"When you and I behind the Veil are past,Oh! but the long, long while the world shall last,Which of our Coming and Departure heedsAs much as Ocean of a pebble cast.One moment in Annihilation's Waste,One moment of the Well of Life to taste—The Stars are setting, and the CaravanDraws to the dawn of nothing!—Oh, make haste!"—Omar Khayyám.
The docility with which Gerald accepted the change of subject was completely reassuring to Virginia. His words led her to suppose that he imagined all to be well between herself and her husband. She gave herself up to fullest enjoyment of the fine weather, the swift motion, the beautiful country.
Bodiam Castle she found entrancing, and her fresh, almost childlike interest in exploring it gave Gerald a kind of pleasure hard to explain. Her unconsciousness put him upon his honour; yet it was subtly alluring, too. It urged him to find out what would happen if she could be brought face to face with the truth about herself and him.
He found himself lost in contemplation of the curious subtlety of her nature, as contrasted with its simplicity. He knew, as it happened, that her marriage was most unhappy. He doubted whether he could have discovered as much without the information given him by her mother. Her reserve was impenetrable. If she betrayed herself, it was quite involuntarily, in some phrase which, to him who knew, bore a tragic significance. "You are a man—you can do as you like. I must do as some one else wills, all my life long."
This was as near as she had come, in words, to lifting the veil so carefully dropped. He ranged her qualities one against the other—her incapacity for flirtation, her power of preserving a dignified secrecy. Artlessness combined with prudence! It was another such apparent contradiction which had mystified Gaunt—her hard toil and ceaseless sacrifice, taken in conjunction with her regard for appearances, her love of dainty raiment. As a matter of fact, there was no contradiction. Innate pride and refinement accounted for attributes which seemed to clash.
The day's programme was carried through with much success. They lunched at Lewes, and thence, hugging the northern edge of the Downs, they passed to Steyning and on through Storrington to Pulborough. Here they had an early tea, being warned that no tea was obtainable at Bignor; and went on, through the exquisite late afternoon, along roads which grew to be what Virgie described as "lanier and more laney."
It was as they approached Bignor that Gerald said:
"As soon as Baines has set us down he is going to run the car into Chichester and back. I am expecting a man down for a couple of nights from town, and I told him to come to Chichester, because I thought we could pick him up from thence more easily. Baines will run there in no time—'tisn't more than twelve or fifteen miles each way, and he can fill up his petrol-tank there. He'll be back by the time we have done our sightseeing."
"Bringing the man with him?" she asked, in evident disappointment.
"Yes. By the way, it's a friend of yours—Mr. Ferris, from Perley Hatch."
"What!" cried Virgie, with so sharp an accent of dislike that he was startled.
"Don't you like him? I thought they were friends of yours—they spoke most warmly of you," he began awkwardly.
"Oh, his wife is all right, but he—do you know, Gerald, I think he is odious," said she warmly. "It will just spoil our day, having him with us! What a pity!"
"Have I put my foot into it? You don't know how sorry I am," said Gerald warmly. "I wouldn't have done it for worlds; but I didn't like him to come down and spend the evening alone in Worthing. I thought we could dine at Pulborough, and go home at leisure by moonlight."
"Well, promise me one thing—you won't sit in front with Baines and leave me behind with him, will you?" she begged. "I really couldn't bear that. You don't know what an outsider he is."
He was fervent in his protestations that she should not be left to the society of the dashing Percy. He was a good deal put out by her evident distaste of the whole arrangement. He had never heard her speak so decidedly about any one in her life as she expressed herself with regard to Ferris.
The talk was put a stop to by their arrival in the narrow lane where a small finger-post announced: "This way to the Roman Villa."
They paused, alighted; Gerald put a wrap over his arm for her, gave his final instructions to Baines, and the car hurried on to the forge, where the width of the road permitted it to turn and run back along the lane by which they had come.
"He will be out on the high road in two or three miles, and then he can let her rip," said Gerald; "but he can't be back for an hour, so we will take things easy."
They leisurely ascended the grassy field which leads to the carefully covered-in and precious pavements.
