Chapter Twenty One.
“Thin-Spun Life.”
During the next two days Grizel was haunted by a prevision of danger. She rose with it in the morning, carried it in her heart all day, was pursued by it in her dreams. On the surface all seemed smooth and placid,—a pretty house, a charming garden, a party of friends enjoying the summer weather. There were games, there was laughter, there was a flow of words, but beneath it all, her sensitive nature sensed the rumbling of a storm.
The third morning the sun blazed from a cloudless sky, but within and without the air was still and lifeless, and the members of the house party, gathered round the breakfast table, showed signs of an unrefreshing night in pale and listless faces. Conversation flagged, and Grizel sounded a frank note of warning:
“I’m in a vile temper. Be careful, all of you. If anyone annoys me, I’ll snap. Nothing seems right this morning. Martin, the shape of your head gets on my nerves! I can’t think why I married you.”
“Neither can I, darling. Have some cream!” Martin carried the jug round the table, and tried to pour cream over a plate of strawberries, but Grizel pushed him aside.
“Don’t fuss! If I want cream, I can ask for it. Some people have no tact. Why wasn’t breakfast set in the garden? Nobody thinks of anything in this house, unless I see after it myself... Let’s have a picnic lunch!”
Martin looked at the Squire, the Squire looked at Martin. Their plans were made for a long day’s golf, and each felt a pang of anticipatory regret; moreover, each hated picnics, with a true man’s hatred. Grizel’s quick eyes caught the glance, and had no difficulty in understanding its meaning. It seemed indeed that she was thankful of an opportunity to snap.
“Pray, don’t trouble yourselves. We don’t want anyone to come on sufferance. Captain Peignton will look after Teresa, and Cassandra and I are perfectly happy alone. Go off on your horrid old golf. We don’t want you!”
“I apologise for my wife, Raynor. She is usually quite polite to her visitors. Just a little atmospheric disturbance. Take no notice. She’ll be sorry by and by.”
Grizel looked across the table, and made two separate and deliberate grimaces, one at the Squire, the other at her husband.
“That’s nothing to what I can do, if I choose! Better be careful! Captain Peignton, do you want to come? You’re engaged, of course, and engaged men used to wish to be with their fiancées, but that’s all changed since they began to play golf. I’m a bride of six months, and my husband vowed before hundreds of witnesses to cherish me all his life, and you see how he scowls if I ask him to spare me an hour! Teresa, be warned by me, and break it off unless he gives up golf. I hate and detest golf. Golf has ruined my life. We’ll look after you, Teresa dear, don’t worry! We’ll have chicken and mayonnaise, and fruit and lemonade, and Cassandra and I will dry your tears.”
“But I’m coming; I want to come!” Peignton assured her. “It’s too hot for golf, and a picnic would be good fun if we can find a spot where there’s some air, and not too much undergrowth. I like to eat at a picnic, not to be eaten myself. I was up half a dozen times last night anointing myself with ammonia.”
“I know a place. I spotted it a week ago. Just beyond Queensdom, the cliff shelves steeply and leaves a patch of shade open to all the air there is. It’s quite a short walk,—a mile or a mile and a half; the servants can leave the baskets, and come back for their own lunch, and in the afternoon we’ll sleep, Cassandra and I, and discuss the iniquities of husbands, while you two go off on your lone, and come back to us for tea... What it is to be engaged!”
Teresa smiled happily, Martin raised his eyes to the ceiling in tragic self-vindication.
“Who is always holding forth on the necessity of exercise? Who is always warning me against the danger of a sedentary life? Who insisted upon a house near to golf links? Who goads me every night of her life to arrange a match for the next day?”
“I do,” cried Grizel. “Of course. It’s my duty. And then I’m furious when you go. Of course again. Any wife is. Do you expect me to be pleased?”
“It would seem a natural inference.—If you really mean what you say.”
“I do mean it. I want you to have everything you like; I’m a monster of unselfishness over night, but to sit still in the morning, watching you dressing yourself up, polishing your clubs, starting off grinning from ear to ear, so happy to go off without me, and to feel pleased at the time—no! that’s beyond me!” Grizel declared vigorously. “I’m human, my good man. Don’t expect me to act like an angel.”
Bernard Raynor glanced across at his wife and laughed; his slow, complaisant laugh.
