THE BEGINNING OF DEFEAT
"_Oh, heart of stone, are you flesh, and caught
By that which you swore to withstand?_"--Tennyson.
"My word, but she's a peach," muttered Mr. Percy Ferris to himself as
he rode hastily home through the lanes to lunch. "And old Gaunt's got
her! That smoke-dried old curmudgeon! Well, some people have the
devil's own luck. Poor little woman. Sold to him, I suppose? Sold, body
and soul. And he sits looking as though he would like to shut her up in
a harem where no other man but himself could ever set eyes on her. Oh,
why wasn't she about in my day? However, one can't have everything, I
suppose."
It was as well that he should admit this, for he was considered
extremely lucky by most of his neighbours. Beginning life as a
veterinary surgeon, he had happened to be about when the late Colonel
Coxon departed this life, leaving Josephine, his only daughter, sole
heiress of Perley Hatch, a nice little property.
Joey was only nineteen at the time, and was what the Americans, with
delicate euphemism, call homely. She had projecting teeth, a freckled
skin, little twinkling eyes, and a loud voice. In person she was large
and ungainly; but she had her points. A bouncing good humour, a fine
seat on horseback, and a real love of children and animals made her
more or less popular in the district. Ferris was not a good husband,
but he was not actively unkind to her, though he spared no chance of
letting her know that, but for her money, he would never have looked
her way.
As he entered his home, and passed through the untidy hall, littered
with whips, sticks, children's toys, golf clubs and tennis bats,
mingled in wild disorder with coats, jerseys, old hats, gardening
gloves and aprons, a loud roaring could be heard, and Joey presently
came downstairs, her firstborn son, an ugly fat child of about five,
tucked under her arm, kicking, fighting, and bellowing.
"Hallo!" said she, perceiving her husband. "I've been giving Tom a good
spanking to teach him not to torture things. I can't think what makes
'em such little demons of cruelty. Bill's just as bad. I won't have it,
that's flat. You hear, Tom? If ever you hurt anything you're going to
get hurt yourself. Comprenny, my son?"
She set Tom on his feet, dusted him down, pushed her untidy hair out of
her eyes with one hand, and patted the boy with the other.
"Kiss and make friends," said she. "Here's daddy, and we're going to
have dinner."
Tom bore no malice. He gave and received the kiss of amity, and they
went into the dining-room, where a huge dish of boiled beef, flanked
with carrots, turnips, and suet dumplings steamed upon the board.
A nurse brought down Bill, and seated him on his high chair. Then
Ferris, having begun to carve with celerity, could keep his news no
longer to himself.
"Jo," he said, "it's true--true, after all."
"Eh, what?" said Joey, busy preparing Bill's dinner in a plate with a
special high edge.
"I wouldn't believe it--actually betted against it," continued her
husband, chuckling, "but it's gospel truth. Old Gaunt's gone and got
married."
"Go on! Pulling my leg!" observed Joey, with equal elegance and good
humour.
"My girl, I've seen 'em--actually seen 'em together. Came up just as he
was at his drive gate--telling Caunter something. She was sitting in
the trap beside him, and--Jee-rusalem, she's a peach, if you like!"
"Percy, you are the limit. Remember the boys."
"Lucky little beggars, they aren't old enough to suffer like their
daddy. I tell you I've never seen anything quite like her. She looks as
if a breath would blow her away--like what the serials call a vision
from another world. And old Gaunt sitting there beside her, looking as
if he would like to lay forcible hands on my windpipe. Old Gaunt. Help!"
"Well, I never," said Joey, deeply impressed. "It may be a bit of all
right for us, if she's a decent sort. Nearest neighbours, aren't we?"
"My dear, there's nothing else within miles of her. I believe the Chase
is next nearest. By the bye, think I'll ride over there this afternoon
and tell her ladyship the news. Come with me, old girl?"
"I believe I will," said Joey. "Let's see, what's the first day it will
be decent to call at Omberleigh?"