Then for a while Virgie forgot everything in the delight of examining this wonderful relic of a bygone civilisation. The sweet-faced, elderly lady who is custodian of the place, and speaks of it with reverence and fervour which are infectious, warmed towards the beauty and enthusiasm of this visitor. She showed her all that was to be seen, and explained each small detail of plan and execution. Virgie reconstructed in her own mind the entire existence of the wealthy officials, exiled from all that constituted their world, and cast away among these barbarian British in a fold of the Sussex hills, far, as it seemed, from all communication with their kind. Then, pointing across the valley to the romantic swell of the southern Downs, the custodian told how Stane Street, the great Roman highway, had crossed the hills from Chichester, just opposite where they stood. The Roman noble's sentinels must have seen every figure, every horseman, as he topped the rise, and have kept him in sight as he approached, the whole way into the valley. All gone! Even the semblance of the track wiped out! It would be ten miles before Baines would strike the still surviving section of the Roman road.
The hour was nearly expired when they had seen all, and they strolled away to find somewhere to sit down until the car's return. Finally they sat upon the grass, Gerald's raincoat under them, near the lane, and watched the sunset fade from the sky.
Gerald reverted to the coming of Ferris, and said how sorry he was to have made so stupid a plan. Virgie answered with impulsive penitence. She could not think how she came to be so disagreeable about a trifle—when he had given her this glorious day, and shown her such grand things, when she owed all her pleasure to him. She felt ashamed of herself.
"I am so glad to have seen this," she said with unconscious pathos. "It has done me good. The thought of all that life and energy, here where even the memory has passed away, the quiet to which it has gone back—the disappearance of the great road, have brought home to me what a little thing one human life is. We walk in a vain shadow and disquiet ourselves in vain. I mean suffering, and being what we call unhappy, matters so little when you think how soon it will be over. That helps one to bear things."
Her eyes, misty with regret, were fixed upon the amphitheatre of rolling downs and on the green, rabbit-run turf, where once the busy highway swarmed with traffic.
He leaned towards her and spoke softly. "Thank you, dear, for trying to comfort me. I am trying to bear things, as you put it—I truly am. Most particularly because I know they are all my own fault. But I have to own that your thought brings me very little comfort. Here are you and here am I, alive and warm, wanting to enjoy our little day. The knowledge that, five centuries hence, nobody will ever have heard our names, does nothing to still my craving."
She looked at him dumbly, and her lip quivered.
"You didn't surely mean—you can't have meant that it is you—youwho have to bear things?" he added in a hurried, choky whisper.
For the first time he saw panic in her eyes. She was staring into his as though fascinated. He could almostseethe hasty clutch of her will upon her tongue, to prevent her making any admission. "Nobody," she said, almost inaudibly, "has more to bear than they deserve—more than they can carry; but every one has something—something, don't you think?"
He mercilessly held her gaze. "If I were to tell you what I think of you," he began; and she made a little motion with her hand.
"No, don't. Please don't. Because it really does comfort me to feel that I am only a grain of sand upon the shore of time, and that soon I shall be swept away. Only one thing matters, and that is, to have done one's best while one was here. Sometimes it seems hard, but one has to go on, one has to keep on trying. Don't you agree—oh, you must agree—that everybody has something to bear?"
"I think," he muttered savagely, "that you have always been made to bear too much. All the burdens of the whole family have rested on your little, tender shoulders. It is time that you were freed——"
"No," she cried quickly, sharply, "that is the one thing I can never be! I have tied myself, and no human power can release me now."
Even as Gerald's blood leapt with the throb of triumph, he realised how careful he must be not to let her see the admission she had just made. The thing which he might safely say sprang into his mind as by inspiration. "There is such a thing as spiritual freedom, Virgie," he softly murmured. "Don't forget that liberty is a thing nobody can really take from you."
She turned a radiant face to him, and broke into a smile. "Oh, Gerald, how lovely! How fine of you to say that! Yes, it is so. You are right. I shall remember that always, and that it was you who said it."
"Because I am your friend," he continued steadily, knowing himself upon the right road. "Remember always that I am your friend, and that I have a right to your spiritual freedom. If ever you should be in trouble or difficulty, you will think of our friendship, won't you? Think of this perfect day, and how we have been together in pure friendship and mutual confidence. You trust me, don't you, Virgie?"
"I should think so." She gave her hand, impulsively, and as he held it—soft, warm, and ungloved—he wondered how much more of this he could stand. She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, and dared not. At last: "You don't want words, do you, Gerald? You understand?" she faltered.
