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POISONED WORDS.
THE summer days, so full of joy for others, brought only sorrow and weariness to me.
Marian came to me often, and her looks seemed to invite the confidence which I would not bestow. At her first coming, I had been prompted to open my heart to her; but, after the dinner-party in Curzon Street, my impulse was checked. I was far too proud to tell her that I was jealous of my husband's old sweetheart; and she had too much delicacy to let me see that she suspected such a thing. Yet sometimes I almost fancied that she had found out the reason of my reserve.
I carefully avoided all mention of Miss Lorimer, but one day Marian introduced her name.
"Ida Lorimer is one of Aunt Baldock's friends," she remarked. "She always manages to amuse the old lady with her chitchat, and that is why she is asked to all our dinner-parties."
From Marian's tone, I inferred that she did not want Ida to be her friend; but I kept silence.
There were no more quarrels between Ronald and myself, but in the depth of my heart, I owned that our Eden was fast becoming a sorry wilderness. Our debts increased, and all my quiet savings were of no avail. It was indeed but "lost labour" for me to eat the bread of carefulness, for Ronald, sure of that glorious future of which he had spoken, was not disposed to deny himself little comforts. When he dined at home he was not contented with the plain fare which had satisfied him in our earlier wedded days. William Greystock had developed his natural taste for luxuries.
Every man is, I believe, a gourmand at heart, but the chance of being a glutton does not come to all. Greystock gave my husband plenty of opportunities of indulging his liking for dainties; and when Ronald and I ate at our table together, I had to listen to long lectures on the art of cooking. They were not uninstructive lectures; most women will do well to listen when a lord of the creation discourses of roast and boiled, sauce and gravy; but the consciousness of an empty purse made all this talk a weariness to we. Worse than a weariness—it was a pain.
One July afternoon, when I was sitting at the open window with my eternal mending work, a drowsiness began to steal over me, and my hands dropped heavily on my lap. It was a hot day; far off in country places the corn was ripening fast, and scarlet poppies were flaunting among the golden grain. I shut my eyes and called up a vision of the arbour at the end of my grandfather's garden—a veritable bower—
"Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun,Forbid the sun to enter."
Once more I seemed to tread the long grass-path that led to the bower; once more a rush of perfume, intoxicatingly sweet, swept over me, and filled me with delight. Again the overblown damask roses shed a shower of petals at my feet, and the large white lilies stood in stately file on each side of the old walk. I was back again in the delicious, dreamy place where my childish days were spent, and all the cares of the present life were forgotten and blotted out, when a loud, harsh noise suddenly broke the spell.
It was only a double knock, but who does not know how unwelcome such a sound may be in the middle of an afternoon nap? Sleep was not such a common blessing that I could afford to lose ever so little of it. Many wakeful nights had made a few moments of oblivion as precious as gold; my sojourn in happy dreamland might have done me a world of good, if it had not been cut short.
Just as the parlour door was flung open, I started up, suddenly conscious that I was in a most ungraceful attitude. Seated in our only easy chair, I had put my feet up on another, and on this extemporised couch I had enjoyed an interval of most blissful repose. There are few who have not experienced the intense sweetness of that sleep which comes to us at unexpected times, and in somewhat inconvenient places—a sweetness which we often miss when we lie down on the orthodox couch at night, and anxiously await the coming of the drowsy god. Even now, when heart and brain are at rest, I can remember those snatches of perfect forgetfulness of this life and its sordid troubles, and I like to fancy that they were sent to me by a Divine kindness.
Half-bewildered, and still entangled in the web of dreams, I rose, and found myself face to face with William Greystock.
"I am afraid I have startled you, Mrs. Hepburne," he said, in a voice which was lunch softer than his usual tone. "You have not been well, I hear—indeed, you are not looking strong."
There was something almost tender in the fixed look of his dark eyes; but it was a tenderness that did not draw me towards him for a moment.
"No, I am not very strong," I admitted, simply. "My husband's illness was long and trying, you know, and anxiety wore me out."
"You are very much changed."
The words seemed to fall involuntarily from his lips, and the pity in his face stung me.
"I was prepared for changes when I married," I said, coldly. "Every girl is. I never expected to go on leading the easy do-nothing life I lived with Lady Waterville."
