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FLIGHT.
"DO not distress yourself about Ronald," said William Greystock, gently laying a hand on my arm and putting me back into my seat. "I have seen him to-day, and he is well enough. It is not the state of his health that need concern you now."
I sat down again, panting for breath. What was coming next? I began to wonder vaguely how much I could bear, and yet continue to live on?
"I am doing you a cruel kindness, Mrs. Hepburne," went on Greystock, still with that burning light in his eyes; "but you must know all; at any cost the veil must be torn from your sight. Did not yesterday's experience prepare you in some degree for what was coming?"
That hand of ice was now tightening its grasp on my heart so that I could scarcely breathe. My lips moved; but no sound came from them.
He had taken a paper from his breast and was slowly unfolding it, keeping his gaze fixed on me all the while. And then, after a pause, he held it out to me, and asked me to read its contents.
I took it mechanically from his hand, but the lines swam before my eyes; yet I retained sense enough to understand the words that he was saying.
"That letter was dropped by Ronald in my office to-day. I did not find it till he was gone. It was without an envelope, and I picked it up and unfolded it, not knowing what it was. After I had read it, I decided to give it to you instead of returning it to your husband."
Gradually the mist had cleared away from my sight, and I could read the brief note that I was holding in my cold fingers. It was written in a woman's hand; large and clear, and ran as follows:
"GROSVENOR STREET"Thursday Night."DEAREST RONALD—"I have almost determined, after seeing you to-day, to risk everything for your sake. It will be a terrible thing to brave my uncle's anger, and the sneers of all my relations, but it will be easier than living without you. Let us meet to-morrow, if possible, and then we can talk the matter over once more. Good-night, dearest."Your loving"IDA."
"To risk everything for your sake!" She loved him—that cold, golden-haired woman loved him well enough to endure the scorn of the world! I could see all things now in a new light. He had married in a fit of hopelessness or pique, and they had tried to forget each other. But the separation could not be borne any longer: they had met and tasted the old sweetness of their love again.
Yes; William Greystock lied divined the truth. Ronald meant to leave me; he would not resist the temptation. Life without Ida Lorimer was not worth having; he had grown utterly weary of the poor little delicate wife who fretted him with her low spirits and constant anxiety about bills. What was to be done? How was I—a heart-broken, deserted woman—to face life?
Still grasping the letter in my icy hand, I gazed blankly at the man who had brought it to me. At that moment my old distrust and dislike of William Greystock were quite forgotten.
Swallowed up in this overwhelming anguish, he sympathised with me, and would have spared me the blow if he could. I did not blame him then for what he had done.
But what should I do? Was I to remain here, in the room which Ronald and I had beautified together? I did not even know whether he would come back to his home again; perhaps his flight with Ida was already planned, and I might never see him more. The question that was in my poor, confused mind, issued involuntarily from my lips. As one in a dream, I heard my own voice saying—
"What shall I do?"
"There is only one thing to be done."
William Greystock had risen to his feet, and his tone was strong and firm. He stood before me, tall and upright, and the afternoon sun shone in upon his darkly handsome face and brilliant eyes.
"Yes, Mrs. Hepburne, there is only one thing to be done. Did I not say that there was one power left to you—the power of using your wings? You must fly."
"I must fly," I repeated, stupidly. "I cannot stay here."
"You need not stay here another hour. You can come away and forget the man who has so basely wronged you. Let him seek happiness where he will; let him go, Louie: he never was worthy of your love."
"He will go," I murmured. "Already he is lost to me."
"Utterly lost. Louie, you must begin a new life. Come with me; let me lay at your feet the heart that has always been your own. Let me devote myself to you until I have made you forget your false husband; let me show you how a man can love when he has won the woman of his choice."
Was I going mad? There arose from the depths of my soul a passionate prayer that I might awake and find that I had been dreaming a strange and evil dream. But no; I was sitting on the old sofa in the familiar little room, and there was William Greystock, a veritable form of flesh and blood.
