Osbert Gaunt pushed back his chair. His face was ghastly, and the drops stood on his forehead. He felt as if the house were too small, too close, to contain him. With shaking hands he pushed the letter and its envelope into a drawer, stumbled to his feet, hastened from the room, snatched a hat from the hall, and went out into the moonlight.
He walked on blindly, striding fast, taking the direction that led him down into the long avenue through the park, from which one approached the house upon its southern side. He knew now what he had done. He had immolated an innocent victim. He felt as if there might be blood upon his hands. Stories are told of men who, having lost the use of a portion of the brain, have had this restored by means of a sudden shock or a terrific blow. Something of the kind had now happened to Gaunt. He looked back upon the man whom he had been, whom he had gradually become, during the past twenty years, as upon a leper. He shuddered at the very idea of such a monster.
Always before the eye of his imagination was the outline of Virginia's pale beauty, suffused with rose and gold. He recalled her patient quietude, her dignity and sadness. He knew now what she had been feeling. She had been quivering under the lash of her mother's diabolical selfishness; she had just relieved the anguish of her soul by writing that letter.
And he! What of the man who had tempted her?
A wild idea of crawling to her feet, of kissing them, of crying to her for pardon, turned him about and sent him striding unevenly half a mile upon his homeward way.
The futility of such a course suddenly struck him and once more turned him back.
She might pardon. Yes. She was the sort of nature that would pardon. How might that help their future together? He knew that there could be no such thing as a future together for them. He hardly wished it.
His passion of pity and remorse was quite untinged with any passion of desire. He thought of Virgie as of a saint, a creature apart, something to be rescued from himself, if such an end could possibly be compassed. If he spoke to her, if he begged forgiveness, he would have to confess his own late action. He would have to say: "I am such a cad, so lost to any sense of honour, that I first assured you of the safety of your private correspondence, and then deliberately read it."
He could not do that.
To one emotion of the human soul this man had been for years a stranger—tenderness.
The first invasion of his breast by the new-comer was torture. He had not wept since he could remember. Now his lashes were thick with the drops which the pathos of Virginia wrung from his unwilling spirit. He contemplated her as a man may study the outstanding merits of his patron saint, seeing her inner and her outward loveliness. Her reticence—the way in which she concealed from her mother all that he had made her bear! She made no complaint, left herself almost completely out of sight, was only passionately anxious for reassurance, to be consoled by the knowledge that her sacrifice had not been in vain forthem! Pity flooded him. When he had been walking a long way he became aware that he was sobbing audibly.
This pain of unavailing compassion was maddening. What could he do? He had humiliated this rare creature, laid rough hands upon her, borne her off far from every one she loved. Yes, incredible though it seemed, she actually loved that mother—that trivial wanton upon whom he himself had lavished all that was best in him during the long, fruitless years that the locust had eaten.
Frustration—misunderstanding—injustice—and helpless regret!
This is life, and the old Greeks knew it. He thought of the majestic dramas of wrong and passion and irretrievable disaster. He thought of Clytemnestra and Electra. They sound crude to us, the ancient stories—crude and bloody. We do not slay our husbands with axes in these days. Virginia Sheringham had not, in act, been an unfaithful wife; but by her neglect, her lightness, her extravagance and selfishness, she had ruined her husband financially, had contributed to his early death....
... And she had handed over her daughter to Gaunt as calmly as Clytemnestra handed over Electra to the swine-herd.
Human nature—ancient—modern! The setting different, the actions different, the motives eternally the same.
*****
It was nearly two o'clock when, weary and footsore, Gaunt let himself in with his latch-key, through the door left purposely unlocked by Hemming, who was wholly astonished at finding that his master was out of doors when it came to shutting-up time.
Like a thief he crept to the study, re-sealed with infinite precaution the envelope he had opened, and slipped it into the post-bag.
Later, as he lay rigid, open-eyed, in his bed, watching the dawn creep on, it almost seemed to him as if the tumult and energy of his thoughts must travel through the door and penetrate to the silent room within—to the little golden head which, please God, was forgetting its sorrows temporarily in dreams.
If he could but send her a wordless message—some deep impression of penitence, of reverence, of his hunger to be forgiven!
Could this indeed be Gaunt of Omberleigh? Changed, the whole structure of his character demolished in a few hours by mere contact with the crystal honesty of a very simple girl!
"The moving finger writes; and, having writ,Moves on. Nor all your piety nor witCan lure it back to cancel half a line,Nor all your tears wash out a word of it."—Omar Khayyám.
Next morning, when Virginia's breakfast-tray went up, there lay upon it a fat envelope, addressed to her in pencil by Gaunt. It contained a packet of bank-notes, with the intimation that this was her first quarter's allowance of pocket-money. He added that he should expect her to keep an account of what she spent, and that her account-book should be accessible to him on demand.
He hardly knew how to describe the impulse which made him throw in that stipulation. It came primarily from a desire to gloat over the beauties of this character so suddenly revealed to him. He wanted to know what proportion of his somewhat lavish gift was spent upon herself, and how much went to the shark at Laburnum Villa.
There was another lurking idea. He could not, or, rather, would not, fling away his control over her while as yet he had no other ties with which to bind her to himself. Had he yielded to his first impulse, and thrown himself at her feet for pardon, the result could be easily forecast. She would give him a gentle, chilly forgiveness, and he would have to step back and let her go, see her pass away altogether, without any knowledge of him, ignorant of what manner of man he really was.
If he abandoned his present position entirely, he must, logically, admit that he had no more right to her than the nearest man breaking stones in the road. She would stoop to bestow forgiveness, and then depart; and it dawned upon him that, embarrassing though her presence had now become, her absence would be worse. These few days of her sojourn had already wrought a subtle change in all about him. When he met Grover coming upstairs with a tray, her face wore a look of interest, of sympathy, which he had never before observed. She had taken to putting flowers about the rooms—a wholly new departure at Omberleigh. Only that morning he had caught Mrs. Wells half-way upstairs with a sheepish expression of countenance, and something concealed under her apron, which, on inquiry, was admitted to be kittens, the mistress having expressed a desire for their company. After the woman had passed, he lingered on the stairs, heard her admitted, heard the little spontaneous exclamation of pleasure which greeted the appearance of the babes. The chattering, laughing voices of Wells and Grover were blended with a faint mewing. It was all very childish, and as he went down he thought he scorned it. But if it were all to cease?