"Ah, yes! You got tired of that life. You even preferred trouble to monotony; that's always the way with women."
"Isn't it the way with men also?" I asked, with a smile.
"That was said like Miss Coverdale—you were always fond of putting questions. Well, no; I believe women care more about excitement than we do, that's the truth."
"I don't agree with you," I replied, shaking my head. "But we won't begin one of our old interminable arguments—besides, a good deal of the spirit of contradiction has died out of me. How is Lady Waterville?"
"Very well; and yet I don't know that I ought to say 'very well.' She is far too stout and apathetic to be in perfect health."
"But she has been stout and apathetic for any number of years, and the condition seems to agree with her," I said. "I haven't lost one bit of my old affection for her, Mr. Greystock, although I suppose she never will forgive me."
He laughed, but the pitying look was still in his eyes. "I think she has forgiven you in her heart," he answered. "But sometimes forgiveness is never acknowledged in a lifetime. It is only revealed when death has 'set his seal' upon the lips. Poor Lady Waterville! She has missed you."
My eyes filled with tears; for a moment I could not speak.
"The forsaken are apt to be bitter," he went on. "You have, beyond other women, a power of winning love which is past explaining. Do not be surprised if people get angry at finding that they have been despoiled of your affection—even an unconscious despoiler cannot hope to escape indignation."
"A very unjust indignation," I said, faintly.
"Perhaps it is," he admitted, in a quiet voice. "But it is no light trial to see all the richest offerings heaped upon the shrine of a saint who accepts them with cold complacency. We, whose altars are bare, would have given worlds for a single gem or flower."
The words sent a thrill of sharp pain through my heart. Had he observed that growing coldness of which I had been conscious in Ronald? Did he know that my husband had turned back in spirit to a woman whom he had loved before he had ever seen me?
The jealousy which was silently burning deep down at the bottom of my soul, had consumed all my peace. I could not speak of it to any one, but I was always haunted by a vague notion that Ronald saw Ida Lorimer often, and found a delight in her society that he had ceased to find in mine.
There was a pause, and I sat waiting almost breathlessly for William Greystock's next words, feeling miserably afraid that he would say something to confirm my fears.
"Ronald's handiwork, I see," he remarked, going close to the chimney-piece to inspect the tambourine. "How clever he is in doing this kind of thing! Miss Lorimer is making some progress under his instruction, but she has not much taste."
He spoke in a natural, easy tone, as if he had taken it for granted that I knew all about the intimacy between my husband and Ida Lorimer. I turned faint and sick, and my voice sounded strangely harsh when I spoke.
"I did not know that Ronald was giving lessons," I said, involuntarily.
"Did you not?" William turned, and looked at me with a smile. "Yes, he is not a bad teacher, I believe. But, Mrs. Hepburne, I am forgetting the object of my visit; I came to invite you to a picnic at Richmond. Ronald is coming, of course, and I hope you will be persuaded to join us."
How could he smile so blandly when my poor distressed face was fronting his? Either he was utterly obtuse, or he was taking a positive pleasure in my sufferings.
I did not want to go to Richmond—I did not want to go anywhere—the desire to see green trees and fields was still strong within me, but I longed to be alone in the old haunts of my childhood, in scenes which were unconnected with the love and pain of my later life. Yet how could I refuse an invitation which had been already accepted by my husband?
"I am a very poor creature now-a-days," I said, with a miserable attempt to speak lightly. "People who go to picnics ought to be good walkers, and have a fund of animal spirits. I am not gay enough to join your party, Mr. Greystock."
Again there was a softening in his voice, and an indescribable look of tenderness in his face which made him far handsomer than I had ever seen him before.
"Does one only want gay companions?" he asked. "I think not. For my own part, I turn with relief to some one who is not gay, some one who can sympathise with my own gravity of temperament. Take pity on me then, Mrs. Hepburne, and spare me a few hours of your society next Thursday."
Still I hesitated, wondering why he pressed the point.
"The air will do you good," he continued, earnestly. "And I will take care that you are not bored or persecuted in any way. Then, too, there are Ronald's wishes to be considered: he says you are shutting yourself up too much."