"Yes." The word was gulped. He lifted her hand, kissed it, laid it upon her knee, and rose hurriedly. Baines had been gone nearly two hours.
"Something has delayed the car," he remarked, coming back to her, watch in hand. "I wonder what we had better do? It is getting late—you will want some dinner."
"Oh, no, I have had a very good tea," she answered calmly, "but we shall be cold if we sit here much longer."
He went into the lane and looked up and down. Then he returned again. "I wonder if the kind old lady would let you sit in her parlour while I go and reconnoitre?" he suggested. "We might go off together somewhere and get some dinner, while I station a sentry here to warn Baines where to find us? I am afraid we are a good way from anything in the way of food, but I may as well inquire."
This was agreed upon, and Virgie settled herself in a tiny parlour, full of furniture, while Gerald disappeared. She kept her ears strained for the humming of the car, but no such sound broke the pastoral silence of the remote spot. She began to wonder what they really would do should the car have broken down, for she knew that her own powers of walking were very limited, in spite of her immensely improved health.
Half an hour passed slowly, and then Gerald returned.
"There is apparently an inn of sorts at Dilvington, but a very poor one. I suppose they could give some fried ham and potatoes. That would be better than nothing, wouldn't it?"
"How far is it?"
He studied the map. "Inside a mile."
"I think I can do that if we walk slowly."
He looked taken aback. "I say! I forgot how little you can walk!"
"Oh, I can walk a mile, but I could not do much more."
"No, by Jove, I suppose you could not. I hope I am not going to knock you up. What an ass I was to trouble about Ferris!"
She smiled bravely, and said it would be all right. The weather was lovely. Gerald laughed uncomfortably. A flurry of rain was coming up slowly from the southwest, across the heave of the downs.
They left word at the custodian's house and also at the forge, as to the direction they had taken, and walked off towards Dilvington.
Virgie came along quite bravely, but before they reached the little roadside "public" the rain had begun to fall.
Gerald ordered such food as the place afforded, and they were taken into a small and stuffy parlour, with a short, horsehair sofa, upon which the lady could rest.
"By the time we have eaten something, the car is bound to catch us up," he asserted cheerfully.
The meal took long to prepare, and was, to say the least of it, inadequate when it arrived. Hunger, however, compelled them to eat, and almost to enjoy it. By the time they had done, it was considerably later than Gerald had foreseen. In Virgie's society time had a knack of eluding him. With a hurried glance at his watch he sprang up and went out to inquire about horses.
He came back in a bustle. "They have only one horse, and she has been out all day, and is tired." said he, "but they think she can take us as far as Fittleworth, where we can catch a train to Petworth at 9.20. We should be able to hire a car there, and get back to Worthing or, if we can't, there is a first rate inn at Petworth. No trains later than about 9.30."
"Wouldn't it be safer to wait here for our own car?" she asked doubtfully, as she gazed at the steady rain.
"Daren't risk it," he answered peremptorily. "If we had to stay the night this place is impossible. I suppose they can lend umbrellas, and you have a thick coat. They are putting in the mare now."
When the cart came round, it was found that there was not an umbrella in the house. The September night was cold, and the rain fell unrelentingly. They were very uncomfortable, and there seemed nothing to say except to wonder where Baines and the car could be. The road seemed interminable, and, as the mare ambled along like one moving in her sleep, Gerald began to betray signs of desperate impatience. As they emerged from a rough lane, upon a wider road, they heard a long, sad whistle and the sound of a train.
"I doubt ye've missed her," remarked the lad who drove.
"Impossible! Make haste!" cried Gerald with some urgency. He ordered that the drowsy steed should be whipped up, and she, indignant at such outrage when by all the rules of the game she should have been sleeping in her stable, made a wild spurt.
A quarter of a mile brought them to the little lonely station.
All was still. The lights were out. The door, when Gerald tried it, was shut. They had missed the last train.
When he came back to the side of the trap, and stood looking up at her, Virginia perceived that he was terribly vexed. Up to this moment he had maintained a composure and cheerfulness which was reassuring. Now, he was obviously nonplussed.
In reply to questions, their driver said sullenly that it was of no use to fetch the station-master. He had gone home to bed. He couldn't make a train if there was no train. Gerald shook his cap, from the edge of which the water streamed, for the rain had become a downpour.
