At the end of a week the Wyndhams were settled in their new home, and
Valentine began her duties as wife and housekeeper in earnest. She,
too, was more or less impulsive, and beginning by hating the idea she
ended by adopting it with enthusiasm. After all it was her father's
plan, not Gerald's, and that in her heart of hearts made all the
difference.
For the first time in her life, Valentine had more to get through than
she could well accomplish. Her days, therefore, just now were one long
delight to her, and even Gerald felt himself more or less infected by
her high spirits. It was pretty to see her girlish efforts at
housekeeping, and even her failures became subjects of good-humored
merriment. Mr. Paget came over every day to see her, but he generally
chose the hours when her husband was absent, and Wyndham and his young
wife were in consequence able to spend many happy evenings alone.
By-and-bye this girlish and thoughtless wife was to look back on these
evenings, and wonder with vain sighs of unavailing regret if life could
ever again bring her back such sweetness. Now she enjoyed them
unthinkingly, for her time for wakening had not come.
When the young couple were quite settled in their own establishment,
Lilias Wyndham came up from the country to spend a week with them.
Nothing would induce her to stay longer away from home. Although
Valentine pleaded and coaxed, and even Gerald added a word or two of
entreaty, she was quite firm.
"No," she said, "nothing would make me become the obnoxious
sister-in-law, about whom so much has been written in all the story
books I have ever read."
"Oh, Lilias, you darling, as if you could!" exclaimed Val, flying at
her and kissing her.
"Oh, yes, my dear, I could," calmly responded Lilly--"and I may just as
well warn you at once that my ways are not your ways in a great many
particulars, and that you'd find that out if I lived too long with you.
No, I'm going home to-morrow--to my own life, and you and Gerald must
live yours without me. I am ready to come, if ever either of you want
me, but just now no one does that as much as Marjory and my father."
Lilias returned to Jewsbury-on-the-Wold, and Valentine for some days
continued to talk of her with enthusiasm, and to quote her name on all
possible occasions.
"Lilias says that I'll never make a good housekeeper, unless I bring my
wants into a fixed allowance, Gerald. She says I ought to know what I
have got to spend each week, and not to exceed it, whether it is a
large or small sum. She says that's what she and Marjory always do.
About how much do you think I ought to spend a week on housekeeping,
Gerry?"
"I don't know, darling. I have not the most remote idea."
"But how much have we to spend altogether? We are very rich, are we
not?"
"No, Valentine, we are very poor. In fact we have got nothing at all."
"Why, what a crease has come between your brows; let me smooth it
out--there, now you look much nicer. You have got a look of Lilias,
only your eyes are not so dark. Gerald, I think Lilias so pretty. I
think she is the very sweetest girl I ever met. But what do you mean by
saying we are poor? Of course we are not poor. We would not live in a
house like this, and have such jolly, cosy, little dinners if we were
poor. Why, I know that champagne that we have a tiny bottle of every
evening is really most costly. I thought poor people lived in attics,
and ate bread and American cheese. What do you mean by being poor,
Gerald?"
"Only that we have nothing of our own, dearest; we depend on your
father for everything."
"You speak in quite a bitter tone. It is sweet to depend on my father.
But doesn't he give us an allowance?"
"No, Valentine, I just take him all the bills, and he pays them."
"Oh, I don't like that plan. I think it is much more important and
interesting to pay one's own bills, and I can never learn to be a
housekeeper if I don't understand the value of money. I'll speak to
father about this when he comes to-morrow. I'll ask him to give me an
allowance."
"I wouldn't," replied Gerald. He spoke lazily, and yawned as he uttered
the words.
"There's no use in taking up things that one must leave off again," he
added, somewhat enigmatically. Then he opened a copy of Browning which
lay near, and forgot Valentine and her troubles, at least she thought
he forgot her.
She looked at him for a moment, with a half-pleased, half-puzzled
expression coming into her face.
"He is very handsome and interesting," she murmured under her breath.
"I like him, I certainly do like him, not as well as my father of
course--I'm not sorry I married him now. I like him quite as well as I
could ever have cared for the other man--the man who wore white
flannels and had a determined voice, and now has been turned into a
dreadful prosy curate. Yes, I do like Gerald. He perplexes me a good
deal, but that is interesting. He is mysterious, and that is
captivating--yes, yes--yes. Now, what did he mean by that queer remark
about my housekeeping--'that it wasn't worth while?' I hope he's not
superstitious--if anything could be worth while it would be well for a
young girl like me to learn something useful and definite. I'll ask him
what he means."
She drew a footstool to her husband's side, and taking one of his hands
laid her cheek against it. Wyndham dropped his book and smiled down at
her.
"Gerry, do you believe in omens?" she asked.
Gerald gave a slight start. Circumstances inclined him to
superstition--then he laughed. He must not encourage his wife in any
such folly.
"I don't quite understand you, my love," he replied.
"Only you said it was not worth my while to learn to housekeep. Why do
you say that? I am very young, you are young. If we are to go on always
together, I ought to become wise and sensible. I ought to have
knowledge. What do you mean, Gerald? Have you had an omen? Do you think
you will die? Or perhaps that I shall die? I should not at all like it.
I hope--I trust--no token of death has been sent to you about me."
"None, my very dearest, none. I see before you a life of--of peace.
Peace and plenty--and--and--honor--a good life, Valentine, a guarded
life."
"How white you are, Gerald. And why do you say 'you' all the time? The
life, the peaceful life, and it sounds rather dull, is for us both,
isn't it?"
"I don't know--I can't say. You wouldn't care, would you, Val--I
mean--I mean----"
"What?"
Valentine had risen, her arms were thrown round Gerald's neck.
"Are you trying to tell me that I could be happy now without you?" she
whispered. "Then I couldn't, darling. I don't mind telling you I
couldn't. I--I----"
"What, Val, what?"
"I like you, Gerald. Yes, I know it--I do like you--much."
It ought to have been the most dreadful sound to him, and yet it
wasn't. Wyndham strained his wife to his heart. Then he raised his
eyes, and with a start Valentine and he stepped asunder.
Mr. Paget had come into the room. He had come in softly, and he must
have heard Valentine's words, and seen that close embrace.
With a glad cry the girl flew to his side, but when he kissed her his
lips trembled, he sank down on the nearest chair like a man who had
received a great shock.