"Did he say that?" I demanded, eagerly.
"Indeed he did," Those inscrutable dark eyes were looking deep into mine. "Is it not natural that he should be anxious about his wife's health and spirits, and natural, too, that he should sometimes speak his thoughts to till old friend?"
I reflected for a moment.
William Greystock's words sounded kind and reasonable, and I was secretly glad to know that Ronald had displayed some anxiety on my account.
"I will come to your picnic, Mr. Greystock," I said at last. "It is kind of you to take an interest in me. Perhaps my husband is right; I have given way too much to depression, and have stayed too long in the house."
He thanked me, gravely and courteously, and then quietly went his way.
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JEALOUSY.
WHEN Ronald came in, I told him at once of William Greystock's visit, and added that I had accepted the invitation.
"Have you? I said to Greystock that I was sure you would not go," remarked my husband, taking up his old station on the hearth with his back to the empty grate.
"I thought you would be vexed if I refused," I rejoined, watching him keenly as I spoke.
"It would vex me still more if you did anything that you hated doing, Louie. And lately you have shown such a dislike to society that—"
"That I had better keep out of it, Ronald? Well, it isn't too late to send an excuse."
"Nonsense," he answered, irritably; "Greystock would think you mad. Only, as you have promised to go, do try to enter into the spirit of the thing. Leave your little worries at home, and enjoy yourself with the others."
At that moment I wished passionately that I had sent William Greystock away with decided negative. Ronald did not want we to go to this picnic; he was afraid that I should be a kill-joy. Nobody wanted we now; I had only been desirable while my youth and gaiety lasted.
I wondered whether the life-stories of other women were anything like mine? Had they, too, been worshipped in their brief, bright girlhood, and neglected in their sad wifehood? Disappointed, driven back into myself, crushed down under a load of daily increasing anxieties, it is no marvel that I looked at Ronald and was secretly astonished to see that he was getting younger and brighter.
The truth was that he had never yet fairly realised our position as I did. All through that long illness of his—all through the weary weeks of convalescence, I had done my utmost to keep the veil over his eyes. While I beheld the grim, ugly facts of our life, he saw only a rose-coloured haze that softened every unlovely detail; and that veil, which anxious love had woven, had never yet been entirely rent away.
It was not a great wonder, then, that he fancied I was making the worst of everything, and was surprised at my anxious outlook into a future which he believed to be sunshiny enough. Too late I was learning the bitter truth, which every woman must learn sooner or later, that she who makes an idol of a man must always burn incense before his shrine. Instead of letting Ronald descend from the pedestal on which I had placed him—instead of making him take his lawful share of our common burdens—I had chosen to shoulder all the load, while he stood, high aloft, looking down with half-contemptuous surprise at the weak creature who was staggering at his feet.
What influences were at work, hardening his heart? How was it that he did not watch me with the old anxious tenderness, and see that I was losing strength every day? Alas! He had grown tired of being anxious and tender. If he had married a rich wife, his life would have been untroubled by the sight of a pale face and an enfeebled frame. Nothing preserves a woman's beauty like prosperity. Let her tread upon roses—guard her from all the worries that come from lack of money—if you want her to keep her charms.
For the thousandth time, the face of Ida Lorimer, fair, calm, unworn, rose up before me like a vision. Ronald was in the habit of seeing that face often; every day, perhaps. I could fancy that his hand would touch hers as he guided her pencil; I could guess that her golden head sometimes brushed his shoulder as he bent to watch her progress. Did not that contact ever inspire him with a vain regret for the days when she might have been won?
It has taken a long time to write these thoughts upon paper, but they drifted through my mind as swiftly as leaves that are driven before the wind. There stood Ronald, with the old tragic look in his eyes that always reminded me of the portrait of Inez—a look that seemed to settle on his face now-a-days whenever he was alone with me.
"I believe you dread going out with me, Ronald?" I said, after a brief pause. "What does it matter whether William Greystock thinks me mad or sane? I will write an excuse this very evening."
"It matters a great deal what Greystock thinks," he answered, with a frown that told of gathering wrath. "I don't want my friends to think strange things of my wife. You say that you have accepted the invitation, and so the affair is settled. Pray don't take offence at my timely counsels; they am well meant, and greatly needed."
