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MARIAN.
IT was five in the afternoon when Ronald returned from the city. He came home in capital spirits; but, although I paid the closest attention to all that he said, I really could not discover any definite ground to build a hope upon.
"When you look about you," he remarked, "you soon find out that money-making is very easy work."
"I have already found that money-spending is very easy work," I replied, rather dolefully.
"Don't be gloomy, Louie—for heaven's sake don't be gloomy!" implored my husband, sinking down upon the sofa with a groan. "How is a man to go to work if you depress his spirit? You are a good girl, my dear, but you are always ready with your extinguisher!"
I was a little hurt. There had been a time when He had called me his light-bearer, guiding him out of the darkness and perplexity of a lonely life. The falling off of poetry after marriage has been a sore trial to many a young matron; but few, perhaps, are quite as oversensitive as I was in those days. The first two or three months of our wedded life had been an idyl; then there were no curt speeches, no sarcasms, no disagreements. But now it seemed as if we were always saying the wrong things to each other. What was to be done?
Some gleams of afternoon sunshine were making their way into our little parlour, and lighting up the ancient silver teapot and cream jug which I had brought from my faraway home in the country. Poor relics of peaceful maiden days, I looked at them now With misty eyes, and thought of tea-drinkings with my girl friends, of my grandfather's benevolent face, of the rustle of leaves outside the cottage, and the scent of flowers that drifted in through open windows. And suddenly and unreasonably, I was seized with a longing to return to the old place, and see if I could find any of the old tranquillity lingering there.
But it is not to the past that we should go if we would find peace, for there is never anything gained by running backward. I gave myself a mental shaking, banished the sweet country visions and foolish yearnings, and turned to Ronald with a smile.
"I will be as sanguine as you please," I said, brightly. "Forgive me, dear, if I don't understand these City schemes. I am stupid sometimes, and business matters always puzzle me. But I have often heard Lady Waterville say that Mr. Greystock could help you if he liked, and if you were willing to be helped."
"Ah, that was like Lady Waterville! She used to insinuate that I was not willing to be helped."
"Oh, Ronald, she never insinuated things! And of course I always knew that you were anxious to get on. If Mr. Greystock really means to assist you now, I shall never cease thanking him."
"Of course he means to keep his word. Until to-day he has never made a definite promise."
"Oh, then he has really promised?"
"Yes. It is a pity, Louie, that you call only believe in demonstrative people. William Greystock is one of the most undemonstrative men on earth; he always says less than he means, therefore you never give him credit for any good intentions."
My quick temper rose at these words.
"I will believe in him, Ronald," I said, "when I have seen the fruit of those good intentions."
He started up from the sofa, and began to pace angrily up and down the little room.
Then I was sorry that I had spoken in a bitter tone. Only a few minutes ago I had firmly resolved to make the very best of my life, and avoid the slightest approach to a quarrel. And yet, here we were, on the very verge of warfare again!
There was an uncomfortable pause. I poured out tea, and gently pushed a cup towards him; but he took no notice of the action. Stopping in his walk, he stood leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes looking out into space. At that moment I saw his resemblance to the portrait of Inez, as I had never seen it before.
"Ronald,—" I began, timidly.
"Don't pursue the subject, Louie," he said, in a cold tone. "I shall never ask you to believe in my friend's intentions again, nor will I trouble you with any of my plans for the future."
The words fell on my heart like drops of icy rain.
I tried to think of something conciliatory to say, but nothing came to my lips, and I sat gazing helplessly at my husband's gloomy face. After a moment's silence, he took up his hat and moved towards the door.
"Ronald," I cried, rising suddenly, "don't stay out as you did last night."
"No," he answered, with formal politeness, "you need not be concerned. I shall come back at seven to dine."
The door closed behind him, and again I was left alone with my misery. I was young, and there is a tendency in youth to believe that every grief will be eternal.
In my turn I, too, began to pace up and down the room, with throbbing temples and an aching heart. And when at last tears came to my relief, I wept like a child, until I was exhausted and utterly worn-out.
All at once I remembered that it was summer-time, and that other people were revelling in the sunshine, while I was sitting alone in this dim room—alone with my misery and bitter regret. The thought set my tears flowing afresh, and then I rose, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and began to arrange some books and papers which were scattered over a little table in a corner.
