GAUNT'S TERMS
"_Her hand was close to her daughter's heart
And it felt the life-blood's sudden start;
A quick deep breath did the damsel draw
Like the struck fawn in the oakenshaw._"--Rossetti.
Virginia, lily-pale in the heat, sat at the window of the tiny parlour
dignified by the name of dining-room, adding up accounts. She had given
Pansy her lunch, eaten some bread and cheese herself, and left the
child to her daily afternoon rest while she applied herself to the
discussion of ways and means.
It was Tony's half-holiday, and he would be home, he promised, at five
o'clock, to help her carry down the little invalid into the garden to
have tea. He was renouncing an hour of his precious cricket to do this.
What a darling he was! Virginia's eyes grew misty as she thought of
him--how pluckily he went without things that "other chaps" had! How
loyally he refrained from piercing her heart with the thought of her
own helplessness to supply him with what he wanted!
Now, for the first time, she was alone with the problem created by her
mother's improvidence. In all its bare hideousness, the thing
confronted her. The rent was due. They had always waited to pay it
until the cheque for the quarter's rent at Lissendean came in. Now
there was no cheque to be expected. If her mother's errand to-day had
failed, she must give notice to quit that very afternoon. Even so,
where was this quarter's rent to come from? The balance at the bank was
seven pounds six and two-pence.
The furniture must be sold. This, with her mother's pretty things,
would pay the landlord. Afterwards--what?
The sweet eyes grew dim with a secret, bewildered kind of pain. Why had
Gerald Rosenberg gone away without a word?... Yet, when she asked
herself why not, she had no intelligible answer to give. Nothing had
passed between himself and her, in words. Only she had been conscious
of his unceasing, absorbed attention, given to herself, whenever they
had been in company. There had been a tiny secret thread of mutual
understanding--or so Virginia had thought. It now appeared that she was
mistaken. There had been nothing between them. It was like brushing
gossamer from before one's eyes. It had been there, but it was nothing.
The first strong light of reason dispersed it. Something that had been
very sweet, very poignant, had come to an end. While telling herself
that it had all been her own fancy, inwardly she knew it was not so.
There had been something. But it was only gossamer--just midsummer
madness.
Now that the doom had fallen, she would never see the Rosenbergs again.
She would have to be a governess, if such a post could be obtained.
Keenly she wondered what was passing between Mrs. Mynors and her old
lover. Though her nature revolted from the idea, she yet caught herself
hoping that a marriage between the two might come about. If this Mr.
Gaunt--what an uncomfortable name!--was ready to take his former
sweetheart to his home, he surely would offer asylum to her children,
or if not, arrange that they could be together elsewhere.
Ah! That would be the thing! She lost herself in visions of this little
home with herself, Pansy and Tony in it--no mother to wait upon; for
dearly as she loved the privilege of waiting upon her mother, Virginia
had to own that it was mamma who made things difficult.
She shut her neatly kept books with a sigh, and as she did so, glancing
up, she saw to her surprise, that her mother was opening the garden
gate.
She must have caught a very early train home!
Swiftly Virginia sprang up, hurried to the door, and admitted the
returned traveller. One glance at the pretty, sulky face, the lids
slightly puffed as with recent tears, told Virginia that the news was
not good; and her heart sank to a degree so unexpectedly low that she
girded at herself for a coward and a despicable person.
"Oh, my dear, you have walked all this way alone in the heat! How tired
you must be. We are going to have tea in the garden later on--come to
your sitting-room; let me put you on the sofa and take off your shoes.
You will soon feel better," she crooned over her mother, as she led her
to the couch, tended her gently and lovingly, and--oh, crowning
boon--asked no questions.
The care was accepted, but with a reservation which the sensitive girl
was quick to feel. Gazing on the averted face and pouting lips, she
could almost have thought that mamma was vexed with her, had that not
been improbable under the circumstances. What was it? Did mamma think
she ought to have met the train? Or did she want special tea made for
her alone, immediately? Well, that was easily done. "Lie and rest, dear
one," she said sympathetically, "and I will just make you a cup of tea;
the kettle won't take five minutes to boil."
