"Living alone in an empty houseHere half hid in the gleaming wood, ...Till a morbid hate and horror have grownOf a world in which I have hardly mixt,And a morbid, eating lichen fixtOn a heart half turned to stone."—Tennyson.
It seemed to Virginia, as she let her limbs relax in the big, downy old bed, as though she never could sleep again. Somewhere in that silent house couched the Monster, as yet inert, but one day to awake, one day to rise before her as she cowered there chained to her rock. The very silence seemed full of breathings, the whispering of the trees outside her window was like a stealthy approach. How could sleep visit her? Yet youth exhausted will have its way, and she had not been laid to rest more than half an hour when she was in a profound and tranquil slumber, which lasted without a break until she was called next morning.
Grover had drawn back the curtains, and her room was full of sunshine. The maid brought her tea to the bedside, and smiled as though she could not help smiling at the angelic little face in its tumbled golden halo.
"Dear me, ma'am, if you'll pardon the liberty, it does seem that odd to have a lady in this house," said she benevolently.
"Why? Does Mr. Gaunt not have many visitors?" asked Virgie drowsily.
"Oh, never ladies, ma'am! Why, ever since I came, no lady has stayed in this house—no, nor so much as dined! What is it they call the master in these parts—it means one that hates women?"
"Misogynist?" said Virgie. "Have I married a misogynist?"
"Indeed, ma'am; it's high time he was cured. A fine man like him, strong and in the prime of life. We've all wished it, many a time! And cured he could not help but be, once he had seen you, as we all agreed last night," was the flattering verdict, given rather timidly.
The bride coloured, but did not seem offended. She raised herself on her elbow and ate her morsel of toast, asking Grover various questions.
"Our courtship has been so short, I know nothing about his home life," she said. "But this seems to be a very pretty place."
"Pretty indeed, and a different house it will be when once you get it going, and full of friends, ma'am. Of course, they all say he was disappointed in love as a young man, ma'am, and that is why he dislikes the poor ladies so much. I expect, however, you know a good bit more about that than what I do."
"Yes," said Virgie, "I know all about that." She sighed. "I hope I shall do right," she remarked, "but gentlemen who live alone grow very set in their ways. You must tell me of any little tastes or fancies he may have."
Grover laughed gaily as she gathered up the tea-things and went to fill the bath. "You that can turn him round your little finger, I'll be bound," she chuckled.
The new mistress left her in this pleasing delusion, and lay back upon her pillows with a sigh. If she could but have the whole day in bed, she thought wistfully. A long day's rest, after her good sleep, would set her up once more. At this moment her one desire was to snuggle down in the safe refuge of the bedclothes, and remain there utterly passive and inert.
She appeared, however, punctually in the dining-room when the gong for breakfast sounded.
The meal was set in the old-fashioned way, the tea and coffee service before the mistress, the hot dishes at the other end.
Gaunt was standing with an open newspaper in his hand near the window.
"Well," he said, "did you sleep?"
"Yes, thank you, I did."
She came up and shook hands. He eyed her keenly. This was the first time he had seen her in morning dress. Her white linen was simple and fresh, and she was daintily neat; but there were blue shadows under the melting eyes, and a sad droop of the mouth which spoke of dejection.
"Come, sit down, and pour out my coffee," he said, limping quickly to his own place. "We have much to get through to-day. You must go and see Mrs. Wells, and give the orders for the day." He added, with his "bad smile": "If you are not very good at housekeeping, I don't envy you. She will think very small beer of you."
"It is two years since I had the management of a large house," was the gentle reply, "but I do not think I have forgotten. London housekeeping would seem more difficult to me."
He looked at her, puzzled. "But your mother kept house at Lissendean, I presume?"
"N-no, I don't think mother ever kept house," said Virgie doubtfully. "She used to have a first-rate housekeeper who managed everything when we were little. But afterwards, when I grew up, we were becoming so much poorer, that I told father to dismiss the housekeeper and save her wages, because I thought I could manage. It was wonderful," she added reminiscently, "how much we saved then."
"Perhaps your father was not as particular about his food as I am," he remarked sourly.
"I expect Mrs. Wells knows your likes and dislikes, does she not? If she will help me for the first few weeks, I think I can manage to please you," was the courteous rejoinder.
Gaunt laid down his knife and fork to contemplate her. "In some ways," he said slowly, "it appears that you donotresemble your mother."
