"Valentine," said her husband, as they stood together by the fire in
their bedroom that night, "I have a great favor to ask of you."
"Yes, Gerald--a favor! I like to grant favors. Is it that I must wear
that soft white dress you like so much to-morrow evening? Or that I
must sing no songs but the rectory songs for father's visitors in the
drawing-room. How solemn you look, Gerald. What is the favor?"
Gerald's face did look careworn. The easy light-hearted expression
which had characterized it downstairs had left him. When Valentine laid
her hand lovingly on his shoulder, he slipped his arm round her waist,
however, and drew her fondly to his side.
"Val, the favor is this," he said. "You can do anything you like with
your father. I want you to persuade him to let us live in a little
house of our own for a time, until, say next summer."
Valentine sprang away from Gerald's encircling arm.
"I won't ask that favor," she said, her eyes flashing. "It is mean of
you, Gerald. I married you on condition that I should live with my
father."
"Very well, dear, if you feel it like that, we won't say anything more
about it. It is not of real consequence."
Gerald took a letter out of his pocket, and opening the envelope began
leisurely to read its contents. Valentine still, however, felt ruffled
and annoyed.
"It is so queer of you to make such a request," she said. "I wonder
what father would say. He would think I had taken leave of my senses,
and just now too when I have been away from him for months. And when
it is such a joy, such a deep, deep joy, to be with him again."
"It is of no consequence, darling. I am sorry I mentioned it. See,
Valentine, this letter is from a great friend of mine, a Mrs.
Price--she wants to call on you; she is coming to-morrow. You will be
at home in the afternoon, will you not?"
Valentine nodded.
"I will be in," she said. Then she added, her eyes filling with
tears--"You don't really want to take me away from my father, Gerald?"
"I did wish to do so, dear, but we need not think of it again. The one
and only object of my life is to make you happy, Val. Now go to bed,
and to sleep, dearest. I am going downstairs to have a smoke."
The next morning, very much to her surprise, Mr. Paget called his
daughter into his study, and made the same proposition to her which
Gerald had made the night before.
"I must not be a selfish old man, Val," he said. "And I think it is
best for young married folks to live alone. I know how you love me, my
child, and I will promise to pay you a daily visit. Or at least when
you don't come to me, I will look you up. But all things considered, it
is best for your husband and you to have your own house. Why, what is
it, Valentine, you look quite queer, child."
"This is Gerald's doing," said Valentine--her face had a white set
look--never before had her father seen this expression on it. "No,
father, I will not leave you; I refuse to do so; it is breaking our
compact; it is unfair."
She went up to him, and put her arms round his neck, and again her
golden locks touched his silvered head, and her soft cheek pressed his.
"Father darling, you won't break your own Val's heart--you couldn't; it
would be telling a lie. I won't live away from you--I won't, so
there."
Just at this moment Wyndham entered the room.
"What is it, sir?" he said, almost fiercely. "What are you doing with
Val? Why, she is crying. What have you been saying to her?"
"My father said nothing," answered Valentine for him. "How dare you
speak to my father in that tone? It is you. Gerald; you have been mean
and shabby. You went to my father to try to get him on your side--to
try and get him--to try and get him to aid you in going away--to live
in another house. Oh, it was a mean, cowardly thing to do, but you
shan't have your way, for I'm not going; only I'm ashamed of you,
Gerald, I'm ashamed of you."
Here Valentine burst into a tempest of angry, girlish tears.
"Don't be silly, Val," said her husband, in a quiet voice. "I said
nothing about this to Mr. Paget. I wished for it, but as I told you
last night, when you disapproved, I gave it up. I don't tell lies. Will
you explain to Valentine, please, sir, that I'm guiltless of anything
mean, or, as she expresses it, shabby, in this matter."
"Of course, Wyndham--of course, you are," said Paget. "My dear little
Val, what a goose you have made of yourself. Now run away, Wyndham,
there's a good fellow, and I'll soothe her down. You might as well go
to the office for me. Ask Helps for my private letters, and bring them
back with you. Now, Valentine, you and I are going to have a drive
together. Good-bye, Wyndham."
Wyndham slowly left the room--Valentine's head was still on her
father's shoulder--as her husband went away he looked back at her, but
she did not return his glance.
"The old man is right," he soliloquized bitterly. "I have not a chance
of winning her heart. No doubt under the circumstances this is the only
thing to be desired, and yet it very nearly maddens me."
Wyndham did not return to Queen's Gate until quite late; he had only
time to run up to his room and change his dress hastily for dinner.
Valentine had already gone downstairs, and he sighed heavily as he
noticed this, or he felt that unwittingly he had managed to hurt her in
her tenderest feelings that morning.
"If there is much of this sort of thing," he said to himself. "I shall
not be so sorry when the year is up. When once the plunge is over I may
come up another man, and anything is better than perpetually standing
on the brink." Yet half an hour later Wyndham had completely changed
his mind, for when he entered the drawing-room, a girlish figure jumped
up at once out of an easy-chair, and ran to meet him, and Valentine's
arms were flung about his neck and several of her sweetest kisses
printed on his lips.
"Forgive me for being cross this morning, dear old darling. Father has
made me see everything in quite a new light, and has shown me that I
acted quite like a little fiend, and that you are very nearly the best
of men. And do you know, Gerry, he wishes us so much to live alone, and
thinks it the only right and proper thing to do, that I have given in,
and I quite agree with him, quite. And we have almost taken the
sweetest, darlingest little bijou residence in Park-lane that you can
imagine. It is like a doll's house compared to this, but so exquisite,
and furnished with such taste. It will feel like playing in a
baby-house all day long, and I am almost in love with it already. You
must come with me and see it the first thing in the morning. Gerry, for
if we both like it, father will arrange at once with the agent, and
then, do you know the very first thing I mean to do for you, Gerry? Oh,
you need not guess, I'll tell you. Lilias shall come up to spend the
winter with us. Oh, you need not say a word. I'm not jealous, but I can
see how you idolize Lilias, Gerry."