The Daughter Pays - Mrs. Baillie Reynolds

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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.

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      VIRGINIA DECIDES

      "Early in the morning When the first cock crowed his warning Neat as bee, as sweet and busy, Fetched in honey, milked the cows, Aired and set to rights the house,... Fed the poultry, sat and sewed; Talked as modest maidens should." —Christina Rossetti.

      When Virginia went into her mother's room after breakfast that morning, she told her quietly that she had made her decision.

      Mrs. Mynors gave a half-stifled, excited exclamation. For the life of her she could not have told what she hoped or desired. She stared at her composed daughter with eyes half of entreaty, half of fear.

      "I shall write and tell Mr. Gaunt to come to-morrow," said Virginia with calm.

      "Oh, for pity's sake, child, are you not mad?" cried the wretched woman in the bed.

      "I have considered it," was the steady answer. "He is unhappy, and I am pretty sure that I could be a comfort to him. His way of doing things seems odd; but he is lonely, and I daresay he has been soured. I will do all I can to make him happy, if he on his side will perform his promises to you and the children."

      "Virgie, don't!" The voice was so altered, so strange, that the girl paused, wondering.

      "Don't? Why do you say so?"

      "Because I——" Mrs. Mynors came to a stop. What could she say? "Because I have a lurking idea that he will not be kind to you." How ridiculous that sounded! And upon what was it based? Only upon the man's manner—his insolence, his evident desire to wound and insult her. Somehow she could not tell Virgie how his open contempt had stung.

      "Because you—you don't know him—you can't love him," she stammered.

      "But you knew him and loved him well enough to promise to marry him," countered Virgie instantly. "Of course, that has great weight with me. If he were a complete stranger, it would be different." She stood beside the bed, playing with one of its brass corner-knobs. "You know, mamma, I am rather an odd girl," said she with a swift blush. "I think I am attracted to what I pity. It would be waste to marry me to an adoring husband, who would give me everything I desired. I would rather give than have things given to me."

      Mrs. Mynors lay back, watching her through narrowed eyes. "You are—yes, you certainly are odd," she muttered. "I own that I don't understand you in the least."

      Virgie smiled. None knew better than she herself the truth of this statement.

      "Of course," said she, "I am not accepting his offer definitely. I am simply saying that he may come here and see me to-morrow. I could not clinch the matter until we have some hold over him."

      "What?" cried her mother sharply. "What do you mean by that?"

      "Well," replied her young daughter simply, "Mr. Gaunt has made some big promises. How do we know that he means to keep them? You say he is eccentric. He may not be trustworthy. In any case, I shall not agree to do as he asks without being certain that he will do as he offers. We must go to Mr. Askew and ask him to come and meet him, so that a proper settlement may be prepared."

      "Well, upon my word! Virgie, you cold-blooded little horror!" began Mrs. Mynors, almost in a scream. She broke off abruptly and rolled over, hiding her face in the pillows.

      "But, mother," said Virgie wonderingly, "you don't reflect. I am promising to give all that I have or am. Suppose I did that, and found myself cheated of the price? You must know that I should not think of marrying a man I have hardly seen and do not love, except for you and the children. Do you call me cold-blooded because I am careful to assure myself that I shan't be sacrificed in vain?"

      Her mother wrung her hands. "Virgie, you know that I do not demand such an unnatural bargain?"

      "Of course I know that you don't demand it," was the quiet answer. "It is my own decision. I promise you one thing: if, when Mr. Gaunt comes, I feel that he is a person I never could care for, if he repels me utterly, I will draw back. But you know, mother, you have told me one or two things about him, as he was in the old days when you loved him—and they were rather fine."

      "Oh, but he is so altered," sobbed Mrs. Mynors from the pillow. "You would never know him for the same man. He used to be so tender, so chivalrous, so impulsive. Now he seems so hard, so——"

      She broke off. What was she doing? The affair that was to bring her comparative ease, to keep her from starvation, was well in train. Should she herself stop it? She reflected that Virginia was not accepting definitely—only promising to consider the matter. Let things take their course. She believed the girl had some sentimental school-girl fancy about Osbert! Yes, she had thought that from the first. She was wasting her compassion, her delicate feeling.

      After all, considering Virgie's beauty, was it likely that Gaunt would be cruel to her? With a feeling almost like hatred she studied the pure outline of the profile, the effect of the sunlight glinting through the brown-gold hair, the curve of the chin, the slimness of the young, drooping body, veiled in its blue overall.

      "Oh, do as you like!" she cried, "send your letter; but talk as little as you can to me about it! How do you suppose I like being told that you are sacrificing yourself for me? I can go to the workhouse in the last resort, like other people."

      "Perhaps. But Pansy can't," said Virginia, a trifle rigidly. She took up the tray and disappeared.

      *****

      The day dragged by. To Virginia it seemed as if it would never end, and yet as if it were passing like a sigh. She felt as those who have been in a sinking ship have described themselves as feeling when the wave rose above the gunwale, and seemed to hesitate—to pause awfully—before it burst.

      Pansy was very insistently eager to know what had passed between mamma and Mr. Gaunt the previous day. It was hard to stave off her pertinacious inquiry, but Virgie was able to tell her that negotiations were going on which might, or might not, lead to something. To-morrow would bring more news.

      Thus the dawn broke upon the fatal day—a day of persistent fine rain which did nothing to abate the heat.

      At about ten o'clock the loud imperative knock of a telegraph boy sounded upon the little door. Virginia took in the message. It was from Gaunt, and ran thus—

      Please reply definitely to business offer, which otherwise is off.

      The girl sat down, with knees shaking, staring at the message, which

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