"Who? I? Oh, no, I am not a bit like mother, except in looks," calmly replied Virgie. "Did you suppose I was? She is social and I am domestic. She likes going out, and I like home. I am shy with strangers, and she never is." After a minute's thought, she added: "You see, ever since I grew up, I have known the seamy side of things—trouble, losing father, and poverty. I suppose it has made me dull."
The man glowered upon her fixedly as she sat, with an empty plate, sipping her cup of tea.
"You're not eating," he threw out, at length.
"I have not much appetite this morning," was her gentle reply.
"Eat!" he shouted, springing from his place and noting with satisfaction her involuntary recoil. "Come, what's it to be? Kidney and mushroom, eggs, ham—what?"
She grew pink with distress. "Please, no," she pleaded. "I—I can't manage it. I—I simply can't swallow."
"Nonsense!" he declared loudly. "No airs and graces here, please. What will you have?" He held his fork poised above the dishes. There was an electric silence, and he thought she was going to rebel openly. But, after a brief struggle, she commanded herself.
"An egg, please."
He rose, brought her the egg and the toast rack. She thanked him carefully, and he seemed to retire behind his paper. But, after some silence, he abruptly flung it down.
"If you don't eat what you have there, I'll come and stand over you," he threatened.
He was obeyed then, though with a most evident effort.
"As soon as you have had your interview with Mrs. Wells," said he, when she had finished, "I want to take you round the farms. Be ready in the hall at ten-thirty sharp."
She rose. "Perhaps you will either show me the way to the kitchens, or ring for one of the servants?" said she rather stiffly.
"Hoity toity!" cried her husband, stopping short to gaze upon her. "We stand upon our dignity, don't we? Come along. I'll show you."
She followed him down the tiled passage, to the comfortable, though not very extensive kitchen premises. Omberleigh was not a large house, though the reception rooms were spacious and dignified.
"Now, Mrs. Wells," he announced, "here's your new tyrant. She fancies herself on her housekeeping, so I expect there will be wigs on the green before very long. But remember, if you quarrel you part; I am not going to have any wranglings in my peaceful bachelor abode."
Mrs. Wells evidently looked upon this speech as a particularly choice specimen of humour. "Well, there now! I never!" was her good-humoured comment. "If I can't make friends with this young lady, sir, I think I shall deserve to be turned out, if I have served you for a goodish while. He thinks to tease you and me, ma'am, don't he?"
The new mistress had a deft smile all ready. "Indeed, Mrs. Wells, I think he is fond of teasing," she said; and, as so often, the cadence of her voice reminded him unbearably of the woman who had forsaken him, hardened his heart, and drove him away, hostile and irritated.
Mrs. Wells proceeded to make Virginia welcome. Grover had evidently carried down a good report of the new arrival. The housekeeper took her lady round dairy, scullery, store-room and larder, and was soon impressed with her thorough knowledge of the workings of a gentleman's country household.
"Bless me, to look at her you'd never think it!" she declared afterwards. "Just like one of the coloured plates in the fashion papers, or a wax doll with the paper just off of it. But what she don't know about churning ain't worth learning; and as to bread and cakes—why, you'd think she had kept house all her life, and it's my belief she has too—ever since she was old enough to have the sense for it."
*****
At half-past ten, when Gaunt strolled into the hall, his wife, in a shady hat and with a white sunshade, was descending the stairs. Her unquestioning submission—the punctuality which left him no ground for any kind of complaint—was annoying. He felt that the ground was being fairly cut away under his feet, and decided that he must make it clear that a mere policy of yielding would not exempt her from the discipline he meant to inflict.
They left the house together and, turning to the left among the thick pines, soon found a gate which let them through into the sunny meadowland.
They first visited the stables, the barnyards, and the orchards. Then descending the slope, they came to the cattle in the pastures. Beyond this again was cornland, and the fields were beginning to grow faintly golden with the promise of harvest.
Mindful of his sneer at her "prattle" Virginia said little; but he could not but recognise, from what she did say, that she knew what she was talking about. She asked one or two questions about his manures, which touched upon the very point that just now interested him keenly. He was almost as much surprised as if she had begun to speak to him in Arabic. More clearly than ever he was beginning to perceive that this was not by any means the woman he had expected. Yet he hardened his heart. He gazed upon her elegance, her fragility, her Dresden china fairness, and told himself she was merely cleverer than he had foreseen. The agricultural interest was just a pose, meant to conciliate him. She had, apparently, more than one weapon up her sleeve. She intended his conquest, and was planning her campaign accordingly. As for him, he felt as a man may who has been taught only English methods of self-defence when confronted for the first time with a professor of Jiu-jitsu.
