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RECOVERY.
IF we had been wise, we should have waited till my nurse could give us rooms under her roof. But we would not wait. And so it came to pass that we were married, one grey autumn morning, in St. George's Church, and took up our quarters among strangers. Lady Waterville was seriously angry. She even went so far as to say some cutting things that I could not easily forget. I parted with her coldly, and left the old house with a firm determination not to enter it again unless I was sent for.
How sorrow came upon us in those dreary lodgings I have already told. Six months of mingled bliss and anxiety, and then my husband was stricken down. I sought for no help or sympathy from Lady Waterville in my trouble. Quite alone I watched by Ronald's sick-bed; and nurse was the only friend who visited us in our time of calamity.
Yet not the only friend. There was one face that came like sunshine into the sickroom, one voice that never failed to bid me be of good cheer. The face was shrewd, bright, and kindly, with eyes that were well used to studying poor humanity, and the voice was deep-toned and pleasant to hear. Dr. Warstone was, in the truest sense of the word, a friend. He was not a courtly, flattering doctor by any means, sweetening his doses with little compliments. But he looked straight into your heart, and read all your doubts and fears, all your unspoken longings and womanly anguish; and he sympathised with every weakness as only a large-hearted man can.
The clocks were striking eight, and I was just persuading Ronald not to sit up any longer, when the doctor paid us his first visit in Chapel Place.
"This boy is fast getting well," he said, sitting by the patient's sofa, and criticising him quietly. "He seems to have got into good quarters; your new room looks like a home."
My nurse had contrived to bring something of the country even into her London house. There were bulrushes on the walls that had grown by our old village stream, and the bunches of dried grass on the chimney-piece had been gathered in the fields behind my grandfather's cottage. There were no cheap modern ornaments to be seen; but we had put some quaint blue china on the shelf, and some more was visible through the glazed door of the corner cupboard. Up among the bulrushes hung a painted tambourine, decked with bows of bright satin ribbon; and between the windows was an oval mirror which had often reflected my grandmother's charms. Our decorations were simple enough; but they brightened the dim little room, and gave it that home-like look which the doctor had noticed at once.
"I wish I could take Ronald out of town," I said.
"Wait a bit," Doctor Warstone replied.
"These spring days are as treacherous as usual. There isn't a lively view to be seen from your windows, but you must contrive to amuse him indoors."
"I shall soon be able to amuse myself," Ronald declared. "There's the guitar, you know, doctor; it's one of the best companions in the world for an invalid. By Jove, Louie, I forgot to ask you if it had got damaged in the smash?"
"What smash?" Doctor Warstone asked.
I was glad that he put the question; it prevented me from answering my husband.
"It was only a cab collision," I replied. "Very little mischief was done. At first I was afraid Ronald would suffer, but he seems to be none the worse for it."
"Are you quite sure you are none the worse for it?" demanded the doctor, looking searchingly at me.
"Do you think she is?" cried Ronald, anxiously. "She did look uncommonly pale afterwards. Louie, if there are any sprains or bruises that you haven't mentioned—"
"I always mention everything," I interrupted, laughing.
Doctor Warstone got up to take his leave, telling Ronald that it was time for him to go to bed. I followed the doctor out into the passage, closing the parlour door behind me.
"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Nerves out of order? The cab smash must have given you a shake."
"It didn't hurt me. But, oh, doctor, how foolish you will think me!"
"I have thought you foolish ever since I first saw you," he responded, with one of his kindly smiles.
"I know; everybody does. I am fretting about the guitar. I don't know how to tell my poor boy that it is broken; and—worse still—I can't imagine how we shall get another."
"A man with a good little wife can exist without a guitar. You are at your old tricks—taking things too seriously."
"I daresay it seems so," I admitted, meekly. "But, do you believe in hereditary tendencies?"
"Humph! What of that?"
"Ronald's love of the guitar is hereditary. His aunt, Inez Greystock, is said to have been passionately attached to her guitar. She could not rest unless it was ever by her side: her hands were seeking for it always. It is the same with Ronald. When he finds that the thing is battered and useless, there will be something gone from his life. I can hardly hope to make you understand all that it has been to him."
"Humph," said the doctor again. "Suppose I say that it is quite possible to replace this precious guitar. Suppose I tell you that I know of one—a good one, too—that you can have for nothing. Will that comfort you, I wonder?"
"Comfort me! You are like a good magician!"
"A good magician is only a doctor practising under another name. Now listen. Give Ronald his breakfast in bed to-morrow, and then leave him hurriedly, pretending that you must do some shopping. Make your way, as fast as you can, to Soho Square; saunter up and down before the door of the great piano store, and wait till I come."
