"I do," Dane said firmly, but the Squire was not sensitive to rebuffs.

"Well!"--he said slowly--"that is as it may be. All the same, if you leave things much longer, and she falls to pieces as she's been doing lately, there'll be no Teresa left... Bad business this money trouble!

Who would have thought that solemn old buffer could have been such a giddy owl?"

Dane sat, unlighted cigarette in hand, gazing at him in dismay.

"What money trouble?"

"Mean to say you don't _know_? They didn't tell you?"

"Not a word. Money was not mentioned."

"Odd!" The Squire c.o.c.ked a suspicious eyebrow. "_Very_ odd, considering your position. Evans told me. No secret about it. It's over the whole place. The old man had been selling out shares, and reinvesting under the advice of some unprincipled scoundrel. The old story--a huge fraud, got up for the special benefit of rural investors, ten per cent, interest, paid once; and then--smash! The poor old fellow got the news at the breakfast table, called out to his wife that he was ruined, and fizzled up, then and there. Had a stroke, and died in her arms. Far as Evans understands there'll be nothing left for 'em but a twopenny pension."

Dane was silent, digesting the startling news. The _menage_ at the Cottage had suggested a comfortable, if modest income; in the one official interview which he had had with the Major, he had been informed that Teresa would eventually inherit some seven or eight thousand pounds. Now, by all accounts, the prospective fortune had vanished, and she was left penniless, dependent on--? On what? The answer to that question came in a rush of tender understanding. Poor, poor, little girl! Was _this_ the reason of her coldness? Did she fear that a sense of duty would urge him to a marriage from which his heart still shrank?

Poor, proud, little girl! While she had something to give, she could plead her own cause, but a penniless Teresa would accept no favour. On the whole the news of the Major's losses brought Dane more relief than sorrow. It solved the mystery of his chilling reception.

"Humph--yes! bad business--bad business," soliloquised the Squire.

"Eldest daughter came in for a bit of money, but she's kicked over the traces... Rather a pill for her to settle down again with the old woman,--what? Of course, you can look after Teresa..."

"I can," Dane said. After a moment's pause he continued deliberately.

"I shall arrange for our marriage to take place as early as possible.

Mrs Mallison may have conventional scruples... she probably will, but she'll have to give way. I can't stay longer than Friday, and I must get things settled before I leave." He rose, and straightened his shoulders with the air of a man throwing off a weight. "You--er--you will tell Lady Ca.s.sandra my plans, and explain to her that my time is so limited that I--er--"

"Certainly. Certainly. She wouldn't expect it, my dear man. As a matter of fact she and Mrs Beverley are off in town for the day,-- frock-hunting, I believe. They're always at it. Ripping little woman, Mrs Beverley! lots of fun, but plenty of common sense tucked away inside. Been a regular G.o.dsend to Ca.s.sandra..."

"Lady Ca.s.sandra is quite well?"

"Humph!" the Squire protruded his under lip. "So, so. Had a bit of a breakdown in autumn. We had a hard time of it, after you left. My old Mater had a stroke, and we were down in Devonshire looking after her for a couple of months. She got on like a house on fire: helpless, you know--couldn't stir out of bed, but keen as a needle, took in all that was going on. Ca.s.sandra nursed her."

The Squire flicked the ash from his cigarette with a ruminating air.

"Rum things, women! Hated each other like poison, those two. That's to say the Mater hated Ca.s.s; jealous, because she was my wife. Ca.s.s didn't hate her... too much trouble. She was simply bored. She's given to being bored; you know that. She's bored with your Teresa. Grizel's the pa.s.sion nowadays. Grizel is always perfect. But she was good to the old Mater. Nursed her like a brick, and the old Mater lay there by the hour staring at Ca.s.s. The last words she spoke to me,--did I tell you she had a third stroke, and died suddenly, just as we were coming home?--her last words were about Ca.s.s. Thought she needed looking after, ... cheering up.--It was a great comfort to me, Peignton, that the old Mater and Ca.s.s were on good terms at the last!"

"I am quite sure it was," Dane said sincerely. He was trying to banish a picture that rose before him, of the paralysed old woman with the dead body, and the live eyes that watched, hour after hour, the beautiful tragic face of her son's wife. How much had the old Mater seen? How much had she divined?

The next morning Dane stood by Teresa's side in the graveyard of the old church, and drove back to the Cottage by her side. In the afternoon he paid a second visit, and found the Vicar and his wife drinking tea with the mourners. The two girls were silent and self-contained, but the emotions of the day had had an exciting effect on Mrs Mallison's nerves, with the gruesome result that she appeared to be in the highest of spirits. Her voluble tongue discussed times past, present, and to come, and very pointedly she gave her hearers to understand that no condolences were necessary on the score of poverty.

"We shall give up the Cottage--it is unnecessarily large now that Papa's two rooms will be empty. Is there any chance of Oak Lea falling vacant, Mrs Evans? That's the kind of house that would suit us, wouldn't it, Mary? Two nice sitting-rooms, three or four bedrooms, and not too much garden to manage with a man once a week. I should like to keep on the cart. So useful for paying calls at a distance. There _is_ a small stable at Oak Lea, I think? We'll see! We'll see! I shall quite enjoy a small, compact house. Mary and I don't need much s.p.a.ce. Teresa says we are not to count on her."

Everyone looked at Teresa, and Teresa stared fixedly at her cup. Not a tinge of colour stole into her cheek.