As the consciousness of his reality smote upon my bewildered brain, I too rose suddenly to my feet, and felt myself inspired with feverish courage and strength.
"I never thought to have fallen so low as this," I said, sternly confronting him. "Has there been anything in me to lead you to think that I could be false to my marriage vow? Do you suppose that Ronald's desertion can make me forget my duty to God and myself?"
"You are absolved from all vows," he cried, hastily. "Listen to me, Mrs. Hepburne, I entreat you!"
"I have already listened too long. You came here, supposing that the deserted wife would be an easy victim. Well, you are quickly undeceived. Villain—traitor—tempter—I am ready to go to my grave; but I will never stir one step from this house with you!"
The glow had faded out of his face, leaving it as white as death. He had played his last card, and he would never begin the game again. A weaker man would have lingered and tried to move me; but William Greystock knew that mine were no idle words.
In another moment the door had opened and shut, and I was delivered from his evil presence. Even in that hour of intense anguish, I found strength enough to thank God that he was gone.
But Ronald—my Ronald, whom I still loved with all the devotion of true womanhood and wifehood! That man, evil as he was, had spoken truth in saying that Ronald was utterly lost to me. The note that I still clasped tightly in my fingers was a proof of his cruel infidelity. I knew Ida Lorimer's handwriting; I had seen notes written by her to Marian Bailey; it was a peculiar hand, and I should have recognised it anywhere. There was not, in this case, the faintest possibility of a deception.
As the door closed, I had sunk exhausted on the sofa; but now I rose, gaining fictitious strength from the resolution that I had rapidly formed. I would go away—away from London—back to my old home, and strive to earn a humble living among the people who had known me from my childhood.
But before my plan was put into execution, there were certain things that must be done. Nurse had gone out soon after luncheon, and there was no one in the house who would take any notice of my doings. It was a positive relief to feel that my faithful old friend was absent; I dreaded any influence that might be exerted to turn me from my purpose.
Although my temples ached and burned, and every pulse in my body throbbed violently, I carried on my preparations with unnatural calmness. First I filled my hand-bag with some indispensable things, assured myself that I had money enough for immediate wants, and then sat down to write my farewell to my husband.
But this was the hardest part of my task. I wrote a line, and then paused, and let my glance wander round the room, until memories came thronging upon me thick and fast. Was there no way that might lead us back into our happy past? Must I go onward, along this terrible road to which an inexorable hand was pointing? For a moment or two I wavered in my purpose, and then I remembered Ida's letter. It was not I who was leaving Ronald, he had already left me.
But my hand trembled sadly as I traced my parting words. They were simple and few; I wasted no time in useless reproaches, but frankly told him why I said good-bye.
"An accident," I wrote, "has thrown into my hands a certain note written to you last night. The writer was Ida Lorimer; and I now know that you can no longer bear to live with me. Good-bye, Ronald; I have tried to make you happy, and miserably failed."
I put my note into an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the chimney-piece, where it would be sure to meet his eye. If he did not return to Chapel Place, it would only have been written in vain—that was all. Nothing mattered very much now.
This done, I was ready for my departure. Once more I glanced round the room, taking a silent farewell of those trifles which loving associations had made intensely dear. And as my gaze rested on the guitar, I felt as sharp a thrill of anguish as if it had been a living thing which I must leave for ever. Going over to the corner where it stood, I stooped and kissed the strings as if they could have responded to my caress.
As my lips touched the chords they seemed to give out a faint, sweet sound. I do not know how it was that this faintest hint of music recalled to mind that mysterious air, whose origin and meaning had baffled us so long. I only know that the melody began to ring softly in my ears; and it was not until I had fairly plunged into the noise of the streets that I lost its haunting sweetness.
There was one more thing to do before I turned my back on London.
My strength was already beginning to fail when I turned my steps towards that dim street in which my husband and I had begun our married life. Yet I would not go away without one farewell look at the house to which I had gone as a young bride. It was there that I had spent my first sweet days of perfect trust and love; and there, too, that the sharp battle had been fought betwixt life and death. Ah, if death had been the conqueror in that strife, I should not have been as utterly hopeless and heart-broken as I was to-day!
