THE TREATMENT BREAKS DOWN
"_Oh, do not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one._"--Donne.
The otter hounds were out, and Mr. Ferris was driving his wife in the
car to the meet. The gentleman was in capital humour, for he knew how
acceptable a companion he would prove to everybody this morning; being,
so far as he knew, the only person who had yet actually beheld the
romantic creature who had conquered that hard and woman-hating
bachelor, Gaunt of Omberleigh.
"I wonder if she'll hunt?" remarked Joey. "Gaunt's a good horseman in
spite of his lameness. Just fancy seeing him about this winter with a
pretty wife in tow! It's simply too rippin'--best news I've heard for a
long time."
"Hallo! Who's this riding the wrong way?" said her husband suddenly.
"If it isn't the doctor. Hallo, Dymock, where are you off to on such a
grand morning?" he cried, stopping the engine.
"Give you three guesses," said Dymock, drawing rein with a grin on his
clever, keen face. "But you won't guess in fifty."
"Got it in one," shouted Joey. "You're going to Omberleigh, I can see
it in your eye."
"You're a wizard, Mrs. Ferris. Have you seen her, then?"
"What, the bride? You don't say you're going to see her?"
"I saw her yesterday," burst in Percy, "and she looked as well
as--well, as health itself."
"Old Gaunt is not satisfied, however," replied Dymock. "It's probably
nothing much, but he says she seems a bit run down. I suppose I must
expect to be sent for if her little finger aches."
"Sure," laughed Ferris. "He looks as if he wishes he could cause her to
become invisible when any one of the male sex is passing by. Just the
age to make a fool of himself, isn't he? Well, if you're passing our
way later, look in, won't you?"
"You'll be wasting your whisky, Ferris. I don't give away my patients."
Ferris grinned. "Welcome, anyway," he said, as he and his wife drove on.
Dr. Dymock pursued his road, his mind as he rode up through the
pinewoods being filled with as lively a curiosity as even the couple
from Perley Hatch confessed to feeling. What like was the girl--for
Ferris said she was a girl, and beautiful at that--who could have
married Gaunt?
Hemming showed him into the study. It surprised him vaguely to find the
house as untidy and dingy as usual--the abode of a woman-hating
bachelor, untouched by the coming of a fair young mistress. Certainly
the affair had been very sudden.
Gaunt joined him almost at once, his own appearance just as normal and
unchanged as that of his house.
"I must begin with hearty congratulations," observed the doctor,
shaking hands cordially. "Ferris, it appears, caught a glimpse of Mrs.
Gaunt yesterday, and he says she is perfectly lovely."
"Thanks. Yes, my wife is certainly pretty, but I fear she is not very
strong. As I think I hinted to you in my note, she was bitten with the
idea which infects many girls nowadays--this notion of taking up Work,
with a capital W. She has been scrubbing floors and cooking
meals--laying tables and lighting fires. It has been quite too much for
her. She told me nothing of it, and I was inconsiderate enough to take
her a long ramble over the estate yesterday. She was so done up
afterwards that I persuaded her to stay in bed to-day until you had
seen her."
It was frankly and quite pleasantly said. The doctor applauded the
new-made husband's care, and was taken upstairs, under Grover's escort,
to the room where his patient lay.
He was not a man observant of details, but it struck even him that
these were curious surroundings for a modern bride.
Since his inheritance of the property from his great aunt, the survivor
of four aged sisters, Gaunt had not thought of touching or altering
anything.
The big bedstead on which Virginia lay was what used to be known as a
"tester." It had a wooden canopy, and hangings of washed-out chintz.
There was an early Victorian mahogany wardrobe, big, heavy, ugly, and
commodious. The rest of the furniture was in keeping. However, plenty
of sunshine came in through the long windows, and there was a bunch of
roses on a small table near the bed.
With her hair tumbling about her, Mrs. Gaunt looked like a child. He
had a moment's horror as he met the nervous, shrinking dread in her
lovely eyes. Was this a tragedy?
"I had no idea," stammered the patient, "no idea that my--husband had
sent for a doctor. There is no need, I am well, I am only a little
tired."
"Just what he told me," said Dymock good-humouredly. "I expect you are
both right. You can't wonder at his being a bit anxious, can you?" He
glanced up humorously at Grover, who had evidently had strict orders to
remain, and who stood primly by the bed. She smiled, however, at his
question.
"Indeed, sir, I think the master is quite right. Mrs. Gaunt is
thoroughly overdone," said she. "I daresay he told you, sir, as he told
us, that she has been going in for this here domestic science work.
