The Daughter Pays

by Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

INSTANTANEOUS CONVERSION

"I was a moody comrade to her then,
For all the love I bore her....
... This had come to be
A game to play, a love to clasp, a hate
To wreak, all things together that a man
Needs for his blood to ripen....
... In those hours no doubt
To the young girl, my eyes were like my soul,—
Dark wells of death-in-life that yearned for day."—
—D. G. Rossetti.

A pencil note was brought downstairs to the master by Grover, who wore a demure look, as though she guessed how novel and charming a pastime to the woman-hater was this playful exchange of love-letters.

He was seated at the lunch-table when the little envelope was handed to him, and a surly self-consciousness kept him from opening it until Hemming had retired, which conduct on his part caused amused nudgings between the servants outside.

Please come to tea at four.—Virginia.

Such was the extent of the "love-letter" when he had opened it.

He shrugged his shoulders. He did not want to have tea with her in the least. However, it would have a good effect upon the household—keep up the fiction of their mutual desire for each other's society.

At a few minutes after four, he knocked at her door. Grover had just arranged the tea-table close to the bed, and was putting away one or two things before leaving the room. Virginia blushed brightly as her jailer entered, but gave him a timid smile of welcome. She told Grover, with whom she was evidently on the best of terms already, to set a chair for him, directed the closing of one window, lest there be too much draught; and so did the honours until the maid, benevolently smiling, had disappeared.

The bride knew that even a minute's hesitation would make her too nervous to speak, so she said at once: "It was kind of you to send for the doctor, but indeed there was no need. I shall be well in a very few days. I feel rested already."

"That's right," he said briefly. "Proper treatment will bring you round sooner, I expect."

"I like Dr. Dymock," she said timidly.

"He's not a bad sort."

A silence ensued. How difficult it was to find things to say. Virginia made another effort. "Grover is so kind, she waits on me hand and foot!"

"It's her work to wait on you. What she's paid for. I don't know why you should call her kind."

"Don't you know," she asked earnestly, "the difference between the work you can pay for and the work you can't? Oh, but I am sure you must."

He grunted. Evidently he was not interested, but bored. She offered him more tea, and refrained from further efforts at talk, remembering his sneer at her "prattle."

They were too utterly out of sympathy for her to have any idea of how best to approach him.

He drank his second cup of tea in silence, his gaze travelling over the room, over the dressing-table with its dainty appointments, over the white silk kimono, embroidered in faintly coloured flowers, which his bride wore. The loose sleeve revealed the thinness of her arm and wrist, which her dresses had formerly more or less concealed. On her white flesh he remarked a row of round purple marks. Had she rubbed her arm on something dirty? What could have caused those stains? They looked like finger-marks. The memory of yesterday—of their tussle, and his snatching of the letter from her desperate grip—came suddenly to him.

Could it be true that he, Osbert Gaunt, with the upbringing and traditions of a gentleman, had left the marks of his hands upon a fragile girl? Self-disgust turned him for a moment almost sick.

Yet he would say what he had come to say. He cleared his throat.

"The doctor suggested to me that he should send our neighbour, Mrs. Ferris, to call upon you in a day or two. I don't suppose you will like her much, but she is about the only person available. She is one of nature's mistakes—daughter of a colonel, and ought to have worked in a factory. However, they tell me she is a good sort. She has a motor, and would take you for a spin. I want you to understand that, if you go out with her, it is only on conditions—that it would be of no use for you to attempt to escape."

Virgie was so surprised that she dropped the sugar-tongs. "To escape!"

"From me."

"I don't understand——"

"I think you do. If Mrs. Ferris motors you to any place where there is a railway station you might be tempted to take the train and go off. I ought to tell you that if you do, I shall bring you back."

"You suppose that I should—that I should let Mrs. Ferris into the secret of my—of your—of our——"

"What more likely?"

"If you think so," replied Virginia with shaking voice, "please don't let Mrs. Ferris come. I did not ask—you must not think I asked the doctor—for company or complained of loneliness. I am——" she could not go on.

"Have I your word that if I allow you to go about as you like you will make no attempt to leave me?"

