The Daughter Pays Part 29

Joey was in her garden next morning, tying up dahlias, whose heads, heavy with bloom, were beginning to droop, when she caught sight of the doctor crossing the lawn.

"Hallo!" she said cheerfully, pus.h.i.+ng back her untidy hair from her red, hot face. "How are you? Been to Omberleigh? Does she want to change the time of her drive?"

"She sent no message," he replied, when he had shaken hands. "I have come to see you 'on my own,' as I expect you would put it. I want to say something to you."

"Cough it up," said Joey, speaking lightly enough, but with a change of expression--a dawning of apprehension in her little, unexpressive eyes, which the doctor knew and was always sorry to see.

"Nothing serious," he told her in a hurry. "Don't jump so to conclusions, Joey. This is merely medical orders. You must keep Ferris away when you are in charge of Mrs. Gaunt, please."

Joey stooped over the garden bed to pick up her hank of ba.s.s and bundle of sticks. When she arose, her face was even redder. "Well," she said, "it isn't easy to tell Percy to keep out of his own car."

The doctor looked at her with eyes of friendly pity and sympathy. He had known her from childhood, and had brought her three children into the world. He saw more of the workings of the household at Perley Hatch than anybody else in the neighbourhood.

"I know it isn't," he answered, "but if it can't be done, say so, and Mrs. Gaunt must give up her tours with you. I may say that I suggested them at first not for her sake only. I thought a friend of your own s.e.x, within reach, would be such a happy chance for you."

Joey had turned and strolled at his side towards a garden seat. They sat down, she with her habitual inelegance, her legs wide apart, her thick garden boots firmly planted on the gravel.

"I like her," she burst out with energy. "I like her to rights. She's got no nonsense about her; you should have seen her with the kiddies yesterday! I should hate to lose her! But what harm can poor old Percy do her? Of course he's in love with her, but so he is with every pretty woman he sees. And it is such a good thing"--she broke off here, her thick mouth quivering. The doctor in his compa.s.sion understood as well as if she had finished the sentence. The thought in her mind was--"it is such a good thing for him to be interested in a woman of our own cla.s.s, where no harm can come of it, rather than in the daughter of the publican in Buxton, in whose bar he has spent half the day for the past month."

"Mrs. Gaunt is quite an invalid, Joey," Dymock told her gently. "It disturbs her to be introduced to strangers. Her own husband is behaving like a trump, and you must see quite well that I'm not going to let your husband step in and spoil things. She has got to be kept perfectly quiet, and if you can do that you may be with her. If not--if you can't guarantee to keep off Ferris--why the motor drives must stop. Gaunt is getting a car for her, but there will be some delay."

Joey sat still, saying nothing, gazing straight before her for a while, and Dymock waited with perfect patience.

"I thought," she began slowly, "when Gaunt got married, what a difference it might make to me supposing she was somebody I could cotton to. If he was more approachable, not such a disagreeable chap, Percy would have somewhere to go--somebody to speak to about his cave and his mining scheme. You know all Percy wants is something to do, something to fill up his mind. Old Percy's all right, isn't he, doctor?

Only he gets bored. He's awfully struck with Mrs. Gaunt; and, you see, like everybody else, I have tried to grind my own axe instead of thinking only about her."

"Joey, you're a trump," replied the doctor heartily. "I see your point of view, and there's nothing against it, except that you must wait a few days--say a few weeks--before starting in. You may tell Percy that he must lie low or he will spoil his own chance with Gaunt. If that gentleman heard that he had been trying to make the running with madame, he would send the lead-mine to blazes. Can you get that into Ferris's head?"

"Yes," she replied more hopefully, "I think I could. He must hold off a bit for the present. I can say you said so--shove it all on you, can't I, doctor?"

"Most certainly. Doctor's orders. Ferris is, of course, quite free to say that he can't spare his car for Mrs. Gaunt. But if he lends it, he must for the present stand out. I hope you can manage this, young woman, because I think it much better for Mrs. Gaunt to have your society than to go out quite alone. If you can arrange as I tell you, I will do my little best to say a word to Gaunt about the Branterdale mine. His support would be the making of the scheme; for whatever his failings as a society man, n.o.body is more universally trusted and respected than he."

