VIRGINIA DECIDES
"_Early in the morning
When the first cock crowed his warning
Neat as bee, as sweet and busy,
Fetched in honey, milked the cows,
Aired and set to rights the house,...
Fed the poultry, sat and sewed;
Talked as modest maidens should._"
--Christina Rossetti.
When Virginia went into her mother's room after breakfast that morning,
she told her quietly that she had made her decision.
Mrs. Mynors gave a half-stifled, excited exclamation. For the life of
her she could not have told what she hoped or desired. She stared at
her composed daughter with eyes half of entreaty, half of fear.
"I shall write and tell Mr. Gaunt to come to-morrow," said Virginia
with calm.
"Oh, for pity's sake, child, are you not mad?" cried the wretched woman
in the bed.
"I have considered it," was the steady answer. "He is unhappy, and I am
pretty sure that I could be a comfort to him. His way of doing things
seems odd; but he is lonely, and I daresay he has been soured. I will
do all I can to make him happy, if he on his side will perform his
promises to you and the children."
"Virgie, don't!" The voice was so altered, so strange, that the girl
paused, wondering.
"Don't? Why do you say so?"
"Because I----" Mrs. Mynors came to a stop. What could she say?
"Because I have a lurking idea that he will not be kind to you." How
ridiculous that sounded! And upon what was it based? Only upon the
man's manner--his insolence, his evident desire to wound and insult
her. Somehow she could not tell Virgie how his open contempt had stung.
"Because you--you don't know him--you can't love him," she stammered.
"But _you_ knew him and loved him well enough to promise to marry
him," countered Virgie instantly. "Of course, that has great weight
with me. If he were a complete stranger, it would be different." She
stood beside the bed, playing with one of its brass corner-knobs. "You
know, mamma, I am rather an odd girl," said she with a swift blush. "I
think I am attracted to what I pity. It would be waste to marry me to
an adoring husband, who would give me everything I desired. I would
rather give than have things given to me."
Mrs. Mynors lay back, watching her through narrowed eyes. "You
are--yes, you certainly are odd," she muttered. "I own that I don't
understand you in the least."
Virgie smiled. None knew better than she herself the truth of this
statement.
"Of course," said she, "I am not accepting his offer definitely. I am
simply saying that he may come here and see me to-morrow. I could not
clinch the matter until we have some hold over him."
"What?" cried her mother sharply. "What do you mean by that?"
"Well," replied her young daughter simply, "Mr. Gaunt has made some big
promises. How do we know that he means to keep them? You say he is
eccentric. He may not be trustworthy. In any case, I shall not agree to
do as he asks without being certain that he will do as he offers. We
must go to Mr. Askew and ask him to come and meet him, so that a proper
settlement may be prepared."
"Well, upon my word! Virgie, you cold-blooded little horror!" began
Mrs. Mynors, almost in a scream. She broke off abruptly and rolled
over, hiding her face in the pillows.
"But, mother," said Virgie wonderingly, "you don't reflect. I am
promising to give all that I have or am. Suppose I did that, and found
myself cheated of the price? You must know that I should not think of
marrying a man I have hardly seen and do not love, except for you and
the children. Do you call me cold-blooded because I am careful to
assure myself that I shan't be sacrificed in vain?"
Her mother wrung her hands. "Virgie, you know that I do not demand such
an unnatural bargain?"
"Of course I know that you don't demand it," was the quiet answer. "It
is my own decision. I promise you one thing: if, when Mr. Gaunt comes,
I feel that he is a person I never could care for, if he repels me
utterly, I will draw back. But you know, mother, you have told me one
or two things about him, as he was in the old days when you loved
him--and they were rather fine."
"Oh, but he is so altered," sobbed Mrs. Mynors from the pillow. "You
would never know him for the same man. He used to be so tender, so
chivalrous, so impulsive. Now he seems so hard, so----"
She broke off. What was she doing? The affair that was to bring her
comparative ease, to keep her from starvation, was well in train.