I started up, sharply stung by the unkind words. And then in the next moment, the flame of anger suddenly died in my heart, and I was conscious only of my miserable weakness and loneliness. Unawares, a little wailing cry escaped from my lips, and I sank helplessly into a chair, and wept quiet tears.
So bitter was my sorrow that it did not comfort me even to feel Ronald's hand on my shoulder, and hear his voice saying soothing words in my ear. We might make up this difference as we had made up others, but our innermost selves could not be changed. I did not want to quarrel; of all the silly things in this world, a quarrel between married people seemed to me the silliest and most useless. Wedlock (as I once heard a cynic say) is an iron chain covered with velvet, and those couples only are wise who keep the soft covering on the chain.
As for me, I loved my fetters, and felt that my heart would break with the breaking of a single link. But I feared that Ronald had already caught a glimpse of the iron under the velvet, and had begun to sigh for release.
"Don't cry, Louie," he was saying, penitently. "You do make me feel myself such a brute when you take to weeping. And, really, you have wept so much lately, that we seem to be always living in a damp atmosphere. Why shouldn't we bask in the sun sometimes? Look up, dear, and tell me that you will try to be bright."
He might as well have commanded a dying woman to make an effort to live. All that I could do was to wipe away the tears, and struggle feebly to produce a smile.
"Never mind me, Ronald," I answered, seeing the disappointed look in his face. "I shall get stronger and wiser by-and-by. Sit there, in your favourite corner of the sofa, and sing and play. That will do me more good than anything else."
He needed no second bidding; the guitar, as usual, was close at hand, and he began to touch it with loving fingers.
"What shall I sing?" he asked. "I know; it shall be your own song, 'Sweetheart, sweetheart,'—I like it better than any you have ever written."
"Yes," I said, eagerly; "I would rather hear that than anything else."
But even while I spoke, I remembered the days when I wrote those lines—days full of thankfulness, brightened by an intense belief in the immutability of our love.
I have sometimes wondered whether a great poet ever takes up his own volume, and recalls the time in which each song was born. The song lives on, fresh and sweet as when it first started into life; but only the writer can see the withered hopes—the poor faded dreams and worn-out associations that cling to every line. So many dead things are hanging round those living verses that I fancy the author can hardly sing them over to himself without tears. And as I sat quietly listening for the first words of my love-song, written in the spring, and touched with springtide hope and confidence, my heart was aching for the happier past.
But it was not the prelude to my song that my husband began to play. As he swept the strings, there came again that sweet, strange melody which always soothed us, even while it baffled all attempts to catch its meaning.
Over and over he played that soft air, till the last trace of vexation faded out of his face; and his eyes, with a musing look in them, sought mine inquiringly. Again the music hushed all my troubled thoughts, as a nurse stills the fretful wailing of a child; again it seemed to murmur faintly of a coming time of peace and joy and rest.
"Shall I ever know where I learnt that air?" asked Ronald at last, letting the guitar rest on his knee. "Louie, I will tell you a curious thing. One night I was dining with some friends of Greystock's; they had a guitar in the room, and I took it up and tried to play our mysterious melody. But it would not come; and had to give up the attempt to recall it. What do you think of that, little woman?"
"I don't know what to think, Ronald," I replied; "but I do know that there is something in the air that gives me new courage and comforts me as nothing else does. Perhaps it is a message from some unknown spirit friend. Who can tell?"
And he echoed thoughtfully, "Who can tell?"
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ANGUISH.
WE went down to Richmond early in the afternoon—a true July afternoon—sultry and still. The air was full of a dreamy haze that softened the outlines of objects without hiding them. Even the brilliant colours of the flower-beds seemed to be subdued as we passed the well-kept gardens, where women in light summer dresses were sitting under awnings, and men were taking their ease in cane chairs. We had decided not to go upon the overcrowded river, and William Greystock led his little party straight to the lower park.
It was a very small party, and yet, at this hour, I have but a very faint recollection of those who wandered with me under the old trees that day. I saw but two persons, my husband and Ida Lorimer. The others seemed to move about them like phantoms; and I think I must have looked and spoken as if I were in a dream.