He had planned for himself the gratification of breaking in to a life of country solitude a second Virginia Sheringham. He had thought that he knew and understood the methods which would be most effective. He had his victim in his power, but behold! It was not merely not Virginia Sheringham, it was nobody in the least like her. More than once already he had been visited by the notion that he was behaving like a brute, that he was bullying a defenceless thing. Such a thought was intolerable. It simply could not be true. If it were, what outcome to the situation was there? No. It was not true. This submissiveness, this helpless passivity, was merely the policy ofreculer pour mieux sauter. She had some desperate plan in her head—meant, perhaps, to escape? He must be ready.
Meanwhile, they had tramped for nearly two hours, and Virginia's powers were giving out. The day was a fine one, and it was the hottest hour. When they reached a stile, overshadowed by the grateful coolness of a huge beech tree in the corner of a lately mown field, she sat down and begged for a few minutes' rest.
"What, done up again? You don't seem to be very strong. We are two miles from home, and if we wait about we shall be late for lunch. Come along now, you can rest when we get back."
"I don't want any lunch," she answered faintly, "but I must rest. Please go on and have lunch yourself, and leave me here awhile in the shade."
"Ha!" he said, delighted at this confirmation of his thoughts. "No, young woman, I think it safer to keep my eye on you."
She made no reply in words. Her eyes were closed, and two tears forced their way beneath the lids and slipped down her cheeks.
He made an exclamation of vexation. "Not good for much, are you?" he grunted. "Comes of eating no breakfast. What am I going to do with you now, I wonder? Why didn't you call a halt before you were completely done for?"
"I didn't think we should go so far," she answered listlessly. She was beyond caring how he felt. She only knew that she could not get up and go on.
The sound of trotting hoofs approaching along the lane beyond the stile was heard. A dog-cart, driven by a pleasant-looking young man, came in sight.
"Good luck!" muttered Gaunt. He raised his voice. "Hallo, Caunter! My wife has been making the rounds with me, and is a bit done up by the heat. Will you get down, and let me drive her home?"
"Why, certainly," said a good-humoured voice, "only too much honoured. May I beg to be presented to Mrs. Gaunt?"
"Virginia, this is Caunter, my bailiff," said Gaunt, concealing his unwillingness as best he could.
Virginia sat up, opened her eyes and summoned a smile. Young Caunter had descended from the trap, and stood by the stile. As his eyes fell upon the bride, they widened with very spontaneous surprise and admiration.
"I say, this is luck to meet you, to be the first to wish you joy, Mrs. Gaunt," he said boyishly. "My chief is hugely to be congratulated."
"Oh," said the pale bride, "it is kind of you to say that! But you ought to say he is to be pitied, when I behave in this weak way! I am usually quite a good walker."
Caunter fixed his eyes intently upon the quickly changing colour, and marked the faltering voice. "I've got my flask in my pocket," he said hesitatingly to Gaunt, who nodded and held out his hand.
"A thimbleful of brandy will be the best thing for you," said he, bending over his wife with the cup. "Drink that!"
As usual, she obeyed without dispute. Her colour came back by degrees as the two men exchanged a few sentences about the land.
"Do you feel well enough now to let me drive you back?" asked Gaunt presently.
"Oh, yes, of course. Thank you very much, Mr. Caunter." She held out the cup to its owner as she spoke the words, lifting her appealing chin, and giving him a smile such as he had thought existed only in romances.
The husband marked the emotions which expressed themselves in his bailiff's honest countenance. He noticed also the simplicity and unconsciousness of his wife's expression. Nothing he could take hold of.
He crossed the stile, helped her over, put her into the cart, got in himself and gathered up the reins.
"Better get up behind, Hugh," said he.
Caunter reddened slightly and hung back. These two were married only yesterday.
"Yes, you had better. I don't want to have to stable your mare till you come for her," bade his master.
He yielded and jumped up.