When I moved my blotting-book, a paper fell from between its leaves, and fluttered down upon the floor. I picked it up, unfolded it, and read some verses which I had written a year ago.
"The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,And the leaves are fresh and new;The bloom lies thick on the lilac bough,The clouds drift over the blue;And the earth is as fair as it used to beIn times that have passed away;When we shared its bliss with the bird and bee,And laughed in the light of May."The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,And the river shines like gold;But the sweets are gone from the lilac bough,And the skies are grey and cold;For I miss your step in the flowery grass,Your voice in the scented glade;And the birds sing on, and the sweet hours pass,Like dreams in the light and shade."The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,But the flowers of love are dead;And under the bloom of the lilac boughI stand with a drooping head;If I heard your voice by my side to-day,I never could trust its tone;And here, in the light of the sweet young May,I live in the past alone."
When I wrote these lines, how little I knew that they would be prophetic! But there is, I fancy, an undertone of prophecy in every poet-nature; and even while Ronald and I were rejoicing together under the lilac blossoms, I had vague dreams of faded blooms and clouded skies. Now that I read the little poem again, by the light of my new experience, I remembered that past foreshadowing, and put the paper away with a deep sigh of pain.
Just at that moment there was a double knock at the hall door, which almost tempted me to believe that my husband had returned. But no, a woman's voice was heard asking for me; and then the door of my room was thrown open, and the parlour-maid announced "Miss Bailey."
It was a name that called up a thousand pleasant memories. Marian Bailey had been the playmate of my childhood, and the companion of my early girlhood, till her home in our village was suddenly broken up, and she had gone to live abroad. But although I had lost sight of her, I had never forgotten her, and the sight of her familiar face was like a gleam of sunshine.
"What brings you here, Marian?" I said, forgetting the traces of tears on my cheeks. "How did you find me?"
She answered that she had traced me through some of nurse's relatives in our old village; and then her kind eyes rested anxiously on my face for a moment. I remembered all at once that I must present a most doleful spectacle, and there was an awkward pause.
"I have been crying dreadfully," I admitted, taking her hands in mine, and clinging to her as I used to cling in the old days when anything troubled me, "Oh, Marian, how good it is to see you again! I have been cut off so long from everything connected with my old home that you seem to bring me back my lost happiness."
"Don't talk so, dear," she answered, kissing me; "you are a wife now, and you would not, I know, exchange the present for the past. My sudden appearance has excited you, I daresay; and, Louie, you don't look quite well. Perhaps you want the country air."
"No," I said, wearily. "I would not exchange this smoky old street for all the green trees and fields in the world. It is not the country air that I want, but the peace of mind—the freedom from care."
"My dear child," she said, sitting down on the sofa and drawing me to her side, "we must have a long talk. As to freedom from care, do you really think that any married woman can reasonably expect that? I am single, you see, and so I suppose you will be surprised at my remark. But—"
"But, Marian, you always understand people, no matter in what state of life they are. Yes, we must indeed have a long talk."
But Marian was not one of those people who are always in such a hurry to gain one's confidence that they will not give one time to open one's heart. When she had got me beside her on the sofa, she began to talk about herself and her own concerns, explaining the circumstances that had brought her to London, and telling me some good news in her own simple, natural way.
"I am no longer poor Marian Bailey," she said, gaily. "Indeed, Louie, I hardly know myself in my new character of rich Marian. What do you think of six hundred a year, and a home with my old aunt in Curzon Street? It was a great surprise to hear that my old uncle, who had never noticed me in his life, had remembered me at his death. Then his widow wrote to me, begging me to come and live with her; and here I am."
"And I am very glad you are here," I answered, looking up into her frank face, and feeling that I had got a trusty friend.
Marian was a large woman, a little heavily-built, perhaps, but comfortable, and pleasant to look upon. She was not pretty, but hers was one of those good faces which always attract you wherever you meet them. If you had been in a land of strangers, you would have turned instinctively to that face in your hour of need. The very clasp of her hand had comfort in it; it was a firm hand, not small and fragile like mine.
"How the old days come back!" she said, smiling down at me after a little pause. "You still have your wistful eyes, Louise; and your pretty brown hair is as bright as ever. What a confiding child you were, and how you always clung to me if you fancied yourself in any difficulty or danger! It seems strange for us two to be sitting here in a London room, doesn't it? Last time we sat together we were in the parlour in the dear old cottage; it was summer, the doors and windows were open, and every breeze brought in a shower of jessamine petals and scattered them over the floor. Your grandfather was pacing up and down his favourite path in the garden; and you were repeating some poem that had pleased you. When you liked verses, you always wanted me to set them to music, and sing them."