The picture of Ida is stamped indelibly upon my memory. She wore a large straw hat of some fantastic shape, lined with pale blue, and adorned with a bunch of tea roses. Her gown, too, was a combination of cream-colour and blue, and, as she moved languidly over the grass, she reminded me of one of those Watteau-like figures that are painted on fans.
She took very little notice of me, greeting me with a cool courtesy which I repaid with some haughtiness. Ronald was watching our meeting with a furtive glance, and did not seem to be as much at ease as usual. William Greystock, too, watched, and his face was as inscrutable as ever.
Miss Lorimer took possession of my husband in the most natural way in the world. She displayed no coquettish airs; she did not appear to make any marked exhibition of power; but quite easily and calmly she summoned him to her side with a few commonplace words.
"Let us try to get nearer to those deer," she said. "I keep up my old fondness for animals, and deer are the most delightful creatures in the universe."
It was a clever way of separating herself and Ronald from the rest of the party. He attended her, willingly enough; they went together towards the herd, which, of course, moved off at their nearer approach; and then the pair followed, although they must have known the uselessness of the pursuit.
My glance went after them, over the soft grass, now golden with the light of the afternoon sun. What a fair scene it was, those great trees casting their shadows across the sunlit turf; the dappled herds, the mellow haze filling up every space, the two graceful figures moving farther and farther away!
With a start, I found William Greystock close to my side, and heard him speaking to me in a peculiarly quiet voice.
"I used to dream of walking here with some dear friend, Mrs. Hepburne," he said. "An afternoon like this always revives old dreams. Mine have never been realised; Ronald has been more fortunate than I have."
"Ah! It is not always a blessing to realise one's dream!"
The words broke from me involuntarily, and were spoken to myself rather than to my companion. But he answered the remark with a touch of sadness in his tone.
"That is a bitter speech to come from your lips," he said, softly. "I hope you do not speak from your own experience."
"Oh! I suppose people's experiences are very much alike," I replied, with an attempt at lightness. "There is always the inevitable disenchantment when we have fairly entered our promised land."
He sighed, and there was a brief silence.
"It is a kind of disenchantment I shall never know," he said at last. "All that I have known is the weary march across the desert, the gnawing hunger and burning thirst. Even if the Canaan is less fair than our fancies, it must, at any rate, be sweeter than the endless waste of sand."
At that moment I sincerely pitied William Greystock.
"But why must your life be a weary march?" I asked, forgetting my usual cold caution in his presence. "Why should there not be a Canaan for you as well as for others?"
"Can you ask? No, Mrs. Hepburne, I will not sadden you with any story of myself and my lot. Believe me, my greatest desire is to see you and Ronald happy. I have no stronger interest in life than this."
I was beginning to believe in him. The sight of those two figures strolling ahead of us under the trees had begun to confuse my powers of judgment. I ceased to remember, at that moment, the William Greystock who had come to Lady Waterville's; the hard, bitter man, whose true nature had been revealed to me in many little ways, and who had never yet, in spite of apparent friendship, rendered any real service to Ronald. It seemed to be a new and softer Greystock who was walking by my side, and speaking in this quiet, melancholy voice.
Moreover, the burning pain in my heart, and the ache of my weary head, were fast bewildering my reasoning faculties; and I even began to ask myself whether I had ever known the true Ronald at all? Perhaps he had never loved me; or his love might only have been of that spurious kind which is the outcome of a disappointment.
It is a true saying that nature abhors a void; and many a hasty marriage has been brought about by the dethronement of an old love. Had Ronald taken me only because he wanted to fill up an empty place in his life?
I ought to have known him too well to have asked this foolish question of my own heart; but there are times when our best beloved seem to present a new aspect to our eyes. I could still see those two figures under the trees; they gave no sign of turning back, or of waiting for the others to come up with them. There was a pause after my companion's last words; and all at once I remembered that they were kind words, and called for a reply.
"We have done nothing to deserve your interest in us, Mr. Greystock," I said, sadly. "What are we but a silly young couple who despised the counsel of friends? I almost wonder why you should feel so kindly."
"I have very few people to care for," he answered. "As to Ronald, you know we are half relations. I wish, however, that I had more influence with him."
