THE ROMAN VILLA
"_When you and I behind the Veil are past,
Oh! but the long, long while the world shall last,
Which of our Coming and Departure heeds
As much as Ocean of a pebble cast.
One moment in Annihilation's Waste,
One moment of the Well of Life to taste--
The Stars are setting, and the Caravan
Draws to the dawn of nothing!--Oh, make haste!_"
--Omar Khayyam.
The docility with which Gerald accepted the change of subject was
completely reassuring to Virginia. His words led her to suppose that he
imagined all to be well between herself and her husband. She gave
herself up to fullest enjoyment of the fine weather, the swift motion,
the beautiful country.
Bodiam Castle she found entrancing, and her fresh, almost childlike
interest in exploring it gave Gerald a kind of pleasure hard to
explain. Her unconsciousness put him upon his honour; yet it was subtly
alluring, too. It urged him to find out what would happen if she could
be brought face to face with the truth about herself and him.
He found himself lost in contemplation of the curious subtlety of her
nature, as contrasted with its simplicity. He knew, as it happened,
that her marriage was most unhappy. He doubted whether he could have
discovered as much without the information given him by her mother. Her
reserve was impenetrable. If she betrayed herself, it was quite
involuntarily, in some phrase which, to him who knew, bore a tragic
significance. "You are a man--you can do as you like. I must do as some
one else wills, all my life long."
This was as near as she had come, in words, to lifting the veil so
carefully dropped. He ranged her qualities one against the other--her
incapacity for flirtation, her power of preserving a dignified secrecy.
Artlessness combined with prudence! It was another such apparent
contradiction which had mystified Gaunt--her hard toil and ceaseless
sacrifice, taken in conjunction with her regard for appearances, her
love of dainty raiment. As a matter of fact, there was no
contradiction. Innate pride and refinement accounted for attributes
which seemed to clash.
The day's programme was carried through with much success. They lunched
at Lewes, and thence, hugging the northern edge of the Downs, they
passed to Steyning and on through Storrington to Pulborough. Here they
had an early tea, being warned that no tea was obtainable at Bignor;
and went on, through the exquisite late afternoon, along roads which
grew to be what Virgie described as "lanier and more laney."
It was as they approached Bignor that Gerald said:
"As soon as Baines has set us down he is going to run the car into
Chichester and back. I am expecting a man down for a couple of nights
from town, and I told him to come to Chichester, because I thought we
could pick him up from thence more easily. Baines will run there in no
time--'tisn't more than twelve or fifteen miles each way, and he can
fill up his petrol-tank there. He'll be back by the time we have done
our sightseeing."
"Bringing the man with him?" she asked, in evident disappointment.
"Yes. By the way, it's a friend of yours--Mr. Ferris, from Perley
Hatch."
"_What!_" cried Virgie, with so sharp an accent of dislike that he
was startled.
"Don't you like him? I thought they were friends of yours--they spoke
most warmly of you," he began awkwardly.
"Oh, his wife is all right, but he--do you know, Gerald, I think he is
odious," said she warmly. "It will just spoil our day, having him with
us! What a pity!"
"Have I put my foot into it? You don't know how sorry I am," said
Gerald warmly. "I wouldn't have done it for worlds; but I didn't like
him to come down and spend the evening alone in Worthing. I thought we
could dine at Pulborough, and go home at leisure by moonlight."
"Well, promise me one thing--you won't sit in front with Baines and
leave me behind with him, will you?" she begged. "I really couldn't
bear that. You don't know what an outsider he is."
He was fervent in his protestations that she should not be left to the
society of the dashing Percy. He was a good deal put out by her evident
distaste of the whole arrangement. He had never heard her speak so
decidedly about any one in her life as she expressed herself with
regard to Ferris.
The talk was put a stop to by their arrival in the narrow lane where a
small finger-post announced: "This way to the Roman Villa."
They paused, alighted; Gerald put a wrap over his arm for her, gave his
final instructions to Baines, and the car hurried on to the forge,
where the width of the road permitted it to turn and run back along the
lane by which they had come.
"He will be out on the high road in two or three miles, and then he can
let her rip," said Gerald; "but he can't be back for an hour, so we
will take things easy."
They leisurely ascended the grassy field which leads to the carefully
covered-in and precious pavements.
