"I drew my window curtains, and insteadOf the used yesterday, there laughing stoodA new-born morning from the InfiniteBefore my very face!"—Alexander Smith.
Gaunt's mind never retained any very clear image of the rest of that day. His brain was still partially clouded by the powerful poison which had entered his system. As Dr. Dymock explained to Virginia, there was not only CO_2, but actually the deadly CO itself present in the foul shaft down which he had imperilled his life. CO, as she was further instructed, gets into the blood, and milk and liquid nourishment should be given for some hours, until normal conditions gradually reappear.
The wonderful strength of the patient's heart had enabled him to rally from the toxic fumes, but the action of that powerful organ was, nevertheless, distinctly depressed; and he was content to pass the evening in his bed, lying in a state of not unpleasant semi-consciousness, and trying to adjust his ideas of what had happened.
The doctor came round late that night to see how he was. He had left his other patient fairly comfortable, though the injury to the ribs was serious. The Ferrises were being very kind and hospitable. They were only too anxious to do all they could, since they blamed themselves for the accident—Percy because he had not sufficiently considered the danger of the place; Joey because she had, as she herself expressed it, "got larking." Now no trouble was too great for her to take. A nurse was already installed, and there was no doubt that Gerald would have every possible care and attention.
Dr. Dymock was well satisfied with Gaunt's condition. He said that a long night's rest would restore him to his usual state, except for the fact that he must go carefully for a few days. He advised him not to get up until about eleven the following day—an order deeply resented by the master of Omberleigh, who could not remember to have breakfasted in bed in his life, except when his leg was broken. It was, however, consoling to be told that he would suffer no permanent effects at all from his awful adventure. If one has to live, one would rather live whole than maimed.
He felt much himself when he descended the stairs next day, and went, as Virginia had begged that he would, to her own sitting-room. She was not there when he made his appearance. He had a few minutes in which to realise how her presence and her touch permeated the place and made it hers. She came running along the terrace very soon, her hands full of spiky dahlias, orange, scarlet, yellow and copper coloured. Entering through the window, she gave him a cheery greeting, pulling off her gardening gloves and apron and laying down her flowers on a table.
He sat watching her with a curious intentness, feeling as if the handling of the situation were with her, waiting for some cue as to the attitude he was expected to adopt.
It was not for two or three minutes that he realised that she was in precisely his own case. Her nervousness was very palpable. She coloured finely when for a moment she met his eyes, and went eagerly to ring the bell for the soup and wine which she had ordered for him. It came, almost before he had had time to object. When it was set before him, he did succeed, however, in voicing a protest. How could he be expected to eat like this, at odd hours? "I've had breakfast," he urged.
"But you must get up your strength," she told him, with serious solicitude. "Dr. Dymock told me to be sure that you did; and you have had nothing solid since yesterday. Do try and eat it."
As he still hesitated, she sat down beside him, and took the cup of soup in her hands, proffering it. "There was once a man," she said gravely, "and his wife couldn't eat any breakfast. So he stood over her with threats until she did."
He winced, and bit his lip. "Don't joke about it"—hurriedly.
"Why not?" she asked, deliberately provocative. "Itisa joke now, since it has ceased to hurt me."
"But it will never cease to humiliate me," he muttered.
"Well, perhaps that is good for you," was the mischievous suggestion; and to cover his confusion he was fain to take the cup of soup and drink it, she watching with a glance of covert triumph. She would not let him off until he had eaten and drunk all that was on the tray, which she then carried to a distant table.
He watched her as she returned, work-bag in hand, seating herself upon a high stool, or bunch of cushions which stood near the hearth. She drew out her bit of embroidery, using it obviously as a refuge for eyes and hands. He leaned forward, and sat, chin cupped in palm, watching her.
"Must one be a little unwell in order to secure your sympathy and attention, Virginia?"
"Sick people need taking care of"—with a laugh and a blush—"and I like taking care of people. I always did."
He made no immediate reply, for he was meditating a plunge. She clung to her work as to a raft in a tumbling sea.
"I was very sick yesterday," he remarked at length.
"For a long time they said you were—dead," she almost whispered.
"I wish they had been right. It would have been better. Virginia!Why did you call me back?"
She turned pale. Her work fell upon her knee. "Then I was right!" she muttered. "I suspected, I knew it really! You had some idea of throwing yourself down that place and pretending it was an accident!"
He sat still, without denying it.
"You wanted to die!" she repeated, accusing him. "You wanted to kill yourself! But why? Osbert, you have got to tell me why."
"You know why well enough. To undo the harm I have done you. To set you free."