"I thought you always influenced him," I said, in surprise. "He quotes you constantly, and seems to be guided by your advice." Glancing at Mr. Greystock as I spoke, I saw him quietly shake his head.
"If I could guide Ronald," he began, and then suddenly broke off, and looked away towards the strolling couple.
My jealous heart finished the incomplete sentence. I was sure that he meant to add something about the intimacy with Ida Lorimer; and yet, if he disapproved of that intimacy, why was Ida at Richmond that day? But perhaps she had been invited at my husband's urgent request; and if this were so, Ronald's vexation at my acceptance of the invitation was explained.
The man at my side could furnish me with full particulars of Ronald's old love-affair. Miss Lorimer and William Greystock were friends of long standing.
Half maddened as I then was, I felt a wild desire to make my companion speak more plainly. On looking back to that day, I see that he was perfectly aware of all that was working in my heart, and was quietly waiting for his opportunity. Just then some of the others joined us, and I closed my lips and brooded over my grief in silence.
The hours went on, and a breath of coolness stole over the great park as it drew near sunset. I gazed absently at the lovely golden lights that fell softly here and there, and longed to be alone in my room at Chapel Place. My desire for solitude increased every moment; I wanted to go away and hide myself, and leave Ronald in the society he loved best.
At length the weary day came to an end; but Ida seemed resolved to keep her hold upon my husband to the very last. She had (or seemed to have) a willing captive; he approached me once with a question and a smile, and then went back quickly to her, driven off; I suppose, by my gloomy face.
"I am taking care of Mrs. Hepburne, Ronald," said William Greystock, pleasantly; and Ronald answered lightly that he knew I was in good hands.
Afterwards I never heard how it was that our home-bound train chanced to be unusually crowded that evening. We were all but too late when we reached the station, and there was a great deal of bustle and hurry in which I could only take a languid part. My head ached, and my limbs were so tired after the very moderate exertions of the afternoon that I could hardly drag myself along, and William Greystock's aid was really needed. I caught a parting glimpse of the fantastic hat with its tea roses, and saw that its wearer was still under Ronald's protection; and then (how, I know not), I found myself in a compartment of a first-class carriage with Greystock.
We were among strangers; not one of our own party was with us; and of this I was almost glad. There was no necessity to keep up a conversation with Greystock. He saw how thoroughly tired I was, and understood my desire to be silent. Leaning back in a corner with closed eyes, I tried to forget myself and my miseries for a little while; and I think I had almost succeeded in sinking into oblivion when the train came to a stop.
When I opened my eyes again, I found that all my fellow-passengers were getting out, and we two were left in the compartment alone.
The twilight was now deepening fast; all the warm gold of the after-glow had long faded, and there was only a soft grey sky with silvery spaces here and there. To me it seemed a melancholy night, too still and calm for a heart as passionately troubled as mine.
"Is the headache better?" asked William Greystock, gently. He was sitting in the opposite corner, and bent towards me as he spoke.
"A little better," I answered, faintly.
"Mrs. Hepburne," he said, after a slight pause, "I can never forgive myself for persuading you to come with us to-day. If I had only known—"
"Known what?" I asked, involuntarily.
"That you would have had to bear the neglect—the humiliation you have borne to-day! Forgive me if I have spoken too plainly. I always lamented your marriage, knowing as I did that Ronald had given away his heart before he ever knew you. Now, perhaps, you can understand why those who loved you best so bitterly regretted the sacrifice you made in bestowing yourself on him."
Oh, if I had not been so weak and spent, I might have answered him as a wife who had a true sense of her own dignity! But I was exhausted in body and confused in mind.
"Who are those who loved me best?" I said, clasping and unclasping my hands. "It seems to me sometimes that the only person who ever loved me was my grandfather. And I wish, with all my heart, that I could follow him!"
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STRICKEN.
THERE was a silence after I had spoken those incautious words. I heard my companion breathing quickly; but when he spoke again, it was in a quiet voice.
"We all wish sometimes to follow those who are gone," he said, taking up the latter part of my sentence. "Their love seems the only real love; everything pure and true seems to have passed away with them."
