“It seems,” she said coldly, “that we are in Teresa’s hands! She has given you her orders, and you have obeyed.”
Then Peignton looked at her, and she quailed before the passion in his eyes.
“Give me your orders,” he said thickly, “and she goes, everything goes! I’ll throw over the whole thing to-night, work, honour, friends—everything there is, if you will give me yourself—if you’ll come to me to-night, and let me take you away—Oh, my Beautiful, if you only would...”
“Dane! Dane!” cried Cassandra sharply, “I want to!” She covered her face with her hands, and he wrapped her close to his heart. “Am I wicked? Am I wicked? I’ve always called a woman wicked who felt like this, but it seems now as if it would be so right, so natural: so much more natural than saying good-bye! But I can’t—I can’t do it. I’m bound with chains. It’s the boy’s home...”
They clung together in silence. On this point at least there was nothing more to be said, and each realised as much. The chains might tear Cassandra’s heart, but they would not give way, for they were forged out of the strongest sentiment of the human heart. The mother in her would not stain her boy’s home. In the midst of his misery, Peignton loved her the more for her loyalty.
Presently she spoke again in a low, exhausted voice:
“Dane—what shall you do?”
“I? I don’t know. Leave Chumley as soon as possible. Go somewhere else. It doesn’t matter where. Nothing matters. But I must clear out of this.”
“Is it necessary? If we meet very seldom? Never, if you think it better, in private! Would it really be easier if you never saw me? I don’t feel as if I can live if I lose you altogether. Even to see you driving past in the street—”
Peignton shook his head.