“You must be a full-blown angel, Cass. What? Never gives you any qualms! Wait a bit, Mrs Beverley, and you’ll find it comes easy enough. In another year you’ll be thankful to be rid of him. Deadly mistake to hang together all the time! Go your own way, and allow the other to do the same; that’s the sure tip for matrimony. Then you jog on contentedly, and avoid spars.”
The blue, shallow eyes roved round the table, complacently seeking approval; complacently unconscious of the artificiality of the smiles vouchsafed. Cassandra held her head high, disdaining a reply. Grizel hugged a glorious certainty that there would be no “jogging” for her. Storms perchance, half-serious, half-pretence, clearing the atmosphere, and opening the way for a glorious “make up”; but a “jog,”—never! never! Teresa mentally condemned both, and reflected how much more wisely she herself would manage her husband. From the beginning there should be a fair arrangement—so much time for sport, so much for home. One would not want a man pottering round all the time.
Grizel’s good-humour returned with characteristic speed, nevertheless conversation still flagged. An atmosphere of strain lay over the little company, and silenced the usual merry banter. Dane and Cassandra had not looked at each other since the first greeting. They had agreed to the proposal of the picnic out of polite necessity, but to each the prospect was drearily unwelcome. A partie carrée afforded no opportunities for the talks à deux, which were the only things for which they cared. Cassandra saw herself sitting on the cliff-side watching the two figures walk away side by side until they disappeared round the headland. What would they do when they were alone together, with no onlookers but the seagulls swirling overhead? Would he take her in his arms, would his calmness disappear, and his eyes grow dark with love and longing? Would they sit entwined together, beatifically content, asking from the wealth of the universe nothing more than this,—to be together, to be alone? Never in her life had Cassandra experienced that sensation, yet she could imagine it with mysterious, with horrible distinctness. She could project herself into Teresa’s place, and feel the tingling current of joy. And she must sit afar off in the shade, and pretend to sleep...
At ten o’clock the two men started off for the golf links, but it was not until noon that the picnic party followed suit. As there was no new ground to explore, and as the eating of lunch seemed to be the raison d’être of the excursion, it was plainly foolish to start until the luncheon hour approached. The servants had gone on in advance to unpack the hampers, and after the walk cross the bare, unshaded fields, it was a refreshment to sit down in the cool patch of shade, and taste the refreshing sea breeze. Immediately in front the cliff curved sharply inland, so that the lap of blue waters surrounded two sides of the little platform. Marking the farther side of the narrow bay, a white headland jutted into the sea, and the sharp glare of the sun intensified each colour in its turn, blue sea, bluer sky, white cliff, crowned by a tangle of green. Inland, to the rear of the headland, lay fields of oats and barley, interspersed with patches of yellow groundsel, and the blaze of myriad poppies.
Cassandra’s colour-loving eyes dwelt lingeringly upon the scene. There was not a human creature in sight; a few white-sailed yachts alone broke the surface of the waters. The soft lap of the waves added to the impression of rest and peace. She lay drinking in the beauty of it, while the final preparations for the meal were being made. In her mind was no prevision that in future years that scene was to be associated in her mind with an extremity of pain and fear, with the dawning of a joy that hurt more sharply than pain. She was conscious only of rest to her tired limbs, of satisfaction to her craving for beauty, acutely conscious of Dane Peignton’s presence, as he stood talking to Teresa, helping her to arrange the cushioned seats. For the rest, she was weary and discouraged, and oh! overpoweringly lonely! But nowadays she always felt lonely...
The servants pronounced all ready, and retraced their way across the field path. Grizel made a tour of inspection and gave a favourable verdict.
“It looks—scrum! Why are stray meals always so much more attractive than proper ones, and why are men so stupid that they can’t understand that they are? That’s one of the many distinctions between the sexes. All women adore picnics. All men—don’t! Why?”
“Perhaps,” Dane volunteered, seating himself in front of the cloth, in response to a gesture of invitation, “perhaps because—they have longer legs.”
“Well, you must tuck them up somehow. They can’t take up the whole side!” Grizel objected, sinking down in a compact little mass in which her own legs apparently ceased to exist. “Let me see. Where do we begin? Savoury eggs, chicken mayonnaise. We’ll start on the eggs as a hors d’oeuvre, and dull the first fierceness of our appetites before getting on to the real business.—I hope everyone is hungry. Let’s be polite, and eat very slowly to make it last out. It’s such a blank feeling at a picnic when the feed’s over,—like a wedding when the bride has gone. When we’ve done, the gulls shall have their turn. Do gulls eat mayonnaise?”