"Then," she pursued swiftly, "I suppose I am right in my other suspicion, too? You don't want me here! You married me, not because you loved me or wanted me, but to be revenged upon mother through me.... And now that you find you are too soft-hearted—or that you have ceased to think that I deserve punishment—you want to get rid of me! But surely there are other ways to do that! You needn't kill yourself! If you don't want me, I can go?... Why did you make such a point of my coming back if—if——"
He made a sound of speechless scorn; but he had turned pale. Clearly this view of the question took him aback. "Of course you know that you are talking nonsense," he said at last.
She was now too much roused to feel nervous. "You call it nonsense," said she, "but if those are your feelings——"
"My feelings!" he broke in. "You know it's not a question of that at all, but of your happiness. But if my feelings must be dragged in—if you will have it so—why, use your own sense for a moment! Look at yourself and then look at me! How can any future together be possible? Think of how I have treated you, and how you have requited me! You see the hopelessness of it all.... Child, you made your first mistake yesterday. You should have let me die quietly. It didn't hurt a bit, and I was not loath. I was slipping away so easily, it seemed far less trouble to go on than to come back. Nothing but your voice could have compelled me. And, if you had let me go, what a future for you! A few weeks bother, perhaps—and perhaps even a little regret. Then freedom. You would have been set at liberty, as you once told me you longed to be! Andclean, Virginia, as you also wished! You would have been rich, you might have sent for Pansy, for Tony, for mother! Nothing of mine would have remained but the name you bear, and that you would have changed so soon! And you would have thought kindly of me in the end, because the last thing I did was to bring your lover back to you."
She drew herself up and gazed upon him with scarlet face and eyes brimming with indignant tears. "My lover!What have I done that you should speak so to me? You know very well that I have no lover," she said.
He could see that she was deeply wounded. "I don't understand you a bit," she cried, pushing all her work to the ground, and leaning her forehead on her hands. "When I came back, you seemed so glad—really glad. I hoped ... we might be friends. But what could I do? You didn't like me even to take your hand. If you would really rather have died, of course I am sorry I interfered. I didn't stop to think. It seemed too important, there was only time to act.... I just felt that I—I couldn't let you die like that!" her voice sank away till the concluding words were half inaudible.
"But why not?" he urged, "why could you not? That is the whole point, don't you see?"
She raised her tearful eyes and looked at him as though he were a riddle she could not read. Then, without speaking, she rose, went to her little work-table, opened it and took out a package. She laid it upon his knee, returning to her own seat. "That was why," she said.
His colour rose. "You found that?"
"Dr. Dymock tore open your shirt to make sure whether there was any perceptible movement of the heart. He pulled this out of the—the inner pocket in your shirt, and flung it on the grass. I snatched it up, so that nobody should pry into your private affairs; and then, of course, I could not help seeing that they are—my letters."
She added, as he held the package doubtfully, and said no word: "You see I cannot make things fit together in my mind. If you wanted to be rid of me, why should you keep my letters—there?"
"Well, since you have discovered my folly, I had better make a clean breast of it. After all, you have a right to know. It must sound pretty ridiculous, but I suppose that even monsters fall in love. Caliban himself had the taste to desire Miranda, which is horrible and revolting. However, that is what has happened to me.... During all the days of your absence, my heart was in the post-bag. Every letter you wrote is here, hoarded like a miser's gold." He slipped the elastic band which held them, and smiled wryly as he showed the worn corners of the paper. "I studied these, and you in them," he went on hurriedly. "I learned each day more of your honesty, your scrupulous accuracy, your economy in spending money which was, as you thought, not your own!... Virginia, in my youth your mother wrote me pages of love-letters! The whole of them were not worth one line of this unconscious self-revelation of yours.... You marvellous creature! How you managed to spend so little is what puzzles me. And Tony, too! Yes, old Grover let that out. Wereyoupaying for Tony? And if so, from what fund did his expenses come?"
His tone had changed insensibly from tense emotion to frank interest. He raised his head, interrogating her with a look which was almost a smile. She responded eagerly.
"Oh, I managed that quite easily, out of my own allowance. It cost so little! I only paid ten shillings a week for his small top-floor bedroom. Then I paid in ten shillings a week to the board money, and that was all, except his railway journey. You see, I could not send him back to Wayhurst, he would have been so miserable, all alone in the house, poor darling. It would have been hard for him, would it not? When we were all at the sea, and he had not seen the sea for so long! It did him so much good, he enjoyed it all so hugely." ... She forgot her own affairs and his in the glow of her sisterly affection. He smiled upon her a little sadly.
"But you must be penniless yourself?" he said. "Surely your private account is overdrawn?"
