TEMPTATION
"_I would not if I might
Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed
One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white
Cast down, but not destroyed._"--Christina Rossetti.
It may seem a curious thing that Mrs. Mynors, dependent upon the bounty
of Osbert Gaunt, should be so ready to consent to a plan which, if
successful, might once more cast her penniless upon the world. She
herself was at a loss to understand the true meaning of the malice
which actuated her. In all her life she had hitherto never known the
strength of any passion. She was incapable of deep love, of real
suffering. Her maternal instinct was not strongly developed, and
selfishness had, up to now, preserved her from anything more disturbing
than temper or discomfort.
The first emotion of compelling force which had ever gripped her was
the desire for revenge, which took its rise upon the day she went to
meet her old lover at the club, carefully adorned for conquest, and
received from him so unexpected a slap in the face. So unused was she
to be dominated by any overmastering emotion that she was being run
away with; and now and then by fits and starts she saw with dismay that
this was so. She reassured herself however. Like most women who have
always been attractive to the male, she overrated her own powers. She
believed that Gerald Rosenberg was her slave. As a son-in-law he would
be quite ideal, and unable to refuse her anything. She could not deny
Gaunt's generosity; but he, although spending large sums when he
believed it necessary, was severe upon luxury; he hated the wasting of
pence; whereas Gerald was always giving presents of the kind she
welcomed and understood--cut flowers, places at the theatre, pretty
trifles--to her, to Tony, to Pansy, even to Virginia. She was convinced
that her influence was paramount with Gerald, and, if with him, then
with his father also.
After all, he was the only son; the old man could not afford to be
implacable. Socially, her daughter was more than his equal. Her
superficial mind glossed over such ugly facts as divorce. Everybody did
such things nowadays, and everybody could be told the true story of
this particular case. Gerald and Virginia were blameless; the mistake
had been in the hasty, ill-considered marriage; Gaunt would have to own
himself beaten. She sometimes pictured an interview between herself and
Gaunt, wherein she would nobly repudiate his gross insinuations, and
speak beautifully of her daughter's angelic innocence.
Seldom had she been more gratified by anything than by the task which
fell to her of writing to "dear Osbert" to explain that Virginia had
caught a chill, and would not be able to travel for some days. She used
the term "days," much as she longed to write "weeks"; for there was one
possibility which she kept ever before her eyes, and that was the fear
lest Gaunt should lose patience, and come to Worthing himself.
Virgie's feverish attack suited her plan so well that she could not
blame Gerald for his carelessness, though she privately thought he had
badly mismanaged things.
Virgie indeed was feeling downright ill, and had such a splitting
headache that, upon hearing that Gaunt was duly informed of her
illness, she abandoned the effort of writing to him herself, and merely
lay still, feeling in every aching bone the relief of a few days'
respite before taking the final step.
Grover received her in a state of queer agitation, and was half
inclined to pet and pity, half to blame. The good woman had been very
uncertain in her moods ever since they came to Worthing. Her heart was
jealous for the lonely man in Derbyshire. She saw well enough what were
Mr. Rosenberg's feelings, and she felt convinced that Mrs. Mynors was
also well aware of them. She was indignant that the pretty woman, whom
she cordially hated, should allow such freedom of intercourse.
When the couple failed to return, or even to telegraph, the previous
night, Grover had gone through some awful moments. The thought "They're
off!" flashed through her mind, in spite of her real attachment to her
young mistress. She was so relieved when they returned that, like many
people in like case, she felt she must scold a little.
"Don't tell me! England's a place where there's railway stations and
where there's telegraph offices," said she severely. "If the last train
had gone before you got to the station, I suppose there was a village
near, and where there's a village, there's a telegraph. The young man
could have knocked up the postmaster, couldn't he?"
"I dare say; I never thought of that. I was so sure we should find the
motor when we got back to the inn. Oh, it was such a horrid place,
Grover, and so uncomfortable. The woman was so disagreeable, and seemed
never to have heard of anybody wanting hot water to wash with!"
"Serve you right, I'd say, that I would, if it wasn't for your being so
poorly. After all the care the master took of you! After his standing
to one side and denying himself even the sight of your face, so as you
should get well quicker. If he was to see the way you carry on here
among them all! At everybody's beck and call! Fetch and carry, first
here, then there. Fine and pleased he'd be, wouldn't he?"
"Oh, Grover, but I have been so well until this happened! And how could
I help it? Here are you, cross old thing, scolding me in the same
breath, first for taking a chill, and then because I didn't stay
pottering out in the rain still longer, hunting for a telegraph office.
The horse was dead beat; she couldn't go any farther."