These considerations, formless and not consciously held, were, as a fact, of more weight with him than even the other aspect of the question—the scandal that would arise, the talk that must ensue, the contemptuous pity that he might receive—should his marriage experiment abruptly terminate at the end of so brief a trial. Just then he saw no way to end the present situation. He must wait and allow it to develop. He must make further proof of the spotless integrity of his wife. She was not strong enough to face a scene as yet. He could not see clearly, his thoughts were confused. For the first time in twenty years he found himself no longer pursuing one aim with reckless disregard of everything else, but fumbling, hesitating, uncertain what to do.
He was a J.P., and this was his day for sitting on the bench. He had a long way to drive to the court. It was an important occasion, since there had been considerable disorder in Hoadlam, a large manufacturing town, and many of those implicated came from his own district. Gaunt's knowledge of law was valuable to his fellow magistrates, and he had had the previous day a note from Lord St. Aukmund congratulating him on his marriage, but begging him not to let his honeymoon prevent him from attending that day. This note Gaunt enclosed with the bank-notes to his wife, telling her that he must be away all day. He added:
If Mrs. Ferris asks you again to go out with her, I should advise your accepting if you feel well enough.
That day was pouring wet, and he reached home so late that it seemed wrong to disturb Virginia. The next morning Hugh Caunter came for him before seven o'clock. The flooding of the meadow where the tree had fallen had become serious. Gaunt arose and went out, breakfasted with Caunter at his house, and did not get home till nearly noon. He returned by the uphill avenue which approached the house by way of the garden—that avenue down which he had plunged in the moonlight, trying to allay the disorder of his mind after reading Virginia's letter.
As he walked somewhat slowly up the road, which grew steeper as it entered the garden, he heard the sound of voices on the breeze. The morning, which had broken cloudy, had developed into a fine, warm day. The heavy rain of yesterday had brought out the scents of the flowers, and the very earth was fragrant. On the terrace, in a lounge chair, lay Virginia, and Joey Ferris was sitting near, relating something in her loud, hearty tones, some story which brought laughter from the listening girl.
Gaunt's heart began to thump. He had not seen her since his treachery and subsequent conversion. He left the avenue and struck into a path which would bring him to where they sat. The chair in which his wife was placed had a striped awning to keep her from the sun. She therefore wore no hat. He thought her more like a patron saint—a Virgin martyr—than ever. The background might have been the canopy in some old Florentine painting, with a glimpse of flowery garden seen beyond.
He had the mortification of seeing the laughter wiped from her face as she caught sight of him.
"There is my husband," said she to Joey; and Mrs. Ferris jumped up, too eager to shower congratulations upon the bridegroom to heed the expression of either face.
She ran along the terrace to meet him, intercepted him, shook hands as with the handle of a pump, shouted her chaff upon his change of attitude towards things feminine. He bore it marvellously, managing to approach nearer Virginia's chair while the storm broke over him. As soon as he could get in a word:
"You are very good," he said, "and I expect I deserve all you say. Men, after all, are only very moderately intelligent animals, you know. They have to wait until some lady takes enough interest in them to teach them these things. But forgive me a moment—I had to go out before seven this morning, and have not seen my wife. I must just ask her how she is."
He drew up a chair close to the couch, and took an unwilling hand in his. Things psychological did not, as a rule, interest him, but now he found himself wondering how it was possible to withdraw all response from a warm, living hand so that it should lie in one's own like something dead.
"How are you this morning?" he asked.
His eyes seemed to her to be imploring her to play up, not to allow Mrs. Ferris to suppose that she was scared. "Why, you can see how much better I am," she answered, responding to the unspoken desire, but withdrawing her hand from his clasp. "Here am I out here in the sunshine, and it is so nice. I am planning what you ought to do with this terrace garden. Mrs. Ferris is fond of gardens, too."
"Indeed!" He turned politely to Joey. "You're not satisfied with mine, either of you, that's evident," he said, with an immense effort to be friendly.
"Oh, it isn't my place to criticise," laughed Joey gaily. "But Mrs. Gaunt has got taste. She says she has been lying at her window, the past few days, thinking what she could do here; and if it was done, you'd have the show-garden of the county!"
"If she wants it done, you may feel pretty sure it will be done," said Gaunt; and he saw the slight curl of the mouth he was watching, at what Virginia took to be a cruel bit of mockery. "I am much indebted to you, Mrs. Ferris, for coming to cheer up my girl," he went on hurriedly. "She is doing a kind of rest-cure, you know, and it's rather hard lines, both on her and me. However, it is very necessary. She has been overtaxing her strength for months, and we must be patient until she is quite strong again."
"You're a regular trump," replied Joey with warmth. "You bet she'll pick up soon enough in this air, and with everything she wants. I am coming to fetch her in the motor this afternoon. Shall you mind if I take her home to tea? I want to show her my kiddies."
He expressed his entire willingness that they should amuse themselves as they liked, and for some minutes the talk sounded almost natural.
"Have you pressed Mrs. Ferris to stay to lunch, Virginia?" asked Gaunt after ten minutes' chat.
She lifted her eyes to his as she answered quite shortly: "No."
"But, of course, you understand that we shall insist upon your staying?" said Gaunt almost courteously to the visitor.
"Jolly nice of you, but can't be done," replied Joey. "Got my old man and the kiddies to consider. They have a kind of idea that they can't eat their food unless I'm there. I must be off at once." She stood up. "You see, I came on foot, through the woods, and I must get back, because I have to bring round the car, and also to get my big coat. Mind you see that your Dresden china there is well wrapped up, won't you?"
"It must be over a mile through the woods," objected Gaunt, rising. "Let me order the cart——"
She cut him short. "Bless the man! What's a mile? I do it in ten. I'm as strong as a horse. No, you don't come with me. Stop along o' your missus. I know every step of the way."