"Oh,no, Osbert! You forget how much you gave me and how little I am used to make do with! I have not wanted anything, and I have quite a big balance——"
"You have a positive genius for sacrifice," he said, laying aside the packet of letters, and studying her. "You would give up everything for Pansy, for Tony, for mother. And now—it being, from your point of view, your duty—you are ready to make the final act of self-abnegation, to sacrifice yourself for Osbert, too?"
His voice had changed. It seemed as if he strove to keep to his old ironic note; but some other force throbbed in his undertone, and it affected Virginia strangely.
"Of course I am. I promised," she assured him instantly, raising her sweet, puzzled eyes to his tense face.
He gave a laugh which startled her, tossed the package of letters upon the table, rose, and went to the window.
"And are you so ignorant of the meaning of things that you think, after the confession I have just made, that this will satisfy me?" he flung over his shoulder.
She rose too. "I—I don't think I understand," she faltered.
"I'm only a man, just a human man. I want love," he blurted out, his face still averted.
"But isn't that love?" she wondered, as though thinking out a problem aloud for herself. "You are ready to sacrifice everything for me—even your life—because you love me. I am ready to sacrifice—I mean, to do and be what you would have me do and be. Isn't that love?"
"No, it isn't," he bluntly answered.
She grew pale, and twisted her hands tightly together. "Then—then what is it?" she breathed.
Taking no notice of her, he came back to the hearth and rang the bell. Having done so, he remained with one hand on the mantel and one foot on the fender, gazing at the fire, ignoring, as it seemed, her very presence.
"Hemming," said he, when his summons was answered, "will you please bring back the statue and the pedestal which I told you to take away the night Mrs. Gaunt returned?"
The man departed, reappearing in a minute, with one of the other servants, and bringing in first a shaft of black marble, and then a dazzling white figure. They set up both pedestal and statue, in the open space in the centre of the bay window recess.
Virginia had seated herself when she heard the mysterious order given. Gaunt remained silent until the servants had left the room.
Then he moved slowly away from the fire.
"Come and look at it," he said.
Virginia rose, much puzzled, and went to him. They stood side by side contemplating the delicate thing. For a while she was at a loss. Then her eye fell upon the inscription which ran around the base of the figure:
Qui que tu sois, voici ton maître!
Then the colour rushed to her face, for she remembered.
"Oh! Where did you get it?"
"I had it made. I thought it would complete the room."
She stood in the sunlight, which poured through the window, and made a glory of her hair. Many thoughts flowed about her, many memories. Yet as he watched her narrowly, hungrily, he could see that these memories were not bitter.
"How little I knew about it! How little I understood—then," she murmured presently.
"Little blind girl, you understand no better now," said Gaunt.
She lifted to him a solemn gaze. "Osbert, are you sure?"
He put out his hands and gently turned her so that she stood facing him. "Do you suppose that, loving you as I do, I could bear to take you in my arms when I knew that you were fighting your natural inclination in order not to flinch from my touch?" he demanded.
She sighed, as if she felt that he was trying her too hard, but she made no attempt to shake off his light hold. Through her thin sleeves she felt the warmth of his hands. She felt, too, the slight vibration which, now that she understood, indicated to her the curb that he was using. Suddenly she gave a little gasping laugh, flashing a glance up at him.
"Osbert, if you know all about it, tell me—how does one fall in love?"
"How?" he stammered, for a moment at a loss.
"Why did you show me this?" she whispered, moving the least bit nearer to him, as she indicated the statue. "You mean me to see that love is—is a thing that masters you?"
He signified assent without speech.
"Well, well, master me, then!Make me understand!"
He loosed her arms, to stretch out his own. With them thus, almost encircling her, but not touching her, he paused, searching her downbent face. "But the risk," he cried, "you might hate me!... And even this—even what I have endured since you came back to me, would be better than have you loathe me."
"You can but try," she managed to stammer, with broken voice; and the words were stifled upon her lips by the pressure of his own, as he snatched her to his heart.
This once only was his thought. This once, if never again! This once, even though she were merely passive, for such invitation could not be foregone. Nay, he must have yielded, even in face of her resistance ... but she did not resist. She lay at first passive in his hold, while he covered her face, her hair with kisses.... Then, when once more he touched her mouth, he could feel her response. She answered his lips with the free gift of her own. She gave him kiss for kiss ... and time slid out of sight for a while.
*****
His first coherent words were something like these:
"But it can't be. How could it be? How could any woman forgive what I made you endure? Even if I were an attractive man, instead of a lame bear."
They were sitting side by side upon the Chesterfield, and as he spoke, Virginia raised her head from his shoulder and contemplated him.
"It is curious," she replied, in tones of candid wonder, "but you know I always thought somehow that this might be. Only things were so strange afterwards, I never could be sure."