Should she herself stop it? She reflected that Virginia was not
accepting definitely--only promising to consider the matter. Let things
take their course. She believed the girl had some sentimental
school-girl fancy about Osbert! Yes, she had thought that from the
first. She was wasting her compassion, her delicate feeling.
After all, considering Virgie's beauty, was it likely that Gaunt would
be cruel to her? With a feeling almost like hatred she studied the pure
outline of the profile, the effect of the sunlight glinting through the
brown-gold hair, the curve of the chin, the slimness of the young,
drooping body, veiled in its blue overall.
"Oh, do as you like!" she cried, "send your letter; but talk as little
as you can to me about it! How do you suppose I like being told that
you are sacrificing yourself for me? I can go to the workhouse in the
last resort, like other people."
"Perhaps. But Pansy can't," said Virginia, a trifle rigidly. She took
up the tray and disappeared.
* * * * *
The day dragged by. To Virginia it seemed as if it would never end, and
yet as if it were passing like a sigh. She felt as those who have been
in a sinking ship have described themselves as feeling when the wave
rose above the gunwale, and seemed to hesitate--to pause
awfully--before it burst.
Pansy was very insistently eager to know what had passed between mamma
and Mr. Gaunt the previous day. It was hard to stave off her
pertinacious inquiry, but Virgie was able to tell her that negotiations
were going on which might, or might not, lead to something. To-morrow
would bring more news.
Thus the dawn broke upon the fatal day--a day of persistent fine rain
which did nothing to abate the heat.
At about ten o'clock the loud imperative knock of a telegraph boy
sounded upon the little door. Virginia took in the message. It was from
Gaunt, and ran thus--
_Please reply definitely to business offer, which otherwise is off._
The girl sat down, with knees shaking, staring at the message, which
was reply paid. The boy waited whistling in the little entrance passage.
Should she give the definite answer demanded? Could she face the
knowledge that all hope was over? She would not show her mother the
despotic telegram. She knew that she must answer it for herself.
Taking a pencil she wrote:
_Definite reply impossible till after visit. May we expect you?_
She prepaid the reply to this, dismissed the boy, and walked into the
kitchen with limbs shaking. She felt as if she had defied the robber
chief who was holding them all to ransom.
It is difficult to describe the storm of excitement in which she
awaited the second message. Her mother and Pansy both demanded the
meaning of the double knock. She replied tranquilly to her mother that
Mr. Gaunt had tried to extort a definite answer, which she had refused
to give. Mrs. Mynors' cry: "Then he won't come after all?" was so
tragic that the girl's heart contracted.
Within an hour she held in her hands the following remarkable sentence:
_You gain nothing by delay. Arrive about four._
Virgie could not conceal from herself that it was relief which she
experienced. Putting on her hat, she went out in the rain, down to the
town, to the office of Mr. Askew, the solicitor, who had helped her
with the agreement for Laburnum Villa, and in one or two other small
matters. She asked him to come up that afternoon, at about half-past
four. Then she bought a few little cakes for tea, and returned home to
arrange everything as spick and span as possible.
Her mother had insisted that the "supply" should be asked to come up
for the afternoon, that their guest might not know of their servantless
condition. Virginia was at first opposed to the idea, but after
reflection she agreed. Mr. Gaunt must not think them too utterly in his
power. She felt like the besieged citizens who threw loaves of bread
over the walls, in order that the besiegers might suppose that they
were living in plenty. Moreover, the presence of Mrs. Brown would
ensure that Pansy and Tony were not neglected, but had tea at the
proper time, Virgie being otherwise engaged.
Thus it was that Gaunt, on his arrival, was admitted by a
responsible-looking middle-aged woman in a very clean apron, and shown
into a room which, though tiny, was a bower of luxury.
Mrs. Mynors, beautifully gowned, rose from the downy Chesterfield to
greet him. She thought he looked less vindictive, less ironical than he
had seemed at their last meeting. After all, perhaps she had been
fancying things!