He accompanied her to the end of the terrace, saw her run down the hill and disappear through the little gate into the woods. Then he came slowly back to where his wife lay awaiting him with lowered lids. She was softly stroking two of the kittens who lay curled into balls in her lap.
He sat down again beside her. His vicinity made her quiver, but she controlled her nerves valiantly.
"Thank you for the note you sent me yesterday," she said, "and the enclosure. I do not want so large an allowance as you are giving me."
"Try it for a year," he told her. "If it is too much, you need not spend it. Save it up against a rainy day."
"A year!" The words escaped her unawares. It was as if she said, "A century!" Well, he had told her it was a life-sentence. The prospect of that future made the sunshine dim, and for a moment she felt as though she could not bear it.
"While we are on the subject," he went on, ignoring the faint cry, though he heard it well enough, "I mean the subject of allowances, I am wondering whether I am allowing your mother enough. Since I saw you first I have let Lissendean at a very good rent, and I have been thinking I might spare another hundred——"
"Stop!" She was quite white—even her lips lost colour. "On no account!" she gasped. "It is quite enough—more than enough! You have bought me and paid the price. It is done with. I can't talk about it."
Her pallor frightened him. "By all means, if it affects you so," he replied at once. "I certainly don't want to bother you. Sorry I blunder so badly. Let us talk of something else. How did you get downstairs this morning?"
"Hemming was very clever. He remembered that the old ladies who lived here had a carrying-chair, and he found it in the coach-house. He scrubbed it, and Grover and he carried me down quite easily."
"Here comes Hemming to say that our lunch is ready," he broke in. "I can carry you indoors."
"Oh, no, no, please!" she broke out in distaste which she could not control. "Hemming is bringing the chair. Don't trouble yourself—I can easily——"
Hemming was quite near, so Gaunt made no further protest. Grover had likewise appeared, and soon had the invalid carefully placed in the chair.
"Doctor said this morning that 'twould do her no harm to put her feet down for meals, provided she don't stand on 'em," she remarked; and the two men picked up and carried the light weight into the house.
There was little embarrassment during lunch, for they were nottête-à -tête. Grover and Hemming seemed to be hovering about Mrs. Gaunt all the time with little dishes specially prepared, and they did not withdraw finally until the cheese was on the table. Then, indeed, silence dropped deeply. Evidently Virginia had come to the end of her former policy. He was to have no more "prattle." She sat quite silent, sipping her prescribed champagne and eating a biscuit.
Gaunt lit a cigarette, and smoked for a few minutes without attempting conversation. Then he rose, laying the stump carefully in his plate, and came to the hearth-rug, half-way between his place and hers.
"You would like to go up to your room and rest before getting ready for your drive?" he asked.
"Presently, thank you—when Hemming comes back."
"I can carry you quite easily. I should like to."
"I would rather not. Please let me wait."
He came a step nearer. "Is it that you don't want to give me trouble, or that you won't let me touch you?" he asked with a sort of breathlessness.
"Oh, of course, because you must not take the trouble," she faltered hastily, not daring to say that his other surmise was the truth. The sequel to this hollow politeness was what she might have imagined. "Then I shall take you."
He came close up, and she gave a little cry, rather like a small furry thing in a trap. The sound caused him to lose his head, and determine to do as he liked. Stooping, he placed his arms under her securely.
"Put your arms round my neck," he bade her curtly. She obeyed, as she had schooled herself to obey every direct order given by him.
He stood upright, raising her in his arms, and strode from the room with her. He could actually hear the pulsings of her heart against his ear, and the hurry of her panting, sobbing breath.
Hewasher husband, and hewasgoing to carry her upstairs, if he chose!
He did so without difficulty, and laid her down carefully upon the sofa in her room, looking with a wistfulness almost pitiful, had she seen it, upon her sick, averted face. Was there nothing—absolutely nothing—that he could say or do to wipe out the bitterness of his former conduct?
He took a turn through the room, walked to the window, stared moodily out upon the garden. He had an impulse to say to her: "The garden is yours, do as you like with it—order what you like—plan, direct, assume command." But what would that avail? See how she had received his lavish gift of money, his offer of an increased allowance to her mother! He had put himself out of court.
There were sounds of panting, and Grover's substantial foot caused the stairs to creak. She entered, flushed but beaming.
"If I didn't say so to Hemming! I says: 'See if he doesn't take and carry her up himself,' I says," she remarked brightly. "Now, ma'am, I suppose you will wear the dear little motor-bonnet and veil; but the puzzle is—what are you going to do for a coat? There isn't a thick one in all your things!"
Gaunt exploded in the window. "Great Scott, what do you suppose you are for, but to look to your mistress's things and see that she has what she wants?" he cried. "The moment you have finished dressing her, you sit down and write to London for fur coats—sable, seal—whatever she prefers, and make them send down a consignment to look at. Or perhaps I had better do it myself, as you seem so incompetent." He turned fiercely to Virginia, whom sheer surprise had caused to sit up and stare. "You shall have a coat by to-night, if I go to London for it myself!" he stormed.
"Please, Osbert," said her clear voice, "you don't understand. I have a white serge coat which is warm enough for to-day, and you have given me plenty of money to buy myself a thicker one."
"There now, and I put it to air in the work-room," muttered Grover, who had stood like what is known as a "stuck pig" during her master's outburst, and who now hurried from the room, divided between laughter and anxiety.
"No wonder he's beside himself; but he shouldn't shout like that," she thought. "It's my belief he frightens her, and she won't get well while that goes on. Poor chap!"
Meanwhile, Gaunt, swept on by the impulse to do or say something that might please, was floundering worse than ever. "You must have a good coat," he hectored, standing over the sofa. "You can't buy that sort of thing out of a dress-allowance. I will give you one. I'll see that you have what's necessary. You mustn't risk taking a chill——"
With a kind of bound she sat up, her hands clenched upon the cushions that supported her. Her expression checked his words in mid-flow.