Then for a while Virgie forgot everything in the delight of examining
this wonderful relic of a bygone civilisation. The sweet-faced, elderly
lady who is custodian of the place, and speaks of it with reverence and
fervour which are infectious, warmed towards the beauty and enthusiasm
of this visitor. She showed her all that was to be seen, and explained
each small detail of plan and execution. Virgie reconstructed in her
own mind the entire existence of the wealthy officials, exiled from all
that constituted their world, and cast away among these barbarian
British in a fold of the Sussex hills, far, as it seemed, from all
communication with their kind. Then, pointing across the valley to the
romantic swell of the southern Downs, the custodian told how Stane
Street, the great Roman highway, had crossed the hills from Chichester,
just opposite where they stood. The Roman noble's sentinels must have
seen every figure, every horseman, as he topped the rise, and have kept
him in sight as he approached, the whole way into the valley. All gone!
Even the semblance of the track wiped out! It would be ten miles before
Baines would strike the still surviving section of the Roman road.
The hour was nearly expired when they had seen all, and they strolled
away to find somewhere to sit down until the car's return. Finally they
sat upon the grass, Gerald's raincoat under them, near the lane, and
watched the sunset fade from the sky.
Gerald reverted to the coming of Ferris, and said how sorry he was to
have made so stupid a plan. Virgie answered with impulsive penitence.
She could not think how she came to be so disagreeable about a
trifle--when he had given her this glorious day, and shown her such
grand things, when she owed all her pleasure to him. She felt ashamed
of herself.
"I am so glad to have seen this," she said with unconscious pathos. "It
has done me good. The thought of all that life and energy, here where
even the memory has passed away, the quiet to which it has gone
back--the disappearance of the great road, have brought home to me what
a little thing one human life is. We walk in a vain shadow and disquiet
ourselves in vain. I mean suffering, and being what we call unhappy,
matters so little when you think how soon it will be over. That helps
one to bear things."
Her eyes, misty with regret, were fixed upon the amphitheatre of
rolling downs and on the green, rabbit-run turf, where once the busy
highway swarmed with traffic.
He leaned towards her and spoke softly. "Thank you, dear, for trying to
comfort me. I am trying to bear things, as you put it--I truly am. Most
particularly because I know they are all my own fault. But I have to
own that your thought brings me very little comfort. Here are you and
here am I, alive and warm, wanting to enjoy our little day. The
knowledge that, five centuries hence, nobody will ever have heard our
names, does nothing to still my craving."
She looked at him dumbly, and her lip quivered.
"You didn't surely mean--you can't have meant that it is
you--_you_ who have to bear things?" he added in a hurried, choky
whisper.
For the first time he saw panic in her eyes. She was staring into his
as though fascinated. He could almost _see_ the hasty clutch of
her will upon her tongue, to prevent her making any admission.
"Nobody," she said, almost inaudibly, "has more to bear than they
deserve--more than they can carry; but every one has
something--something, don't you think?"
He mercilessly held her gaze. "If I were to tell you what I think of
you," he began; and she made a little motion with her hand.
"No, don't. Please don't. Because it really does comfort me to feel
that I am only a grain of sand upon the shore of time, and that soon I
shall be swept away. Only one thing matters, and that is, to have done
one's best while one was here. Sometimes it seems hard, but one has to
go on, one has to keep on trying. Don't you agree--oh, you must
agree--that everybody has something to bear?"
"I think," he muttered savagely, "that you have always been made to
bear too much. All the burdens of the whole family have rested on your
little, tender shoulders. It is time that you were freed----"
"No," she cried quickly, sharply, "that is the one thing I can never
be! I have tied myself, and no human power can release me now."
Even as Gerald's blood leapt with the throb of triumph, he realised how
careful he must be not to let her see the admission she had just made.
The thing which he might safely say sprang into his mind as by
inspiration. "There is such a thing as spiritual freedom, Virgie," he
softly murmured. "Don't forget that liberty is a thing nobody can
really take from you."
She turned a radiant face to him, and broke into a smile. "Oh, Gerald,
how lovely! How fine of you to say that! Yes, it is so. You are right.
I shall remember that always, and that it was you who said it."
"Because I am your friend," he continued steadily, knowing himself upon
the right road. "Remember always that I am your friend, and that I have
a right to your spiritual freedom. If ever you should be in trouble or
difficulty, you will think of our friendship, won't you? Think of this
perfect day, and how we have been together in pure friendship and
mutual confidence. You trust me, don't you, Virgie?"