"Well," he said, "so our young lady is considering the subject, as I
foresaw she would do. She is her mother's own daughter."
Mrs. Mynors smothered her resentment at this extraordinary address. She
was conscious of a hatred which was difficult to keep within bounds,
but her own panic, when she knew that there was a doubt of his coming,
had shown her something of what would be her frame of mind if Virginia
declined to marry.
"Virginia," said she, "is by no means my own daughter. I am a wretched
woman of business, whereas her head is as clear as a man's. She wishes
to have all that you propose to do for us embodied in a marriage
settlement."
"Ha!" said Gaunt, as if delighted. The mother could hardly have made a
more misleading statement. "Sharp young woman, indeed! Well, I respect
her for that. There's no reason that I know of, for her to trust me.
Where is she, by the bye? Has she entrusted the preliminaries to you?"
"No, she has not. She is acting quite independently in this matter,"
snapped Mrs. Mynors. "She is not quite of age, but I have always left
her a great liberty of action. In fact, we have been more like sisters
than mother and daughter." She dabbed her eyes daintily, and her voice
was fraught with pathos.
"How charming!" said Gaunt gravely. "Did she remember having met me at
the Wallace Collection?"
"Oh, yes, indeed she did! She remembered very well!" cried Mrs. Mynors,
and her laugh was nearly as unpleasant as his own.
"Capital," was his comment. "All should go well then. Is love at first
sight the proper cue, eh? Advise me. What do you think?"
For a moment the mask dropped. The real woman looked at him through the
eyes of the elder Virginia. "I think you are a devil," she said
distinctly.
He seemed much amused. "Well, perhaps you are not so far out this time.
I told you that you were no fool. I thought you could be trusted to
prepare the way for these difficult negotiations. Now may I see the
lady of my heart?"
As he spoke, the door opened softly and Virginia walked in.
She wore her deceptive air of extreme elegance, and her prettiest
frock. It was a costume grossly unsuited to the tiny villa, and she had
hitherto worn it only in London. Any man beholding her might have been
pardoned for supposing her to be a luxury-loving idler, a girl who
thought of little else but appearances.
Gaunt stood up. She approached him with a mingling of shyness and
welcome; her manner seemed to trust him completely--to say that she
knew herself safe in his hands. It might have made appeal to the
veriest ruffian, had not his eye been jaundiced by his knowledge of her
mother, and of their penniless circumstances. Her virginal modesty was
to him merely consummate hypocrisy.
"Well," he said, "so I hear that you are not going to commit yourself
until I stand committed too? Is that so?"
She laughed a little breathlessly. His non-smiling, dark face and big,
rather hulking person were formidable, and she was conscious of fear.
"You said it was a business transaction, and business transactions
ought to be business-like, ought they not?" she asked. She was speaking
playfully, while her eyes sought his, as wanting to understand, to
obtain some key to his curious behaviour. "It was kind of you to come,
nevertheless," she added, with a hesitation born of his lack of
response.
"I am a non-social, boorish kind of person," he said abruptly, after a
pause, during which she withdrew herself and sat down. "I suppose I
ought to begin with some kind of apology for such a blunt offer, hey?
But I am told that young ladies nowadays like something out of the way;
and you could fill in the details for yourself, I expect. You saw me
admiring you that day in the Gallery, did you not?"
Again the eyes, so like, so unlike, her mother's, were lifted to those
of the man who remembered each look and smile of twenty years back as
if it had been yesterday.
"I noticed something special--something I could not interpret--in your
manner," was her gentle reply. "I told my friend that I thought you
must imagine that you knew me. I was interested when mamma said that it
was my likeness to her which drew your attention. I was glad to have it
so well explained."
He leaned forward, intent upon her face and her down-bent gaze. "Well,"
he said, in a voice which thrilled her curiously, "perhaps you think
that my suggestion is not quite so surprising, after all?"
