"Why are you glad?"

"Because you,--you _care_!" said Teresa, trembling.

For a breath Dane hesitated, and in that pause something ominous gripped at his heart, and like a man who has made a false step on the edge of a precipice he saw a glimpse of an abyss; but the next moment youth and blood rose to the appeal, and he kissed the soft lips once and again, murmuring appropriate protestations.

"Of course I care--who wouldn't? I've cared a long time... And you care too? You do care for me, Teresa?"

"Oh, _yes_!"

The answer came with a fervour which could not fail to be infectious.

"Enough--some day--to be my wife? I wish I had more to offer you, little girl!"

"Oh, I want nothing, I want nothing. I would marry you if you were a workman in a cottage. Sooner--than a _king_!"

It was true. The girl's voice rang with a sincerity of pa.s.sion, which was startling in its contrast to the man's light tones, and Peignton, realising the contrast, was at once touched and abashed.

"You dear girl!" he said softly. "Thank you, dear. I'm not worth it, but--I'll be good to you, Teresa! You shall never regret it."

Teresa laughed at the absurdity of the thought. It seemed impossible that anything in the nature of regret, or grief, or anxiety, or even boredom could ever again cloud her heart. She had reached the pinnacle of her desires. To know that Dane loved her meant absolute, unclouded happiness. He would go on loving her. Therefore she would go on being blissful and content. As in the fairy tales, they would be happy ever after. "I never knew that it was possible to be so happy!" sighed Teresa in her heart.

CHAPTER NINE.

THE GIFT OF CREATION.

Teresa entered the quiet house, cast a look at the drawing-room door, and realised with relief that her mother had retired to bed. Probably she would be awake, and would expect the returning daughter to enter her room in pa.s.sing, and give a history of the evening's adventures, but Teresa had no intention of doing anything of the sort. Pausing for a moment in the hall, she took off her slippers and crept noiselessly past the dreaded portals up to the third floor. To-morrow morning there would be reprisals, but she had news to tell which would speedily turn the tide. The flood of questions and curiosities which were bound to flow from the maternal lips would be intolerable to-night, nevertheless Teresa felt the need of speech. The relief, the joy, the triumph of the moment seemed more than she could endure alone. She needed someone to listen, not to talk, and Mary had been trained by long years of self-abnegation to fill that post.

Teresa entered her sister's room and turned on the electric switch.

Mary lay asleep, her face showing yellow against the whiteness of the pillow, her hair screwed together in a walnut-like k.n.o.b at the top of her head. She stirred, opened listless eyes to stare at her sister, and automatically struggled to a sitting position.

"Got back?--Do you--is there anything you want?"

Teresa sat down on the side of the bed and threw back her cloak. In the plainly furnished bedroom her blue dress became at once a rich and gorgeous garment, the trifling ornament on her neck gleamed with a new splendour; to Mary's dazzled eyes she appeared a vision of beauty and happiness.

"What should I want? Cocoa? Coffee? You funny old Martha! your thoughts never get away from housekeeping. I don't want anything; not one single thing in the whole wide world. I've got so much already that I can hardly bear it... Mary! I'm engaged. He _does_ care. He asked me to-night."

"Who?" asked Mary blankly, and Teresa, staring at her in indignation, realised that, incredible as it appeared, this ignorance was real, not feigned. A p.r.i.c.king of curiosity made itself felt; since this most obtuse of sisters had noticed nothing between herself and Dane, it would be interesting to see whom she would select as a possible _fiance_. She smiled, and said, "Guess!"

"Mr Hunter," said Mary promptly.

"Gerald Hunter!" Teresa was transfixed with surprise at the unexpectedness of the reply, for Gerald Hunter, the young partner of the local doctor, had come to the neighbourhood some months later than Dane himself, by which time she had no attention to bestow upon another man.

Hunter was a member of the tennis club, he made a welcome addition to local dances and bridge teas; occasionally on Sunday afternoons he had called and stayed to tea. Teresa was aware that he had a dark complexion, a strong, overhand serve, and a dancing step which went well with her own, but beyond these preliminaries her mind had not troubled to go.

"What on earth made you think it was Gerald Hunter?"

"He admires you."

"Oh, well!" Teresa glanced complacently into the tilted mirror which showed a reflection of flaxen hair, pink cheeks, and rounded shoulders, sufficiently attractive to merit any man's admiration. The same law of contrast which made the dress appear rich and elaborate came into operation as regards its wearer. The mirror reflected the faces of both sisters, and it was not unnatural that Teresa should feel a thrill of pleasure at her own fair looks. "Oh, well! But that's different. Lots of people may _admire_. Guess again, Mary! Somebody far, far more exciting than Mr Hunter."

But Mary shook her head.

"If it's not Mr Hunter, I don't know. Tell me yourself."