"That sounds a bit cryptic," he commented, amused. "Can you explain?"
She smiled with something like mischief. "Are you still certain that you know all about it and I nothing?"
"All about what, in the name of all the elves?"
"About falling in love."
"I know nothing at all about it, except as a man who has tumbled down a precipice knows that he is down."
"Well, I rather think that I am better informed. Shall I try to tell you about it? Quite a long story. I must be careful not to 'prattle.' Ah, Osbert, don't look so! You must let me tease."
"Every time you stab me in the back like that you will have to pay for it in kisses."
"If that's so, I must be careful. But let me begin at the beginning. That fatal day at Hertford House, when you followed us about, your face made a queer impression upon me. I don't mean that I liked it—I didn't, so you need not begin to plume yourself. It was simply that I could not forget it. You had done something to me, though we barely spoke. All the rest of the day, and even when I was at the theatre that evening, the memory of your face, and specially of your eyes, kept swimming into my fancy. When I went to bed I dreamed of you. The shocking part is now to come. Perhaps you won't believe it.I dreamed exactly what has just happened.I thought we were standing just beside this statue, only, of course, in my dream we were in the Gallery; and at the time I wondered how it was that I could see a garden outside, through the window, you said: 'I am quite a stranger, but may I kiss you?' I answered, 'Remember that if you do, it can never be undone.' Then you—you did."
"I did?"
"Yes; and, in the dream,I liked it!"
"Virgie!"
"It's true. When I awoke, of course, I just thought it was absurd and silly, as dreams are. But I could not forget it. The dream haunted me, as your face had haunted me. When mother came home from meeting you in town, and told me that you were the man in the Gallery, and that you wanted to marry me, I was such a conceited pussy-cat that after the first surprise I thought it really probable that you had fallen in love at first sight."
"Is it possible?"
"Oh, don't make any mistake. I would not have dreamed of saying 'Yes' if I had not been so beaten down and driven into a corner. But I do think the dream turned the scale. I said to mother that, if, when you came, you turned out to be a person whom I felt I could never like, I should refuse. Then you came. I kept thinking of the ridiculous dream all the time; and when you mentioned the statue—do you remember?—I actually thought that you must have dreamed the same thing. I felt as if you were talking a language that you and I understood: as if you knew that you could convey a secret meaning to me—a message—without words. Oh, it is so difficult to explain, but I felt that——"
"Yes? For pity's sake go on!"
"As if one day I might come to like you very much."
"As much as this?" he whispered.
"Oh, I never thought—I never imagined,this."
There was a little silence.
"And then," he sighed at last, "into the midst of your timid, hopeful sweetness, fell the bomb-shell of my brutality."
She laughed as in scorn at herself. "Itwasunexpected," she owned. "I was so sure that you wanted to make love to me and didn't know how to begin. And I was so afraid of you, and growing more and more so every minute. Oh, Osbert, Ididsuffer."
"Not as I did, for there was no remorse in your agony of mind."
"But there was. I thought I had done so wrong to marry you."
"And I—the moment I read your letter to Pansy, and hers to you, I knew what I had done. I wanted to tell you, but how could I? All one night I wandered about in the rain——"
"It was the very night, I believe, that I had my second dream. In that, you came and spoke to me quite kindly and tenderly. You said: 'All that is happening now is the dream. Those kisses that I once gave you are the reality.' I awoke, feeling so happy and all excited inside—do you know the feeling? It was dreadful to find it just a dream. Ah, I was miserable, what with the torment of Pansy being so ill ... and if I had but known it, you were longing to comfort me!"
"Oh," he muttered, "but I did feel abject! I could have crawled to your foot and begged you to set it on my head."
"I am glad you did not. I like you much better as you are now—fresh from a deed of heroism which will make the whole county buzz with your name for weeks to come."
"Oh, great Scott!" in sudden consternation, "I never thought of that!"
"Shall you grudge me my celebrated husband?"
He laughed audibly, a thing so rare that the very sound thrilled her. "You are too adorable! It can't be true! I shall awake." ...
"Did you ever dream about me?" she whispered when again he released her.
"Night after night. I was always just on the point of making you understand, but it never came off."
"Well, I dreamed of you one more time. That makes three. It was at Worthing, just before I came back to you, and I thought I was searching for you everywhere, all about this house. I told you part of it the other day—about my dreaming of the alterations in this room. But I didn't tell you how it went on. I wandered out into the garden, and presently you came to me, out of a thick mist, and your eyes were shut. You looked just as you did yesterday——"
"When I came back to you out of the mists of death!"