When she returned, with the dainty tray, and the wafer bread and
butter, her mother was sitting up, her feet on the ground, her elbows
on a small table, crying silently into her ridiculous
pocket-handkerchief. This could, of course, only mean complete
disaster. With a dreadful sinking of the heart Virginia murmured:
"You will tell me all about it when you feel able?"
Uncovering her eyes, Mrs. Mynors fixed them reproachfully upon her
daughter; and the girl, conscious of some unspoken reproach, felt
guilty, though no misdeeds came to her mind.
"Virgie," said a hollow voice, as at last the silence was broken, "did
Miriam Rosenberg, when you were in town, take you to any picture
galleries?"
Virgie stood, the picture of astonishment.
"Why, yes, we went to the Academy," said she, wonderingly, "and--oh,
yes--we went to Hertford House as well."
As she spoke the words, the memory of that day, that last day with
Gerald, caused the rosy tint to steal up on her pale cheeks. The lynx
eyes fixed upon her saw and misinterpreted.
"Did you meet a gentleman there?"
Still more mystified, Virginia shook her head.
"Virginia, think! A dark man, who walked lame."
The girl started--yes, her mother was not mistaken, she started quite
visibly. "The lame man," she said. "Yes, of course, I remember."
Something like fury gleamed in the elder woman's blue eyes as she stood
up, confronting her taller daughter. "He was Mr. Gaunt!" she flashed.
"What! _That_ was Mr. Gaunt? Was it indeed? Oh, then, perhaps that
accounts for it!"
"Accounts for what?"
"That he looked as if he expected me to bow to him or speak to
him--that he looked as if he thought he knew me! I am very like you,
mamma, am I not? Everybody says so."
"He saw the likeness, and remembers the meeting," muttered Mrs. Mynors,
crumpling up her handkerchief into a tight ball with vindictive
fingers. "I suppose you thought he admired you very much?"
"Not at all," returned the girl at once. "I thought he looked angry or
offended. He--he followed us about rather persistently, until Mims and
I felt uncomfortable. We went and sat outside, at the top of the
stairs, to get out of his way."
"Humph! He did admire you, though, for all that! At least, he wants to
marry you!"
"Wha-a-t!" Virginia was guilty of vulgarity in her amused amaze. "Oh,
mummie, don't be silly! He meant you. You have made a mistake."
Her mother gave a short, bitter laugh. "I am _passee_," she said
through her teeth. "I ought to have known better. I ought to have sent
you as my ambassador! You might have been able to come to terms. Tell
me," she cried sharply, grasping her daughter's wrist, "tell me what
you thought of him? Sombre, interesting--eh? The strong silent
man--that kind of thing? You must have used your eyes in a way that I
am sure I never taught you."
Virginia stood transfixed. She felt as if she were talking to a
stranger. This was a mother she had never seen. "Oh, mother, dear, what
can you mean?" she remonstrated, in low, hurt tones.
With another mirthless laugh, Mrs. Mynors flung back upon her sofa
pillows. She began to pour tea into a cup, and her hand shook.
"How little girls understand," said she with sarcasm. "Tell me now,
honestly, what _did_ you think of him?"
Virginia remained a moment, searching her memory. Every minute of that
afternoon was etched clearly in her mind's eye. "Mims did not like him
at all," said she. "She thought he meant to be rude. But I thought that
he looked--very unhappy."
"A case of mutual love at first sight, evidently," was the scornful
comment. "Well, shall you have him, Virgie? I am to make you the formal
offer of his hand."
"Mother, I think--I think I had better leave you to drink some tea and
rest," said the meek Virginia. "I really can't understand what you
mean, you are talking wildly, and I am afraid the long, hot journey has
unnerved you."
"Stop, Virgie, don't go out. I forbid it. You must stay and listen to
what I have to say. Before saying it, I wanted to find out just how
much had passed between you, and I understand things a little better
after what you tell me. Well! In short, I have what Mr. Gaunt calls a
business offer to put before you, and you have until to-morrow
afternoon's post in which to make up your mind."
Virginia obediently seated herself upon a chair opposite her mother,
who, between sips of tea, told her of the offer made by Gaunt.
