Half an hour later, from an upper window which gave a view of the verandah, Cassandra beheld the two men playing chess with every appearance of absorption.
After dinner, bridge occupied the hours till bedtime, the men cutting in and out. The next day they disappeared from ten until six, and after being fed and refreshed, were keen for bridge once more. The Squire was keen, that is to say, and the others acquiesced with more or less readiness. The second and third days brought little variation in the programme. The golfers arrived home a little later, a little earlier, sat smoking and talking on the verandah, or rested their limbs, and occupied their brains with contests at chess. Frequently Martin disappeared to his own room. He had some short articles on hand, which he was anxious to finish; moreover, being accustomed to long hours in his study, he grew weary of the sound of voices, and felt at liberty to take an occasional hour of solitude, now that the Squire was provided with a companion. So it came about that Dane could never count upon ten minutes to himself. In the short part of the day which he spent in the villa, he was continually shadowed by the Squire’s big, bronzed presence; the big voice boomed continually in his ear, challenging him to fresh contests, haranguing on politics, laying down the law on the eternal subject of land, and with every hour that passed, there grew in Dane’s breast a smouldering fire of rebellion. The time was passing, was flying fast; he had the feeling of being continually baffled and outflanked. In another two days Teresa would arrive, and her coming seemed to mark the end of,—of what? Peignton did not acknowledge to himself in so many words that he was crazed with disappointment at the impossibility of spending five uninterrupted minutes in Cassandra’s company; it was easier to skirt round the subject, and declare that he was tired of golf, bored with the Squire’s eternal bluster, yet reluctant to approach the end of a visit from which he had expected much.
As he was dressing in the morning he debated how he could escape from the links, but the solution was difficult to find. Each day’s game was arranged in advance, his own willingness being taken for granted. Had he not been invited for the special purpose of playing golf?
Again, if in the evening he were to cry off bridge, it would simply mean that Cassandra was chained to the table. The only chance of a tête-à-tête lay during the interval between the return from the links and the serving of dinner, and so persistently was fate against him at those times, that Dane began to suspect an abetting human agency. Not the Squire, not Martin, but Grizel herself! It did not seem possible that it was owing to chance alone that the pawns on the board were so consistently moved to block his approach!
There is nothing so irritating to the nerves as the fret of continual disappointment, and in both looks and manner Peignton showed signs of the mental strain through which he was passing. Cheerfulness forsook him, he grew silent and preoccupied, only by the hardest struggle did he prevent an outburst of actual ill-temper.
Looking back he realised that it was the intimacy of that week spent at the Court a month before, which made the present condition so unbearable. Then, day after day, Cassandra had sat alone by his side, now working at her embroidery, and again dropping her thread, and sitting with folded hands, while they talked together—that talk which never jarred, never wearied, never seemed more than just begun. He had tried at times to recall what exactly they had talked about during those lengthening hours, but he could not remember. The subject had seemed of so little importance, it had been but a vehicle to convey the inward sympathy and understanding, an opportunity of hearing Cassandra’s voice, and watching the lights pass over her beautiful, vivid face. It had been a happy face in those days, but it was not happy to-day. A look of strain was upon it which corresponded to his own; there were moments of suspense when he sensed that she also was holding her breath; moments of exasperated check, when his own anger leapt to meet an answering flame.
On the morning of the day on which Teresa was to arrive, Peignton made a determined revolt. Breakfast was over, and the five members of the party had strolled on to the verandah to enjoy the fresh air. When the Squire sounded the usual cry of haste, Dane nerved himself, and spoke out:
“I think I shall stay at home this morning. I feel inclined to laze. You’ll enjoy a single for a change.”
There was a moment’s silence. Dane was conscious that to each of the four hearers his words had come with the effect of a shock. Cassandra strolled a yard or two away, and stood with her back towards him. Grizel’s golden eyes were fixed on his face.
“What’s this? What’s this?” cried the Squire, breaking the silence. “Can’t bear to be out of the way, can’t you? I’ll tell Miss Teresa what a devoted lover she’s got! Upon my word, it’s a mercy she’s coming, for the strain has been getting too much for you these last days. Quite ratty once or twice, wasn’t he, Beverley? It’s all right, old man, it’s all right! We understand. Been there ourselves, haven’t we, Beverley? It’s a stage—a stage. Painful at present, but ’twill cease before long, as the little hymn says. Eh, what? Look at Beverley! Only been married six months, and as callous as the best of us. Goes off comfortably, day after day, and leaves his wife behind. Never gives her a thought till he comes back. Do you, Beverley?”