She gave a long sigh. "How wonderful!... Of course, I did not understand the dream, or put any meaning to it. But you were speaking as you came with your eyes shut, and you said, 'She will never come back. Are you coming? No!' ... When I awoke I knew that I must go to you at once. I knew that I had lingered too long, and that there must be no more delay. But, oh, I was afraid!—I was so desperately afraid!"
He told her of the dreadful day of her return, when he had ridden to sessions in the miserable conviction that he had lost her altogether; and how Ferris had told him of her adventures with young Rosenberg.
"I got home that night absolutely convinced that it was all over," he said.
"Ah!" She turned suddenly and clung to him of her own accord. "And yesterday I thought that all was over, too. It happened so fast; yet it seemed to take years and years. I can't tell you how many thoughts I had, while you turned round from tying up my shoe.... You knew, didn't you, that the shoe was just an excuse to coax you away from the brink of the chasm?"
"I wondered."
"Yes, I could see that you wondered, and just as I was casting about in my mind to think what I could say, I heard Joey scream!... Then all in a moment, I knew what would happen. I saw your face set ... and you looked at me, just for one second, a look that seemed to set me on fire. I could have shrieked out in my desperation, but I knew I must not say a word to stop you. I knew you would go down, and that every moment was precious.... Osbert, there, in that awful cave, in those few seconds, I grew up. I saw what might be, and I saw that I was going to lose it. I felt as if all my life I had foreseen that this was going to happen to me, and that I never would be able to tell you——"
"To tell me what?"
"Oh, just this! What Iamtelling you!"
Thereafter, soft laughter, and more kisses.
"I am the most wise Baviaan, saying in most wise tones:'Let us melt into the landscape—just us two by our lones.—People have come in a carriage—calling!...Here's your boots—I've brought 'em—and here's your cap and stick,And here's your pipe and tobacco. Oh, come along out of it—quick!"—Kipling.
They were pledged to dine at the Chase that night, and had no reasonable excuse for failing to fulfil their engagement. They went accordingly, and Virginia donned for the first time bridal white satin and lace.
Osbert came in from his room when she was nearly ready, his hands full of leather cases, and proceeded to array her in what she considered a most outrageous excess of diamonds. She was loath to spoil his pleasure, and so consented to wear them, to the immense satisfaction of Grover.
When they arrived at the Chase she had to own that Osbert had been wiser than she, for although Lady St. Aukmund called it a "quite informal dinner," they found a party of twenty, including most of the county set. Their entrance was the signal for an ovation for which they had both been unprepared. Osbert's heroism was already known, it appeared, to everybody present; and the attention he received so overwhelmed him that his wife was in dread lest he should retire into his shell and scowl upon his admirers in what the daring girl already described as "his old, bad manner."
However, in response to her wireless telegraphy, he acquitted himself quite creditably, and found himself able not merely to endure but to glory in the chorus of congratulation which he was called upon to receive after the withdrawal of the ladies from table. Now that he knew himself to be, by some miracle of grace which he did not profess to be able to understand, in possession of Virginia's heart, he was free to exult in the praise of her loveliness and charm which was universally expressed.
But when it was over, and the car was carrying them swiftly homeward through a moonless night—when he drew her into his arms and held her there, still half-incredulous of his own bliss—his first words were:
"I say, Virgie, let us bolt—shan't we, darling?"
"Bolt?" she questioned, puzzled.
"Get away from everybody—just you and I together. Let us set out upon our honeymoon. We'll go to the Riviera—or to Rome. Would you like that?"
There was a second's pause before she replied—just time for a tiny doubt to stab him. Then she answered low: "Yes, Ishouldlike it. Let us go! How strange that I should feel so! But I do!"
"Thank God!" he said with a gasp. "But quite alone, Virgie? Can you do without Grover?"
"But of course, silly! I am accustomed to do without a maid——"
"Then we'll be off, all unbeknown! I can't stand it, you know, all this act-of-heroism business. It turns me sick! And there'll be Rosenberg calling me his preserver, or some other bad name like that. We can get to London to-morrow, and I will give orders for them to dismantle the house and redecorate while we are away. Isn't that a good scheme?"
She thought it excellent, and approved so warmly that he went on glibly:
"We will buy anything we want in London, and settle a route when we are there. Caunter is quite fit to be left in charge of the place; and I had all the designs prepared by the man who did your room, so you have only to approve and they can get to work."
"If I were talking to Tony, I would say that it is ripping!"
"Then say so to me. Say anything to me. Don't, for pity's sake, be shy of me, Virgie."
"I'll try not. But you must own that you are rather formidable, are you not?"
"You ought to be punished for saying so."
"There! You see, you are still a tyrant, disguise it how you may!"
"Virgie, there is just one thing I am dying to know. May I ask?"
