CHAPTER XXV

THE RETURN

"_With all my will, but much against my heart, We two now part. My very Dear, Our solace is, the sad road lies so clear. It needs no art, With faint, averted feet, and many a tear, In our opposed paths to persevere. Go thou to East, I West, we will not say There's any hope, it is so far away._"--Coventry Patmore.

The rain which had so interfered with Rosenberg's plans, and spoiled the close of the motoring day, seemed to mark also the end of summer. The weather ever since had been grey and autumnal. In Derbyshire the change was more marked than in Sussex. A wild wind moaned in the black pines of Omberleigh, and brown leaves drifted upon the blast as Gaunt rode forth to Sessions that Wednesday morning.

His mood was one not only of depression, but of anxiety. He hardly realised how much he had built upon Virginia's cheering accounts of her own restored health, until he received his mother-in-law's feline epistle, telling him of a severe chill and consequent fever. The wording was careful, even clever, but she had conveyed with full force the impression that she meant to convey, which was that the fever and delirium were more the result of distress of mind than of the actual chill--that the prospect of returning to her loveless marriage and gloomy home were working untold harm to the patient, and hindering recovery.

Since the receipt of this most disquieting letter, no word from Worthing had reached him. Morning after morning the empty postbag mocked him. To-day he was making up his mind that if he held to his resolution, and remained silent--if he adhered to his foolhardy determination to prove his wife to the uttermost--he would lose her altogether.

He still told himself that she would do her duty at all costs. He was, however, beginning to perceive that the strength of influence now being brought to bear might succeed in persuading her that to return to him was _not_ her duty. After all--in view of what he had made her bear--could he say that he thought it was her duty?

Mrs. Mynors spoke as though the illness were serious. He knew she was a liar; he knew she wished to hurt him. Yet, after all, it might be true. He had dwelt such a blow at Virgie's tenderest feelings as might well shock a sensitive girl into real illness. Neither had he done anything, since they parted, to allay her fears. He had not so much as suggested the change of heart which awaited her. As the date of her return drew near--as she contemplated the renewal of her martyrdom--her flesh might well shrink from the demand made upon it by the dauntless spirit.

Violently though he struggled against indulging hope, it had all the same risen insurgent when he got Virginia's letter fixing Saturday as the date of her return. He had lain sleepless most of Friday night, planning what he could do, or say, when they met at the railway station; living over again his drive at her side, through the summer dusk, on the night of her departure when she had been, in her absorption, hardly conscious of his presence. He wondered whether he could break through the tongue-tied gloom which held him like an evil spell, and let her see something--not too much at first--of what he felt.

His mortification when he received his mother-in-law's wounding letter had been proportionately great. The intensity of his feeling surprised and half frightened him.

Since that dark moment--silence.

He rode into town in a mood which alternated between something which was a colourable imitation of despair and a haunting notion that perhaps some letter or telegram might be awaiting him when he returned home in the evening. There was much business to transact that day. It was half-past four before he was free; and as he walked along the High Street, making for the inn where his horse was put up, he came face to face with Ferris.

"Ha, Gaunt, how goes it?" cried Percy, wringing his hand with effusion, proud that the passers-by should see him on such terms with Gaunt of Omberleigh. "Not looking very fit--what? Why don't you run down to Worthing for the week-end and give your wife a surprise? Do you good. Well, I can give you the latest news of her. Been down there myself, staying over Sunday with Rosenberg at the Beausejour."

"You have?" Gaunt's tongue clave to the roof of his mouth. He could not own that he himself had no news of Virginia.

"Yes, not a bad little hole, Worthing. Plenty of sun and sea air and so on. Think it might suit Joey and the kids for a month or two, later on. Pity Mrs. Gaunt knocked up, wasn't it, though?"

"Yes, I was very much vexed to hear it," Gaunt was able by this to reply with his natural brevity.

"Enough to make her, though, wasn't it? Pretty bad generalship on Rosenberg's part. You take my tip and run down, Gaunt. They tell me she's deuced seedy." There was meaning in the tone.

"She makes light of it to me," said Gaunt, choosing his line quickly. "Tell me what you know of it."