"Would you take my word?" she cried vehemently; then checked herself, and seemed to hold herself quiet by an act of will.

"The doctor told me that you ought not to be distressed, that perfect rest was necessary for you," said Gaunt, rising abruptly from his seat. "Don't upset yourself, I didn't mean to bully. I will take it for granted that you will do as I wish, now that you know what my wishes are. Good afternoon."

She did not answer. She had turned her face inwards to the pillow, and her slight shoulders were shaking. He stood a moment, contemplating her in dark vexation. Then he went out of the room, annoyed with himself, but still more annoyed with her.

His mind was chaotic. He had just been wondering what he could do with her—how deal with the preposterous situation he had himself created—and hardly had the thoughts formed themselves before he was found threatening her with penalties in case she should attempt to disembarrass him of her presence. Dimly he descried the reason of this apparent inconsistency. It was that he knew her to be spiritually free of him. He could not bear that she should be actually free as well. After all, he had married her. He had his rights. He was her husband. But, Oh, ye gods, what a child she was—how easily cowed, how shrinking and timid and all the other things that he hated!

From the bottom of his heart he wished that he had never set eyes upon her.

*****

The following morning the post-bag, when it was brought to him at breakfast time, contained two letters for Virginia. One was addressed in the unformed, sprawling hand which he knew to be Pansy's. The other was inscribed with a flowing, ornamental script which once had power to illuminate the world for him, and now produced in his fermenting mind the most curious mixture of rage, bitterness, and gratification.

He had determined yesterday to abandon his cruel intention of overlooking his wife's correspondence. His perusal of Pansy's letter had been enough. This sight of his mother-in-law's writing, however, touched him upon the corrupt spot in his heart, and shook his resolution.

He laid the letter down among his own, before Grover, who waited near, had seen the address. The letter from Pansy he handed to her as it was, and joyfully it was received by its lawful recipient when it arrived upstairs upon her breakfast tray, the sanctity of its seal inviolate.

When he was alone, Gaunt leaned forward, his elbows propped upon the table, and held Mrs. Mynors' envelope in the steam of the spirit kettle which stood upon the silver tray.

It was easily opened. He drew forth the contents with a detestable eagerness, and read as follows:

My dearest girl,—

This is the first moment that I have felt able to write to you, so great have been my sufferings, so keen my humiliation over this mercenary marriage of yours. I feel as if I had been living in a nightmare ever since that fatal day when I went to town to meet the inhuman monster who almost blighted my young life, and has now fastened his claws into you instead.

Oh, Virginia! Sooner—far sooner—would I have gone to the workhouse than be obliged to think of you in Gaunt's power! But you knew that! Again and again did I assure you, did I not, how far I was from demanding this sacrifice at your hands? How is he using you? That is the question that forces itself upon me every hour—that keeps me awake at night with the horrors! Your letter to Pansy was more or less reassuring, I must own. Perhaps, when he finds how useful and domestic you are, he may be kinder than my fears suggest?

Meantime, I miss you every moment. You will know how I have always detested the petty meannesses of life, the half-pounds of cooking butter, the scraps for the stock-pot, the way the coal disappears, the price of fish—all the endless, nauseating haggling over pence! To this you have left me, after all that I have suffered. After the shattering blows of the death of my first-born, my widowhood, our ruin—you have taken the hand of a man who can give you life's good things, and you have left me to the slavery which you found so unbearable. But I must not reproach you, for you may be already suffering for your mistake. Do write me a few lines, and tell me frankly how he is treating you?

If I am wrong, if he is behaving kindly to you, it will be such a relief to know it. He may, of course, actually have fallen in love with your looks. You are, as all declare, absurdly like me. If this should be so, I know, my darling daughter, that you will use your opportunity to help me. You must see that the allowance secured to me is wretchedly inadequate. £300 a year is impossible. It will mean an existence of continual debt. £400—that is, a hundred pounds a quarter—might be conceivable. It is the very lowest upon which one should be called upon to live. If Gaunt is inclined to be indulgent—if you have managed to get on his blind side—do strike while the iron is hot, and have this matter arranged for me, won't you?

