A few days after the events related in the last chapter Mr. Paget asked
his son-in-law to have a few minutes' private conversation with him.
Once more the young man found himself in that inner room at the rich
merchant's office which represented more or less a torture-chamber to
him. Once more Valentine's untroubled girlish innocent eyes looked out
of Richmond's beautiful picture of her.
Wyndham hated this room, he almost hated that picture; it had
surrounded itself with terrible memories. He turned his head away from
it now as he obeyed Mr. Paget's summons.
"It's this, Gerald," said his father-in-law. "When a thing has to be
done the sooner the better. I mean nobody cares to make a long
operation of the drawing of a tooth for instance!"
"An insufficient metaphor," interrupted Wyndham roughly. "Say, rather,
the plucking out of a right eye, or the cutting off a right hand. As
you say, these operations had better be got quickly over."
"I think so--I honestly think so. It would convenience me if you sailed
in the _Esperance_ on the 25th of March for Sydney. There is a _bona
fide_ reason for your going. I want you to sample----"
"Hush," interrupted Wyndham. "The technicalities and the gloss and all
that kind of humbug can come later. You want me to sail on the 25th of
March. That is the main point. When last you spoke of it, I begged of
you as a boon to give me an extension of grace, say until May or June.
It was understood by us, although there was no sealed bond in the
matter, that my wife and I should spend a year together before
this--this _temporary_ parting took place. I asked you at one time to
shorten my season of grace, but a few weeks ago I asked you to extend
it."
"Precisely, Wyndham, and I told you I would grant your wish, if
possible. I asked you to announce to your own relatives that you would
probably have to go away in March, for a time; but I said I would do my
utmost to defer the evil hour. I am sorry to say that I cannot do so. I
have had news from India which obliges me to hasten matters. Such a
good opportunity as the business which takes you out in the _Esperance_
will probably not occur again. It would be madness not to avail
ourselves of it. Do not you think so? My dear fellow, do take a chair."
"Thank you, I prefer to stand. This day--what is this day?" He raised
his eyes; they rested on the office calendar. "This day is the 24th of
February. A spring-like day, isn't it? Wonderful for the time of year.
I have, then, one month and one day to live. Are these Valentine's
violets? I will help myself to a few. Let me say good-morning, sir."
He bowed courteously--no one could be more courteous than Gerald
Wyndham--and left the room.
His astonished father in-law almost gasped when he found himself alone.
"Upon my word," he said to himself, "there's something about that
fellow that's positively uncanny. I only trust I'll be preserved from
being haunted by his ghost. My God! what a retribution that would be.
Wyndham would be awful as a ghost. I suppose I shall have retribution
some day. I know I'm a wicked man. Hypocritical, cunning, devilish.
Yes, I'm all that. Who'd have thought that soft-looking lad would turn
out to be all steel and venom. I hate him--and yet, upon my soul, I
admire him. He does more for the woman he loves than I do--than I could
do. The woman _we both love_. His wife--_my child_."
"There, I'll get soft myself if I indulge in these thoughts any longer.
Now is the time for him to go. Valentine has turned from him; any fool
can see that. Now is the time to get him out of the way. How lucky that
I overheard Helps that day. Never was there a more opportune thing."
Mr. Paget went home early that evening. Valentine was dining with him.
Lately, within the last few weeks, she often came over alone to spend
the evening with her father.
"Where's your husband, my pet?" the old man used to say to her on these
occasions.
And she always answered him in a bright though somewhat hard little
voice.
"Oh, Gerald is such a book-worm--he is devouring one of those abstruse
treatises on music. I left him buried in it," or, "Gerald is going out
this evening," or, "Gerald isn't well, and would like to stay quiet,
so"--the end was invariably the same--"I thought I'd come and have a
cosy chat with you, dad."
"And no one more welcome--no one in all the wide world more welcome,"
Mortimer Paget would answer, glancing, with apparent pleased unconcern,
but with secret anxiety, at his daughter's face.
The glance always satisfied him; she looked bright and well--a little
hard, perhaps--well, the blow must affect her in some way. What had
taken place at the Gaiety would leave some results even on the most
indifferent heart. The main result, however, was well. Valentine's
dawning love had changed to indifference. Had she cared for her husband
passionately, had her whole heart been given into his keeping, she must
have been angry; she must have mourned.
As, evening after evening, Mr. Paget came to this conclusion, he
invariably gave vent to a sigh of relief. He never guessed that if he
could wear a mask, so also could his child. He never even suspected
that beneath Valentine's gay laughter, under the soft shining of her
clear eyes, under her smiles, her light easy words, lay a pain, lay an
ache, which ceased not to trouble her day and night.