Coming to the house, I paused before the window of our old sitting-room, which overlooked the street. And, standing there silently, I seemed to see the ghost of my old self drawing aside the lace curtains, and watching anxiously for the doctor's carriage. Hopes, fears, prayers, all came thronging back into my mind; and my misery grew so intolerable that I could fain have sat down, like some poor castaway, on the doorstep, and drawn my last breath there.
Oh, love—life—time! Even in these tranquil days, I find myself wondering how human beings, weak as myself, can live under their burdens of sorrow. I had saved a life that was to blight mine; I had rescued him from death, and he had broken my heart.
If I had lingered any longer in that spot, my strength, already so nearly spent, would have utterly failed. I roused myself, grasped my bag with a firmer hand, and turned, away from the house, as weary and forlorn a woman as could be found in the vast city that day.
At the end of the street I called a hansom, and directed the driver to go to Euston Square. And at last, hardly certain whether I was awake or asleep, I found myself in a second-class railway carriage on my way to my old home.
How the hours of my journey went by I can scarcely tell. Passengers got in and got out; and one elderly lady, with a kind face, insisted on my taking a draught of wine-and-water from her travelling-flask. I have but a vague remembrance of the gentle words that she spoke, warning me not to put too severe a strain upon my health; but I can distinctly recall her pitying smile, and the parting pressure of her hand. God bless her, wherever she is; and if ever there should come to her, or hers, a time of bitter need, may that motherly kindness be paid back fourfold!
It is said to be a cold world; and yet, if the truth were told, I believe that there are many who could tell of the good deeds done to them by utter strangers. Has not many a painful journey been brightened by the company of some unknown friend, who will never meet us on this earth again?
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A FEVERISH DREAM.
THE sweet dusk of a summer night was fast stealing over my old village, when I took my way through the beautiful lanes once more.
When I had given up my ticket, and turned away from the quiet station, I was distinctly conscious of a strange confusion of ideas. I could not remember the name of the old inn which had been familiar to me as a child; nor could I recall the place where it stood. Was it not somewhere on the outskirts of the village? Was it at the top or at the bottom of the straggling street?
Perhaps if I were too stupid to find the inn—where I had intended to pass the night—I might manage to drag myself to the rectory. Do what I would, tax my brain to the uttermost, I could not tell whether the rector's aunt were living or dead. Yet I could plainly recollect happy hours spent in the study of the kind bachelor rector, who had allowed me to turn over his books to my heart's content. The good old aunt had been his housekeeper for many a peaceful year, and little Louie was always her chief favourite. Would she greet me with a kiss and blessing, and lead me to rest in the pleasant guest chamber to-night?
Alas! The kind old maiden lady had been sleeping in her appointed corner of the churchyard for two years and more; and the rector, influenced by Lady Waterville, had been much offended by my imprudent marriage. But, in my present confused state, I could not tell who was living and who was dead.
The fragrance of honeysuckle, rich and over-powering, greeted me as I passed along the lane. I stopped to gather some of the sprays, wet with dew, that flung their blossoms lavishly over the hedge.
Miss Drury had always been fond of honeysuckle. I suddenly determined to gather a good handful and carry it to the rectory. Then I would ask for her, and put the flowers into her hands, and tell her that little Louie had come back, sick and weary, to beg for a night's rest.
Feeling almost glad again, I broke off cluster after cluster, softly singing an old song to myself all the while. It was a song about the fleeting joys of childhood, and the little lovers who came with their simple gifts to win the heart of the merry child. Quite suddenly, while I was singing it, I remembered another lover, older and sadder, who had won me with the magic of his melancholy Spanish eyes, and whispered words of sad yearning. And then I burst out into a wild sob which put an end to the song.
