is looking thinner, Mary, isn't she? Quite slim. You haven't altered, my dear. I see no difference. I thought perhaps you'd have changed your hair.--No!

Papa didn't speak of you specially; he hadn't time, but he spoke of his children,--something about ruining me and the children--he thought of us, not himself. I said to him, whatever he had done, he had done it for the best. Mr Hunter said the same thing this morning. He came in to offer to help. He is looking after the--er,... arranging for Thursday. Quite simple, I told him, but _good_. I could not bear to skimp for Papa. The dressmaker's coming at six..." Her face quivered and a stray tear rolled slowly down her cheek. "He looks so peaceful!... Afterwards--you must come up..."

Mary shrank. She did not want to see the still, changed effigy of what had been; she wanted to remember her father as the quiet man who had kissed her on the doorstep, and said: "My dear, I hope you may have a pleasant time," but she had not the courage to refuse. She looked appealingly at Teresa, and saw a sudden wave of feeling sweep over the pale face. From without came the sound of wheels, a heavy, lumbering sound which to Chumley ears announced the advent of one of the venerable station flies. The next moment the bell rang, and a man's footstep was heard in the hall. "The Vicar!" murmured Mrs Mallison, but Mary knew it was not the Vicar; the look on her sister's face announced too surely the name of the new-comer.

There came a pause, while the new maid was escorting the visitor into the drawing-room, and came back to announce his name.

"Captain Peignton."

Teresa took the words out of her mother's mouth.

"Ask him to come here."

She rose from her seat, and stood waiting, so calm, so dignified, so arresting in her slim young pallor, that Mrs Mallison's reproaches died on her lips. She rose in her turn, and stood beside her daughter with an unconscious air of protection, and then Dane entered, and the long-dreaded, long-prayed-for meeting had taken place.

He came forward, eager, sympathetic, his own embarra.s.sment forgotten in affectionate concern. Looking at him as he entered, one divined that his impulse was to kiss and caress, as he had been accustomed to do in the early days of his engagement, but that impulse received a check at the sight of the two waiting figures,--Mrs Mallison in her widow's trappings, and beside her, the white silent girl. Dane shared Mary's dazed feeling of meeting a stranger, as he shook Teresa's limp hand, which yet had strength enough to hold him at arm's length. He heard her voice enquiring as to the comfort of his journey, offering him tea and cakes; there was in it a note of detachment which he had never before heard when she was addressing himself.

As he drank his tea, and listened to the hum of Mrs Mallison's reiterated reminiscences, Dane was conscious of a feeling of flatness and disappointment. The year's absence from Chumley had wrought the inevitable result. He loved Ca.s.sandra none the less, but the eyes that had been blinded by pa.s.sion could now discern that he had been saved from a great wrong, and if life still appeared grey and barren, he acknowledged that he had escaped the harder fate of attaining his desire at the cost of bitterness of soul. And throughout the months of struggle, this girl's tenderness had enveloped him, an unfaltering tenderness, undaunted by neglect. It was only during the last few months that Dane had begun to realise the healing quality of that tenderness, to count the days until the arrival of the weekly letter, to find himself mentally repeating its phrases; slowly, but surely, his wounded heart had been opening to take comfort in Teresa's love, and when suddenly she was plunged into trouble, he had hurried to her, with a genuine impulse of tenderness. In imagination he had seen her face lighten with joy, had felt her arms around his neck.--It was the most startling thing in the world to find Teresa _cold_!

When tea was over Mary lifted her gloves and veil murmuring some unintelligible words, whereupon Teresa rose so quickly as to give the idea that she was glad of the excuse.

"I will come with you! Your room is not quite ready. You must come to mine." She turned to Dane holding out her hand with a flickering smile.

"You will excuse me, Dane. We are so busy... The Vicar is coming in later, and Mr Hunter, and the dressmaker... There's so much to be done... We will see you again?"

She turned away, without waiting for a reply, and Dane reseated himself in silence. To say that he was surprised, but feebly expresses his sentiments; he was stunned, he could hardly persuade himself that he had heard aright. He looked eagerly at Mrs Mallison, seeking a clue from her, and beheld a kindred surprise, mingled with an unmistakable complacence. Obviously the mother approved of her daughter's reserve, and felt a natural satisfaction in his rebuff, but before the silence had continued long enough to become awkward, she remembered her duties as hostess, and vouchsafed an explanation:

"Mary arrived just before tea... They have not seen each other for a year.--So much has happened..."

