"Her hand was close to her daughter's heartAnd it felt the life-blood's sudden start;A quick deep breath did the damsel drawLike the struck fawn in the oakenshaw."—Rossetti.
Virginia, lily-pale in the heat, sat at the window of the tiny parlour dignified by the name of dining-room, adding up accounts. She had given Pansy her lunch, eaten some bread and cheese herself, and left the child to her daily afternoon rest while she applied herself to the discussion of ways and means.
It was Tony's half-holiday, and he would be home, he promised, at five o'clock, to help her carry down the little invalid into the garden to have tea. He was renouncing an hour of his precious cricket to do this. What a darling he was! Virginia's eyes grew misty as she thought of him—how pluckily he went without things that "other chaps" had! How loyally he refrained from piercing her heart with the thought of her own helplessness to supply him with what he wanted!
Now, for the first time, she was alone with the problem created by her mother's improvidence. In all its bare hideousness, the thing confronted her. The rent was due. They had always waited to pay it until the cheque for the quarter's rent at Lissendean came in. Now there was no cheque to be expected. If her mother's errand to-day had failed, she must give notice to quit that very afternoon. Even so, where was this quarter's rent to come from? The balance at the bank was seven pounds six and two-pence.
The furniture must be sold. This, with her mother's pretty things, would pay the landlord. Afterwards—what?
The sweet eyes grew dim with a secret, bewildered kind of pain. Why had Gerald Rosenberg gone away without a word?... Yet, when she asked herself why not, she had no intelligible answer to give. Nothing had passed between himself and her, in words. Only she had been conscious of his unceasing, absorbed attention, given to herself, whenever they had been in company. There had been a tiny secret thread of mutual understanding—or so Virginia had thought. It now appeared that she was mistaken. There had been nothing between them. It was like brushing gossamer from before one's eyes. It had been there, but it was nothing. The first strong light of reason dispersed it. Something that had been very sweet, very poignant, had come to an end. While telling herself that it had all been her own fancy, inwardly she knew it was not so. There had been something. But it was only gossamer—just midsummer madness.
Now that the doom had fallen, she would never see the Rosenbergs again. She would have to be a governess, if such a post could be obtained.
Keenly she wondered what was passing between Mrs. Mynors and her old lover. Though her nature revolted from the idea, she yet caught herself hoping that a marriage between the two might come about. If this Mr. Gaunt—what an uncomfortable name!—was ready to take his former sweetheart to his home, he surely would offer asylum to her children, or if not, arrange that they could be together elsewhere.
Ah! That would be the thing! She lost herself in visions of this little home with herself, Pansy and Tony in it—no mother to wait upon; for dearly as she loved the privilege of waiting upon her mother, Virginia had to own that it was mamma who made things difficult.
She shut her neatly kept books with a sigh, and as she did so, glancing up, she saw to her surprise, that her mother was opening the garden gate.
She must have caught a very early train home!
Swiftly Virginia sprang up, hurried to the door, and admitted the returned traveller. One glance at the pretty, sulky face, the lids slightly puffed as with recent tears, told Virginia that the news was not good; and her heart sank to a degree so unexpectedly low that she girded at herself for a coward and a despicable person.
"Oh, my dear, you have walked all this way alone in the heat! How tired you must be. We are going to have tea in the garden later on—come to your sitting-room; let me put you on the sofa and take off your shoes. You will soon feel better," she crooned over her mother, as she led her to the couch, tended her gently and lovingly, and—oh, crowning boon—asked no questions.
The care was accepted, but with a reservation which the sensitive girl was quick to feel. Gazing on the averted face and pouting lips, she could almost have thought that mamma was vexed with her, had that not been improbable under the circumstances. What was it? Did mamma think she ought to have met the train? Or did she want special tea made for her alone, immediately? Well, that was easily done. "Lie and rest, dear one," she said sympathetically, "and I will just make you a cup of tea; the kettle won't take five minutes to boil."
When she returned, with the dainty tray, and the wafer bread and butter, her mother was sitting up, her feet on the ground, her elbows on a small table, crying silently into her ridiculous pocket-handkerchief. This could, of course, only mean complete disaster. With a dreadful sinking of the heart Virginia murmured:
"You will tell me all about it when you feel able?"
Uncovering her eyes, Mrs. Mynors fixed them reproachfully upon her daughter; and the girl, conscious of some unspoken reproach, felt guilty, though no misdeeds came to her mind.
