ABSENCE
"_My whole life is so strange: as strange
It is, my husband, whom I have not wronged,
Should hate and harm me._"--The Ring and the Book.
As once before, when the doctor visited her, Joey Ferris was busy in
the garden, cutting off dead blooms. Her little boys busily waited on
her, each with his small barrow, in which they collected the faded
flowers which she tossed upon the path, and ran off with them down the
long walks to the rubbish heap, puffing and blowing to announce the
fact of their being goods trains or expresses, or light engines, as the
fancy took them.
It was nearly lunch time, and Ferris was going to bring home a man who
had showed signs of interest in the lead-mine scheme. As the stable
clock chimed a quarter to one, the mistress of Perley Hatch
straightened her back, took off her gardening gloves, rubbed her nose
reflectively, and wondered whether she "ought to change."
As the doubt crossed her mind, she looked up to see some one
approaching across the grass, and with a vast surprise recognised Gaunt
of Omberleigh.
"Why," cried she very heartily, advancing to meet him with hand
outstretched, "I _am_ glad to see you! Didn't think you knew your
way to this house! What's the news this morning? Better, I hope?"
"It seems to be astonishingly good. The change of treatment and my
wife's presence, taken together, have worked a miracle. The child, who
was dangerously ill, is making marked progress every day."
"Oh, well, that is some consolation for you, isn't it?" said Joey, her
eyes full of sympathy, and her voice almost tender. "I think you are
just the most unselfish man I have ever heard of--letting Virgie go off
like that!"
"Please, Mrs. Ferris----"
"It's no use please-Mrs.-Ferrising me! Some men in your place would
have said things! First she herself falls ill, and then, just as your
love and care has brought her round, off she goes and leaves you on the
All-alone Stone! Percy has been on the point of riding over to try and
persuade you to come to us for a bit of dinner, but he has been so
taken up over his mine."
"You are more than kind, Mrs. Ferris. I fear I've been a most
unneighbourly neighbour for many years. Now I am going to turn over a
new leaf. As a preliminary, will you give me some lunch to-day? I want
to talk to Ferris about his mine. Dr. Dymock was telling me something
of it."
Joey was overjoyed. "Need you ask?" she joyfully inquired. "Come to the
house and wash your hands, while I tell Daniel to take your horse
round. I conclude you rode over?" She fixed her guest with her shrewd,
twinkling glance, and thought that he had done something to himself,
she hardly knew what. Was it that he wore a new, very well-cut riding
suit, with tan gaiters, and that his hair was trimmed more sprucely
than usual? Or was he really younger, when you saw him close, than he
appeared from a distance? Certainly he had altered in some subtle
fashion, and for the better. He did not look well, though. There were
black marks under his eyes, as if he had not slept.
Tom and Bill came rushing up at the moment, charging with their
barrows. They were wholly untroubled with shyness, and loudly announced
that Tom was a Midland express from Glasgow, and Bill a pilot engine.
Gaunt stopped and gravely shook hands with each, holding the plump,
earthy moist little fingers curiously in his brown, muscular grip. Then
he picked up Bill by his waist, and seated him upon his shoulder. "Now
you're in the look-out--the signal-box," said he. "Is the line clear?"
This was enchanting. Bill shouted to Tom to go and be the excursion and
seized Gaunt's hand, drawing back his arm to represent a lever.
"I'm off'ring the 4.10 to Manton box!" he cried.
"Fancy your playing with them," said Joey, deeply gratified. "That's
what Virgie did. Bill, you remember the pretty lady who came to tea and
told you about little Runt? This is her husband, that she belongs to."
"Oh, are you?" cried the excursion train, turning right round upon the
permanent way in horrifying fashion. "Tell us about little Runt
again--do!"
"I don't know that story, Bill. I'll have to get the pretty lady to
tell it to me, then perhaps I can pass it on."
"Where is she?" cried Tom. "Have you got her here?"
"No, Tom. She has gone to be with her own little sister, who is ill. I
dare say she tells her stories, to pass the time while she has to be in
bed, flat on her back."
"Flat on her back? Beastly!" said Tom.
"Why's that for?" asked his brother.
"Because her back was hurt when she was quite a baby. She was thrown
out of a motor-car, and has always been ill."
"You'd better not let our baby go in the car, mummy," cried the little
brother promptly; and Gaunt felt a movement of affection for the child
whose feeling spoke so readily.
They moved across the grass towards the house, and suddenly Joey gave a
pleased exclamation. "Here comes Percy!" said she brightly.
