THE TWO VIRGINIAS
"_But hadst thou--Oh, with that same perfect face,
And perfect eyes, and more than perfect mouth,
And that same voice my soul hears, as a bird
The fowler's note, and follows to the snare!--
Hadst thou, with these the same, but brought a mind!_"
--R. Browning.
Nobody who saw Virginia next morning, in her blue linen overall,
bringing up her mother's early morning tea, would have recognised the
dainty flower of luxury who had moved over the polished floors of the
galleries of Hertford House. She put the tray beside the bed, drew back
the curtains, and brought in the hot water, just as a housemaid might
have done. Mrs. Mynors, rosy and beautiful among her pillows, rubbed
her sleepy eyes, and murmured "Thank you, dear one!" in a perfunctory
manner, stretching her white arms luxuriously, and adding fretfully:
"Another grilling day!"
Virginia returned no answer to this comment, but withdrew to the
kitchen, where Tony sat munching his fried bread and bacon and drinking
his coffee with a schoolboy's appetite. When he had been despatched,
clean and ready for his day's work, there was Pansy's breakfast to be
thought of. Dainty toast, fresh tea, a spoonful of jam, were arranged
on a pretty tray and carried upstairs. Then Virginia was at leisure to
sit down for a few minutes, drink what was left of the coffee in Tony's
pot, and eat some bread-and-butter. In truth she had little appetite.
The heat sapped her strength, and she reflected sadly that it was a
mistake to go away.
A holiday made it harder to begin again.
From the moment of finishing her breakfast till the moment of laying
lunch, she never ceased from her labours. The kitchen had to be
thoroughly scrubbed before its dainty mistress could be friends with it
again. Then there were beds to make, a room to sweep, three rooms to
dust. Then her mother came down, drank a cup of Bovril, and settled
herself in the garden with some embroidery, while Virginia went up to
make her bed and do her room.
When lunch had been cleared and washed up, the drudge had an hour's
breathing space. She spent it lying upon the bed in Pansy's room, the
little cripple having been moved as usual to her invalid couch by the
window. Virginia was so tired that she herself felt alarmed. What was
to become of them all if her health were to give way? The thought was
too horrible to be dwelt upon.
Her mother, remarking the depression of her spirits, was vexed. She
could not help wishing that Virginia were not quite such a simpleton.
If she had had an ounce of the coquette in her, she could have secured
Gerald Rosenberg, and all would have been well. Mrs. Mynors had
refrained from any kind of hint when the girl went to London in
response to Miriam's urgent invitation. She thought her hint might
defeat itself. Now she was wondering whether, in view of her daughter's
obtuseness, she would not have done well to let her know what was
expected of her. She could see that the girl was out of heart, and she
shrank, partly from cowardice, partly from affection, from dealing the
final blow. Yes, her utter selfishness notwithstanding, Mrs. Mynors had
some affection for Virginia. She misunderstood the girl, and
undervalued her; she accepted all her burnt offerings and sacrifices as
manifestly her own due; yet she trusted and leaned upon her with all
the weight of her own empty egotism.
Next morning, when the little figure in its blue overall brought in the
tea, there was a business-like letter lying upon the tray.
Mrs. Mynors did not open it until she had enjoyed her tea, for it was
from the solicitors who had foreclosed the mortgage, and well she knew
that it was not likely to contain anything that would please her.
She lay for some time--after she had eaten and drunk--glancing at the
morning paper, and trying to determine to face the necessary
unpleasantness. At last, heaving a sigh of boundless self-pity, she
took the envelope in her pretty white hands and opened it.
As she read a sudden flush mounted to her very brow. A smothered
exclamation broke from her. She was seized with trembling, her heart
beat suffocatingly, and with a bound she sprang from bed, rushed to her
mirror, and stood there, surveying with sparkling eyes the image of
Virginia Mynors at the age of forty-one.
Oh, did the mirror lie, or was it true that she was very nearly as
pretty as ever? Hardly a silver thread in the beautiful ripe gold hair
that had no slightest hint of red in it! The teeth still perfect within
the pretty lips, barely discernible crows' feet at the corners of the
brilliant, expressive eyes! Plumper she was no doubt, but to be plump
prevents wrinkles. As she stood there, even in her disarray, she knew
that she did not deceive herself. She was still a most attractive woman.