With a tact which spoke well for him, he said a few words to Gaunt as they drove, until the quick motion through the air revived Virginia completely, and she began to ask one or two eager questions about the neighbourhood. He found himself speaking of the beauties of Dovedale, of the weird limestone caverns of the Peak, and of the Druid circle at Arbor Low. She was interested. To Caunter it seemed but a minute before they stood at the drive gate of Omberleigh. His head was whirling. He jumped down to open the gate, and said:
"If you don't mind, I will leave you to take Mrs. Gaunt to the door. I want to speak to Emerson."
He opened the gate, and was about to disappear into the lodge, which was occupied by the head gardener, when Gaunt called him back for some message with regard to cucumbers. As he was speaking, bending down over the side of the cart, the sound of horse's feet upon the road became audible, and a rider hove in sight, who drew rein promptly and shouted a greeting.
He was a somewhat showy young man, with a chestnut moustache and eyes set too close together. He rode a fine beast, and was got up in leggings and cord breeches.
"Why, hang me if it isn't true!" he cried hilariously. "They told me you had been taken prisoner, Gaunt, and I refused to believe it. Bet Charlie Myers two to one against, down at the Market Hall yesterday. But"—raising his hat, and riding up close to Virginia—"when one sees the lady, the whole thing becomes clear. Poor old chap! you never had a chance. Present me, won't you?"
"This is Mr. Ferris, whose land is not far from here," said Gaunt. "My wife, Ferris."
"But this is simply grand," declared Ferris. "My wife will be ready to eat you, Mrs. Gaunt. Never, since your husband came to these parts, has she been allowed inside his doors. I say, Gaunt, you'll have to keep your door on the chain nowadays to bar out the women, you will, by Jove! They'll simply roll up. When may Joey come and pay her respects? Give her the start, won't you?"
To Virginia's surprise, Gaunt's manners were equal to an occasion which she could see was very disagreeable to him.
"Mrs. Ferris must give us time," he said simply. "My wife has to go over the house and make some changes before she will feel ready to receive guests. At present we are on our honeymoon, and must not be disturbed. Sure you'll understand."
"Right-O!" replied Mr. Ferris. "But don't bar us out too long, or we may get restive and break in. Welcome to the county, Mrs. Gaunt! You're going to make things hum hereabouts, I can see."
Gaunt, his lips set in a tight, thin line, turned the cart into the drive, waved a hand to his neighbour and drove off. "Damn!" he ejaculated under his breath, as the mare quickened her pace. "If I hadn't had to bring you back by the road, we shouldn't have met that jackass!"
"I'm sorry," said Virginia gravely.
"Oh, heart of stone, are you flesh, and caughtBy that which you swore to withstand?"—Tennyson.
"My word, but she's a peach," muttered Mr. Percy Ferris to himself as he rode hastily home through the lanes to lunch. "And old Gaunt's got her! That smoke-dried old curmudgeon! Well, some people have the devil's own luck. Poor little woman. Sold to him, I suppose? Sold, body and soul. And he sits looking as though he would like to shut her up in a harem where no other man but himself could ever set eyes on her. Oh, why wasn't she about in my day? However, one can't have everything, I suppose."
It was as well that he should admit this, for he was considered extremely lucky by most of his neighbours. Beginning life as a veterinary surgeon, he had happened to be about when the late Colonel Coxon departed this life, leaving Josephine, his only daughter, sole heiress of Perley Hatch, a nice little property.
Joey was only nineteen at the time, and was what the Americans, with delicate euphemism, call homely. She had projecting teeth, a freckled skin, little twinkling eyes, and a loud voice. In person she was large and ungainly; but she had her points. A bouncing good humour, a fine seat on horseback, and a real love of children and animals made her more or less popular in the district. Ferris was not a good husband, but he was not actively unkind to her, though he spared no chance of letting her know that, but for her money, he would never have looked her way.
As he entered his home, and passed through the untidy hall, littered with whips, sticks, children's toys, golf clubs and tennis bats, mingled in wild disorder with coats, jerseys, old hats, gardening gloves and aprons, a loud roaring could be heard, and Joey presently came downstairs, her firstborn son, an ugly fat child of about five, tucked under her arm, kicking, fighting, and bellowing.
"Hallo!" said she, perceiving her husband. "I've been giving Tom a good spanking to teach him not to torture things. I can't think what makes 'em such little demons of cruelty. Bill's just as bad. I won't have it, that's flat. You hear, Tom? If ever you hurt anything you're going to get hurt yourself. Comprenny, my son?"
