Part 35 (2/2)
CHAPTER TWENTY FIVE.
A CROWDED HOUR.
An interminable period seemed to elapse before Peignton heard the news for which he was waiting.
He had received one or two post-card bulletins from Grizel, and knew that the shock of the accident had left no lasting effect on Ca.s.sandra, but it was not until the morning of the tenth day that he heard of her arrival at the Court. His informant was a workman on the place, who mentioned having seen her ladys.h.i.+p driving, as a proof of that more interesting event, the Squire's return.
The natural enquiry, ”How did she look?” could, of course, not be asked under the circ.u.mstances, but Peignton knew that it would be impossible to exist for another twenty-four hours without settling that question for himself. If he had been asked what plans were in his mind he would have replied that he had none, yet deeply, subconsciously, during every one of those long ten days a plan had been shaping. When he left the house after lunch that afternoon, he knew exactly where he was going, and although he might delude himself that he was following a sudden impulse, it would have been in just that direction that he would have directed his steps on any one of the previous days.
Half an hour's brisk walking brought him to the northern gate leading into the Squire's grounds. It was the farthest entrance from the house, but Peignton had no intention of visiting the house. The gate was but a short distance from the secluded summer-house in which Ca.s.sandra had given him tea on the afternoon on which they had run away from the incursion of afternoon callers, and it was to the summer-house that he was bound.
Ca.s.sandra would be there. He knew it as certainly as though he had had her written word of promise, and he knew also that she would be awaiting his arrival. Such knowledge is not to be accounted for in ordinary terms, nor is it given to all, but those who have once heard the voice recognise and obey.
Peignton quickened his footsteps as he pa.s.sed the lodge, then turned down a small gra.s.sy path, followed its windings for a few hundred yards, and saw before him the timbered roof, with its drapings of ivy. The window was in front, level with the door, so that he could not see into the interior; but if Ca.s.sandra were there she would hear his footsteps and know that he was approaching. The last yards stretched long as a mile, the laboured beating of his heart seemed to mount to his throat, he set his teeth, and went forward.
The next moment he saw her, even as his mind had pictured, seated on a low cane chair, her hands clasping its arms, her face bent forward to greet him. She wore a white dress over which a knitted silk coat of a bright rose-red hung loosely apart; her hat lay on the table by her side, and the dark wings of her hair fell low over her brow. Seen through the arch of greenery which covered the doorway, the colours of her dress attained an added vividness, and the beauty of face and figure were thrown into fullest relief. She looked like a princess imprisoned by the evil genii of the forest; like an enchanted princess watching for the prince who should set her free.
For one moment Peignton paused silently, his eyes meeting hers, then he crossed the threshold and stood by her side. Neither had spoken, neither had affected any sign of astonishment, and now as he stood waiting, Ca.s.sandra lifted her face to his and said simply:
”I knew you would come. I was waiting for you.”
”I knew you would be here,” replied Peignton as simply. He sat down on the seat next hers and looked into her face with a long, lingering glance. The last time he had seen that face it had been marked with bruises made by his own hands; the bruises had disappeared, nevertheless this was not Ca.s.sandra's face as he had known it; there was something new in its expression, something wonderful, something that thrilled to his heart. Instinctively he held out his hand, and in an instant hers lay inside it, warm and close. The great lady had disappeared; it was a girl who was sitting beside him, a girl with soft Irish eyes and a soft Irish voice which spoke impulsively, asking tremulous question:
”Dane! Is it my fault?”
”Your fault that I... _care_? Only in so far as you are yourself...
Once I had met you, the rest was bound to follow; but I never dreamt...
I never dared to dream that you--”
”But I did,” she said quickly. ”I did! I cared first; before you thought of me... That is why I asked if it was my fault.”
”I have always loved you, but I didn't understand... Ca.s.sandra, there are some things a man can't say, but that night--I had no intention of getting engaged to Teresa. We... the car... there was an accident...
she was afraid. I _had_ intended to propose to her months before, when I knew you only as a name. I had given her every reason to suppose that I should... There is not a word to be said against Teresa, but _that_ night I had come straight from you... I don't want you to think--”
”Ah!” Ca.s.sandra turned her hand to clasp his more firmly. ”Need we talk of her now? I know. I understand! We make mistakes; haven't I made my own? but they are past, they can't be helped, and now--we are together! I have waited so long. I don't want to talk of her, or of anyone else, but just ourselves...”
Her eyes met his; their message was the same as that of the lips, the beautiful vivid face was close to his own, he saw it with a clearness of detail which had never before been possible. The dark eyelashes grew thickly on the lower lids; underneath the lids the skin had a faint bluish shade. Was that the explanation of the tired look which, even in moments of animation, gave a touch of pathos to her air? The quality of pathos was there at that moment, and with it a fragility which gripped at Dane's heart. He forgot everything but the dearness of her, the nearness of her, the wonder of her love. With an impetuous movement he held out his arms and she met him half-way, swaying into them with a soft murmur of joy.
That which Dane had foreseen had come to pa.s.s: he had confessed his love to his friend's wife, and she lay wrapped in his arms, yet there was no feeling of guilt in his heart at that moment, and he knew that Ca.s.sandra herself felt equally guiltless. The overpowering forces of nature had hurled them together, and they clung helplessly, like two children, dismayed by the dark.
”Dane! Dane!” sighed Ca.s.sandra tremblingly, ”I wanted you, I wanted you! It has been so long lying there alone, all these days, hearing nothing, knowing nothing, having no one to speak to...”
”Mrs Beverley--?”
”I couldn't. I wasn't sure. It was all so misty and confused at the time that I did not know how much the others had heard... Your voice sounded to me like a trumpet call, bringing me back to life, but it might have been only a whisper. I couldn't tell if she knew, and until I did, I couldn't speak.”
”And she never--?”
”No! Grizel wouldn't. She was just her natural self. _Did_ she know then? You talk as if... Did they both know?”
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