"Oh, well, of course, you heard that she got wet through, driving in an open cart in the pouring rain late at night, trying to reach Petworth in time for the last train, or something. Of course, Rosenberg's car is a beauty; you couldn't expect it to break down like that ... still, to send off his chauffeur to meet me at Chichester, leaving himself and Mrs. Gaunt stranded in a place where there was no accommodation, no telegraph--gad, if you had seen the hovel where they spent the night, Gaunt, I think you'd have given him a bit of the rough side of your tongue."

"The same idea has occurred to me," said Gaunt drily, "but I understood that the whole thing could not be avoided; it was quite an accident. Still, to drive her in the wet, without even an umbrella--no wonder my wife fell ill!" There was a certain relief in his heart, among all the turmoil of jealousy and vexation. The circumstances were, in themselves, quite enough to account for illness, without his own shortcomings being in any way responsible.

"You see, she had nothing for the night," explained Ferris, "so I suppose she couldn't take off her wet things. I had a line from Rosenberg this morning about the directors' meeting, and he mentioned that the doctor won't let her leave her room."

"So I understood. I think I had better take your advice and run down. Thank you, Ferris. I am glad to have seen you. My mother-in-law has the art of making the most of things, and I was not sure just how unwell my wife is."

After the exchange of a few commonplaces, they parted. Ferris watched Gaunt limp into the inn yard, and turned away with an involuntary, "Poor devil!" He stood irresolute upon the pavement for a minute or two, then strolled into the post office, and wrote a telegram to Rosenberg:

_Gaunt coming down. Be on your guard._

He was eager to stand well with both parties, and this was his idea of accomplishing such object.

* * * * *

Never had the avenue which led to his own housedoor seemed to Gaunt so wild, so desolate, as when he rode up it this evening. The sun was already setting, gleaming fierce and threatening red through the purple ragged clouds which all day long had veiled it.

He knew that everything was over, but he also knew that to be any longer passive was beyond him. He was going to London at once, by that same late train from Derby which had taken her from him. To sleep in a bed this night would be insupportable. If he were in the train he would feel that he was not wasting hours of enforced inaction. He would be in London in time to take an early train to Worthing, and he would arrive there during the morning, and ascertain his exact fate.

Now he knew how firmly he had built upon the idea of Virginia's faith. In the depths of his twisted, shrunken, yet living heart, he had been certain that she would keep her word. He still believed that she would have kept it, had not revelation come to her. She and Rosenberg having discovered the feeling which existed between them, how could she come back to her nominal husband with a lie upon her lips?

As soon as she was well enough, she meant to write and explain. He was sure of that. He kept insisting upon it, in his mind. He would save her that effort. He would go to her and make things as easy as he could. He would explain that he knew himself to have forfeited all claim.

His horse's hoofs were beating to the refrain: "All over! All over!"

What a fool he had made himself over the redecorating of that room! That room which from henceforth no human foot would enter. Only the previous night he had sat there for a couple of hours, playing upon the new piano he had bought for her, and conjuring up the picture of her, outlined against the delicate ivory walls, each tint of her faint sea-shell colouring properly emphasised by the appropriate background. He would always see her like that in future. His desolate house would be haunted for all the desolate time to come.

He rode round by the stable yard, gave his horse to the groom, and such was the disorder of his mind that he flinched from being seen, even by Hemming. He forgot that he had hoped the mid-day post might bring him news. He went out of the yard, round by the garden, and in through the window of his own den.

Seating himself by his writing table, he found a railway guide, but he did not even open it. His mind was too thoroughly preoccupied with its own bitterness. He rested his elbows on the desk, propping his chin upon them, in a sort of exhaustion of defeat.

When he wandered that day all unwitting into Hertford House, his two angels had wandered with him--the good and the evil. The good had taken his hand, had whispered persuasively that his sad days were over--had shown him something so fair and sweet that----Ah, but the black spirit at his elbow had pushed forward. "After all these years in my service, do you think I am going to stand aside and see you join the opposition?"