He had exactly expressed my thoughts. Of late I had felt as if my place were with the departed, and not in this world at all. I had succeeded so ill with the living, that I was only fit for the company of the dead.
"But," he went on, in a deepening voice, and with eyes fixed on mine, "we only turn to the past because our hour is not yet come. Do you follow me? I believe that to everyone of us there comes once—perhaps twice—in a life the chance of a happy love. We are blessed indeed if we seize that chance, but most of us let it go by. It may return, and we may recognise in it our last possibility of happiness."
It was not until later on that I took in his full meaning. I was too much excited just then to perceive the true significance of his words; but the earnestness of his look and tone impressed me strangely.
"You are unhappy to-night," he continued. "You have seen with your own eyes that a pre-occupied heart will always be constant to its first tenant. Sooner or later the second love finds itself pushed out into the cold; and it is happiest and wisest when it turns to some warm shelter that stands open and ready."
"A wife can never permit herself to be pushed out into the cold," I cried, with sudden passion. "She will assert her rights, and retain possession."
"Right is a poor thing unsupported by love," he said, sadly.
The train had now reached its destination, and our tête-à-tête was at an end. I sprang quickly out of the carriage, and strained my eyes to discern Ronald and Ida in the dim light.
Hundreds were moving to and fro; the other members of our party gathered round us, but those two seemed to be long in coming. At last, quite suddenly, I found them close upon me. Miss Lorimer, leaning heavily on my husband's arm, looked full into my face with indifferent eyes.
"I am tired, Ronald," I said, in an unsteady voice. "Let us get home as quickly as we can. Pray come at once."
"What a delightful day we have had, Mrs. Hepburne!" said Ida, without removing her hand from Ronald's arm. "I am afraid you have not enjoyed yourself as much as we have."
Commonplace words enough; but for me they contained a sting!
"Mrs. Hepburne is not well," said Greystock, kindly. "The heat has been too much for her."
"And Mr. Hepburne has been basking in the sun!" remarked Ida, with a little laugh. "He ought to have stayed in the tropics. Now I am going to release him," she added, looking at me. "He is free to return to his duties."
There was a quiet insolence in this speech which almost maddened me, over-worn and over-strained as I already was. Well was it that the instincts and habits of a gentlewoman came to my aid at that moment, and prevented a scene.
As in a lightning flash, I saw that Ronald feared for my self-control. Was it possible that Ida had gone too far even for him? The consciousness of this feeling on his part was a great help to me.
"Thanks, Miss Lorimer," I said, with creditable calmness, as I put my hand within the arm that she had let go. "I am so glad you have done with him. Being a stupid, tired woman I am really thankful for any support. Good-night, I am happy to know you have had a pleasant day."
William Greystock said a quiet adieu, and I went off with my husband in silence.
In another minute we were in a hansom, rattling home to Chapel Place; but no words passed between us. My resentment was strong and deep, and he knew that it was just.
Still in moody silence we entered the little room in which we had spent so many happy hours together. I looked round sadly at all our decorations and ornaments, remembering the days when we had worked with loving hands to make this humble home attractive in our own eyes. How idle all that work seemed to me now! Nothing would ever make Ronald contented here when his heart was elsewhere.
"I have been very miserable to-day," I said, at last breaking the long silence and looking steadfastly at his gloomy face.
"Any one could see that," he answered, sullenly. "I felt that you had made a mistake in accepting the invitation."
"Yes, Ronald." I spoke with rising indignation. "I now perfectly understand why you did not wish me to go."
"You always understood me, Louie; I have spoken plainly enough. I did not want you to go unless you could enjoy yourself; and you would not enjoy yourself—that is all."
"Do you think it was possible for any woman to enjoy herself under such circumstances?" I demanded, passionately.
"Quite possible; it was a fine day, and the people were all agreeable."
His cool tone drove me to distraction. He was standing on the hearth in his old attitude, evidently prepared for a quarrel.
"Oh, Ronald," I said, "you knew all the time that you were making me wretched. Was it manly—was it right—to flirt openly with a woman who tried to ignore me?"
