NO PLACE OF REPENTANCE
"_The moving finger writes; and, having writ,
Moves on. Nor all your piety nor wit
Can lure it back to cancel half a line,
Nor all your tears wash out a word of it._"
--Omar Khayyam.
Next morning, when Virginia's breakfast-tray went up, there lay upon it
a fat envelope, addressed to her in pencil by Gaunt. It contained a
packet of bank-notes, with the intimation that this was her first
quarter's allowance of pocket-money. He added that he should expect her
to keep an account of what she spent, and that her account-book should
be accessible to him on demand.
He hardly knew how to describe the impulse which made him throw in that
stipulation. It came primarily from a desire to gloat over the beauties
of this character so suddenly revealed to him. He wanted to know what
proportion of his somewhat lavish gift was spent upon herself, and how
much went to the shark at Laburnum Villa.
There was another lurking idea. He could not, or, rather, would not,
fling away his control over her while as yet he had no other ties with
which to bind her to himself. Had he yielded to his first impulse, and
thrown himself at her feet for pardon, the result could be easily
forecast. She would give him a gentle, chilly forgiveness, and he would
have to step back and let her go, see her pass away altogether, without
any knowledge of him, ignorant of what manner of man he really was.
If he abandoned his present position entirely, he must, logically,
admit that he had no more right to her than the nearest man breaking
stones in the road. She would stoop to bestow forgiveness, and then
depart; and it dawned upon him that, embarrassing though her presence
had now become, her absence would be worse. These few days of her
sojourn had already wrought a subtle change in all about him. When he
met Grover coming upstairs with a tray, her face wore a look of
interest, of sympathy, which he had never before observed. She had
taken to putting flowers about the rooms--a wholly new departure at
Omberleigh. Only that morning he had caught Mrs. Wells half-way
upstairs with a sheepish expression of countenance, and something
concealed under her apron, which, on inquiry, was admitted to be
kittens, the mistress having expressed a desire for their company.
After the woman had passed, he lingered on the stairs, heard her
admitted, heard the little spontaneous exclamation of pleasure which
greeted the appearance of the babes. The chattering, laughing voices of
Wells and Grover were blended with a faint mewing. It was all very
childish, and as he went down he thought he scorned it. But if it were
all to cease?
These considerations, formless and not consciously held, were, as a
fact, of more weight with him than even the other aspect of the
question--the scandal that would arise, the talk that must ensue, the
contemptuous pity that he might receive--should his marriage experiment
abruptly terminate at the end of so brief a trial. Just then he saw no
way to end the present situation. He must wait and allow it to develop.
He must make further proof of the spotless integrity of his wife. She
was not strong enough to face a scene as yet. He could not see clearly,
his thoughts were confused. For the first time in twenty years he found
himself no longer pursuing one aim with reckless disregard of
everything else, but fumbling, hesitating, uncertain what to do.
He was a J.P., and this was his day for sitting on the bench. He had a
long way to drive to the court. It was an important occasion, since
there had been considerable disorder in Hoadlam, a large manufacturing
town, and many of those implicated came from his own district. Gaunt's
knowledge of law was valuable to his fellow magistrates, and he had had
the previous day a note from Lord St. Aukmund congratulating him on his
marriage, but begging him not to let his honeymoon prevent him from
attending that day. This note Gaunt enclosed with the bank-notes to his
wife, telling her that he must be away all day. He added:
_If Mrs. Ferris asks you again to go out with her, I should advise
your accepting if you feel well enough._
That day was pouring wet, and he reached home so late that it seemed
wrong to disturb Virginia. The next morning Hugh Caunter came for him
before seven o'clock. The flooding of the meadow where the tree had
fallen had become serious. Gaunt arose and went out, breakfasted with
Caunter at his house, and did not get home till nearly noon. He
returned by the uphill avenue which approached the house by way of the
garden--that avenue down which he had plunged in the moonlight, trying
to allay the disorder of his mind after reading Virginia's letter.