"I should think so." She gave her hand, impulsively, and as he held
it--soft, warm, and ungloved--he wondered how much more of this he
could stand. She hesitated, as if she wanted to say something, and
dared not. At last: "You don't want words, do you, Gerald? You
understand?" she faltered.
"Yes." The word was gulped. He lifted her hand, kissed it, laid it upon
her knee, and rose hurriedly. Baines had been gone nearly two hours.
"Something has delayed the car," he remarked, coming back to her, watch
in hand. "I wonder what we had better do? It is getting late--you will
want some dinner."
"Oh, no, I have had a very good tea," she answered calmly, "but we
shall be cold if we sit here much longer."
He went into the lane and looked up and down. Then he returned again.
"I wonder if the kind old lady would let you sit in her parlour while I
go and reconnoitre?" he suggested. "We might go off together somewhere
and get some dinner, while I station a sentry here to warn Baines where
to find us? I am afraid we are a good way from anything in the way of
food, but I may as well inquire."
This was agreed upon, and Virgie settled herself in a tiny parlour,
full of furniture, while Gerald disappeared. She kept her ears strained
for the humming of the car, but no such sound broke the pastoral
silence of the remote spot. She began to wonder what they really would
do should the car have broken down, for she knew that her own powers of
walking were very limited, in spite of her immensely improved health.
Half an hour passed slowly, and then Gerald returned.
"There is apparently an inn of sorts at Dilvington, but a very poor
one. I suppose they could give some fried ham and potatoes. That would
be better than nothing, wouldn't it?"
"How far is it?"
He studied the map. "Inside a mile."
"I think I can do that if we walk slowly."
He looked taken aback. "I say! I forgot how little you can walk!"
"Oh, I can walk a mile, but I could not do much more."
"No, by Jove, I suppose you could not. I hope I am not going to knock
you up. What an ass I was to trouble about Ferris!"
She smiled bravely, and said it would be all right. The weather was
lovely. Gerald laughed uncomfortably. A flurry of rain was coming up
slowly from the southwest, across the heave of the downs.
They left word at the custodian's house and also at the forge, as to
the direction they had taken, and walked off towards Dilvington.
Virgie came along quite bravely, but before they reached the little
roadside "public" the rain had begun to fall.
Gerald ordered such food as the place afforded, and they were taken
into a small and stuffy parlour, with a short, horsehair sofa, upon
which the lady could rest.
"By the time we have eaten something, the car is bound to catch us up,"
he asserted cheerfully.
The meal took long to prepare, and was, to say the least of it,
inadequate when it arrived. Hunger, however, compelled them to eat, and
almost to enjoy it. By the time they had done, it was considerably
later than Gerald had foreseen. In Virgie's society time had a knack of
eluding him. With a hurried glance at his watch he sprang up and went
out to inquire about horses.
He came back in a bustle. "They have only one horse, and she has been
out all day, and is tired." said he, "but they think she can take us as
far as Fittleworth, where we can catch a train to Petworth at 9.20. We
should be able to hire a car there, and get back to Worthing or, if we
can't, there is a first rate inn at Petworth. No trains later than
about 9.30."
"Wouldn't it be safer to wait here for our own car?" she asked
doubtfully, as she gazed at the steady rain.
"Daren't risk it," he answered peremptorily. "If we had to stay the
night this place is impossible. I suppose they can lend umbrellas, and
you have a thick coat. They are putting in the mare now."
When the cart came round, it was found that there was not an umbrella
in the house. The September night was cold, and the rain fell
unrelentingly. They were very uncomfortable, and there seemed nothing
to say except to wonder where Baines and the car could be. The road
seemed interminable, and, as the mare ambled along like one moving in
her sleep, Gerald began to betray signs of desperate impatience. As
they emerged from a rough lane, upon a wider road, they heard a long,
sad whistle and the sound of a train.
"I doubt ye've missed her," remarked the lad who drove.
"Impossible! Make haste!" cried Gerald with some urgency. He ordered
that the drowsy steed should be whipped up, and she, indignant at such
outrage when by all the rules of the game she should have been sleeping
in her stable, made a wild spurt.
A quarter of a mile brought them to the little lonely station.
All was still. The lights were out. The door, when Gerald tried it, was
shut. They had missed the last train.
When he came back to the side of the trap, and stood looking up at her,
Virginia perceived that he was terribly vexed. Up to this moment he had
maintained a composure and cheerfulness which was reassuring. Now, he
was obviously nonplussed.
