THE TREATMENT BREAKS DOWN
"Oh, do not die, for I shall hate
All women so, when thou art gone,
That thee I shall not celebrate,
When I remember thou wast one."—Donne.
The otter hounds were out, and Mr. Ferris was driving his wife in the car to the meet. The gentleman was in capital humour, for he knew how acceptable a companion he would prove to everybody this morning; being, so far as he knew, the only person who had yet actually beheld the romantic creature who had conquered that hard and woman-hating bachelor, Gaunt of Omberleigh.
"I wonder if she'll hunt?" remarked Joey. "Gaunt's a good horseman in spite of his lameness. Just fancy seeing him about this winter with a pretty wife in tow! It's simply too rippin'—best news I've heard for a long time."
"Hallo! Who's this riding the wrong way?" said her husband suddenly. "If it isn't the doctor. Hallo, Dymock, where are you off to on such a grand morning?" he cried, stopping the engine.
"Give you three guesses," said Dymock, drawing rein with a grin on his clever, keen face. "But you won't guess in fifty."
"Got it in one," shouted Joey. "You're going to Omberleigh, I can see it in your eye."
"You're a wizard, Mrs. Ferris. Have you seen her, then?"
"What, the bride? You don't say you're going to see her?"
"I saw her yesterday," burst in Percy, "and she looked as well as—well, as health itself."
"Old Gaunt is not satisfied, however," replied Dymock. "It's probably nothing much, but he says she seems a bit run down. I suppose I must expect to be sent for if her little finger aches."
"Sure," laughed Ferris. "He looks as if he wishes he could cause her to become invisible when any one of the male sex is passing by. Just the age to make a fool of himself, isn't he? Well, if you're passing our way later, look in, won't you?"
"You'll be wasting your whisky, Ferris. I don't give away my patients."
Ferris grinned. "Welcome, anyway," he said, as he and his wife drove on.
Dr. Dymock pursued his road, his mind as he rode up through the pinewoods being filled with as lively a curiosity as even the couple from Perley Hatch confessed to feeling. What like was the girl—for Ferris said she was a girl, and beautiful at that—who could have married Gaunt?
Hemming showed him into the study. It surprised him vaguely to find the house as untidy and dingy as usual—the abode of a woman-hating bachelor, untouched by the coming of a fair young mistress. Certainly the affair had been very sudden.
Gaunt joined him almost at once, his own appearance just as normal and unchanged as that of his house.
"I must begin with hearty congratulations," observed the doctor, shaking hands cordially. "Ferris, it appears, caught a glimpse of Mrs. Gaunt yesterday, and he says she is perfectly lovely."
"Thanks. Yes, my wife is certainly pretty, but I fear she is not very strong. As I think I hinted to you in my note, she was bitten with the idea which infects many girls nowadays—this notion of taking up Work, with a capital W. She has been scrubbing floors and cooking meals—laying tables and lighting fires. It has been quite too much for her. She told me nothing of it, and I was inconsiderate enough to take her a long ramble over the estate yesterday. She was so done up afterwards that I persuaded her to stay in bed to-day until you had seen her."
It was frankly and quite pleasantly said. The doctor applauded the new-made husband's care, and was taken upstairs, under Grover's escort, to the room where his patient lay.
He was not a man observant of details, but it struck even him that these were curious surroundings for a modern bride.
Since his inheritance of the property from his great aunt, the survivor of four aged sisters, Gaunt had not thought of touching or altering anything.
The big bedstead on which Virginia lay was what used to be known as a "tester." It had a wooden canopy, and hangings of washed-out chintz.
There was an early Victorian mahogany wardrobe, big, heavy, ugly, and commodious. The rest of the furniture was in keeping. However, plenty of sunshine came in through the long windows, and there was a bunch of roses on a small table near the bed.
With her hair tumbling about her, Mrs. Gaunt looked like a child. He had a moment's horror as he met the nervous, shrinking dread in her lovely eyes. Was this a tragedy?
"I had no idea," stammered the patient, "no idea that my—husband had sent for a doctor. There is no need, I am well, I am only a little tired."
"Just what he told me," said Dymock good-humouredly. "I expect you are both right. You can't wonder at his being a bit anxious, can you?" He glanced up humorously at Grover, who had evidently had strict orders to remain, and who stood primly by the bed. She smiled, however, at his question.