"One gets out of the habit of calculating distance when one is used to a car," he said to Virginia, in a voice which was an odd blend of rage and apology. "They were such a time bringing that food—we started too late. The only thing now is to go on to Pulborough, I suppose."
The lad intimated that this journey, if taken, would be made upon their own feet. The mare could do no more. She would just get home to her stable, and that was all.
Virginia could not offer to walk. She would not risk over-exertion, with her return to Gaunt so near. She tried to cheer Gerald with the reminder that, most likely, when they returned to the inn at Dilvington, they would find Baines and the car awaiting them.
As he knew this to be impossible, the thought could not console him. He climbed up at the back of the wet cart thoroughly out of temper, muttering that a wooden horse with three legs could have done two miles in three quarters of an hour.
Their discomfort was now far too great for further conversation. The rain was pitiless, and the horse-cloth over Virginia's knees, though thick, was not waterproof. Her head ached, and she was very cold, though she endured patiently, so as not to increase her companion's evidently acute sense of the pass to which he had brought her.
She felt a final lowering of her spirits when once more the comfortless inn came into sight. Their host and hostess were apparently no more pleased to see them than were they to return. Nothing had been seen of the car, and judging from their manner, these people did not seem sure that it existed. It seemed, however, that they had half anticipated the missing of the train. The only guest bed in the house had been made up. Gerald somewhat nervously explained to the woman that Mrs. Gaunt would have this room, and he would pass the night on the horse-hair sofa in the parlour.
At first the reaction from cold and darkness was such that they found it delightful to be seated by a fire, sipping some abominable spirits and water. The circumstances, however, were too deplorable for Virginia to be able to rally her spirits. The cloak she wore was really a dust-coat, and it had not kept out the rain. She could feel that she was very wet, and was solely occupied with the consideration of how long she ought, in politeness, to sit with Gerald, and how soon she could go upstairs and take off her uncomfortable clothing.
Gerald stood, his foot on the fender, his brow contracted. His state of mind was most unenviable. He had formed this plan for the securing of Virginia's freedom; and that they should spend the night out had seemed a necessary part of the programme.
But anything like this had been far from his thoughts. How could he have been such an ass as to allow himself to miss that train? Had they caught it, all would have been well. He knew it was due at Petworth just late enough to make it certain that they would miss the last train. Then they would have been safe in the warmth and comfort of a first-rate inn. The worst aspect of it all was that to Virginia, to whom nothing could be explained, he must seem merely a hopeless bungler, a person unable to manage a simple expedition like this.
"Need I say," he began, after a longish silence, "that I am repenting in dust and ashes? I am so sorry for such an atrocious muddle. What can I do to help you through with it? Draw your chair close to the fire. Might I be privileged to take off your shoes?"
"No, thanks, I will do that when I get upstairs," said Virginia wearily. "I don't feel inclined to sit up."
"But the car may turn up at any moment," he urged, hating himself for his deceit.
"Why, so it may; we could get home then," she replied, with a dawning of hope. "You see, I have to travel to-morrow; it is so inconvenient for me to be detained, that is why I am so grumpy!"
He renewed his apologies, and she asked him to talk about something else. He made a hesitating attempt to revert to the key in which they had conversed at Bignor; but obtained no response from her. At last, after another long silence, he could bear it no longer, but went down on his knees beside her, and cried impulsively: "Virgie, you must forgive me! Don't be so unhappy, dear!"
She had been lost in the mazes of her own thoughts, which wandered always to Gaunt and her return to Omberleigh. She turned to Rosenberg with a start, and said hurriedly: "Oh, don't! What are you talking of? Get up, those people might come in."
The words were hasty, the tone so void of all warmth, all friendliness, that it froze the genial current of his soul into something like consternation. If the result of his escapade was to be that Virgie took a dislike to him, things were indeed hopeless. She rose, and picked up her steaming shoes.
"Good night! I am going upstairs to lie down. If the car comes, you must call me."
He made no objection at all, but held open the door in silence.
The ungracious woman, summoned from the kitchen in the act of yawning prodigiously, ushered her into a room as cold as a well, with a mingled perfume of pomatum and apple-garret which turned her what Tony would have described as "niffy." She took off her skirt, and asked that it might be hung before the kitchen fire. She could not, however, undress, since she had with her no necessaries for the night, and the landlady volunteered no assistance.