The elder woman's mind was in a strange tumult--she hardly knew which
was the keener feeling in her--her furious jealousy or her devouring
desire that her daughter should accept the offer which would lift them
out of poverty. On her journey down in the train, she had been growing
used to the idea. The sense of outrage, which had stung her so smartly
at first, subsided a little, in the light of other considerations. What
chances of matrimony had Virginia? Since she had let young Rosenberg
slip through her fingers, her mother was beginning to see that she was
not the kind of girl to seize chances, even should they present
themselves. If Gaunt were serious in his wild plan, if it could be
shown that he was financially solvent and able to do as he promised,
then she had better swallow her feelings and take what she could get.
She told herself that it was one of those cases of sudden electric
sympathy--of love at first sight. Yet she knew that she said this only
to salve her conscience. She was, as her old lover had told her, no
fool. She saw his conduct, all of a piece. Why had he taken up the
mortgage on Lissendean? To have her in his power. Why did he wish to
become her son-in-law? For the same reason. Try to deceive herself as
she might, she knew that love had no place in the man's thoughts. When
he had spoken of "getting a bit of his own back," he had spoken with a
certain momentary glimpse of self revelation. He had uncovered a corner
of a mind perverted, a mind which had brooded long upon a solitary idea
of grievance until obsessed by it.
Mrs. Mynors, in her sub-conscious self, knew all this. Had she told her
daughter, the girl must have recoiled shuddering from the prospect of
such an alliance. As her old lover had foreseen, she was very careful
_not_ to tell her daughter anything of the kind. Her better nature
had at first fought within her a little. She resolved that she would
describe Gaunt's malevolence, his cold-blooded assurance. Then she
would come forward, offer to share a part of Virginia's burden, decide
that they must stand together and face what her own selfish, mean folly
had brought upon them all. But, as she strove to envisage some of what
such a step must cost her, she had cowered away from the picture.
She _could not_ face beggary.
She began to temporise. How did she know the exact position of affairs?
It was possible that, strive though he might to conceal it from her,
the man was in love. She determined upon her course of action. She
would tell Virginia how Gaunt had watched her in the Gallery. The
girl's own demeanour should give her the cue as to whether or no she
should proceed to unfold his proposal. If the sudden fancy had been
mutual ... after all, it _might_ have been mutual....
She returned home. She spoke. Virginia betrayed consciousness. Before
the mention of the lame man--at the very memory of Hertford House--she
had blushed, she had been embarrassed. Further questioning had elicited
her clear memory of Gaunt's attention and pursuit. She had owned, with
a distinct hesitation, that she thought he looked unhappy. That decided
Mrs. Mynors. With a new hard-heartedness, born of her new, tormenting
jealousy of Virgie's youth and sweetness, she stamped down the
deep-lying scruples. She made the best of Gaunt's case, and said that
he wished to come down to Wayhurst to plead his suit himself.
It took some time to convince Virgie that the man was in earnest. Yet,
recalling his appearance and manner, as she held them in her memory,
the girl owned to herself that this was a man who might make an
eccentric, even a quixotic, offer.
The interview was broken off short by the entrance of Tony, who flung
open the front door, loudly whistling, and could be heard throwing down
his books, and shouting for Virgie. He knew better than to enter the
little boudoir, his mother's sanctum. Very, very rarely was he
permitted to set foot within its charmed area.
"I have until to-morrow's post," said Virgie gravely, as she lifted the
tray with the tea-things, and carried it away.
The whole affair must be pushed into the background for the time being.
Pansy was to be fetched downstairs, the tea-table spread in the garden,
more tea prepared. Tony was a willing, if somewhat boisterous, helper.
He and his sister between them soon arranged things, and the too
brilliant eyes of the little cripple glistened with pleasure as she was
laid beside the wire arch smothered in Hiawatha, to enjoy the air of
the exquisite summer evening.
Virgie sat, the socks she endlessly knitted for Tony in her never idle
fingers, watching the clear-cut profile, which, as she could not
conceal from herself, grew ever more ethereal. Pansy did not seem
definitely worse, and had less pain than formerly. But she was wasting,
and her sister knew it.
The Wayhurst doctor was very anxious that a new treatment, in which he
had great faith, should be tried. He thought it the only chance; but as
it was protracted, and involved a long course of skilled nursing, with
daily medical supervision, it would be extremely costly. It was,
therefore, out of the question.