"Not till further orders," laughed her husband. "Mrs. G. will send out
cards when she is ready to receive. Poor little soul. I thought she
looked as if she hoped somebody would throw her a rope before long. Old
Gaunt. My hat!"
"You call him old," observed Joey after a pause, during which she took
out her handkerchief and thoughtfully scrubbed Tom's nose, "but he's
only five or six years older than you."
"And looks twenty years older."
"That's only because he doesn't care what he looks like. Perhaps she'll
furbish him up."
"Just fancy," burst out her husband. "That sweet little creature up
there in his clutches. It makes one shudder. I wonder if he talks to
her about manure? What should you suppose he _does_ talk about,
eh?"
"You can search me," responded Mrs. Ferris tranquilly. She never spoke
English where slang could conveniently be substituted. "It's one of
these money transactions--like ours," she presently remarked. "She gets
Gaunt and you got me. You are both of you adventurers."
"They were saying, down at the market Hall, that she was a daughter of
Bernard Mynors, of Lissendean, somewhere in Dorsetshire. Didn't your
father know something of the family?"
"He knew a General Mynors. Yes, he had a brother named Bernard, and
their place was in Dorset. Came out of the top drawer, she did, if
she's one of that lot. But stony, you know--simply stony. I wonder
where he picked her up?"
"You can search me," retorted Percy at once, and they both giggled.
"All I can tell you about her is that she is It."
* * * * *
The bride appeared at lunch, pale but valiant. Gaunt was standing in
the hall as she descended the stairs, and noticed that she leaned her
hand upon the rail, and moved as if she were stiff. He decided that
there was no doubt that this was a mere piece of humbug. She wished to
impress him with an idea of helplessness, under cover of which she was
forming some plan of campaign.
She forced herself to eat a little, because he was watching her under
his lowered lids. When she had done, and Hemming had left the room, he
rose, came to her end of the table, produced from his pocket a handful
of gem rings, and tossed them on the table-cloth. "Choose what you
like," he said carelessly.
The colour sprang hot to her face. With a dignified gesture she pushed
away the jewels and rose to her feet.
"After what you said yesterday, you cannot expect me to take presents
from you," said she, making as if to pass from the room.
"Ha!" he stood before her, the light of combat in his eyes. "You
decline to take presents from me--good! But you can't decline to do as
I order you. I order you to wear two of those rings, one on your left
hand and the other on your right. Choose quickly, or I will put them on
your finger myself."
She stood, and he could see how hard she found it to fight back words.
In fact, she could not but realise that it would be madness to arouse
the resentment of the extraordinary being whose motives she was quite
unable to fathom; yet she made one effort to brave him.
"I will not choose--I have no choice," said she, not glancing at the
rings, but with her eyes on his face.
He turned, scooped up the rings in one hand, laid the other on her arm
just above the elbow, and said:
"Come, I will help you to make a selection. There is a little room at
the west corner of the house which I think you may like to consider
yours. Let me show you."
She went with him unprotesting, and tried to control the shuddering
which his grip upon her arm caused her to experience.
The room which they entered was evidently his own study. It was full of
books and papers, untidy and dingy looking, like the haunts of most men
where the housemaid is forbidden. Through this he passed by an inner
door to a smaller room, with two windows--one south, one west.
It was scantily furnished, but might have been pretty if artistically
arranged. She glanced round. There _was_ a second door. A room
which she could neither enter nor leave without passing through his
would be a poor boon. He pushed her down upon a sofa, seated himself
beside her, and laid the little pile of rings upon her knee. Without
speaking, he took her left hand in his own, and began fitting the rings
one after another. All were too large, except a fine half-hoop of
emeralds.
"That for the present," said he, "and we can have some others altered.
Which do you like next best?"
"I do not like to wear any of them," she answered faintly. His shoulder
was touching her own, and her terror grew with each moment.
"You are obstinate," he said, with a scowl.
She shook her head. "It is not a question of what I like, so why
pretend that it is? I will do anything that you say I must," she
murmured, so low that he could hardly hear.
