A CASE FOR INTERPOSITION?
"_Why, here you have the awfulest of crimes
For nothing! Hell broke loose on a butterfly!
Yet here is the monster! Why, he's a mere man--
Born, bred and brought up in the usual way._"
--R. Browning.
It was six o'clock in the evening. Virginia stepped from the door of
the Nursing Home out into Queen Anne Street with a radiant face.
She left Pansy smiling, content, in the hands of people who were not
merely experts, but kind and loving. The daily improvement grew more
marked. Dr. Danby that day had spoken more encouragingly than ever
before. The delight of it, the fascination of watching colour steal
back to the cheeks, and light to the eyes; while the awful look of pain
vanished from the lines of the mouth, leaving it a child's mouth once
more--this was enfolding the elder sister in a sweetness which it
seemed no dark future had power to impair. Gaunt was far from her mind;
she was living in the present moment--living within the walls of the
room that contained Pansy.
A man came rapidly along the street towards her, on the same side of
the way. Just as she turned into Portland Place she came face to face
with him. It was Gerald Rosenberg. His start of surprise was admirably
done. As to Virgie, in the first moment, she was merely glad to see
him--ready to take him into the joy that filled her, to share with him
her glow of thankfulness and hope.
"Oh!" She stopped, giving him her hand, looking into his face with
those eyes that had seemed to him so fathomless as to cause him to
hesitate before letting his very being drown in their depths. Now it
seemed that they were changed. The girl was, somehow, mysteriously a
woman. She retained all her innocence, all her girlish candour, but
there was something more, something heroic and splendid. At any rate,
it appeared so to the man's enchanted gaze.
"This is indeed good fortune"--he hardly knew what he said. "I heard
that you were in town, but hardly hoped--why did you not let Mims know
of your being here?"
"Oh, that is easily answered. I have been devoted, body and soul, to my
little sister. The first few nights I was in town I spent at the Home,
for we did not even know that she would live. I have not had a moment
for my friends."
"But she is better now?"
"Yes, thank God! I can hardly speak of it." The tears welled up and
misted the changeful eyes. "It is so wonderful--so unspeakable--seeing
her, as it were, coming back to me from the grave. If she had died, I
can't think what I should have done."
"I remember Mims always said you were such a devoted sister."
Virgie laughed. "So would anybody be devoted to Pansy," she replied
cheerfully. "But I am consumed with curiosity. You say that you had
heard I was in London. Do tell me how you heard it."
His lip curled and his expression changed. "I heard it from the person
most likely to know. Mr. Gaunt told me."
"Mr. Gaunt!" It was too sudden. Usually she had herself perfectly in
hand, but the thought of the Ogre, intruding upon her moment of bliss,
touched her inmost feeling, and she grew as white as a sheet. Gerald's
eyes never left her face. He saw that pallor, saw the fugitive glance
of panic that passed across the eyes like a cloud over the sun. It was
so, then; it was as he had feared, as he had secretly known! She had
been bought by that malevolent-looking man--the creature who had marked
her down in the picture gallery, had pursued, hunted, caught, led
captive! The feelings in the young man's heart were for a moment so
violent that he could not speak.
Virginia and he had turned mechanically as he uttered the fatal name,
and they now began to walk down Portland Place, towards Regent's Street
side by side. "Somehow," said her soft voice at last, "it seems very
surprising to me that you should have met Mr. Gaunt. Do tell me how it
came about. I--I believed that he was at home--in Derbyshire."
The speech showed him the measure of her apprehension. She had thought
herself free of her tyrant for a while, and now supposed him to have
followed her to London.
"Oh, it was in Derbyshire that I met him," he hastened to assure her.
"At the house of some people called Ferris. I went down to interview
Ferris about a company that he wants to float--a lead-mine. Your
husband was lunching there."
"Lunching at Perley Hatch?" She seemed surprised, he thought.
"Yes. On the same line as I was, I fancy. We all went and had a look at
the cave afterwards. I think my father will accept a directorship, and
probably Mr. Gaunt also will come on the board."