"Oh! Marian, do you ever sing now?" I cried. "And your dear old guitar—have you got it still?"
"Yes, I have never parted with it. Why, Louie, you have a guitar here! Is it yours?"
"No; that is Ronald's. Ah, Marian, how I should like to hear you sing again! Can't you remember any of your old songs? Sing one of Moore's—something sweet and old-fashioned—I am so tired of all our ballads of to-day. There should not be too many deep thoughts in verses that are written for music. A little sentiment—a little pathos—a dash of hope—that is all that we want to sing about. There are poems that are inscribed on our hearts with the point of a diamond, but we do not care to sing them."
While I rambled on, Marian was running her fingers over the strings; and suddenly I paused and started. She was playing that strange, soft melody that Ronald had played so often; and into her eyes there stole that musing look which always came into his, whenever he played this air.
"What is that?" I asked, eagerly. "Ronald plays it sometimes, but he never can think where he first heard it."
"I am trying to remember," she answered in a thoughtful tone. The air was repeated; sweet and tender and gay, it seemed to charm Marian just as it had charmed us. She stopped at last with a baffled expression on her face.
"There are words set to that air," she said, "but I cannot recall them now. Who was it that ever played and sung this melody to me? I wish I knew."
"That is what Ronald is always saying," I remarked. And then I told her the story of poor Monsieur Léon, and the way in which the guitar had come into our hands.
"I will play the air once more," she said, taking up the guitar again. "It is very simple, but wonderfully sweet. Now listen, and perhaps the words will come to me."
But they did not come.
Then she sang one of our old favourite ballads, and when that was ended, I begged her to take off her bonnet and stay to dinner.
"Aunt Baldock will be distracted," she told me. But there was an unspoken pleading in my face that must have gone to her heart. Perhaps she guessed that I had some special reason for wishing her to stay that evening.
And I had indeed a special reason. For the first time in my life, I shrank from sitting down to a tête-à-tête meal with my husband.
Any one who is intimately acquainted with the ways of men must know that they are never more unpleasant than when they are acting from a sense of duty. I could fancy the lofty moral air with which Ronald would seat himself at our humble board. I pictured the virtuous resignation in his manner when he ate his roast mutton, knowing all the while that William Greystock would have given him salmon a la maître d' hotêl and beef olives. I could imagine the magnanimous way in which he would try to get up a little conversation with his wife, thus letting her see that an aggrieved man does not always bear malice, but is capable of making the best of his condition.
But if Marian Bailey were with us, everything would be changed for the better. She had travelled; she was musical; she had the gift of talking pleasantly without being positively brilliant. In short, she possessed the useful gift (more to be desired than the ten talents) of putting people into good humour with themselves and their surroundings. Unselfish, even-tempered, sound in health and in heart, Marian Bailey was born to be a blessing to herself and to her friends; and when she had consented to stay with me, I could await Ronald's coming with cheerfulness.
He came in, prepared to be just the man I had expected him to be, but Marian's frank manner won his heart at once.
I left them together, and went to have a short conference with nurse, who was always good at an emergency. The result of that conference was that we turned our little dinner into a sort of festival, and Ronald gave me an approving glance across the table.
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GOING OUT.
THE charm of Marian's presence seemed to linger with us after she was gone. It gratified me to hear Ronald's praises of my friend; he had enjoyed her conversation and her singing, and looked forward with pleasure to the thought of spending an evening in Mrs. Baldock's house in Curzon Street. I had tact enough to tell him that she had admired the artistic decorations of our little room—especially the tambourine.
"Ah," said Ronald, sinking back complacently into his favourite corner of the sofa, "I might have done something in the art line with proper training."
"I always thought so," I answered, warmly. And then, for the hundredth time, I fell to wondering secretly why it was that he could not get on better in life? It was hard to see humdrum men succeeding while he failed. He was so clever—so versatile—and he looked so interesting in his attitude of languid repose, his pale, delicately-cut face showing out against the dark crimson cushion, that I began to fall in love with him anew.