"Dane Peignton! Oh, Mary, why didn't you guess? I've cared always-- from the very first hour I saw him, and I knew he cared too, I was sure of it--and yet, one _can't_ be sure! When one cares so much, it seems too good to be true. He is so different from anyone else in this stupid little place. He belongs to the world, and to people like... like the people I met to-night, not to our poor, prosy little set. He was the most popular man there. He talked, and they listened; he made things go. They all liked him, and admired him. He has been here only a few months, and they all treat him as a friend, and oh, Mary! you know what they are like to _us_? If it hadn't been for him I should have felt like a fish out of water. They gushed, of course, they always gush, but one felt so apart. Old Sir Henry sat on my other side, and persisted in mistaking me for Miss Pell, and talked of things I knew nothing about.

I am sure they were all wondering what on earth I was doing up there.

What will they think to-morrow when they hear! I'm going to announce it at once. I want everyone to know. I'd like to shout it from the church tower... Oh, Mary, isn't it splendid? Don't you think I am the luckiest girl... Don't you think it is wonderful that he should care for me?"

"Yes... Does he?"

There was an incredulity in the voice in which the words were put which arrested Teresa in her flow of eloquence. She stared with lips agape, her blue eyes darkening in amaze.

"_Does he_? Does he care?... You ask me that! What are you dreaming about? If he didn't care, why in the world should he ask me to be his wife? We are not rich; we are not grand. Ours is not exactly a _lively_ family for a man to marry into. He might have chosen a girl in such a different position. Why should he choose me?"

Mary pulled the blankets over her thin chest, and appeared to consider the matter, her eyes resting on her sister's face with a coolly critical scrutiny.

"Perhaps because--you wanted him to! You generally do manage to get what you want, don't you, Teresa?"

Teresa straightened herself with an air of offence.

"There was no _management_ about this, anyhow! Whatever I wanted, I didn't give myself away. I never ran after him and made myself cheap, as some girls do. It's horrid of you to suggest such a thing. Did I ever show that I cared for him when he was here? I can't have done, or you would not have been so surprised when you heard of our engagement."

"I knew you cared for him. You had a perfectly different face when he was in the room. We all knew. We were sorry for you, because we thought he didn't return it. Mother was thinking of sending you to Aunt Emma's."

"Oh, she was, was she!" Teresa tossed her head once more, but the inner happiness was too great to allow of more than a pa.s.sing irritation. She stretched out her hand, and gripped her sister by the arm.

"Mary! you are horrid. Not one single nice word yet, not one congratulation, when I came in at once to tell you before anyone in the world! If it had been mother, she'd have been hanging round my neck in hysterics of excitement, but you do nothing but lie there and croak, and throw cold water. I'm your own sister--does it seem so extraordinary that a man should want to marry me? Mary, be _nice_! Congratulate me!

Won't you be glad to have a married sister, and all the fun and excitement of a wedding in the house?"

"Fun!" echoed Mary, and shuddered eloquently. In imagination she saw her mother collecting store catalogues, comparing prices to the fraction of a penny, and dictating innumerable notes. In imagination she saw herself spending week after week eternally sewing for Teresa, marking for Teresa, running ribbons through Teresa's _lingerie_, unpacking Teresa's presents, packing Teresa's boxes, tidying, arranging, slaving for Teresa, while Teresa herself paid calls, and sat with her lover in the drawing-room. All these things she would do when the time came, and do them meekly and well, but in the doing there would be no "fun."

There was no lightsomeness of spirit in the Mallison household to ease the strain of small duties, or turn a _contretemps_ into a joke. Mrs Mallison's heart would swell with pride at the prospect of providing an outfit for the future Mrs Dane Peignton; she would say and believe that the whole responsibility was borne on her shoulders; nevertheless, the preparation of that outfit would add years to the lives of every human creature beneath her roof.

"I can't say that I look forward to the wedding itself, but I hope you will be happy. It would be nice for one of us to be happy. Captain Peignton is a good man; I hope he will be happy too." Mary hesitated, and a pathetic curiosity showed itself in her face. "I suppose you couldn't tell me what he said?"

Teresa shook her head.

"Of _course not_! ... Very little really. It was in the car. The man ran us into the ditch. I was frightened, and... and then, of course--he comforted me! We got home so quickly that there was not much time.--He is coming to-morrow morning."

Mary nodded, a light of comprehension brightening her eyes.

"You are quite sure he meant it? You are always so sure that you are right, and that everything ought to go as you wish. Don't be too sure of him, Teresa! Even if you are properly engaged, don't be too sure.

He has only met you now and again for an hour at a time, and seen that you were young and pretty, and good at games. Now he will see you often. He may be disappointed and change his mind!"

"Am I so much worse than I appear?"

"I didn't mean worse."