Before reflecting, she cried, in a pleased voice: "Then does that mean
that we shall see something of you? Shall you be coming down sometimes
to Derbyshire?"
Gerald almost choked. There was so much to say about this that he knew
he had better say nothing. Yet, as in her case, words leaped to his
lips before he reflected. "I hardly know. It is a question as to how
much I could bear."
"How much you could bear?" Her eyes were raised, astonished, troubled.
He knew that if he said what was in his mind, his present chance might
vanish in a moment. "I won't say what I meant," he replied in a low
tone. "Why should I force my troubles on you? You have enough anxiety
with your little sister. But is it too late to get some tea?"
"Oh, yes, I have had tea, thanks!"
"Where are you staying? "
"In Margaret Street--my mother is with me."
"Indeed? Do you think she would receive me, if I were to pay a short
call?"
"I am sure she would be pleased. But you will not find her at home now;
she has gone to the theatre."
"At this hour?"
"She is dining at her club first. She does not like lodging-house food."
"Do you?"
"Oh, food makes very little difference to me. I put up with it, for I
am too tired to go and dine out, after a long day with Pansy."
"I wish you would come and dine with me. I know a charming place quite
near here, where they give you Italian things--you are so fond of
Italy. Let me take you and give you something to eat, and then you
shall go straight back to your rooms and rest. There is so much I want
to hear."
Her brows knit. "I have nothing to tell you," she answered slowly.
He blamed himself for having risked the last sentence.
She seemed to turn over his offer in her mind. At last: "No," she said,
but he felt with reluctance. "I can't come this evening. I am tired and
stupid. Some other evening, if you will ask us both."
"Then must I go and dine alone at my club? My father and Mims are in
Switzerland, and I am all alone."
"Oh!" Her pity was awake at once. "I did not know."
"Because you are tired is just why you should come," he went on. "I'm
not a stranger, some one whom you must exert yourself to entertain. I'm
your friend, am I not, Virgie?"
The last word was hardly breathed.
"Oh, you are--and friends are precious. If you are alone--really--and
don't mind a dull person----"
Even as she spoke he had hailed a taxi, and she was seated in it at his
side before she well knew that she had consented.
"This is the one advantage of your being married--I can take you
about," said the young man, with an air of quiet confidence. "Gaunt
seemed anxious about you. He said you had been unwell, and would, I am
sure, be grateful to me for looking after you, and preventing your
dining on a poached egg, which is what I know to have been your immoral
intention."
She laughed. "Tell him to stop a moment at Margaret Street. I must tell
my maid not to keep the poached egg hot," she replied.
This was done, and he took her to Ciliani's, the most charming
restaurant in London. There was no band to drown talk, the tables were
arranged so that parties did not intrude upon each other. They found
places near a window, and as Virgie seated herself she thought of that
awful lunch with her husband at the Savoy Restaurant. The memory made
her wince. She remembered her panic terror, her dread of what was to
come, her timid attempts to seem at ease. Little had she known what
really awaited her.
She resigned herself now to Gerald's care with a sudden beautiful
sensation of relief. He was an old friend. In fact, the Rosenbergs were
practically the only people she knew who belonged to the life at
Lissendean as well as to more recent times. Perhaps Gerald realised how
precious an asset such a link was, for he began to talk to her of
Lissendean, and of those happy days when they had ridden and golfed
together, had roamed the country with lunch in their pockets, and acted
charades in the old hall.
All through the charm of such talk Virginia's inner self, the sentinel
conscience which ruled her, was helping her to gird on her armour. She
was keenly aware that Gerald's first mention of her husband had caught
her unprepared, also that Gerald had seen and interpreted her confusion.
It was not until coffee had been served, and he was lighting his
cigarette that the moment came. He leaned forward and spoke,
composedly, but with a weight which made itself felt.
"I left you--unavoidably--at my father's command, one lovely evening in
June. When we parted, there were in my heart feelings which I can't but
believe you must have seen and interpreted. A fortnight later I learned
that you were about to be married. Has it occurred to you to wonder
whether I suffered?"