"Virgie," said a hollow voice, as at last the silence was broken, "did Miriam Rosenberg, when you were in town, take you to any picture galleries?"
Virgie stood, the picture of astonishment.
"Why, yes, we went to the Academy," said she, wonderingly, "and—oh, yes—we went to Hertford House as well."
As she spoke the words, the memory of that day, that last day with Gerald, caused the rosy tint to steal up on her pale cheeks. The lynx eyes fixed upon her saw and misinterpreted.
"Did you meet a gentleman there?"
Still more mystified, Virginia shook her head.
"Virginia, think! A dark man, who walked lame."
The girl started—yes, her mother was not mistaken, she started quite visibly. "The lame man," she said. "Yes, of course, I remember."
Something like fury gleamed in the elder woman's blue eyes as she stood up, confronting her taller daughter. "He was Mr. Gaunt!" she flashed.
"What!Thatwas Mr. Gaunt? Was it indeed? Oh, then, perhaps that accounts for it!"
"Accounts for what?"
"That he looked as if he expected me to bow to him or speak to him—that he looked as if he thought he knew me! I am very like you, mamma, am I not? Everybody says so."
"He saw the likeness, and remembers the meeting," muttered Mrs. Mynors, crumpling up her handkerchief into a tight ball with vindictive fingers. "I suppose you thought he admired you very much?"
"Not at all," returned the girl at once. "I thought he looked angry or offended. He—he followed us about rather persistently, until Mims and I felt uncomfortable. We went and sat outside, at the top of the stairs, to get out of his way."
"Humph! He did admire you, though, for all that! At least, he wants to marry you!"
"Wha-a-t!" Virginia was guilty of vulgarity in her amused amaze. "Oh, mummie, don't be silly! He meant you. You have made a mistake."
Her mother gave a short, bitter laugh. "I ampassée," she said through her teeth. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have sent you as my ambassador! You might have been able to come to terms. Tell me," she cried sharply, grasping her daughter's wrist, "tell me what you thought of him? Sombre, interesting—eh? The strong silent man—that kind of thing? You must have used your eyes in a way that I am sure I never taught you."
Virginia stood transfixed. She felt as if she were talking to a stranger. This was a mother she had never seen. "Oh, mother, dear, what can you mean?" she remonstrated, in low, hurt tones.
With another mirthless laugh, Mrs. Mynors flung back upon her sofa pillows. She began to pour tea into a cup, and her hand shook.
"How little girls understand," said she with sarcasm. "Tell me now, honestly, whatdidyou think of him?"
Virginia remained a moment, searching her memory. Every minute of that afternoon was etched clearly in her mind's eye. "Mims did not like him at all," said she. "She thought he meant to be rude. But I thought that he looked—very unhappy."
"A case of mutual love at first sight, evidently," was the scornful comment. "Well, shall you have him, Virgie? I am to make you the formal offer of his hand."
"Mother, I think—I think I had better leave you to drink some tea and rest," said the meek Virginia. "I really can't understand what you mean, you are talking wildly, and I am afraid the long, hot journey has unnerved you."
"Stop, Virgie, don't go out. I forbid it. You must stay and listen to what I have to say. Before saying it, I wanted to find out just how much had passed between you, and I understand things a little better after what you tell me. Well! In short, I have what Mr. Gaunt calls a business offer to put before you, and you have until to-morrow afternoon's post in which to make up your mind."
Virginia obediently seated herself upon a chair opposite her mother, who, between sips of tea, told her of the offer made by Gaunt.
The elder woman's mind was in a strange tumult—she hardly knew which was the keener feeling in her—her furious jealousy or her devouring desire that her daughter should accept the offer which would lift them out of poverty. On her journey down in the train, she had been growing used to the idea. The sense of outrage, which had stung her so smartly at first, subsided a little, in the light of other considerations. What chances of matrimony had Virginia? Since she had let young Rosenberg slip through her fingers, her mother was beginning to see that she was not the kind of girl to seize chances, even should they present themselves. If Gaunt were serious in his wild plan, if it could be shown that he was financially solvent and able to do as he promised, then she had better swallow her feelings and take what she could get.
