And then, with a real tenderness, he thought of his fiancée,—the loving, kind-hearted woman-girl who was to be his wife. The mysterious glamour of a Lady Cassandra was far removed from the practical common sense of Teresa Mallison; but life was largely composed of the commonplace, and he knew that not once, but a hundred times over in the days to come, he would have cause to be thankful for a wife who could be a partner in deed as well as in name. He thought of Teresa’s voice as she said: “I should have liked to nurse you, Dane!” and felt a pang of remorse. He hoped he had not been inconsiderate. He hoped the dear girl was not hurt. He would write her a line in the morning and explain that... that really... Well, hang it! it was simple enough... There was only one spare room at the Cottage. Where could the masseur have slept? There were many adequate reasons for his choice which he could advance in a letter; now that he was quietly settled in bed they crowded into his mind, but looking back at the moment of decision, he knew he had acted from no definite reason, but simply from an overpowering desire. The chance of staying at the Court had been given him. It was not in him to refuse.
The next morning immediately after his treatment Peignton was wheeled into an upstairs sitting-room, where his couch was placed in a window affording a view of the terraced gardens. Cassandra came in dressed for driving, made a few arrangements for his comfort, and immediately disappeared; later on the Squire lounged in, smoked a pipe, and discussed items in the morning paper, and disappeared in his turn. By noon Dane was alone, and the hour and a half before luncheon hung heavily. Luncheon was served to him in his room,—a solitary repast, and the sense of disappointment grew when the table was cleared, and still no one appeared to bear him company. Books and papers galore were within reach, an electric bell would at any moment summon an attendant, but a man accustomed to an outdoor life soon wearies of reading, and as minute after minute ticked away, Peignton became conscious of an overpowering impatience. He threw down his book, seized the electric bell, and pressed his finger on the button. In less than two minutes a manservant appeared in the doorway. “Is the Squire in the house?”
“I am not sure, sir. I will enquire.”
“Ask him to come up, will you? Tell him I’m lonely.”
The man bowed, and retired. Five minutes passed, and the sound of light footsteps was heard from without; the door opened and Cassandra looked at him, smiling under raised brows.
“Not asleep?”
“Asleep! Why should I be asleep?”
“Invalids always sleep after lunch.”
“I’m not an invalid. I’m a well man tied by the leg. I don’t know how a real invalid feels, but I never was further off sleep in my life! I sent to ask the Squire to take pity on me. I’m so confoundedly tired of myself.”
“He is out, but Teresa will be here soon after four. I invited her to tea.”