"If I could box Mr. Rosenberg's ears, I'd do it with pleasure," was
Grover's vindictive reply, somewhat qualified by the extreme tenderness
with which she handled the culprit, undressing, tending, soothing her,
and laying her down among her pillows to rest.
"Men don't think of things," murmured Virgie weakly, feeling bound to
excuse Gerald.
"There's one that does," was the immediate retort. "One that has never
had anything to do with ladies, all the time I've known him, till now,
but has shown more true consideration than any one of these young fancy
men, thinking of nothing but their own pleasure."
Virgie coloured painfully and was silent. This subject was taboo
between mistress and maid. Grover could not but know that Virginia was
in mortal fear of her husband, and the good woman regretted the man's
awkward shyness, which prevented him, as she thought, from making
headway. Her mind was filled with keen anxiety lest all the hopes
entertained by the household at Omberleigh should be brought to naught
by this unnatural separation of the newly wed.
No more was said; and later in the day the maid bitterly regretted
having said even so much, for Mrs. Gaunt's fever mounted, and by the
night she was delirious.
* * * * *
It seemed to the patient a long time afterwards, though in reality not
more than forty-eight hours, when she awoke from a sound sleep, and,
glancing round, found the curtains drawn, excluding the sunshine, and
her mother seated by her bed.
Mrs. Mynors looked up with an angelic smile when the sleeper stirred,
rose and came to the bedside, stooping over her with a look of pity and
sympathy.
"Oh, how long have I slept?" said Virginia, sitting up and rubbing her
eyes. "Where's Grover, mamma? I must get up and be off. I am going back
to Omberleigh to-day."
"Not to-day, my sweetest," was the murmured reply. "The doctor would
not allow that."
"Oh, but Osbert is expecting me; he will be vexed." She put her hand to
her head.
"Lie down, darling; you must not exert yourself. You are weak. Osbert
knows. It is all right."
Virginia, conscious of a swimming in her head, though the pain was
gone, subsided upon her pillows.
"Oh, mamma, how tiresome! How very tiresome!" she faltered. "I have
been away so long; I must go back!"
"My dearest, my most precious child, don't grieve yourself! It is all
right! You are with those that love you, and will take care of you,"
was the cooing answer. "There is no need for fear, my Virgie."
"It isn't fear. It is breaking my word," stammered the girl, knowing
that her words sounded like nonsense, but feeling explanation too
difficult.
Mrs. Mynors, without speaking, brought her a cup of strong broth which
was keeping warm over a little lamp.
"I have sent that poor, good Grover out for a walk," said she. "She is
not as young as she was, and the nursing has tired her. But I had
another reason for sending her away when you should wake. I wanted to
be alone with you."
She did not say this until the soup had been drunk, and Virginia felt
refreshed.
"Why, mamma?"
Her mother sank to her knees beside the bed, holding her hand. "My
darling," said she, half sobbing, "there is no more need for
concealment between your mother and you. When you were delirious I sat
beside you--I had to listen to what you said--and I know--I know your
pitiful secret."
There was a long, deep silence. At last Virginia spoke.
"Mother, tell me what you mean. What do you know?"
"I know that Osbert has been cruel to you. I know that you go in fear
of his cruelty," came the whispered answer.
There was another silence. "Well, mamma, if that were true? I do not
say it is true, but if it were, what then?"
"What then? Why, Virgie, then you must be rescued from him. He must be
a madman if he could ill-treat you, and the law will protect you
against him."
For a moment the eyes of the girl in the bed lit up with a flaming
hope. For a moment she turned to her mother with a rush of eager,
palpitating confidence. Then a new look crossed her face, which grew
composed and firm. Her voice was not sad, but steady as she replied: "I
have sworn."
"Sworn, Virgie? Darling, what do you mean by that?"
"I have sworn to love him," was the answer. "I am his wife."
"But, Virginia, if he has failed to keep his oath?"
"You think that absolves me from keeping mine?" There was a faint smile
on the girl's lips, and her mother thought, as she so often did, that
she never as long as she lived should understand her daughter.
"But, of course, dear, you are under no obligation to endure cruelty.
The law----"
Virginia raised herself upon her elbow. "I _am_ under an
obligation to endure it," she replied. "I have sworn to love him, and
while he wishes me to be with him, I shall be with him. He has done all
he undertook to do. He has done more. He has not only given you comfort
and security, not only provided funds for this marvellous cure of
Pansy's; he has let me come to you, and stay all this time, because he
trusted me. He knew I should go back, because I have promised to do so.
I am going back."