Ferris was advancing, accompanied by a young man who, though he wore a
country suit, had the air of London about his hat and his boots. He was
a distinguished-looking, tall fellow, and Gaunt, as he set Bill upon
his feet upon the grass, knew that he had seen him before. As the
stranger drew near their eyes met, and the same look of
half-recognition appeared in both faces.
Ferris's cordial welcome to Gaunt was somewhat flamboyant. He wrung his
hand a little too often and too vehemently. Then he introduced his
friend, Mr. Rosenberg. That cleared up the mystery, as far as Gaunt was
concerned. Instantly he saw the gallery flooded with summer sunshine,
the glimmering floors, the mellow canvases, the figure of the beautiful
girl, bending over the inscription at the foot of the marble cupid.
To Gerald Rosenberg memory had come without difficulty. The occasion
when he first set eyes on Gaunt was a critical moment in his life--how
critical he hardly knew at the time. The same picture was stamped upon
his own brain: the picture of Virginia beginning to descend the
staircase, and of his own turning of the head with a consciousness of
being watched--of meeting face to face a pair of eyes, ironic, intent,
challenging.
"This is our neighbour, Gaunt of Omberleigh," Ferris was jovially
proclaiming. "Luckiest man in the county; just married the most lovely
girl I ever saw in my life."
_Gaunt!_ That was the name of Virginia's husband! She had said
that her future home would be Derbyshire! Was this--this man--her
husband? He grew quite pale.
"Was it you," he stammered, "_you_ who married Miss Mynors?"
Gaunt assented. The eyes of the two men once more met. "I saw you,"
slowly said Rosenberg, "at Hertford House, when I went there to meet my
sister and her friend. You were in the Gallery."
"I was; and I saw Miss Mynors."
Gerald felt the blood rush to his head. "For the first time?"
Gaunt again assented mutely. He was filled with exultation. Unhappy and
uncertain as he was, insecure as he knew his tenure of his prize, at
least she was his at present, at least he might claim this one triumph.
"Fell in love at first sight, and no wonder!" cried Ferris, with
enthusiasm. "Isn't he the luckiest chap on earth? I really don't think
I have ever seen anybody quite as lovely as Mrs. Gaunt."
"You are right--that is the almost universal opinion. I congratulate
Mr. Gaunt," said Gerald, rallying his composure.
How all the crises of our lives come upon us unaware! How little had he
guessed, that day in the Gallery, that, although he had a good chance
then, it was his last! His father, in persuading him to flee
temptation, had urged the probability of a future recurrence of
opportunity. "She won't run away," he had said. And behold! even as he
spoke, the chain of gold was being forged to bind captive the innocent
girl.
Gaunt was speaking to Joey. "Great as is Virginia's beauty," Gerald
heard him say, "it is the least part of her charm. It is her character
which is so fine, so exceptional. She is pure gold throughout."
Young Rosenberg looked at him with a lingering gaze of hatred. Had he
known in what a crucible the gold of Virginia's nature had been and was
still being proved, the hate would have intensified perhaps to the
point of sending his fingers to the husband's throat. This man had
apparently been certain, where he was doubtful. _Was_ Virginia as
fair within as without? Could she have wholly escaped the taint of her
mother's ignoble nature? His father had thought not. In his indecision
he had let slip the treasure which another man had promptly gathered.
As they walked slowly towards the house, his mind was filled with the
two ideas--first, that all was over, so far as he was concerned, and,
also, that in the course of the next few hours he might possibly see
her whose dove's eyes had haunted him ever since that fatal day in the
valley of decision--the day when he had decided upon retreat.
Then he began by degrees to grasp what the others were speaking of. He
learned that the sudden and dangerous illness of Pansy had called
Virginia to London, and that Gaunt had allowed her to go without him.
Also he learned that she had suffered with a bad knee, and that her
husband was anxious lest she should now be doing too much. He listened
as in a dream, his mind slowly assimilating all these rapid happenings;
and by degrees he realised that, if she were in London without Gaunt,
he could easily see her, if he could ascertain her address.
The conversation soon turned to the projected lead-mine, in which Mr.
Rosenberg senior had been asked by a friend in the financial world to
take a director's place. The party were to meet Mr. Rosenberg's own
expert, and Ferris's, at Branterdale cavern that afternoon. Joey was
coming too.
She drove their guest over in the car, Percy electing to ride with
Gaunt, whom he was most anxious to propitiate. On the way, it was quite
easy for Gerald to ask Joey where in London Mrs. Gaunt was staying.
"Well, I don't exactly know," said Joey. "She went up to the Langham,
but directly her mother found that out, she determined that she would
go there, too. I fancy the mother's a bit of a sponge, isn't she?