It is not as if I asked for riches. Think of what I have been used to? Think of me here in this odious little town, non-existent as far as the county is concerned—Me, Mrs. Bernard Mynors—a prouder name than that of many a peer. Think of this in your luxury, and spare a little pity for your wretched mother.

Virginia Mynors.

Before that letter, Gaunt sat with clenched hands. The veins in his forehead swelled. How right he had been—how fatally exact in his forecast as far as the mother was concerned! How far was he right, after all, about the daughter?

Could that letter of hers to Pansy have conceivably been written as a blind—in case he should read it? No. That was not possible—at least it was not possible that Pansy's letter to her sister could have been the result of any kind of premeditation. Besides, the doctor's evidence of his wife's starved condition. Yet here were reproaches for the girl who had been obstinately bent upon a mercenary marriage—a sacrifice which she seemed to have made against her mother's pleadings!

How did the rest of the letter harmonise with the outburst of maternal agony which began it? His lip curled, ever more and more, until all his teeth showed, as he read once more the suggestion that, if he had been successfully hoodwinked, he might be bled for an extra hundred a year! As he sat, staring at the paper, he knew one thing certainly. He must see the reply to that letter. Moreover, Virginia must write it under the impression that he would not see it.

He hardly knew himself as he carefully resealed the envelope, and satisfied himself that it bore no signs of having been tampered with. In that moment he felt that he recked neither of his honour nor of his manhood. He had no scruples. One thing only stood out in his mind as essential. He must know how far his wife was victim and martyr, how far a designing girl.

If she was, as her mother declared her to be—mercenary, then there were ways, plenty of ways, in which she might do penance for such fault. But, if it were true that she had been sacrificed for pure love, that her unselfishness was so wonderful, so unheard-of, that she really had laid down her all upon the altar of family affection—why, then, what would happen? He asked himself desperately, what could happen? The only solution that occurred to him at the moment was that he should hang himself.

*****

When Virginia's tea went upstairs that afternoon, her mother's letter lay upon the tray, as though it had arrived by the second post. With it was a note from Gaunt, to the effect that he was sorry to have to be out that afternoon. An accident had happened on the estate—a large tree had fallen, most unexpectedly, and the huge trunk had blocked the course of the trout-stream, and the water was flooding a meadow. He hoped to look in upon her that evening on his return. Then, below his initials:

For the future I waive my right to inspect your correspondence.

It was late when he came in, wet to the knees and tired out. He had a bath, changed for the evening, and then, before going downstairs, rapped on the door of communication between his own room and Virginia's.

Grover was not there, so there was nobody to see that the bride turned as white as a sheet. She had not known, for certain, that his room adjoined her own.

"Come in," she faltered. He pushed the door wide.

She was on a sofa, in the window, and the late evening light shone through her hair as she turned to him that face which might have been an angel's. It was the face that had stood for him for so many years as the expression of treachery incarnate. Now it gave him the most extraordinary sensation.

For the first time in their mutual acquaintance she did not smile. Her look as she faced him was grave and cold. It seemed that at last his repeated insults had quenched her timid impulse to friendliness. The thought affected him profoundly.

"I hope you haven't been too lonely this afternoon?" he asked haltingly, standing in the doorway.

"No, not at all. Mrs. Ferris came to see me."

"Ha! How did you like her?"

"She seems very kind." The tone was entirely noncommittal. It seemed to say, "Whether I liked her or not is no concern of yours."

"H'm! Did she say anything about taking you out in the motor?"

"Yes."

"What did you say?"

"I said I would rather not go."

"You would rather not go?"

She turned her eyes away from him, out to the garden, and did not speak. He remembered what he had said the previous day, and guessed how it must have hurt her, if she were really what he was beginning to believe.

His next words were utterly unpremeditated. "I'll buy a car and take you out myself."

"That would be safer," she replied gravely. Then she raised herself on her elbow, searched among her papers on a little table at her side, and held out a letter to him.

"Will you put that out to be posted, please?"

He limped across the room and stood quite near—near enough to take the envelope from her hand.

