“What do you think! Of course we’re going. I was just coming up to tell you to get ready.”
The pang of presentiment had been well founded. Cassandra felt the hopelessness of a trapped animal, but desperation nerved her to a feeble protest.
“Me? Bernard! ought I to come? She’ll be unconscious. I couldn’t do anything. I should only be another person in the house—giving more trouble.”
The blue eyes had their most steely glance as he turned upon her.
“More shame to you if you did! You can nurse her, can’t you? Take your turn with the maid? She has a prejudice against hired nurses. Good heavens, have you no feeling? My mother ill—dying—and you talk of staying at home! What’s the matter if she is unconscious? Your duty is to go and look after her, and I’ll see that you do it.” He pulled out his watch and looked at it hastily. “You have twenty-five minutes before the car comes round. Get Rogers to put a few things in a bag—just what you want for to-night. She can bring along the boxes to-morrow. Goodness knows how long we may have to stay...”
He wheeled round and went back to his room, and Cassandra dragged wearily upstairs. Twenty-five minutes—in twenty-five minutes’ time Dane would be awaiting her in the summer-house, and she herself would be leaving the house, leaving the neighbourhood, travelling down to the wilds of Devon, there to remain for goodness knew how long, out of sight, out of touch,—a prisoner, when of all times in her life she most longed to be free.
Wild impulses flocked into her mind, an impulse to turn back, make her escape into the shrubbery, and fly to keep her tryst. If Dane were waiting, would it be possible to reach him, to explain, feel for one moment the grip of his arms, and get back in time to change her dress, and be ready for the car? No, it was impossible. Moreover, what if Dane had not yet arrived? When she had gone so far, would she have courage to drag herself from the spot, where at any moment she might behold him approaching? She knew she had not, and for one wild moment wondered if she could dare still further; deliberately disappear, deliberately stay away until Bernard was forced to depart alone, but even while one by one the questions raced through her brain she continued to drag wearily up the great staircase. Here was an illustration of the greater struggle on a lesser plane. Her heart was vagrant, panting to escape, but the chains of duty held. Bernard was her husband; he was in trouble; he demanded her help; at whatever cost to herself that help must be given.
Cassandra gave instructions to her maid, and retired to her boudoir to send a telephone message to the one person in Chumley who would come to her aid. Grizel was at home, and her voice came over the wire clear and distinct.
“Yes, it’s me. I’m alone. What is it?”
Cassandra’s words came haltingly. Her proud spirit had difficulty in framing that message.