"But," he continued, "I must give up all thought of art now-a-days, Louie, and devote myself to the City. Greystock is putting me up to some good things; and I am going every day to his office to write his letters and make myself generally useful."
I was so glad to be taken into confidence again, that I resolved never to say another disparaging word of William Greystock. For a little while, at any rate, I would banish the remembrance of unpaid weekly bills, and all the anxieties of everyday life; and I would bask once more in the warmth of that love which had shed its glow over my world in days gone by.
"Ah, Ronald, I wish we had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves in this summer-time!" I said, going to the sofa and kneeling down by his side. "I wish we could ramble under the trees and among the buttercups, as if we were children. Do you recollect a day we spent at Richmond in May? There was a great lilac bush in the hotel garden, and I buried my face in a mass of bloom, and half-intoxicated myself with perfume! Dear, I felt as if my heart was not large enough to hold its happiness! The flowers—the fragrance—the sunshine-and—you!"
"My poor child," he answered, drawing me close to his breast, "the sunshine did not last very long. You have only one or two poor little holidays to look back upon;—only a few golden hours snatched from a life of care! But perhaps there are brighter times coming, pet; and you shall take your fill of the flowers again."
But as I knelt there in his arms with his face close to mine, I felt I could live without the flowers. We were only a poor young couple, clinging to each other in a dim London room; but just then our lives were full of sweeter poetry than can ever be put into words. Other couples, more fortunate in their surroundings, were drinking in the sweetness of the scented twilight in country places far away.
"Some wandering hand in hand through arching lanes;Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss."
Yet I hardly think that any of them could be happier than we were in these quiet moments, when we seemed to have but one heart between us. It was true that my life was full of care; true that I had given up my untroubled girlhood for a troubled wifehood. But does any true woman ever love a man less because she has sacrificed all her best years for his sake? Does not the very fact of the sacrifice endear him for whom it was made?
Later on, when perhaps it is a woman's bitter lot to find that her self-abnegation was all in vain, there may come to her some passionate regrets for the squandered strength and the wasted devotion. But even then (if that devotion has been of the purest kind), I think that her life is not so poor as the lives of some of her wiser sisters, who have never loved well enough to lavish anything. Moreover, I believe it is impossible for a woman of the best type to exhaust the store-house of her affections. Like the widow's cruse of oil, it is ever replenished by some unseen power.
In the course of the next day, there came an affectionate little note from Marian, asking us to dine at her aunt's house in Curzon Street, and fixing an early date. Ronald's face brightened at the invitation.
"We have been living like two hermits," he said. "It's time that we saw a little more of the world. Not that I am tired of your society, Louie; but I'm afraid I shall bore you awfully if you never see any one else, and I like this friend of yours; she is worth knowing."
I, too, was well pleased, although my pleasure was considerably damped by the consciousness of having to wear an old gown. Marian was, I knew, incapable of any unkindly criticism; but other eyes might look less indulgently on my old frock. Sixpences and shillings were very precious in these days, and I shrank even from purchasing the cheap lace that could be converted into an adornment for the neck and bosom of my well-worn black satin.
"What is the matter, little woman? Why are you looking so grave?" my husband demanded, when the day came.
"Oh, I was thinking about dress," I answered, incautiously. "I am so shabby, you know."
His brow darkened.
"What a nuisance poverty is!" he said, in an impatient tone. "It's hard that my wife can't dine out without worrying herself to death about the state of a gown. I should like to deck you in diamonds, Louie, but—"
He paused, and the very mention of diamonds sent a strange thrill of remembrance through my brain. When had we ever had anything to do with diamonds? And yet I was haunted by a vague notion that I had once seen myself glittering with splendid gems. So vivid was this impression that I forgot all about my old black silk, and sat staring into space, wondering from what source this phantom of memory had been produced.
"I recollect now," I said, with a little laugh. "One night, soon after we came here, you were lying asleep, and I was sewing by your bedside. It was late; I dropped into a doze, and dreamed that I was standing before a glass, with diamonds flashing on my head and neck. You can't imagine how clear the dream was, Ronald. At this moment I can scarcely believe that it was only a dream. It seems as if I had verily handled and worn those diamonds."
"I wish I could make the dream come true," he answered, kissing me, with a troubled look in his eyes. "But if diamonds are unattainable, flowers are always to be had, and you don't want jewels to wear at a quiet dinner. This evening I will bring you some of your favourite roses."