She lay down in wretched discomfort, thinking that Gerald downstairs, with a fire, had far the best of the bargain; but she was determined not to go down to him. Until the last quarter of an hour, though she was acutely alive to the inconvenience of the situation, it had not struck her as awkward. Now this aspect had presented itself, and she felt a new mental disquiet which greatly increased her physical suffering. In view of her late ill-health, and the care which her husband had exercised in order that she might recover completely, the accident was most unfortunate. From that point of view, if from no other, she felt certain of Gaunt's displeasure; and a creeping terror, vague and formless, prevented her from resting. She hardly slept until after dawn, when she dropped into heavy sleep, only to wake, affrighted, about seven with a sore throat and a burning forehead.
She sat up, dizzy and sick. Yet if there was one thing more certain than another, it was that she could not possibly stay where she was. Somehow or other she must get back to Worthing at once, even though she could not stand upon her feet.
She flung herself out of bed, animated with the strength of desperation. Peering into the small, cracked mirror, she was encouraged by finding that she did not look ill. Her temperature was, as a matter of fact, 101, and her colour was the flush of fever, but she did not know that.
There was no bell in her wretched room, and she had to call repeatedly before she could make anybody hear. At last the woman appeared, and she begged soap, hot water and a towel. After a long interval, an earthenware jug, containing about a pint of liquid, was produced. With this, and a tiny comb which she kept in her vanity bag, she made what toilette she could.
It was somewhat consoling to find a good fire burning, and a cloth spread for breakfast, when she crawled downstairs, stiff and aching. Gerald had gone out for news of the car, and presently returned with milk, butter and eggs, neither of which commodities seemed to be kept in stock at the inn. He had found at Bignor a telegram from Baines, announcing a bad breakdown, but saying he hoped to be along at about 9.30. Gerald had left instructions for him to come on straight to the inn at Dilvington; and, with a great assumption of cheerfulness, hoped that their troubles were over.
Virginia hardly answered him. In spite of her desire that he should not know how ill she felt, she found it impossible to keep up appearances, and could not eat. He attributed all to her sense of the unpleasant position in which she found herself. He was acutely conscious of the fact that the car, when it arrived, would bring Ferris with it; and he now felt himself an unutterable hound to have consented to such a plan.
At a few minutes to ten, the welcome horn was heard. The girl's eyes cleared a little, she rose, and eagerly put on her hat and coat, filled with the one wish to be out of the place and away. She was at the door when the motor appeared; and as it came to a stop, she started and shrank back with a momentary loss of self-control. She had quite forgotten Ferris.
Though he had plotted and arranged the moment, Gerald was hatefully embarrassed now that it was upon him. There was a knowing, confidential flavour about Ferris's manner which was detestable. He seemed to be metaphorically winking at Gerald, who believed he would have done it actually, could he have caught his eye when Mrs. Gaunt was not looking.
To Virginia a new thought presented itself. Since Ferris was here, and saw their plight—since he knew they had been there all night—he would, of course, tell Gaunt. This necessitated her telling her husband herself the whole vexatious story—a feat of daring which it made her head swim to contemplate.
She hardly spoke to Ferris, but entered the car without delay.
Gerald did all he could. In view of what he knew her opinion of Percy to be, he would not sit beside Baines, but came inside with them; and was obliged to accommodate himself on the small seat in front, doubled up with his knees almost to his chin, unable to smoke, restless and irritable.
At first he was almost angry with Virginia. She might buck up and help him to carry off these infernally awkward moments. Her listless silence was the worst demeanour she could possibly assume. As the miles passed, he became aware that she was feeling physically ill, and remorse made him frantic.
Oh, damn the whole thing! He had done what he was ashamed of, blundered unpardonably; and, as far as he could see, he would gain nothing by it.... One idea gave him some consolation. If Virginia were really ill—if the doctor could be persuaded to keep her in bed for some days—then Ferris would go back to Derbyshire with his tale; and it was dimly possible that Virginia might never return thither at all.
"I would not if I mightRebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyedOne time to dwell: my soul shall walk in whiteCast down, but not destroyed."—Christina Rossetti.
It may seem a curious thing that Mrs. Mynors, dependent upon the bounty of Osbert Gaunt, should be so ready to consent to a plan which, if successful, might once more cast her penniless upon the world. She herself was at a loss to understand the true meaning of the malice which actuated her. In all her life she had hitherto never known the strength of any passion. She was incapable of deep love, of real suffering. Her maternal instinct was not strongly developed, and selfishness had, up to now, preserved her from anything more disturbing than temper or discomfort.