"Well, then, I say you must choose another ring." She turned them over
listlessly. "This," said she at last, taking a single diamond.
"Good!" He gathered up the rest. Then, to her utter relief, he rose. "I
will make it into a packet for the post," said he.
"Oh! That reminds me!" She was suddenly eager. "Please tell me, have
you a second post here?"
"Yes. It will be in soon--about an hour's time."
"Oh, I am glad!" A glow irradiated her wistful face. "Pansy promised to
write; I thought she could not have forgotten." There was a break in
her voice as she mentioned her little sister. "When does the post go
out?" she went on.
"Very inconveniently, the man who brings the bag also takes it back, so
that if you are going to write, you must have your letter ready before
you receive the one you expect. Will you like to write it now? You will
find things on the table."
He turned, went back into his own room, and closed the communicating
door.
Left alone, her first act was to steal across the floor to the other
exit, and turn the handle. It was locked, and the key had been taken
out.
The knowledge that she was actually a prisoner came to her with a shock
of horror. What would happen to her, what was she to expect in this
house of mysterious terror? She dare not give way, however. No matter
what she suffered, Pansy must know nothing of it--Tony must know
nothing. She must write a letter which should reassure them; and, if
once she yielded to the creeping, nameless horror which assailed her,
this would be impossible.
Rallying her courage, she fought the sobs which rose in her throat, and
sat down to the writing-table.
She had just sealed and stamped her letter, and was wondering whether
she dare lie down upon the sofa and rest, when Gaunt came in, his
letters for the post and the packet for the jeweller in his hand. He
went up to the place she had just vacated, laid down what he carried,
and took up the letter which she had left lying on the blotter.
"Shouldn't have sealed it until I had read it," he remarked coolly, as
he broke the envelope open.
Virginia sprang to her feet, and her angry cry of "Oh, how _can_
you?" convinced him that he was on the right track at last. He was
going to hear the truth, as she had written it to those with whom she
knew no reserve. "One of my rules," said he, "is to read all the
letters you write."
"You----" Half in shame, half in rage she broke off, she stifled the
word upon her tongue. Drawing back, mistress of herself, she remarked
scornfully: "I might have thought. People who break vows will not
respect seals."
His back was towards her, so she could not see whether that stung. It
certainly did not avail to change his intention. He read her letter
deliberately through.
_My Own Precious Little Sister,_
_You will be so anxious to know how I am, and what my new home is
like, that although I am very tired, I must send you a scribble before
the post goes out, which is much earlier than I thought._
_Well, my darling, we got here quite safely. This house stands on a
hill, and there are woods behind it. The garden goes right down the
hill. It is not as big as Lissendean, but it is a very nice house, and
there are kind servants._
_You would have laughed if you had seen Osbert and me, sitting each
at one end of a great long table, having dinner in state._
_It seemed so odd this morning to be called--to have tea brought to
me instead of taking it to mamma--to have no bed to make, nor breakfast
things to wash up. Nothing to do, in fact, except order the dinner. The
housekeeper, Mrs. Wells, is very nice. I think we shall be great
friends. Her dairy is beautiful; they have those churns that darling
father and I used to long for at Lissendean. I almost cried,
remembering._
_This morning was gloriously fine. Osbert took me out over the farms,
and showed me the horses and the cornland and all the estate. I was
very silly and got faint when we had gone some way. You see, I don't
like to confess to him how run down I have been; and having had so
little food for so long, I have no appetite, and the very sight of the
abundant meals makes me feel ill. I simply can't swallow. I know this
good air will make me better by degrees._
_Oh, darling, I felt so homesick--so deadly homesick last night. I
thought of you all, and wondered what you were doing, how you were
getting on, and whether you missed Virgie. Also I remembered that I
never showed Caroline the place where your surgical things are kept.
You must show her before the great doctor comes. Oh, how anxious I
shall be until I hear all about his visit. Keep up your heart, darling.