"And they are a great deal prettier than jewels," I told him, eagerly. "I remember the first flower you ever gave me was a rose, a Marshal Niel, and I was absurdly delighted with it."
"I remember too," he replied, the trouble ladling out of his face.
"Ah, I'm glad you have not forgotten. Ronald! Lady Waterville used to say that men always forgot the very things that women treasured up in their memories. As to jewels, I shan't want them in the least, and you may be quite sure that I shall not envy any woman who may happen to be better dressed than I am!"
These words came back to me afterwards as if to mock me for my self-confidence. But; when I uttered them, they sprang straight from my heart, and I fancied that Ronald's smile, in answer, was brighter than it had been for a long time.
When he had gone City wards, I turned my thoughts again to the black silk gown, and presently I sallied out into Oxford Street to buy the indispensable lace. It did not take long to choose some that was pretty and effective; but when I opened my purse to pay for it, I felt a rush of hot colour burn my cheeks. I had been brought up with what are called old-fashioned principles, and to me it seemed a dreadful thing to spend money that was owing elsewhere.
I left the shop with a sense of degradation that took the sweetness out of all my pleasure. The morning was glorious, everybody seemed to be making purchases that day; bright-faced girls and portly mothers were flocking into Marshall & Snelgrove's, serene in the consciousness of ample funds. Pretty young matrons, followed by obsequious shopmen with parcels, swept out to their carriages, well satisfied with their shopping; and I, a shabbily-clad little wife, wended my way homewards, feeling that I had but little in common with them all.
Debts are the prickly brambles that encompass an imprudent marriage, and tear the clasped hands of wedded love. It was very seldom that I ventured to speak of them to Ronald; the subject irritated him; and so I endured the pain inflicted by all those little thorns in silence. Sometimes the smart was almost intolerable, and no one knew what bitter tears it wrung from me in solitary hours. Nurse was the only person who guessed my sufferings, but she could not realise how sharp they were.
I entered the house, and sat down wearily on the sofa in the little parlour, with my parcel in my lap. It would have been a relief to cry, but I forced back the tears. What would Ronald have said to a wife who went out to dine with red eyes? And I did want to look my best, for his sake, that evening.
Then I composed myself, laid aside my bonnet, and set about my task in right earnest. As I proceeded, I could not help feeling a certain amount of womanly satisfaction in my own skill; the ruffled lace looked delicate and creamy when I arranged it about my neck, and surveyed myself in the glass.
Nurse came to me, late in the afternoon, and insisted on brushing my thick hair with her own hands, and twisting it up in sunny coils, in a fashion which could not have been improved upon. We both tried valiantly to persuade ourselves that the black silk gown looked very well indeed; we even decided that it was a mistake for silk to be too lustrous and new; and as to the fichu of creamy lace, it called forth cries of rapturous admiration. Nurse walked backward to get the full effect of me, and fell to gesticulating wildly in her efforts to make me understand how well I looked.
But although her honest flattery was very sweet, I knew that it was a changed face that I saw reflected in the glass; a face which lacked the softness of contour, and freshness of colouring, which are the chief charms of youth. The springtide of life was gone. Instead of the Louie of old days, I beheld a pale, fragile little woman, with pathetic eyes, that seemed to have grown larger and darker of late, and lips that quivered painfully with any passing emotion. This was what my love-match had made of me.
"Don't you recollect the parties at the rectory, ma'am?" said nurse, still hovering round me. "And the white muslin with the red spots, that you looked so nice in? And the curate, who was that silly about you that we used to fear for his poor brain? And Farmer Danby's son a-capering whenever you came in his way? Capering Danby was his name from one end of the village to the other, and yet he was as still a man as one could wish to see, till you turned his head. Not that you ever trifled with him, Miss Louie; that was far from you, ma'am. But you captivated him, innocent-like; and the simple soul was never the same again."
While the old woman talked, I called up a vision of my old country home, and the rustic swains whose antics had amused me in those early days. The scent of fields full of long grass, came drifting back; the young roses were in bloom on our cottage walls; the lanes leading to the rectory were fragrant with a wealth of hawthorn blossoms. I was a girl again, with a girl's unawakened heart and childish fancies, like the little princess in a fairy tale, standing among leafy ways and watching for the prince's coming.
