The Daughter Pays

by Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

Later, when Tony had scampered away to bowl at the nets, and she was alone in the kitchen washing up tea-things, she bent her mind upon the extraordinary turn of affairs. The heat had made her so languid that she was obliged to sit down while the kettle boiled upon her tiny oil-stove. Her visit to London had done her spirits good, but London air is not the best for recuperative purposes. Moreover, she had been up late most nights during her stay in town, and the thought of Gerald had at times disturbed her rest. Since her return—and more especially since hearing about the mortgage trouble—her strength seemed to grow less and less. The knowledge that she was almost at the end of her means, and saw no chance of replenishing the empty exchequer, had acted upon a body weakened by a long course of underfeeding. In her heart she knew that she could not go on much longer acting as general servant, and starving herself that the others might have enough. If she broke down—if her health proved to be so undermined that she could not take a situation—what was to become of these helpless ones?

The idea that her mother could help in any way never occurred to her. The three were bracketed together in her mind, as those for whom she had promised her dying father to care.

Now came a way out—not an inviting one, but one that had to be faced nevertheless. If she married Mr. Gaunt, he undertook to lift her burdens from her shoulders. Moreover, he lived in the country—the real country. Omberleigh Grange was in Derbyshire, and it must have a garden—a real garden, such as she had been born to, such as she loved. A garden in which to rest and grow strong again, a garden in which Pansy might be wheeled along smooth walks, and lie under the spreading shade of big trees. These things could be hers, at a price. What did the price involve?

Mr. Gaunt had loved her mother. He knew, of course, that her mother had preferred another man; but she, Virginia, bore a wonderful resemblance to the woman lost, and the lonely man wanted to satisfy his empty heart by cherishing her. In return, he would do for mother, for Pansy, for Tony, all the things that she, poor Virgie, in her helplessness, could not do, with all her love. The sacrifice demanded was just the sacrifice of herself. Well—what did that matter? Why should she not be sacrificed, for the good and happiness of those she loved so ardently? It really was very simple, after all.

Perhaps a few weeks earlier she might not have felt quite so indifferent. There had been shining gates—the gates of a young girl's fancy—and shyly they had begun to open, and to show a tiny glimpse of rosy mysteries within.

That was over now. It had been but gossamer and illusion. This was a real, definite, tangible plan—a rope held out to save her perishing family, drifting on a bit of wreckage. In the seizing of the rope, she herself, incidentally, would be sacrificed. That was all. Why not?

By the time that the scanty crockery was arranged in spotless order on the shelves, and the kitchen as tidy as a new pin, the girl had practically come to a decision. She said nothing, however, that night. Pansy was a little over-tired after her garden excursion, and could not get to sleep, so, instead of sitting with her mother downstairs, Virginia remained at the little invalid's bedside and read aloud. When at last the child slept, she was too tired to do anything but go to bed herself. Nevertheless, her preoccupations awoke her in the early summer dawn.

In her utter simplicity she slipped from bed and knelt down in her white garment. She asked for guidance, and it seemed to her childlike faith that it was granted. Like her namesake in far-off old Rome, she must be sacrificed. She remembered the words of the ballad she had learned as a child, the words spoken by the frantic father of the Roman Virginia: "And now, my own dear little girl, there is no way but this!"

It was as though her own father's voice spoke to her from the grave, urging her to courage and a stout heart. The man was a stranger, the man was formidable; but she would be so good to him that they must grow to understand each other.

It was the only way, and she resolved to take it.