"I will do all that you tell me," I promised, gratefully.
And he went into the dusk of the April night.
When I came back to Ronald, I found him comfortably drowsy, and ready for a long night's rest. He really was too sleepy to ask any more questions, or even to wonder what the doctor and I had been saying to each other in the entry. I had a bright fire burning in the bedroom, and I carried the shaded lamp out of the parlour, and sat down to sew by my husband's bedside.
He soon fell into a sound slumber. I sat sewing, and listening to his regular breathing, thinking of the time when he would be quite strong and well again.
The future had to be faced. Illness is a terrible thing to people whose means are small. Our scanty purse could hardly meet all the demands that Ronald's sickness had made upon it. Expensive medicine and nourishment—heavy lodging-house bills—fees to servants—all amounted to a sum total that made my brain dizzy when I thought of it.
One of Lady Waterville's parting prophecies had been already fulfilled. I wished I could forget her words, but they were haunting my memory to-night. She had said that before the first year of my married life had ended, I should taste poverty. Then there would be disappointment—then bitter regret. Why did she say such things? Even if my future had been verily revealed to her, she might have closed her lips, and let me go my way. I would scarcely acknowledge that I knew the taste of poverty yet; but some of its bitterness I did know. Well as I loved my nurse, it hurt my pride to live in her house, and get into her debt, as I was doing now. It is true that she gladly trusted me, and had perfect confidence in the coming of better days; but I smarted secretly under the sense of humiliation.
Some women were clever enough to bring grist to the mill, but I was not of that gifted sisterhood. Story-writing was far beyond my powers, and although I could make little songs for Ronald to sing, I was by no means tempted to fancy myself a poet. All the talents that I possessed were decidedly commonplace. Sewing, converting old gowns into new, mending neatly, and wearing shabby clothes in a way that did not reveal their shabbiness, this was almost all that I could do.
Well, I was tasting some of the bitterness of the poverty; but how about the disappointment and the bitter regret? Nothing would persuade me that I should ever be disappointed in Ronald. Mine was not a blind love. I had never thought that I was marrying a perfect being; nor did I want perfection. To me, the poor human idol, full of divers faults and flaws, was far dearer than an immaculate saint set high above my head.
The warm room and the monotonous work began to have a sleepy influence upon me at last. I had spent many wakeful nights, and now that the anxiety was ended, I often found myself dropping off unawares into a nap. With my sewing still in my hands, I dozed sitting in the chair, and then I had a curious dream.
I dreamt that I was standing before a mirror, looking at the reflection of my own face and figure. My arms, neck, and head were glittering with wonderful jewels; and yet it did not seem strange to me that I should be decked out in such a regal fashion. The glitter of the gems was almost too bright to be borne—so bright that I woke with a start, and found that a coal in the grate had burst into a brilliant blaze. No doubt it was that sudden light, dancing before my closed eyes, that had been the cause of my dream.
The hands of my watch pointed to a quarter to ten. I rose from my seat, undressed as quietly as possible, and went to bed. All night long I slept as soundly and peacefully as a child, and the dream did not come to me again.
I woke at seven the next morning, and got up without noise to wash and dress. Looking through the window of my little dressing-room, I saw the London sun shining cheerfully on the yard where nurse had cultivated ferns and ivy. She seemed to have had uncommon luck with her plants, for they flourished as town-plants seldom do. The bold sparrows were twittering merrily in the early light, and their notes were full of joy and hope. After all, there were plenty of chances in life; and the world was not quite as dark as it had seemed to my fancy last night.
Ronald had slept well, and was wide awake when I brought him the breakfast-tray. I had found time to tell nurse about my mysterious appointment in Soho Square. She entered heartily into my little plan, and came into the parlour while I was putting on my bonnet and mantle.
"Where is Mrs. Hepburne?" my husband asked, when nurse went to see how he was getting on with breakfast.
"Gone out for a little fresh air and shopping, sir," I heard her answer, promptly. "She'll be back in half-an-hour. Nothing like a morning run, sir, for one who has been nursing, you know. Dear me, how fast you are picking up, to be sure!"
I hastened out of the house, knowing well enough that I could trust the good soul to look after Ronald in my absence. At the top of my speed I raced along Oxford Street, keeping pace with the bustling clerks on their way to business, and never once stopping to glance at a shop window. When I turned at last into Soho Street, I was out of breath, and glad to stroll slowly along the pavement of the old square. Neither the doctor nor his carriage were to be seen; I was the first at the place of rendezvous, and had leisure to rest and look round.
