"You can trust me to say just what is in my heart?"

She nodded slightly, motionless in his grasp.

"Teresa, darling," said Dane softly, "I love you truly. I love you with a full heart. It isn't remorse, and it isn't pity, and it isn't friendship... it's love, Teresa! Look in my eyes, and see if I am speaking the truth?"

But she had no need to look; the music of love was in his voice, and, G.o.d knew, she was hungry to be convinced. A year's suffering had carried her beyond the point of finding content in mere possession, but the knowledge of Dane's love was a salve which healed all wounds. The "something fine" in Teresa's nature showed itself at this moment in a generosity of reticence infinitely endearing to the masculine mind.

Dane waited shrinkingly to hear Ca.s.sandra's name, but he waited in vain.

Teresa asked no questions, demanded no vows,--all that was past, it was buried for ever out of mind, at the moment when for the second time she promised herself to Dane Peignton and felt his kiss of betrothal on her lips.

CHAPTER THIRTY TWO.

TERESA'S MARRIAGE.

Teresa's marriage was arranged for the following August, a month which Mrs Mallison appeared to believe was clearly appointed by Providence.

Three months was the shortest interval which could respectably elapse between a funeral and a wedding: three months, taken in conjunction with the date of half-yearly sales, was the period necessary for the preparation of a trousseau; quarter-day falling in September, there would be time to prepare for a removal after the wedding was over. It must be a quiet wedding, of course, very quiet, but _white_. Certainly Teresa must have a white wedding. It had been talked of so much, her young friends had been asked to be bridesmaids. Papa would not have liked a hole-and-corner affair. Papa dead was an even more convenient Jorkins than Papa living, and, to judge from his widow's reminiscences, would seem to have entertained strong opinions concerning the weddings of young girls. Simple, of course; quite simple, but a white dress _and_ bridesmaids, _and_ an a.s.semblage of friends. So sweet to be surrounded by loving hearts! And a cold collation. Champagne cup.

Handed round _after_ the tea and coffee. Two or three bottles would be ample. "Teresa," said the widow beaming, "will look beautiful in charmeuse!"

Peignton, like every other prospective bridegroom, would have preferred to be married in an empty church, but Teresa sparkled at the prospect of recovering her prestige in the eyes of the neighbourhood, and it was not for him to refuse her the satisfaction.

The day after the funeral Peignton left Chumley. Teresa took it for granted that he would not return until the date of the wedding, but it was arranged that during the interval she should procure the chaperonage of a married friend, and pay a week's visit to her future home, when such important questions as carpets and wall-papers could be discussed.

"We won't be in a hurry to furnish the whole house. We'll start with just what is necessary, and amuse ourselves with picking up the superfluities one by one. It will be jolly collecting treasures on our honeymoon. If we go off the beaten route, we shall find lots of happy hunting grounds. It will give the sticks an added value to remember how we bought them,--eh, little girl?" Peignton said, smiling. The old-time interest in the prospect of introducing Teresa to the beauties of new lands was struggling into new life. The prospect of a home gained hourly in sweetness.

During the next few days the Chumley matrons garbed themselves in black, and, with discreetly lengthened visages, repaired to the Cottage on visits of condolence, to emerge half an hour or so later, considerably shocked and bewildered. They were prepared to mourn with a widow for the loss her husband; with a householder for the loss of income, with a mother whose daughter was neglected by her lover--they beheld instead a complacent personage in weeds, shedding a dutiful tear for "Papa," and hastily whisking it away at the remembrance of "many blessings."

"So much to be thankful for! Mary home, and so useful. Taken up her old duties, and dear little Trissie so happy! The Captain, _devoted_.

His house to be done up, regardless of expense. The marriage in August.

Quiet of course, but white. Just," the widow declared with a sigh, "as Papa had planned!"

On the subject of finance the good lady was equally complacent. "There had been losses... poor Papa had been ill-advised, but if income were to be reduced, so, most appropriately, would be expenses also. No one but Mary and myself to think of. Between you and me," said Mrs Mallison to each visitor in turn, "I believe we shall feel quite rich!"

Grizel Beverley delivered a spirited account of her own interview with the widow for the benefit of Ca.s.sandra on her first subsequent visit to the Court. She thought it probable that rumour had already carried the announcement of the marriage, but preferred to make sure of this in indirect fashion, rather than by an open question.

"Oh, she is a wonderful woman, is Mrs Mallison," she quoted mischievously. "The Vicar says she is bearing up wonderfully, _I_ say she is having the time of her life. Notices in the paper, references in church, flocks of callers, everyone talking about her,--what could she wish for more? She looks so imposing, too, in her bombazines. Have you the slightest idea what bombazines are? Neither have I, but you may take my word for it--she's got 'em! Poor Papa is quite a useful stalking horse, and has a tear dropped to his memory, before she enters upon the _real_ subject of interest."

"I know," Ca.s.sandra said quietly, "Teresa's marriage. It's arranged for August, I hear. I knew it must be. Teresa's not the sort of girl to live on her sister's income, and Dane couldn't,--after all this time, he couldn't let her turn out to work!" She sat silent for a few minutes, her eyes gazing sightlessly over the terraced gardens. "So at long last, this is the end, Grizel!"

"And at long last--are you still sorry, Ca.s.sandra?"

"I--don't--know!" sighed Ca.s.sandra slowly. "In one way I shall be almost glad when the strain is over. I've come to see that, for him, it's the best way out. He wasn't made to live alone. She will make him happy--not so happy as I could have done, but he has wasted enough time, and it's useless waiting on... Oh, he will patch up his life, Grizel.-- It will be all new--so many interests cropping up.--He won't have time to think. And I shall settle down better when it's all over. Teresa's husband won't be my Dane! ... My poor little love story! it had a very short course.--I wonder if any other married woman ever loved so wisely and so well!"

