Part 35 (1/2)
”You will go in a smoker, Dane, won't you? I am tired out. I expect I shall sleep all the way. Come for me at the Junction, in case I am carried on.”
She stepped into a carriage, and moved towards the farther side, arranging impedimenta upon the seat, with her back turned towards him.
There was no time to wait, for he was obliged to move along quickly to take his own seat, but though the alertness of relief showed in his movements, his heart went out towards his _fiancee_ with a rush of grat.i.tude. How kind, how considerate, how singularly wise and far-seeing! Most girls, he was convinced, would have manoeuvred for a _tete-a-tete_, and turned the journey into a torture of tears and reproaches, but Teresa had voluntarily sent him away, and had done so, moreover, in a natural, commonplace fas.h.i.+on free from trace of offence.
Bravo, Teresa! As he took his seat in a corner of the smoker Peignton was probably more warmly her admirer than at any previous moment in their acquaintance. A sensible, level-headed woman, who would help, not hinder through the hard moments of life. Mentally he took off his cap to Teresa; but when he had lighted a cigarette he fell back into dreams of another woman who was neither practical nor level-headed, as admirers of sensible women are apt to do.
As for Teresa, she cursed herself a hundred times over for having thrown away a valuable opportunity, but her resolution not to hara.s.s Dane in this first miserable day of indecision sprang into life again at the sight of his worn face when he came to join her at the Junction, and she braced herself afresh to help him through the ordeal of arrival.
Mrs Mallison had been prepared by wire for her daughter's sudden return, and her curiosity was at boiling point as to the reasons thereof. The statement that Lady Ca.s.sandra was ill, and Mrs Beverley engaged in nursing, was far too vague to prove satisfying. She wanted to hear what nature of ill, how long an ill, how serious an ill, with details of the premonitory symptoms, and the precise circ.u.mstances under which they had developed. She waved the way towards the dining-room, explaining that lunch had been delayed half, an hour for the travellers'
benefit. Of course Dane would stay and take pot luck. Mutton haricot and gooseberry fool. ”You can tell us all about it over lunch, and afterwards,” she added meaningly, ”Teresa and you can have a nice quiet afternoon!”
Peignton quailed at the prospect, but once again Teresa came to the rescue.
”Dane is very tired, mother. We are both tired. He is going straight home to rest. Be sure you _do_ rest, Dane,” she added, turning towards him, and holding out her hand. ”I shan't expect to see you again until Sunday.”
”I am quite sure he won't agree to _that_!” Mrs Mallison declared, and continued to protest volubly against Dane's departure, and to sing the praises of the haricot and fool, but her flutters had no power against the inflexibility of Teresa's calm, and finally she realised her defeat, and scurried back to shut the dining-room door, with the obvious intention of giving privacy to a tender farewell.
”You are very good to me, Teresa,” Dane said. The next second he realised that he was expressing grat.i.tude to his _fiancee_, for giving him a chance of escaping her own society, and the realisation infused an added warmth into his last words. ”_Thank_ you, dear.”
Quite simply and naturally Teresa lifted her arms, and clasped them round his neck. She did not kiss him, but she laid her fresh, cool cheek against his, and said:
”I love you, Dane. I shall always be good to you.”
Peignton went out into the road hating himself because the sound of that ”always” had dried up the spring of tenderness. G.o.d help him, he wanted nothing of this girl which should last for always! If he were free of her to-day he would remember her all his life with grat.i.tude and affection, but those twining arms chafed him like a chain.
Peignton took Teresa at her word, and paid no visit to the Cottage for the rest of the week. He sent down a hamper of flowers, however, with an envelope enclosing a short note written on his thickest paper, which to the maternal eye might give the effect of length. He would not be less careful of Teresa's feelings than she had been of his, and he knew well that to allow three days to pa.s.s without visit or message would stamp him in Mrs Mallison's eyes as neglectful and unappreciative. The best flowers which the hothouses afforded were collected to fill that hamper.
Since the announcement of his engagement it had been an understanding that Peignton should spend Sunday with the Mallisons, appearing in time for early dinner, and remaining until after the eight o'clock supper.
In the afternoon he and Teresa sat in the morning room together, or walked into the country, and after tea he played a game of chess with the Major, while from the drawing-room came the sound of hymn tunes played on a cracked piano. Mrs Mallison had been ”brought up to hymn tunes” after tea on Sunday afternoons, and commandeered her daughters to produce her old favourites for her delectation. ”The Church's one foundation” led the way to ”Onward, Christian soldiers,” while ”Oh come, all ye faithful,” enjoyed a vogue independent of time or season.
