The Daughter Pays Part 44

This had the desired effect. The elder Virginia departed for her little jaunt to town--travelling by the first-cla.s.s-only express--with a perfectly serene mind. Virginia the younger was, she felt convinced, wholly contented with her bed for that day. Grover meanwhile completed her preparations with the utmost composure. She went down, paid the landlady, and explained to her that Mrs. Gaunt was called home unexpectedly, and wanted to slip away without distressing the little lady.

Noiselessly the trunks were carried downstairs, noiselessly though, with beating heart, Virginia followed. It was not until Worthing was left behind; not, indeed, until they had pa.s.sed, safe and unrecognised, through London, that she could relax the tension of her will.

Now the die was cast. She had chosen. She was doing what she firmly believed to be right. Once before, when in straits, she had taken a way out which seemed the only way, but which she yet knew to be unworthy of her. Now she was blindly doing the hard thing because it was the right thing. The consequences were not in her hands.

CHAPTER XXV

THE RETURN

"_With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part.

My very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear.

It needs no art, With faint, averted feet, and many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere.

Go thou to East, I West, we will not say There's any hope, it is so far away._"--Coventry Patmore.

The rain which had so interfered with Rosenberg's plans, and spoiled the close of the motoring day, seemed to mark also the end of summer.

The weather ever since had been grey and autumnal. In Derbys.h.i.+re the change was more marked than in Suss.e.x. A wild wind moaned in the black pines of Omberleigh, and brown leaves drifted upon the blast as Gaunt rode forth to Sessions that Wednesday morning.

His mood was one not only of depression, but of anxiety. He hardly realised how much he had built upon Virginia's cheering accounts of her own restored health, until he received his mother-in-law's feline epistle, telling him of a severe chill and consequent fever. The wording was careful, even clever, but she had conveyed with full force the impression that she meant to convey, which was that the fever and delirium were more the result of distress of mind than of the actual chill--that the prospect of returning to her loveless marriage and gloomy home were working untold harm to the patient, and hindering recovery.

Since the receipt of this most disquieting letter, no word from Worthing had reached him. Morning after morning the empty postbag mocked him. To-day he was making up his mind that if he held to his resolution, and remained silent--if he adhered to his foolhardy determination to prove his wife to the uttermost--he would lose her altogether.

He still told himself that she would do her duty at all costs. He was, however, beginning to perceive that the strength of influence now being brought to bear might succeed in persuading her that to return to him was _not_ her duty. After all--in view of what he had made her bear--could he say that he thought it was her duty?

Mrs. Mynors spoke as though the illness were serious. He knew she was a liar; he knew she wished to hurt him. Yet, after all, it might be true.

He had dwelt such a blow at Virgie's tenderest feelings as might well shock a sensitive girl into real illness. Neither had he done anything, since they parted, to allay her fears. He had not so much as suggested the change of heart which awaited her. As the date of her return drew near--as she contemplated the renewal of her martyrdom--her flesh might well shrink from the demand made upon it by the dauntless spirit.

Violently though he struggled against indulging hope, it had all the same risen insurgent when he got Virginia's letter fixing Sat.u.r.day as the date of her return. He had lain sleepless most of Friday night, planning what he could do, or say, when they met at the railway station; living over again his drive at her side, through the summer dusk, on the night of her departure when she had been, in her absorption, hardly conscious of his presence. He wondered whether he could break through the tongue-tied gloom which held him like an evil spell, and let her see something--not too much at first--of what he felt.

His mortification when he received his mother-in-law's wounding letter had been proportionately great. The intensity of his feeling surprised and half frightened him.

Since that dark moment--silence.

He rode into town in a mood which alternated between something which was a colourable imitation of despair and a haunting notion that perhaps some letter or telegram might be awaiting him when he returned home in the evening. There was much business to transact that day. It was half-past four before he was free; and as he walked along the High Street, making for the inn where his horse was put up, he came face to face with Ferris.

"Ha, Gaunt, how goes it?" cried Percy, wringing his hand with effusion, proud that the pa.s.sers-by should see him on such terms with Gaunt of Omberleigh. "Not looking very fit--what? Why don't you run down to Worthing for the week-end and give your wife a surprise? Do you good.

Well, I can give you the latest news of her. Been down there myself, staying over Sunday with Rosenberg at the Beausejour."

"You have?" Gaunt's tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He could not own that he himself had no news of Virginia.

"Yes, not a bad little hole, Worthing. Plenty of sun and sea air and so on. Think it might suit Joey and the kids for a month or two, later on.

Pity Mrs. Gaunt knocked up, wasn't it, though?"

"Yes, I was very much vexed to hear it," Gaunt was able by this to reply with his natural brevity.

"Enough to make her, though, wasn't it? Pretty bad generals.h.i.+p on Rosenberg's part. You take my tip and run down, Gaunt. They tell me she's deuced seedy." There was meaning in the tone.

"She makes light of it to me," said Gaunt, choosing his line quickly.