Mr. Paget came home early. Valentine was waiting for him in the
drawing-room.
"We shall have a cosy evening, father," she said. "Oh, no, Gerald can't
come. He says he has some letters to write. I think he has a headache,
too. I'd have stayed with him, only he prefers being quiet. Well, we'll
have a jolly evening together. Kiss me, dad."
He did kiss her, then she linked his hand in her arm, and they went
downstairs and dined together, as they used to do in the old days
before either of them had heard of Gerald Wyndham.
"Let us come into the library to-night," said Valentine. "You know
there is no room like the library to me."
"Nor to me," said Mr. Paget brightly. "It reminds me of when you were a
child, my darling."
"Ah, well, I'm not a child now, I'm a woman."
She kept back the sigh which rose to her lips.
"I think I like being a child best, only one never can have the old
childish time back again."
"Who knows, Val? Perhaps we may. If you have spoiled your teeth enough
over those filberts, shall we go into the library? I have something to
tell you--a little bit of news."
"All right, you shall tell it sitting in your old armchair."
She flitted on in front, looking quite like the child she more or less
still was.
"Now isn't this perfect?" she said, when the door was shut, Mr. Paget
established in his armchair, and the two pairs of eyes fixed upon the
glowing fire. "Isn't this perfect?"
"Yes, my darling--perfect. Valentine, there is no love in all the world
like a father's for his child."
"No greater love has come to me," replied Valentine slowly; and now
some of the pain at her heart, notwithstanding all her brave endeavors,
did come into her face. "No greater love has come to me, but I can
imagine, yes. I can imagine a mightier."
"What do you mean, child?"
"For instance--if you loved your husband perfectly, and he--he loved
you, and there was nothing at all between--and the joy of all joys was
to be with him, and you were to feel that in thought--in word--in
deed--you were one, not two. There, what am I saying? The wildest
nonsense. There isn't such a thing as a love of that sort. What's your
news, father?"
"My dear child, how intensely you speak!"
"Never mind! Tell me what is your news, father."
Mr. Paget laughed, his laugh was not very comfortable.
"Has Gerald told you anything, Valentine?"
"Gerald? No, nothing special; he had a headache this evening."
"You know, Val--at least we often talked the matter over--that Gerald
might have to go away for a time. He is my partner, and partners in
such a firm as mine have often to go to the other side of the world to
transact important business."
"Yes, you and Gerald have both spoken of it. He's not going soon, is
he?"
"That's it, my pet. The necessity has arisen rather suddenly. Gerald
has to sail for Sydney in about a month."
Valentine was sitting a little behind her father. He could not see the
pallor of her face; her voice was quite clear and quiet.
"Poor old Gerry," she said; "he won't take me, will he, father?"
"Impossible, my dear--absolutely. You surely don't want to go."
"No, not particularly."
Valentine yawned with admirable effect.
"She really can't care for him at all. What a wonderful piece of luck,"
muttered her father.
"I daresay Gerald will enjoy Sydney," continued his wife. "Is he likely
to be long away?"
"Perhaps six months--perhaps not so long. Time is always a matter of
some uncertainty in cases of this kind."
"I could come back to you while he is away, couldn't I, dad?"
"Why, of course, my dear one, I always intended that. It would be old
times over again--old times over again for you and your father,
Valentine."
"Not quite, I think," replied Valentine. "We can't go back really.
Things happen, and we can't undo them. Do you know, father, I think
Gerald must have infected me with his headache. If you don't mind, I'll
go home."
Mr. Paget saw his daughter back to Park-lane, but he did not go into
the house. Valentine rang the bell, and when Masters opened the door
she asked him where her husband was.
"In the library, ma'am; you can hear him can't you? He's practising of
the violin."
Yes, the music of this most soul-speaking, soul-stirring instrument
filled the house. Valentine put her finger to her lips to enjoin
silence, and went softly along the passage which led to the library.
The door was a little ajar--she could look in without being herself
seen. Some sheets of music were scattered about on the table, but
Wyndham was not playing from any written score. The queer melody which
he called Waves was filling the room. Valentine had heard it twice
before--she started and clasped her hands as its passion, its
unutterable sadness, its despair, reached her. Where were the triumph
notes which had come into it six weeks ago?
She turned and fled up to her room, and locking the door, threw herself
by her bedside and burst into bitter weeping.
"Oh, Gerald, I love you! I do love you; but I'll never show it. No,
never, until you tell me the truth."