She told herself that it was one of those cases of sudden electric sympathy—of love at first sight. Yet she knew that she said this only to salve her conscience. She was, as her old lover had told her, no fool. She saw his conduct, all of a piece. Why had he taken up the mortgage on Lissendean? To have her in his power. Why did he wish to become her son-in-law? For the same reason. Try to deceive herself as she might, she knew that love had no place in the man's thoughts. When he had spoken of "getting a bit of his own back," he had spoken with a certain momentary glimpse of self revelation. He had uncovered a corner of a mind perverted, a mind which had brooded long upon a solitary idea of grievance until obsessed by it.
Mrs. Mynors, in her sub-conscious self, knew all this. Had she told her daughter, the girl must have recoiled shuddering from the prospect of such an alliance. As her old lover had foreseen, she was very carefulnotto tell her daughter anything of the kind. Her better nature had at first fought within her a little. She resolved that she would describe Gaunt's malevolence, his cold-blooded assurance. Then she would come forward, offer to share a part of Virginia's burden, decide that they must stand together and face what her own selfish, mean folly had brought upon them all. But, as she strove to envisage some of what such a step must cost her, she had cowered away from the picture.
Shecould notface beggary.
She began to temporise. How did she know the exact position of affairs? It was possible that, strive though he might to conceal it from her, the man was in love. She determined upon her course of action. She would tell Virginia how Gaunt had watched her in the Gallery. The girl's own demeanour should give her the cue as to whether or no she should proceed to unfold his proposal. If the sudden fancy had been mutual ... after all, itmighthave been mutual....
She returned home. She spoke. Virginia betrayed consciousness. Before the mention of the lame man—at the very memory of Hertford House—she had blushed, she had been embarrassed. Further questioning had elicited her clear memory of Gaunt's attention and pursuit. She had owned, with a distinct hesitation, that she thought he looked unhappy. That decided Mrs. Mynors. With a new hard-heartedness, born of her new, tormenting jealousy of Virgie's youth and sweetness, she stamped down the deep-lying scruples. She made the best of Gaunt's case, and said that he wished to come down to Wayhurst to plead his suit himself.
It took some time to convince Virgie that the man was in earnest. Yet, recalling his appearance and manner, as she held them in her memory, the girl owned to herself that this was a man who might make an eccentric, even a quixotic, offer.
The interview was broken off short by the entrance of Tony, who flung open the front door, loudly whistling, and could be heard throwing down his books, and shouting for Virgie. He knew better than to enter the little boudoir, his mother's sanctum. Very, very rarely was he permitted to set foot within its charmed area.
"I have until to-morrow's post," said Virgie gravely, as she lifted the tray with the tea-things, and carried it away.
The whole affair must be pushed into the background for the time being. Pansy was to be fetched downstairs, the tea-table spread in the garden, more tea prepared. Tony was a willing, if somewhat boisterous, helper. He and his sister between them soon arranged things, and the too brilliant eyes of the little cripple glistened with pleasure as she was laid beside the wire arch smothered in Hiawatha, to enjoy the air of the exquisite summer evening.
Virgie sat, the socks she endlessly knitted for Tony in her never idle fingers, watching the clear-cut profile, which, as she could not conceal from herself, grew ever more ethereal. Pansy did not seem definitely worse, and had less pain than formerly. But she was wasting, and her sister knew it.
The Wayhurst doctor was very anxious that a new treatment, in which he had great faith, should be tried. He thought it the only chance; but as it was protracted, and involved a long course of skilled nursing, with daily medical supervision, it would be extremely costly. It was, therefore, out of the question.
Yet, if Virginia married Mr. Gaunt, it would become easy. He had actually volunteered that Pansy should have all the help obtainable. She glanced from Pansy to Tony, and at the darns on his threadbare trouser-knees. She heard his jolly laugh, and also his quickly smothered sigh, as he remarked that he was the only chap in his form who did not belong to the school O.T.C. He knew that the uniform and camp expenses were beyond his sister's resources.
This, too, would be rectified, if she did as suggested. It was a bribe of whose strength Gaunt himself could form no idea.
Later, when Tony had scampered away to bowl at the nets, and she was alone in the kitchen washing up tea-things, she bent her mind upon the extraordinary turn of affairs. The heat had made her so languid that she was obliged to sit down while the kettle boiled upon her tiny oil-stove. Her visit to London had done her spirits good, but London air is not the best for recuperative purposes. Moreover, she had been up late most nights during her stay in town, and the thought of Gerald had at times disturbed her rest. Since her return—and more especially since hearing about the mortgage trouble—her strength seemed to grow less and less. The knowledge that she was almost at the end of her means, and saw no chance of replenishing the empty exchequer, had acted upon a body weakened by a long course of underfeeding. In her heart she knew that she could not go on much longer acting as general servant, and starving herself that the others might have enough. If she broke down—if her health proved to be so undermined that she could not take a situation—what was to become of these helpless ones?
