For one moment Peignton paused silently, his eyes meeting hers, then he crossed the threshold and stood by her side. Neither had spoken, neither had affected any sign of astonishment, and now as he stood waiting, Cassandra lifted her face to his and said simply:
“I knew you would come. I was waiting for you.”
“I knew you would be here,” replied Peignton as simply. He sat down on the seat next hers and looked into her face with a long, lingering glance. The last time he had seen that face it had been marked with bruises made by his own hands; the bruises had disappeared, nevertheless this was not Cassandra’s face as he had known it; there was something new in its expression, something wonderful, something that thrilled to his heart. Instinctively he held out his hand, and in an instant hers lay inside it, warm and close. The great lady had disappeared; it was a girl who was sitting beside him, a girl with soft Irish eyes and a soft Irish voice which spoke impulsively, asking tremulous question:
“Dane! Is it my fault?”
“Your fault that I... care? Only in so far as you are yourself... Once I had met you, the rest was bound to follow; but I never dreamt... I never dared to dream that you—”
“But I did,” she said quickly. “I did! I cared first; before you thought of me... That is why I asked if it was my fault.”
“I have always loved you, but I didn’t understand... Cassandra, there are some things a man can’t say, but that night—I had no intention of getting engaged to Teresa. We... the car... there was an accident... she was afraid. I had intended to propose to her months before, when I knew you only as a name. I had given her every reason to suppose that I should... There is not a word to be said against Teresa, but that night I had come straight from you... I don’t want you to think—”
“Ah!” Cassandra turned her hand to clasp his more firmly. “Need we talk of her now? I know. I understand! We make mistakes; haven’t I made my own? but they are past, they can’t be helped, and now—we are together! I have waited so long. I don’t want to talk of her, or of anyone else, but just ourselves...”
Her eyes met his; their message was the same as that of the lips, the beautiful vivid face was close to his own, he saw it with a clearness of detail which had never before been possible. The dark eyelashes grew thickly on the lower lids; underneath the lids the skin had a faint bluish shade. Was that the explanation of the tired look which, even in moments of animation, gave a touch of pathos to her air? The quality of pathos was there at that moment, and with it a fragility which gripped at Dane’s heart. He forgot everything but the dearness of her, the nearness of her, the wonder of her love. With an impetuous movement he held out his arms and she met him half-way, swaying into them with a soft murmur of joy.
That which Dane had foreseen had come to pass: he had confessed his love to his friend’s wife, and she lay wrapped in his arms, yet there was no feeling of guilt in his heart at that moment, and he knew that Cassandra herself felt equally guiltless. The overpowering forces of nature had hurled them together, and they clung helplessly, like two children, dismayed by the dark.