First I looked at the piano store, and wondered how the doctor knew that there was a guitar to be found there? And then I stood still, and gazed at the so-called garden in the middle of the square, and watched my merry friends, the sparrows, hopping about on the budding twigs. This uncountrified spot of green had a sort of attraction for my eyes, and kept my thoughts busy till Dr. Warstone's carriage came rattling up to the place where I stood.
"Good morning," said the doctor, cheerily. "Haven't been waiting long, have you? Now come with me, and I'll introduce you to the guitar."
"Is it in here?" I asked, as we entered the warehouse.
"It is up in a room high above the store. I hope you don't mind stairs. The fact is that Messrs. Harkaby are good people, and are kind enough to give a poor old piano-tuner a shelter for his head. He won't need it much longer; he is going fast. The other day he asked me if I knew any one who would care to have his guitar? I told him I would find somebody, and now I am keeping my word."
He did not tell me that he himself was the best friend that the dying man possessed; but as I followed him up those long flights of stairs, I quickly guessed the truth. One might know Doctor Warstone for years without finding out one quarter of the good that he did every day. Often and often I have heard clergymen extolled to the skies for doing splendid things which a doctor does naturally and simply, never getting a word of praise. They are great men, these doctors who toil in our large towns—cheerful in the midst of sorrow, quick to help, prompt to save. And to this day, when any one talks about an ideal hero, the face of Doctor Warstone rises up in my memory, and I think of all the noble deeds, known and unknown, that this quiet worker has done.
We got at length to the top of the last flight, and paused before a door on the landing.
"I will go in first," the doctor said, "and prepare Monsieur Léon for your coming. You will not mind waiting here for a few moments while I speak to my patient?"
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THE GUITAR.
THERE was a window on the landing, commanding a fine view of roofs and chimney-pots, and I stood watching little white clouds sailing swiftly across the blue April sky. I could hear the doctor's deep voice in the sick room, and then a faint tone in reply. At length the door opened, and I was bidden to enter.
The room was large, and looked lighter and more airy than London rooms generally do. There was a light paper on the walls, and some kind hand had pinned up several coloured engravings, which made the sick chamber look something like a nursery. The invalid was sitting in an easy chair stuffed with pillows, and placed near a bright fire. Resting against the arm of the chair, just within reach of the sick man's hand, was the guitar.
The doctor quietly introduced us to each other; and Monsieur Léon's eyes, looking strangely brilliant in his worn face, seemed to flash me a glance of welcome. He was very ill; the pinched features and hollow cheeks told a pathetic tale of long suffering; but the smile, that came readily and brightly, was full of courage and sweetness. Evidently Monsieur Léon was not to be daunted by the approach of death.
"It is very good of you to come and see me, madame," he said, with easy courtesy. "Will you be seated, and talk a little while? As for that dear doctor, his minutes are worth guineas. Ah, I wish sometimes that he could waste an hour, as idle people can! Now, I see that he is going to scold me!"
"Not to scold you, only to warn you, Léon," put in Dr. Warstone, kindly. "Don't let your spirit run away with your strength. Remember that you must not say many words without resting. You have a great deal to tell Mrs. Hepburne;—well, you will be wise to make your story as short as possible. She has an invalid at home who will watch the clock till she comes back."
"Ah, your husband, is it not?" said Monsieur Léon, turning eagerly to me. "It is he to whom I am to give my guitar?"
The doctor gave us a parting smile and went his way.
"Yes," I answered, as the door closed. "It will be a great kindness, gratefully accepted. But can you spare it, Monsieur Léon?"
"Spare it!" he repeated. "Ah, madame, do you suppose I would leave my guitar to the mercy of ignorant strangers? It is you who are doing the kindness. You are willing to shelter this beloved friend of mine, and give it a home when I am gone. More! You will let it speak to you in the sweet language which has so often soothed and comforted me. You will not condemn it to dust and silence and decay!"
"Oh, no," I said, earnestly, struck with the poor Frenchman's grace of manner and expression. "To my husband, the guitar will be as dear as it has been to you. It will always be within his reach—always taken up in his spare moments. As for me, I love to hear it played, although I am no player myself."
Monsieur Léon had remembered the doctor's injunction, and was silent for a moment. His voice sounded a little weaker when he spoke again.