The first emotion of compelling force which had ever gripped her was the desire for revenge, which took its rise upon the day she went to meet her old lover at the club, carefully adorned for conquest, and received from him so unexpected a slap in the face. So unused was she to be dominated by any overmastering emotion that she was being run away with; and now and then by fits and starts she saw with dismay that this was so. She reassured herself however. Like most women who have always been attractive to the male, she overrated her own powers. She believed that Gerald Rosenberg was her slave. As a son-in-law he would be quite ideal, and unable to refuse her anything. She could not deny Gaunt's generosity; but he, although spending large sums when he believed it necessary, was severe upon luxury; he hated the wasting of pence; whereas Gerald was always giving presents of the kind she welcomed and understood—cut flowers, places at the theatre, pretty trifles—to her, to Tony, to Pansy, even to Virginia. She was convinced that her influence was paramount with Gerald, and, if with him, then with his father also.
After all, he was the only son; the old man could not afford to be implacable. Socially, her daughter was more than his equal. Her superficial mind glossed over such ugly facts as divorce. Everybody did such things nowadays, and everybody could be told the true story of this particular case. Gerald and Virginia were blameless; the mistake had been in the hasty, ill-considered marriage; Gaunt would have to own himself beaten. She sometimes pictured an interview between herself and Gaunt, wherein she would nobly repudiate his gross insinuations, and speak beautifully of her daughter's angelic innocence.
Seldom had she been more gratified by anything than by the task which fell to her of writing to "dear Osbert" to explain that Virginia had caught a chill, and would not be able to travel for some days. She used the term "days," much as she longed to write "weeks"; for there was one possibility which she kept ever before her eyes, and that was the fear lest Gaunt should lose patience, and come to Worthing himself.
Virgie's feverish attack suited her plan so well that she could not blame Gerald for his carelessness, though she privately thought he had badly mismanaged things.
Virgie indeed was feeling downright ill, and had such a splitting headache that, upon hearing that Gaunt was duly informed of her illness, she abandoned the effort of writing to him herself, and merely lay still, feeling in every aching bone the relief of a few days' respite before taking the final step.
Grover received her in a state of queer agitation, and was half inclined to pet and pity, half to blame. The good woman had been very uncertain in her moods ever since they came to Worthing. Her heart was jealous for the lonely man in Derbyshire. She saw well enough what were Mr. Rosenberg's feelings, and she felt convinced that Mrs. Mynors was also well aware of them. She was indignant that the pretty woman, whom she cordially hated, should allow such freedom of intercourse.
When the couple failed to return, or even to telegraph, the previous night, Grover had gone through some awful moments. The thought "They're off!" flashed through her mind, in spite of her real attachment to her young mistress. She was so relieved when they returned that, like many people in like case, she felt she must scold a little.
"Don't tell me! England's a place where there's railway stations and where there's telegraph offices," said she severely. "If the last train had gone before you got to the station, I suppose there was a village near, and where there's a village, there's a telegraph. The young man could have knocked up the postmaster, couldn't he?"
"I dare say; I never thought of that. I was so sure we should find the motor when we got back to the inn. Oh, it was such a horrid place, Grover, and so uncomfortable. The woman was so disagreeable, and seemed never to have heard of anybody wanting hot water to wash with!"
"Serve you right, I'd say, that I would, if it wasn't for your being so poorly. After all the care the master took of you! After his standing to one side and denying himself even the sight of your face, so as you should get well quicker. If he was to see the way you carry on here among them all! At everybody's beck and call! Fetch and carry, first here, then there. Fine and pleased he'd be, wouldn't he?"
"Oh, Grover, but I have been so well until this happened! And how could I help it? Here are you, cross old thing, scolding me in the same breath, first for taking a chill, and then because I didn't stay pottering out in the rain still longer, hunting for a telegraph office. The horse was dead beat; she couldn't go any farther."
"If I could box Mr. Rosenberg's ears, I'd do it with pleasure," was Grover's vindictive reply, somewhat qualified by the extreme tenderness with which she handled the culprit, undressing, tending, soothing her, and laying her down among her pillows to rest.
"Men don't think of things," murmured Virgie weakly, feeling bound to excuse Gerald.