"Dear one, we will not argue," was the gentle response after a pause,
during which the elder lady decided to change her tactics. "You are
weak as yet, and must rest and grow strong. Thank God you need not
decide at once, since the doctor would most certainly not sanction your
travelling at present. I only touched upon this painful subject,
because I wanted you to know that, without any treachery to Osbert, you
have inadvertently allowed me to know how things stand between you and
him, so there is no need for further concealment. You may rest safely
in the knowledge that you have loving guardians who will not let you
suffer from the caprice of a perverted mind."
"How long have I been ill?" asked Virginia, after a pause.
"This is Monday. You got home on Friday."
After a few minutes' silence, the invalid asked in her usual tones for
news of Pansy and Tony. Pansy was wonderfully well. The air of Worthing
was doing for her even more than the doctors expected. It was at the
request of Dr. Danby that they had come to Worthing. He had a friend in
practice there, in whose skill and kindness he had the utmost
confidence. Pansy adored her new doctor, and the electric baths were
proving a great success. Tony was out a great deal with his friend
Mullins. Gerald had gone to town, but was coming down on Wednesday.
A tap on the door announced the doctor's visit. He was pleased to find
the patient so much improved.
"When shall I be able to travel?" she asked him.
"Oh, some time next week, I hope," he answered comfortably.
Mrs. Mynors looked triumphant. She went out of the room with the
doctor, and Virginia was left to her own reflections.
"_The caprice of a perverted mind!_" That phrase stuck in her
head. It seemed to her that it did just exactly describe Gaunt's
conduct. It is possible, however, that a perverted mind may be put
right again, if it encounters some agency sufficiently powerful. When
she was in town Dr. Danby had spoken to her of her husband.
"He was one of the most interesting boys I ever saw," had been his
verdict. "I was very sorry for him. He was thoroughly mishandled,
misunderstood, by the old ladies, his great-aunts, who were all the
kith and kin he had."
(I can believe anything of them. They put the Chippendale in the attic,
and furnished their dining-room in horsehair and mahogany, had been
Virginia's inward comment.)
"I saw him several times during his university period. The authorities
there thought as highly of him as I did. Then came the _debacle_.
Some girl, upon whom he fixed all his heart, failed him. He could not
stand it. The weak spot in his nature was touched--his fatal tendency
to concentrate violently upon one object. He went all to pieces for a
while--dashed off abroad--and I lost touch with him."
It seemed to the girl, who revolved this information in her mind, that
her own duty lay clear. If she could but overcome his prejudice, his
perverted idea of her, might she not do something after all towards
making him happy?
Mims had once praised her for her inveterate habit of doing her duty.
Easy enough had duty been when it was a case of Pansy and Tony. Now
because duty was formidable and difficult, was she to shrink from it?
She covered her face with her hands, she stopped her ears against an
imaginary voice. She would go back--she must go back.
But if Gerald joined in the argument, would she be able to resist?
Well she knew her mother, and she was positive that, being on such
terms of confidence as she had lately established with young Rosenberg,
she would tell him what she had inadvertently learned, of the true
inwardness of Virginia's marriage. At the mere thought the girl writhed.
She was going back, whatever they said, whatever they did. She must and
would go back, in fulfilment of her promise. Yet her mind was racked
with the conflict. If she went back, if she entered the Beast's den a
second time, it was final. Suppose the worst were to prove true?
Suppose that nothing she could do would disarm Gaunt, that he persisted
in his hate, that he took delight in thwarting her, bullying her,
frightening her? How vilely so ever he used her, _still she would
have to be his wife._ He would shut her up in captivity, keep her
from those she loved--and yet she would have to be his wife!
Could she bear it?
She remembered her own boast: "You can cut me to pieces with a knife if
you choose, when I come back. Anything, if you will let me go to Pansy!"
Well, he had let her go. He had performed that, as he had performed his
half of all points in the bargain between them. She, so far, had
performed nothing at all. She had spent his money freely, and had lived
away from him. Was her wild promise nothing but an empty boast, after
all? Was she content to take these favours she had wrung from him, but
to refuse to pay when pay-day came round?
All at once she knew that her mind was made up. She was going back.
She bounded out of bed, but soon found, when standing up, that she was
far from fit to travel that day. She succeeded, however, in finding a
writing block and a pencil, and returning to bed wrote a hasty line to
Gaunt. In it she said only that she had had a tiresome chill, but that
she was almost well, and intended to reach home without fail on
Wednesday.
Her mother returned to the room just as she had sealed and stamped the
letter.
"Good child!" said she, smiling, "I was just about to suggest that you
should send Osbert a line to keep him quiet. You have told him what the
doctor said, about hoping that you could travel next week?"
"I have told him I cannot travel to-day," replied Virginia; and Mrs.
Mynors carried off the letter to post.