Carrying my light burden of flowers, I went onward through the old lanes, quietly weeping. But the sweet breath of the fields, and the calm of the deepening dusk, tranquillised my spirit, and made me even as a little child.
Still pressing on, and still trying vainly to disentangle my brain from the web that was wound about it, I found myself at the end of the lane. It opened out upon a space of green sward, and then began to narrow again. But on my right, in the clear twilight, arose the familiar outline of a massive tower; and, protected by a low flint wall, were certain dark yews, whose evening whisper recalled other childish memories. On the left were more trees, beeches and sycamores, and a great cedar which stood as a patriarch among his brethren. I knew those trees quite well. The cedar boughs darkened the study window where the rector sat to write his sermons, and shadowed that very "guest chamber" wherein I hoped to sleep to-night.
And, indeed, it was time for me to go to sleep. I was so tired that my limbs seemed to be clogged with iron fetters, and my feet found it hard to keep to a straight line. The gate of the rectory garden stood wide open, and the friendly old trees rustled a welcome as I passed under their boughs and made my way, feebly and unsteadily, to the house door.
After some searching, I found the bell-handle, hidden somewhere in the thick ivy leaves, and gave it a pull. A muffled peal met my dull ears, and at length there were footsteps, and the heavy oaken door slowly opened. I was conscious of a dim light shining out of a dark entry, and of the face of an elderly woman-servant, whose eyes looked inquisitively into mine.
Gathering up all my forces, I spoke in a clear voice, eager to make myself known and understood at once.
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I BROKE OUT INTO AN EXCEEDING BITTER CRY.
"I want to see Miss Drury. Please go and tell her that Louie Coverdale has brought her some honeysuckle, and ask her to come quickly."
"Lord, have mercy upon us!" ejaculated the woman, in great dismay. And then she disappeared for a moment, and her trembling voice went echoing through the long passages of the old house, while I, faint and weary, stood leaning against the post of the door.
A man came out next, a venerable man, with delicate features and snow-white hair; and at the sight of him, I broke out into an exceeding bitter cry.
"You are the rector," I wailed, "and you are angry with me. If Miss Drury would come, she would understand everything. Why don't you send for her? Why is she not here?"
Even while I was pouring out these wild words, I felt the rector's hands upon my arm, and I was drawn gently indoors and nearer to the light. But somehow the kind hands seemed not to be strong enough to hold me, and the light melted into darkness. There came a sound in my ears like the roaring of many waters, and then I knew no more.
Once or twice I was vaguely aware that one or two people were busy about me, and that I was in great pain of body and trouble of mind. But nothing was clear and plain. And once I dreamed a feverish dream of the house in the dreary London street where Ronald had lain sick unto death; and I thought that he was really dead, and that I was dying and going straight to him.
How long these strange fancies lasted I do not know. It seemed to me that I was a long while in a land of phantoms, where the dead and the living drifted about together; and their words had no meaning, their forms no substance. But at last I awoke, and the waking was as bewildering as the dreams had been.
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AWAKING.
OUT of the world of phantoms, I came one day into the familiar old work-a-day world again.
It was a world of softly-tempered light and shade. I became, at first, vaguely conscious of two open windows half veiled by lace curtains, and on each broad window-sill there stood a quaint old red-and-blue vase, holding roses and myrtle. Above a high chimney-piece hung a faded piece of crewelwork, framed and glazed, and representing (as I discovered afterwards) the Walk to Emmaus, and below the picture was a formidable row of medicine-bottles, some of them nearly empty.
I must, I suppose, have uttered some inarticulate words when I first saw these things around me. Anyhow, two persons, one on the right side of the bed and one on the left, rose quietly and bent over me.
One of these two faces, framed in an old-fashioned cap, was rosy and wrinkled like an apple from a store-room. The other was young and comely, although the kind eyes looked upon me through a mist of tears, and the pleasant lips were trembling.
It was Marian Bailey's face; but never before had I seen the calm Marian so deeply moved.
"How did you come here, Marian?" was the first question I asked.
