The Daughter Pays Part 7

Now that she had the twofold weapons of beauty and misfortune, surely none could resist.

Not for long years had her heart so throbbed, her blood run so swiftly, as this morning, as the taxi turned out of Bond Street, slid along Grafton Street into Dover Street, and stopped at the doors of the club.

Since her husband's death she had never entered it. Now she wondered how she had kept away so long, and admired with fervour her own Spartan heroism. How meekly she had bowed under undeserved adversity!

She strolled into the dressing-room, put down her sun-shade, and contemplated herself in a mirror. The things she had seen in the shops that morning, and the costumes in the streets, had put her somewhat out of conceit of her own appearance. The mirror, however, restored all her self-confidence. She was looking lovely, with a bloom in her cheeks that the f.a.gged-looking London women could not hope to emulate.

She used her powder with judgment and restraint, adjusted her veil, and went out into the hall.

"I am going into the chintz parlour," said she to the page-boy, "and I am expecting a gentleman by appointment. Bring him to me there--Mrs.

Mynors."

She went upstairs, outwardly quite tranquil, though inwardly she was shaken with a storm of excitement which she could not wholly understand. In old days she had feared Osbert Gaunt. She remembered that, though she did not own it to herself. Devoted slave as he had been, she had had perhaps some faint instinctive premonition that he was in reality her master. He had been subject to bursts of pa.s.sion, to fits of sullen rage. It had been exciting, but exhausting, to be loved by him.

All that was twenty years ago. What was he now?

She surveyed the pretty little parlour, furnished in a clever imitation of the Georgian era. From among the chairs she selected two. Then, changing her mind, she chose a small couch, with room for two to sit upon it. She brought forward a little table, put some magazines upon it, opened one and became so absorbed in the sketch of a Paris gown which it contained that she started annoyingly at the voice of the page-boy announcing her visitor.

Osbert Gaunt walked in. Her first thought was that, changed though he was, she should have known him anywhere. Certainly his was a personality not easy to forget. He was dark complexioned by nature, and, as he lived in the open air, he was also much tanned. His coal-black hair was slightly softened with grey at the temples, but his moustache was raven black, and it altered his appearance to something curiously unlike her memory of the keen young boyish face. He walked with the limp which she remembered well, and as they shook hands his glance swept over her from head to foot, appraising and, as it seemed, condemning, for his lip curled into a sneer.

He was perfectly self-possessed. The lady was genuinely agitated.

"I trust that I am punctual to your appointment, madam," he said drily.

They were alone in the room. She noticed that with thankfulness, even while she realised how entirely the man had the advantage over her. To her, this interview meant everything. To him, apparently, very little.

She was so much affected that she sat down at once, making a little appealing movement with her hand that he should sit beside her, as she murmured: "Oh, Osbert, you are good to come ... and you are so little changed."

He replied, with indifference that amounted to discourtesy: "I came to suit my own convenience; and I have changed completely."

With this preliminary amenity he looked around, chose a chair, brought it forward, and sat down facing her. His rudeness was so disconcerting that she forgot her part, and spoke confusedly:

"Oh no, indeed, you have not changed; you always used to contradict.

That was part of your temperament."

"Pardon me, I am not here to discuss my temperament. I have come on business."

She made a little deprecating sound, as though he had hurt her. "Oh, Osbert, this is dreadful! Dreadful! If I had expected this, I would not have appealed to you. How could I dream that you would have remained unforgiving all these years?"

She drew out the tiny handkerchief, redolent of lily of the valley. In old days a tear from her had driven him mad.

"You surprise me," was his answer. "I understood that you desired to discuss a mortgage. If you will allow me to say so, I must confess that any allusion from you to our past relations seems to me to be in the worst of taste."

"Osbert! Oh, Osbert! That you can speak so to me! It is useless--quite useless to go farther. Had I been rich and prosperous, I could understand your desire to taunt me.... I never could have believed that you would stoop to it when you know quite well the straits to which we are reduced--that I and mine are starving!"

Again his look swept over her, as if mocking at her general aspect of subdued luxury.

"Madam, it seems to me that the unfortunate tradesmen whom you employ are more likely to starve than you are," he said emphatically. "But, as regards your financial position, that is, I suppose, part of the subject which we are here to discuss. I gather that my foreclosing of this mortgage embarra.s.ses you seriously?"

She kept her face turned from him, allowing one crystal tear to lie undried upon her soft cheek, as she answered in low, grief-broken tones:

"We were almost beggars before. This is the final straw."

He took the chance she gave him to look full at her. Her aspect of humiliation and discouragement seemed to please him.

"Good!" said he. "Then we come to something definite. What do you suggest that I should do in this matter? I am a little puzzled, because you cannot, I think, have supposed that I should be likely to strain any point in your favour--rather perhaps the reverse. Eh?"