She set Tom on his feet, dusted him down, pushed her untidy hair out of her eyes with one hand, and patted the boy with the other.
"Kiss and make friends," said she. "Here's daddy, and we're going to have dinner."
Tom bore no malice. He gave and received the kiss of amity, and they went into the dining-room, where a huge dish of boiled beef, flanked with carrots, turnips, and suet dumplings steamed upon the board.
A nurse brought down Bill, and seated him on his high chair. Then Ferris, having begun to carve with celerity, could keep his news no longer to himself.
"Jo," he said, "it's true—true, after all."
"Eh, what?" said Joey, busy preparing Bill's dinner in a plate with a special high edge.
"I wouldn't believe it—actually betted against it," continued her husband, chuckling, "but it's gospel truth. Old Gaunt's gone and got married."
"Go on! Pulling my leg!" observed Joey, with equal elegance and good humour.
"My girl, I've seen 'em—actually seen 'em together. Came up just as he was at his drive gate—telling Caunter something. She was sitting in the trap beside him, and—Jee-rusalem, she's a peach, if you like!"
"Percy, you are the limit. Remember the boys."
"Lucky little beggars, they aren't old enough to suffer like their daddy. I tell you I've never seen anything quite like her. She looks as if a breath would blow her away—like what the serials call a vision from another world. And old Gaunt sitting there beside her, looking as if he would like to lay forcible hands on my windpipe. Old Gaunt. Help!"
"Well, I never," said Joey, deeply impressed. "It may be a bit of all right for us, if she's a decent sort. Nearest neighbours, aren't we?"
"My dear, there's nothing else within miles of her. I believe the Chase is next nearest. By the bye, think I'll ride over there this afternoon and tell her ladyship the news. Come with me, old girl?"
"I believe I will," said Joey. "Let's see, what's the first day it will be decent to call at Omberleigh?"
"Not till further orders," laughed her husband. "Mrs. G. will send out cards when she is ready to receive. Poor little soul. I thought she looked as if she hoped somebody would throw her a rope before long. Old Gaunt. My hat!"
"You call him old," observed Joey after a pause, during which she took out her handkerchief and thoughtfully scrubbed Tom's nose, "but he's only five or six years older than you."
"And looks twenty years older."
"That's only because he doesn't care what he looks like. Perhaps she'll furbish him up."
"Just fancy," burst out her husband. "That sweet little creature up there in his clutches. It makes one shudder. I wonder if he talks to her about manure? What should you suppose hedoestalk about, eh?"
"You can search me," responded Mrs. Ferris tranquilly. She never spoke English where slang could conveniently be substituted. "It's one of these money transactions—like ours," she presently remarked. "She gets Gaunt and you got me. You are both of you adventurers."
"They were saying, down at the market Hall, that she was a daughter of Bernard Mynors, of Lissendean, somewhere in Dorsetshire. Didn't your father know something of the family?"
"He knew a General Mynors. Yes, he had a brother named Bernard, and their place was in Dorset. Came out of the top drawer, she did, if she's one of that lot. But stony, you know—simply stony. I wonder where he picked her up?"
"You can search me," retorted Percy at once, and they both giggled. "All I can tell you about her is that she is It."
*****
The bride appeared at lunch, pale but valiant. Gaunt was standing in the hall as she descended the stairs, and noticed that she leaned her hand upon the rail, and moved as if she were stiff. He decided that there was no doubt that this was a mere piece of humbug. She wished to impress him with an idea of helplessness, under cover of which she was forming some plan of campaign.
She forced herself to eat a little, because he was watching her under his lowered lids. When she had done, and Hemming had left the room, he rose, came to her end of the table, produced from his pocket a handful of gem rings, and tossed them on the table-cloth. "Choose what you like," he said carelessly.
The colour sprang hot to her face. With a dignified gesture she pushed away the jewels and rose to her feet.
"After what you said yesterday, you cannot expect me to take presents from you," said she, making as if to pass from the room.
"Ha!" he stood before her, the light of combat in his eyes. "You decline to take presents from me—good! But you can't decline to do as I order you. I order you to wear two of those rings, one on your left hand and the other on your right. Choose quickly, or I will put them on your finger myself."