Anyway, Virgie thought her husband wouldn't see keeping the two of them
there, so she has gone into rooms with her mother, as being less
expensive, and she always writes to me from the Nursing Home in Queen
Anne Street."
"So she writes to you?"
"Yes. When they first married, Mr. Gaunt hadn't got a motor, so ours
came in handy. I took her about a bit. She's a perfect angel. Hard on
him, poor chap! having to let her go like this, isn't it? You can see
how he is fretting!"
"Is he? He looks to me an ill-conditioned brute," said Gerald shortly.
"Oh, he's quite a good sort when you know him," replied Joey kindly.
"But as a husband for her----"
"Well, why didn't you chip in?"
"One can't always follow the dictates of the heart, Mrs. Ferris. I
couldn't afford to marry for love."
"Well, of course, Gaunt is much too old for her, as far as years go;
but," observed Joey, with one of her flashes of intuition, "he is
absurdly young in the sense of not having used up his emotions. He was
jilted in his youth, so they say, and ever since has imagined that he
hated women--thought himself heart-broken, and shut himself up alone
until one fine day he saw her. He has all the heaped-up love of a
lifetime to pour out at her feet."
"I don't doubt his sentiments. The question is, will she have any use
for them?" retorted Gerald, with bitterness.
* * * * *
It was late when Gaunt reached Omberleigh that evening. It seemed to
him as though he had been away a week, for the reason that this was the
day when he usually heard from Virgie, and if she wrote in her usual
punctual way, there would be a letter lying in the bag upon the hall
table when he came in.
There was. He opened the bag with hands that shook so that he was
afraid Hemming might notice; and when he drew out the letter, "he
pounced on it, like a dog on a bone," as the servant afterwards
related, "and was off with it into his study before you could count
two."
The scrupulously business-like letters were little enough upon which to
feed the fire of a consuming passion. The point was that in every
letter she recognised, by implication, his hold over her. Before taking
any step she consulted him, she awaited his permission. In a way it was
torture; she never let him forget that he had bought and paid for her.
On the other hand, since she maintained this attitude, surely she would
come back to him!
She never used any form of address at the beginning of her letters.
"Osbert Gaunt, Esq.," was written above, and then followed the body of
the communication. She signed herself merely "Virginia," as though the
second name were too horrible, or too distasteful to write. He had
never seen her full signature since she became his wife. He hungered to
see her written acknowledgment of her wifehood, and with this object he
had set a trap for her. He wrote a cheque which would need her
endorsement, and sent it to her. This expedient failed, for she
returned the cheque, saying she was in no need of more money; she had
enough, and more than enough.
Each of her letters contained a small statement of account, carefully
balanced. The first he had received was the one that pleased him best.
There was very much to tell. She had to relate her experiences--how she
went first to see Pansy, and was horrified at the change in her; how
she determined to act without delay, and informed the doctor over the
telephone that she meant to have another opinion. He was not pleased,
but was, as Dr. Danby foretold, obliged to consent. The doctors met,
and differed gravely; upon which she had formally placed herself and
the case in Dr. Danby's hands. Pansy was moved that day, and from the
first few hours showed symptoms of relief. Then had come the difficulty
with her mother. This she had solved without applying to Gaunt. She had
gone to her mother's rooms in Margaret Street, found that she and
Grover could both be taken in, and had moved thither accordingly. Her
exact explanations made him smile and grunt, and brought a moisture to
his eyes.
To this letter there had been a postscript. Under her signature these
words had been scrawled, as if on impulse:
_Thank you--oh, thank you!_
He had dwelt upon those words until he had half persuaded himself that
she must have perceived something of his remorse, and wished to
reassure him. The following letters from her had not, however, done
anything to foster this idea. He longed to write and tell her to go
back to the Langham, and take her mother there, to bid her choose
herself a fur motor-coat, and anything else she liked, but he
restrained all these impulses. He meant her to come back, if at all, as
she had departed, in the full persuasion of his cruelty and harshness,
to come back because her crystal honesty would not allow her to break
her promise, even to him.
With this end in view, he forced himself to write to her as curtly as
possible, signing himself "O. G." merely.
The missive he now held in his hand was no exception to his wife's
usual style. He read it, first with his customary feeling of
disappointment and heart-hunger, then with the succeeding glow of
reassurance, as he reached the little account of money expended.
Somehow he could read between the lines what an effort it was to her to
accept his help; it was done only because Pansy mattered so infinitely
more than she did; because Pansy must not suffer merely for the reason
that Virginia's pride would be hurt in the process of curing her.