As he walked somewhat slowly up the road, which grew steeper as it
entered the garden, he heard the sound of voices on the breeze. The
morning, which had broken cloudy, had developed into a fine, warm day.
The heavy rain of yesterday had brought out the scents of the flowers,
and the very earth was fragrant. On the terrace, in a lounge chair, lay
Virginia, and Joey Ferris was sitting near, relating something in her
loud, hearty tones, some story which brought laughter from the
listening girl.
Gaunt's heart began to thump. He had not seen her since his treachery
and subsequent conversion. He left the avenue and struck into a path
which would bring him to where they sat. The chair in which his wife
was placed had a striped awning to keep her from the sun. She therefore
wore no hat. He thought her more like a patron saint--a Virgin
martyr--than ever. The background might have been the canopy in some
old Florentine painting, with a glimpse of flowery garden seen beyond.
He had the mortification of seeing the laughter wiped from her face as
she caught sight of him.
"There is my husband," said she to Joey; and Mrs. Ferris jumped up, too
eager to shower congratulations upon the bridegroom to heed the
expression of either face.
She ran along the terrace to meet him, intercepted him, shook hands as
with the handle of a pump, shouted her chaff upon his change of
attitude towards things feminine. He bore it marvellously, managing to
approach nearer Virginia's chair while the storm broke over him. As
soon as he could get in a word:
"You are very good," he said, "and I expect I deserve all you say. Men,
after all, are only very moderately intelligent animals, you know. They
have to wait until some lady takes enough interest in them to teach
them these things. But forgive me a moment--I had to go out before
seven this morning, and have not seen my wife. I must just ask her how
she is."
He drew up a chair close to the couch, and took an unwilling hand in
his. Things psychological did not, as a rule, interest him, but now he
found himself wondering how it was possible to withdraw all response
from a warm, living hand so that it should lie in one's own like
something dead.
"How are you this morning?" he asked.
His eyes seemed to her to be imploring her to play up, not to allow
Mrs. Ferris to suppose that she was scared. "Why, you can see how much
better I am," she answered, responding to the unspoken desire, but
withdrawing her hand from his clasp. "Here am I out here in the
sunshine, and it is so nice. I am planning what you ought to do with
this terrace garden. Mrs. Ferris is fond of gardens, too."
"Indeed!" He turned politely to Joey. "You're not satisfied with mine,
either of you, that's evident," he said, with an immense effort to be
friendly.
"Oh, it isn't my place to criticise," laughed Joey gaily. "But Mrs.
Gaunt has got taste. She says she has been lying at her window, the
past few days, thinking what she could do here; and if it was done,
you'd have the show-garden of the county!"
"If she wants it done, you may feel pretty sure it will be done," said
Gaunt; and he saw the slight curl of the mouth he was watching, at what
Virginia took to be a cruel bit of mockery. "I am much indebted to you,
Mrs. Ferris, for coming to cheer up my girl," he went on hurriedly.
"She is doing a kind of rest-cure, you know, and it's rather hard
lines, both on her and me. However, it is very necessary. She has been
overtaxing her strength for months, and we must be patient until she is
quite strong again."
"You're a regular trump," replied Joey with warmth. "You bet she'll
pick up soon enough in this air, and with everything she wants. I am
coming to fetch her in the motor this afternoon. Shall you mind if I
take her home to tea? I want to show her my kiddies."
He expressed his entire willingness that they should amuse themselves
as they liked, and for some minutes the talk sounded almost natural.
"Have you pressed Mrs. Ferris to stay to lunch, Virginia?" asked Gaunt
after ten minutes' chat.
She lifted her eyes to his as she answered quite shortly: "No."
"But, of course, you understand that we shall insist upon your
staying?" said Gaunt almost courteously to the visitor.
"Jolly nice of you, but can't be done," replied Joey. "Got my old man
and the kiddies to consider. They have a kind of idea that they can't
eat their food unless I'm there. I must be off at once." She stood up.