When the Vicar rose to leave, his wife slipped her hand through Mary's arm, and led her across the hall into the dining-room. At such a time it was natural that there should be "private words" and no one exhibited any surprise. Mrs Evans closed the door behind her, and held Mary's hand in a firm, motherly grasp.

"Mary, dear--I am a very old friend,--may I give you a word of advice?

In these days of grief and emotion, don't be tempted into making plans, which you may regret later on. Wait until you have had time to consider."

"Thank you, Mrs Evans, but what is there to consider? If Mother has no money, what can I possibly do but give her mine?"

"You must share it with her, of course; no right-minded daughter could do less. But--there are different ways of doing it, Mary, dear! It is your own money. You ought to reserve to yourself the right to decide, and to order your own life."

But Mary shook her head.

"You don't know Mother. I do. There would be no peace. I'll leave it to her to do as she likes. I've had my fling, Mrs Evans, a whole year of being alone, and free to do as I liked. I--I was very lonely. I shan't be altogether sorry..."

Mrs Evans was silent, her keen eyes fixed upon Mary's face searching for some sign of change or growth, but there was none to be seen. The vagrant year had come and gone, and had left no mark. Its end found her prepared to settle down into her old att.i.tude of dumb submission, "not altogether sorry!" Mrs Evans kissed her silently, and said no more.

In the drawing-room Dane and Teresa faced each other across the tea table. At last they were alone, safe from interruption. As the door shut behind the departing guests Dane held out his arm with a gesture of invitation, but Teresa shook her head, holding him off with a lifted hand.

"Not now. ... Wait! There is so much to be said.--Sit down, Dane. I hope you didn't think me unkind not seeing you yesterday. I couldn't!

It has been such a shock. I had to think things out. The money question alters everything. There has not been time to go into business matters, but from all we have heard, from what the letter said, it seems that this loss was the last of a series. Poor Father! he must have suffered horribly, but he said nothing; only speculated more wildly than ever, hoping to put things straight. It's a mercy Mary has her money.

She will look after Mother. It's her duty, but I am different. I could never live on Mary." She raised her voice, silencing the words on Danes' tongue. "I have told them that I shall look after myself."

"I shan't let you do that! Dear, I have only been waiting till you gave me a chance of speaking. As soon as it can possibly be arranged we must--"

But again Teresa's voice interrupted, hastily drowning his own.

"Wait, please! You must wait. I'll tell you my plans, but first, there's something I must give you back." To his dismay he saw her draw the diamond circlet from her finger; she held it towards him on an open palm. Her lips twisted in a painful effort at a smile. "You wanted to have it a year ago, and I refused. I must have seemed very bold. I have often wondered since how I could have brought myself to do it. I was thinking of myself, of course. I don't deny it. I could not bear to give you up, and I hated the thought of the gossip, and the sympathy, and the staring eyes. It hurt my pride to think of being jilted, when I'd been so proud... But most of all--_most_ of all, I thought of you!

Dane! tell me one thing! It would help me to know... Has it been any help having my letters this year? Did being engaged to me--as much as we were engaged--make things better or worse? Were you one little sc.r.a.p less lonely because I cared?"

Dane had refused to take the ring. It was still lying on Teresa's palm.

He stood over her, very pale, very drawn, his eyes gazing unfalteringly into her own.

"Teresa, you have saved me! If it had not been for you I should have taken my life. You have been an angel of patience. It has been your sweetness which saved me from despair. I have taken everything from you in my own trouble, and now, when I am cured, when you have cured me, you want me no more! What about those reasons that influenced you last year? Don't they still exist? Have you grown tired of me, Teresa?"

She shook her head, refusing to reply.

"G.o.d knows it would be no wonder if you had; not one girl in a thousand would have had your forbearance. And--those other reasons? Have you outgrown your fear of what people may say?"

"No, I haven't. I'm afraid I never shall. But,--it's over, you see,"

Teresa said quickly. "It _has_ happened. A whole year has pa.s.sed, Dane, and you have never once been to see me. Chumley has been sorry for me for months; it _expects_ me to be jilted. You need not worry about my sufferings in that respect. The worst is over... Besides, I have no intention of staying in Chumley."

Dane muttered a furious word, controlled himself, and put another question.

"What exactly is your intention, Teresa?"

"I shall take up some work. Girls always say that, and people laugh. I don't mind if they do. They won't laugh long. I shall succeed. I am the sort of person who does succeed. I like work, and I like to do it well... For two or three years I shall work hard,--so hard that I shall have no time to think..."

She stopped, leaving the effect of an unfinished sentence, but Dane had no difficulty in divining her thoughts. The sting of jealousy added force to the impulses which swept him forward to her side. This time he ignored her protests, seizing her hands and drawing her close, until her face touched his own.

"We're talking nonsense, we're talking nonsense, little girl! What do we care what people say? What does it matter what the whole world chooses to believe? You belong to me, and I'm not going to give you up!

You've had your own way; now it's my turn. You are not going to have a chance of succeeding at anything, except at being my wife! Marry me, dear girl, marry me quickly! I need you badly."

Teresa did not stir. Seen close at hand, her face looked fair, and sweet, and young, but pitifully sad. In the blue eyes there was the same sadness, and the sound of his eager words seemed but to deepen the pain. She had an air of waiting with all her being for the sound of something that had not come. Dane looked into her eyes, and understood.

Still with his arms around her he pressed her into a chair, and knelt on the floor at her feet.

"Teresa, answer! Have I always told you the truth?"

She gave a startled look, but answered unhesitatingly "Yes!"