"It was in India," he went on, "that I first became possessed of my guitar. When I was young I had friends, and they sent me to Bombay to be clerk in a mercantile house. But ah, madame, it was my misfortune to love music better than figures, and so I did not make the best of clerks. I saw the guitar in a bazaar one day, and bought it for a mere trifle. It is old, as you see, and of Spanish make. Look at this beautiful mosaic work of mother-o'-pearl and silver! You do not find anything like it now-a-days."
He drew the instrument towards him, and pointed out its beauties with evident pride. It was of dark wood, delicately inlaid with a quaint and fanciful pattern. But the tone? I wished he would touch the strings.
"I will not weary you with a history of myself and my doings," he continued. "It is enough to say that the guitar has been with me through many years of sorrow and misfortune. When it has spoken to me, I have forgotten my troubles. Often I have sat alone in a dreary London room, and listened to the tinkle of mule-bells on the passes. Or I have seen the southern moon rise over the walls of the Alhambra, and heard the dark-eyed gipsies sing the songs of Spain. But sometimes my guitar has said things that I cannot understand.
"Sometimes there are melodies of which I fail to find the meaning. It is strange."
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HIS THIN FINGERS BEGAN TO STRAY OVER THE STRINGS.
Was his mind wandering? There was a dreamy look in his face as he sank back on the pillows, and his thin fingers began to stray over the strings. I waited in silence.
Mechanically he tuned the guitar, and played a few chords. Then came a strange, sweet tune that reminded me of fairy music floating down from distant hills.
"The horns of Elfland faintly blowing—"
Might have sounded just as soft and gay. There was nothing sad in the melody, but it left its hearer unsatisfied. What did it mean? What words were set to this enchanting air? One wanted to hear it again and yet again.
The feeble hands soon came to a pause, and I saw that all the fire had died out of Monsieur Léon's eyes. It was time for me to go. I had long outstayed the "half-hour" to which nurse had limited my absence. Ronald would be anxiously looking for my return.
"I am afraid you are exhausted," I said, rising. "Is there nothing I can do before I leave you?"
He thanked me softly and shook his head. Then, with a gesture, he desired me to take up the guitar. But I touched it reluctantly. It must have been so hard for him to part with it. It seemed so cruel to take it away.
"Are you really willing to let it go?" I asked, anxiously.
He roused himself, and looked at me with a sudden smile.
"The time has come," he said. "I cannot take it with me where I am going. Give it to your husband, madame, with the good wishes of a dying man. I send it away with a blessing."
The words were almost solemnly uttered. When he had spoken, he sank back wearily and closed his eyes; and I saw that the short-lived strength, lent him by excitement, had ebbed away. There was nothing more for me to stay for, but my eyes were full of tears when I left the room. That last farewell was echoing in my ears as I carried the guitar carefully downstairs.
In my old country home I had often heard it said that the blessing of the dying is a good gift. I was glad to recall those parting words, although they made me weep. And little did I then know how strangely significant they would seem to me in a time that was yet to come.
Before I had got to the bottom of the stairs, I met a nursing Sister, evidently on her way to the sick room. She stood aside to let me pass, and it comforted me to feel that Monsieur Léon would not long be left alone.
The world scarcely seemed to be like itself when I came out into Soho Square again. There had been something dreamy and romantic in the poor Frenchman's talk, and it was strange to find myself out in the fresh spring air with the guitar in my arms. A small boy called a hansom for me, and I went rattling home through the work-a-day streets, half sad and half glad, holding fast to my new possession. What would Ronald say when he saw me coming into his room? I had been away quite a long while, and he would be tired of lying still and waiting for my return.
The cab set me down in Chapel Place, and I let myself in with a latch-key. In the next minute, I entered the parlour, triumphantly bearing the guitar, and found myself face to face with my husband. He was dressed, and lying on the sofa, looking just a little inclined to find fault with everybody, and with me in particular.
"I didn't think you would have got up," I began in a tone of apology.
"Why not? I felt quite well enough, and nurse helped me. I've had enough of bed, I can assure you. Your shopping seems to have taken a whole morning! What have you there? A guitar?"
"Yes, Ronald. I suppose nurse has told you that yours is broken. This is another that I have got to-day."
"Dear little woman!" cried the poor fellow, brightening. "I was afraid you would say that we could not afford another. Where did you buy it? How much did you give? I wish I had tried it before it was bought."
"Supposing it isn't bought at all?" I said, putting Monsieur Léon's treasure into the eager hands outstretched to receive it.
"Oh, then I suppose you have only borrowed it!"
He swept his fingers across the strings, and a sudden look of pleasure flashed into his face. "It is very good—better than mine, Louie. Do they want much money for it?"