The idea that her mother could help in any way never occurred to her. The three were bracketed together in her mind, as those for whom she had promised her dying father to care.
Now came a way out—not an inviting one, but one that had to be faced nevertheless. If she married Mr. Gaunt, he undertook to lift her burdens from her shoulders. Moreover, he lived in the country—the real country. Omberleigh Grange was in Derbyshire, and it must have a garden—a real garden, such as she had been born to, such as she loved. A garden in which to rest and grow strong again, a garden in which Pansy might be wheeled along smooth walks, and lie under the spreading shade of big trees. These things could be hers, at a price. What did the price involve?
Mr. Gaunt had loved her mother. He knew, of course, that her mother had preferred another man; but she, Virginia, bore a wonderful resemblance to the woman lost, and the lonely man wanted to satisfy his empty heart by cherishing her. In return, he would do for mother, for Pansy, for Tony, all the things that she, poor Virgie, in her helplessness, could not do, with all her love. The sacrifice demanded was just the sacrifice of herself. Well—what did that matter? Why should she not be sacrificed, for the good and happiness of those she loved so ardently? It really was very simple, after all.
Perhaps a few weeks earlier she might not have felt quite so indifferent. There had been shining gates—the gates of a young girl's fancy—and shyly they had begun to open, and to show a tiny glimpse of rosy mysteries within.
That was over now. It had been but gossamer and illusion. This was a real, definite, tangible plan—a rope held out to save her perishing family, drifting on a bit of wreckage. In the seizing of the rope, she herself, incidentally, would be sacrificed. That was all. Why not?
By the time that the scanty crockery was arranged in spotless order on the shelves, and the kitchen as tidy as a new pin, the girl had practically come to a decision. She said nothing, however, that night. Pansy was a little over-tired after her garden excursion, and could not get to sleep, so, instead of sitting with her mother downstairs, Virginia remained at the little invalid's bedside and read aloud. When at last the child slept, she was too tired to do anything but go to bed herself. Nevertheless, her preoccupations awoke her in the early summer dawn.
In her utter simplicity she slipped from bed and knelt down in her white garment. She asked for guidance, and it seemed to her childlike faith that it was granted. Like her namesake in far-off old Rome, she must be sacrificed. She remembered the words of the ballad she had learned as a child, the words spoken by the frantic father of the Roman Virginia: "And now, my own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"
It was as though her own father's voice spoke to her from the grave, urging her to courage and a stout heart. The man was a stranger, the man was formidable; but she would be so good to him that they must grow to understand each other.
It was the only way, and she resolved to take it.
"Early in the morningWhen the first cock crowed his warningNeat as bee, as sweet and busy,Fetched in honey, milked the cows,Aired and set to rights the house,...Fed the poultry, sat and sewed;Talked as modest maidens should."—Christina Rossetti.
When Virginia went into her mother's room after breakfast that morning, she told her quietly that she had made her decision.
Mrs. Mynors gave a half-stifled, excited exclamation. For the life of her she could not have told what she hoped or desired. She stared at her composed daughter with eyes half of entreaty, half of fear.
"I shall write and tell Mr. Gaunt to come to-morrow," said Virginia with calm.
"Oh, for pity's sake, child, are you not mad?" cried the wretched woman in the bed.
"I have considered it," was the steady answer. "He is unhappy, and I am pretty sure that I could be a comfort to him. His way of doing things seems odd; but he is lonely, and I daresay he has been soured. I will do all I can to make him happy, if he on his side will perform his promises to you and the children."
"Virgie, don't!" The voice was so altered, so strange, that the girl paused, wondering.
"Don't? Why do you say so?"
"Because I——" Mrs. Mynors came to a stop. What could she say? "Because I have a lurking idea that he will not be kind to you." How ridiculous that sounded! And upon what was it based? Only upon the man's manner—his insolence, his evident desire to wound and insult her. Somehow she could not tell Virgie how his open contempt had stung.
"Because you—you don't know him—you can't love him," she stammered.
