THE DIFFICULT PATH
"I will but say what mere friends say.
Or only a thought stronger;
I will hold your hand but as long as all may,
Or so very little longer."—R. Browning.
When Gaunt entered the dining-room, his wife was standing before the fire, its red glow making her white dress and white arms rosy. Hemming was busily employed in fixing a screen at the back of her chair.
"I asked Hemming to move my place," said she. "I hope you don't mind. I felt so far away, there at the end of the table. If I sit here we can talk much better."
"A good idea." Gaunt hoped his voice sounded natural as he spoke. He hardly knew what he said, such was the turmoil within him that he wondered whether his own appetite would fail as hers had done when last they ate together. Yet he was, as a matter of fact, ravenously hungry; and the taking of food steadied him down and made him feel more normal. He found himself obliged, however, to leave the burden of conversation to her. She talked on bravely, about Dr. Danby and his kindness to Pansy, until, the servants having left the room to fetch the next course, she turned half-frightened, half-challenging eyes to her husband.
"I'm afraid I'm 'prattling,' as you call it," she said deprecatingly. "Shall I leave off? I will, if I am teasing you."
"Forgive me. I'm not really unresponsive—only a bit bewildered," he answered. "You know that nothing you could conceivably say could fail to interest me. Don't remind me of my unconverted days."
She could not answer, for Hemming returned at the moment. She smiled and coloured.
Left to themselves before the peaches and grapes, when dinner was over, they fell silent. The memory of the former occasion tied the girl's tongue.
The man was facing his problem. Virginia sat there with him, in his house—his wife. She had come back prepared to accept this fate. Had he the strength to resist, the greatness not to take advantage of, her integrity and courage?