She stood, and he could see how hard she found it to fight back words. In fact, she could not but realise that it would be madness to arouse the resentment of the extraordinary being whose motives she was quite unable to fathom; yet she made one effort to brave him.
"I will not choose—I have no choice," said she, not glancing at the rings, but with her eyes on his face.
He turned, scooped up the rings in one hand, laid the other on her arm just above the elbow, and said:
"Come, I will help you to make a selection. There is a little room at the west corner of the house which I think you may like to consider yours. Let me show you."
She went with him unprotesting, and tried to control the shuddering which his grip upon her arm caused her to experience.
The room which they entered was evidently his own study. It was full of books and papers, untidy and dingy looking, like the haunts of most men where the housemaid is forbidden. Through this he passed by an inner door to a smaller room, with two windows—one south, one west.
It was scantily furnished, but might have been pretty if artistically arranged. She glanced round. Therewasa second door. A room which she could neither enter nor leave without passing through his would be a poor boon. He pushed her down upon a sofa, seated himself beside her, and laid the little pile of rings upon her knee. Without speaking, he took her left hand in his own, and began fitting the rings one after another. All were too large, except a fine half-hoop of emeralds.
"That for the present," said he, "and we can have some others altered. Which do you like next best?"
"I do not like to wear any of them," she answered faintly. His shoulder was touching her own, and her terror grew with each moment.
"You are obstinate," he said, with a scowl.
She shook her head. "It is not a question of what I like, so why pretend that it is? I will do anything that you say I must," she murmured, so low that he could hardly hear.
"Well, then, I say you must choose another ring." She turned them over listlessly. "This," said she at last, taking a single diamond.
"Good!" He gathered up the rest. Then, to her utter relief, he rose. "I will make it into a packet for the post," said he.
"Oh! That reminds me!" She was suddenly eager. "Please tell me, have you a second post here?"
"Yes. It will be in soon—about an hour's time."
"Oh, I am glad!" A glow irradiated her wistful face. "Pansy promised to write; I thought she could not have forgotten." There was a break in her voice as she mentioned her little sister. "When does the post go out?" she went on.
"Very inconveniently, the man who brings the bag also takes it back, so that if you are going to write, you must have your letter ready before you receive the one you expect. Will you like to write it now? You will find things on the table."
He turned, went back into his own room, and closed the communicating door.
Left alone, her first act was to steal across the floor to the other exit, and turn the handle. It was locked, and the key had been taken out.
The knowledge that she was actually a prisoner came to her with a shock of horror. What would happen to her, what was she to expect in this house of mysterious terror? She dare not give way, however. No matter what she suffered, Pansy must know nothing of it—Tony must know nothing. She must write a letter which should reassure them; and, if once she yielded to the creeping, nameless horror which assailed her, this would be impossible.
Rallying her courage, she fought the sobs which rose in her throat, and sat down to the writing-table.
She had just sealed and stamped her letter, and was wondering whether she dare lie down upon the sofa and rest, when Gaunt came in, his letters for the post and the packet for the jeweller in his hand. He went up to the place she had just vacated, laid down what he carried, and took up the letter which she had left lying on the blotter.
"Shouldn't have sealed it until I had read it," he remarked coolly, as he broke the envelope open.
Virginia sprang to her feet, and her angry cry of "Oh, howcanyou?" convinced him that he was on the right track at last. He was going to hear the truth, as she had written it to those with whom she knew no reserve. "One of my rules," said he, "is to read all the letters you write."
"You——" Half in shame, half in rage she broke off, she stifled the word upon her tongue. Drawing back, mistress of herself, she remarked scornfully: "I might have thought. People who break vows will not respect seals."
His back was towards her, so she could not see whether that stung. It certainly did not avail to change his intention. He read her letter deliberately through.
My Own Precious Little Sister,
You will be so anxious to know how I am, and what my new home is like, that although I am very tired, I must send you a scribble before the post goes out, which is much earlier than I thought.
Well, my darling, we got here quite safely. This house stands on a hill, and there are woods behind it. The garden goes right down the hill. It is not as big as Lissendean, but it is a very nice house, and there are kind servants.
You would have laughed if you had seen Osbert and me, sitting each at one end of a great long table, having dinner in state.