"I know. I am pretty sure I can keep Percy off, at least for a bit,"

Joey a.s.sured him. "As soon as she is better, Mrs. Gaunt will like to have him about, he is such a taking chap, isn't he?"

"Handsome as paint," replied the doctor, smiling somewhat awry under his moustache. He could not tell her that the style which was fatal to the Buxton barmaid inspired in Virginia only an impatient disgust. "By the bye, I needn't give you the hint to tell Mrs. Gaunt nothing of my visit? She must not know that I have said a word? To put it shortly, you mustn't apologise; don't say a word about Ferris, good or bad.

Simply arrange that he doesn't appear again."

She promised. They strolled together to the gate, where his horse waited, and parted with cordiality. Poor old Joey!

In ten days, Virginia was allowed to put her feet to the ground; and the following day, which was Sunday, she elected to go to church. Dr.

Dymock told her that it would do her good, but that, if she went, she must put up with her husband's company during service. It would be humiliating him too deeply to ask him to allow her to appear for the first time in public without him. Somewhat eloquently, the doctor put before her the conduct of Gaunt--his wonderful self-denial. She listened with drooped lids, and said nothing. In her heart she wondered what the speaker would say if she were to look up and say straight out: "He does not love me; he hates me. He is waiting for me to be well in order that he may persecute me."

No doubt he would call it hysterical raving.

When he was gone, she fell to her usual occupation of wondering what form Gaunt's cruelty was likely to take, when she should be strong enough to submit to it. She dared only look forward to the immediate future. If she tried to go beyond, to face the prospect of a whole life-time of captivity, under the gaolers.h.i.+p of this extraordinary man, she found her brain reeling. There was a subject which preoccupied her mind at this time; otherwise her speculations might have travelled farther. The question of Pansy's cure was the one thing of which she thought, night and day. The accounts which she regularly received were cheerful, but not what she had hoped. They were vague--disappointing.

"The doctor thought, with patience, they would see some real improvement." Some improvement! When she hoped for a complete cure.

"There was distinctly less temperature during the past twenty-four hours." But why was there temperature at all? Was the new treatment setting up a temperature? She knew enough of nursing and sickness to understand that these reports were by no means wholly satisfactory.

And now that Pansy was too ill to write herself, what a blank there was! Mamma was so different! She could not tell the things one wanted to know. Day by day, since Gaunt gave her money, Virgie had sent parcels to the nursing home, wherein her treasure was incarcerated.

Fruit, jelly, pictures, flowers, books--anything love could suggest.

Yet she hardly knew whether they were received, or, if so, whether they gave pleasure.

This dearth of what she called "real news" gave her a good deal of anxiety, though Grover usually contrived to rea.s.sure her, and to hold up a glorious picture of what the dear little lady would say when she was allowed to write herself!

On Sunday morning Virginia was up and dressed by church time; and walked downstairs, and along the hall, into the waiting carriage and pair. Gaunt was nowhere to be seen, and she drove to Manton, the village in whose scattered parish Omberleigh stood, escorted only by Grover.

At the church door, her husband was awaiting her, having apparently traversed the two miles on foot. He timed his appearance to coincide with hers, so that it would look as if they had arrived together. It was almost a fortnight since she had set eyes upon him, and the sight of him brought a rush of scarlet to her cheeks, and a trembling to her limbs. He tried to look as if everything was normal, as if he had driven over with her, after breakfasting together as usual. He seemed paler than her memory of him, but displayed no emotion of any kind.

Virginia was looking unusually pretty. Grover, when she had finally adjusted the picturesque hat, had remarked that it was not often they had anything like _that_ to look at in Manton church of a Sunday morning.

Certainly the lately married pair were the cynosure of every eye as they took their places in the old oak seat appropriated to Omberleigh.

Gaunt had no time to feel self-conscious, so anxious was he as to how his wife would stand the ordeal of sitting beside him for so long. He tried, however, not to increase her nervousness by seeming aware of it.

He appeared immersed in his prayer-book and hymnal, singing the tenor part in the hymns very correctly.