Virginia was drawing her gloves from her little beaded bag, and
daintily pulling out the fingers. "But why should I suppose that you
would be suffering?" she demanded quietly.
He hesitated. "Are you being quite straightforward with me, Virgie?"
Again she countered with a question. "Is there any obligation for me to
be quite straightforward with you, Mr. Rosenberg? Complete
straightforwardness is a large demand."
He grew nettled. His elbow rested on the table, his handsome eyes were
full upon her. "Honestly, do you think you treated me fairly?" he
wished to know.
"Certainly. I don't see quite what you mean," was her steady reply.
"Then--then you really did not know that I was in love with you?"
"I did not. Of course not."
"Don't try to blind me," he went on urgently, his voice a little
unsteady. "I am better informed than you think. I know that you had
never seen Gaunt until that day at Hertford House. You went thence, and
without a word, or a sign, you engaged yourself to marry a man who was
a total stranger. Do you suppose I do not guess that you were forced
into that?"
"If you guess so, your guess is quite wrong. I had heard of Mr. Gaunt
all my life. I had a romantic idea of him--girls do, you know. I was
told, by mother, various things about him, and I knew he was unhappy
and lonely. We looked at one another--in the Gallery--that day----"
Her voice tailed off, and she seemed absorbed in the diligent pushing
down of the soft kid upon her fingers.
Gerald was baffled. The same idea crossed his mind which had gripped
her mother's fancy. It had been then a case of mutual love at first
sight, one of those strange, inexplicable attractions that seem like
magnetism. He looked at the wedding-ring and the other beautiful rings
upon the little hand moving so dexterously. He thought how zealously a
middle-aged, unattractive man would strive to secure the affection of
this wonderful creature. Could it really be that she was contented with
her lot? After all, had she made her calculations? Had she realised
that his own people would make difficulties, that she and he would be
none too well off at first if they married? Had she deliberately chosen
the richer man, as his father had insinuated?...
He recalled her husband's words, spoken only two days previously. "My
wife's beauty is the least part of her charm. She is pure gold
throughout." Was that true, or was Gaunt successfully hoodwinked? So
deft was Virginia's parry that he could not be sure.
When first they met that evening, he had had no plan at all; he was
merely filled with an aching desire to behold her face. Now it dawned
upon him that, if she were the calculating, self-seeking person whom he
sometimes supposed her, she could not suffer from being in his society,
and there was no reason why he should not see a good deal of her.
"Love at first sight--most interesting!" was what he said aloud; and a
long interval elapsed before he spoke at all.
She assented to his definition, with the least little ghost of a smile.
"How long are you likely to be in town?" he asked abruptly.
"I think I shall stay until they can take Pansy to the sea," she
replied. "Dr. Danby says that in about ten days she can be moved on a
water-bed in a motor-car to Cliftonville. Osbert says she is to have
just what the doctor orders, so I shall arrange for her to go that way.
It is, as you may suppose, very difficult for me to be so long away
from Omberleigh, but my husband is very good and patient. He knows it
was a matter of life and death."
"Well, as long as you are in town, I shall make it my business to see
that you have some fresh air every day," he announced. "May I bring a
motor to-morrow round to the Home, and take you and Mrs. Mynors to dine
somewhere a little way out of town? It is still light until past eight
o'clock, and in an hour or so we could get to Essendon, or Chenies, or
one of those pretty little places--no need to stew in London these
deadly August days."
Her eye lit up, and she began to speak impatiently, then checked
herself.
"Now, say just what you were going to say."
She laughed. "I was going to be barefaced enough to ask you to take
Tony as well. He has been in camp, with his O.T.C., but he comes to
London to-morrow, and I want him to have a good time."
"By all means. Couldn't you get away half an hour sooner?"
She shook her head. "I must stay until they turn me out; Pansy would
fret if I did not. But I will be as punctual as I can, and tell mother
and Tony to come round to Queen Anne Street."