Virginia made no reply. Her mother clenched her hands in rage, made
some small movement, enough to attract his attention, and caught a ray
of what was undoubtedly malice directed at her from under his heavy
lids.
"Well," he went on, turning again to the girl, his tone subdued and
almost gentle, "what do you say?"
She wavered--her colour came. Innocent and ignorant of life though she
was, she yet felt the immensity of the step she was taking; but,
strangely enough, the fact that the man gave her no help counted in his
favour with her. His manner suggested some tremendous feeling, out of
sight. His aloofness was like a fine and delicate consideration. The
mocking quality in his address, so obvious to her mother, passed her by.
"Do you really think," she asked, her gaze still upon the ground, "that
I am an adequate exchange for all the things you promise to do
for--_them_?"
"Tell me now--enumerate--what have I promised to do for _them_?"
She lifted her eyes then. He was not looking at her, but brushing the
sleeve of his coat where a crumb had fallen upon it. This avoidance
gave her courage. "To educate Tony," said her voice, so fatally like
her mother's in its cadenced sweetness, "to allow mother three hundred
pounds a year, and to let Pansy have the best advice and treatment for
her lameness."
"I admit all that, right enough. Anything more?"
"To settle five thousand pounds on me----"
He looked in triumph at Mrs. Mynors. "Admirable!" he said, with a
sarcasm which penetrated to the girl's intelligence with a shock. She
broke off, startled.
"All right," he told her soothingly. "I agree to that too. Anything
more?"
"Our solicitor, Mr. Askew, said there was another thing that I ought to
ask," she replied, quite tranquilly. "It is that you should make a will
in my favour, so that if anything happened to you, we should not be
left destitute."
He once more let his mocking glance lash Mrs. Mynors. "I appreciate my
future wife's business capacity," said he, "but I warn you that I am
horribly healthy. Except for the accident which lamed me, I have not
had a day's illness in my life. I fear I shan't oblige you by dying
just yet."
Virgie grew pink. "Oh, I beg your pardon! That must have sounded very
cold-blooded," she apologised. "But you said it was a business offer,
did you not?"
He smiled for the first time. Dropping his voice to a low
persuasiveness: "Did you quite believe that?" he asked.
Thus challenged, the truth in Virginia spoke. "No," she told him; "I
thought it too extraordinary to be true."
"Besides," he persisted, still in that wooing undertone, "with a man
who had seen you, it could hardly be, eh?"
Virgie held her breath. Something was here which was utterly beyond
her. She was half terrified, half fascinated.
"Do you remember the statue on the landing at Hertford House?" he
asked. The blood rushed to her cheeks now in headlong tide. _He_
knew what brought it; her mother misinterpreted.
"When you had gone, I went and read the inscription," he pursued. "I
told myself how true it was. Do you remember it? _Voici ton
maitre?_"
He sat and watched the memory, the pang that rent her. The sight of it
seemed to give him real pleasure. He could trace the regret, the quiver
of feeling, and he could say to himself: "She loves young Rosenberg,
but she will marry me for my money. She deserves the punishment which I
am going to inflict."
"So, you see, I am a wise man; I know when I am beaten," he went on
smoothly. "I acknowledged my master when I found him."
The struggle in Virginia was keen. She was telling herself that this
was Mr. Gaunt's highly unusual way of confessing himself attracted. If
it were true that he already felt this strong inclination, then she
must satisfy him; the marriage ought to be a success, since he had the
desire to love, and she the will to please, to serve, to cherish. Yet
there was an undernote, like the boom of the far-away storm in the
voice of a calm sea. This alarmed her, for she did not understand it.
To steady herself and hide her embarrassment she rose and went to the
tea-table, at which she seated herself, pouring the tea and dispensing
it with the noticeable grace which characterised her least important
actions.
She noticed that her mother was shedding tears, and the sight caused
her to make a great effort and launch into small talk--of the late
heat, and the rain, and the climate of Wayhurst. Small support did she
receive from either of her companions; and by the time that Gaunt had
eaten a slice of cake and drunk two cups of tea, his patience seemed
suddenly to give out.