"There's one that does," was the immediate retort. "One that has never had anything to do with ladies, all the time I've known him, till now, but has shown more true consideration than any one of these young fancy men, thinking of nothing but their own pleasure."
Virgie coloured painfully and was silent. This subject was taboo between mistress and maid. Grover could not but know that Virginia was in mortal fear of her husband, and the good woman regretted the man's awkward shyness, which prevented him, as she thought, from making headway. Her mind was filled with keen anxiety lest all the hopes entertained by the household at Omberleigh should be brought to naught by this unnatural separation of the newly wed.
No more was said; and later in the day the maid bitterly regretted having said even so much, for Mrs. Gaunt's fever mounted, and by the night she was delirious.
*****
It seemed to the patient a long time afterwards, though in reality not more than forty-eight hours, when she awoke from a sound sleep, and, glancing round, found the curtains drawn, excluding the sunshine, and her mother seated by her bed.
Mrs. Mynors looked up with an angelic smile when the sleeper stirred, rose and came to the bedside, stooping over her with a look of pity and sympathy.
"Oh, how long have I slept?" said Virginia, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Where's Grover, mamma? I must get up and be off. I am going back to Omberleigh to-day."
"Not to-day, my sweetest," was the murmured reply. "The doctor would not allow that."
"Oh, but Osbert is expecting me; he will be vexed." She put her hand to her head.
"Lie down, darling; you must not exert yourself. You are weak. Osbert knows. It is all right."
Virginia, conscious of a swimming in her head, though the pain was gone, subsided upon her pillows.
"Oh, mamma, how tiresome! How very tiresome!" she faltered. "I have been away so long; I must go back!"
"My dearest, my most precious child, don't grieve yourself! It is all right! You are with those that love you, and will take care of you," was the cooing answer. "There is no need for fear, my Virgie."
"It isn't fear. It is breaking my word," stammered the girl, knowing that her words sounded like nonsense, but feeling explanation too difficult.
Mrs. Mynors, without speaking, brought her a cup of strong broth which was keeping warm over a little lamp.
"I have sent that poor, good Grover out for a walk," said she. "She is not as young as she was, and the nursing has tired her. But I had another reason for sending her away when you should wake. I wanted to be alone with you."
She did not say this until the soup had been drunk, and Virginia felt refreshed.
"Why, mamma?"
Her mother sank to her knees beside the bed, holding her hand. "My darling," said she, half sobbing, "there is no more need for concealment between your mother and you. When you were delirious I sat beside you—I had to listen to what you said—and I know—I know your pitiful secret."
There was a long, deep silence. At last Virginia spoke.
"Mother, tell me what you mean. What do you know?"
"I know that Osbert has been cruel to you. I know that you go in fear of his cruelty," came the whispered answer.
There was another silence. "Well, mamma, if that were true? I do not say it is true, but if it were, what then?"
"What then? Why, Virgie, then you must be rescued from him. He must be a madman if he could ill-treat you, and the law will protect you against him."
For a moment the eyes of the girl in the bed lit up with a flaming hope. For a moment she turned to her mother with a rush of eager, palpitating confidence. Then a new look crossed her face, which grew composed and firm. Her voice was not sad, but steady as she replied: "I have sworn."
"Sworn, Virgie? Darling, what do you mean by that?"
"I have sworn to love him," was the answer. "I am his wife."
"But, Virginia, if he has failed to keep his oath?"
"You think that absolves me from keeping mine?" There was a faint smile on the girl's lips, and her mother thought, as she so often did, that she never as long as she lived should understand her daughter.
"But, of course, dear, you are under no obligation to endure cruelty. The law——"
Virginia raised herself upon her elbow. "Iamunder an obligation to endure it," she replied. "I have sworn to love him, and while he wishes me to be with him, I shall be with him. He has done all he undertook to do. He has done more. He has not only given you comfort and security, not only provided funds for this marvellous cure of Pansy's; he has let me come to you, and stay all this time, because he trusted me. He knew I should go back, because I have promised to do so. I am going back."
"Dear one, we will not argue," was the gentle response after a pause, during which the elder lady decided to change her tactics. "You are weak as yet, and must rest and grow strong. Thank God you need not decide at once, since the doctor would most certainly not sanction your travelling at present. I only touched upon this painful subject, because I wanted you to know that, without any treachery to Osbert, you have inadvertently allowed me to know how things stand between you and him, so there is no need for further concealment. You may rest safely in the knowledge that you have loving guardians who will not let you suffer from the caprice of a perverted mind."
