WHAT COMES NEXT?
"_But, ah! for a man to arise in me,
That the man I am may cease to be!_"--Tennyson.
Joey was in her garden next morning, tying up dahlias, whose heads,
heavy with bloom, were beginning to droop, when she caught sight of the
doctor crossing the lawn.
"Hallo!" she said cheerfully, pushing back her untidy hair from her
red, hot face. "How are you? Been to Omberleigh? Does she want to
change the time of her drive?"
"She sent no message," he replied, when he had shaken hands. "I have
come to see you 'on my own,' as I expect you would put it. I want to
say something to you."
"Cough it up," said Joey, speaking lightly enough, but with a change of
expression--a dawning of apprehension in her little, unexpressive eyes,
which the doctor knew and was always sorry to see.
"Nothing serious," he told her in a hurry. "Don't jump so to
conclusions, Joey. This is merely medical orders. You must keep Ferris
away when you are in charge of Mrs. Gaunt, please."
Joey stooped over the garden bed to pick up her hank of bass and bundle
of sticks. When she arose, her face was even redder. "Well," she said,
"it isn't easy to tell Percy to keep out of his own car."
The doctor looked at her with eyes of friendly pity and sympathy. He
had known her from childhood, and had brought her three children into
the world. He saw more of the workings of the household at Perley Hatch
than anybody else in the neighbourhood.
"I know it isn't," he answered, "but if it can't be done, say so, and
Mrs. Gaunt must give up her tours with you. I may say that I suggested
them at first not for her sake only. I thought a friend of your own
sex, within reach, would be such a happy chance for you."
Joey had turned and strolled at his side towards a garden seat. They
sat down, she with her habitual inelegance, her legs wide apart, her
thick garden boots firmly planted on the gravel.
"I like her," she burst out with energy. "I like her to rights. She's
got no nonsense about her; you should have seen her with the kiddies
yesterday! I should hate to lose her! But what harm can poor old Percy
do her? Of course he's in love with her, but so he is with every pretty
woman he sees. And it is such a good thing"--she broke off here, her
thick mouth quivering. The doctor in his compassion understood as well
as if she had finished the sentence. The thought in her mind was--"it
is such a good thing for him to be interested in a woman of our own
class, where no harm can come of it, rather than in the daughter of the
publican in Buxton, in whose bar he has spent half the day for the past
month."
"Mrs. Gaunt is quite an invalid, Joey," Dymock told her gently. "It
disturbs her to be introduced to strangers. Her own husband is behaving
like a trump, and you must see quite well that I'm not going to let
your husband step in and spoil things. She has got to be kept perfectly
quiet, and if you can do that you may be with her. If not--if you can't
guarantee to keep off Ferris--why the motor drives must stop. Gaunt is
getting a car for her, but there will be some delay."
Joey sat still, saying nothing, gazing straight before her for a while,
and Dymock waited with perfect patience.
"I thought," she began slowly, "when Gaunt got married, what a
difference it might make to me supposing she was somebody I could
cotton to. If he was more approachable, not such a disagreeable chap,
Percy would have somewhere to go--somebody to speak to about his cave
and his mining scheme. You know all Percy wants is something to do,
something to fill up his mind. Old Percy's all right, isn't he, doctor?
Only he gets bored. He's awfully struck with Mrs. Gaunt; and, you see,
like everybody else, I have tried to grind my own axe instead of
thinking only about her."
"Joey, you're a trump," replied the doctor heartily. "I see your point
of view, and there's nothing against it, except that you must wait a
few days--say a few weeks--before starting in. You may tell Percy that
he must lie low or he will spoil his own chance with Gaunt. If that
gentleman heard that he had been trying to make the running with
madame, he would send the lead-mine to blazes. Can you get that into
Ferris's head?"
"Yes," she replied more hopefully, "I think I could. He must hold off a
bit for the present. I can say you said so--shove it all on you, can't
I, doctor?"