Cassandra was conscious of a certain effort in the light babble. She suspected that Grizel was forcing herself to talk, to ease the strain, which like a low rumble of thunder had underlain the peace of the last week. In the midst of her own pain, she felt a pang of regret for her hostess,—a pang of compunction for her own shortcomings. If only Bernard would be induced to return home! but as long as fine weather and good play were his portion, no persuasion would be of any avail. There was nothing for it but to set her teeth and endure, and—incidentally!—to make things as little trying as possible for other people. She sent a smile across the table to cheer Grizel’s heart.
“I’m too lazy to be hungry. It seems a waste of time to eat, instead of peacefully feeding one’s mind on the beauty of it all. All the same these eggs are mighty good. I wonder how often before tea we shall refer to a painted sail upon a painted ocean.”
“Yes, but try not!” Grizel pleaded earnestly. She was relieved to see Peignton help himself to a second egg, and consume it with relish; relieved to see Teresa carefully sifting sugar into her lemonade. Such simple, homely acts seemed to keep at bay the creeping dread. It was so easy for Grizel to be happy, to banish fear, and plant hope in its place. She was as quick to pounce upon signs of good, as most people are upon menaces of evil, and Cassandra’s smile was sufficient to send her spirits racing upwards. She ate and she talked; few people can do the two things at one time with out neglecting one or the other, but Grizel came triumphantly through the ordeal, keeping her listeners in a gentle ripple of laughter, and demanding nothing of them but an occasional word of response. Then in the middle of a complicated sentence she stopped, and looked sharply at her friend.
“What’s the matter?”
Cassandra rose with a hasty movement, struggled to speak, and pointed to her throat. “A... bone... Don’t!”
The “Don’t” was accompanied by a gesture of the arm, as though to thrust away any offer of help. She walked away a few yards’ distance and stood facing the sea, while her companions looked at one another, sympathetic but calm.
“A bone! In the salad. The Wretch! I’ll give her notice to-night. Poor dear!”
“It’s horrid swallowing a bone. I did it once. It was rabbit. Mother was quite frightened.”
Peignton said nothing. His eyes were fixed on the white figure outlined against the blue, on the shoulders which rose and fell. He filled a tumbler with water and sat waiting, glass in hand. A moment passed, the upheave of the shoulders became more pronounced, he rose swiftly and walked to Cassandra’s side.
She stepped away from him as he approached, waving him away, but he had seen her face and kept steadily on.
“Drink this. Gulp it! It will carry it down.”
The waving fingers spilled half of the liquid, he steadied it with his own hand, while she gulped, and panted, and gulped again, and struggled choking away. The drink had not dislodged the bone, it had served only to hinder the sharpened breath.
Peignton hurried back to the table and seized a lump of bread. Grizel and Teresa stared wide-eyed, and silent. Even in the moment which it had taken to go and to come, Cassandra’s face had taken a deeper hue; the damp stood on her forehead, but she made a gallant effort at composure, standing with her back resolutely turned to her companions, so that they might be spared the sight of her struggles.
“I’ve brought you some bread. That moves it often when water fails. Chew it for a moment, then gulp it whole. As big a piece as you can. It’s a wretched feeling, but it will pass. A big bite now!... Swallow it whole.”
She snatched it from him, crammed it in her mouth, struggled with a force that was frightening to see, choked and retched, and staggered against his arm. The bone had not moved.
From behind came a murmur of consternation. Grizel and Teresa swept forward, calling out confused instructions.
“More water!”
“Kneel down; bend your head!... Massage your throat. Press downwards! More bread; gulp hard!”
Cassandra faced them suddenly, her lips curved back from her teeth. She struggled to speak, but the hoarse sounds had no coherence, her eyes rolled from one face to the other, and on each as she looked there fell the dawning of mortal fear. They had read the terror in Cassandra’s eyes, the next moment they saw it afresh in the sudden violent breakdown of her composure. She no longer avoided them, but came nearer, stretching out her hands in appeal. Her face was red and mottled, and strangely, horribly changed.
Grizel was white as paper, but she kept her composure better than the girl by her side, and spoke in calm, level tones.