"How long have I been ill?" asked Virginia, after a pause.
"This is Monday. You got home on Friday."
After a few minutes' silence, the invalid asked in her usual tones for news of Pansy and Tony. Pansy was wonderfully well. The air of Worthing was doing for her even more than the doctors expected. It was at the request of Dr. Danby that they had come to Worthing. He had a friend in practice there, in whose skill and kindness he had the utmost confidence. Pansy adored her new doctor, and the electric baths were proving a great success. Tony was out a great deal with his friend Mullins. Gerald had gone to town, but was coming down on Wednesday.
A tap on the door announced the doctor's visit. He was pleased to find the patient so much improved.
"When shall I be able to travel?" she asked him.
"Oh, some time next week, I hope," he answered comfortably.
Mrs. Mynors looked triumphant. She went out of the room with the doctor, and Virginia was left to her own reflections.
"The caprice of a perverted mind!" That phrase stuck in her head. It seemed to her that it did just exactly describe Gaunt's conduct. It is possible, however, that a perverted mind may be put right again, if it encounters some agency sufficiently powerful. When she was in town Dr. Danby had spoken to her of her husband.
"He was one of the most interesting boys I ever saw," had been his verdict. "I was very sorry for him. He was thoroughly mishandled, misunderstood, by the old ladies, his great-aunts, who were all the kith and kin he had."
(I can believe anything of them. They put the Chippendale in the attic, and furnished their dining-room in horsehair and mahogany, had been Virginia's inward comment.)
"I saw him several times during his university period. The authorities there thought as highly of him as I did. Then came thedébâcle. Some girl, upon whom he fixed all his heart, failed him. He could not stand it. The weak spot in his nature was touched—his fatal tendency to concentrate violently upon one object. He went all to pieces for a while—dashed off abroad—and I lost touch with him."
It seemed to the girl, who revolved this information in her mind, that her own duty lay clear. If she could but overcome his prejudice, his perverted idea of her, might she not do something after all towards making him happy?
Mims had once praised her for her inveterate habit of doing her duty. Easy enough had duty been when it was a case of Pansy and Tony. Now because duty was formidable and difficult, was she to shrink from it? She covered her face with her hands, she stopped her ears against an imaginary voice. She would go back—she must go back.
But if Gerald joined in the argument, would she be able to resist?
Well she knew her mother, and she was positive that, being on such terms of confidence as she had lately established with young Rosenberg, she would tell him what she had inadvertently learned, of the true inwardness of Virginia's marriage. At the mere thought the girl writhed.
She was going back, whatever they said, whatever they did. She must and would go back, in fulfilment of her promise. Yet her mind was racked with the conflict. If she went back, if she entered the Beast's den a second time, it was final. Suppose the worst were to prove true? Suppose that nothing she could do would disarm Gaunt, that he persisted in his hate, that he took delight in thwarting her, bullying her, frightening her? How vilely so ever he used her,still she would have to be his wife.He would shut her up in captivity, keep her from those she loved—and yet she would have to be his wife!
Could she bear it?
She remembered her own boast: "You can cut me to pieces with a knife if you choose, when I come back. Anything, if you will let me go to Pansy!"
Well, he had let her go. He had performed that, as he had performed his half of all points in the bargain between them. She, so far, had performed nothing at all. She had spent his money freely, and had lived away from him. Was her wild promise nothing but an empty boast, after all? Was she content to take these favours she had wrung from him, but to refuse to pay when pay-day came round?
All at once she knew that her mind was made up. She was going back.
She bounded out of bed, but soon found, when standing up, that she was far from fit to travel that day. She succeeded, however, in finding a writing block and a pencil, and returning to bed wrote a hasty line to Gaunt. In it she said only that she had had a tiresome chill, but that she was almost well, and intended to reach home without fail on Wednesday.
Her mother returned to the room just as she had sealed and stamped the letter.
"Good child!" said she, smiling, "I was just about to suggest that you should send Osbert a line to keep him quiet. You have told him what the doctor said, about hoping that you could travel next week?"
"I have told him I cannot travel to-day," replied Virginia; and Mrs. Mynors carried off the letter to post.