"You read what I said about your correspondence?"

"Yes." He thought he could detect an impulse to say "Thank you," and the determination not to yield to it. Thanks for the right to breathe! The right to be herself! He saw that she could not frame it.

The sound of the gong in the hall below was audible. He turned away—lingered, trying to put together some sentence expressive of his satisfaction that she should be on the sofa to-day, but he found the thing too difficult, and was off with a curt, "Well, good night!"

"Good night," she answered.

When he was back at the door, he turned again and looked at her. Her whole fair outline, supine upon the couch, was illumined in a rosy gilding. The room behind her lay shadowy; her own form on its dark side was blurred. But that outline against the purple misty garden without was like a thing of enchantment. So still—so very beautiful—he thought of an effigy upon a tomb. He closed the door with a hissing breath drawn between his teeth. In his hand he held the key to all his doubt—the reply to the letter he had read. When he had also read this he would know what he must do; he would be able to realise what he had already done.

He hastened downstairs feeling like a thief in his own house. He resented the fact of Hemming's quite natural presence in the hall, where the servant was busy removing the sticks, wet gloves, etc., which he had discarded upon his return home. He disappeared into his study, and sat down, wondering how his nefarious purpose could be best achieved, as there was no fire and no spirit-kettle handy. At first he thought he would have to wait until the following morning; but he believed that he should not sleep unless he had snatched the knowledge he so inordinately desired.

He dined morosely, and there was sympathy in the kitchen for his lack of appetite. It was not surprising to Hemming when he brought coffee to find it declined, and to be ordered to bring in the small spirit-kettle and the whisky decanter.

Alone at last, with the desired jet of steam, the monomaniac once more settled himself to his novel pursuit of tampering with seals. He had done so this morning without scruple. The letter he now held seemed to him far more sacred than the other. The blood rushed to his face, and his heart beat heavily as he peeled back the flap of the envelope. He felt almost as he might have felt had he intruded upon Virginia herself, as if he violated something pure and intact.

The letter was withdrawn. It lay under his relentless gaze. He took a peep into his wife's very soul.

Mother! Mother!

If you had known how it would hurt, you could not have written to me so! What can I say to you? Can I reproach my own mother with injustice? Yet I feel I cannot let you write as you do without telling you how unkind it sounds.

What I have done is wrong. I know that now. I half knew it all the time. But what else was there for me to do? I believe God knows I did it for the best. I was at the very end of all my own strength; I was at the very end of all our money; I had you all dependent upon me; and I knew I was going to break down.

I felt I had to serve you, and, oh, mother, you can't, you simply mustn't, deny that I have done that. Don't, for pity's sake, talk of my going off to be rich, and leaving you to the slavery that I found unbearable. That is not just, it is not true, but all the same it is torture to me that you should say it.

The unfairness of it gives me strength to write what perhaps I might not dare if I were not so indignant, but it has to be said. Never, never, under any circumstances, will I ask Osbert to do more for you than he has already done. Please understand that that is my last word. Last year we lived on less than £200, including Tony's school bills, which you will not now have to pay. With care, you ought to be quite comfortable on what you have.

I do not know whether Osbert means to make me any allowance. He has said nothing about it yet, and I cannot ask him. If he does, you shall have anything I can spare, you know how little I want myself. At least, I ought to be able to keep Tony in pocket-money, the darling has suffered so from not having any. At this moment I have five shillings in the world, which I must use to buy materials to embroider a kimono for my Pansy. I promised her that! It is to be blue, with pale pink embroidery. Tell her I have not forgotten; I will get it next time I go out shopping.

I have been resting all yesterday and to-day, and I think I shall soon pick up my strength; but not if you write me such cruel letters. Oh, mother, for father's sake, who told me always to take care of you, don't let me think that what I have done has been all in vain!

Virginia.

Osbert Gaunt pushed back his chair. His face was ghastly, and the drops stood on his forehead. He felt as if the house were too small, too close, to contain him. With shaking hands he pushed the letter and its envelope into a drawer, stumbled to his feet, hastened from the room, snatched a hat from the hall, and went out into the moonlight.