Then the clock of St. Peter's struck six, and I heard a well-known knock which brought me back to the realities of my present life. The prince had come indeed; and the poor little shabby princess must get out his evening suit, and lay his fresh linen on the bed, all ready for the royal wearer.
He came in, with a little bouquet done up in silver paper. Three perfect roses of palest yellow—were there ever flowers more beautiful, even in the fairy land of my dreams? I lifted my face to kiss him for his gift, and there was a wistful look in the eyes that met mine.
"Am I turned out well?" I asked, anxiously.
"Admirably," he answered, with a slight quiver in his voice. "What a long time it is since I saw you in festal array! Pin the flowers just there—a little higher—that's right. My darling, how thin your hands are—the rings are loose;—there is something unsubstantial and spirit-like about you altogether!"
I had seen that the change wrought in me by trial and anxiety was more visible now than at ordinary times; and he saw it too, and was deeply moved. Nurse had noiselessly departed, and for a few moments he hung over me, with fond, regretful murmurs, forgetting all else save our love, and the sorrows that had knit us so closely together. A little while ago, I had silently lamented the loss of my early bloom: now I did not care about it in the least. These sorrowful caresses, these loving, whispered words, were ample compensation for the charms that had fled.
A little later we were rattling towards Curzon Street in a hansom, and overhead the clear evening sky was smiling down upon the restless streets. Both were silent; my husband's face still wore its wistful look, but I felt such a depth of content within me that I was sorry when the short drive came to an end.
Marian Bailey received us in a faded old drawing-room, made bright with choice flowers; and Mrs. Baldock greeted us with old-fashioned courtesy.
Presently two other guests were announced; first, a Mr. Hartley, who proved to be a distant cousin of Marian's; and then—Miss Lorimer.
Well-trained as he was in all the ways of society, I saw a slight change pass over my husband's face. It was gone in an instant; and, in his turn, he moved from his station near the window to shake hands with a tall, stately woman. Her golden hair shone as the light touched it, and there was something imposing and sumptuous about her beauty which made me long to go and hide myself. For was not this the very Ida Lorimer who had once been Ronald's chosen love?
There she stood, untouched by poverty and pain, unchanged by any of those daily trials which had stolen my youth away. And as Ronald's head bent towards her, and his eyes seemed to speak the old language that they had spoken to hers long ago, the keen fangs of jealousy began to rend my heart once more.
The long-continued pressure of secret cares—the weakness caused by enfeebled health—the consciousness of altered looks—all these things combined to render me morbid and suspicious as the hours of that memorable evening went on. Once I caught a glimpse of my own mournful little face in a glass; and in the background I saw Miss Lorimer's golden head. What a poor, frail creature I seemed beside that splendid blonde! Mr. Hartley tried to draw me into a conversation, and Marian came many times to my side with smiles and kind words; but nothing could make me forget Miss Lorimer's presence.
At first the stately beauty seemed disposed to ignore me altogether. Once or twice I fancied that she was quietly quizzing my unfortunate black silk, and making silent comments on my dejected aspect. In her eyes I was a little nobody—Lady Waterville's companion—who had been married by Ronald Hepburne in one of his romantic freaks. But before the evening was over, she seemed to have a desire to know something more about me, and came to the corner where I had taken refuge.
"Mr. Hepburne and I are old friends," she said, with a gracious society smile. "I had been wondering where he had hidden himself after his marriage; but he has been telling me about that long illness. How sad it must have been for you! Nursing is such dreary work, isn't it?"
"It was very sad," I admitted quietly, feeling that there was no real sympathy in the cold blue eyes that met mine. "But he is quite well now, and almost as strong as ever."
"He still looks delicate, I fancy. However, Mr. Greystock tells me that he is learning to be a City man, and that must require a great deal of strength and energy I am sure. What a delightful man Mr. Greystock is!"
"I suppose so; I don't know him very well," I replied.
"He will be a great help to Mr. Hepburne," she went on, still eyeing me coldly. "Such an excellent adviser and friend. By the way, you are musical, I daresay?"
"No; I am very fond of music, but I neither play nor sing."
"Really; and Mr. Hepburne sings so well. His love for his guitar used to be almost a mania; has he given it up?"
"Oh, no," said Marian Bailey, coming to my corner, and taking it on herself to answer the question. "His guitar is always taken up in spare moments, and the verses that Mrs. Hepburne writes for him to sing are some of the most charming things you ever heard."