It seemed so odd this morning to be called—to have tea brought to me instead of taking it to mamma—to have no bed to make, nor breakfast things to wash up. Nothing to do, in fact, except order the dinner. The housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, is very nice. I think we shall be great friends. Her dairy is beautiful; they have those churns that darling father and I used to long for at Lissendean. I almost cried, remembering.
This morning was gloriously fine. Osbert took me out over the farms, and showed me the horses and the cornland and all the estate. I was very silly and got faint when we had gone some way. You see, I don't like to confess to him how run down I have been; and having had so little food for so long, I have no appetite, and the very sight of the abundant meals makes me feel ill. I simply can't swallow. I know this good air will make me better by degrees.
Oh, darling, I felt so homesick—so deadly homesick last night. I thought of you all, and wondered what you were doing, how you were getting on, and whether you missed Virgie. Also I remembered that I never showed Caroline the place where your surgical things are kept. You must show her before the great doctor comes. Oh, how anxious I shall be until I hear all about his visit. Keep up your heart, darling. I know you will be much better before long.
Osbert has given me a little sitting-room for my own. I am writing there now. He has given me a splendid emerald ring, and another with a diamond in it.
Oh, Pansy, love, darling, pet, write and tell me everything—just everything you can think of, because I am very lonely.
Your own most lovingVirgie.
P.S.—Hugs and kisses to my old Tony. I hope the bat is satisfactory.
While this letter was being read, there was complete stillness in the room. The writer stood in the window, her back turned to Gaunt. He, when he had finished reading, let the hand which held the paper drop between his knees, while he sat staring upon the motionless figure of his wife. He could not doubt that the letter was spontaneous. She had evidently no idea at all of his demanding to see it. But, if it were true, then what was he? Had he made the greatest mistake of his life?
"What induced you," he demanded huskily, "to write such a letter as this?"
She turned round, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"If you had written as you felt about me and my treatment of you——"
"But I cannot do that. I am bound to be loyal to you," she said quietly. "You know it. Besides, I may suffer, and perhaps I deserve it. They never shall, if I can help it."
"But they shall, and can," he snarled. "This child will suffer if she never sees you again—and she never shall. No, by——"
He checked the oath. What was he saying? What was he thinking? There stood before him a dauntless creature, submissive but utterly unconquered. Was he going to find his pleasure in torturing her?... His head swam. Yet the perverse devil in him drove him on. "That's part of my plan," he said, "part of my scheme to pay your mother in full. You will never set eyes on any of them again. I told you yesterday—it is a life-sentence."
She answered gravely: "Yes, you told me that."
"And you—you write like this, because you think it would make the child unhappy if she knew the truth. How long do you think you can manage to keep up this farce, eh?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I can't look forward," she muttered hurryingly. "I must just do what I can—as long as I can."
He tossed the letter upon the table. "Seal it down and put it in the bag, for the lie it is," he said thickly.
She sat down obediently to re-seal the envelope. He stood watching her, with eyes full of baffled purpose. Upon them there entered Hemming, bearing a locked post-bag in his hand.
Gaunt unlocked it with a key which was fastened to his watch-chain, took out the contents, placed his own correspondence and his wife's one letter within, relocked the bag, and handed it to the man, who retired.
The letters lay behind him in a little pile. He sorted them, and selected one in a childish, unformed hand, addressed to Mrs. Gaunt.
"Of course," he said, "I also read all the letters you receive."
"I suppose so," replied Virginia dryly.
She felt that her limbs would no longer support her, and sat down white and shaking, clenching her hands together while again silence fell and Gaunt read:
Virgie, my own darling, I must use up the time while you are being married, in writing to say O my sweet dear I hope God will let you be hapy like you deserve to be. I am so sorry I did not see Osbert when he came hear, but you must send me his foto, then I shall know what he is like. O, it is nise to think you will alwas have enuf to eat now. You used to think I did not notice when you gave it all to Tony and me, but I did. I knew too that morning when you fainted over scrubing the kitchen floor, when you came up with that wet stain on your apron I knew because I caled so many times and you did not answer. Now you will be rich and grand and hapy, and you must not think I shall fret, because I don't mean to. Carroline is a nise woman, very kind to me, but O Virgie, I shall not be so hapy with Mamma now you are not hear to keep her pleased, I hope it is not rong to write this. It must be so funny to have a husband, give him my love if you think he would like it, are your nees well yet? Mind you don't walk too far till they are. Have you dissided which room is to be mine when I come to Omberleigh? Do let it look out on the yard so I can see the chickens. Good-bye, darling,DARLING,
Your LITTLE Pansy Blossom.