... And fate had sent her a chance like this! With pulses racing she
crept back to her bed and curled up there, trying to decide how best to
take advantage of this marvellous coincidence, this strange turn of
fortune's wheel. What a good thing that she was a woman of experience,
no longer a shy girl. She must not lose this chance, as silly Virginia
had lost hers! No, no! She was too clever for that. How well the
French wit had said: "_Si la jeunesse savait! Si la vieillesse
pouvait!_"
In herself, the two states of youth and age were met felicitously. She
was old enough to know, young enough to enjoy! If she could not now
take hold on circumstance, and wrest her defeat into pure victory, then
she was no better than a fool--and she had never thought herself that.
All the time she was dressing her lips would part in a smile that
revealed those pretty teeth, and a dimple which still lurked in a fold
of her smooth cheek. She passed her own plans in review before her
mind, pondering--pondering as to how much she would have to tell
Virgie. Her excitement was so great that she felt sure she would have
to tell most of it. Thrills of anticipation coursed most agreeably
through her being. How had she been able to bear it so far--this
crushing, stifling existence in an odious little box in a horrid
third-rate town? How patient she had been! What a martyrdom she had
borne! For the children it was of course different. For her it had been
a living burial. Now that it was over--now that she saw a shining
gateway admitting her back to the world she loved so well, it seemed
incredible that she could have stood it so long.
... What would Virgie say now--Virgie, who was always so mean and
stingy, reproving her for gratifying even the simplest taste, expecting
her to live as though she had been brought up in one of the cottages on
her husband's estate? She pictured the rapture of gratitude and
devotion with which the girl would realise that her mother's charm, her
mother's ability to hold a man's affection for twenty years and more,
was to mend the family fortunes. She faced--only to disregard it--the
fact that Virginia would have some ridiculous scruples about her
father's memory. She recollected very soon that, for Pansy's sake, the
girl would welcome any way out--Pansy, whose lameness might be cured,
if she could only have the required advice and treatment.
She sat before her glass in a dream of reminiscence.
There was a tap at the door, and her daughter entered, soft-footed,
carrying a cup on a tray. "I've brought your cold beef-tea jelly,
dearest, as it is such a hot day," said she, putting it down. "Would
you like me to do your hair for you?"
"Oh, my chick, if you only would! I feel quite over-strained! I have
had such extraordinary--such heart-searching news! I very nearly
fainted when I was having my bath."
Virginia turned pale. The remembrance of Pansy's revelation concerning
their "rewend" condition leapt to her mind. She had now been home three
days, and her mother had said nothing of it, but seemed flush of cash.
Virginia had consulted the cheque-book--nothing out of the way there.
The money spent on house-keeping had been, as she expected, too large,
but not out of all bounds.
Something had stolen Virginia's buoyancy. She felt an inward flinching,
as though she could not bear a fresh blow. It must be the heat. She
took up a silver brush, and said, as stoutly as she could:
"Well, Mums, tell me all about it. I can bear it."
Mrs. Mynors pushed aside her golden tresses, opened a small drawer,
searched it, and drew out the solicitor's letter.
"Virgie, I could not tell you the very day you came home," she
faltered. "It would have been brutal, but I suppose you must know."
Her daughter, taking the legal-looking documents in her suddenly cold
hands, sank rather than seated herself upon a chair, for the
humiliating reason that she felt unable to stand.
There was stillness for a while in the tiny room, which, like the
drawing-room downstairs, was a bower of luxury. Carpet, curtains,
furniture, plenishings--all were costly relics of bygone days,
something to make a pillow between the dainty head of its mistress and
the hard cold boards of poverty. Even as she cleaned the silver toilet
articles yesterday, Virgie had noted a fresh bottle of a particularly
expensive perfume affected by her mother.
Now she read the letters--read the family doom.
All gone! Everything! Lissendean!...
She put her hands to her head. She must think.
What was left?
Nothing! They were paupers. Tony must leave school and begin to be an
errand boy. She, Virginia, must go into service. Pansy must be got into
a home for cripples! Her mother?...
... And she had gone without the necessities of life to keep up those
payments, while Mrs. Mynors was squandering the money on petty luxuries!
For the moment passion surged up so strongly in Virginia that she had
to clench her hands and grind her teeth, while she shook with the
effort to refrain from telling the pretty, golden-haired doll once for
all what she thought of her. This mother, whom she had loved, whom dad
had loved! Almost his last words had been a plea to his daughter not to
let her mother suffer if she could help it.