"Stop, stop—you muststop!" she cried piercingly, "or I don't know what will happen! You think a woman is a thing you can beat, swear at, insult, and then appease with presents! Didn't I tell you I would have no gifts from you? I'll bear your unkindness, but I won't take your presents! If you could understand—oh, how can I make you understand?"
Lifting her hands, she held them before her, glaring upon them as if they were contaminated. Fumbling in her vehement haste, she pulled off her wedding-ring and both the others which he had given her, and flung them upon the floor at his feet. "I wear them when I must," she sobbed out; "but at night I tear them off! I shake myself free of them, and then I feel clean—clean at last! I lie down in bed and tell myself that I am just Virgie Mynors again—as I used to be—ill, hungry, penniless—but clean!Clean!"
As suddenly as she had upreared herself she collapsed, hid her face and lay prone while the sobbing tore her and shook her slight frame.
He stood some seconds motionless. Her outburst seemed to have frozen him. Then, in silence, he picked up her rings, laid them on the little table at her side, and walked away into his own room, shutting the door behind him.
"I must not think of thee; and, tired yet strong,I shun the thought that lurks in all delight—The thought of thee—and in the blue Heaven's height,And in the sweetest passage of a song.
Oh, just beyond the fairest thoughts that throngThis breast, the thought of thee awaits, hidden yet bright;But it must never, never come in sight;I must go short of thee, the whole day long."—Alice Meynell.
It was upon the following day that Dr. Dymock asked to see Gaunt, and with all the diplomacy that he could muster, begged him to keep away from his wife entirely for a fortnight at least.
"I do not like her state of evident mental tension," he said. "She seems strung up to an unnatural pitch, and in these cases we always find that the society of those who are nearest and dearest has a disturbing effect. The whole structure of your future happiness probably depends upon your patience and forbearance now. There are many girls who can, so to speak, take marriage in their stride, without its making any perceptible difference. She is not like that. She is acutely sensitive, just now abnormally so; and, unfortunately for you, she was at the time of her marriage seriously out of health. At present she is not what is unscientifically known as hysterical; but she might become so, as the result of quite a small error of judgment on our part. I shall make it clear to her that you are keeping away entirely out of consideration for her, and I will also speak to your servants, who have been with you long, and are trustworthy. Nobody else need know anything of the matter. You could hardly have a better companion for her than Mrs. Ferris, who has no nerves, who is not observant, and who will keep her amused without wanting to pry into her feelings."
Gaunt was lighting a cigar, sheltering the match from the wind with his hand, so that his expression revealed nothing.
"I'll do anything on earth that you advise," he replied after a minute. "I expect you are right. I do blunder. I find myself blundering. The fact is, I know nothing of women. This was very sudden with me, and I—I haven't gone the right way to work. I need hardly say that her happiness is the first consideration."
"If you feel that, I expect it will all come right," Dymock told him hopefully. "Your forbearance is bound to impress her. I will see that it does impress her. In two or three weeks she will be a different creature. Even then you must let her come along at her own pace. She wants delicate handling."
Gaunt said nothing, but shrugged his shoulders as if he felt himself incapable of the requisite diplomacy. So the other went on:
"Of course, I guess at the circumstances. You fell abruptly in love—you found the lady in a position from which you felt she must be instantly rescued. Your marriage came, as it were, too early in the programme. Well—you must do what a good many other men have done successfully—begin your wooing after you are wed. I seem to have a pretty cool cheek, talking to you like this—what?"
"Circumstances justify you, I think," replied Gaunt. He did not speak as if he were offended, but his voice did not invite further admonition.
Dymock rose to go, and for the first time in his life found himself thinking sympathetically of Gaunt of Omberleigh. How was this affair going to pan out, he wondered.
He turned on the doorstep. "She's anxious about her little sister, I gather," said he.
"The child has been taken to London to undergo treatment," replied Gaunt. "Is she not doing well? I had not heard that."
"Oh, she was only moved to London yesterday, so nothing can be known yet. However, Mrs. Gaunt is anxious."
"Do you mean that she wants to be there? Ought one to let her go?" asked Gaunt, startled.
"On no account. She is quite unfit for such exertion. Only, if it can be done, arrange that she gets good news, that nobody writes disquieting bulletins."
"I'll see to that," replied Gaunt with emphasis, as the doctor rode off.
This was a chance to send a line to his mother-in-law—a chance of which he would take the fullest advantage. He would write also to the head of the nursing home where Pansy was installed, directing that his wife should be as much reassured as was consistent with the facts.
*****
During the days that followed found Gaunt himself the object of a universal sympathy and kindness. Dr. Dymock had dropped hints, among those of his patients best famed for gossiping, as to the chivalrous nature of the misogynist's marriage. It seemed that he had found a fair maiden languishing in bondage, and had endowed her with the half of his kingdom. Unfortunately, she had suffered so severely as to undermine her health, and the first task for the newly made husband was to have her properly nursed and fed.
This, of course, explained why he had not taken her upon a wedding tour. That would doubtless come later, when she was strong enough to enjoy it. Rumours of her beauty and of Gaunt's devotion were rife. When he drove into the market town he found people cordial after a wholly new fashion.
Meanwhile, he himself was changing to an extent of which he was far from being aware. The heart and head which for so many years had been wholly occupied with self, were now filled exclusively with the image of another. As the days passed, and he held rigidly to his promise to Dr. Dymock, his thoughts were more and more completely given up to the question of Virginia's future health and happiness. Some deep-lying shyness had prevented his admitting to the doctor that, except for the ceremony, she was not as yet his wife. Yet he had this fact in reserve, as perhaps his only chance to restore to her her freedom.
He recognised that, as soon as she was strong enough, he and she must come to an understanding. He must show her his change of heart, and if it could be done, he must give her liberty. She would have to know that he was no longer her jailer, but her devotee.
He could see now how for all these years he had been yielding himself prisoner to the devil, and how his apprenticeship had culminated in the perpetration of a devilish deed. Night and day he was haunted by the memory of Virginia sitting up, tearing his jewels from her fingers, wringing her bare hands and crying that she was not clean.