She paused, as it were for breath. What could she do? She had thought of him in many ways, but had foreseen nothing like this. Even her impervious vanity was forced to the conclusion that the sight of her in her scarcely impaired beauty moved him no more than if she had been a hairdresser's block. Not even the ashes of pa.s.sion remained. He was pleased that she should be humiliated. He liked to have her at his feet. Oh, why had she not guessed that a nature like his--warped, distorted, embittered--would rejoice at seeing the woman who had injured him brought low? His foot was on her neck! She felt inclined to spring up and rush from the room--or to s.n.a.t.c.h his hands and make some wild appeal! Why, this was the man who had trembled at her touch--who had thrashed the son of a peer for saying that she was a flirt! This was the man who had been made happy with a smile, desperate with a frown. Yet now....

In fierce longing to bring him once more into subjection, she stifled down her resentment, resisted her impulse to give way. As his insulting words stung her, she winced, like one enduring an unworthy blow.

"I made a mistake," said she in low tones. "I must own it. I actually did, as you suggest, hope that you would strain a point in my favour.

All that I remember of you is n.o.ble. I fancied that the fact--which I admit--that I once injured you, so far from being against me, would constrain you the more to serve me, if you could."

"Indeed! So that was what you thought! It was rather clever of you, but not quite clever enough. I have to own that I don't at all consider that your having successfully hoodwinked me twenty years ago gives you a right to do it again. But let that pa.s.s. It is the mortgage which we must keep in mind. I think it not impossible that we may come to terms, that I may be able to afford you some relief--on conditions"--he held up his hand hastily as she turned impulsively on her seat--"on conditions, I say--you had better wait to hear me."

For the first time she let her eyes meet his. The cruelty, the ironic sense of mastery conveyed to her from beneath those half-shut lids, made her shudder involuntarily. So might an Inquisitor survey the victim brought bound into his presence. Still she kept up the pose--the only one that occurred to her scared wits--the pose of relying upon his n.o.bility.

"I knew--I knew you could not mean to be merciless," she faltered.

"Don't go too fast," he replied coldly. "There is much to consider before thanks can appropriately be offered. In the first place, a few questions are necessary. To begin. Have you a daughter bearing a remarkable resemblance to yourself? And was she in London a week or two ago with some friends who have a motor-car--a young man and a young woman?"

Mrs. Mynors sat a moment speechless, considering this new turn of the incredible conversation. "Yes," she faltered at last, "that is quite true. Virginia was in town with our friends, the Rosenbergs."

His lip curled. "_Virginia!_ You named her after yourself!"

"It was my husband's wish," she stammered. "She is the dearest, the best girl in the world!"

"Madam"--with mock reverence--"that is an unnecessary statement; she is your daughter--and she is, I feel sure, in all respects worthy of you.

I saw her in a picture-gallery not long ago. Interested by the astonis.h.i.+ng likeness, I took pains to overhear some of her conversation. The second Virginia is a replica of the first--which is saying a great deal. You are attached to her, madam."

"Attached to her? Attached to my darling daughter? Are you mad, Osbert?"

"I don't think so. I am still a bachelor, you know, and the proposal which I put before you is this: If your daughter will undertake the position which her mother declined, we will cry quits, you and I."

She had almost screamed in the extremity of her surprise and mortification. Had he struck her with a horsewhip she could not have felt more outraged. Fury, resentment, a wild, combative resistance which she could not recognise as jealousy, deprived her for a while of speech. She was choking, inarticulate with the force of blind feeling which shook her as a tempest shakes a tree.

"You are atrocious!" she e.j.a.c.u.l.a.t.ed at last. "Simply atrocious! What can you mean? Virgie won't have you."

"In that case there will be no need of further discussion," was his answer. "In your place, I think I should at least place the offer before her. Should she accept it, I will make you an allowance of three hundred pounds a year for life, besides undertaking the cost of your son's education. Are there other children?"

She was staring at him as one may gaze, fascinated, upon a cobra about to strike. "One other," she hurriedly replied. "A little girl--_she is lame_."

"Ha!" A dull flush rose to his face. "Cripples seem to haunt your footsteps. Well--in the event of the acceptance of my offer, it shall be my care to see that she has the proper treatment and the best advice."

"Good gracious me!" slowly said the bewildered woman. "Am I dreaming?

Osbert, you _must_ be mad!"

"Madam, I think you will find that I am considered remarkably sane by most people. Anyway, you have my offer--make what you can of it. I will put it in writing, if you like. Your daughter won't find many husbands who would be willing to marry and provide for the entire family. Yet, you see, such is my devotion, that I am ready to do even this for her charming sake."