TEMPTATION

"_I would not if I might Rebuild my house of lies, wherein I joyed One time to dwell: my soul shall walk in white Cast down, but not destroyed._"--Christina Rossetti.

It may seem a curious thing that Mrs. Mynors, dependent upon the bounty of Osbert Gaunt, should be so ready to consent to a plan which, if successful, might once more cast her penniless upon the world. She herself was at a loss to understand the true meaning of the malice which actuated her. In all her life she had hitherto never known the strength of any pa.s.sion. She was incapable of deep love, of real suffering. Her maternal instinct was not strongly developed, and selfishness had, up to now, preserved her from anything more disturbing than temper or discomfort.

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 rea.s.sured 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 n.o.bly 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?"

"Oh, Grover, but I have been so well until this happened! And how could I help it? Here are you, cross old thing, scolding me in the same breath, first for taking a chill, and then because I didn't stay pottering out in the rain still longer, hunting for a telegraph office.

The horse was dead beat; she couldn't go any farther."

"If I could box Mr. Rosenberg's ears, I'd do it with pleasure," was Grover's vindictive reply, somewhat qualified by the extreme tenderness with which she handled the culprit, undressing, tending, soothing her, and laying her down among her pillows to rest.

"Men don't think of things," murmured Virgie weakly, feeling bound to excuse Gerald.

"There's one that does," was the immediate retort. "One that has never had anything to do with ladies, all the time I've known him, till now, but has shown more true consideration than any one of these young fancy men, thinking of nothing but their own pleasure."

Virgie coloured painfully and was silent. This subject was taboo between mistress and maid. Grover could not but know that Virginia was in mortal fear of her husband, and the good woman regretted the man's awkward shyness, which prevented him, as she thought, from making headway. Her mind was filled with keen anxiety lest all the hopes entertained by the household at Omberleigh should be brought to naught by this unnatural separation of the newly wed.

No more was said; and later in the day the maid bitterly regretted having said even so much, for Mrs. Gaunt's fever mounted, and by the night she was delirious.

It seemed to the patient a long time afterwards, though in reality not more than forty-eight hours, when she awoke from a sound sleep, and, glancing round, found the curtains drawn, excluding the sunshine, and her mother seated by her bed.

Mrs. Mynors looked up with an angelic smile when the sleeper stirred, rose and came to the bedside, stooping over her with a look of pity and sympathy.

"Oh, how long have I slept?" said Virginia, sitting up and rubbing her eyes. "Where's Grover, mamma? I must get up and be off. I am going back to Omberleigh to-day."

"Not to-day, my sweetest," was the murmured reply. "The doctor would not allow that."

"Oh, but Osbert is expecting me; he will be vexed." She put her hand to her head.

"Lie down, darling; you must not exert yourself. You are weak. Osbert knows. It is all right."

Virginia, conscious of a swimming in her head, though the pain was gone, subsided upon her pillows.

"Oh, mamma, how tiresome! How very tiresome!" she faltered. "I have been away so long; I must go back!"

"My dearest, my most precious child, don't grieve yourself! It is all right! You are with those that love you, and will take care of you,"

was the cooing answer. "There is no need for fear, my Virgie."

"It isn't fear. It is breaking my word," stammered the girl, knowing that her words sounded like nonsense, but feeling explanation too difficult.

Mrs. Mynors, without speaking, brought her a cup of strong broth which was keeping warm over a little lamp.

"I have sent that poor, good Grover out for a walk," said she. "She is not as young as she was, and the nursing has tired her. But I had another reason for sending her away when you should wake. I wanted to be alone with you."

She did not say this until the soup had been drunk, and Virginia felt refreshed.

"Why, mamma?"

Her mother sank to her knees beside the bed, holding her hand. "My darling," said she, half sobbing, "there is no more need for concealment between your mother and you. When you were delirious I sat beside you--I had to listen to what you said--and I know--I know your pitiful secret."

There was a long, deep silence. At last Virginia spoke.

"Mother, tell me what you mean. What do you know?"

"I know that Osbert has been cruel to you. I know that you go in fear of his cruelty," came the whispered answer.

There was another silence. "Well, mamma, if that were true? I do not say it is true, but if it were, what then?"

"What then? Why, Virgie, then you must be rescued from him. He must be a madman if he could ill-treat you, and the law will protect you against him."

For a moment the eyes of the girl in the bed lit up with a flaming hope. For a moment she turned to her mother with a rush of eager, palpitating confidence. Then a new look crossed her face, which grew composed and firm. Her voice was not sad, but steady as she replied: "I have sworn."

"Sworn, Virgie? Darling, what do you mean by that?"

"I have sworn to love him," was the answer. "I am his wife."

"But, Virginia, if he has failed to keep his oath?"

"You think that absolves me from keeping mine?" There was a faint smile on the girl's lips, and her mother thought, as she so often did, that she never as long as she lived should understand her daughter.

"But, of course, dear, you are under no obligation to endure cruelty.

The law----"

Virginia raised herself upon her elbow. "I _am_ under an obligation to endure it," she replied. "I have sworn to love him, and while he wishes me to be with him, I shall be with him. He has done all he undertook to do. He has done more. He has not only given you comfort and security, not only provided funds for this marvellous cure of Pansy's; he has let me come to you, and stay all this time, because he trusted me. He knew I should go back, because I have promised to do so.