I know you will be much better before long._
_Osbert has given me a little sitting-room for my own. I am writing
there now. He has given me a splendid emerald ring, and another with a
diamond in it._
_Oh, Pansy, love, darling, pet, write and tell me everything--just
everything you can think of, because I am very lonely._
_Your own most loving_
Virgie.
_P.S.--Hugs and kisses to my old Tony. I hope the bat is
satisfactory._
While this letter was being read, there was complete stillness in the
room. The writer stood in the window, her back turned to Gaunt. He,
when he had finished reading, let the hand which held the paper drop
between his knees, while he sat staring upon the motionless figure of
his wife. He could not doubt that the letter was spontaneous. She had
evidently no idea at all of his demanding to see it. But, if it were
true, then what was he? Had he made the greatest mistake of his life?
"What induced you," he demanded huskily, "to write such a letter as
this?"
She turned round, puzzled. "What do you mean?"
"If you had written as you felt about me and my treatment of you----"
"But I cannot do that. I am bound to be loyal to you," she said
quietly. "You know it. Besides, I may suffer, and perhaps I deserve it.
They never shall, if I can help it."
"But they shall, and can," he snarled. "This child will suffer if she
never sees you again--and she never shall. No, by----"
He checked the oath. What was he saying? What was he thinking? There
stood before him a dauntless creature, submissive but utterly
unconquered. Was he going to find his pleasure in torturing her?... His
head swam. Yet the perverse devil in him drove him on. "That's part of
my plan," he said, "part of my scheme to pay your mother in full. You
will never set eyes on any of them again. I told you yesterday--it is a
life-sentence."
She answered gravely: "Yes, you told me that."
"And you--you write like this, because you think it would make the
child unhappy if she knew the truth. How long do you think you can
manage to keep up this farce, eh?"
She shook her head. "I don't know. I can't look forward," she muttered
hurryingly. "I must just do what I can--as long as I can."
He tossed the letter upon the table. "Seal it down and put it in the
bag, for the lie it is," he said thickly.
She sat down obediently to re-seal the envelope. He stood watching her,
with eyes full of baffled purpose. Upon them there entered Hemming,
bearing a locked post-bag in his hand.
Gaunt unlocked it with a key which was fastened to his watch-chain,
took out the contents, placed his own correspondence and his wife's one
letter within, relocked the bag, and handed it to the man, who retired.
The letters lay behind him in a little pile. He sorted them, and
selected one in a childish, unformed hand, addressed to Mrs. Gaunt.
"Of course," he said, "I also read all the letters you receive."
"I suppose so," replied Virginia dryly.
She felt that her limbs would no longer support her, and sat down white
and shaking, clenching her hands together while again silence fell and
Gaunt read:
_Virgie, my own darling, I must use up the time while you are being
married, in writing to say O my sweet dear I hope God will let you be
hapy like you deserve to be. I am so sorry I did not see Osbert when he
came hear, but you must send me his foto, then I shall know what he is
like. O, it is nise to think you will alwas have enuf to eat now. You
used to think I did not notice when you gave it all to Tony and me, but
I did. I knew too that morning when you fainted over scrubing the
kitchen floor, when you came up with that wet stain on your apron I
knew because I caled so many times and you did not answer. Now you will
be rich and grand and hapy, and you must not think I shall fret,
because I don't mean to. Carroline is a nise woman, very kind to me,
but O Virgie, I shall not be so hapy with Mamma now you are not hear to
keep her pleased, I hope it is not rong to write this. It must be so
funny to have a husband, give him my love if you think he would like
it, are your nees well yet? Mind you don't walk too far till they are.
Have you dissided which room is to be mine when I come to Omberleigh?
Do let it look out on the yard so I can see the chickens. Good-bye,
darling_, DARLING,
Your LITTLE Pansy Blossom.
_P.S.--Urmintrude is quite well._
There was a pause after the man had finished reading. He frowned, bit
his lip, and stared at the floor. At last he flung a question at his
wife. "What's wrong with your knees?"
She started and flushed. "They are--they are a little swollen and
sore--with housework--kneeling about, you know," she murmured
apologetically. "Does Pansy mention it?"