“Cassandra, try, try to be quiet! You make things worse by rushing about. We will help you. It will be all right. Try pushing something down... Here’s the handle of my fan. Try that. Hard! Push it well down. Oh, don’t, don’t give up!”
For after one desperate trial Cassandra had sent the fan spinning into space over the edge of the cliff. For a moment in her desperation she looked inclined to follow herself, and Dane quickly moved his position so as to stand between her and danger.
How many moments had elapsed since they had been happily seated on the grass? So few,—so pitifully few, yet enough to wreck the exquisite machine of life! Not alone to Cassandra herself, but also to the anguished onlookers, came now the realisation that this accident was no trifling happening of a moment, but a grim battle between life and death. The bone was a long one, lodged in such a manner that to attempt to move it by the usual means was but to accelerate the process of suffocation.
Cassandra was being suffocated; moment by moment the inhalations of breath became more difficult, her strength was weakening beneath the strain, but still she struggled and fought, and raised wild arms to the sky, while moment by moment, youth, beauty, and charm fell away from the blackening face, leaving behind nothing but a mask of torture and despair.
Both the women were weeping, but they were unconscious of their tears. At that moment existence meant nothing more than an anguished realisation of helplessness. Theirs was the most lacerating trial of life,—the torture of looking on helplessly, and watching a fellow-creature done to death.
Then suddenly the scene changed. Cassandra’s limbs gave way, and she fell to the ground, and as she fell Peignton fell after her, and knelt by her side. To the onlookers the man’s face was as unrecognisable as that of the woman; in both was the same terror, the same despair, almost it appeared, the same suffering. It was a voice which they had never heard before, which spoke now, uttering wild appealing words:
“Cassandra—Darling! Oh, my precious, what can I do for you?... God show me what to do! Oh, my God, to standby and see this... I’d give my soul... It can’t be.—It can’t. It’s not possible!... Cassandra, try, try! For my sake, for my sake, darling... How am I to live...”
The wild words surged on. Did anyone hear? or hearing understand? Even to Teresa herself they seemed for the moment to voice nothing but the cry of her own heart. The shadow of death had obliterated the things of life; nothing counted, nothing mattered, but Cassandra, and her struggle for breath. With every moment her strength was ebbing, the faint whistling sounds emerged less frequently from her writhing lips, the black tint deepened on her cheeks, even as she gazed, the staring eyes rolled and fixed.
Then Peignton pounced. Like a wild beast leaping on its prey, he pounced upon the prostrate form, and lifting it in his arms he shook and tore, he dragged and bent. The two women shrieked, and hid their faces. Of all the terrors that had been, the most ghastly and blood-curdling of all was the sight of this maniac figure with its superhuman strength, and the jointless, lifeless form, tossed to and fro; beaten, abused. The onlookers thought,—if thought were possible,—that Dane had gone mad. It seemed the crowning horror that in death Cassandra’s body should be so outraged; but they had no strength to move or protest.
Suddenly came a cry; a cry of triumph, not grief. Peignton had sunk to the ground, but Cassandra lay in his arms, and the breath was once more whistling through her lips.
“It has moved!” he cried. “It has moved! She breathes. For God’s sake, Water!”
In a second it was in his hand, and Teresa knelt, holding the jug, while he sprinkled drops on the dark brow, and moistened the cracking lips. The face resting against his shoulder was still unrecognisable, still terrible to see, but momentarily life was flowing back. The brutal wildness of Dane’s assault had done its work in removing the block, and air was rushing back into the flattened lungs. The marvellous intricacy of the machine of life was at work once more...
Peignton bathed, and the two women knelt by his side, watching with fascinated eyes. Gradually as the dark hue faded, other marks came into view, the marks of bruises left by frenzied fingers. There were marks on Cassandra’s brow, on her cheek, on the slim column of her throat, on her hands, on the arms beneath the torn fragments of sleeves. Everywhere there were bruises. The women held their breath at the sight, Peignton groaned and shuddered as with a nausea of horror, but he went on bathing, his hand resolutely steadied to hoard the precious drops. Only once, with an uncontrollable impulse, he bent and pressed his lips against the most cruel of the marks, holding her close the while, crooning over her in a passion of tenderness, and as he lifted his head Cassandra’s eyes opened, and looked upward into his face. They were conscious eyes, and the opening of them brought back the first resemblance to that Cassandra who had so horribly lost her identity. Deeply, darkly blue they stared out of the disfigured face, met Dane’s adoring gaze, and gazed back. For a moment it seemed as though the wraith of a smile were dawning in their depths, then pain claimed her once more, and she groaned and winced, lifting a hand to her bruised throat. It was a piteous little action, and Dane’s self-possession broke down at the sight. Once more he bent his head to hers. Once more the caressing words burst forth.