Had she not done her best? What more could have been required of her
that she had not given? She had sacrificed her whole life to the
service of her loved ones, had drudged and toiled that her mother might
have ease, had listened to her grumbling complaints, had humoured her
wilfulness. Yet all had been in vain. In vain!
To her mother's consternation, and even annoyance, Virginia slipped off
her chair in a dead faint.
With a sense of acute injury at being called upon to render such
service, the plump, useless hands succeeded in lowering the girl to the
floor. Then, still resentful, Mrs. Mynors actually got a wet sponge and
laid it on her daughter's forehead. This not succeeding, she found
_eau-de-Cologne_ and applied that. After a time Virginia slowly
returned to life, and to a knowledge of the enormity of her behaviour.
She dragged herself to her mother's bed, and lay down there until her
swimming senses should readjust themselves.
They were ruined; and her mother was buying winter coats and bottles of
perfume! It was really laughable.
"You cannot reproach me, really, Virgie," said her mother presently,
speaking with sad submissiveness from out her cloud of hair. "You must
see that I could not help spending that money, and also that I never
dreamed what would be the result of getting behindhand with my
payments. Our own lawyer ought to have warned me. I consider him much
to blame in the matter."
Virginia had nothing at all to say.
"I can see that you do blame me!" sharply cried Mrs. Mynors. "You lie
there without a word of comfort--as if I had ruined you and not myself
too! I suppose it is as hard for me as for you."
Virgie turned her face over and hid it on the pillow.
After gazing at her for some time, in a mood which accusing conscience
made bitter, Mrs. Mynors decided to play her trump card.
"You need not put on all these airs of tragic despair, Virgie. I have
told you the bad news first. This morning I have had other news--the
most extraordinary thing--the most unlikely coincidence--that you ever
heard! Do you want me to tell you about it, or are you too ill to pay
any attention?"
Virgie made an effort and sat up. "I'm so sorry, mother. It was very
sudden, you know, and it is all so horrible--like falling over a
precipice. I felt as if I could not grasp it. I am better now."
She slipped off the bed and tottered to the window, leaning out into
the air. "Please tell me--everything," she begged.
Mrs. Mynors leaned forward, and a little, mischievous smile showed her
dimple, as she said, playing nervously with the articles in her
manicure set: "Did you ever hear me speak of the man I was once engaged
to--the man I jilted to marry your father--Mr. Gaunt?"
"I believe I have," replied Virginia, knitting her brows.
"It was a tiresome affair," went on the lady, with a sigh. "He was very
young and impetuous; perhaps that is putting it too mildly; he had a
shocking temper, and he didn't take his jilting at all peaceably. I
know I was in fault, but what is a girl to do? He was a mere boy. When
I promised to marry him I had never seen your father; and you know,
Virgie darling, how irresistible he was."
"Yes. I know," said Virginia, telling herself that, after all, her
mother must have loved the dead man better than had appeared. Yet why,
if she loved him so much, had there always been so many others?
Virginia recalled the familiar figures--Colonel Duke, and Major Gibson,
the M.F.H., and Sir Edmund Hobbs. Certainly, for the last two years of
his life Bernard Mynors had been unable to escort his wife himself. If
she hunted, it must be with others. It had, in fact, been with others.
The dainty lips curved into a yet broader smile. "Poor Gaunt! It seems
that he has never married," went on the musical voice. "He was too
madly in love, I suppose, for any transfer of his affections to be
possible. But the point of it all is this. I have this morning heard
that it is he who holds the mortgage on our property. Lissendean
belongs to him!"
Virginia's big, woful eyes opened very wide.
"I heard this morning from the lawyers that he is in London for a week
or two, and wants to get the business finished off. I have made my
little plan. I mean to go up to town and see him, Virgie."
The words brought Virginia to her feet. "To go and see him?"
"Yes. I must, for my children's sake, make an appeal to his kindness of
heart. The pain I caused him must long ago have been forgotten, and if
I can only procure an interview with him, I feel very little doubt of
being able to persuade him to allow us more time."
Virginia considered. "Do you think he will see you? It might be very
painful for him. Have you heard nothing of him since your marriage?"
"Nothing. He lives in the country now, it seems. He must have inherited
the place that belonged to his old great-aunts. He always used to tell
me that there was not much chance of his coming into it. He was a fine
fellow in his way, only difficult--so jealous, for one thing. However,
it would be most interesting to meet him. I wonder"--coquettishly--"if
he will know me again. I don't fancy that I have changed much."