He heard the dressing-bell ring, and realised that, if he meant to catch that train, he must call Hemming and have his things put together at once. Yet still he could not move. The bonds of his misery seemed to hold him tied to his chair, tied to this ghastly echoing house full of phantoms. He had had no food since about noon, and his emptiness had passed beyond the stage of hunger. It made him dazed. As he sat there, it was as though life surged within him for the last time, urging him to go to Worthing and face his doom like a man; and as though the old house rejoiced over his stupor, murmuring that his place was there, among the ruins of his own brutal folly and fruitless hate.

With an effort he stood up, found matches, lit the gas. He must and would look at that railway guide. Yet, when the light shone upon his untidy table, he forgot all about Bradshaw. There, lying where he had laid them before going out, were certain cases of jewellery which had that morning come back from London. He had had everything cleaned, and some things re-set, in the phantom hope of a time when he might be allowed to give her presents.

He fixed his eyes upon the leather cases, as if they had been so many coffins. For the moment he gave up the attempt to consider his expedition. It seemed so important that he should realise just how futile his attempts to undo the past must inevitably prove.

A light step came along the passage. He almost groaned, for it might have been hers; and he dreaded lest all his life he should be pursued by those haunting footfalls. Then a touch upon the handle of the door startled him in a second from apathy. The handle was turning, the door was about to open. What should he see? In his present exalted abnormal frame of mind, he might see anything, might even cause his thought of her to take shape, so that she stood in bodily presence before him.

It seemed to him only what he had foreseen when the slowly opening oak revealed her standing there.

He knew that it was her wraith, because she was so white--so unnaturally white. She wore white, too. Her eyes were dilated, with a dread which she could not conceal. It is possible that he might have heard the beating of her heart, had his own not pulsed so loudly.

He rose slowly to his feet--slowly, to match her entrance. He neither moved nor spoke, as she shut the door carefully behind her. As she did so the thought stirred in his mind that he had never heard of a ghost who closed a door. But his mind was a long way off. The part of him now active was something utterly different.

Then she moved forward towards him as he stood in the circle of light. She came on bravely until she was within a few paces of him, and then paused, and gave a little sound between a laugh and a gasp.

"Well," said she, and valiantly held out her hand, "I have come back, you see!"

He was so startled at her voice that he gave a low cry. Moving suddenly--always with him a mark of strong agitation--he first grasped her hand in both his own, then retaining it with one, passed the other hesitatingly up her arm, till it rested upon her warm shoulder. "My God," he said, "you are real! Speak, Virginia--are you real?"

She set her teeth in the effort not to flinch, but she shook so that her trembling was perceptible to him.

"Real? Yes, of course. Did you think I was a ghost?" she asked, shrinking a little backward, so that his hand fell from her shoulder.

"I did! How could you come here? You were ill! Ferris said----"

"But I am better, and I told you in my letter that I should come the first minute that I was able."

"What letter?"

She shuddered a little. Then it was true! Her letter had been kept back! "I telegraphed to-day," she stammered, more and more nervous. "You were out, but the motor met me at the station. When I arrived I told them not to tell you I was here. I--I thought I would tell you myself. Oh, are you angry with me?"

"Angry?" he said with breaking voice. He turned his head aside, for he could not control the working of his face.

"Why are you so surprised to see me?" she ventured, after a pause. "You knew I should come back."

"How could I know it?" he asked, almost inaudibly.

"I was on my honour," she answered, equally low. Then, gathering force as he still stood with averted face, "I gave you my word to submit to anything, if you let me go to Pansy. She doesn't need me any more, so I am here." She waited a moment, but still he did not speak. "I am well and strong now," she persisted bravely. "I can do anything that you wish. What are you going to do with me?"

"There's only one thing I can do with you," came the answer. "I can't let you go."

She stood immovably, her eyes fixed upon him. The dread lest he was not perfectly sane once more assailed her. Her mother had spoken of him as a monomaniac. Perhaps she feared him more at that moment than ever previously.

When he turned abruptly, with his characteristic jerk, she started and shrank only too visibly.

"Explain," he said. "Sit down in this chair--you look as white as a sheet--and explain. You tell me you are well and strong. Your mother in a letter which I got last Saturday morning told me you were seriously