These new thoughts, of pity and regret and unavailing tenderness, began to touch the lines of his mouth, to alter the expression of his eyes. He no longer went about scowling. He was seeing the world through a new medium. It was terrible to be able to do nothing. Virginia's vehement repudiation of gifts from him left him helpless. He dare not even send up flowers in his own name. He had to be content with seeking out the finest plants in the conservatory, the best blooms of the garden, and giving them to Grover. Carnations seemed to be in favour, and he sent to Derby for fine specimens. One day, in the innocence of her heart, Grover revealed the fact to the patient, who was inhaling with satisfaction the spicy perfume of some particularly fine ones. Virginia said nothing at the time, but about half an hour after remarked that her head ached, and she thought the flowers smelt too strong. She sent them downstairs and said she would have no more carnations.
Gaunt, when he found the whole array on the table in the hall, asked the reason, and was told that Mrs. Gaunt seemed to have turned against them. Intent upon knowing the worst, he said: "Oh, you should have told her that I sent for them expressly."
"Just what I did tell her, sir," replied Grover at once.
He himself was startled by the pain this trifling fact caused him to feel. He went out of doors, and walked for hours, trying to escape from it. He found Hugh Caunter, and passed the rest of the day with him. The young agent, or bailiff, as the old-fashioned folk called him, was struck by the softening of his master's whole disposition. Anxiety and remorse did not make Gaunt irritable. He became quiet, with a hopeless kind of passive unhappiness which seemed to feel itself to be irremediable. Only now and then did he break out into sudden spasms of rage which, in the opinion of his household, were most excusable and infinitely preferable to his former continual surliness.
He was more approachable these days. Each morning he waited for the doctor and walked with him down the avenue, hearing the latest bulletin. When he came in, Grover usually contrived to be about, to pass on to him any details of interest.
"Better news from London this morning, sir. Yes, it has sent up Mrs. Gaunt's spirits something wonderful. Gave each of the little cats a new ribbon, she has. Yes, she has give them strange names, that she has. Cosmo and Damian, she calls 'em; and when I asked why such outlandish names, she laughs and says that they were doctors—great men, kind to the poor—and that she loves doctors, because they are going to make her little sister well. Fairly wrapped up in that little girl, she is, sir. I fear to think what the consequences would be if anything was to go wrong with the child. Has her photo there on the table beside her bed, with fresh flowers in front of it every day; and the boy, too—a handsome young gentleman, if you like! He will enjoy spending his holidays here, won't he, sir?"
Grover herself wondered how she dared to chatter in this way to him. The change must have been very marked. A month ago she had hardly opened her lips to him during her seven years' service in his house, except for the necessary conventional words she was obliged to speak. To-day, the silence in which he heard her had lacked any audible sign of encouragement. Yet it had encouraged. It had been the silence that eagerly awaits—that longs for more.
Cosmo and Damian! Surely the set lips under the heavy moustache were curving into an unwilling smile. How young it was—how freakish! How strangely he relished it! To have a creature like that always about him!
If he had only known!...
Definitely he had rendered his own happiness impossible. For his mind had begun to reach out, to curl itself about the idea of a new, strange happiness, subtle and flooding—happiness that must spring from this single-minded, loving, exquisite child, whom he had imprisoned in his gloomy fortress.
He wandered aimlessly into his study, sat down at his writing table, rested his elbows upon it, his chin on his hands, and stared out upon the garden without moving for nearly an hour.
*****
Virginia's first visit to Perley Hatch gave her food for much reflection.
They motored there upon a fine sultry afternoon, and the chauffeur and his mistress made a "sedan chair" with their locked hands, to carry the invalid from the car across the grass to where a long chair had been spread for her in the shade.
Tom and Bill were produced from somewhere in the grounds, with more or less grimy faces and shabby overalls, but very healthy and vivacious manners. They quickly made friends with Mrs. Gaunt, divining a sympathetic spirit from the first. The baby, a damsel of about twelve months, being still largely in her nurse's hands, was cleaner and more amenable, but just as hilarious. The two boys were both frankly ugly, but the girl had taken after her somewhat showy father, and was a handsome child, of whom her mother was justly proud. She danced upon Virgie's lap, stroked her face, and tried earnestly to feed her with the soppy remnants of a biscuit, which was her own idea of the greatest civility possible to offer.
Virgie, gifted with an innate understanding of babyhood, was delighted with these amenities. She enjoyed her visit thoroughly, and was startled when a stable clock struck six times.
"Six o'clock! Oh, Mrs. Ferris, it can't be!" cried she in consternation.
"Oh, I daresay that's a bit fast," replied Joey comfortably. "Anyhow, here comes Percy, so you must just wait five minutes and make friends with him."
Mr. Ferris, with every sign of animation and surprise, was advancing across the grass.
"Why, Jo, you never told me that you expected Mrs. Gaunt to tea! This is an unlooked-for pleasure!" He shook hands with effusion, and Virgie felt repugnance in every nerve. The man's voice, his manner, even his good looks, were obviously second-rate. He sat down and began to make himself agreeable—or so he thought—by talk of the emptiest, and glances of the most eloquent. Almost everything he said was a scarcely veiled compliment. Joey had risen, and was helping nurse to remove the family, which was not inclined to part from the new friend who knew so much about steam engines and the other prime interests of life. Ferris had ten minutes' talk with the new beauty, and flattered himself that he made the most of his opportunity.
His fawning turned Virgie almost sick. From her heart she pitied Joey. But that young person was apparently well satisfied with her lot, and quite impervious to the fact that her husband was a bounder. As soon as she came back to the tea-table, Virgie urgently said that she must go. The doctor would not approve of her being out so many hours, even though she had rested all the time, and been so happy and well amused. Then at once Ferris offered to carry her to the car, and hardly waited for permission before taking her up in his arms, and at once seizing the chance to whisper something to the effect that Gaunt was, in his opinion, more to be envied than any man under the sun.
