Valentine really made an excellent housekeeper. Nobody expected it of
her; her friends, the ladies, old and young, the girls, married or
otherwise, who knew Valentine as they supposed very intimately,
considered the idea of settling this remarkably ignorant young person
down with a fixed income and telling her to buy with it, and contrive
with it, and make two ends meet with it, quite one of the best jokes of
the day.
Valentine did not regard it as a joke at all. She honestly tried,
honestly studied, and honestly made a success as housekeeper and
household manager.
She was a most undeveloped creature, undeveloped both in mind and
heart; but she not only possessed intense latent affections, but latent
capacities of all sorts. She scarcely knew the name of poverty, she had
no experience with regard to the value of money, but nature had given
her an instinct which taught her to spend it wisely and well. She found
a thousand a year a larger income than she and Gerald with their modest
wants needed. She scarcely used half of what she received, and yet her
home was cheerful, her servants happy, her table all that was
comfortable.
When she brought her housekeeping books to her husband to balance at
the end of the first month, he looked at her with admiration, and then
said in a voice of great sadness:--
"God help me, Valentine, have I made a mistake altogether about you? Am
I dreaming, Valentine, are you meant for a poor man's wife after all?"
"For your wife, whether rich or poor," she said; and she knelt down by
his side, and put her hand into his.
She had always possessed a sweet and beautiful face, but for the last
few weeks it had altered; the sweetness had not gone, but resolution
had grown round the curved pretty lips, and the eyes had a soft
happiness in them.
"Pretty, charming creature!" people used to say of her. "But just a
trifle commonplace and doll-like."
This doll-like expression was no longer discernible in Valentine.
Gerald touched her hair tenderly.
"My little darling!" he said. His voice shook. Then he rose abruptly,
with a gesture which was almost rough. "Come upstairs, Val; the
housekeeping progresses admirably. No, my dear, you made a mistake, you
were never meant for a poor man's wife."
Valentine kissed his brow: she looked at him in a puzzled way.
"Do you know," she said, laying her hands on his, with a gesture half
timid, half appealing; "don't go up to the drawing-room for a moment,
Gerald, I want to say a thing, something I have observed. I am loved by
two men, by my father and by you. I am loved by them very much--by both
of them very much. Oh, yes, Gerald, I know what you feel for me, and
yet I can't make either of them happy. My father is not happy. Oh, yes,
I can see--love isn't blind. I never remembered my father quite, quite
happy, and he is certainly less so than ever now. He tries to look all
right when people are by; even succeeds, for he is so unselfish, and
brave, and noble. But when he is alone--ah, then. Once he fell asleep
when I was in the room, he looked terrible in that sleep; his face was
haggard--he sighed--there was moisture on his brow. When he woke he
asked me to marry you. I didn't care for you then, Gerald, but I said
yes because of my father. He said if I married you he would be
perfectly happy. I did so--he is not happy."
Gerald did not say a word.
"And you aren't happy, dear," she continued, coming a little nearer to
him. "You used to be; before we were engaged you had such a gay face. I
could never call you gay since, Gerald. You are so thin, and sometimes
at night I lie awake, and I hear you sigh. Why, what is the matter.
Gerald? You look ghastly now. Am I hurting you? I wouldn't hurt you,
darling."
Wyndham turned round quickly. He had been white almost to fainting, now
a great light seemed to leap out of his eyes.
"What did you say? What did you call me? Say it again."
"Darling."
"Then I thank my God--everything has not been in vain."
He sank down on the nearest chair and burst into tears. Tragedies go on
where least expected. The servants in the servants' hall thought their
young master and mistress quite the happiest people in the world. Were
they not gay, young, rich? Did they not adore one another? Gerald's
devotion to Valentine was almost a joke with them, and Valentine's
increasing regard for him was very observable to those watchful
outsiders.
Certainly the pair stayed in a good deal in the evenings, and why
to-night in particular did they linger so long in the dining-room,
rather to the inconvenience of the kitchen regime. But presently their
steps were heard going upstairs, and then Valentine accompanied
Gerald's violin on the piano.
Wyndham played very well for an amateur, so well that with a little
extra practice he might almost have taken his place as a professional
of no mean ability. He had exquisite taste and a sensitive ear. Music
always excited him, and perhaps was not the safest recreation for such
a highly strung nature.
Valentine could accompany well; she, too, loved music, but had not her
husband's facility nor grace of execution. In his happiest moments
Gerald could compose, and sometimes even improvise with success.
During their honeymoon it seemed to him one day as he looked at the
somewhat impassive face of the girl for whom he had sold himself body
and soul--as he looked and felt that not yet at least did her heart
echo even faintly to any beat of his, it occurred to him that he might
tell his story in its pain and its longing best through the medium of
music. He composed a little piece which, for want of another title, he
called "Waves." It was very sweet in melody, and had some minor notes
of such pathos that when Valentine first heard him play it on the
violin she burst into tears. He told her quite simply then that it was
his story about her, that all the sweetness was her share, all the
graceful melody, the sparkling joyous notes which coming from Gerald's
violin seemed to speak like a gay and happy voice, represented his
ideal of her. The deeper notes and the pain belonged to him; pain must
ever come with love when it is strongest, she would understand this
presently.
Then he put his little piece away--he only played it once for her when
they were in Switzerland; he forgot it, but she did not.
To-night, after her confession, when they went up to the drawing-room,
his heart immeasurably soothed and healed, and hers soft with a
wonderful joy which the beginning of true love can give, he remembered
"Waves," and thought he would play it for her again. It did not sound
so melancholy this time, but strange to say the gay notes were not
quite so gay, the warble of a light heart had deepened. As Wyndham
played and Valentine sat silent, for she offered no accompaniment to
this little fugitive piece, he found that he must slightly reconstruct
the melody. The minor keys were still minor, but there was a ring of
victory through them now; they were solemn, but not despairing.
"He that loseth his life shall find it," Wyndham said suddenly, looking
full into her eyes.
The violin slipped from his hand, coming down with a discordant crash,
the door was flung open by the servant, as Lilias Wyndham and Adrian
Carr came into the room.
In a minute all was gay bustle and confusion. Gerald forgot his cares,
and Valentine was only too anxious to show herself as the hospitable
and attentive hostess.
A kind of improvised meal between dinner and tea was actually brought
up into the drawing-room. Lilias ate chicken and ham holding her plate
on her lap. Carr, more of a stranger, was not allowed to feel this
fact. In short, no four could have looked merrier or more free from
trouble.
"It is delightful to have you here--delightful, Lilias," said
Valentine, taking her sister-in-law's hand and squeezing it
affectionately.
"Do you know, Lil," said Gerald, "that this little girl-wife of mine,
with no experience whatever, makes a most capable housekeeper. With all
your years of knowledge I should not like you to enter the lists with
her."
"With all my years of failure, you mean," answered Lilias. "I always
was and always will be the most incompetent woman with regard to beef
and mutton and pounds, shillings and pence who walks this earth."
She laughed as she spoke; her face was cloudless, her dark eyes serene.
For one moment before he went away Carr found time to say a word to
her.
"Did I not tell you it was simply a case of nerves?" he remarked.