"Who are 'they'?" I demanded, provokingly. "Ah, Ronald, I won't tantalise you any more! The guitar is yours, really yours; and there is nothing to pay for it."
"You are a little witch," said my husband. "Go and take off that shabby old bonnet of yours, and then come here and tell me all about it."
The bonnet was shabby; I knew that well enough; and I knew, too, that it would be a long time before I could get a fresh one. But the "outward adorning" did not occupy my mind just then, nor did I even bestow one regretful thought on the faded face inside the poor bonnet. I was eager to get back to Ronald's side, and see him enjoying his new possession. Moreover, I had a wonderful story to tell, and the telling of it would make the rest of the morning pass pleasantly away.
He was deeply interested in my account of the doctor's poor patient, and asked more questions about Monsieur Léon than I could possibly answer. And then the gift underwent a close examination; in fact, he scarcely cared to part with it even for a moment.
I had gone out of the room to speak to nurse, and when I returned I found my husband standing close to the window. He was looking into the guitar with earnest eyes, and glanced up at me as I came in, saying that he had just made a discovery.
"Do go back to your sofa, dear," I entreated.
"I wanted to get the light," he answered. "This is such a dark room. Louie, here is a curious thing."
"Well, go back to the sofa, and then tell me what it is."
"No, no," he said, petulantly, "come here and see. You know that inside a guitar there is generally a paper pasted, bearing the maker's name. Well, look at this paper, and read what is written upon it."
He held the instrument up to catch the light. And then, indeed, I did see the paper, and some words inscribed upon it in a woman's hand. These words were written in Spanish, and I did not know their meaning till he translated them.
"Hope guards the jewels," he read, thoughtfully. "Now, what does that mean, I wonder?"
"How can we ever tell?" I cried. "What do we know of those who once owned this guitar? But you are looking fagged and pale, Ronald; and if you are going to lose your afternoon nap, I shall wish that I had never brought that thing into the house."
He consented at last to lie down on the couch and shut his eyes. Soon I had the satisfaction of seeing that he was fast asleep, with the guitar lying by his side.
Later on, when the soft dusk of the spring evening was creeping over Chapel Place, my husband's fingers began to wander lovingly across the strings; and I sat and listened to him in the twilight, just as I had done a hundred times before. It was the resting time of the day; my hands lay idly folded in my lap, and I was leaning back in a low chair with a sense of quietness and peace. He was not strong enough yet to sing the songs that I had written in our happy courting-days. He could only strike the chords, and bring out of them that fairy-like music which is always sweetest when it is heard in the gloaming.
Presently there came again that soft, gay melody that Monsieur Léon had played, and again it stirred me with a strange surprise. Surely it was unlike anything I had ever heard before. How and where did Ronald learn it? He repeated the air, and I listened, entranced and wondering. It seemed to me that the chords were giving out a fuller sound than I had ever heard yet.
"Ronald, what is that? Where did you first hear it?" I asked, raising myself, and bending eagerly towards him.
He did not immediately reply. A flame shot up suddenly from the low fire, and showed me the thoughtful, dreamy look upon his face. At length he spoke.
"I was just wondering," he answered, "where I had first heard it. It seems to be an echo of something that I knew years and years ago. And yet, I could fancy that it came out of my own brain, just as your verses come out of yours."
"But I heard it from Monsieur Léon this morning," I said, "and it had a strange effect upon me."
"Did the Frenchman play it? Then, depend upon it, I have got it from some old music book that I have not seen for ages. Only I can't remember playing it on my old guitar."
"You never did," I replied. "I know all that you play. Poor Monsieur Léon has laid his spell upon those strings!"
"You are getting fanciful, Louie," he said, looking wonderingly at me through the mist of twilight.
"Perhaps I am. Monsieur Léon's talk to-day was fanciful; it might have been that his mind was wandering. He said that the guitar sometimes spoke to him of things that he could not understand, and then he played that very air. It is an air that needs a poem to interpret its meaning."
"Well, why don't you write one?" Ronald asked. "I will try to play it again."
He did play it again. And once more I felt the influence of the soft gladness—the faint, sweet triumph that was expressed in the melody. But when he paused, I shook my head.
"It goes beyond me," I confessed. "I can find no words that will harmonise with that air. It leaves me with an inexplicable longing to find out its true meaning; but I think I shall never know it."
"I have had that feeling once or twice in my life," said Ronald, musingly. "I remember a winter afternoon when I was waiting for a train in a strange town, and strolled into an old church to pass away the time. Some one was playing on the organ—a voluntary, perhaps—and the music came drifting along the empty aisles. I stood just inside the west door, and listened, trying to find out what it meant. But I could not tell."