"Very little, I should think," said Virgie; "the miniature that father
had done of you the first year you were married is still just like you."
Mrs. Mynors smiled brightly. She was beginning to recover her good
humour. "Unless he has altered strangely, he will not be cruel to the
widow and the fatherless," she murmured pensively. "Cheer up, Virgie,
all is not yet lost. Try to be a little hopeful, dear child."
Virginia sat, twisting her hands together, turning the matter over in
her mind. Her mother's creditor was her mother's old lover. Her mother
was going to seize this fact, and make the most of it. Something in
Virginia revolted from the idea; but she could not urge her objections.
She fixed her purple-grey eyes upon the gay face in the mirror. It
might have been that of a woman without a care. Every instinct in her
mother was kindled at the idea of once more encountering, and most
probably conquering, what had been hers once, and would turn to her
again.
A step-father! That was an idea to make one wince. With all the
ingrained fidelity of her simple nature, the girl hated the thought.
Yet, after all, what was the alternative?
She felt that the family fortunes had passed beyond her own power to
adjust or alter. As long as a foothold of dry ground remained she had,
as it were, protected these dear ones from the raging flood. Now that
the tide had swept them away, and they were all tossing on the waters,
could she object to her mother's seizing a rope--any rope--that might
be flung to them?
"I suppose he knows," she said, after a long pause, "he knows that it
is you?"
"I suppose so. These coincidences are very curious. I have never seen
him, never even heard of him, since our rupture." She reflected, her
chin on her hand. "Strange that he should have inherited money," she
observed. "He was not at all well off when I knew him, though he was
very ambitious. He wrote--essays and so on for the Press. He was
certainly clever. Twenty-two years since I last saw him! How strange it
seems! I used to be afraid at first that he might try to kill me or
your father. He was so violent. At our wedding we had special police
arrangements. But nothing happened. Nothing at all." She spoke as if
the fact were slightly disappointing.
"It is a chance," sighed out Virginia at length. "If you can bear it,
mother--if it is not asking too much of you to go and beg a favour from
a man you once treated badly, then I think you had better try."
Mrs. Mynors' mouth drooped at the corners, and her face took on the
sweetest look of resignation. "Virgie, dearest, you can fancy--you can
understand something of what it will cost me. But for my children's
sakes I must put my own feelings aside. I must go and see what I can
do. Let me see! Where--how could I meet him? A solicitor's office does
not lend itself. Oh, Virgie, I have it! What a comfort, what a piece of
good luck, that I became a life-member of the 'Sportswoman' three years
ago! I will ask him to meet me there! I will write a note, to be given
to him direct; and I don't think he will refuse. If he does, I will
just go to London and take him by storm. I vow I'll see him somehow!
Leave it to me, Virgie! You shall see what I can do. When my children's
bread is at stake, no effort shall be too great, no sacrifice too
difficult."
* * * * *
Later on, when Virginia had done her hair to perfection, and gone away
to do the house-work, Mrs. Mynors took a chair, mounted it, and
unlocked a small drawer at the top of her tall-boy. There were several
bundles of letters and papers in the drawer, and a small jewel-case
containing a ring. She searched among the papers for one loose
envelope, addressed in a forcible, small but not cramped handwriting.
She sat down, with this letter and the ring-box upon her knee, and read:
_You make a mistake. It is not the transfer of your affections from
myself to Mynors of which I complain, for this has not taken place.
What has happened is simply that you have bartered yourself for his
money and position. If I had been cursed with a few hundreds a year
more than he has, you would not have forsaken me. You never loved me;
but for a whole year you have succeeded in deceiving me--in making me
believe that you did. This is the thing I find unpardonable. Men have
killed women for such treachery as yours. Were I to kill you, it would
save poor Mynors a good many years of misery. But the code of civilised
morals forbids so satisfactory a solution. You must live, and destroy
his illusions one by one. I ought to thank you for my freedom, but that
I cannot do, being human. As a man in worse plight than mine once said:
"My love hath wrought into my life so far that my doom is, I love thee
still." There lies the humiliation and the sting._
The woman's lips curved into a smile of foreseen triumph. The insult of
the first part of the letter was nothing to her. There was his written
confession. In spite of her betrayal, he loved her still.
After the lapse of all these years the lava-torrent of his boyish fury
had no doubt cooled. The love might well remain.