"Most certainly. Doctor's orders. Ferris is, of course, quite free to
say that he can't spare his car for Mrs. Gaunt. But if he lends it, he
must for the present stand out. I hope you can manage this, young
woman, because I think it much better for Mrs. Gaunt to have your
society than to go out quite alone. If you can arrange as I tell you, I
will do my little best to say a word to Gaunt about the Branterdale
mine. His support would be the making of the scheme; for whatever his
failings as a society man, nobody is more universally trusted and
respected than he."
"I know. I am pretty sure I can keep Percy off, at least for a bit,"
Joey assured him. "As soon as she is better, Mrs. Gaunt will like to
have him about, he is such a taking chap, isn't he?"
"Handsome as paint," replied the doctor, smiling somewhat awry under
his moustache. He could not tell her that the style which was fatal to
the Buxton barmaid inspired in Virginia only an impatient disgust. "By
the bye, I needn't give you the hint to tell Mrs. Gaunt nothing of my
visit? She must not know that I have said a word? To put it shortly,
you mustn't apologise; don't say a word about Ferris, good or bad.
Simply arrange that he doesn't appear again."
She promised. They strolled together to the gate, where his horse
waited, and parted with cordiality. Poor old Joey!
* * * * *
In ten days, Virginia was allowed to put her feet to the ground; and
the following day, which was Sunday, she elected to go to church. Dr.
Dymock told her that it would do her good, but that, if she went, she
must put up with her husband's company during service. It would be
humiliating him too deeply to ask him to allow her to appear for the
first time in public without him. Somewhat eloquently, the doctor put
before her the conduct of Gaunt--his wonderful self-denial. She
listened with drooped lids, and said nothing. In her heart she wondered
what the speaker would say if she were to look up and say straight out:
"He does not love me; he hates me. He is waiting for me to be well in
order that he may persecute me."
No doubt he would call it hysterical raving.
When he was gone, she fell to her usual occupation of wondering what
form Gaunt's cruelty was likely to take, when she should be strong
enough to submit to it. She dared only look forward to the immediate
future. If she tried to go beyond, to face the prospect of a whole
life-time of captivity, under the gaolership of this extraordinary man,
she found her brain reeling. There was a subject which preoccupied her
mind at this time; otherwise her speculations might have travelled
farther. The question of Pansy's cure was the one thing of which she
thought, night and day. The accounts which she regularly received were
cheerful, but not what she had hoped. They were vague--disappointing.
"The doctor thought, with patience, they would see some real
improvement." Some improvement! When she hoped for a complete cure.
"There was distinctly less temperature during the past twenty-four
hours." But why was there temperature at all? Was the new treatment
setting up a temperature? She knew enough of nursing and sickness to
understand that these reports were by no means wholly satisfactory.
And now that Pansy was too ill to write herself, what a blank there
was! Mamma was so different! She could not tell the things one wanted
to know. Day by day, since Gaunt gave her money, Virgie had sent
parcels to the nursing home, wherein her treasure was incarcerated.
Fruit, jelly, pictures, flowers, books--anything love could suggest.
Yet she hardly knew whether they were received, or, if so, whether they
gave pleasure.
This dearth of what she called "real news" gave her a good deal of
anxiety, though Grover usually contrived to reassure her, and to hold
up a glorious picture of what the dear little lady would say when she
was allowed to write herself!
On Sunday morning Virginia was up and dressed by church time; and
walked downstairs, and along the hall, into the waiting carriage and
pair. Gaunt was nowhere to be seen, and she drove to Manton, the
village in whose scattered parish Omberleigh stood, escorted only by
Grover.
At the church door, her husband was awaiting her, having apparently
traversed the two miles on foot. He timed his appearance to coincide
with hers, so that it would look as if they had arrived together. It
was almost a fortnight since she had set eyes upon him, and the sight
of him brought a rush of scarlet to her cheeks, and a trembling to her
limbs. He tried to look as if everything was normal, as if he had
driven over with her, after breakfasting together as usual. He seemed
paler than her memory of him, but displayed no emotion of any kind.