"Let us put the guitar away now," I entreated, catching the tone of weariness in his voice. "You have been sitting up quite long enough, dear, and there is a bright fire in the next room. What a chilly spring it is! This evening is as cold as winter."
For a wonder he complied meekly with my request, and walked from the parlour into the bed-chamber with his arm round my shoulders. In a little while he was in a sound sleep, his head resting quietly on the pillow, while I moved gently about the room and put things in order for the night.
I was too tired to sit long over my needlework, although a piled up work-basket reminded me that there was plenty of mending to be done. But, sleepy as I really was, that mysterious melody was still haunting my brain, and I found myself trying to set words to it unawares. Only fragments of rhyme came to me; bits of verses never to be finished; and at last I endeavoured to forget the air altogether. Yet even in slumber it came back, and again I saw Monsieur Léon's thin face and brilliant eyes, and heard his parting blessing.
When the morning came, and I went into the parlour to get my husband's breakfast, there lay the guitar upon the sofa. And I almost started at the sight of it, for I had half persuaded myself that it was merely a thing of my dreams.
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JARS.
IT almost seemed as if the guitar helped Ronald on to perfect recovery. As the spring days advanced, his strength increased, and Doctor Warstone's visits were discontinued. How much I missed those visits I never owned. I think the influence of that good man's strong nature and wise, cheerful words had sustained me unawares. And when I lost sight of the kind face, and ceased to hear the friendly voice, I became conscious of my own weakness.
We had not money enough to go out of town for change of air. Moreover, with Ronald's returning health came the urgent need of finding work to do; and where was he to find work if it was not to be found in London? When we were first married I had been quite sanguine about his chance of getting employment. He could do so many things, that it seemed impossible for him to fail. But later on, I discovered that the man who can do many things is precisely the man who does fail.
He could paint a tambourine beautifully, and hang it up on a wall with good effect; and he had a perfect genius for arranging old china, and giving artistic touches to a room. And there was the guitar-playing, and the singing, to say nothing of a graceful manner and a way of gliding naturally into the best society. Useful gifts these, were they not? Gifts which ought, of course, to have ensured their possessor a good income, and complete immunity from all the petty anxieties of life!
But, alas! They did not. Days lengthened into weeks; we left off fires, and were glad to open the windows and let the London air enter our little room. All the best people were in town; streets and squares were gay with carriages; women looked charming in their freshly-donned costumes; but I, Louie Hepburne, crept about in my shabby old gown, carrying a heavy heart, and perpetually doing long addition sums. Oh, those weekly bills which my good nurse never presented! Would they ever be paid?
It was about this time that Ronald began to miss my old cheerfulness. Somehow there were not so many things to laugh at as there used to be. The comic side of life seemed to be hidden from my gaze. Mental arithmetic does not foster one's sense of humour, and the fun was gradually dying out of my nature. I suppose I was a dull companion; and even devotedness cannot quite make up for dulness. One evening, when we were sitting together in our small parlour, he looked at me and sighed.
"I don't think I acted quite fairly in persuading you to marry me, Louie," he said, after a brief pause.
"Are you going in for vain regret, and that sort of thing?" I asked, feeling my checks flush.
"No; but I ought to have waited till I was better off, or—"
"Or what?" I cried, hotly. "I hate an unfinished sentence. Shall I finish it for you? 'You ought to have waited till you were better off, or till you had met a richer woman!'"
It was the most foolish speech that I could possibly have made. But is there ever a loving woman who does not at certain times say the most disastrous things? The more she loves, the more likely she is to speak unwisely. It was just one of those moments when a man sees that he has the advantage, and Ronald was as quick-sighted as most men. Moreover he, too, was by no means in his best mood that night, although he answered with a calmness that nearly maddened me.
"I met a richer woman long before I ever saw you," he said, looking at me steadily to note the effect of his words.
There was a sharp pain at my heart, and the blood rushed into my face and then receded, leaving me deadly pale.
"Why didn't you take her?" I demanded, in a voice that did not sound in the least like mine. "It was a pity that you missed so good a chance."
He smiled faintly, as if my suppressed excitement amused him.
"Well, there were obstacles in the way," he replied, in a provokingly tranquil tone. "She had a perfect dragon of an uncle, who was her guardian. And after some months of futile love-making, we had to say a long good-bye."
"You did not tell me all this before we got engaged," said I, in my new, strange voice. "Wouldn't it have been more honourable if you had told me that you only sought me because you had failed in winning a girl you liked better?"