"Butyouknew him and loved him well enough to promise to marry him," countered Virgie instantly. "Of course, that has great weight with me. If he were a complete stranger, it would be different." She stood beside the bed, playing with one of its brass corner-knobs. "You know, mamma, I am rather an odd girl," said she with a swift blush. "I think I am attracted to what I pity. It would be waste to marry me to an adoring husband, who would give me everything I desired. I would rather give than have things given to me."
Mrs. Mynors lay back, watching her through narrowed eyes. "You are—yes, you certainly are odd," she muttered. "I own that I don't understand you in the least."
Virgie smiled. None knew better than she herself the truth of this statement.
"Of course," said she, "I am not accepting his offer definitely. I am simply saying that he may come here and see me to-morrow. I could not clinch the matter until we have some hold over him."
"What?" cried her mother sharply. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well," replied her young daughter simply, "Mr. Gaunt has made some big promises. How do we know that he means to keep them? You say he is eccentric. He may not be trustworthy. In any case, I shall not agree to do as he asks without being certain that he will do as he offers. We must go to Mr. Askew and ask him to come and meet him, so that a proper settlement may be prepared."
"Well, upon my word! Virgie, you cold-blooded little horror!" began Mrs. Mynors, almost in a scream. She broke off abruptly and rolled over, hiding her face in the pillows.
"But, mother," said Virgie wonderingly, "you don't reflect. I am promising to give all that I have or am. Suppose I did that, and found myself cheated of the price? You must know that I should not think of marrying a man I have hardly seen and do not love, except for you and the children. Do you call me cold-blooded because I am careful to assure myself that I shan't be sacrificed in vain?"
Her mother wrung her hands. "Virgie, you know that I do not demand such an unnatural bargain?"
"Of course I know that you don't demand it," was the quiet answer. "It is my own decision. I promise you one thing: if, when Mr. Gaunt comes, I feel that he is a person I never could care for, if he repels me utterly, I will draw back. But you know, mother, you have told me one or two things about him, as he was in the old days when you loved him—and they were rather fine."
"Oh, but he is so altered," sobbed Mrs. Mynors from the pillow. "You would never know him for the same man. He used to be so tender, so chivalrous, so impulsive. Now he seems so hard, so——"
She broke off. What was she doing? The affair that was to bring her comparative ease, to keep her from starvation, was well in train. Should she herself stop it? She reflected that Virginia was not accepting definitely—only promising to consider the matter. Let things take their course. She believed the girl had some sentimental school-girl fancy about Osbert! Yes, she had thought that from the first. She was wasting her compassion, her delicate feeling.
After all, considering Virgie's beauty, was it likely that Gaunt would be cruel to her? With a feeling almost like hatred she studied the pure outline of the profile, the effect of the sunlight glinting through the brown-gold hair, the curve of the chin, the slimness of the young, drooping body, veiled in its blue overall.
"Oh, do as you like!" she cried, "send your letter; but talk as little as you can to me about it! How do you suppose I like being told that you are sacrificing yourself for me? I can go to the workhouse in the last resort, like other people."
"Perhaps. But Pansy can't," said Virginia, a trifle rigidly. She took up the tray and disappeared.
*****
The day dragged by. To Virginia it seemed as if it would never end, and yet as if it were passing like a sigh. She felt as those who have been in a sinking ship have described themselves as feeling when the wave rose above the gunwale, and seemed to hesitate—to pause awfully—before it burst.
Pansy was very insistently eager to know what had passed between mamma and Mr. Gaunt the previous day. It was hard to stave off her pertinacious inquiry, but Virgie was able to tell her that negotiations were going on which might, or might not, lead to something. To-morrow would bring more news.
Thus the dawn broke upon the fatal day—a day of persistent fine rain which did nothing to abate the heat.
At about ten o'clock the loud imperative knock of a telegraph boy sounded upon the little door. Virginia took in the message. It was from Gaunt, and ran thus—
Please reply definitely to business offer, which otherwise is off.
The girl sat down, with knees shaking, staring at the message, which was reply paid. The boy waited whistling in the little entrance passage.
Should she give the definite answer demanded? Could she face the knowledge that all hope was over? She would not show her mother the despotic telegram. She knew that she must answer it for herself.
Taking a pencil she wrote:
Definite reply impossible till after visit. May we expect you?
She prepaid the reply to this, dismissed the boy, and walked into the kitchen with limbs shaking. She felt as if she had defied the robber chief who was holding them all to ransom.