In reply to questions, their driver said sullenly that it was of no use
to fetch the station-master. He had gone home to bed. He couldn't make
a train if there was no train. Gerald shook his cap, from the edge of
which the water streamed, for the rain had become a downpour.
"One gets out of the habit of calculating distance when one is used to
a car," he said to Virginia, in a voice which was an odd blend of rage
and apology. "They were such a time bringing that food--we started too
late. The only thing now is to go on to Pulborough, I suppose."
The lad intimated that this journey, if taken, would be made upon their
own feet. The mare could do no more. She would just get home to her
stable, and that was all.
Virginia could not offer to walk. She would not risk over-exertion,
with her return to Gaunt so near. She tried to cheer Gerald with the
reminder that, most likely, when they returned to the inn at
Dilvington, they would find Baines and the car awaiting them.
As he knew this to be impossible, the thought could not console him. He
climbed up at the back of the wet cart thoroughly out of temper,
muttering that a wooden horse with three legs could have done two miles
in three quarters of an hour.
Their discomfort was now far too great for further conversation. The
rain was pitiless, and the horse-cloth over Virginia's knees, though
thick, was not waterproof. Her head ached, and she was very cold,
though she endured patiently, so as not to increase her companion's
evidently acute sense of the pass to which he had brought her.
She felt a final lowering of her spirits when once more the comfortless
inn came into sight. Their host and hostess were apparently no more
pleased to see them than were they to return. Nothing had been seen of
the car, and judging from their manner, these people did not seem sure
that it existed. It seemed, however, that they had half anticipated the
missing of the train. The only guest bed in the house had been made up.
Gerald somewhat nervously explained to the woman that Mrs. Gaunt would
have this room, and he would pass the night on the horse-hair sofa in
the parlour.
At first the reaction from cold and darkness was such that they found
it delightful to be seated by a fire, sipping some abominable spirits
and water. The circumstances, however, were too deplorable for Virginia
to be able to rally her spirits. The cloak she wore was really a
dust-coat, and it had not kept out the rain. She could feel that she
was very wet, and was solely occupied with the consideration of how
long she ought, in politeness, to sit with Gerald, and how soon she
could go upstairs and take off her uncomfortable clothing.
Gerald stood, his foot on the fender, his brow contracted. His state of
mind was most unenviable. He had formed this plan for the securing of
Virginia's freedom; and that they should spend the night out had seemed
a necessary part of the programme.
But anything like this had been far from his thoughts. How could he
have been such an ass as to allow himself to miss that train? Had they
caught it, all would have been well. He knew it was due at Petworth
just late enough to make it certain that they would miss the last
train. Then they would have been safe in the warmth and comfort of a
first-rate inn. The worst aspect of it all was that to Virginia, to
whom nothing could be explained, he must seem merely a hopeless
bungler, a person unable to manage a simple expedition like this.
"Need I say," he began, after a longish silence, "that I am repenting
in dust and ashes? I am so sorry for such an atrocious muddle. What can
I do to help you through with it? Draw your chair close to the fire.
Might I be privileged to take off your shoes?"
"No, thanks, I will do that when I get upstairs," said Virginia
wearily. "I don't feel inclined to sit up."
"But the car may turn up at any moment," he urged, hating himself for
his deceit.
"Why, so it may; we could get home then," she replied, with a dawning
of hope. "You see, I have to travel to-morrow; it is so inconvenient
for me to be detained, that is why I am so grumpy!"
He renewed his apologies, and she asked him to talk about something
else. He made a hesitating attempt to revert to the key in which they
had conversed at Bignor; but obtained no response from her. At last,
after another long silence, he could bear it no longer, but went down
on his knees beside her, and cried impulsively: "Virgie, you must
forgive me! Don't be so unhappy, dear!"
She had been lost in the mazes of her own thoughts, which wandered
always to Gaunt and her return to Omberleigh. She turned to Rosenberg
with a start, and said hurriedly: "Oh, don't! What are you talking of?
Get up, those people might come in."
The words were hasty, the tone so void of all warmth, all friendliness,
that it froze the genial current of his soul into something like
consternation. If the result of his escapade was to be that Virgie took
a dislike to him, things were indeed hopeless. She rose, and picked up
her steaming shoes.
"Good night! I am going upstairs to lie down. If the car comes, you
must call me."
He made no objection at all, but held open the door in silence.