"It would, Louie, always supposing that I had liked the other girl better."
There was a silence, and my heart beat with quick, heavy throbs. Until now I had never known the tremendous power of jealousy that lay dormant within me. To the last day of my life I shall remember the fierce agony that rent my soul as I sat in my seat by the window, idly watching the passers-by. What did they know of my trouble? Had any of them ever tasted such a bitter cup as mine?
"Is she still unmarried?" I asked at last.
"Yes."
"What is her name?"
"Ida Lorimer."
I had some vague recollection of that name. It must have been mentioned by Lady Waterville. Surely I had heard her say something about having lost sight of an Ida Lorimer who had been rather a favourite of hers. As I sat and mused, a host of memories came trooping back; and then I distinctly recalled a certain photograph in Lady Waterville's album, and remembered the widow's languid complaint that "Ida never came to see her now-a-days."
I was in the state of mind when bitter words are one's sole relief. And the words that burst from my lips were as bitter as if an evil spirit had prompted their utterance.
"It was a pity that you had to say good-bye to her! I wish she had had to bear all that I have borne. I wish that she were in my place at this moment!"
Of course there was but one thing for Ronald to do after that outburst, and he did it. He got up quietly, put on his hat, left the room, and went out of doors. In the next moment I saw him stride past the window, with his chin well up, and eyes looking straight ahead.
Dear heaven, what a dark cloud had suddenly descended on the little parlour, where we had spent so many happy hours together! It was all my fault, I told myself; and then I got up sad wandered aimlessly into the other room.
Before the looking-glass I came to a pause, and gazed wearily at the reflection of my own face. I suppose it was once a pretty face; but now the grey eyes looked at me with an expression of infinite woe; the complexion, always pale, had taken a sallow tinge, and even the sunny chestnut hair was less abundant than it had been in happier days. Nursing and anxiety had stolen away a good deal of my youth and brightness. But Ida Lorimer had doubtless kept all her attractions. I remembered the photograph of a fair, calm-faced woman in evening dress, with a beautiful neck and shoulders, and a general look of prosperity and self-satisfaction, and the cruel fangs of jealousy began to gnaw my heart again, and I turned away from the glass with a low moan of pain.
By-and-by the clock struck seven, and, for the first time since my marriage, I sat down to dinner alone. It was then that I began to realise what it was to feed on the "bread of affliction." Ronald's empty place deprived me of all appetite, and the chicken, which nurse had roasted to perfection, went back to the kitchen almost untasted. In my remorse and loneliness, I was even more severe on myself than there was any need to be. The vixenish wife had driven her much-enduring husband out of doors to seek his food elsewhere! It was quite likely that, sickened with grief and heartache, he would go without a dinner altogether.
This last fear was about as silly a notion as ever tormented a weak-minded woman. As a rule, the man of unquiet mind will fly to dinner as a solace, instead of turning from it in disgust. Quarrel with him at home, and he rushes out to the best restaurant in Regent Street, and consoles himself with perfect cookery. But I, being new to men and their ways, had not then discovered all their sources of consolation.
Moreover, I forgot that the wear and tear of Ronald's illness, and the worry of our straitened means, had told upon my health, and made my temper unnaturally irritable. As I sat, dropping my foolish tears upon the table-cloth, I did not realise the fact that I had been the chief burden-bearer in our married life. For many weeks Ronald had had nothing to do but get well, and accept all the petting that was lavished upon him. I had had to work, slave, struggle to make two ends meet, and sink down crushed under the load of embarrassments that I could not lift alone.
Yet we were both to blame, Ronald and I. When we had stood at the altar in St. George's Church (where so many wealthier couples had stood before us), we had perfectly realised that we were taking each other for better, for worse. When there is "the little rift within the lute" you may generally conclude that it has been made by two, not by one alone. Patch it up before it widens, deal with the damaged instrument as tenderly as you can, if you want to keep its music. Even if the sounds are never again so sweet as they used to be, they are better than the total silence that makes all life a long regret.
The May daylight lingered long, even on the grey walls of Chapel Place. I sat watching the slow fading of the sunbeams, and starting at every footstep that seemed to pause at the house door. Every knock or ring set all my nerves quivering. Meanwhile, I prepared a hundred little speeches of conciliation, and thought of a hundred little ways of atoning for my unkind words; and the weary hours crawled away, and the stars came out above the great restless London world. Would he never return? Must I watch and wait all through the long night?
Ten o'clock—did the clocks ever make such a dreadful din before? I began to pace my two rooms like a wild creature in its cage; and so another hour went by, and I had to stop, worn-out, and sink into a seat. Eleven. Every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon my brain.