I did not even know where "here" was. I could not tell how I came to be lying in this sunny old-world room, nor why all those bottles were ranged upon the mantelpiece. And yet I had an indistinct notion that Marian must have had some trouble in finding me.
"Never mind now, dear," said my friend, soothingly. "You have been ill, and mustn't talk much. But you are going to get well soon, and be very happy."
"Very happy." As she uttered those words I began to collect my scattered thoughts. What did happiness mean? It has a separate and distinct meaning for every human being who has ever tasted it. To me it meant life with Ronald, loving him and being entirely beloved in return.
But that kind of happiness could never again be mine. My song was ended; my tale was told. I suffered acutely under the first pangs of remembrance.
All the events of those last two days, before I fled from London, came crowding back into my weak head until I could hardly bear the burden of existence. The elderly body in the cap (who was the rector's housekeeper) gently raised me in the bed and brought me chicken-broth, and Marian watched patiently by my side. Perhaps she understood some of the thoughts that were in my mind, for she gave me a reassuring smile. How I longed to be alone with her and open my heart to this true friend!
Then the doctor came, and after he had seen me, I heard Marian conferring with him in a low tone at the end of the room. And when she came back to my side her face was brighter, and her smile had a new meaning.
"Cheer up, Louie," she whispered. "You are getting better fast, and you will soon be able to see Ronald."
"He does not want to see me any more," I said, sadly.
"My dear child, there have been terrible misunderstandings; but everything will be set right. Trust me, Louie, your husband has never truly loved any woman but yourself, and he has been suffering acutely since you left him."
"Suffering? Oh, Marian! Send for him; tell him to come at once!"
"Hush, hush, Louie. You must wait until you are a little stronger. He will be quite happy when he knows that you want him back again."
I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the new, blissful sense of thankfulness and peace. Somehow—I knew not in what way—my Ronald would be given back to me.
That night I had a sound sleep, and when I woke up, it was bright morning. Delicate perfumes came stealing in through the open windows; I could see the tops of fruit-trees gently stirred by a soft wind, and between the boughs I caught a glimpse of the grey chump tower.
Looking round fur Marian, I saw her entering the room with a basket of freshly-gathered roses and honeysuckle—such roses as are not to be found in every garden. Seeing that my eyes were open, she brought the basket to my side and let me bury my face in the great, sweet crimson flowers. She herself looked very fresh and pleasant in her pretty chintz gown, and there was a quiet expression of content on her face as she hovered round my pillow.
"Old times seem to have come back, Louie," she said, cheerfully. "We might fancy ourselves in your grandfather's cottage. Don't you remember that I used sometimes to play at being nurse there?"
I did remember it, and the recollection of those simple girlish days was like balm to the spirit. It was good for me to dwell on that time, and turn my thoughts away from the weary trials and anxieties that had beset my married life. At present, I was too weak to take in the fact that I was the uninvited guest of the rector, and that I had literally forced myself on the hospitality of an old friend who was displeased with me.
Nursed and soothed and petted, I found my strength coming back faster than those around me had dared to expect. And when the evening was closing in again, I called Marian to my bedside and assured her (in a somewhat unsteady voice) that I was well enough to bear a good long talk.
"Not a long talk, Louie," she answered. "But I think we may venture to say a few words to each other. Of course you want to know about Ronald, first of all?"
"Yes, yes," I whispered, pressing her hand.
"Well, I will begin with your departure from Chapel Place. Nobody missed you—nobody knew you had gone till your husband returned from the City. The first thing that he saw was your note on the mantelpiece, and the first thing that he did was to rush out of the house, call a hansom, and drive to Curzon Street to me."
"Did he think that I had gone to you, Marian?"
"I fancy that he did. He seemed sorely distressed to find that I could tell him nothing. At his request, I returned with him to Chapel Place, and found that nurse had just come home. She, too, was greatly troubled; but her quick instinct put us at once on the right track. She was sure you had fled to the dear old village, hoping there to find rest and peace."
"Ah, she knew my longing for this place!" I said, faintly.
