“Mean to say you don’t know? They didn’t tell you?”
“Not a word. Money was not mentioned.”
“Odd!” The Squire cocked a suspicious eyebrow. “Very odd, considering your position. Evans told me. No secret about it. It’s over the whole place. The old man had been selling out shares, and reinvesting under the advice of some unprincipled scoundrel. The old story—a huge fraud, got up for the special benefit of rural investors, ten per cent, interest, paid once; and then—smash! The poor old fellow got the news at the breakfast table, called out to his wife that he was ruined, and fizzled up, then and there. Had a stroke, and died in her arms. Far as Evans understands there’ll be nothing left for ’em but a twopenny pension.”
Dane was silent, digesting the startling news. The ménage at the Cottage had suggested a comfortable, if modest income; in the one official interview which he had had with the Major, he had been informed that Teresa would eventually inherit some seven or eight thousand pounds. Now, by all accounts, the prospective fortune had vanished, and she was left penniless, dependent on—? On what? The answer to that question came in a rush of tender understanding. Poor, poor, little girl! Was this the reason of her coldness? Did she fear that a sense of duty would urge him to a marriage from which his heart still shrank? Poor, proud, little girl! While she had something to give, she could plead her own cause, but a penniless Teresa would accept no favour. On the whole the news of the Major’s losses brought Dane more relief than sorrow. It solved the mystery of his chilling reception.
“Humph—yes! bad business—bad business,” soliloquised the Squire. “Eldest daughter came in for a bit of money, but she’s kicked over the traces... Rather a pill for her to settle down again with the old woman,—what? Of course, you can look after Teresa...”
“I can,” Dane said. After a moment’s pause he continued deliberately. “I shall arrange for our marriage to take place as early as possible. Mrs Mallison may have conventional scruples... she probably will, but she’ll have to give way. I can’t stay longer than Friday, and I must get things settled before I leave.” He rose, and straightened his shoulders with the air of a man throwing off a weight. “You—er—you will tell Lady Cassandra my plans, and explain to her that my time is so limited that I—er—”
“Certainly. Certainly. She wouldn’t expect it, my dear man. As a matter of fact she and Mrs Beverley are off in town for the day,—frock-hunting, I believe. They’re always at it. Ripping little woman, Mrs Beverley! lots of fun, but plenty of common sense tucked away inside. Been a regular godsend to Cassandra...”
“Lady Cassandra is quite well?”
“Humph!” the Squire protruded his under lip. “So, so. Had a bit of a breakdown in autumn. We had a hard time of it, after you left. My old Mater had a stroke, and we were down in Devonshire looking after her for a couple of months. She got on like a house on fire: helpless, you know—couldn’t stir out of bed, but keen as a needle, took in all that was going on. Cassandra nursed her.”
The Squire flicked the ash from his cigarette with a ruminating air. “Rum things, women! Hated each other like poison, those two. That’s to say the Mater hated Cass; jealous, because she was my wife. Cass didn’t hate her... too much trouble. She was simply bored. She’s given to being bored; you know that. She’s bored with your Teresa. Grizel’s the passion nowadays. Grizel is always perfect. But she was good to the old Mater. Nursed her like a brick, and the old Mater lay there by the hour staring at Cass. The last words she spoke to me,—did I tell you she had a third stroke, and died suddenly, just as we were coming home?—her last words were about Cass. Thought she needed looking after, ... cheering up.—It was a great comfort to me, Peignton, that the old Mater and Cass were on good terms at the last!”