VIRGINIA AT HOME
"_Learn, by a mortal yearning, to ascend,
Seeking a higher object. Love was given,
Encouraged, sanctioned, chiefly for that end,
That self might be annulled--her bondage prove
The fetters of a dream, opposed to Love!_"
--Wordsworth.
The six-forty-six express from London swept majestically into the
station at Wayhurst.
It was one of the events of the day in the sleepy place--the arrival of
the 6.46; the evening papers came down on that train. Many residents
were on the platform--the retired Army men to fetch their _Pall Mall
Gazette_, others to meet friends. There was nobody to meet Virginia
Mynors, but evidently she did not expect it. She stood among the
throng, in her simplest linen suit, and searched with her eyes for the
outside porter. It was some time before she could secure his
services--he was busy with more important clients--and when at last he
had shouldered her trunk and hat-box, it was with the remark that he
couldn't "promise to be out at the villas, not much afore nine o'clock,
at any rate."
Virginia intimated that nine o'clock would suit, and turned,
travelling-bag and umbrella-case in hand, to brave her hot walk. It was
a sultry evening. The country town was bathed in dust; the roads,
though it was almost seven o'clock, seemed shadeless. After a while the
girl stopped to withdraw her sunshade from the case, and proceeded on
her way, holding it up with one hand, the weight of her hand-luggage in
the other.
She looked pale and dispirited. Somehow, the end of her glorious London
visit had tailed off in dissatisfaction. The Rosenbergs had been
kind--most kind--to the last. They had insisted upon keeping her one
day longer, that Mr. Bent might take them to Hendon to see some flying.
But longer than that she would not stay, for Pansy, her little lame
sister, had written her a letter containing the following disquieting
news:
_Mama is in an awfull stayt. I think she has had bad news. She says
we are rewend._
This last word Virginia interpreted "ruined," and as she plodded along
the High Street, and up the Balchurch Road, past Sycamore Terrace and
its handsome houses, to the region of tiny villas, these words were
haunting her. She had supposed their ruin already accomplished. What
could have happened afresh? What had mamma been doing? Incurring debts
which she could not pay? This she was constantly doing upon a small
scale, in spite of the fact that her daughter rigorously supervised her
cheque-book and controlled the household expenditure.
Virginia took it for granted that her mother would always spend more
than she ought, and was quite used to depriving herself of necessaries
in order to provide mamma with such small luxuries as expensive soap,
note-paper, perfume, a library subscription, and so on. Graver
expenditure than this she had not anticipated; but she was blaming
herself for having yielded to the imploring desire of Mims that she
should go to London, and her mother's eager advocacy of the plan. She
ought not to have left mamma to the management of anything; she knew
it. She was prepared to find the weekly expenses doubled, but she had
still a couple of sovereigns in her purse with which she hoped to meet
this deficiency.
As she moved along in the heat, laden and depressed, her face assumed
an aspect of anxiety which altered it surprisingly. Seen thus, it was
obvious that she was not merely slender, but sadly thin: hollows were
discernible in the cheeks, shadows lurked around the smiling mouth when
it was grave.
At last Laburnum Villa was reached.
With a sigh of relief Virginia trod the tiny garden approach, pushed
open the narrow door, and deposited her burdens within the passage.
The passage was extremely small. It was distempered in pale green
(Virginia had distempered it), and the paint was white (Virginia had
enamelled it). The floor was stained (Virginia had stained it), and on
the ground there lay a very valuable old Persian corridor-rug, relic of
Lissendean. From Lissendean, too, came the marble fountain-head which
was used for umbrellas, and the little carved oak table.
Cinderella's expression changed as she entered her home--changed to an
eager, glowing delight of anticipation. Light-footed she ran up the
tiny staircase, and, pushing open the door of the back room on the
landing, flew to the side of a child who lay almost flat upon an
invalid-couch at the open window.
There were ecstatic cries: "Virgie, Virgie!" and "Pansy, my Pansy
blossom!" and the two sisters were clinging together in a rapture of
affection.