"My dear Louie," he began, in that tone of easy superiority which a man nearly always assumes when he is in the wrong. "I wish—I really do wish—that you would go and consult Dr. Warstone to-morrow. You are suffering from hysteria or dyspepsia, or—"
He paused, unable to think of any other disorder on the spur of the moment; but I had calmed myself by a mighty effort; I would be as cool as he was.
"Perhaps I am suffering from one of those complaints," I said, composedly. "I know I have been ill for a long time, but I don't want to give in if I can help it."
"Why shouldn't you give in?" he demanded, pettishly. "I gave in when I was ill. Anything is better than going about in a chronic state of bad temper, and snubbing unoffending people."
I did not reply. It cost me no effort to be silent now. I saw the uselessness of this war of words, and quietly took up the bedroom candlestick.
"As to people trying to ignore you," he continued, following me into the next room, "all that they try to do is to get out of the way of your wrath. If you had only seen your own face to-day, you would have known why you were shunned."
My heart seemed to be fast hardening within me, and still I kept silence. As I stood before the glass unbinding my hair, I noticed the stony look that had settled on my features. No wonder Ronald cared nothing about a woman who was so haggard and unlovely. And then I thought of that other woman, with her pink-and-white face and golden tresses.
My silence was not without an effect. He was ashamed of his unkind words; but this, alas! I did not know till long afterwards.
If he had but yielded then to one of his old affectionate impulses, all might have been well. But who does not remember the loving words that were not spoken at the right moment? How heavily they weigh on the heart after the opportunity of uttering them has gone by!
Still in sullen silence we lay down side by side. I know not whether he slept; I only know that I lay wide awake all through the weary hours of that memorable night. Ah me, I thought of other nights when I had watched beside his pillow, praying that he might be spared to me! I recalled those long midnight hours when he had wakened from fevered dreams to find me near, and many a broken word of love and gratitude yet haunted my memory. Had he loved Ida Lorimer then? Had he secretly sighed for her presence in the sick room instead of mine?
By-and-by the London dawn crept into the chamber, and found me spent and worn with sleeplessness. While Ronald still slumbered, I rose, washed and dressed without noise, and went out into the little yard to see how nurse's ivy flourished. There I lingered, listening to the chirping of the sparrows, until it was time for breakfast.
It was a brief meal, eaten in silence and mutual restraint. Then, without a word of adieu, Ronald went his way to the City, and I was left to brood over the events of the previous day alone.
It chanced that nurse was busy that day, and did not come to talk to me and hear all about the picnic. I got my work-basket and went on sewing and mending as usual, trying not to feel the icy hand that was holding my heart in an iron grasp—trying to forget the dull pain in my temples. And so the morning wore away.
In the afternoon I established myself in my old seat in the arm-chair, determined to court repose. If I slept at all, it could only have been a doze which lasted a few minutes. And then, as before, a loud double knock made me start up, half-bewildered; and once again William Greystock was my visitor.
His first glance at me must have shown him the evident traces of misery and illness; my first glance at him revealed a change in his face which startled and astonished me.
His olive skin was glowing, and there was such an intense light in his dark eyes that I almost shrank from their gaze. But when he spoke, his voice was curiously gentle and calm.
"I have come to see how you are, Mrs. Hepburne," he began, as I rose, tottering, from my seat. "No better than I expected to find you, I fear?"
"I was scarcely strong enough to go to Richmond," I said, making a wretched attempt to be at ease.
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MY FIRST GLANCE REVEALED A CHANGE IN HIS FACE WHICH STARTLED ME.
"The whole thing was a miserable mistake on my part," he said, sadly.
"I don't know that it was a mistake, Mr. Greystock," I answered, still trying to talk in a commonplace way. "Ronald thought it a very successful picnic. I am rapidly becoming a morose invalid, you know, and I can't enjoy myself as others can. For the future I must be content to be a home-bird."
"A home-bird whose song has ceased," he said, in his deep, mournful voice. "But there is still one power left to you."
"What power?" I asked, bewildered.
"The power to fly; the power to leave one who will very soon leave you. Ah, Mrs. Hepburne, I have come to say startling things; I know not how you will bear to hear them!"
"Speak on," I said, hoarsely. "Has Ronald sent you? There is some dreadful news to be told. Is my husband ill? For heaven's sake, tell me quickly what has happened!"