"What, to have his wife fall ill when he had been two days married? I don't fancy he would agree with you," replied Mrs. Gaunt, in a voice so frigid that it pierced even Ferris's hide and made him say to himself that he must put the brake on.
When he had deposited what he alluded to as his "fair burden" in her place, Virgie was almost ready to think that Gaunt's own arms were preferable. He, at least, took no unfair advantage of proximity. Joey took the steering wheel, and Ferris, after starting the engine for her, actually suggested that he should get in with Mrs. Gaunt. To her untold relief Joey declared that Mrs. Gaunt was an invalid, and already overtired. To her dismay, the man seemed inclined to persist, and the matter was finally settled by Joey's giving up the driver's seat to him, and herself getting into the tonneau with Virgie.
"He doesn't mean to bore people, but he certainly would have bored you all the way home with the story of his treasure cave," she remarked as they drove off.
"His treasure cave!"
"Yes. He thinks he has made a discovery. You know, part of our land includes the valley they call Branterdale. I expect Mr. Gaunt has told you that all this part of Derbyshire is limestone rock, and it is honeycombed with caves. We did not know we had any on our land, but the other day—that is, I should say, last season—when we were huntin', the fox ran across the river, and disappeared as if the earth had swallowed him. It was a narrow bit of the stream, between rocks, the bit that the guide-books tell you is like Dovedale in miniature. Of course, they all hunted and poked about, but they did not find so much as a rabbit-burrow. However, the thing worked in Percy's mind, and he went over afterwards on the quiet with the huntsman. This man, Gibbs, is a clever fellow, and he said the fox ran up the side of the rocky wall quite a long way; he saw the waving of the briers as he ran, and that the seekers had looked much too low down.
"So Percy let him down on a rope from the top—it's a sort of little cliff, you know, too steep for a man to climb just there—and they found the cave mouth under a great growth of blackberry bushes and fern."
"Oh, how exciting!"
"Yes, it was. The entrance was so small, they had to chip the rock to make it big enough for them to crawl in, and it was narrow when they got inside—like a mere slit in the ground, but soon it widened out, and then there came a low tunnel, and it went downwards, and after that they came out into a huge cave, with pillars of stalactite."
"It must have made quite an excitement."
"It was a bally nuisance," was Joey's elegant response. "The papers got hold of it, and before you could say 'knife' all the geologists in the kingdom wanted to come hunting for bones. Well, you see, we had to let them in, we couldn't very well keep them out. They grubbed and grubbed, but they didn't get much, because they say at no time could the entrance have been big enough to admit a large animal. Percy went with them, and watched them when they grubbed, to make sure that they didn't take anything away without leave, or keep any finds dark. And one day he found something that they were not looking for."
"Oh! What was that?"
"A pocket of lead. Quite a big one. You know, this county used to be mined for lead. The Speedwell cavern was really a mine at first. So he said nothing to anybody, but he got hold of an expert, who thought it quite promising; and now he wants to find people to subscribe capital, and work the lead. Wouldn't it be splendid if he found some?"
"It would indeed."
"You see, the land has belonged to my forefathers ever since the fourteenth century," said Joey. "Nobody has touched it; that bit of the river bank has never been used for anything. If we should strike it rich, it would not be so very surprising."
"You will have to come and see the cave as soon as you are well enough to walk, Mrs. Gaunt," said Ferris, turning round with a smile which he himself thought enough to melt the most stony-hearted beauty.
"But, ah! for a man to arise in me,That the man I am may cease to be!"—Tennyson.
Joey was in her garden next morning, tying up dahlias, whose heads, heavy with bloom, were beginning to droop, when she caught sight of the doctor crossing the lawn.
"Hallo!" she said cheerfully, pushing back her untidy hair from her red, hot face. "How are you? Been to Omberleigh? Does she want to change the time of her drive?"
"She sent no message," he replied, when he had shaken hands. "I have come to see you 'on my own,' as I expect you would put it. I want to say something to you."
"Cough it up," said Joey, speaking lightly enough, but with a change of expression—a dawning of apprehension in her little, unexpressive eyes, which the doctor knew and was always sorry to see.
"Nothing serious," he told her in a hurry. "Don't jump so to conclusions, Joey. This is merely medical orders. You must keep Ferris away when you are in charge of Mrs. Gaunt, please."
Joey stooped over the garden bed to pick up her hank of bass and bundle of sticks. When she arose, her face was even redder. "Well," she said, "it isn't easy to tell Percy to keep out of his own car."
The doctor looked at her with eyes of friendly pity and sympathy. He had known her from childhood, and had brought her three children into the world. He saw more of the workings of the household at Perley Hatch than anybody else in the neighbourhood.
"I know it isn't," he answered, "but if it can't be done, say so, and Mrs. Gaunt must give up her tours with you. I may say that I suggested them at first not for her sake only. I thought a friend of your own sex, within reach, would be such a happy chance for you."
Joey had turned and strolled at his side towards a garden seat. They sat down, she with her habitual inelegance, her legs wide apart, her thick garden boots firmly planted on the gravel.
"I like her," she burst out with energy. "I like her to rights. She's got no nonsense about her; you should have seen her with the kiddies yesterday! I should hate to lose her! But what harm can poor old Percy do her? Of course he's in love with her, but so he is with every pretty woman he sees. And it is such a good thing"—she broke off here, her thick mouth quivering. The doctor in his compassion understood as well as if she had finished the sentence. The thought in her mind was—"it is such a good thing for him to be interested in a woman of our own class, where no harm can come of it, rather than in the daughter of the publican in Buxton, in whose bar he has spent half the day for the past month."
"Mrs. Gaunt is quite an invalid, Joey," Dymock told her gently. "It disturbs her to be introduced to strangers. Her own husband is behaving like a trump, and you must see quite well that I'm not going to let your husband step in and spoil things. She has got to be kept perfectly quiet, and if you can do that you may be with her. If not—if you can't guarantee to keep off Ferris—why the motor drives must stop. Gaunt is getting a car for her, but there will be some delay."
Joey sat still, saying nothing, gazing straight before her for a while, and Dymock waited with perfect patience.