“Darling, forgive me! I had to do it!...” Then for the first time Grizel felt a tremor pass through the figure of the girl by her side, and looked with a pang into a set white face. Through her quick mind flashed the realisation that here was another threatened death,—the death of Teresa’s youth... She laid a hand on the girl’s shoulder, and spoke in brisk, commonplace tones:
“She must be laid down. Collect the cushions and make a bed. She will come round more quickly lying flat.”
Teresa rose and with automatic obedience set about her work. Grizel took advantage of her absence to seize Dane’s arm between a vigorous finger and thumb. Her eyes met his with a gleam of anger.
“Pull yourself together! Think what you are saying. Have you forgotten that Teresa is here?”
Apparently he had. Even now when he was reminded, his blank look showed that his mind was incapable of realising her existence. Grizel wasted no more words. Nor indeed was there time, for Teresa came back carrying the piled cushions. Their gay colour accentuated the pallor of her own face, but she was composed as ever, and arranged an impromptu bed on the grass with firm, capable hands.
“That’s right. Perfectly flat; her head must not be raised. Now, Captain Peignton! this way a please! Pacing the sea.”
Peignton’s answer was to entwine his arms more firmly; it seemed to the watching eyes as if Cassandra herself nestled closer in response. Grizel bent downwards, and forcibly unloosed the clasped hands.
“I am accustomed to nursing... you must obey me, please. You are doing her harm, keeping off the air. Lay her down here. At once!”
Grizel had different ways of enforcing her will, but they were invariably successful. The stem tone of command roused Peignton into obedience. With painful effort he rose, laid his burden on the cushions, and stood over her, straightening his cramped arms. The mad output of strength which had saved Cassandra’s life had left him almost as much exhausted as herself, but so far he had had no time to think of himself. Now that his work was over, the realisation would come. Grizel poured out a glass of wine, and forced it into his hands.
“Drink it—this moment! You can’t afford to break down, there’s too much to be done. We will stay with her here. You must go home for help!”
“No!”
“Don’t dispute, please... You will do as I say. Nature will help her now; we can only leave her alone. You must go home and telephone,—to the Club House for her husband, to the village for the doctor. They must come straight here. And the car,—it must drive to the nearest point, and wait. Possibly in an hour she may be able to walk. If not, she can be carried.”
“I’ll carry her!”
“Her husband will carry her, or the men. Tell two men to come, and bring brandy, smelling-salts, anything you think of. If you are wise you will lie down yourself. You are worn out, and can do no good here. We don’t want two invalids. Now, please!”
For a moment Peignton stood gazing down at the motionless figure on the grass. Then hunching his shoulders, turned inland, and took the field path.
Teresa straightened herself to watch him as he went. She was kneeling by Cassandra’s side, but he had no glance for her. She watched him pass swiftly down the narrow path between the barley and the oats. The poppies blazed their brightest red; the patches of groundsel shone golden in the sun.
Cassandra lay motionless, with closed eyes, her breathing growing momentarily more natural and regular. Grizel smoothed the hair from her brow, laid a practised finger on her pulse, and crept away, beckoning Teresa to follow.
“All right! doing well. Leave her alone. The air is her best medicine. Perhaps she will sleep. Teresa, dear! get me some wine.”
She collapsed in a limp little heap on the grass, and raised a piteous face. To evoke Teresa’s pity for herself, not to pity Teresa, that was her inspiration, and to this intent she made the most of the natural exhaustion. Teresa waited upon her deftly, and then quite calmly and sensibly proceeded to wait upon herself. Grizel’s eyes widened with amaze as she beheld the girl with a wine-glass in one hand, and a sandwich, in the other, eating and drinking with as much apparent composure as if the tragic interruption had never occurred.