It is difficult to describe the storm of excitement in which she awaited the second message. Her mother and Pansy both demanded the meaning of the double knock. She replied tranquilly to her mother that Mr. Gaunt had tried to extort a definite answer, which she had refused to give. Mrs. Mynors' cry: "Then he won't come after all?" was so tragic that the girl's heart contracted.
Within an hour she held in her hands the following remarkable sentence:
You gain nothing by delay. Arrive about four.
Virgie could not conceal from herself that it was relief which she experienced. Putting on her hat, she went out in the rain, down to the town, to the office of Mr. Askew, the solicitor, who had helped her with the agreement for Laburnum Villa, and in one or two other small matters. She asked him to come up that afternoon, at about half-past four. Then she bought a few little cakes for tea, and returned home to arrange everything as spick and span as possible.
Her mother had insisted that the "supply" should be asked to come up for the afternoon, that their guest might not know of their servantless condition. Virginia was at first opposed to the idea, but after reflection she agreed. Mr. Gaunt must not think them too utterly in his power. She felt like the besieged citizens who threw loaves of bread over the walls, in order that the besiegers might suppose that they were living in plenty. Moreover, the presence of Mrs. Brown would ensure that Pansy and Tony were not neglected, but had tea at the proper time, Virgie being otherwise engaged.
Thus it was that Gaunt, on his arrival, was admitted by a responsible-looking middle-aged woman in a very clean apron, and shown into a room which, though tiny, was a bower of luxury.
Mrs. Mynors, beautifully gowned, rose from the downy Chesterfield to greet him. She thought he looked less vindictive, less ironical than he had seemed at their last meeting. After all, perhaps she had been fancying things!
"Well," he said, "so our young lady is considering the subject, as I foresaw she would do. She is her mother's own daughter."
Mrs. Mynors smothered her resentment at this extraordinary address. She was conscious of a hatred which was difficult to keep within bounds, but her own panic, when she knew that there was a doubt of his coming, had shown her something of what would be her frame of mind if Virginia declined to marry.
"Virginia," said she, "is by no means my own daughter. I am a wretched woman of business, whereas her head is as clear as a man's. She wishes to have all that you propose to do for us embodied in a marriage settlement."
"Ha!" said Gaunt, as if delighted. The mother could hardly have made a more misleading statement. "Sharp young woman, indeed! Well, I respect her for that. There's no reason that I know of, for her to trust me. Where is she, by the bye? Has she entrusted the preliminaries to you?"
"No, she has not. She is acting quite independently in this matter," snapped Mrs. Mynors. "She is not quite of age, but I have always left her a great liberty of action. In fact, we have been more like sisters than mother and daughter." She dabbed her eyes daintily, and her voice was fraught with pathos.
"How charming!" said Gaunt gravely. "Did she remember having met me at the Wallace Collection?"
"Oh, yes, indeed she did! She remembered very well!" cried Mrs. Mynors, and her laugh was nearly as unpleasant as his own.
"Capital," was his comment. "All should go well then. Is love at first sight the proper cue, eh? Advise me. What do you think?"
For a moment the mask dropped. The real woman looked at him through the eyes of the elder Virginia. "I think you are a devil," she said distinctly.
He seemed much amused. "Well, perhaps you are not so far out this time. I told you that you were no fool. I thought you could be trusted to prepare the way for these difficult negotiations. Now may I see the lady of my heart?"
As he spoke, the door opened softly and Virginia walked in.
She wore her deceptive air of extreme elegance, and her prettiest frock. It was a costume grossly unsuited to the tiny villa, and she had hitherto worn it only in London. Any man beholding her might have been pardoned for supposing her to be a luxury-loving idler, a girl who thought of little else but appearances.
Gaunt stood up. She approached him with a mingling of shyness and welcome; her manner seemed to trust him completely—to say that she knew herself safe in his hands. It might have made appeal to the veriest ruffian, had not his eye been jaundiced by his knowledge of her mother, and of their penniless circumstances. Her virginal modesty was to him merely consummate hypocrisy.
"Well," he said, "so I hear that you are not going to commit yourself until I stand committed too? Is that so?"
She laughed a little breathlessly. His non-smiling, dark face and big, rather hulking person were formidable, and she was conscious of fear.