"Let's look at you, Virgie, darling! Oh, yes, you are better! It has
done you good, hasn't it, dear? Plenty to eat--you never have enough at
home."
"Pansy, Pansy, what nonsense you talk, you silly baby! Of course I
always have plenty to eat! The point is, how have _you_ been
getting on? Has old Mrs. Brown fed you properly?"
Pansy was able to reassure her. The "supply" had been quite
satisfactory. "Only she said she thought the missus didn't ought to
expect no general to do up her boots for her, and mend her stockings,"
remarked the child. "I told her to give mamma's stockings to me--you
know her darning was abominable. Mamma would never have worn them
afterwards if she had done them. She grumbles enough as it is at having
to wear darned stockings at all. Mrs. Brown is quite a kind old thing.
She is staying to-night until eight o'clock to get supper, so that you
should not have to set to work the moment you come home."
"That's a relief," owned Virginia, fetching a deck-chair and seating
herself with her arms behind her head. "Where is mamma now?"
"She's still out, I think. I haven't heard her come in. She went this
afternoon to call upon Major and Mrs. Simpson, and to buy some things
to trim up a hat."
"Oh, but she doesn't want another hat----" began Virgie in vexation,
and checked herself. "I only trimmed her a new one the day I left home."
"Well, somebody sent her some money yesterday, I think," replied Pansy.
"She went this morning and bought herself a winter coat at Baxter's
sale. She said it was an economy."
"And when the winter comes, she'll say it's out of date," replied
Virgie with a little groan. "Oh dear, I do wish she wouldn't do things
like that--with poor Tony's suit almost in rags."
"Well, you know it is no use for me to say anything, don't you, dear?"
remarked Pansy, with the quaintest assumption of wisdom.
She would have been a pretty child but for her look of transparent,
egg-shell frailness. Her hair, with bronze lights in it, clustered
charmingly about her small face, and her eyes were as lovely as
Virginia's own, but with the haggard, hungry expression of a child who
has no health.
She was very small for her age, which was twelve. Her lameness was the
result of a bad accident in babyhood. Mr. and Mrs. Mynors spent a
winter on the Riviera, leaving their children in charge of a nurse who
was not trustworthy. Mrs. Mynors had been warned that the nurse was
flighty, but had taken no notice of the caution. She wished to set out
on a certain date, and said she had no time to make other arrangements.
The woman went out for what is now known as a "joy-ride" with the
chauffeur and other chosen companions. She took with her Pansy, who was
the baby, and Bernard, the elder boy, who was her favourite, leaving
Tony at home in charge of Virginia. The party refreshed itself at many
taverns on the way, and it was hardly surprising that the affair ended
in a serious accident. Bernard was killed, and the baby's spine was
injured.
The shock of his eldest son's loss was thought to have been the source
of Mr. Mynors' own lingering illness. He had forgiven his wife many a
flirtation, much consistent neglect of himself. He never forgave her
for Bernard's death.
Nine-year-old Virginia waited, all that terrible day, and part of the
night, for the return of the motoring party. Old Brand, the butler, who
had been with the Mynors from the time of her father's boyhood, and who
had begged his mistress not to leave this nurse in charge of the
children, sat hour after hour with Virginia on his lap, until, at ten
o'clock, he carried her up to bed, left her in charge of the
under-nurse, and himself went out with one or two gardeners to see if
he could hear news of the motor-party.
Virginia, though in bed, could not sleep. She lay listening, listening
for a sound in the silent house, until the dawn began to break. Then
she heard wheels--wheels and voices on the gravel of the drive; and,
slipping from her bed, without arousing the fast-sleeping nursemaid or
Tony, she ran downstairs in her white nightie.
All her life she would remember Brand's face as he strode into the hall
and laid down upon a settle the burden that he carried--Bernard, with
his head all shrouded in white linen. Then came a doctor, stern and
tight-lipped, with the moaning baby in his arms. Virginia could still
recall the carbolic smell of the doctor's clothes as he went upstairs,
the blueness of the baby's face in its waxen stillness, and the silence
punctuated by faint moans.