"Really?" repeated Miss Lorimer, raising her golden eyebrows. "I must ask to see those verses one of these days."
I saw Ronald watching us from his station on the other side of the room, and felt that I did not succeed in making myself agreeable to his old love. What would I not have given to have recalled the old bright manner with which I used to charm the people who came to Lady Waterville's "At homes." But I was too young to wear a mask gracefully, and of all disguises, the sparkling mask is the most difficult to assume. If the wearer be inexperienced, ten to one that it will drop off suddenly, in some unguarded moment, and reveal the haggard face and heavy heart that was meant to hide.
Just then, Marian contrived to lead Miss Lorimer away to the piano, and I was left in peace. Ida was a cold, brilliant player; her performance was creditable enough, I daresay, but not a single note touched my heart.
The evening came to an end. We uttered our good-nights; I folded a shabby woollen wrap round my shoulders, and Ida muffled herself in a golden plush opera cloak, bordered with rich dark fur. How regal she looked when my husband put her into the brougham that was waiting before the door.
We departed next, sitting side by side in hansom; but I did not enjoy the drive this time.
"You are tired to death, Louie," said Ronald, after a long silence.
And I answered, "Yes, tired to death."
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SHADOWS DEEPEN.
ALTHOUGH Ronald continued to go regularly every day into the City, and although he talked a great deal about Greystock's valuable help and counsel, I did not find that our funds increased.
He dined out, however, so frequently that I was able to economise in the matter of dinners. Anything did for me, when he was absent; but I don't think nurse approved of my scanty meals; and I did not seem to thrive upon my fare. The truth was, that, as the days went on, I was fast losing my hope of the future. I could not forget that, while Ronald was looking forward to "better luck," we were gradually sinking deeper and deeper into the mire.
One evening he came in unexpectedly when I was sitting down to some fragments of cold mutton; and I saw his face darken at the sight of the food.
"What a feast you have got there!" he said, half angrily. "Nurse could have hashed those tempting morsels, I suppose. Why do you sit here alone, and make a martyr of yourself, Louie?"
"I am not a martyr," I answered, cheerfully. "I did not want a hash, that was all. I wasn't expecting you, Ronald, or I would have had something nice."
"Oh, tell them to cook a chop," he responded in a hurried tone. "Don't fidget about me, Louie; I shall do well enough. The fact is, I was half engaged to dine with Greystock, and then he suddenly remembered that Lady Waterville had asked him this evening. The old lady ages visibly."
"Did you see her?" I said, pausing with my hand on the bell.
"Yes; Greystock made me go in and speak to her. She was very glad to see me, I believe; but of course she maundered on about our wickedness in getting married. I saw that Ida Lorimer was laughing quietly behind her."
"Oh, was Miss Lorimer there?"
I put the question with all possible calmness, but the blood rushed into my cheeks, making them burn intolerably for a moment. I took care that he should not see my face.
"Yes; she is often there," he replied. "Greystock is a great ally of hers; and he has persuaded her to take pity on the old soul in her loneliness. Lady Waterville was really fond of you, Louie. She misses you so much that she can't help being bitter."
"She used to be very good to me," I said, with a sigh.
"Everybody would be good to you, little woman, if you would let them. But you take far too gloomy a view of people, and of life in general; and your face is getting to wear a settled look of melancholy. Lady Waterville asked, quite maliciously, if you were not rather dismal now-a-days?"
"How did she know I was dismal?" inquired, with a desperate effort to be composed.
"Well, I suppose she questioned Ida. You know, my dear girl, you looked like a mute at a funeral when you dined at Mrs. Baldock's. I don't know what possessed you."
I felt that all the burning colour had deserted my cheeks; they were cold and white enough now. So Ida Lorimer had been making scornful remarks about me, and my husband had agreed with all that she had said!
I sat down again in my place at the table, and presently the maid came in with chops, which had been cooked for our landlord, and were now placed before Ronald. He began to eat with good appetite, although the fare was plain; and it was clear that he had not noticed the effect of his words.
"Why can't you cheer up, Louie?" he said, after a pause. "Why will you persist in giving people the impression that you are a wretched wife? I know we have had our troubles, pet, but they are over now, and better days are coming. You are growing as thin as a lath, and you 'gang like a ghaist.' What can be done with you?"
