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.”