"Of course. Just so... I quite understand," Dane said vaguely. Then, after a moment's pause, "Teresa looks thin!" he added anxiously. "This has been a great shock to her."

"M-yes!" Mrs Mallison said. Just the one word, yet Dane found himself flushing guiltily, and realising that he was _meant_ to realise that no shock, however great, could alter a girl's physique, as Teresa had altered since he had seen her last. He dropped the subject, and tried another.

"I came as quickly as I could after getting the news. I hoped I might be in time to help. What arrangements,... can I help you to make arrangements?"

"Thank you very much, but everything is settled. Mr Hunter is looking after everything. I expect him this evening to talk over details. The day after to-morrow, at twelve o'clock. Will it be possible for you to stay?"

Again Dane was conscious of shock, followed by a pang of something curiously like irritation. Hunter? How did Hunter come to be on such intimate terms? Then he remembered that Hunter was a doctor, and felt a rising of spirits. Of course! Quite natural! Hunter had been in attendance.

"Of course I shall stay. I hope I may be of some use to you later, on.

I'm glad you had someone on the spot. Hunter is the young doctor, isn't he? Extraordinarily kind, these doctor fellows on occasions like these!"

"M-yes," said Mrs Mallison once more, and there rose before Dane's eyes a picture of Teresa, in a white dress, dispensing garden tea, with a tall young figure a.s.siduously waiting upon her. Once more he realised that that "M-yes!" was meant to imply that more than mere professional interest was at stake.

The sound of a bell jingled through the quiet house, and Dane rose from his chair. Of old he had been as a son in this house, treated with affection and familiarity, but at this moment he felt an intruder, whose presence was merely an inconvenience, taking up time which should have been bestowed elsewhere. He held out his hand, and said:

"At what hour to-morrow will it be most convenient for me to call to see Teresa?"

"I will ask her," Mrs Mallison said, and left the room, to return with astonishing quickness. Evidently there had been no hesitation about the reply; evidently also the maternal judgment approved.

"Teresa says she will be glad if you will excuse her to-morrow. There is so much to do. She would rather leave her own affairs until after the funeral. Perhaps you will come in to tea on Thursday."

"Thank you. I will come in after tea. About five o'clock. I am staying at the hotel. Please let me know if there is anything I can do."

He kept his voice resolutely controlled, but his anger showed in sparkling eye, and a rising of colour over cheek and brow. Mrs Mallison regarded these signs with a natural satisfaction. It was not in feminine human nature to resist one parting thrust.

"One day," she said suavely, "cannot matter, when you have waited so long!"

CHAPTER THIRTY ONE.

THE SECOND BEST.

Dane awoke next morning to face a long and difficult day. Idle hours are proverbially dedicated to temptation, and despite many resolutions his thoughts drifted continually towards Ca.s.sandra, continually emphasised her nearness, and dallied with the possibility of a meeting.

He swore that such a meeting should not be his own doing, but what if chance brought it about?

For some moments he permitted himself to envisage possibilities, then sternly called himself to order. Teresa in sorrow demanded an undivided loyalty; her tenderness during the past year riveted her claims. He determined to telephone to the Squire, apologise for his own inability to call at the Court, and try to arrange a meeting in town, but half an hour later as he stood on the step of the hotel, he saw the familiar dog-cart driving towards him, and heard himself hailed in loud, well-known tones.

"Halloa, Peignton! Heard you were here. Drove round to say how d'you do." The Squire gave the reins to the groom. "I'll come inside and have a smoke... Poor old fellow went off in a hurry, eh? S'pose you are staying over the funeral?"

"Yes. Till Friday morning. I'm glad you called. I was going to ring you up, and explain that I should have no time to pay calls..."

"No. No. Of course not. Son of the house; you'll have the whole show on your hands. And Teresa, eh? Bit of lost time to make up, what?

Thought you were never going to turn up again... You know your own business best, of course..."