There was an undertone of impatience running through the apparent kindness of his words. I sat desperately trying to swallow scraps of mutton, which seemed as tasteless as if I had been eating in a dream. He was expecting a reply, and by-and-by I spoke in a choked voice.
"I am not very strong, Ronald; but as to giving people the impression that I am wretched, that can hardly be done; I am not often seen. Of course I don't appear to advantage beside a woman who has never had anything but prosperity."
"Oh, you mean Ida Lorimer. Well, you see, she doesn't take things to heart as you do."
"That I can quite believe, Ronald. Indeed, I think it is doubtful whether she has any heart at all."
"That's what the sentimental women always say of the matter-of-fact ones," he remarked, laughing.
Where was my good angel at that moment? Out leaped the sharp retort, swift as lightning.
"I am sorry that you did not marry a matter-of-fact one. She would have suited you much better than I do."
"You have said the same thing before." He had become suddenly grave and cold. "Doesn't it strike you that these regrets are worse than useless? As we have got to live with each other, we had better cultivate the art of nicking agreeable speeches."
"With all my heart," I answered, haughtily. "Only I hope you will see that the agreeable speeches can't be all on one side. If you will take your share of making them, I will take mine."
"Very well. I will do my best to be on my guard. It's a mistake, I find, to speak out candidly to one's wife. Restraint and formal courtesy shall be the rules of my home-life for the future; only, you know, my home will be wofully unlike a home!"
"Oh, Ronald, what has come to us?" The question broke suddenly and passionately from my lips. "I never please you now. If I go out with you, nothing goes well; if I stay at home, you find fault with me. Am I to be blamed because 'my heart and my flesh faileth?' Is it likely that I can be gay and smiling when we are getting poorer every day? I am tired—yes, very tired—and I think I am growing too weak to keep up the struggle."
There was a silence. I was crying now, not noisily, but very bitterly, and I had crept away from the table to the sofa. Presently—after a pause—he rose, and came across the room to my side.
"Louie," he said, "it will never do to go on like this? You are very tired, poor child; I see that plainly enough. But can't you try to believe in a better future, dear? Have little patience, and my investments are sure to turn out well."
"Investments?" I repeated, suddenly raising my tearful face. "We have no money to invest, Ronald."
"Greystock has lent me some." He made the admission with some reluctance. "So you see, Louie, he has proved himself to be more unselfish than you thought. Of course he knows that it is perfectly safe—I never do anything without his advice—but some men never will part with money, even for a month or two. Greystock is really a friend."
Was he? I was as far as ever from believing in his friendship.
"I will try to be brighter, Ronald," I said, putting my hand into his. "It is hard on you, I daresay, to see me so changed and sorrowful. I have spoken foolishly this evening, but—I was overwrought and worn."
This time it was a very quiet reconciliation; there were no passionate embraces, no fond murmurs. He kissed me tenderly, remarked that the fresh air would do us both a world of good, and took me out for a walk.
I have always loved old Cavendish Square on a summer evening, when its garden is looking fresh and green, and its stately houses are wearing their brightest aspect. There were dinner-parties going on, carriages coming and going, well-groomed horses prancing, tall menservants here and there, but I could not take my usual pleasure in the scene. I managed to talk (with a fair show of good spirits), and Ronald did his best to be good-humoured, yet there were certain words of his that lay heavily on my heart.
He had borrowed money of William Greystock.
This new cause for anxiety drove all jealous thoughts of Miss Lorimer out of my head for a time. It was an unlooked-for fear, which had suddenly started up in a path already thickly-planted with thorns.
I had no doubt that my husband had perfect faith in those investments of which he spoke so brightly; but I also knew that it was a faith derived from Greystock alone, and not from his own knowledge of matters of business. I might be unreasonable and unjust; I had not the slightest ground for suspicion, and yet I dreaded William Greystock more now than I had ever done before.
He had got a hold on Ronald. The thought made my spirit sink within me, for my instincts had detected the cruelty that was latent in his nature. If he were kind, there must be a cruel motive for the kindness. And I—fragile, weary, already spent with a sore conflict—what could I do to deliver my husband from the strong hand that held him fast?
That night, I lay awake while Ronald slept peacefully by my side. There was no change in my love for him; it was as pure and true as it had been on the day when we came out of the old church, man and wife; but I was beginning to lose confidence in myself. And deep in my soul dwelt the haunting fear that he was growing a little weary of the wife he had wedded.