He walked on blindly, striding fast, taking the direction that led him down into the long avenue through the park, from which one approached the house upon its southern side. He knew now what he had done. He had immolated an innocent victim. He felt as if there might be blood upon his hands. Stories are told of men who, having lost the use of a portion of the brain, have had this restored by means of a sudden shock or a terrific blow. Something of the kind had now happened to Gaunt. He looked back upon the man whom he had been, whom he had gradually become, during the past twenty years, as upon a leper. He shuddered at the very idea of such a monster.

Always before the eye of his imagination was the outline of Virginia's pale beauty, suffused with rose and gold. He recalled her patient quietude, her dignity and sadness. He knew now what she had been feeling. She had been quivering under the lash of her mother's diabolical selfishness; she had just relieved the anguish of her soul by writing that letter.

And he! What of the man who had tempted her?

A wild idea of crawling to her feet, of kissing them, of crying to her for pardon, turned him about and sent him striding unevenly half a mile upon his homeward way.

The futility of such a course suddenly struck him and once more turned him back.

She might pardon. Yes. She was the sort of nature that would pardon. How might that help their future together? He knew that there could be no such thing as a future together for them. He hardly wished it.

His passion of pity and remorse was quite untinged with any passion of desire. He thought of Virgie as of a saint, a creature apart, something to be rescued from himself, if such an end could possibly be compassed. If he spoke to her, if he begged forgiveness, he would have to confess his own late action. He would have to say: "I am such a cad, so lost to any sense of honour, that I first assured you of the safety of your private correspondence, and then deliberately read it."

He could not do that.

To one emotion of the human soul this man had been for years a stranger—tenderness.

The first invasion of his breast by the new-comer was torture. He had not wept since he could remember. Now his lashes were thick with the drops which the pathos of Virginia wrung from his unwilling spirit. He contemplated her as a man may study the outstanding merits of his patron saint, seeing her inner and her outward loveliness. Her reticence—the way in which she concealed from her mother all that he had made her bear! She made no complaint, left herself almost completely out of sight, was only passionately anxious for reassurance, to be consoled by the knowledge that her sacrifice had not been in vain for them! Pity flooded him. When he had been walking a long way he became aware that he was sobbing audibly.

This pain of unavailing compassion was maddening. What could he do? He had humiliated this rare creature, laid rough hands upon her, borne her off far from every one she loved. Yes, incredible though it seemed, she actually loved that mother—that trivial wanton upon whom he himself had lavished all that was best in him during the long, fruitless years that the locust had eaten.

Frustration—misunderstanding—injustice—and helpless regret!

This is life, and the old Greeks knew it. He thought of the majestic dramas of wrong and passion and irretrievable disaster. He thought of Clytemnestra and Electra. They sound crude to us, the ancient stories—crude and bloody. We do not slay our husbands with axes in these days. Virginia Sheringham had not, in act, been an unfaithful wife; but by her neglect, her lightness, her extravagance and selfishness, she had ruined her husband financially, had contributed to his early death....

... And she had handed over her daughter to Gaunt as calmly as Clytemnestra handed over Electra to the swine-herd.

Human nature—ancient—modern! The setting different, the actions different, the motives eternally the same.

*****

It was nearly two o'clock when, weary and footsore, Gaunt let himself in with his latch-key, through the door left purposely unlocked by Hemming, who was wholly astonished at finding that his master was out of doors when it came to shutting-up time.

Like a thief he crept to the study, re-sealed with infinite precaution the envelope he had opened, and slipped it into the post-bag.

Later, as he lay rigid, open-eyed, in his bed, watching the dawn creep on, it almost seemed to him as if the tumult and energy of his thoughts must travel through the door and penetrate to the silent room within—to the little golden head which, please God, was forgetting its sorrows temporarily in dreams.

If he could but send her a wordless message—some deep impression of penitence, of reverence, of his hunger to be forgiven!

Could this indeed be Gaunt of Omberleigh? Changed, the whole structure of his character demolished in a few hours by mere contact with the crystal honesty of a very simple girl!