"You see, I came on foot, through the woods, and I must get back,
because I have to bring round the car, and also to get my big coat.
Mind you see that your Dresden china there is well wrapped up, won't
you?"
"It must be over a mile through the woods," objected Gaunt, rising.
"Let me order the cart----"
She cut him short. "Bless the man! What's a mile? I do it in ten. I'm
as strong as a horse. No, you don't come with me. Stop along o' your
missus. I know every step of the way."
He accompanied her to the end of the terrace, saw her run down the hill
and disappear through the little gate into the woods. Then he came
slowly back to where his wife lay awaiting him with lowered lids. She
was softly stroking two of the kittens who lay curled into balls in her
lap.
He sat down again beside her. His vicinity made her quiver, but she
controlled her nerves valiantly.
"Thank you for the note you sent me yesterday," she said, "and the
enclosure. I do not want so large an allowance as you are giving me."
"Try it for a year," he told her. "If it is too much, you need not
spend it. Save it up against a rainy day."
"_A year!_" The words escaped her unawares. It was as if she said,
"_A century!_" Well, he had told her it was a life-sentence. The
prospect of that future made the sunshine dim, and for a moment she
felt as though she could not bear it.
"While we are on the subject," he went on, ignoring the faint cry,
though he heard it well enough, "I mean the subject of allowances, I am
wondering whether I am allowing your mother enough. Since I saw you
first I have let Lissendean at a very good rent, and I have been
thinking I might spare another hundred----"
"Stop!" She was quite white--even her lips lost colour. "On no
account!" she gasped. "It is quite enough--more than enough! You have
bought me and paid the price. It is done with. I can't talk about it."
Her pallor frightened him. "By all means, if it affects you so," he
replied at once. "I certainly don't want to bother you. Sorry I blunder
so badly. Let us talk of something else. How did you get downstairs
this morning?"
"Hemming was very clever. He remembered that the old ladies who lived
here had a carrying-chair, and he found it in the coach-house. He
scrubbed it, and Grover and he carried me down quite easily."
"Here comes Hemming to say that our lunch is ready," he broke in. "I
can carry you indoors."
"Oh, no, no, please!" she broke out in distaste which she could not
control. "Hemming is bringing the chair. Don't trouble yourself--I can
easily----"
Hemming was quite near, so Gaunt made no further protest. Grover had
likewise appeared, and soon had the invalid carefully placed in the
chair.
"Doctor said this morning that 'twould do her no harm to put her feet
down for meals, provided she don't stand on 'em," she remarked; and the
two men picked up and carried the light weight into the house.
There was little embarrassment during lunch, for they were not
_tete-a-tete_. Grover and Hemming seemed to be hovering about Mrs.
Gaunt all the time with little dishes specially prepared, and they did
not withdraw finally until the cheese was on the table. Then, indeed,
silence dropped deeply. Evidently Virginia had come to the end of her
former policy. He was to have no more "prattle." She sat quite silent,
sipping her prescribed champagne and eating a biscuit.
Gaunt lit a cigarette, and smoked for a few minutes without attempting
conversation. Then he rose, laying the stump carefully in his plate,
and came to the hearth-rug, half-way between his place and hers.
"You would like to go up to your room and rest before getting ready for
your drive?" he asked.
"Presently, thank you--when Hemming comes back."
"I can carry you quite easily. I should like to."
"I would rather not. Please let me wait."
He came a step nearer. "Is it that you don't want to give me trouble,
or that you won't let me touch you?" he asked with a sort of
breathlessness.
"Oh, of course, because you must not take the trouble," she faltered
hastily, not daring to say that his other surmise was the truth. The
sequel to this hollow politeness was what she might have imagined.
"Then I shall take you."
He came close up, and she gave a little cry, rather like a small furry
thing in a trap. The sound caused him to lose his head, and determine
to do as he liked. Stooping, he placed his arms under her securely.