"Then," Marian continued, "we lost no time in following you—Ronald and I."
"Did he come with you? Oh, Marian!"
"Did you suppose he could remain contentedly in town and wait for news? I don't tell you how distracted he was, it is because I fear to agitate you. But if you could have seen his misery and heard his self-reproaches, you would have felt your last doubt swept away. Ali, Louie, a wife should be very slow to doubt a husband's love. She may have a great deal to endure (most wives have), but she should guard her heart against jealousy, which is the worst foe of married life."
"He gave me cause to be jealous, Marian," I said. "You did not go to that dreadful picnic; you did not see his attentions to his old love."
"I know he was foolish, but not guilty. It is a mistake for a married man to be too intimate with an old sweetheart, even if he knows that he only gave her half a love, and that his wife has his entire heart. People are always ready to talk about those who have once been lovers; and Ida Lorimer was weak enough to want a little of the old homage."
"She was more than weak," I said, with a passion that made Marian lift a warning finger. "She is a wicked, bold woman. On Thursday night—after the picnic—she wrote a shameful letter to my husband."
"That letter, Louie, is a puzzle to us all. You referred to it in your farewell note to Ronald; and he, poor fellow, sent me to Ida to know what was meant. He had received no letter from her, and she declares she never wrote one."
"How can she dare to say she did not write it? Marian, you will find the letter in the inner pocket of my hand-bag. Take it and read it for yourself."
She rose to do my bidding; and then, pausing a moment, fixed a steadfast look on my face. "Tell me first, Louie," she said, "how this letter came into your possession."
"It was brought to me by William Greystock. Ronald dropped it in his office on Friday morning."
"It is as I suspected," said Marian, in a low voice. "That man was at the bottom of all this mischief. Well, he will do no more!"
She opened the bag, found the letter, and read it attentively once or twice before she spoke again.
"Yes, this is really Ida's handwriting," she admitted at last. "Yet I am bound to believe her when she solemnly declares that she never wrote to Ronald after the picnic. Louie, you will let me send this note to her?"
"I don't know," I said, doubtfully. "I want Ronald to see it; I want to hear what he will say to it."
"You shall see Ronald to-morrow, my dear child, and he will set all your doubts at rest. I freely confess that this note bewilders me, but I am, at any rate, quite certain that it was never received by Ronald, nor dropped by him in William Greystock's office. Louie, did not your heart tell you that William Greystock was not a good man?"
At the recollection of that last interview with Greystock, and our parting words to each other, I was covered with confusion and shame. How had I suffered this man to influence me? Why did I let him give me that hateful letter? I saw now that I had done a great wrong in stealing away from home, without first seeking an explanation from Ronald.
"Marian," I said, "I have not done well. But I was ill and over-excited and Ronald and I had been drifting farther and farther apart before that dreadful day came. I am calmer now, clear, although I am very, very weak."
While I spoke these words the tears were fast running down my cheeks, and Marian kissed me and wept too.
"It is the old story, Louie," she said, with a sigh:
"And constancy lives in realms above;And life is thorny, and youth is vain;And to be wroth with one we loveDoth work like madness on the brain."
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HEART TO HEART.
NEXT day, they moved me from the bed to a large old sofa near the window, and found that I was recovering fast. The hope of happiness renewed was a better tonic than any that the doctor could give me; and, following Marian's good counsel, I resolutely put all minor worries out of my mind.
"The first thing to think of is health," she said, firmly. "When that comes back, perhaps you will find that Ronald's affairs are looking better than they have been for some time. But, of course, you can neither be well nor happy till you have had a perfect understanding with your husband."
"When shall I see him?" I asked.
"Will you be very good and composed if I bring him to you now, Louie? He naturally objects to being kept out of the room; but we dared not let him see you till your mind was quite clear and tranquil."
"Indeed," I said, earnestly, "I will put out all my powers of self-control—I will not even speak many words if I may but see his face for a minute. Oh, Marian, I am hungering for a sight of him!"