"I thought," she began slowly, "when Gaunt got married, what a difference it might make to me supposing she was somebody I could cotton to. If he was more approachable, not such a disagreeable chap, Percy would have somewhere to go—somebody to speak to about his cave and his mining scheme. You know all Percy wants is something to do, something to fill up his mind. Old Percy's all right, isn't he, doctor? Only he gets bored. He's awfully struck with Mrs. Gaunt; and, you see, like everybody else, I have tried to grind my own axe instead of thinking only about her."
"Joey, you're a trump," replied the doctor heartily. "I see your point of view, and there's nothing against it, except that you must wait a few days—say a few weeks—before starting in. You may tell Percy that he must lie low or he will spoil his own chance with Gaunt. If that gentleman heard that he had been trying to make the running with madame, he would send the lead-mine to blazes. Can you get that into Ferris's head?"
"Yes," she replied more hopefully, "I think I could. He must hold off a bit for the present. I can say you said so—shove it all on you, can't I, doctor?"
"Most certainly. Doctor's orders. Ferris is, of course, quite free to say that he can't spare his car for Mrs. Gaunt. But if he lends it, he must for the present stand out. I hope you can manage this, young woman, because I think it much better for Mrs. Gaunt to have your society than to go out quite alone. If you can arrange as I tell you, I will do my little best to say a word to Gaunt about the Branterdale mine. His support would be the making of the scheme; for whatever his failings as a society man, nobody is more universally trusted and respected than he."
"I know. I am pretty sure I can keep Percy off, at least for a bit," Joey assured him. "As soon as she is better, Mrs. Gaunt will like to have him about, he is such a taking chap, isn't he?"
"Handsome as paint," replied the doctor, smiling somewhat awry under his moustache. He could not tell her that the style which was fatal to the Buxton barmaid inspired in Virginia only an impatient disgust. "By the bye, I needn't give you the hint to tell Mrs. Gaunt nothing of my visit? She must not know that I have said a word? To put it shortly, you mustn't apologise; don't say a word about Ferris, good or bad. Simply arrange that he doesn't appear again."
She promised. They strolled together to the gate, where his horse waited, and parted with cordiality. Poor old Joey!
*****
In ten days, Virginia was allowed to put her feet to the ground; and the following day, which was Sunday, she elected to go to church. Dr. Dymock told her that it would do her good, but that, if she went, she must put up with her husband's company during service. It would be humiliating him too deeply to ask him to allow her to appear for the first time in public without him. Somewhat eloquently, the doctor put before her the conduct of Gaunt—his wonderful self-denial. She listened with drooped lids, and said nothing. In her heart she wondered what the speaker would say if she were to look up and say straight out: "He does not love me; he hates me. He is waiting for me to be well in order that he may persecute me."
No doubt he would call it hysterical raving.
When he was gone, she fell to her usual occupation of wondering what form Gaunt's cruelty was likely to take, when she should be strong enough to submit to it. She dared only look forward to the immediate future. If she tried to go beyond, to face the prospect of a whole life-time of captivity, under the gaolership of this extraordinary man, she found her brain reeling. There was a subject which preoccupied her mind at this time; otherwise her speculations might have travelled farther. The question of Pansy's cure was the one thing of which she thought, night and day. The accounts which she regularly received were cheerful, but not what she had hoped. They were vague—disappointing. "The doctor thought, with patience, they would see some real improvement." Some improvement! When she hoped for a complete cure. "There was distinctly less temperature during the past twenty-four hours." But why was there temperature at all? Was the new treatment setting up a temperature? She knew enough of nursing and sickness to understand that these reports were by no means wholly satisfactory.
And now that Pansy was too ill to write herself, what a blank there was! Mamma was so different! She could not tell the things one wanted to know. Day by day, since Gaunt gave her money, Virgie had sent parcels to the nursing home, wherein her treasure was incarcerated. Fruit, jelly, pictures, flowers, books—anything love could suggest. Yet she hardly knew whether they were received, or, if so, whether they gave pleasure.
This dearth of what she called "real news" gave her a good deal of anxiety, though Grover usually contrived to reassure her, and to hold up a glorious picture of what the dear little lady would say when she was allowed to write herself!
On Sunday morning Virginia was up and dressed by church time; and walked downstairs, and along the hall, into the waiting carriage and pair. Gaunt was nowhere to be seen, and she drove to Manton, the village in whose scattered parish Omberleigh stood, escorted only by Grover.
At the church door, her husband was awaiting her, having apparently traversed the two miles on foot. He timed his appearance to coincide with hers, so that it would look as if they had arrived together. It was almost a fortnight since she had set eyes upon him, and the sight of him brought a rush of scarlet to her cheeks, and a trembling to her limbs. He tried to look as if everything was normal, as if he had driven over with her, after breakfasting together as usual. He seemed paler than her memory of him, but displayed no emotion of any kind.
Virginia was looking unusually pretty. Grover, when she had finally adjusted the picturesque hat, had remarked that it was not often they had anything likethatto look at in Manton church of a Sunday morning.
Certainly the lately married pair were the cynosure of every eye as they took their places in the old oak seat appropriated to Omberleigh. Gaunt had no time to feel self-conscious, so anxious was he as to how his wife would stand the ordeal of sitting beside him for so long. He tried, however, not to increase her nervousness by seeming aware of it. He appeared immersed in his prayer-book and hymnal, singing the tenor part in the hymns very correctly.
The service was extremely simple, and not lengthy. Virginia got through it quite well, feeling, after the first ten minutes, a sense of relief and peace for which she could not account. She told herself that it was the grace of God, and that, if she could sit so calmly at her captor's side, without a tremor, it showed that strength would be given her to endure his uttermost unkindness patiently.
He stepped out of the seat, at the end of service, and waited for her to follow, quite quietly and not officiously. His manner was, indeed, so natural that only a keen observer would have suspected that naturalness to be assumed. At her side he walked down the broad central passage, and out at the south porch.