I got up from my chair, hardly knowing what I did, and staggered towards the door with some vague intention of seeking nurse, and asking her what was to be done. But just at that moment, I heard a key turn in the hall door, and then the parlour door was suddenly flung open, and my husband came in. With a cry that I could not repress, I sprang up to him, and put my arms round his neck, hiding my poor worn face on his breast.
"Oh, Ronald," I sobbed, "I have been breaking my heart for you. Forgive my cruel words, and try to love me again!"
He folded me in a close embrace, and answered me with fond murmurs that were more reassuring than a thousand formal sentences. Spent and exhausted as I was, I had seldom, perhaps never, known a happier moment than this. The ecstasy of relief was almost more than I could bear.
"I didn't mean to stay out so late, dear little woman," he said, penitently. "The fact was that I met Greystock, and he asked me to dine with him. It's a long while since I saw him, and we had a good many things to talk about. Altogether, it was a lucky meeting; he is the man to give one a helping hand, you know. But how fearfully white you look, poor child!"
He bent over me with a face full of anxiety. Somehow the mere mention of Greystock's name had an ominous sound in my ears. Even in that moment, I recalled the many plans that had failed;—the seemingly good counsel that had led to no substantial result. In every case William Greystock had been the planner and counsellor, and I could not persuade myself that this meeting with him had been, as my husband thought, a lucky meeting.
But those we love best are precisely the people who can never be made to see with our eyes. I knew that Ronald would not be induced to distrust Greystock at my bidding; and as I was still smarting from the consciousness of having spoken unadvisedly once that day, I would not commit a second blunder. So I owned meekly that I was over-tired and over-worn, and let Ronald soothe me and wait on me to his heart's content.
I slept soundly that night, the heavy sleep of exhaustion, and when I woke the next morning I had aching limbs and a general sense of languor and weakness. Ronald was full of anxiety, and a self-reproach which he would not put into words. It was a rare thing for me to break down, and it troubled him to see the effort I made to get up to breakfast and seem like my old self.
"I wish I had not promised to go to Greystock's office to-day," he said, regretfully. "I don't like leaving you, Louie, although I think I have a chance of getting employment."
"Have you, really?" I asked. "Don't think of staying indoors for me, dear; I shall be quite bright when you return. It will be delightful to feel you are a City man, with important business to attend to every day. You are looking much better."
"I am gaining my strength, but you are losing yours," he said, kissing me, and keeping back a sigh.
We had finished breakfast, but, instead of going out at once, he took up the guitar and ran his fingers across the strings. Again came the soft sweet tune that had no name, the tune which had so often haunted me in my dreams.
"What does it mean?" I cried, involuntarily.
"I don't know," he said, "I can't help asking myself the same question every time I play it. If I could only remember how I learnt it first, I could solve the mystery."
"I think there is something rather fascinating about the mystery," I remarked. "That air always cheers, while it perplexes me. It comes like a suggestion of sunshine. It seems full of promises—promises of what? I wish I knew."
Ronald smiled at me as he put down the guitar.
"Promises of better fortune,—let us believe that," he said. "But good fortune doesn't always come to those who sit and wait. I am going to seek it in Greystock's office."
Again I felt a sudden heart-sinking. And yet how absurd and unreasonable this dislike to William Greystock would appear to others. As far as I knew, he had never done me the slightest harm, nor had he ever crossed my path since my marriage. Even supposing he had once been somewhat in love with me, was that any reason why I should hate the sound of his name? Any way, he had never pestered me with unwelcome attentions, but had withdrawn himself quietly when he found that my heart was not for him. And being a strong-minded, strong-willed man, he had doubtless conquered his fancy long ago.
Ronald took up his hat and stick, kissed me again, and went off, whistling as gaily as a school-boy. He really had the air of a man who was going to find good things; and I could not help fancying that our mysterious melody had inspired him with a cheerful spirit. And then, after he had gone his way, the miserable experience of last night rushed back into my mind like a flood, and, silly woman that I was, I sat still and brooded over it.
I felt I should like to know a little more about his affair with Ida Lorimer. But not for the world would I ever mention her name to him again—no, not if we lived together as man and wife for a hundred years! Yet if any one who had known my husband in his bachelor days—Lady Waterville, for instance—would give me some scraps of information about him and Ida, I knew that I should fasten greedily upon them.
Later on, I learnt that love should listen to no tales that do not come from the loved one's own lips. But heaven only knows what bitter hours we spend before we have mastered that lesson.