Young ladies like her, sir, is not fit for it. If you'll believe me,
she has been actually washing clothes! That is, she says she had in a
woman to help, but it's a sin, sir, for the likes of her. However, now
we've put our foot down"--she cast a glance of real kindness at the
wistful creature lying there. "There's plenty of us here, sir, to wait
on her, hand and foot; and in a few days you'll see she'll be a
different thing--a different thing altogether. It is her knees I want
you to look at particular, sir, after you've took her pulse, of course."
* * * * *
When the doctor came downstairs the bridegroom was standing at the hall
door, his hands deep thrust in his pockets, gazing out gloomily over
the thick and shadowy pinewood.
As Dymock approached, he turned, fixing his eyes upon him. The doctor
stood, drawing on his riding gloves, and did not at first speak.
"Well?" said Gaunt at last, with an odd air of exploding.
"Well, I am a little puzzled. No doubt there is debility as a result of
overwork, but there is more than that. To tell you the actual truth,
your wife has been starving herself. You see, that is a queer,
unnatural symptom. When a healthy girl starves herself, it means one of
two things. Either her nerves are all to pieces--she is what we call
hysterical--or in the alternative--why, she simply hasn't been able to
get enough to eat. Now your wife shows no sign of hysteria that I can
see, except for the undoubted fact that she is under-nourished. So----"
Gaunt folded his arms and looked away. "Dymock," he said unwillingly,
"one's doctor keeps one's secrets--eh?"
Dymock raised his clear steady eyes and looked full at him. "I do," was
all he said.
"Well, I fear it is true, that she is under-fed and over-worked. It has
been cruel. I had no idea myself. She looks so, somehow, so unlike
that."
"Yes, indeed. You mean that her over-exertion has been necessary?"
"I do."
"Well, I thought as much," replied Dymock, after a pause. "Some
unscrupulous employer, I suppose. A good thing you rescued her. She is
perfectly healthy and sound, but she won't be anything like robust for
some time yet. I am forbidding solid food at present. She must have
nourishment every two hours--eggs beaten up in milk, port wine, strong
soup, Benger's food--things like that. In a few days her appetite will
return. But meanwhile she must be left perfectly quiet, Gaunt--you
understand?"
"I understand perfectly. I give you my word for that."
"It won't be for long," said Dymock consolingly. "She is young, and she
will pick up fast in this good air; her convalescence will be twice as
rapid if you are considerate. She is in a state of acute nervous
tension, and must be soothed; kept happy and quiet."
"Perhaps," said Gaunt, after a long pause, "it would be better if I do
not see her at all, just at present. What do you think?"
"It all depends. Does it excite her to see you?"
"It might. Our marriage was sudden, you know. She hardly knows me."
"I think it should depend upon what she would like. Might it not
distress her that you should keep away?"
"Perhaps."
"In a few days," went on the doctor, "she ought to go out, if it can be
managed without her putting her feet to the ground. You have no motor,
have you?"
"No."
"See here, Gaunt--forgive me if this sounds like interference, but the
fact of your never having had any ladies to the house--your well-known
tastes, or distastes--make things a bit difficult for your wife. She is
all alone--there's nobody to come and see her, or cheer her up. I am
going to make a bold suggestion. Young Mrs. Ferris is simply bursting
with hospitable intentions, and, though she is a bit of a rough
diamond, she is one of the best. They have a motor, and she has nothing
else to do. Let me send her round in a day or two to call upon Mrs.
Gaunt?"
Gaunt's brow lowered. "A woman with a voice like a fog-horn----"
"No beauty, I grant you, but a real good sort, and your only near
neighbour. Let her drive Mrs. Gaunt about, show her the Peak, take her
shopping to Buxton, import some light literature from the circulating
library--something to pass the time."
"It may be that you are right," replied Gaunt after some hesitation. "I
don't want visitors yet, but if Mrs. Ferris would understand that she
is quite an exception----"
"It would double her desire to be of use," laughed the doctor. "Well,
good day. I'll send along a tonic, and I think I should like to see
your wife again to-morrow."
"Come as often as you think wise."
The clatter of the hoofs of the doctor's mare died away along the
wooded aisles. Gaunt remained standing, his head bent, his hands locked
behind his back. He hardly knew what he felt, what dominating impulse
would emerge out of the present confusion of a mind which for more than
twenty years had been swayed by one sole idea.
The surroundings upon which his moody gaze was fixed were the scene of
that accident which had done much to warp his temperament, to give a
twist to a disposition which from birth had been passionate and what is
known as "difficult." The kind of boy who would have been saved by the
devotion of a mother who understood him, he had been left doubly an
orphan at an age so early that he had but a confused memory even of his
mother's face. His old great-aunts at Omberleigh knew nothing of boys.