"What housework have you had to do?"
"Only the keep of Laburnum Villa."
"But there was a servant; I saw her."
"Oh, she only came for that afternoon, because I--I didn't want to let
you in myself...."
"... And you ask me to believe that you--_you_ have been a
maid-of-all-work for the past two years?"
"Oh, no, I do not ask you to believe it," came the disdainful retort.
"I do not mind whether you believe it or not."
He went up to her with one of his unexpected, almost violent movements,
snatched the hand which hung at her side, opened it--studied its pink
palm. It had been carefully tended, but it bore unmistakable marks of
hard usage.
"It seems to me that I have married the wrong woman," he said, letting
it fall again. "It was your mother who ought to have been made to
suffer."
"Mother has suffered a great deal," murmured Virginia.
He thrust his hands deep in his pockets, walked away, across the room,
came back slowly, paused, staring at her.
"Tell me, for God's sake, what made you consent to such a marriage as
this?"
She made a backward movement away from him, her eyes blazing, her
temper high. "I did _not_ consent--I never consented to such a
marriage as this!"
She was in act to go out of the room. He put himself in the way. "What
then? What did you expect?"
"I will not speak of it to you!"
"You will speak of what I please!" As she made to pass him, he took her
by both arms, holding her before him. "You are to tell me what induced
you to agree to marry me."
"Why should I tell you when you do not believe what I say?"
"You tell me--I'll believe or not, as I see fit. Out with it!"
She once more checked the hysterical sobs that threatened her.
"You--you had once loved mother," she said slowly. "You knew that she
preferred another man. I am like her. You saw me; it brought back to
you that bygone love. I supposed that you were attracted."
She paused.
"But what of yourself? Your own feeling in the matter? I want to get at
that."
"It was only a question of me," she muttered, "and it was giving myself
up for them. I--you see, I could do nothing." In spite of her control
sobs began to shake her voice. "It was hopeless; we were at the
end----" She broke off to summon fresh nerve. He stood immovable,
holding her, compelling her, as it were, to continue.
"The end of your resources?"
She nodded. "And nearly the end of my strength too. I was afraid that,
if I took a place anywhere, my health would give way. I was afraid--a
coward!" Suddenly her own emotion gave her words and steadied her
voice. "I ought to have gone on--just died, and trusted God to care for
them! But, oh, you have never known--never thought of what it means--to
have the ones you love, your own, your darlings--destitute, and to know
that you--can't go on much longer.... As for you"--she looked him
squarely in the eyes, her own full of scorn--"how could I have guessed
that a man like you could be? A man who could find pleasure in
bullying, browbeating the helpless girl he had sworn to love?"
"Ha!" he said, "so you break out at last, do you? How dare you speak to
me like that? I shall punish you for it. You haven't read that letter
yet. Give it me."
She held Pansy's as yet unread epistle crushed in her left hand.
Without reflecting, she snatched it to her breast, covering it with her
other hand. In a whirlwind of some blind fury which he could not
analyse he took it from her, using force to unclasp her fingers.
There was a tussle--momentary only--then she stood free of him in the
middle of the room, a wild look on her face, glancing this way and that
as if for escape. He stood before the one door, the other was locked.
Like a flame blown out by a puff of wind her passion died as the
knowledge of her own desperate case overflooded her. Turning away with
a long-drawn moan she crouched down in a big chair, hiding her face,
giving way to her despair unrestrained.
In a minute or two she heard his voice, harsh and broken, speaking
close to her. "Why did you provoke me? You shouldn't; it's dangerous,"
he growled hurriedly. "Here, take your letter; here it is"--pushing it
into her hands. "Stop crying, can you? or conceal your face. Here comes
Hemming with the tea."
At the admonition she sprang to her feet, and he saw the pathos of her
pale, tear-washed cheeks. With a swift movement she ran to the
writing-table, seated herself thereat, and bent down her face as if
busily occupied. Gaunt placed himself beside her, leaning partly over,
as if watching what she wrote; and upon the domestic tableau the
servant entered with his tray.