"On no account! I shall fetch them from Margaret Street on my way to
you."
"You are very kind and thoughtful," she responded joyfully. "I do feel
that a motor run would do me good after all those hours in the sick
room."
* * * * *
For the first few days Virginia said nothing of her meeting with Gerald
in her letters to Gaunt. This was not because she wished to hide them,
but because she habitually mentioned only such points as seemed
essential--Pansy's progress and her own expenditure. Tony's expenses,
her mother's club dinners and theatres, came out of her own private
allowance. It was wonderful how far a pound could be made to go in
museums and picture palaces for Tony's benefit. After a few days,
however, she thought it better to mention what was going on, lest her
husband should think there might be something clandestine about it. She
wrote accordingly, in answer to his demand for an account of her own
health:
_I have been feeling very much better lately, for Mr. Rosenberg--whom
I met last week in the street, and who told me he had been to Perley
Hatch, and had seen you--has been taking mother and me for drives in
the evening. His people are out of town, and he has the car to himself.
We have been to Windsor and Burnham Beeches, to Virginia Water, and all
sorts of places. The air does me a great deal of good. I am really
quite well now._
Gaunt read it grimly. He told himself that he might have expected it.
Was it likely that Rosenberg would leave her alone, having learned that
she was in London without him?
The test was growing more acute, the shadowy tie, which bound her to
him, more attenuated. She would never come back. He went into the
little sitting-room, wherein the decorators were at work, and wondered
at his own folly. He was carrying that folly to an absurd pitch. He was
having a copy executed of the statue of Love from the Wallace
collection. It was to stand upon a column in the charming semicircular
bay window, looking out upon the prim terrace garden.
Should he write now--write and offer her her release?
He sneered at himself for having ascertained the limits of his own
penitence. Although he was ready to swear that he would do anything for
her happiness, he could not do that. Having once seen her, at his
table, on the terrace, in the hall, having heard her voice in the stark
silence of his desolate house, the craving to have her back was, he had
to confess, even greater than the craving for her content. Besides, he
argued, she had been willing once. She had accepted her destiny, had
meant to do her duty, spoken of being bound by her vows. When she found
that there was love--even adoration--to be lavished upon her, would she
not become reconciled?
Ah! the time for that had gone by. Rosenberg had now stepped into the
picture. She knew nothing of his own change of heart. To her he was a
gloomy and cruel tyrant. Had he used his chance when wonderfully he had
obtained it--had he not horrified her at the outset by his unmanly,
despicable behaviour--what might not have been possible?
Thoughts such as these were his torment day and night; and his sleep
went from him.
* * * * *
Mrs. Mynors and Gerald Rosenberg were strolling side by side upon the
North Terrace of Windsor Castle. It was growing late, and they were
expecting to be ejected by officials shortly; but Virginia and Tony had
gone off together to look at Eton College, and to sigh over the
deplorable fact that Tony would never occupy his dead father's place in
Brooke's House.
"I found it out accidentally," Mrs. Mynors was saying, "when she first
came to town. She was in a terrible state of distress about Pansy, and
would not go away from the nursing home when night came. They were very
kind, and let her lie on a sofa in a sitting-room, and I was in an
arm-chair. She dropped off to sleep a dozen times, I should think, and
each time woke in a kind of nightmare, crying out to him that he might
torture her as he liked, but she was going to Pansy; he might cut her
to pieces when she got back."
"Good God!" said Gerald.
"It was dreadful to listen," sighed the mother. "First, she was
repeating: 'I am not afraid--I am not afraid of you any more!' Then she
was begging him not to make her try to walk, because she could not
stand. I can't think what he can have been doing to her, but I have
made up my mind that, by hook or by crook, she must not go back to him.
The thing is: How to prevent it?"
The drops were standing upon the young man's forehead. He had had hints
before, but this was the first time he had succeeded in being alone
with Mrs. Mynors long enough to hear all.
"How could you--how could you have permitted it?" he broke out
violently. "Such an inhuman sacrifice!"