During his summer vacation he stayed with them and ran wild among the
men servants.
He was about fifteen years old, a wilful, even violent-tempered lad,
when he disobeyed a direct order by going for a ride upon the bailiff's
horse, an uncertain-tempered brute, who could be controlled only by his
master. Contrary to his own expectation, all had gone well. He was
returning in triumph up the drive, off his guard, exulting in his
successful bit of disobedience, when something white rushed across the
road. It was a shirt, blown from an adjacent clothes-line by the fury
of the gale, and flying upon the wind like some wild ghost, flapping,
rolling, staggering. As if in sheer malice, it shot out from among the
tree-trunks, and wrapped itself momentarily over the eyes of the
outraged steed, which swerved, terrified, and bolted into the wood.
Madly the creature strove to thrust itself in between the close-growing
pines. Pluckily the boy clung to his seat, though knocked violently
against one obstacle after another in his hurtling progress. Finally,
the horse attempted to rush through a narrow space between two extra
strong and large trees, and the rider came off, but not before one leg
had been horribly crushed in the struggle.
His right knee proved to be so badly lacerated that amputation was at
first thought inevitable. By the skill of the surgeon this was
obviated, but the snapping of a tendon produced a life-long stiffness
of the joint and for a year or two prevented his indulging in any kind
of athletics.
The isolation of mind and body which resulted fostered his already
existing tendency to morbidity. At Oxford he withdrew himself as much
as he could from society, becoming more morose as his former friends,
tired of being repulsed, left him by degrees more and more to himself.
At Oxford, one Commemoration week, he met the beautiful Virginia
Sheringham, and fell so violently in love that his natural reserve was
swept out of sight, and he conquered by sheer force of will. This girl
became his idol, his universe, his obsession. For her he would work
unceasingly, remove mountains, make a name, make a fortune.
Perhaps he should have thought himself lucky that so fascinating a
young lady endured a whole year of so unpromising an engagement. At
first she was taken off her feet by the violence of his passion, the
impetuosity of his wooing. Very soon, however, her natural prudence
began to get the upper hand. What, she very properly asked herself,
could be the outcome of this long-drawn affair? The love-letters which
at first had been so irresistible, inevitably palled on repetition.
Moreover, one cannot buy new frocks with love-letters. Perhaps she
announced the end of it all too suddenly. Yet it is doubtful whether
any preliminary hinting could have made Osbert believe that his adored
one could possibly be contemplating the treachery of jilting him.
The thing was done. It had to be done, for Virginia had given her lover
a whole year, and a maiden's market is short. Unfortunately, the young
man involved belonged to that pitiable but happily small minority with
whom to love seems final, who cannot rally from the blow given by the
beloved hand.
Everything was against Gaunt's recovery. He had no friends. His nearest
relatives were the old great-aunts at Omberleigh, who understood him
not at all, and liked him but little. During his engagement he flung
away every other interest, every other resource, to give himself up to
the passion which filled him. His jilting was for him the end of all
things. For the first few years he disappeared from England, became a
special correspondent at out-of-the-way spots such as Valparaiso,
visited such outposts of empire as the Solomon Islands. Then the last
surviving aunt passed away from Omberleigh. He found that the place was
his, and he decided to occupy it, since he had formed a plan which
needed residence in England for its maturing.
He had thought, during those years of wandering, upon one subject only.
The behaviour of Virginia Sheringham had been brought to the bar of his
judgment. She had been tried, and found guilty on every count. She had
been treacherous, light, covetous, cruel, selfish, and callous. For
these things he decided that she deserved punishment. Why should he
suffer as for years he had suffered, while the criminal went scot free?
He had money now. Money was power. One day his turn would come. He
could wait for it.
As the waiting went on he grew used to it. He lived in an atmosphere of
it. One day this long-planned thing would happen, this long-prepared
design would materialise. He hardly noticed the flight of the years. He
hardly noticed any material or outward circumstances, except the
development of his land. He lived in the nursing, the contemplation,
the fondling, of an idea of future vengeance and retribution, when
Virginia Sheringham should be at his mercy, and should plead to
him--and plead in vain.
When at last the scheme did really mature, when the mortgage fell in,
he could hardly realise that this had actually happened. He felt dazed,
like a man who has lived for years in the dark when he is faced with
sudden daylight.