The grim realities of life came then to the girl's consciousness for
the first time, never to leave her more. For some years--until she went
to the school at which she met Miriam Rosenberg--she was grave and
silent with a gravity unbefitting her years, her fine health, her
promising future. After that she yielded to the spell of youth and
friendship and adventure, and the world had seemed ever more alluring,
until the final shock of her father's loss.
This hot afternoon, gazing down upon Pansy's pathetic fragility, she
thought what sorrows had been hers in the twenty years of her short
life. The future looked sadder than usual, and her customary good cheer
was temporarily absent; she felt a curious depression, or sense of
coming trouble.
"You look so grave, Virgie darling!"
"Pansy, I'm a perfect pig. I believe I am suffering from that horrible
feeling we used to call 'after-the-party' feeling."
"I don't wonder," replied Pansy sagely. "It must be pretty rotten to
come back from all that fun and luxury and money to start being maid of
all work again. Oh, Virgie, what are we to do?"
"Do? Why, get on, of course--do our work and enjoy it!" cried Virginia,
springing up and going to the window. "Oh, Pansy, the delphiniums! How
this hot weather has brought them out! There was not one in bloom when
I left."
"I thought you'd be pleased with that!" cried the child in eager
delight. "And look at the roses too, Virgie--the Hiawatha that you
thought was dead!"
"Darling Hiawatha! He came from home," whispered Virginia. She knelt by
the window, her elbows on the sill and her curved chin resting on her
hands, while her Greuze eyes rested on the row of little garden plots,
on the farther row that abutted upon them, and on the backs of the
houses beyond those. She was young, it was summer-time, and yet, and
yet----
"Well," said Pansy, "did Gerald send me his love or anything?"
Virginia started. Gerald at the moment filled her thoughts. She had
missed him when he went away--went away without a word! She had not
expected to miss him so much. Yet, with the lack of perception of her
youth, she failed to connect her present formless dejection with the
thought of his departure.
Pulling herself together with a determined effort, she turned from the
window, explained to Pansy the fact that Gerald had been obliged to
rush off to Liverpool for his father, and thus had naturally not had
time for any special message or present. "But I have got something for
you, sweetums," she murmured caressingly. "You wait until the outside
porter condescends to deliver my boxes! You only wait!"
The colour flooded the cripple's transparent skin. "Oh, Virgie, Virgie,
what is it? Tell me what it is!"
"We'll make it a guessing game," replied Virgie. "I will just go and
get on some old things, and we will play it properly. Where's Tony, by
the way?"
"Gone with the eleven to play Balchurch. Did you know they have made
him twelfth man? He's awfully bucked," said Pansy, with satisfaction.
"I don't expect he'll be back yet."
"Oh! Pansy! but how splendid! He's very young, isn't he?"
"Two years younger than the youngest man in the eleven," announced
Pansy, with satisfaction. "I'm making him a tie in the school colours."
She took up her knitting with pride.
A sound in the hall below struck Virginia's ear. "There's mamma," she
said; "I must go and greet her."
Slipping out of the room, she descended the stairs, and entering the
tiny drawing-room on the right of the entrance passage, stood face to
face with Mrs. Mynors.
It was hard to believe that these were mother and daughter; they looked
more like sisters. The elder woman, in coquettish slight mourning, had
the same face, broad at the brow, tapering at the chin, the same long
lovely eyes, deep-lashed, the same poise of the head and wavy
golden-brown hair. A close observer alone would mark differences. The
elder woman's eyes were blue, like forget-me-nots--the hard blue that
looks so soft, that never varies. Her daughter's were less easy to
describe. They were changeful as the sea, responsive to varying skies;
and just now, in the waning light, they seemed dark grey.
"Well, my chick, how are you? I was having tea with the Simpsons and
forgot the time, or I should have been back before this. You are
looking better for your change! I'm glad I persuaded you to go, though
we get on pretty badly without you." Passing keen eyes over her
daughter's face she seated herself, slightly drawing up her skirt with
a motion which intimated that she expected to have her shoes untied.