"Put your arms round my neck," he bade her curtly. She obeyed, as she
had schooled herself to obey every direct order given by him.
He stood upright, raising her in his arms, and strode from the room
with her. He could actually hear the pulsings of her heart against his
ear, and the hurry of her panting, sobbing breath.
He _was_ her husband, and he _was_ going to carry her
upstairs, if he chose!
He did so without difficulty, and laid her down carefully upon the sofa
in her room, looking with a wistfulness almost pitiful, had she seen
it, upon her sick, averted face. Was there nothing--absolutely
nothing--that he could say or do to wipe out the bitterness of his
former conduct?
He took a turn through the room, walked to the window, stared moodily
out upon the garden. He had an impulse to say to her: "The garden is
yours, do as you like with it--order what you like--plan, direct,
assume command." But what would that avail? See how she had received
his lavish gift of money, his offer of an increased allowance to her
mother! He had put himself out of court.
There were sounds of panting, and Grover's substantial foot caused the
stairs to creak. She entered, flushed but beaming.
"If I didn't say so to Hemming! I says: 'See if he doesn't take and
carry her up himself,' I says," she remarked brightly. "Now, ma'am, I
suppose you will wear the dear little motor-bonnet and veil; but the
puzzle is--what are you going to do for a coat? There isn't a thick one
in all your things!"
Gaunt exploded in the window. "Great Scott, what do you suppose you are
for, but to look to your mistress's things and see that she has what
she wants?" he cried. "The moment you have finished dressing her, you
sit down and write to London for fur coats--sable, seal--whatever she
prefers, and make them send down a consignment to look at. Or perhaps I
had better do it myself, as you seem so incompetent." He turned
fiercely to Virginia, whom sheer surprise had caused to sit up and
stare. "You shall have a coat by to-night, if I go to London for it
myself!" he stormed.
"Please, Osbert," said her clear voice, "you don't understand. I have a
white serge coat which is warm enough for to-day, and you have given me
plenty of money to buy myself a thicker one."
"There now, and I put it to air in the work-room," muttered Grover, who
had stood like what is known as a "stuck pig" during her master's
outburst, and who now hurried from the room, divided between laughter
and anxiety.
"No wonder he's beside himself; but he shouldn't shout like that," she
thought. "It's my belief he frightens her, and she won't get well while
that goes on. Poor chap!"
Meanwhile, Gaunt, swept on by the impulse to do or say something that
might please, was floundering worse than ever. "You must have a good
coat," he hectored, standing over the sofa. "You can't buy that sort of
thing out of a dress-allowance. I will give you one. I'll see that you
have what's necessary. You mustn't risk taking a chill----"
With a kind of bound she sat up, her hands clenched upon the cushions
that supported her. Her expression checked his words in mid-flow.
"Stop, stop--you must _stop_!" she cried piercingly, "or I don't
know what will happen! You think a woman is a thing you can beat, swear
at, insult, and then appease with presents! Didn't I tell you I would
have no gifts from you? I'll bear your unkindness, but I won't take
your presents! If you could understand--oh, how can I make you
understand?"
Lifting her hands, she held them before her, glaring upon them as if
they were contaminated. Fumbling in her vehement haste, she pulled off
her wedding-ring and both the others which he had given her, and flung
them upon the floor at his feet. "I wear them when I must," she sobbed
out; "but at night I tear them off! I shake myself free of them, and
then I feel clean--clean at last! I lie down in bed and tell myself
that I am just Virgie Mynors again--as I used to be--ill, hungry,
penniless--but clean! _Clean!_"
As suddenly as she had upreared herself she collapsed, hid her face and
lay prone while the sobbing tore her and shook her slight frame.
He stood some seconds motionless. Her outburst seemed to have frozen
him. Then, in silence, he picked up her rings, laid them on the little
table at her side, and walked away into his own room, shutting the door
behind him.