What he hardly guessed was the constant vexation, of the pin-prick
kind, which Virginia was then enduring from her mother. Grover was a
good sort, but she was neither young nor active, and she did object to
being maid to two ladies. Moreover, her own mistress, Mrs. Gaunt, was
the most considerate of her sex, but Mrs. Mynors was "quite another
pair of shoes." As usually happens in such cases, the considerate party
was made the victim of the maid's ill-humour, while the inconsiderate
brought her mending and renovating with smiling face and got it all
done, free of charge, the while she made scornful comments upon
Grover's attainments, and wondered how Virgie could stand such a woman
about her for a moment.
The nursing home at which Pansy was now placed was just as expensive as
the one she occupied formerly. Therefore it was surprising to Gaunt to
find that, although both Virginia and her mother were now in town, not
to mention Grover, instead of Mrs. Mynors alone, the total spent in a
week was less than in those preceding by quite a noticeable amount.
The letter of to-day was an exception in containing a postscript. It
was apparently of the least interesting description. A small item in
the accounts was marked with an asterisk, and at the foot of the page
Virginia had written:
_When I come back, I can explain this._
The words sent a thrill through every nerve of the man reading.
_"When I come back!"_
He leaned forward, seizing old Grim by her ears, and rubbing his hands
up and down her neck in the way she loved. "When she comes back, old
girl," he whispered. Then he broke off. His eye had wandered round the
dreary, untidy, ill-arranged den. Was it a home to which to bring such
a bride as his? Was there anything he could do to improve it?
Slowly he rose, and limped into the little sitting-room which he had
called hers. There were one or two small articles of her personal
possessions left about in it. He wondered whether he could have it done
up by the time of her return. He distrusted his own taste profoundly.
What did girls like?
He remembered the drawing-room at Perley Hatch, which the Ferrises had
recently repainted and papered. No! That was not his idea. He felt that
Virginia would never like big bunches of floral decoration all over her
walls.
Then he remembered the little room in which Mrs. Mynors had received
him at Wayhurst. Tiny as it was, how its charm, its dainty elegance had
impressed him! He closed his eyes and recalled its aspect. Ivory
paint--yes, that was all right; and walls of a warm, sunny golden
brown. How would that suit her? Acting on impulse he rang the bell, and
said he wanted to speak to Mrs. Wells.
The housekeeper, when consulted, was delighted with the idea. It had
apparently presented itself to the mind of the servants' hall long ago.
She would send down a boy at once, to telephone from Manton into Derby
for a man to come over the following morning to take the order.
"The furnishing I must leave until Mrs. Gaunt returns," said Gaunt, in
a depressed way. "I can see that this stuff is all wrong, but I can't
see what she would put in its place."
"Oh, as to that, sir. If it's a question of what Mrs. Gaunt would
like--why, I can tell you that myself, and you won't have far to seek,
for we've got it all in the house at this moment," was Mrs. Wells's
surprising answer.
"Got it in the house?"
"In the lumber-room, sir. Your great-aunts, the Miss Gaunts, turned all
the old things into the lumber-room, after their father died, about
fifty years ago, and refurnished great part of the house, so I'm told.
There's a great many things up there, and Mrs. Gaunt, when she saw
them, she went into raptures over them. Said they was as old as Adam,
which I could hardly believe----"She broke off abruptly, for Gaunt, her
morose master, had laughed aloud, and the circumstance was startling.
"Adam's period," he hastened to apologise. "Yes, go on, please. If you
showed the lumber-room to Mrs. Gaunt, why have you never mentioned it
to me?"
The good woman's eyes grew very round. "Why, sir, you was here when I
came," said she. "I concluded you knew all about it. My part was only
to see as the things didn't perish, for I have a kind of liking myself
for all them antiquities."
Gaunt's eyes were still dancing over the Adam joke; and his wandering
gaze had strayed to the mantel, and realised that this was of the same
period. Doubtless what made these walnut carved whatnots and arm-chairs
look so wrong was their silent clash with the fine simplicity of the
dental moulding. As his eye wandered over the faded pink wallpaper,
with its brown, green and blue roses, he suddenly perceived, like a man
whose eyes are newly opened, that the room was moulded for panels. It
struck him that this was the treatment required.
"So Mrs. Gaunt liked the things?"
"Indeed, yes, sir. She said how she would like to use them. I can show
you the exact pieces she picked out, sir."
"Come along," said Gaunt impetuously. Here was a glorious idea. Here
was something to fill in blank days of waiting! Virgie should find her
own room at least habitable; incomplete, of course, and waiting for her
touch, but not impossible as at present. It would welcome her, when she
came back--_when she came back!_
Would she come?