Unhesitatingly Virginia knelt upon the ground and performed this
service. The little room in which they were was a bower of luxury. In
it were collected all the relics of their vanished past which Mrs.
Mynors had thought herself unable to do without. Silver, miniatures,
cushions, foot-stools, a soft couch, an empire writing-table. It was
like the tiny boudoir of a rich woman. Its owner cast a disgusted
glance about her, as she remarked: "Charwomen never will dust, will
they?"
"Oh, I hoped you would have dusted this room yourself, just while I was
away," replied Virginia, with a sigh, casting her housewifely eye upon
the tarnished silver. It was a room which would take a good hour a day
to keep in proper order.
"Well, Virgie, have you any news for me?" asked Mrs. Mynors presently,
in her voice of tantalising sweetness.
Virginia raised her eyes, puzzled by something in the voice. "News?"
she answered wonderingly. "Nothing very special. I told you most of it
in my letters. The flying yesterday was most interesting--quite worth
staying for."
Mrs. Mynors sat meditatively, while her daughter left the room, went
upstairs, found indoor shoes and brought them down. She then carefully
pulled the pins from the becoming hat and removed it, her mother
sitting in calm acquiescence the while. Mrs. Mynors was uneasy. Her
reading between the lines in Virginia's innocent letters had certainly
led her to conclude that Gerald Rosenberg meant to marry the girl. Had
she herself made a fatal mistake in sending that letter to Gerald's
father before the matter had been clinched? She had felt doubts, but
her dire need had driven her on. Now she was wondering how to find
words in which to convey to Virginia the blow which had descended.
Virginia always divided the money. Each quarter she had apportioned to
her mother the sum for the interest on the mortgage. There had always
been something else on which that money must be spent.
What would Virgie say when she knew that Lissendean had gone, vanished;
that they would never revisit it; that Tony could never come into his
inheritance?
Far though she was from any feeling of self-blame, she yet was
conscious of discomfort as she looked at her daughter's unsuspecting
face.
It was easy to decide not to spoil Virgie's first evening at home by
bad news. Leaving her daughter to carry her hat, gloves and sunshade to
the room above, she settled herself luxuriously by the open window,
with her feet up, and plunged into temporary forgetfulness in the pages
of a very exciting novel.
Meanwhile--the outside porter proving better than his word--the trunk
arrived and was unpacked. The enraptured Pansy found herself mistress
of a doll of almost inconceivable beauty, with jointed limbs, and a
body that could be washed in real water. Mims had added a chest of
drawers, and various articles of costume. The dressing and undressing
of dolls had always been the little cripple's one joy. And never had
she hoped to possess such a doll as this.
Then Tony came home, hot and exultant, looking such a fine boy in his
flannels and blazer. His team had beaten the other after a hard fight,
during which, of course, the umpire had given an l.b.w., grossly unfair
and in favour of the rival eleven.
He received his own present very graciously--a curious collection of
oddments it seemed to the unlearned; but he had marked what he wanted
in a catalogue, and his sister had obediently bought as directed.
Contrite wheels, eccentrics, female screws, and so on, were darkness to
her mind, but pure joy to the recipient.
Her gift to her mother--a pair of really nice gloves--was also accepted
graciously, though with an absence of enthusiasm which led Virginia to
suspect that other things, besides the winter coat, had been purchased
that morning at Baxter's sale. Who could have sent money to her mother?
She could think of nobody; for the men friends who had hovered
continually about Lissendean had never penetrated to Laburnum Villa.
Mamma, however, made no confidence, and could not, of course, be
questioned.
It came to be time for Mrs. Brown to depart. Mamma had no silver, and
asked Virgie to pay her off. The young housekeeper then felt at liberty
to go and survey her kitchen premises, and to heave deep sighs at the
sight of so many dirty pots and pans, and the inevitable brown patch
burnt upon the enamel of her favourite milk-saucepan.