There was another lurking idea. He could not, or, rather, would not, fling away his control over her while as yet he had no other ties with which to bind her to himself. Had he yielded to his first impulse, and thrown himself at her feet for pardon, the result could be easily forecast. She would give him a gentle, chilly forgiveness, and he would have to step back and let her go, see her pass away altogether, without any knowledge of him, ignorant of what manner of man he really was.
If he abandoned his present position entirely, he must, logically, admit that he had no more right to her than the nearest man breaking stones in the road. She would stoop to bestow forgiveness, and then depart; and it dawned upon him that, embarrassing though her presence had now become, her absence would be worse. These few days of her sojourn had already wrought a subtle change in all about him. When he met Grover coming upstairs with a tray, her face wore a look of interest, of sympathy, which he had never before observed. She had taken to putting flowers about the rooms—a wholly new departure at Omberleigh. Only that morning he had caught Mrs. Wells half-way upstairs with a sheepish expression of countenance, and something concealed under her apron, which, on inquiry, was admitted to be kittens, the mistress having expressed a desire for their company. After the woman had passed, he lingered on the stairs, heard her admitted, heard the little spontaneous exclamation of pleasure which greeted the appearance of the babes. The chattering, laughing voices of Wells and Grover were blended with a faint mewing. It was all very childish, and as he went down he thought he scorned it. But if it were all to cease?
These considerations, formless and not consciously held, were, as a fact, of more weight with him than even the other aspect of the question—the scandal that would arise, the talk that must ensue, the contemptuous pity that he might receive—should his marriage experiment abruptly terminate at the end of so brief a trial. Just then he saw no way to end the present situation. He must wait and allow it to develop. He must make further proof of the spotless integrity of his wife. She was not strong enough to face a scene as yet. He could not see clearly, his thoughts were confused. For the first time in twenty years he found himself no longer pursuing one aim with reckless disregard of everything else, but fumbling, hesitating, uncertain what to do.
He was a J.P., and this was his day for sitting on the bench. He had a long way to drive to the court. It was an important occasion, since there had been considerable disorder in Hoadlam, a large manufacturing town, and many of those implicated came from his own district. Gaunt's knowledge of law was valuable to his fellow magistrates, and he had had the previous day a note from Lord St. Aukmund congratulating him on his marriage, but begging him not to let his honeymoon prevent him from attending that day. This note Gaunt enclosed with the bank-notes to his wife, telling her that he must be away all day. He added:
If Mrs. Ferris asks you again to go out with her, I should advise your accepting if you feel well enough.
That day was pouring wet, and he reached home so late that it seemed wrong to disturb Virginia. The next morning Hugh Caunter came for him before seven o'clock. The flooding of the meadow where the tree had fallen had become serious. Gaunt arose and went out, breakfasted with Caunter at his house, and did not get home till nearly noon. He returned by the uphill avenue which approached the house by way of the garden—that avenue down which he had plunged in the moonlight, trying to allay the disorder of his mind after reading Virginia's letter.
As he walked somewhat slowly up the road, which grew steeper as it entered the garden, he heard the sound of voices on the breeze. The morning, which had broken cloudy, had developed into a fine, warm day. The heavy rain of yesterday had brought out the scents of the flowers, and the very earth was fragrant. On the terrace, in a lounge chair, lay Virginia, and Joey Ferris was sitting near, relating something in her loud, hearty tones, some story which brought laughter from the listening girl.
Gaunt's heart began to thump. He had not seen her since his treachery and subsequent conversion. He left the avenue and struck into a path which would bring him to where they sat. The chair in which his wife was placed had a striped awning to keep her from the sun. She therefore wore no hat. He thought her more like a patron saint—a Virgin martyr—than ever. The background might have been the canopy in some old Florentine painting, with a glimpse of flowery garden seen beyond.
He had the mortification of seeing the laughter wiped from her face as she caught sight of him.
"There is my husband," said she to Joey; and Mrs. Ferris jumped up, too eager to shower congratulations upon the bridegroom to heed the expression of either face.