Sometimes Teresa sang the words in a strong soprano voice, an excellent voice for a choir, but a trifle harsh when heard by itself, but one afternoon, during one of the protracted pauses which preceded the Major's moves, Peignton's ear was attracted by a new tune, played with a softer touch, and presently another voice began to sing, a soft, somewhat tremulous voice, with a quality of extraordinary sweetness.
The hymn was ”Abide with me,” and the sound of the well-known words sung in that soft, tremulous voice brought back a hundred boyish memories.
That was the hymn which he had liked best in the old knickerbocker days when he trotted to church with his parents; that was the favourite closing hymn at the school chapel; away on the Indian plains he had heard his men whistling it over their work. On the impulse of the moment Peignton pushed back his chair, and crossed the little hall to the drawing-room. The door was intentionally left ajar, owing to Mrs Mallison's persistent belief that ”Papa liked to hear the music,” so that Dane found himself able to see, without being seen. Teresa was not present, Mrs Mallison lay back in an easy chair, her eyes closed, her head swaying to and fro in time with the music; at the piano sat--could he believe the evidence of his senses?--Mary Mallison herself, that machine-like automaton in human form, whom he had believed incapable of feeling! Through the c.h.i.n.k of the door Peignton stared for one incredulous moment at the bloodless lips through which breathed those low, crooning notes, then drew noiselessly back, with a tingling in his veins which was curiously like shame. He had caught a glimpse of a naked soul, and the revelation filled him with distress. No woman could have that note in her voice, and not possess the power of feeling an acuteness of joy or grief. No woman could have it who had not already tasted the sweets and bitters of experience.
But if Mary could feel, how could she endure the life that was hers? As he went slowly back to his game, Peignton had his first glimpse into the tragedy of the life of a woman to whom nature has bequeathed a sensitive heart, and a plain and unattractive exterior.
Sunday in the Mallison _menage_ was not at the best of times a cheerful occasion, though hitherto Teresa's society had made it bearable; under the new conditions it became a penance difficult to endure. The one o'clock dinner was invariably the same. Roast beef and Yorks.h.i.+re pudding, a pie made of the fruit in season, flanked by custard in gla.s.ses; biscuits and cheese, and a sketchy dessert. Mrs Mallison invariably discussed the morning's sermon. Teresa invariably disagreed, and the Major preserved a dejected silence.
To Peignton's supersensitive sight it had appeared sometimes as if each daughter had a.s.sumed a startling likeness to a separate parent. Mary had her father's features, her father's shrinking air. Teresa--why had he never noticed it before?--Teresa was a youthful replica of her mother. Given another twenty years she would develop into the same stout, bustling matron. His flesh crept at the thought of sitting opposite to her in the Major's place.
In the afternoon Teresa suggested reading in the garden as an alternative to the usual walk; she also announced that Mr Hunter and his sister were ”coming in” to tea, an innovation in the day's programme for which Peignton was devoutly thankful. He had met the young doctor and his sister, and knew them to be lively, talkative young people, eminently capable of rolling the conversation ball. Their presence would prevent personalities, and keep the talk away from dreaded topics.
Never in his life had he accorded a more cordial welcome to comparative strangers.
The table was set beneath a tree in the garden, and Teresa in her white dress made an attractive figure against the green of the background.
Her hair was carefully dressed, a touch of blue at the throat intensified the blue of her eyes; there was in her manner that touch of self-consciousness and artificiality which to a discerning eye bespoke the presence of an admiring male. Roused to a momentary interest, Peignton realised that the admirer was not himself in this instance, but Hunter, the young doctor. He hovered about the table with eager looks; he discovered what Teresa needed, as soon as she found it out for herself, and darted forward to help. When she moved, his eyes followed her; when she spoke, he was all ears; and once, turning from the tea table, the young fellow knitted his brows, and stared fixedly into Peignton's face.--”What does she see in _You_?”--said that look as plainly as words could speak, and Dane, knowing himself to look weary and absent, felt an answering sympathy.
He roused himself to take part in the conversation, and for the rest of the evening was careful not to relapse into silence, but the whole thing was like a dream, a dull, long-drawn-out dream which had no connection with life. He was moving as in a dream, speaking with forced, unnatural words, but presently he would awake. All day long the sense of waiting was upon him, of doing time until a a certain period was reached. If this sort of thing were to continue, it would be unbearable, but it would not continue. There was a limit to his endurance. In a few days, in a week at longest, Ca.s.sandra would be home again, and they would meet! The sense of waiting grew stronger...