But at that she showed a wholesome anger.
“You know I don’t. You know I would not. At once, from the very beginning I cared for you. I prayed every night of my life that you would love me back. I used to watch for you wherever I went. If I saw you drive past in the dog-cart, I was happy for hours. When you were ill that time I was ill too. They thought it was a chill, but it wasn’t, it was misery, and not being able to help. One day there was a button hanging loose on your coat. I longed to mend it! That’s all I wanted,—just to be able to look after you, and mend your things, and make you comfortable, and sit beside you in the evenings and talk, and watch you smoke. I’m old-fashioned and domesticated. Lady Cassandra used to laugh at me, and call me Victorian and men laugh too. They say they like old-fashioned girls, but they don’t. They may be ‘fond’ of them, as you are fond of me, but they get tired, and then—then... they meet the Cassandras... and forget everything! duty, faithfulness—honour—”
“There is no loss of honour in this case, Teresa. That is one of the things you must not say. This is a bad enough business for us all—don’t make it worse than it is! There has been no deceit, no double dealing. It was only two days ago that I realised how things were, and then I determined to leave. It was that accident which took us unawares.”
Before he realised his slip, Teresa had pounced upon the word.
“Us! You mean that? She cares too? How do you know? How do you know?”
“I did not mean to imply anything of the kind,” Peignton said sternly, and his eyes sent forth a warning flash. Not for the world would he have answered, not for a hundred worlds have confessed to a living creature—the wondrous, incredible fact that even in her deadly exhaustion Cassandra had understood, and responded to his love. Her eyes had met his, her lips had moved, the tiny flutterings of movement had brought her nearer to his heart. He knew that her spirit had responded, and through all the bristling difficulties of the moment the knowledge brought joy. “We will leave Lady Cassandra’s name out of the discussion,” he said coldly. “You are not concerned with her, only with me. It’s banal to go on repeating that I’m sorry, you know that well enough. The question now is,—how can we break off our engagement in the way least unpleasant for you? It’s bound to be unpleasant, but—things pass! In a year or two you’ll meet another fellow, and look back upon this episode, and be glad that it came to nothing. I’m giving you a lot of trouble, but I’ve not made a hash of your whole life, as I have of my own... Think of that, Teresa, and try to forgive me!”
“I shall never care for another man while you are unmarried, and I should be miserable living on at home, as Mary has done, year after year, with nothing happening to break the monotony. So you would spoil my life as well as your own. And what would you do living alone? You are not strong. You said you needed a home. You’ll have to leave this place and go away among strangers. You’ll be miserable!”
“Very miserable, Teresa!”
“And I shall be miserable too. It’s senseless. Dane! will you do something for me—to show that you really are sorry, and to help us both to,—to get over this?”
“I will indeed, Teresa. Only try me.”