He had held all his neighbours so rigorously at bay for years past that very few had ventured to await the appearance of the bridal couple. But one elderly lady, of shapeless bulk, with her bonnet askew, waiting beside a big motor, escorted by a large and fine old gentleman, stepped forward.
"Well, Osbert Gaunt, you must allow me to shake hands, and to ask you to make me known to your lovely young wife," said she kindly.
Gaunt did not look pleased, but he made the necessary introduction. The old pair were Lord and Lady St. Aukmund. "I hope you will come and see my wife before long, when we are a bit more settled down!" he volunteered.
"My dear boy, I should think this is the best day's work you ever did in all your life!" cried the old countess, holding Virgie's hand most cordially. "And she is Bernard Mynors's daughter! Oh, yes, my dear, all the county knows who you were! All the county is talking about you! But nobody will be surprised at the miracle when they see you! As to him, he is the most savage, the mostfarouchecreature that ever was made—or was until he saw you—for you have altered him already, my dear! I knew him when he was a little mite in velvet suits, and I never thought he would turn out as he did! But you have come to the rescue just in time. Put ceremony on one side, and bring him to dine with us at the Chase justen familleone day this week, won't you?"
Gaunt was obliged to explain that his wife was a convalescent, and that any evening engagement was at present out of the question for her. He hoped that it would soon be different. Lady St. Aukmund showed herself pertinacious, and asked more questions than he liked, but he managed to parry them all, and she got into her motor at last, all compliments and desires for showing hospitality. He waited until the great folks were off, and then put Virgie into the carriage at once.
As he arranged the dust rug carefully about her feet, Virginia was struck for the first time with a sort of compunction. Her husband, for whatever motive, was certainly carrying out the doctor's orders loyally. She was touched with shame that he must walk home, because she was occupying his carriage. Leaning forward impetuously, she said: "I hope you will drive home? I hope you will not walk because of—me?"
"Thanks, I prefer it."
He stepped back, gave the order, and she was driven away. He stood there in the road, his brows knit, his heart in tumult. What an ass he had been to decline that offer! He might have been seated by her now, conscious of her in every fibre, seeing her, even though not daring to look at her, breathing her, as it were, into his being. It could have done her no harm. He might have found time for some word, some faltering sentence that should have prepared her for his change of mind, for his entire defeat and penitence.
He started to walk home, in the dust of her chariot wheels. He would set eyes upon her no more that day, unless he stood, as he often did, at the window of his study, whence he could see the canopy of her chair as she lay out upon the terrace.
*****
He saw her no more, except from a distance, for another week. Then the doctor gave him cheering news. She was doing splendidly. He thought she might lead a normal life in a few days more, if she were carefully guarded, and not allowed to overdo herself.
"You might take her to the coast?—Devon or Cornwall, perhaps?" he suggested.
Gaunt said he would consider it. It was a difficult time for him to leave home, just as harvest was beginning. A month later perhaps.
As he limped back, up the avenue, when Dymock had ridden away, he thought that perhaps it might make the rupture easier, if it took place elsewhere, and not at Omberleigh, where apparently the world and his wife—specially his wife—was busy with his affairs. The world and his wife had been so shut out from his own purview hitherto that he was wholly unprepared for the shock of surprise, amusement, interest, which his sudden marriage excited. In such a sparsely populated neighbourhood he had believed that he might do what he pleased without exciting comment. He saw now, with sudden clarity, how impossible such an existence as he had planned for his unlucky wife would have been in reality.
A woman so used—any woman in the world except Virginia—would have cried her wrongs from the house-tops. His persecution of her could not have been hid for long. He felt that he was looking out upon a new world, of whose existence he had been as unaware as the proverbial ostrich. His vindictive malice even had its ridiculous side. He had made an egregious fool of himself.
Heavy as lead was his heart as he entered the house.
Cosmo and Damian, with their coloured ribbons about their fluffy necks, were at play in the hall, dancing about at hide and seek behind the big chairs, while Grim, his own golden collie, sat upon a settle, her feet tucked up like a fashionable lady afraid of a mouse, uttering panting, whining protests against the reckless interlopers. Gaunt called her, and she came down slowly and with quite evident nervousness from her elevation. Cosmo hunched his lovely grey fluffy back into an arch, and spat. His tail became a bottle brush. Grim slunk apologetically by, her tail between her legs.
"Poor old girl," said Gaunt, as he went into the dining-room to lunch. "You and I are a bit superfluous in this house now, it seems."
He went out that afternoon with the object of meeting Caunter some distance away at a house whose tenant had asked for a new thatch. For the first time in his life he forgot what he had come out for, and wandered by himself until past six o'clock, his whole mind focused upon his domestic affairs, wondering whether any readjustment were possible, and if so, how he should set about it.
Entering the house once more, he suddenly remembered his neglected appointment, and told himself that he would go round to Caunter's house after dinner and apologise. Slowly and heavily he went upstairs, and into his room to change. In the midst of his toilet sounds came to him, low and muffled, from the next room. At first he hardly noticed; then he crept close to the door, and listened. What he heard gave him a curious sensation of heat, of hurry, of desperate sympathy, and extraordinary vexation.
His wife was in trouble. He could hear her. The sound of sobbing, the pitiful broken gasps of quite uncontrollable weeping came to him, mingled with the tones, coaxing and low, with which Grover was apparently attempting consolation. What had happened? Had she hurt herself? Had they allowed her to run into any danger? But no! He was at once aware, though how he knew it he could hardly say, that no pain of her own would draw those wild tears, that unrestrained grief from Virginia.
Whatever it was, it must be stopped, or he should go mad. He felt as if his head were on fire—as if he must go out and kill somebody—why was it allowed, that she should be made unhappy? Then he thought of himself—of his own diabolical cruelty! Could she be lamenting because she was slowly but inexorably growing better, because she was to be taken from the doctor's kind hands and surrendered once more to her husband's harsh ones?
The sweat stood upon the forehead of Gaunt of Omberleigh. It seemed to him that never—even in his hot youth—even in the first days of his jilting—had he suffered such torment as this. He rushed from his room into the passage, and called aloud to Grover:
"Come here—come out—I want to speak to you!"