"Indeed, sir, I think the master is quite right. Mrs. Gaunt is thoroughly overdone," said she. "I daresay he told you, sir, as he told us, that she has been going in for this here domestic science work. Young ladies like her, sir, is not fit for it. If you'll believe me, she has been actually washing clothes! That is, she says she had in a woman to help, but it's a sin, sir, for the likes of her. However, now we've put our foot down"—she cast a glance of real kindness at the wistful creature lying there. "There's plenty of us here, sir, to wait on her, hand and foot; and in a few days you'll see she'll be a different thing—a different thing altogether. It is her knees I want you to look at particular, sir, after you've took her pulse, of course."
*****
When the doctor came downstairs the bridegroom was standing at the hall door, his hands deep thrust in his pockets, gazing out gloomily over the thick and shadowy pinewood.
As Dymock approached, he turned, fixing his eyes upon him. The doctor stood, drawing on his riding gloves, and did not at first speak.
"Well?" said Gaunt at last, with an odd air of exploding.
"Well, I am a little puzzled. No doubt there is debility as a result of overwork, but there is more than that. To tell you the actual truth, your wife has been starving herself. You see, that is a queer, unnatural symptom. When a healthy girl starves herself, it means one of two things. Either her nerves are all to pieces—she is what we call hysterical—or in the alternative—why, she simply hasn't been able to get enough to eat. Now your wife shows no sign of hysteria that I can see, except for the undoubted fact that she is under-nourished. So——"
Gaunt folded his arms and looked away. "Dymock," he said unwillingly, "one's doctor keeps one's secrets—eh?"
Dymock raised his clear steady eyes and looked full at him. "I do," was all he said.
"Well, I fear it is true, that she is under-fed and over-worked. It has been cruel. I had no idea myself. She looks so, somehow, so unlike that."
"Yes, indeed. You mean that her over-exertion has been necessary?"
"I do."
"Well, I thought as much," replied Dymock, after a pause. "Some unscrupulous employer, I suppose. A good thing you rescued her. She is perfectly healthy and sound, but she won't be anything like robust for some time yet. I am forbidding solid food at present. She must have nourishment every two hours—eggs beaten up in milk, port wine, strong soup, Benger's food—things like that. In a few days her appetite will return. But meanwhile she must be left perfectly quiet, Gaunt—you understand?"
"I understand perfectly. I give you my word for that."
"It won't be for long," said Dymock consolingly. "She is young, and she will pick up fast in this good air; her convalescence will be twice as rapid if you are considerate. She is in a state of acute nervous tension, and must be soothed; kept happy and quiet."
"Perhaps," said Gaunt, after a long pause, "it would be better if I do not see her at all, just at present. What do you think?"
"It all depends. Does it excite her to see you?"
"It might. Our marriage was sudden, you know. She hardly knows me."
"I think it should depend upon what she would like. Might it not distress her that you should keep away?"
"Perhaps."
"In a few days," went on the doctor, "she ought to go out, if it can be managed without her putting her feet to the ground. You have no motor, have you?"
"No."
"See here, Gaunt—forgive me if this sounds like interference, but the fact of your never having had any ladies to the house—your well-known tastes, or distastes—make things a bit difficult for your wife. She is all alone—there's nobody to come and see her, or cheer her up. I am going to make a bold suggestion. Young Mrs. Ferris is simply bursting with hospitable intentions, and, though she is a bit of a rough diamond, she is one of the best. They have a motor, and she has nothing else to do. Let me send her round in a day or two to call upon Mrs. Gaunt?"
Gaunt's brow lowered. "A woman with a voice like a fog-horn——"
"No beauty, I grant you, but a real good sort, and your only near neighbour. Let her drive Mrs. Gaunt about, show her the Peak, take her shopping to Buxton, import some light literature from the circulating library—something to pass the time."
"It may be that you are right," replied Gaunt after some hesitation. "I don't want visitors yet, but if Mrs. Ferris would understand that she is quite an exception——"
"It would double her desire to be of use," laughed the doctor. "Well, good day. I'll send along a tonic, and I think I should like to see your wife again to-morrow."
"Come as often as you think wise."
The clatter of the hoofs of the doctor's mare died away along the wooded aisles. Gaunt remained standing, his head bent, his hands locked behind his back. He hardly knew what he felt, what dominating impulse would emerge out of the present confusion of a mind which for more than twenty years had been swayed by one sole idea.