It was all happening so ludicrously as he had foreseen. Mrs. Mynors had
found out who was the mortgagee, and she had made an appeal--just the
kind of appeal he had expected. He found himself taking a ticket for a
journey to London for the first time during years.
There was nothing to do in London. To wait patiently there was by no
means the easy matter that it was in the country, in the midst of his
own work upon his own land. To occupy himself he went and saw pictures.
He had a taste for pictures, though he never indulged it by buying any.
This it was which brought him to Hertford House, and suggested to him a
totally new idea--an idea so brilliant, and yet so horrible, that it
attracted and repelled him both at once. The shock of the sight of
Virginia the younger was so great as partially to unnerve him. Her
daughter! He had never thought about her children, except when the
death of her son and heir, by means of the motor accident, had appeared
in the paper, and he had been glad.
Now here was something like a resurrection of the Virginia of twenty
years ago. He contemplated her, considered her, appraised her. The
whole appearance of her was to him the top-note of luxury,
extravagance, affectation. Long residence in the country, avoidance of
women, had made him unaccustomed to the growing call for elaborate
taste in feminine attire. He had never seen anything like the slim
perfection of Virginia. He listened while girl-like she prattled of the
costumes of the pictured women on the walls. He heard her wonder
gravely whether she could wear rose-colour and contrast her own style
with that of her friend!
She stood, to the man who glowered upon her, for the incarnation of a
type. She was the temptress woman, who would, as her mother had done,
enslave and then forsake. Could he prevent the life-long unhappiness of
some unfortunate man, by exerting his own will, his own wealth to get
the siren into his power?
He marked the arrival of Gerald Rosenberg. His faculties, sharpened to
the point of brilliance by his own keen personal hatred, discerned the
situation between the two young people. Upon the upshot of it depended
all his own plans. If Gerald hesitated--if he took time for
reflection--then Gaunt would have a chance to carry out a scheme of
retribution more complete than anything of which he had yet dreamed. In
his pocket was a letter from his old love--a letter which he described
to himself as loathsome. It told him, practically, that she was his for
the asking. What a buffet in the face for her, if he should propose for
her daughter! And what a hold upon the entire family if he could catch
the mercenary young adventuress, and keep her caged, and mould her to
his will!
And it had all happened so marvellously according to his plan.
He succeeded not merely as well as he hoped, but far more easily. He
was met more than half-way, both by mother and daughter. Gerald
Rosenberg had evidently hung fire. The dressed-up doll which looked so
fair and innocent was ready to consent to the sale of herself--to the
shameful bargain which he had proposed. So he had taken her hand--led
her into the steel jaws of his trap. It had closed upon her, and she
lay at the bottom, lacerated, helpless, awaiting the moment when her
captor should come and devour her.
He felt as might a hunter, who, having laid a snare for a man-eating
tigress, comes creeping through the woods at dawn, and finds the pit
occupied by a strayed lamb.
From the moment of reading the two letters which yesterday had passed
between the sisters, he knew that his weapon had broken in his hand.
The dreadful thing was that, having made captive this helpless
creature, towards whom his ill-will was no longer active, he was unable
to release her.
And what could he do with her?
He had saddled himself for life with a female companion, of whom he had
no need at all. What satisfaction could be derived from asserting his
mastery over one so weak, so submissive, so--so confoundedly childish?
As to making friends with her, the prospects of that were not
encouraging. His treatment of her yesterday must have made a deep
impression. Besides, he felt within himself no hankering at all after a
_rapprochement_. Since his wife could not feed his hate, nor
satisfy his vengeance, he had, quite frankly, no use for her.
Yet she was there. What was he to do with her?
As the endless complications--the annoying changes to be wrought in his
life by the introduction of such trying persons as Joey Ferris into his
hitherto unmolested retreat--as all this swept over him, he realised
that he had overshot his mark and landed himself in unforeseen
difficulties and vexations. Some gratifications still remained--for
instance, the prospect of reading and of answering his mother-in-law's
first letter, appealing for more money! Ah, that still lay in the
future, along with her inevitable suggestion that she should come for a
"nice long visit" to Omberleigh, and his blunt refusal of her company!
In her, at least, he had not been mistaken. It was only in the case of
this artless, babyish creature upstairs that he had made such an ass of
himself.
Shrugging his shoulders, he turned slowly away from the doorway, and
betook himself to his study. There he sat down and wrote a message.
_The doctor tells me you need rest, and should be left quite quiet.
That being so, I feel sure that I had better keep away altogether. But
there is something I have to say, so will you, for the sake of
appearances, grant me a few minutes' conversation this afternoon.
Choose your own time.--O. G._