Lady Cassandra Part 32

Grizel sat looking at her, pondering what to say.

"When you first knew Ca.s.sandra you were fascinated by her. You felt a longing to see her again. Every time you saw her, you admired her more.

You have told me about it, so often. In a feminine way you fell in love with her yourself, Teresa. You _ought_ to understand."

"He was engaged to me!" echoed Teresa obstinately. Suddenly her face quivered with pathos "And--I'm young--I'm pretty.--I loved him. _Why_?

Why? Why?"

"Oh, my poor child!" Grizel cried sharply, and the tears started to her eyes. Poor, ignorant, complaisant Teresa fighting against the mysteries of life, demanding explanation of the inexplicable,--what tenderness, what forgiveness was to be expected from such an att.i.tude?

"He chose me," she insisted. "It was his own doing. n.o.body made him.

It was his own choice. And he had met her _before_ he asked me. We used to talk about her together.--I was glad when he was enthusiastic...

She was my friend, and a married woman with a husband and--that big boy! He is ten years old. She must be thirty at the least." All the arrogance of the early twenties rang in Teresa's voice. "It's such folly--such madness! It isn't as if she could ever--love him back."

Silence. Teresa looked up sharply, held Grizel's eyes in a hard, enquiring stare and deliberately repeated the p.r.o.nouncement.

"It isn't possible that she could care for him."

"Did you find it so difficult, Teresa?"

"Why do you compare her with me? It's different. You know it's different."

"Yes, I do know. You were a free, happy girl with your life ahead.

_Her_ youth, the best part of her youth has gone, and she has never had the joy that every woman needs. You know what I mean. We need not go into it. Some men mean well, but they have no right to be husbands!

The women who have to live with them are slowly starved to death."

"She has her boy."

"Yes, she has her boy. For a few weeks in the year."

"He is her son all the year round."

"That's perfectly true, Teresa."

"A married woman with a son ought _not_ to love another man."

"That's perfectly true, Teresa. Do you never by any chance do anything you should not? Can't you find the least sc.r.a.p of pity in your heart for other people who are more unhappy than yourself?"

"I am not sorry for people who do wrong. It's easy to talk, Mrs Beverley. Suppose it was your own husband, and you had seen him, as I did to-day, with another woman--with Ca.s.sandra herself. How would _you_ feel?"

Grizel's grimace was more expressive than words.

"My dear, I can't imagine it. I'd rather not. I should certainly not be calm. I'm an impetuous person who is bound to let off steam, and there would be a considerable amount of steam on that occasion, but I'm older than you, and have seen more of the world, so that perhaps it would come easier--after the first explosion--to be sorry for them as well as myself."

"Why should one be sorry?"

"Because they _are_ in the wrong, and are bringing sorrow on others, whereas you are the injured martyr, who is sinned against. There's considerable balm in the position--for those who like it. How do you suppose poor Dane will feel at the prospect of his next interview with you?"

Teresa's face quivered again.

"He hasn't wanted many interviews lately. We've hardly been alone an hour since we came here. I suppose I--should have suspected... but I didn't. He has never been demonstrative, but he chose me, he said he loved me. I _trusted_ him."

There was pathos in the lingering on those last words. Grizel made a little crooning sound of tenderness, and stretched out a consoling hand, but Teresa ignored it, and rose slowly to her feet.

"Thank you. You've told me all I wanted to know. And I'm grateful to you for not telling your husband. Please don't mention anything to a single person. The less that is said about it the easier it will be to--"

"To--?" Grizel's eyes dilated. She sat upright on the sofa, her whole body a-quiver with eagerness. "To _what_, Teresa?"

"To put things right," said Teresa, and marched stolidly from the room.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE.

BETWEEN TWO WOMEN.

It was late on the following morning when Teresa, sitting over her embroidery in the garden, saw Dane Peignton making his way towards her across the lawn. It was his first appearance since the return from the fateful picnic, and Teresa, looking at him, marvelled at the change which twenty-four hours had wrought. She herself had suffered from shock and disillusionment, yet the mirror had shown no change, the fresh pink colour had not faded from her cheeks, her eyes were clear and blue.

The first realisation of the truth of Grizel's words came to her at the sight of Dane's lined face. At the glance of his wan eyes, the forced smile faded from her lips. A s.h.i.+ver of dread pa.s.sed through her at the realisation that there was to be no covering up of the ugly truth. The grim determination of Peignton's mien showed that he was braced for the ordeal of confession.

They shook hands, and he seated himself beside her. A clump of shrubs hid the windows of the house, no path broke the smooth stretch of green; they were alone, free from the fear of interruption.

"I hope you feel better this morning," said Teresa primly. She was embroidering a large entwined monogram on a square of green velvet. The monogram was Peignton's own, and the square was designed for the back of a blotter for his writing table. He had watched its progress from the first st.i.tches onward, and had given his opinion on contrasting shades.

His face twisted with pain as he watched the sweep of the needle with the long brown thread.

"Thank you, yes. I am better.--I was--very tired!"

Teresa sewed on, her eyes downcast, the needle rhythmically lifting and falling to take up another neat, accurate st.i.tch. Her low muslin collar showed the line of the young bending throat.

Peignton's eyes softened into tenderness as he watched her. He stretched out his hand, and intercepted another upward sweep.

"Dear! Put that down... We've got to have this out... There is so much that we have to say to each other, Teresa!"

Teresa disengaged her hand, folded her work, and turned a resolutely composed face.

"Why need we say anything at all?"

"_Why_?" He stared at her in perplexity. "You ask me that when you know... you have seen..."

"I must forget. We must both forget. I mustn't judge you for... for what happened _then_. I think it will be best if we never speak of it again."

Peignton was silent, stricken dumb by amazement, and the paralysing feeling of helplessness which Grizel had experienced at a similar moment. The cra.s.s certainty of Teresa's common sense appeared at this moment the most baffling of barriers. He stared at her hopelessly for a long minute, before making his reply.

"That is impossible. There could be no peace for either of us. In justice to myself, I must explain. It seems an extraordinary thing to say, but it is the simple truth that until I came down here--until a couple of days ago, I did not know that I loved Lady Ca.s.sandra. Only yesterday morning I had decided to make an excuse to go home, to put myself out of temptation; then, an hour later, I saw her, as it seemed, dying before my eyes, and I forgot everything else. It was wrong, of course, confoundedly unkind,--humiliating for you. I apologise with all my soul, Teresa, but can't you see how inevitable it was?"

"If you loved her in the first instance, I suppose it was inevitable,"

said Teresa steadily. "But you were engaged to me." She lifted her eyes with a reproachful glance. "You chose _me_. You said you loved me... All these weeks we have gone on peacefully, without a hitch. I never noticed any change. As you insist on talking about it, I should like to understand one thing.--Is it that you grew tired of me? Was I different from what you expected? When did you stop--caring for me at all?"

"My dear, I have not stopped! I do care. You have been all that is sweet and kind. I tell you honestly that I care for you more, not less, than when we were first engaged."