To the ardent, impulsive nature such composure seemed unnatural, almost brutal. “How can she?” Grizel asked herself blankly. “How can she? Oh, Martin, dear, to know your love gone, and to sit down quietly to eat sandwiches! Chewing.—Chewing! What can it feel like to be made like that? It’s marvellous, it’s magnificent, mais ce n’est pas la femme! Poor, poor little Teresa, and my poor, beautiful Cassandra, and poor Dane Peignton, poor Squire, poor Everybody! God help us all... We’re in a rare muddle! What is to happen next?”
Her breath caught in an involuntary sob, and Teresa put out a protecting arm. Grizel leant against it, careful still to demand, rather than offer consolation, and they sat shoulder to shoulder, hand clasped in hand, while the minutes dragged past. From time to time Grizel rose and tiptoed across the grass to look at Cassandra’s face. Once she breathed her name, and the blue eyes opened in a recognising glance, but instantly they closed again, and the whole pose of the figure proclaimed an extremity of fatigue.
“But it will pass; it will pass!” Grizel whispered to Teresa on her return. “It was a maddening experience. We were all mad, I think. It was enough to make us mad. Millions of people go through life, and never even imagine such a horror. But it was so short... only a few minutes... it will pass... it will pass!”
“Oh, yes!” said Teresa steadily, “it will pass.” The healthy colour had come back to her cheeks. Beyond a certain hardness in the set of the lips, the smooth young face showed no sign of the recent conflict.
A quarter of an hour dragged by; half an hour. Cassandra’s breath came in deep, steady respirations, her hands lay slack by her side, she slept the sleep of exhaustion, and the two women sat silently watching her from afar. Three-quarters of an hour, an hour, and then at last, over the shimmer of barley came the sight of hurrying figures,—the Squire and Martin running to the rescue.
Grizel rose, crossed to Cassandra’s side, and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder. She must be prepared for the men’s appearance. There must be no more shocks.
“Wake up, dear. It’s time. The men will be here in a minute to take us home. Sit up! You are such a dishevelled old dear. Let me tidy you up.”
Cassandra had started painfully at the first touch, but she sat up now, supporting herself on her hands, while Grizel smoothed the straying hair, and gave deft touches to the disordered attire. On the colourless face the bruises stood out with increasing distinctness, the lips were swollen, the eyes seemed to have retreated into the head. Grizel seized a light scarf, tied it hoodwise under the chin, and pulled forward the screening folds. She had a woman’s tender commiseration for the loss of beauty, a woman’s natural instinct to conceal it from masculine eyes. Thus the Squire, hurrying forward, beheld his wife sitting erect, orderly in attire, with face discreetly shaded.
“Good God, Cass, you gave me a fright! I’ve run all the way... Swallowed a bone, eh? Beastly carelessness. Peeling all right now?”
For a moment Grizel felt inclined to repent that shrouding veil!
“She’s not at all right, Mr Raynor. It was a terrible time... We must get her home as quickly as possible, and put her to bed.”
“Poor old Cass!” said the Squire kindly. “Feel a bit played out, eh? It’s all over, you know; all over now. We’ll soon have you all right. Think you could walk, if I gave you an arm? The car is waiting, at the end of the field.”
Cassandra rose with unexpected strength, and the Squire tucked her arm in his, with a pat of reassurement. “That’s a good girl. Told you you weren’t half as bad as you thought! You’ll feel A1 after an hour’s rest.”
The two figures passed on in advance, Cassandra’s head bowed low over her breast, and the three who were left, stared after them in dumb amaze. Martin had passed his arm round Grizel’s shoulder, and she clung to him, trembling with mingled misery and indignation.
“Martin! Martin! she nearly died... she was fighting for her life before our eyes! It was horrible,—the most ghastly horror. We felt as if we should go mad, too. She has been down to the very gates of death, and he smiles, he jokes,—he is as calm as if nothing had happened! Has he no heart?”
“No imagination, dearest. That’s the trouble. Nothing is real to him that he hasn’t seen. You poor girls! you look worn out yourselves. Come! there will be room for you in the car, and you will want to look after her when she gets home. I’ll come back, and wait till the men arrive for the hampers.”
He held out his free hand and slid it through Teresa’s arm.
“Your man is chasing the doctor. You’ll find him waiting at home. What a comfort that he was with you!”
“He saved her life,” Teresa said. “Not one man in a thousand would have done as he did. He was so brave.”
“I know someone braver!” said Grizel in her heart.