The surroundings upon which his moody gaze was fixed were the scene of that accident which had done much to warp his temperament, to give a twist to a disposition which from birth had been passionate and what is known as "difficult." The kind of boy who would have been saved by the devotion of a mother who understood him, he had been left doubly an orphan at an age so early that he had but a confused memory even of his mother's face. His old great-aunts at Omberleigh knew nothing of boys. During his summer vacation he stayed with them and ran wild among the men servants.
He was about fifteen years old, a wilful, even violent-tempered lad, when he disobeyed a direct order by going for a ride upon the bailiff's horse, an uncertain-tempered brute, who could be controlled only by his master. Contrary to his own expectation, all had gone well. He was returning in triumph up the drive, off his guard, exulting in his successful bit of disobedience, when something white rushed across the road. It was a shirt, blown from an adjacent clothes-line by the fury of the gale, and flying upon the wind like some wild ghost, flapping, rolling, staggering. As if in sheer malice, it shot out from among the tree-trunks, and wrapped itself momentarily over the eyes of the outraged steed, which swerved, terrified, and bolted into the wood. Madly the creature strove to thrust itself in between the close-growing pines. Pluckily the boy clung to his seat, though knocked violently against one obstacle after another in his hurtling progress. Finally, the horse attempted to rush through a narrow space between two extra strong and large trees, and the rider came off, but not before one leg had been horribly crushed in the struggle.
His right knee proved to be so badly lacerated that amputation was at first thought inevitable. By the skill of the surgeon this was obviated, but the snapping of a tendon produced a life-long stiffness of the joint and for a year or two prevented his indulging in any kind of athletics.
The isolation of mind and body which resulted fostered his already existing tendency to morbidity. At Oxford he withdrew himself as much as he could from society, becoming more morose as his former friends, tired of being repulsed, left him by degrees more and more to himself. At Oxford, one Commemoration week, he met the beautiful Virginia Sheringham, and fell so violently in love that his natural reserve was swept out of sight, and he conquered by sheer force of will. This girl became his idol, his universe, his obsession. For her he would work unceasingly, remove mountains, make a name, make a fortune.
Perhaps he should have thought himself lucky that so fascinating a young lady endured a whole year of so unpromising an engagement. At first she was taken off her feet by the violence of his passion, the impetuosity of his wooing. Very soon, however, her natural prudence began to get the upper hand. What, she very properly asked herself, could be the outcome of this long-drawn affair? The love-letters which at first had been so irresistible, inevitably palled on repetition. Moreover, one cannot buy new frocks with love-letters. Perhaps she announced the end of it all too suddenly. Yet it is doubtful whether any preliminary hinting could have made Osbert believe that his adored one could possibly be contemplating the treachery of jilting him.
The thing was done. It had to be done, for Virginia had given her lover a whole year, and a maiden's market is short. Unfortunately, the young man involved belonged to that pitiable but happily small minority with whom to love seems final, who cannot rally from the blow given by the beloved hand.
Everything was against Gaunt's recovery. He had no friends. His nearest relatives were the old great-aunts at Omberleigh, who understood him not at all, and liked him but little. During his engagement he flung away every other interest, every other resource, to give himself up to the passion which filled him. His jilting was for him the end of all things. For the first few years he disappeared from England, became a special correspondent at out-of-the-way spots such as Valparaiso, visited such outposts of empire as the Solomon Islands. Then the last surviving aunt passed away from Omberleigh. He found that the place was his, and he decided to occupy it, since he had formed a plan which needed residence in England for its maturing.
He had thought, during those years of wandering, upon one subject only. The behaviour of Virginia Sheringham had been brought to the bar of his judgment. She had been tried, and found guilty on every count. She had been treacherous, light, covetous, cruel, selfish, and callous. For these things he decided that she deserved punishment. Why should he suffer as for years he had suffered, while the criminal went scot free?
He had money now. Money was power. One day his turn would come. He could wait for it.
As the waiting went on he grew used to it. He lived in an atmosphere of it. One day this long-planned thing would happen, this long-prepared design would materialise. He hardly noticed the flight of the years. He hardly noticed any material or outward circumstances, except the development of his land. He lived in the nursing, the contemplation, the fondling, of an idea of future vengeance and retribution, when Virginia Sheringham should be at his mercy, and should plead to him—and plead in vain.
When at last the scheme did really mature, when the mortgage fell in, he could hardly realise that this had actually happened. He felt dazed, like a man who has lived for years in the dark when he is faced with sudden daylight.