"Tell me what you know of it."

"Oh, well, of course, you heard that she got wet through, driving in an open cart in the pouring rain late at night, trying to reach Petworth in time for the last train, or something. Of course, Rosenberg's car is a beauty; you couldn't expect it to break down like that ... still, to send off his chauffeur to meet me at Chichester, leaving himself and Mrs. Gaunt stranded in a place where there was no accommodation, no telegraph--gad, if you had seen the hovel where they spent the night, Gaunt, I think you'd have given him a bit of the rough side of your tongue."

"The same idea has occurred to me," said Gaunt drily, "but I understood that the whole thing could not be avoided; it was quite an accident.

Still, to drive her in the wet, without even an umbrella--no wonder my wife fell ill!" There was a certain relief in his heart, among all the turmoil of jealousy and vexation. The circ.u.mstances were, in themselves, quite enough to account for illness, without his own shortcomings being in any way responsible.

"You see, she had nothing for the night," explained Ferris, "so I suppose she couldn't take off her wet things. I had a line from Rosenberg this morning about the directors' meeting, and he mentioned that the doctor won't let her leave her room."

"So I understood. I think I had better take your advice and run down.

Thank you, Ferris. I am glad to have seen you. My mother-in-law has the art of making the most of things, and I was not sure just how unwell my wife is."

After the exchange of a few commonplaces, they parted. Ferris watched Gaunt limp into the inn yard, and turned away with an involuntary, "Poor devil!" He stood irresolute upon the pavement for a minute or two, then strolled into the post office, and wrote a telegram to Rosenberg:

_Gaunt coming down. Be on your guard._

He was eager to stand well with both parties, and this was his idea of accomplis.h.i.+ng such object.

Never had the avenue which led to his own housedoor seemed to Gaunt so wild, so desolate, as when he rode up it this evening. The sun was already setting, gleaming fierce and threatening red through the purple ragged clouds which all day long had veiled it.

He knew that everything was over, but he also knew that to be any longer pa.s.sive was beyond him. He was going to London at once, by that same late train from Derby which had taken her from him. To sleep in a bed this night would be insupportable. If he were in the train he would feel that he was not wasting hours of enforced inaction. He would be in London in time to take an early train to Worthing, and he would arrive there during the morning, and ascertain his exact fate.

Now he knew how firmly he had built upon the idea of Virginia's faith.

In the depths of his twisted, shrunken, yet living heart, he had been certain that she would keep her word. He still believed that she would have kept it, had not revelation come to her. She and Rosenberg having discovered the feeling which existed between them, how could she come back to her nominal husband with a lie upon her lips?

As soon as she was well enough, she meant to write and explain. He was sure of that. He kept insisting upon it, in his mind. He would save her that effort. He would go to her and make things as easy as he could. He would explain that he knew himself to have forfeited all claim.

His horse's hoofs were beating to the refrain: "All over! All over!"

What a fool he had made himself over the redecorating of that room!

That room which from henceforth no human foot would enter. Only the previous night he had sat there for a couple of hours, playing upon the new piano he had bought for her, and conjuring up the picture of her, outlined against the delicate ivory walls, each tint of her faint sea-sh.e.l.l colouring properly emphasised by the appropriate background.

He would always see her like that in future. His desolate house would be haunted for all the desolate time to come.

He rode round by the stable yard, gave his horse to the groom, and such was the disorder of his mind that he flinched from being seen, even by Hemming. He forgot that he had hoped the mid-day post might bring him news. He went out of the yard, round by the garden, and in through the window of his own den.

Seating himself by his writing table, he found a railway guide, but he did not even open it. His mind was too thoroughly preoccupied with its own bitterness. He rested his elbows on the desk, propping his chin upon them, in a sort of exhaustion of defeat.

When he wandered that day all unwitting into Hertford House, his two angels had wandered with him--the good and the evil. The good had taken his hand, had whispered persuasively that his sad days were over--had shown him something so fair and sweet that----Ah, but the black spirit at his elbow had pushed forward. "After all these years in my service, do you think I am going to stand aside and see you join the opposition?"

He heard the dressing-bell ring, and realised that, if he meant to catch that train, he must call Hemming and have his things put together at once. Yet still he could not move. The bonds of his misery seemed to hold him tied to his chair, tied to this ghastly echoing house full of phantoms. He had had no food since about noon, and his emptiness had pa.s.sed beyond the stage of hunger. It made him dazed. As he sat there, it was as though life surged within him for the last time, urging him to go to Worthing and face his doom like a man; and as though the old house rejoiced over his stupor, murmuring that his place was there, among the ruins of his own brutal folly and fruitless hate.

With an effort he stood up, found matches, lit the gas. He must and would look at that railway guide. Yet, when the light shone upon his untidy table, he forgot all about Bradshaw. There, lying where he had laid them before going out, were certain cases of jewellery which had that morning come back from London. He had had everything cleaned, and some things re-set, in the phantom hope of a time when he might be allowed to give her presents.