"You said it was a business transaction, and business transactions ought to be business-like, ought they not?" she asked. She was speaking playfully, while her eyes sought his, as wanting to understand, to obtain some key to his curious behaviour. "It was kind of you to come, nevertheless," she added, with a hesitation born of his lack of response.
"I am a non-social, boorish kind of person," he said abruptly, after a pause, during which she withdrew herself and sat down. "I suppose I ought to begin with some kind of apology for such a blunt offer, hey? But I am told that young ladies nowadays like something out of the way; and you could fill in the details for yourself, I expect. You saw me admiring you that day in the Gallery, did you not?"
Again the eyes, so like, so unlike, her mother's, were lifted to those of the man who remembered each look and smile of twenty years back as if it had been yesterday.
"I noticed something special—something I could not interpret—in your manner," was her gentle reply. "I told my friend that I thought you must imagine that you knew me. I was interested when mamma said that it was my likeness to her which drew your attention. I was glad to have it so well explained."
He leaned forward, intent upon her face and her down-bent gaze. "Well," he said, in a voice which thrilled her curiously, "perhaps you think that my suggestion is not quite so surprising, after all?"
Virginia made no reply. Her mother clenched her hands in rage, made some small movement, enough to attract his attention, and caught a ray of what was undoubtedly malice directed at her from under his heavy lids.
"Well," he went on, turning again to the girl, his tone subdued and almost gentle, "what do you say?"
She wavered—her colour came. Innocent and ignorant of life though she was, she yet felt the immensity of the step she was taking; but, strangely enough, the fact that the man gave her no help counted in his favour with her. His manner suggested some tremendous feeling, out of sight. His aloofness was like a fine and delicate consideration. The mocking quality in his address, so obvious to her mother, passed her by.
"Do you really think," she asked, her gaze still upon the ground, "that I am an adequate exchange for all the things you promise to do for—them?"
"Tell me now—enumerate—what have I promised to do forthem?"
She lifted her eyes then. He was not looking at her, but brushing the sleeve of his coat where a crumb had fallen upon it. This avoidance gave her courage. "To educate Tony," said her voice, so fatally like her mother's in its cadenced sweetness, "to allow mother three hundred pounds a year, and to let Pansy have the best advice and treatment for her lameness."
"I admit all that, right enough. Anything more?"
"To settle five thousand pounds on me——"
He looked in triumph at Mrs. Mynors. "Admirable!" he said, with a sarcasm which penetrated to the girl's intelligence with a shock. She broke off, startled.
"All right," he told her soothingly. "I agree to that too. Anything more?"
"Our solicitor, Mr. Askew, said there was another thing that I ought to ask," she replied, quite tranquilly. "It is that you should make a will in my favour, so that if anything happened to you, we should not be left destitute."
He once more let his mocking glance lash Mrs. Mynors. "I appreciate my future wife's business capacity," said he, "but I warn you that I am horribly healthy. Except for the accident which lamed me, I have not had a day's illness in my life. I fear I shan't oblige you by dying just yet."
Virgie grew pink. "Oh, I beg your pardon! That must have sounded very cold-blooded," she apologised. "But you said it was a business offer, did you not?"
He smiled for the first time. Dropping his voice to a low persuasiveness: "Did you quite believe that?" he asked.
Thus challenged, the truth in Virginia spoke. "No," she told him; "I thought it too extraordinary to be true."
"Besides," he persisted, still in that wooing undertone, "with a man who had seen you, it could hardly be, eh?"
Virgie held her breath. Something was here which was utterly beyond her. She was half terrified, half fascinated.
"Do you remember the statue on the landing at Hertford House?" he asked. The blood rushed to her cheeks now in headlong tide.Heknew what brought it; her mother misinterpreted.
"When you had gone, I went and read the inscription," he pursued. "I told myself how true it was. Do you remember it?Voici ton maître?"
He sat and watched the memory, the pang that rent her. The sight of it seemed to give him real pleasure. He could trace the regret, the quiver of feeling, and he could say to himself: "She loves young Rosenberg, but she will marry me for my money. She deserves the punishment which I am going to inflict."
"So, you see, I am a wise man; I know when I am beaten," he went on smoothly. "I acknowledged my master when I found him."
The struggle in Virginia was keen. She was telling herself that this was Mr. Gaunt's highly unusual way of confessing himself attracted. If it were true that he already felt this strong inclination, then she must satisfy him; the marriage ought to be a success, since he had the desire to love, and she the will to please, to serve, to cherish. Yet there was an undernote, like the boom of the far-away storm in the voice of a calm sea. This alarmed her, for she did not understand it.