"You may ask; but whether I shall tell you——"
"Well, it's just this. Did Rosenberg make love to you that day you went motoring with him?"
"No, certainly not! He has never made love to me."
"Honestly, my sweet, he does admire you?"
"I used to think so. He tried to make me think that he was heart-broken the first time we met in Queen Anne Street. But nothing more than that."
"He seems to have managed very badly."
"He managed so badly that I felt more vexed with him than I could have thought possible. He had no right to be so careless of me that day at Bignor. I was in his charge and he put me in a very uncomfortable position. I have not forgiven him. I don't feel the same towards him as I did."
Her voice was quietly judicial, her manner wholly natural. Gaunt could not but realise that here was no rival to be feared.
"You liked him once, though?" he went on, to make himself doubly sure.
"What—before I was married? Yes, I suppose I did. I thought I did. It was just a delightful experience to feel that he thought me pretty. By the way, do you think me pretty, Osbert?"
"No."
"I thought not. But I am, you know."
"Little peacock! You should have heard what everybody was saying of you when you went out of the dining-room to-night! These absurd ears must have been quite hot! How stunning you looked in the diamonds! I am glad I made you wear them.... It is a curious thing that, since I first saw you, you have altered completely. I used to think you were like your mother, and now——"
She broke in eagerly. "So have you! How odd! You are quite, quite different from what you used to be. Ever so much nicer!"
"You won't leave off loving me because I am no longer morose and miserable?"
"No, for I am vain enough to believe that, if I ceased to love you, you might again become morose and miserable."
"What have you done to me, Virgie?" he whispered vehemently.
"Turned the Beast into a Prince, that's all," she laughed, her cheek close-pressed to his.
*****
Mrs. Mynors was hopelessly bored. Worthing without Gerald or Virgie was simply too dull a hole. It needed but the news of Gerald's accident to make her feel that her sojourn by the southern shore was unendurable. Here was Virgie, her beloved child, who had travelled in a totally unfit state of health for a journey, and must now be very ill, since no word had come from her for three days! And here was Gerald, laid up close by, at the Ferrises, longing for some one to cheer him and talk to him in a congenial fashion.
If she travelled to Derbyshire she could gratify her maternal anxiety and her wish to see poor dear Gerald, both at the same time. It struck her as the best plan not to announce her forthcoming arrival. Gaunt was an unspeakable brute, a thorough boor, and would refuse to receive her if she gave him half a chance. But if she arrivedà l'improviste, with the plea of irresistible maternal solicitude, he could not have his door shut in her face. Besides, such a move would put an end, once and for all, to his intolerable attitude towards herself.
Virgie, by flying in the face of her mother's wishes and going back to him, had, of course, settled her own fate. She had insisted upon returning, and now she must stay. It would be a pretty state of affairs indeed if it should get about that Gaunt declined to receive his mother-in-law. Seeing that for her to exist upon the pittance provided was out of the question, she must spend about three months in every year at Omberleigh; and this was most evidently the moment to make a definite coup and show Osbert that she meant to stand no nonsense. To have her in the house would give her poor child courage to stand up to the tyrant. She would soon mend his manners for him, if she once found herself established under his roof.
It was a wild, cold, stormy afternoon when she alighted at the station; and upon learning the distance to the house and the price demanded by the fly-driver for the journey, she rather regretted her decision to come unannounced. However, there was no help for it, so she and her luggage were placed in and upon the vehicle, and they trundled off in the fast-falling, gusty rain.
Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt, since the acquisition of the car, had made use of Derby as their point of departure. Thus, at the local station, nobody was able to tell Mrs. Mynors that they were away.
She thought she had never seen more desolate country than that which they presently traversed. It seemed to her that they had driven for hours when at last they came to a lodge and a drive gate, blocked by a great cart full of bricks.
A young man in riding clothes was standing by the roadside and addressing vigorous reproof to the driver of the cart, who had knocked against the gate-post with his wheel. This young man stared in mute astonishment at sight of the carriage from the station, and the lady with two or three large trunks. He said nothing, however, and after some delay they passed through and on, along the now almost pitch-dark avenue.
In the centre of the gravel sweep was a place where they were mixing mortar. The men were just striking work for the day, and upon the front doorsteps sacking had been laid down. Within was a scene of the utmost confusion—partially stripped walls, canvas-covered floor, heaps of boards, tubs and trestles.
"Good gracious!" ejaculated the visitor in horror. "Is this what my child is called upon to put up with?"
The driver descended and rang a jangling peal upon the bell. After some delay, Hemming, in a linen coat, with a green baize apron, came in astonishment to the door.
"Is Mrs. Gaunt at home?" demanded the lady regally.
"No, ma'am, she is not."
"Mr. Gaunt, then?"