Virginia was looking unusually pretty. Grover, when she had finally
adjusted the picturesque hat, had remarked that it was not often they
had anything like _that_ to look at in Manton church of a Sunday
morning.
Certainly the lately married pair were the cynosure of every eye as
they took their places in the old oak seat appropriated to Omberleigh.
Gaunt had no time to feel self-conscious, so anxious was he as to how
his wife would stand the ordeal of sitting beside him for so long. He
tried, however, not to increase her nervousness by seeming aware of it.
He appeared immersed in his prayer-book and hymnal, singing the tenor
part in the hymns very correctly.
The service was extremely simple, and not lengthy. Virginia got through
it quite well, feeling, after the first ten minutes, a sense of relief
and peace for which she could not account. She told herself that it was
the grace of God, and that, if she could sit so calmly at her captor's
side, without a tremor, it showed that strength would be given her to
endure his uttermost unkindness patiently.
He stepped out of the seat, at the end of service, and waited for her
to follow, quite quietly and not officiously. His manner was, indeed,
so natural that only a keen observer would have suspected that
naturalness to be assumed. At her side he walked down the broad central
passage, and out at the south porch.
He had held all his neighbours so rigorously at bay for years past that
very few had ventured to await the appearance of the bridal couple. But
one elderly lady, of shapeless bulk, with her bonnet askew, waiting
beside a big motor, escorted by a large and fine old gentleman, stepped
forward.
"Well, Osbert Gaunt, you must allow me to shake hands, and to ask you
to make me known to your lovely young wife," said she kindly.
Gaunt did not look pleased, but he made the necessary introduction. The
old pair were Lord and Lady St. Aukmund. "I hope you will come and see
my wife before long, when we are a bit more settled down!" he
volunteered.
"My dear boy, I should think this is the best day's work you ever did
in all your life!" cried the old countess, holding Virgie's hand most
cordially. "And she is Bernard Mynors's daughter! Oh, yes, my dear, all
the county knows who you were! All the county is talking about you! But
nobody will be surprised at the miracle when they see you! As to him,
he is the most savage, the most _farouche_ creature that ever was
made--or was until he saw you--for you have altered him already, my
dear! I knew him when he was a little mite in velvet suits, and I never
thought he would turn out as he did! But you have come to the rescue
just in time. Put ceremony on one side, and bring him to dine with us
at the Chase just _en famille_ one day this week, won't you?"
Gaunt was obliged to explain that his wife was a convalescent, and that
any evening engagement was at present out of the question for her. He
hoped that it would soon be different. Lady St. Aukmund showed herself
pertinacious, and asked more questions than he liked, but he managed to
parry them all, and she got into her motor at last, all compliments and
desires for showing hospitality. He waited until the great folks were
off, and then put Virgie into the carriage at once.
As he arranged the dust rug carefully about her feet, Virginia was
struck for the first time with a sort of compunction. Her husband, for
whatever motive, was certainly carrying out the doctor's orders
loyally. She was touched with shame that he must walk home, because she
was occupying his carriage. Leaning forward impetuously, she said: "I
hope you will drive home? I hope you will not walk because of--me?"
"Thanks, I prefer it."
He stepped back, gave the order, and she was driven away. He stood
there in the road, his brows knit, his heart in tumult. What an ass he
had been to decline that offer! He might have been seated by her now,
conscious of her in every fibre, seeing her, even though not daring to
look at her, breathing her, as it were, into his being. It could have
done her no harm. He might have found time for some word, some
faltering sentence that should have prepared her for his change of
mind, for his entire defeat and penitence.
He started to walk home, in the dust of her chariot wheels. He would
set eyes upon her no more that day, unless he stood, as he often did,
at the window of his study, whence he could see the canopy of her chair
as she lay out upon the terrace.