"Come, then," he asked suddenly, "have we arranged matters, subject to
your finding the business side of the transaction in good order?"
Thus confronted with the bald issue, Virgie felt as if he had slapped
her in the face; but in a moment she had rallied. He had promised to
give her all she asked. Could she, logically, do aught else but accept?
She clasped her hands tightly in her lap, hesitated, rose, and went to
the window, gazing forth upon the little wet street. Over the way, at
Alpine Cottage, the pug had managed to get shut out in the rain. It was
astonishing how often he did this. It was the one thing that seriously
displeased his prim and elderly mistress. Virgie's mind caught at the
trifling fact, the little bit of her daily life, as if its
consideration could protect her against the awful decision which loomed
ahead.
"If you want to stipulate for other things, now is your time," said
Gaunt, rising and coming towards her. It was but a step, for the room
was tiny. "For instance, don't you want it put in the settlements that
you should have so many months in town every year, or that I should
give you a motor? I haven't got a motor, I must warn you."
Here was something that she could answer without hesitation. She turned
to him her lovely, tender smile. "Oh, all that! Why, I shall be your
wife," she sweetly answered him.
There was a tingling silence after this artless speech. Gaunt's face
fell. He looked as though a momentary doubt assailed him. Then he
realised that he must seize the chance she thus unwittingly gave him of
assuming her consent.
"Ah! then you can think of yourself as my wife?" He turned his face to
where Mrs. Mynors sat like a woman hypnotised. "Then we are engaged!"
he cried. "I am such a crusted old provincial bachelor that I did not
provide for this occasion before I left town by the purchase of a ring.
But I see upon your mother's finger a jewel which, if I mistake not,
belongs to me." He approached the sofa with hand outstretched. "Thank
you, madam. It seems to me a most touching idea that the mother and
daughter should wear the same betrothal ring." He held it out to
Virginia.
"Put it on," he said.
Virginia wavered. She looked from the man to the woman, bewildered with
the invisible clash of feelings which she could not interpret. Mrs.
Mynors hid her face behind her perfumed wisp of lawn; but, then, she
would have done that in any case at such a moment as her daughter's
betrothal. Gaunt's eyes were alight, but, as it were, a-smoulder; there
was no flame in their glance.
Turning very white, the girl took the ring from him and obediently
slipped it upon her finger.
"Done!" he said, in tones of boundless satisfaction. "Now we come to
definite arrangements." He seated himself again, but Virginia remained
standing as if something had turned her to stone. "I live a very busy
life at Omberleigh," he told her briskly, "farming my own land; and my
estate is a big one. I must go down there to-night to superintend the
end of the hay harvest, and I must stay there a few days in order to
prepare the house for your reception. I should like to be married this
day week if that will suit you. As we both live in our own parishes,
there will be no difficulty about a licence. It is not possible for me
to take a honeymoon at this time of year, so I shall carry you straight
back to Derbyshire after the ceremony."
"Wait--wait. No, no, Osbert, this is preposterous!" broke in Mrs.
Mynors. "This cannot be. Virginia does not know you; she is all
unprepared. Such haste is--improper! I will not have it."
He looked as obstinate as a mule with its ears laid back. "Sorry," he
said. "On this matter I shall be obliged to insist. I must be married
before we begin to reap, and it is going to be a very early harvest
this year. Don't make difficulties. Remember that you profess to be
very hard up, and I don't begin to make you any allowance until your
daughter is my wife."
Virginia was reflecting. "If they told me I was to have an operation I
would rather have it at once, than be left to think about it."
She spoke suddenly. "Mother, I can be ready," she said gently. "Let it
be as Mr. Gaunt thinks best."
"Excellent!" said the bridegroom. "Your mother tells me that she allows
you complete independence of action, so we will take this as settled.
Is that your solicitor now entering the gate? I will give him my
instructions at once with your permission, for I must go back to London
by the six train to catch the express to Ashbourne."