"No, ma'am; they are both away—and likely to be for some time to come."
"Away? Do you mean that they will not be home any time to-day?"
"Not for some weeks, ma'am, as I understood. They talk of being home for Christmas," said Hemming mildly, gazing with apprehension at the driver, who showed signs of being about to unload the trunks.
"You must be misinforming me. I am Mrs. Gaunt's mother. Had they been leaving home, I should certainly have been made aware of their plans. I insist upon coming in. I believe that Mr. Gaunt has given you instructions to say they are not at home to visitors, but that will not apply to me."
"I assure you, ma'am, that Mr. and Mrs. Gaunt left on Monday for the continong—what part I do not as yet know."
"Did Mrs. Gaunt take Grover with her?"
"She did not, ma'am. Perhaps you would like to see Miss Grover?"
"Send her to me at once," was the reply, while the speaker's heart swelled with resentment. He had taken Virgie away, somewhere out of reach, out of touch with those who loved her! What might she not be enduring?
Grover presently came along the dismantled hall. She wore an expression of complacency which made Mrs. Mynors feel ready to strike the woman.
"I come here," she began, "to see how my poor daughter is, and I find she has been hurried away, nobody knows where. What information can you give me?"
Grover wiped her hands upon her apron doubtfully. Evidently she had been engaged upon the work of packing up the house ready for the onslaught of the British workman.
"Dear me, ma'am, what a pity you didn't send a wire to say you was coming! I could have saved you the trouble," said Grover. "Mrs. Gaunt is very well indeed, and Mr. Gaunt and she is gone off upon their honeymoon, ma'am. I daresay they'll be away a couple of months."
"I suppose I may at least claim shelter for the night in my daughter's house?" demanded Mrs. Mynors with a voice which shook with mortification.
"Well, ma'am, I don't hardly know where we could put you," was the meek reply. "The whole house is upset, for it is to be redecorated from top to bottom. I do really think, ma'am, that you would be more comfortable at the station hotel. We are all upside down, as you can see." She turned to the butler. "Hemming," said she, "wouldn't it be better if you was to pay the driver and let him go? Then we can give Mrs. Mynors a cup of tea, as I know Mrs. Gaunt would wish, and send her down to Derby in the car, to catch the late express to town. Wouldn't that be best, ma'am?" As Mrs. Mynors hesitated, she added: "There's but one room in the house fit for you to sit down in, and that is Mrs. Gaunt's boodwor. I have been so busy helping above stairs, I haven't had a minute yet to pack it up. This way, ma'am."
Feeling that opposition was useless, Mrs. Mynors picked her dainty way along the hall, while Hemming paid off the fly-driver and lifted the trunks into the entrance, out of the rain. Grover, as she went, kept up a running fire of information.
"A dark passage, ma'am, but you will see a great difference when the alterations are made. A window is to be knocked through here, and the bushes outside cleared away, and a bit of a Dutch garden put in, so Mrs. Gaunt tells me. This is her own room, ma'am, that Mr. Gaunt had done up for a surprise for her when she come home. She was pleased, too. I never see her so delighted, pretty dear."
Mrs. Mynors walked in. The last ray of sunshine slanted over the wide landscape without, and gilded the delicate colouring of the room. She stood there, noting every detail.
"I wish you could have seen her, ma'am, the night before they started off," purred Grover. "Lady St. Aukmund, she give a dinner-party in her honour, and Mr. Gaunt had had all the family jools re-set. She wore white satin, ma'am, and with the diamonds and all she did look a perfect picture. We heard afterwards as all the county was talking about her. Mr. Gaunt, it's pretty to see how proud he is of her. But it is but natural they should want to be by themselves a bit at first. Everybody is talking about Mr. Gaunt's courage, the way he went down the mine after that young Mr. Rosenberg! There! It was a fine deed, wasn't it, ma'am? Sit down, I will bring you some tea directly."
She left the room, and Virginia's mother, her mouth set in hard lines, stood gazing about her. She thought of Osbert as she first remembered him, in his impetuous youth. What magic wand had touched him now, raising up love and youth from their ashes? Was he indeed lavishing upon Virgie—Virgie, her little girl, her willing drudge, to whom she had deputed all disagreeable duties—the torrent of devotion which she might once have had?
Very sincerely at that moment did she repent her own inconstancy. Had she had the courage to stick to Osbert, her fidelity would have been rewarded quite soon. He was not as rich a man as Bernard had been when first they married—at least, she supposed not. Yet she knew that with him for a husband she would never have been suffered to dissipate a fortune. His strong hand would have been over her. She would have been governed instead of governing.