Yet, if Virginia married Mr. Gaunt, it would become easy. He had
actually volunteered that Pansy should have all the help obtainable.
She glanced from Pansy to Tony, and at the darns on his threadbare
trouser-knees. She heard his jolly laugh, and also his quickly
smothered sigh, as he remarked that he was the only chap in his form
who did not belong to the school O.T.C. He knew that the uniform and
camp expenses were beyond his sister's resources.
This, too, would be rectified, if she did as suggested. It was a bribe
of whose strength Gaunt himself could form no idea.
Later, when Tony had scampered away to bowl at the nets, and she was
alone in the kitchen washing up tea-things, she bent her mind upon the
extraordinary turn of affairs. The heat had made her so languid that
she was obliged to sit down while the kettle boiled upon her tiny
oil-stove. Her visit to London had done her spirits good, but London
air is not the best for recuperative purposes. Moreover, she had been
up late most nights during her stay in town, and the thought of Gerald
had at times disturbed her rest. Since her return--and more especially
since hearing about the mortgage trouble--her strength seemed to grow
less and less. The knowledge that she was almost at the end of her
means, and saw no chance of replenishing the empty exchequer, had acted
upon a body weakened by a long course of underfeeding. In her heart she
knew that she could not go on much longer acting as general servant,
and starving herself that the others might have enough. If she broke
down--if her health proved to be so undermined that she could not take
a situation--what was to become of these helpless ones?
The idea that her mother could help in any way never occurred to her.
The three were bracketed together in her mind, as those for whom she
had promised her dying father to care.
Now came a way out--not an inviting one, but one that had to be faced
nevertheless. If she married Mr. Gaunt, he undertook to lift her
burdens from her shoulders. Moreover, he lived in the country--the real
country. Omberleigh Grange was in Derbyshire, and it must have a
garden--a real garden, such as she had been born to, such as she loved.
A garden in which to rest and grow strong again, a garden in which
Pansy might be wheeled along smooth walks, and lie under the spreading
shade of big trees. These things could be hers, at a price. What did
the price involve?
Mr. Gaunt had loved her mother. He knew, of course, that her mother had
preferred another man; but she, Virginia, bore a wonderful resemblance
to the woman lost, and the lonely man wanted to satisfy his empty heart
by cherishing her. In return, he would do for mother, for Pansy, for
Tony, all the things that she, poor Virgie, in her helplessness, could
not do, with all her love. The sacrifice demanded was just the
sacrifice of herself. Well--what did that matter? Why should she not be
sacrificed, for the good and happiness of those she loved so ardently?
It really was very simple, after all.
Perhaps a few weeks earlier she might not have felt quite so
indifferent. There had been shining gates--the gates of a young girl's
fancy--and shyly they had begun to open, and to show a tiny glimpse of
rosy mysteries within.
That was over now. It had been but gossamer and illusion. This was a
real, definite, tangible plan--a rope held out to save her perishing
family, drifting on a bit of wreckage. In the seizing of the rope, she
herself, incidentally, would be sacrificed. That was all. Why not?
By the time that the scanty crockery was arranged in spotless order on
the shelves, and the kitchen as tidy as a new pin, the girl had
practically come to a decision. She said nothing, however, that night.
Pansy was a little over-tired after her garden excursion, and could not
get to sleep, so, instead of sitting with her mother downstairs,
Virginia remained at the little invalid's bedside and read aloud. When
at last the child slept, she was too tired to do anything but go to bed
herself. Nevertheless, her preoccupations awoke her in the early summer
dawn.
In her utter simplicity she slipped from bed and knelt down in her
white garment. She asked for guidance, and it seemed to her childlike
faith that it was granted. Like her namesake in far-off old Rome, she
must be sacrificed. She remembered the words of the ballad she had
learned as a child, the words spoken by the frantic father of the Roman
Virginia: "And now, my own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"
It was as though her own father's voice spoke to her from the grave,
urging her to courage and a stout heart. The man was a stranger, the
man was formidable; but she would be so good to him that they must grow
to understand each other.
It was the only way, and she resolved to take it.