Grizel made an eloquent gesture.

"Hundreds! Thousands! Do you suppose you are the only woman who has met the right man too late? Do you suppose you are the only woman who has the decency to keep to her bond? There are thousands of them! You meet them in every street. But they are silent. It's the _other_ women you hear of,--the women who fill the divorce courts; the women who _don't_ stay at home, and do their duty..."

"As I am doing mine!" sighed Ca.s.sandra again. Then suddenly the colour flew to her face. "There's one thing, Grizel, that I cannot face, and that is being here for the marriage. Think of the fuss and commotion-- all the town agog, flags out of the windows, the church bells ringing...

They'll ring them at Beston, too, at his old church... Grizel.--I could not endure those bells."

"You won't hear them. We're going away. I've planned it all, and you've nothing to do but to obey. I'm going to have a nervous breakdown," announced Grizel, with a smirk. "Poor young wife! So sad.

Ordered abroad, and her husband absolutely _tied_ at home: obliged to finish a book. Lady Ca.s.sandra has taken her. Some sort of retreat, they say. Sounds very suspicious,--but she always _was_ excitable!

Pitiful for him, poor man! His _second_ wife!"

"Grizel! How can you?" In spite of herself Ca.s.sandra was laughing now.

"But you are a darling. It would be salvation. If I were at home I should be obliged to go to the wedding, which would be torture for myself, and they would be happier without me! Oh, let us go, do let us go! I'd be so thankful..."

"We _are_ going. There's no doubt about that, but it's as well to be prepared for emergencies. Do you think the Squire will object."

"Oh no. Not now. He'll be quite pleased. I have an idea, Grizel, that his mother said something to him about me before she died. She knew I was unhappy, I could see it in her eyes, and ever since he has been more,--how shall I put it?--not affectionate, that's over,--more _human_, shall we say? He doesn't take me _quite_ so much for granted.

It occasionally enters his head that I'm not very strong. He would be quite willing for me to have a change, even without the excuse of your breakdown. Poor young wife! ... And where is the Retreat?"

"In France. In Normandy. It's a convent, my dear, where they take a few _pensionnaires_, but I'll arrange that there shall be no one there but ourselves. I've been before when I needed a rest,--not the bodily _I_, but the other bit, whatever you choose to call it, the bit that _feels_! Being a good Protestant I should logically hate convents. As a solid fact, I get more good in this particular one than anywhere else in the world. The nuns are so sweet; they have such selfless, crystalline, child-hearts. After you have been with them a few days, some of their calm begins to steal into your own heart, and the fret to die out. You feel such a long, long way from the outside world, that you look at everything from a new perspective. It came upon me with quite a shock that all my trouble had been about myself! ... My own waiting, my own loss. But these sweet things have buried self... Oh, it does one good, Ca.s.sandra, and the regular Spartan life, the bare floors, the exquisite, exquisite, cleanliness,--it's all a tonic and an inspiration. It's not dull either; don't think that it's dull! I take my prettiest clothes, and an a.s.sortment of selected jokes. They love 'em, the dear things! I believe they love me too."

"I'm quite sure of that."

"Well!" Grizel smirked complacently, "so am I. To tell you the truth I'm a tonic to them, so I give as much as I take. They do me good, and I shock them, so we're both happy. The Reverend Mother once felt it her duty to reprove me, but her eyes danced, so I went steadfastly on, and did it again."

"And the services? Do you go to the services too?"

"Of course, and enjoy them so much that they have fond hopes of converting me altogether. They won't; but that's a detail. Thank goodness, I am so const.i.tuted that it's always the similarity between creeds that strikes me, never the difference, so I find help in them all... We'll allow a month for the convent,--I can't decently recover from a nervous breakdown in less than a month,--but we'll take a few days off now and then for excursions in the neighbourhood, and _then_, darling, we come home by Paris! Food for the spirit, and food for the flesh... _Nothing_ is more reviving than a becoming hat. We'll buy hats, Ca.s.sandra, and be blowed to expense... What's the very most you have ever spent on a hat?"

"I never have told, and I never will," Ca.s.sandra said firmly, "but it had a real lace veil." She sighed with melancholy resignation.

"Somehow, Grizel, even hats lose their savour, when there's no one to care..."

"Rubbish!" cried Grizel tersely, "and you know it. A woman buys hats to please herself. Half the time her husband calls them 'The Limit'! and her friends wonder how she _can_, but so long as she and the mirror are agreed, it doesn't make a rap of difference. She wears it to the end...

Ca.s.sandra, darling, I feel it in my bones that I'm going to find the hat of my life! Oughtn't we to be dreadfully thankful that we go in for different styles? All would be over between us, if we fell in love with the same model!"

CHAPTER THIRTY THREE.

"IT'S JUST--LIFE!"

Grizel came slowly down the long, straight path leading from the convent to the orchard wall, which marked the boundary of the grounds. It was a high wall rising some eight or ten feet above the path, and serving as a support for fruit trees, but at the farther end a sloping gangway of gra.s.s led to a terraced walk from which a view could be obtained over the low-lying country stretching towards the sea. On the terrace stood Ca.s.sandra, her white figure strongly outlined against the blue of the skies. She turned at her friend's approach, and beheld that in Grizel's eyes which startled her into attention.

"You have something to tell me?"

"Yes!"

"What is it, Grizel?"

"It is a confession. I have told you a lie... I told it deliberately, for your own good."

"What did you tell me?"

"I said that the wedding day was to be on the twenty-fifth. That would be next Wednesday."