P.S.—Urmintrude is quite well.
There was a pause after the man had finished reading. He frowned, bit his lip, and stared at the floor. At last he flung a question at his wife. "What's wrong with your knees?"
She started and flushed. "They are—they are a little swollen and sore—with housework—kneeling about, you know," she murmured apologetically. "Does Pansy mention it?"
"What housework have you had to do?"
"Only the keep of Laburnum Villa."
"But there was a servant; I saw her."
"Oh, she only came for that afternoon, because I—I didn't want to let you in myself...."
"... And you ask me to believe that you—youhave been a maid-of-all-work for the past two years?"
"Oh, no, I do not ask you to believe it," came the disdainful retort. "I do not mind whether you believe it or not."
He went up to her with one of his unexpected, almost violent movements, snatched the hand which hung at her side, opened it—studied its pink palm. It had been carefully tended, but it bore unmistakable marks of hard usage.
"It seems to me that I have married the wrong woman," he said, letting it fall again. "It was your mother who ought to have been made to suffer."
"Mother has suffered a great deal," murmured Virginia.
He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, walked away, across the room, came back slowly, paused, staring at her.
"Tell me, for God's sake, what made you consent to such a marriage as this?"
She made a backward movement away from him, her eyes blazing, her temper high. "I didnotconsent—I never consented to such a marriage as this!"
She was in act to go out of the room. He put himself in the way. "What then? What did you expect?"
"I will not speak of it to you!"
"You will speak of what I please!" As she made to pass him, he took her by both arms, holding her before him. "You are to tell me what induced you to agree to marry me."
"Why should I tell you when you do not believe what I say?"
"You tell me—I'll believe or not, as I see fit. Out with it!"
She once more checked the hysterical sobs that threatened her.
"You—you had once loved mother," she said slowly. "You knew that she preferred another man. I am like her. You saw me; it brought back to you that bygone love. I supposed that you were attracted."
She paused.
"But what of yourself? Your own feeling in the matter? I want to get at that."
"It was only a question of me," she muttered, "and it was giving myself up for them. I—you see, I could do nothing." In spite of her control sobs began to shake her voice. "It was hopeless; we were at the end——" She broke off to summon fresh nerve. He stood immovable, holding her, compelling her, as it were, to continue.
"The end of your resources?"
She nodded. "And nearly the end of my strength too. I was afraid that, if I took a place anywhere, my health would give way. I was afraid—a coward!" Suddenly her own emotion gave her words and steadied her voice. "I ought to have gone on—just died, and trusted God to care for them! But, oh, you have never known—never thought of what it means—to have the ones you love, your own, your darlings—destitute, and to know that you—can't go on much longer.... As for you"—she looked him squarely in the eyes, her own full of scorn—"how could I have guessed that a man like you could be? A man who could find pleasure in bullying, browbeating the helpless girl he had sworn to love?"
"Ha!" he said, "so you break out at last, do you? How dare you speak to me like that? I shall punish you for it. You haven't read that letter yet. Give it me."
She held Pansy's as yet unread epistle crushed in her left hand. Without reflecting, she snatched it to her breast, covering it with her other hand. In a whirlwind of some blind fury which he could not analyse he took it from her, using force to unclasp her fingers.
There was a tussle—momentary only—then she stood free of him in the middle of the room, a wild look on her face, glancing this way and that as if for escape. He stood before the one door, the other was locked. Like a flame blown out by a puff of wind her passion died as the knowledge of her own desperate case overflooded her. Turning away with a long-drawn moan she crouched down in a big chair, hiding her face, giving way to her despair unrestrained.
In a minute or two she heard his voice, harsh and broken, speaking close to her. "Why did you provoke me? You shouldn't; it's dangerous," he growled hurriedly. "Here, take your letter; here it is"—pushing it into her hands. "Stop crying, can you? or conceal your face. Here comes Hemming with the tea."
At the admonition she sprang to her feet, and he saw the pathos of her pale, tear-washed cheeks. With a swift movement she ran to the writing-table, seated herself thereat, and bent down her face as if busily occupied. Gaunt placed himself beside her, leaning partly over, as if watching what she wrote; and upon the domestic tableau the servant entered with his tray.