* * * * *
He saw her no more, except from a distance, for another week. Then the
doctor gave him cheering news. She was doing splendidly. He thought she
might lead a normal life in a few days more, if she were carefully
guarded, and not allowed to overdo herself.
"You might take her to the coast?--Devon or Cornwall, perhaps?" he
suggested.
Gaunt said he would consider it. It was a difficult time for him to
leave home, just as harvest was beginning. A month later perhaps.
As he limped back, up the avenue, when Dymock had ridden away, he
thought that perhaps it might make the rupture easier, if it took place
elsewhere, and not at Omberleigh, where apparently the world and his
wife--specially his wife--was busy with his affairs. The world and his
wife had been so shut out from his own purview hitherto that he was
wholly unprepared for the shock of surprise, amusement, interest, which
his sudden marriage excited. In such a sparsely populated neighbourhood
he had believed that he might do what he pleased without exciting
comment. He saw now, with sudden clarity, how impossible such an
existence as he had planned for his unlucky wife would have been in
reality.
A woman so used--any woman in the world except Virginia--would have
cried her wrongs from the house-tops. His persecution of her could not
have been hid for long. He felt that he was looking out upon a new
world, of whose existence he had been as unaware as the proverbial
ostrich. His vindictive malice even had its ridiculous side. He had
made an egregious fool of himself.
Heavy as lead was his heart as he entered the house.
Cosmo and Damian, with their coloured ribbons about their fluffy necks,
were at play in the hall, dancing about at hide and seek behind the big
chairs, while Grim, his own golden collie, sat upon a settle, her feet
tucked up like a fashionable lady afraid of a mouse, uttering panting,
whining protests against the reckless interlopers. Gaunt called her,
and she came down slowly and with quite evident nervousness from her
elevation. Cosmo hunched his lovely grey fluffy back into an arch, and
spat. His tail became a bottle brush. Grim slunk apologetically by, her
tail between her legs.
"Poor old girl," said Gaunt, as he went into the dining-room to lunch.
"You and I are a bit superfluous in this house now, it seems."
He went out that afternoon with the object of meeting Caunter some
distance away at a house whose tenant had asked for a new thatch. For
the first time in his life he forgot what he had come out for, and
wandered by himself until past six o'clock, his whole mind focused upon
his domestic affairs, wondering whether any readjustment were possible,
and if so, how he should set about it.
Entering the house once more, he suddenly remembered his neglected
appointment, and told himself that he would go round to Caunter's house
after dinner and apologise. Slowly and heavily he went upstairs, and
into his room to change. In the midst of his toilet sounds came to him,
low and muffled, from the next room. At first he hardly noticed; then
he crept close to the door, and listened. What he heard gave him a
curious sensation of heat, of hurry, of desperate sympathy, and
extraordinary vexation.
His wife was in trouble. He could hear her. The sound of sobbing, the
pitiful broken gasps of quite uncontrollable weeping came to him,
mingled with the tones, coaxing and low, with which Grover was
apparently attempting consolation. What had happened? Had she hurt
herself? Had they allowed her to run into any danger? But no! He was at
once aware, though how he knew it he could hardly say, that no pain of
her own would draw those wild tears, that unrestrained grief from
Virginia.
Whatever it was, it must be stopped, or he should go mad. He felt as if
his head were on fire--as if he must go out and kill somebody--why was
it allowed, that she should be made unhappy? Then he thought of
himself--of his own diabolical cruelty! Could she be lamenting because
she was slowly but inexorably growing better, because she was to be
taken from the doctor's kind hands and surrendered once more to her
husband's harsh ones?
The sweat stood upon the forehead of Gaunt of Omberleigh. It seemed to
him that never--even in his hot youth--even in the first days of his
jilting--had he suffered such torment as this. He rushed from his room
into the passage, and called aloud to Grover:
"Come here--come out--I want to speak to you!"