Part 42 (1/2)
”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--smas.h.!.+ 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 Devons.h.i.+re 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.”