The ungracious woman, summoned from the kitchen in the act of yawning
prodigiously, ushered her into a room as cold as a well, with a mingled
perfume of pomatum and apple-garret which turned her what Tony would
have described as "niffy." She took off her skirt, and asked that it
might be hung before the kitchen fire. She could not, however, undress,
since she had with her no necessaries for the night, and the landlady
volunteered no assistance.
She lay down in wretched discomfort, thinking that Gerald downstairs,
with a fire, had far the best of the bargain; but she was determined
not to go down to him. Until the last quarter of an hour, though she
was acutely alive to the inconvenience of the situation, it had not
struck her as awkward. Now this aspect had presented itself, and she
felt a new mental disquiet which greatly increased her physical
suffering. In view of her late ill-health, and the care which her
husband had exercised in order that she might recover completely, the
accident was most unfortunate. From that point of view, if from no
other, she felt certain of Gaunt's displeasure; and a creeping terror,
vague and formless, prevented her from resting. She hardly slept until
after dawn, when she dropped into heavy sleep, only to wake,
affrighted, about seven with a sore throat and a burning forehead.
She sat up, dizzy and sick. Yet if there was one thing more certain
than another, it was that she could not possibly stay where she was.
Somehow or other she must get back to Worthing at once, even though she
could not stand upon her feet.
She flung herself out of bed, animated with the strength of
desperation. Peering into the small, cracked mirror, she was encouraged
by finding that she did not look ill. Her temperature was, as a matter
of fact, 101, and her colour was the flush of fever, but she did not
know that.
There was no bell in her wretched room, and she had to call repeatedly
before she could make anybody hear. At last the woman appeared, and she
begged soap, hot water and a towel. After a long interval, an
earthenware jug, containing about a pint of liquid, was produced. With
this, and a tiny comb which she kept in her vanity bag, she made what
toilette she could.
It was somewhat consoling to find a good fire burning, and a cloth
spread for breakfast, when she crawled downstairs, stiff and aching.
Gerald had gone out for news of the car, and presently returned with
milk, butter and eggs, neither of which commodities seemed to be kept
in stock at the inn. He had found at Bignor a telegram from Baines,
announcing a bad breakdown, but saying he hoped to be along at about
9.30. Gerald had left instructions for him to come on straight to the
inn at Dilvington; and, with a great assumption of cheerfulness, hoped
that their troubles were over.
Virginia hardly answered him. In spite of her desire that he should not
know how ill she felt, she found it impossible to keep up appearances,
and could not eat. He attributed all to her sense of the unpleasant
position in which she found herself. He was acutely conscious of the
fact that the car, when it arrived, would bring Ferris with it; and he
now felt himself an unutterable hound to have consented to such a plan.
At a few minutes to ten, the welcome horn was heard. The girl's eyes
cleared a little, she rose, and eagerly put on her hat and coat, filled
with the one wish to be out of the place and away. She was at the door
when the motor appeared; and as it came to a stop, she started and
shrank back with a momentary loss of self-control. She had quite
forgotten Ferris.
Though he had plotted and arranged the moment, Gerald was hatefully
embarrassed now that it was upon him. There was a knowing, confidential
flavour about Ferris's manner which was detestable. He seemed to be
metaphorically winking at Gerald, who believed he would have done it
actually, could he have caught his eye when Mrs. Gaunt was not looking.
To Virginia a new thought presented itself. Since Ferris was here, and
saw their plight--since he knew they had been there all night--he
would, of course, tell Gaunt. This necessitated her telling her husband
herself the whole vexatious story--a feat of daring which it made her
head swim to contemplate.
She hardly spoke to Ferris, but entered the car without delay.
Gerald did all he could. In view of what he knew her opinion of Percy
to be, he would not sit beside Baines, but came inside with them; and
was obliged to accommodate himself on the small seat in front, doubled
up with his knees almost to his chin, unable to smoke, restless and
irritable.
At first he was almost angry with Virginia. She might buck up and help
him to carry off these infernally awkward moments. Her listless silence
was the worst demeanour she could possibly assume. As the miles passed,
he became aware that she was feeling physically ill, and remorse made
him frantic.
Oh, damn the whole thing! He had done what he was ashamed of, blundered
unpardonably; and, as far as he could see, he would gain nothing by
it.... One idea gave him some consolation. If Virginia were really
ill--if the doctor could be persuaded to keep her in bed for some
days--then Ferris would go back to Derbyshire with his tale; and it was
dimly possible that Virginia might never return thither at all.