The first emotion of compelling force which had ever gripped her was the desire for revenge, which took its rise upon the day she went to meet her old lover at the club, carefully adorned for conquest, and received from him so unexpected a slap in the face. So unused was she to be dominated by any overmastering emotion that she was being run away with; and now and then by fits and starts she saw with dismay that this was so. She reassured herself however. Like most women who have always been attractive to the male, she overrated her own powers. She believed that Gerald Rosenberg was her slave. As a son-in-law he would be quite ideal, and unable to refuse her anything. She could not deny Gaunt's generosity; but he, although spending large sums when he believed it necessary, was severe upon luxury; he hated the wasting of pence; whereas Gerald was always giving presents of the kind she welcomed and understood—cut flowers, places at the theatre, pretty trifles—to her, to Tony, to Pansy, even to Virginia. She was convinced that her influence was paramount with Gerald, and, if with him, then with his father also.
After all, he was the only son; the old man could not afford to be implacable. Socially, her daughter was more than his equal. Her superficial mind glossed over such ugly facts as divorce. Everybody did such things nowadays, and everybody could be told the true story of this particular case. Gerald and Virginia were blameless; the mistake had been in the hasty, ill-considered marriage; Gaunt would have to own himself beaten. She sometimes pictured an interview between herself and Gaunt, wherein she would nobly repudiate his gross insinuations, and speak beautifully of her daughter's angelic innocence.
Seldom had she been more gratified by anything than by the task which fell to her of writing to "dear Osbert" to explain that Virginia had caught a chill, and would not be able to travel for some days. She used the term "days," much as she longed to write "weeks"; for there was one possibility which she kept ever before her eyes, and that was the fear lest Gaunt should lose patience, and come to Worthing himself.
Virgie's feverish attack suited her plan so well that she could not blame Gerald for his carelessness, though she privately thought he had badly mismanaged things.
Virgie indeed was feeling downright ill, and had such a splitting headache that, upon hearing that Gaunt was duly informed of her illness, she abandoned the effort of writing to him herself, and merely lay still, feeling in every aching bone the relief of a few days' respite before taking the final step.
Grover received her in a state of queer agitation, and was half inclined to pet and pity, half to blame. The good woman had been very uncertain in her moods ever since they came to Worthing. Her heart was jealous for the lonely man in Derbyshire. She saw well enough what were Mr. Rosenberg's feelings, and she felt convinced that Mrs. Mynors was also well aware of them. She was indignant that the pretty woman, whom she cordially hated, should allow such freedom of intercourse.
When the couple failed to return, or even to telegraph, the previous night, Grover had gone through some awful moments. The thought "They're off!" flashed through her mind, in spite of her real attachment to her young mistress. She was so relieved when they returned that, like many people in like case, she felt she must scold a little.
"Don't tell me! England's a place where there's railway stations and where there's telegraph offices," said she severely. "If the last train had gone before you got to the station, I suppose there was a village near, and where there's a village, there's a telegraph. The young man could have knocked up the postmaster, couldn't he?"
"I dare say; I never thought of that. I was so sure we should find the motor when we got back to the inn. Oh, it was such a horrid place, Grover, and so uncomfortable. The woman was so disagreeable, and seemed never to have heard of anybody wanting hot water to wash with!"
"Serve you right, I'd say, that I would, if it wasn't for your being so poorly. After all the care the master took of you! After his standing to one side and denying himself even the sight of your face, so as you should get well quicker. If he was to see the way you carry on here among them all! At everybody's beck and call! Fetch and carry, first here, then there. Fine and pleased he'd be, wouldn't he?"