It was all happening so ludicrously as he had foreseen. Mrs. Mynors had found out who was the mortgagee, and she had made an appeal—just the kind of appeal he had expected. He found himself taking a ticket for a journey to London for the first time during years.
There was nothing to do in London. To wait patiently there was by no means the easy matter that it was in the country, in the midst of his own work upon his own land. To occupy himself he went and saw pictures. He had a taste for pictures, though he never indulged it by buying any.
This it was which brought him to Hertford House, and suggested to him a totally new idea—an idea so brilliant, and yet so horrible, that it attracted and repelled him both at once. The shock of the sight of Virginia the younger was so great as partially to unnerve him. Her daughter! He had never thought about her children, except when the death of her son and heir, by means of the motor accident, had appeared in the paper, and he had been glad.
Now here was something like a resurrection of the Virginia of twenty years ago. He contemplated her, considered her, appraised her. The whole appearance of her was to him the top-note of luxury, extravagance, affectation. Long residence in the country, avoidance of women, had made him unaccustomed to the growing call for elaborate taste in feminine attire. He had never seen anything like the slim perfection of Virginia. He listened while girl-like she prattled of the costumes of the pictured women on the walls. He heard her wonder gravely whether she could wear rose-colour and contrast her own style with that of her friend!
She stood, to the man who glowered upon her, for the incarnation of a type. She was the temptress woman, who would, as her mother had done, enslave and then forsake. Could he prevent the life-long unhappiness of some unfortunate man, by exerting his own will, his own wealth to get the siren into his power?
He marked the arrival of Gerald Rosenberg. His faculties, sharpened to the point of brilliance by his own keen personal hatred, discerned the situation between the two young people. Upon the upshot of it depended all his own plans. If Gerald hesitated—if he took time for reflection—then Gaunt would have a chance to carry out a scheme of retribution more complete than anything of which he had yet dreamed. In his pocket was a letter from his old love—a letter which he described to himself as loathsome. It told him, practically, that she was his for the asking. What a buffet in the face for her, if he should propose for her daughter! And what a hold upon the entire family if he could catch the mercenary young adventuress, and keep her caged, and mould her to his will!
And it had all happened so marvellously according to his plan.
He succeeded not merely as well as he hoped, but far more easily. He was met more than half-way, both by mother and daughter. Gerald Rosenberg had evidently hung fire. The dressed-up doll which looked so fair and innocent was ready to consent to the sale of herself—to the shameful bargain which he had proposed. So he had taken her hand—led her into the steel jaws of his trap. It had closed upon her, and she lay at the bottom, lacerated, helpless, awaiting the moment when her captor should come and devour her.
He felt as might a hunter, who, having laid a snare for a man-eating tigress, comes creeping through the woods at dawn, and finds the pit occupied by a strayed lamb.
From the moment of reading the two letters which yesterday had passed between the sisters, he knew that his weapon had broken in his hand.
The dreadful thing was that, having made captive this helpless creature, towards whom his ill-will was no longer active, he was unable to release her.
And what could he do with her?
He had saddled himself for life with a female companion, of whom he had no need at all. What satisfaction could be derived from asserting his mastery over one so weak, so submissive, so—so confoundedly childish? As to making friends with her, the prospects of that were not encouraging. His treatment of her yesterday must have made a deep impression. Besides, he felt within himself no hankering at all after a rapprochement. Since his wife could not feed his hate, nor satisfy his vengeance, he had, quite frankly, no use for her.
Yet she was there. What was he to do with her?
As the endless complications—the annoying changes to be wrought in his life by the introduction of such trying persons as Joey Ferris into his hitherto unmolested retreat—as all this swept over him, he realised that he had overshot his mark and landed himself in unforeseen difficulties and vexations. Some gratifications still remained—for instance, the prospect of reading and of answering his mother-in-law's first letter, appealing for more money! Ah, that still lay in the future, along with her inevitable suggestion that she should come for a "nice long visit" to Omberleigh, and his blunt refusal of her company!
In her, at least, he had not been mistaken. It was only in the case of this artless, babyish creature upstairs that he had made such an ass of himself.
Shrugging his shoulders, he turned slowly away from the doorway, and betook himself to his study. There he sat down and wrote a message.
The doctor tells me you need rest, and should be left quite quiet. That being so, I feel sure that I had better keep away altogether. But there is something I have to say, so will you, for the sake of appearances, grant me a few minutes' conversation this afternoon. Choose your own time.—O. G.