The service was extremely simple, and not lengthy. Virginia got through it quite well, feeling, after the first ten minutes, a sense of relief and peace for which she could not account. She told herself that it was the grace of G.o.d, and that, if she could sit so calmly at her captor's side, without a tremor, it showed that strength would be given her to endure his uttermost unkindness patiently.

He stepped out of the seat, at the end of service, and waited for her to follow, quite quietly and not officiously. His manner was, indeed, so natural that only a keen observer would have suspected that naturalness to be a.s.sumed. At her side he walked down the broad central pa.s.sage, and out at the south porch.

He had held all his neighbours so rigorously at bay for years past that very few had ventured to await the appearance of the bridal couple. But one elderly lady, of shapeless bulk, with her bonnet askew, waiting beside a big motor, escorted by a large and fine old gentleman, stepped forward.

"Well, Osbert Gaunt, you must allow me to shake hands, and to ask you to make me known to your lovely young wife," said she kindly.

Gaunt did not look pleased, but he made the necessary introduction. The old pair were Lord and Lady St. Aukmund. "I hope you will come and see my wife before long, when we are a bit more settled down!" he volunteered.

"My dear boy, I should think this is the best day's work you ever did in all your life!" cried the old countess, holding Virgie's hand most cordially. "And she is Bernard Mynors's daughter! Oh, yes, my dear, all the county knows who you were! All the county is talking about you! But n.o.body will be surprised at the miracle when they see you! As to him, he is the most savage, the most _farouche_ creature that ever was made--or was until he saw you--for you have altered him already, my dear! I knew him when he was a little mite in velvet suits, and I never thought he would turn out as he did! But you have come to the rescue just in time. Put ceremony on one side, and bring him to dine with us at the Chase just _en famille_ one day this week, won't you?"

Gaunt was obliged to explain that his wife was a convalescent, and that any evening engagement was at present out of the question for her. He hoped that it would soon be different. Lady St. Aukmund showed herself pertinacious, and asked more questions than he liked, but he managed to parry them all, and she got into her motor at last, all compliments and desires for showing hospitality. He waited until the great folks were off, and then put Virgie into the carriage at once.

As he arranged the dust rug carefully about her feet, Virginia was struck for the first time with a sort of compunction. Her husband, for whatever motive, was certainly carrying out the doctor's orders loyally. She was touched with shame that he must walk home, because she was occupying his carriage. Leaning forward impetuously, she said: "I hope you will drive home? I hope you will not walk because of--me?"

"Thanks, I prefer it."

He stepped back, gave the order, and she was driven away. He stood there in the road, his brows knit, his heart in tumult. What an a.s.s he had been to decline that offer! He might have been seated by her now, conscious of her in every fibre, seeing her, even though not daring to look at her, breathing her, as it were, into his being. It could have done her no harm. He might have found time for some word, some faltering sentence that should have prepared her for his change of mind, for his entire defeat and penitence.

He started to walk home, in the dust of her chariot wheels. He would set eyes upon her no more that day, unless he stood, as he often did, at the window of his study, whence he could see the canopy of her chair as she lay out upon the terrace.

He saw her no more, except from a distance, for another week. Then the doctor gave him cheering news. She was doing splendidly. He thought she might lead a normal life in a few days more, if she were carefully guarded, and not allowed to overdo herself.

"You might take her to the coast?--Devon or Cornwall, perhaps?" he suggested.

Gaunt said he would consider it. It was a difficult time for him to leave home, just as harvest was beginning. A month later perhaps.

As he limped back, up the avenue, when Dymock had ridden away, he thought that perhaps it might make the rupture easier, if it took place elsewhere, and not at Omberleigh, where apparently the world and his wife--specially his wife--was busy with his affairs. The world and his wife had been so shut out from his own purview hitherto that he was wholly unprepared for the shock of surprise, amus.e.m.e.nt, interest, which his sudden marriage excited. In such a spa.r.s.ely populated neighbourhood he had believed that he might do what he pleased without exciting comment. He saw now, with sudden clarity, how impossible such an existence as he had planned for his unlucky wife would have been in reality.