To steady herself and hide her embarrassment she rose and went to the tea-table, at which she seated herself, pouring the tea and dispensing it with the noticeable grace which characterised her least important actions.
She noticed that her mother was shedding tears, and the sight caused her to make a great effort and launch into small talk—of the late heat, and the rain, and the climate of Wayhurst. Small support did she receive from either of her companions; and by the time that Gaunt had eaten a slice of cake and drunk two cups of tea, his patience seemed suddenly to give out.
"Come, then," he asked suddenly, "have we arranged matters, subject to your finding the business side of the transaction in good order?"
Thus confronted with the bald issue, Virgie felt as if he had slapped her in the face; but in a moment she had rallied. He had promised to give her all she asked. Could she, logically, do aught else but accept? She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, hesitated, rose, and went to the window, gazing forth upon the little wet street. Over the way, at Alpine Cottage, the pug had managed to get shut out in the rain. It was astonishing how often he did this. It was the one thing that seriously displeased his prim and elderly mistress. Virgie's mind caught at the trifling fact, the little bit of her daily life, as if its consideration could protect her against the awful decision which loomed ahead.
"If you want to stipulate for other things, now is your time," said Gaunt, rising and coming towards her. It was but a step, for the room was tiny. "For instance, don't you want it put in the settlements that you should have so many months in town every year, or that I should give you a motor? I haven't got a motor, I must warn you."
Here was something that she could answer without hesitation. She turned to him her lovely, tender smile. "Oh, all that! Why, I shall be your wife," she sweetly answered him.
There was a tingling silence after this artless speech. Gaunt's face fell. He looked as though a momentary doubt assailed him. Then he realised that he must seize the chance she thus unwittingly gave him of assuming her consent.
"Ah! then you can think of yourself as my wife?" He turned his face to where Mrs. Mynors sat like a woman hypnotised. "Then we are engaged!" he cried. "I am such a crusted old provincial bachelor that I did not provide for this occasion before I left town by the purchase of a ring. But I see upon your mother's finger a jewel which, if I mistake not, belongs to me." He approached the sofa with hand outstretched. "Thank you, madam. It seems to me a most touching idea that the mother and daughter should wear the same betrothal ring." He held it out to Virginia.
"Put it on," he said.
Virginia wavered. She looked from the man to the woman, bewildered with the invisible clash of feelings which she could not interpret. Mrs. Mynors hid her face behind her perfumed wisp of lawn; but, then, she would have done that in any case at such a moment as her daughter's betrothal. Gaunt's eyes were alight, but, as it were, a-smoulder; there was no flame in their glance.
Turning very white, the girl took the ring from him and obediently slipped it upon her finger.
"Done!" he said, in tones of boundless satisfaction. "Now we come to definite arrangements." He seated himself again, but Virginia remained standing as if something had turned her to stone. "I live a very busy life at Omberleigh," he told her briskly, "farming my own land; and my estate is a big one. I must go down there to-night to superintend the end of the hay harvest, and I must stay there a few days in order to prepare the house for your reception. I should like to be married this day week if that will suit you. As we both live in our own parishes, there will be no difficulty about a licence. It is not possible for me to take a honeymoon at this time of year, so I shall carry you straight back to Derbyshire after the ceremony."
"Wait—wait. No, no, Osbert, this is preposterous!" broke in Mrs. Mynors. "This cannot be. Virginia does not know you; she is all unprepared. Such haste is—improper! I will not have it."
He looked as obstinate as a mule with its ears laid back. "Sorry," he said. "On this matter I shall be obliged to insist. I must be married before we begin to reap, and it is going to be a very early harvest this year. Don't make difficulties. Remember that you profess to be very hard up, and I don't begin to make you any allowance until your daughter is my wife."
Virginia was reflecting. "If they told me I was to have an operation I would rather have it at once, than be left to think about it."
She spoke suddenly. "Mother, I can be ready," she said gently. "Let it be as Mr. Gaunt thinks best."
"Excellent!" said the bridegroom. "Your mother tells me that she allows you complete independence of action, so we will take this as settled. Is that your solicitor now entering the gate? I will give him my instructions at once with your permission, for I must go back to London by the six train to catch the express to Ashbourne."