"My dear Gerald, does the modern mother control her children? Oh, don't
think I am saying a word to disparage my darling. I know she is a
martyr; I know she sacrificed herself for us. But I implored her not to
do so. If only----" She broke off. He waited, feverishly eager, and as
she did not continue, broke out:
"Well, if only what?"
"If only she had never gone to London," murmured the mother in a low
voice. "Then he would never have seen her, and she would never have
seen--you!"
"Never have seen me?"
"Oh, I know it was not the first time you had met. But it was the fatal
time. Poor innocent child! she gave you her heart, and you handed it
back with a polite thank you. Did you not, dear boy?"
"Great heavens, Mrs. Mynors, do you know what you are saying? You are
suggesting that Virgie loves me."
"But surely that is not news to you?" she said, with lifted brows, as
one astonished at unlooked-for density of perception.
He turned impulsively away from her, leaning his arms upon the grey
stone wall and gazing away into the dusk. Some moments passed in a wild
kind of silence. Then the castle warder called to them that he was
closing the doors. Without a word the young man moved, walking at his
companion's side through the little door in the wall, under the arch,
out upon the ramp which descends past St. George's Chapel to the large
gate. He was as white as a sheet.
Not a soul was in sight. They paused, gazing down upon the sunk garden
which now blooms in the dry moat of the Round Tower. Suddenly Gerald
burst into speech. Forgetting for the moment all that his father had
told him of this woman, he poured out the story of how he had been
overpersuaded, how his father--urging upon him the imprudence of such a
match--had coaxed him away that last night of Virgie's stay, when the
confession of his feeling was trembling on the tip of his tongue.
"That was what I did," he said. "I was just waiting. I knew of no
danger to her. If I had had a hint, if you had sent me a line to tell
me that she was being hunted. But all the same," he broke off, his eyes
burning in his head, "all the same, to me it is inconceivable that any
man, however sunk, could have been cruel to her! Afterwards he
might--later, but not at first--not when he had but just acquired that
perfect thing for his own! Oh, it makes me mad! I daren't think of it!
It's too incredibly ugly--too wild. Are you sure? You don't think those
cries of hers that you overheard can have been delirium? It seems
altogether outside the pale of possibility that he should have done
anything but grovel at her feet!"
Mrs. Mynors had her lovely face averted. She sighed. "There is more in
it than that, Gerald," she murmured in a low voice. "I fear it is worse
than you think. Have you ever heard of such a thing as a secret maniac?
Do you know that there are men, outwardly sane, who go about the world
like other people, but who have one single streak of insanity--a bee in
the bonnet, as the vulgar saying has it?"
He looked sick with horror. "Do you mean that she is bound for life to
a man who isn't sane?"
"Gaunt has had a sad life. I know his story. He thought himself badly
used by a woman. It made a profound impression upon him. It is his
fixed idea. When I heard my child's broken ravings, the awful thought
flashed through my mind--has he some horrible idea of making Virginia
pay for another woman's sins?"
"If so, he must be mad, raving mad. We could get him put into an
asylum," hissed Gerald.
"Not so easily as you think. Such men are very cunning. You see, he has
allowed her to come away from him. He is acting, as every one would
say, a most magnanimous part. I and my orphan children are the
creatures of his bounty. It would be difficult, indeed, to bring home
to him what he may make her endure in private."
"Unbearable," muttered Gerald. "I hardly dare let my mind dwell upon
it. But you are going merely upon what you overheard. She has said
nothing to you of his being unkind?"
"She is far too proud. I judge by what she does not say. Her reticence
to me, her mother, can have but one explanation. He has forbidden her,
on pain of certain punishment, to say anything. I know that it is so. I
am certain of it."
His burning eyes, searching through the twilight which gathered thickly
about them, saw the dim figures of Tony and his sister advancing
through the gateway. "There they are," he muttered hoarsely. "We must
drop this now, but mind, we must speak of it again. Something must be
done. If all this is true, I swear she shall never go back to him. I'll
see to that. She loves me! Oh, what a gigantic blunder life is!"