She stood in the window and turned her eyes upon the delicate statue of Love. Idly she read the inscription around its base. Then her eye caught a little brass plate affixed to the black marble shaft near the top.
O.G. V.O. JUNE 30th, 19—
It was the date of their first meeting.
She was still contemplating this, in profound reflection, when Grover came back with the tea.
"You must excuse deficiencies, ma'am. Hemming have locked up pretty near all the silver; with so many workmen about you need eyes in the back of your head. Was you looking at the statue, ma'am? Mr. Gaunt had it made, so Mrs. Gaunt tells me, to commemorate their first meeting. As I daresay you know, ma'am, it was love at first sight with him. And who can wonder? Well, he deserves to be happy, doesn't he? For he risked all his future, and hers, to save that young man. They say he was as near dead as anybody could be, to come back at all; but Mrs. Gaunt, she wouldn't let them give up.
"She sat there, so Ransom tells me, holding his head, nursing him in her arms as she sat on the grass, and calling to him, so pitiful, there was hardly a dry eye, ma'am, for every one thought she was speaking to a dead man. Then, when his eyelids flickered, it seemed like a miracle. So at last he opens his eyes, and, 'Do you know me?' she says. And he answers very low, but you could hear it all right: 'My wife!' he says.
"Just fancy, ma'am! And with that she broke down, and cried till they couldn't stop her, with the sudden relief. More than two hours she had been crouching there, cramped up on the ground."
Mrs. Mynors was too interested even to feign indifference. She made Grover give her all the details of the expedition, and relate exactly what had taken place. Grover was more than willing, and the tale lost nothing in the telling.
"Like a pair of children, they was," she concluded, "when they started off on their travels. Him laughing and talking like a boy going home for the holidays. Making their escape, they called it, for of course the whole countryside was buzzing with the story of what he had done, and the carriages and cars came up the drive so fast, Hemming was to and fro the whole day taking in cards, telling them that Mr. Gaunt was not feeling quite equal to seeing visitors, when all the time he was upstairs with her, packing their things for the escape!
"Well, ma'am, we always knew that a wife was what he wanted, but I never dared to hope for such a sweet young lady as he chose. They say marriages are made in heaven, don't they? There's not much doubt but what this one was, I take it upon myself to say!"
*****
Virginia's mother finished her tea in a speculative silence. Grover left her to herself, but when she had eaten and drunk she did not seem inclined to linger. Rising, she went to the window and stood awhile gazing out upon the activities of many gardeners, hard at work below the terrace upon the beginning of the bride's rock garden. Her face seemed to grow sharp and pinched as her eyes followed the busy scene.
Turning, she contemplated the marble Love; and her pretty teeth bit into her lower lip, while her breath came hissingly.
Made in heaven!A wild laugh broke from her. Its mirthless cadence fell hatefully upon the silence. Nebuchadnezzar, when he cast his victims into the burning fiery furnace, was, it is recorded, thankful to find them coming forth unscathed. This woman had cast her daughter, bound, into the hellish gulf of a loveless marriage. Now that she saw her walking free and companied by the husband whose very soul she had redeemed, there was no joy, no relief, but a bitterness of hate which transformed the pretty features into a mask of horror.
Suddenly she snatched her wraps, as if the scene were unbearable. She hastened into the disembowelled hall and, putting on her coat amid many apologies from Grover for enforced inhospitality, went out to the waiting car.
*****
It was her only glimpse of her daughter's home for many years to come. This was not from lack of invitation, for all Osbert's hatred, and every lingering grudge, vanished in the sunshine of his personal happiness. It was simply that her narrow soul was torn with envy.
The sound of Tony's laughter and shouting soon re-echoed through the garden and stables; the ring of his pony's hoofs could be heard along the avenue. Pansy's invalid chair set out upon the terrace the following summer, where Virgie had once lain, watched secretly by her husband from the shelter of his den. Even the Rosenbergs came for a week's motoring, when Gerald had practically recovered from his hideous accident.
Boys, girls, dogs, cats—a perpetual stream of youth ebbed and flowed about the erstwhile silent place. But Virginia the elder came not.
Even when Osbert the second made his glorious appearance—when bonfires were lit in the village, and Lord and Lady St. Aukmund stood sponsors at a stately baptismal ceremony—the mother still held aloof. Virginia's unhappiness she could have borne. Virginia the radiant young wife and mother, central point of attention, mistress of Gaunt's heart and all that he possessed, was a perpetual reminder of what she herself had flung away. With her daughter's life as the price, she had purchased freedom from want. Yet, from the time when it dawned upon her that the girl was miraculously saved, she never knew a moment free from the gnawing tooth of jealous bitterness.
The joy which these two had so perilously snatched from the jaws of destiny was more than she dare contemplate.