"And oh, Louie, how can I trust you when you show me such flushed cheeks and tearful eyes? But be quiet a little while, dear, and he shall come."
She went away, and I turned my hot face to the window, and tried to steady my nerves as well as I could.
It was an exquisite August morning, hazy and soft, with a sky of deepest blue, and a lovely purple mist clouding all the boundary lines of the distant fields. Below me lay the rectory garden, with its cool shadows and morning lights; the dew had but just dried on the leafy boughs of apple and pear trees, and from the herb beds came up the sweetness of mint and thyme, and the old-fashioned fragrance of lavender. I leaned back on my cushions and unconsciously enjoyed all these fresh, delicate scents, while my heart throbbed faster at the slightest sound.
How long would it be before Ronald came? I felt convinced that waiting must be much worse for me than the excitement of our meeting. I could hear the sound of voices in the garden, but it was only the rector holding a consultation with his gardener. And then it occurred to me to wonder, for the first time, whether my host and my husband had yet met, and whether they liked each other? Perhaps Mr. Drury might be disposed to think less harshly of my marriage if he really knew Ronald. Perhaps this illness of mine, and this enforced stay at the old rectory, might be the means of reviving a dead friendship. I thought that it would; I could not believe that the rector's kind heart could be completely hardened against me.
How blue the sky looked between the twisted boughs of the tall pear tree! Marian and I had often sat under that tree when we were children, reading a fairy tale together; and kind Miss Drury would come to look for us, and fill our hands with cakes. Just as my thoughts were wandering back into my childhood, the sound of footsteps in the corridor recalled them, and set my heart beating afresh.
It was Ronald—really Ronald—who came quietly into the room and moved towards me with a grave face. I was not prepared to see him looking so worn and wasted, and at the sight of his altered countenance my feeble strength gave way. Speechless, I could only stretch out a thin hand, and welcome him with eyes full of tears.
Our meeting was a very quiet one. He knelt down beside the sofa, and folded me gently in his arms.
The silence, that lasted for some seconds, was only broken by the sweet rustle of the leaves outside the window. There was much to be said between us; but we were not, after all, in haste to begin the explanation which had been so eagerly desired by both. In truth, I believe that if that explanation had been altogether denied us, we should have taken each other "for better, for worse" again, quite contentedly, and walked side by side to our life's end.
"How could you have left me, Louie?" he murmured at last.
"Because I thought you did not want me any more," I answered, with my face pressed close to his.
It is needless to tell what he said in reply; but I was thoroughly convinced that he did want me. There was another silence; and when he spoke again, it was in the old easy tone of authority.
"Now tell me, Louie, what on earth is the mystery about that letter? How could Greystock have made you, believe that I dropped it in his office?"
I produced the letter, and my husband studied it attentively for a moment or two. Still holding it in his hand, he looked at me with a puzzled expression in his eyes.
"There is no doubt that Ida did really write this letter," he said, frankly. "One can't mistake her hand. I see that it is supposed to have been written on Thursday night, and, to tell you the truth, Louise, I can understand your indignation."
"Then, Ronald, you will promise never to see her again! She must have lost all sense of shame when she wrote such a thing to my husband."
"Wait a second, little woman. She never would have written such a thing to your husband—I am certain of that. But she might have written it to her lover in days gone by."
"You were her lover, Ronald, in days gone by."
"Yes; but I am sure I never received this letter. You say that Greystock gave it to you? Well, he used, sometimes, to act as our postman; can this be a note which was entrusted to him and never delivered to me?"
"If you think so, Ronald," I said, struck with this new idea, "you ought to ask him to explain the whole matter. I know now that he is your enemy and mine. Do not be afraid to let him see that you distrust him."
My husband waited for a moment before he spoke again. "Louie," he said at last, "you do not know that Greystock has gone beyond my reach. Don't be shocked, little woman; I must tell you an awful thing."
"Has he left the country?" I asked, eagerly.
"He has left the world! A few hours after you last saw him, he was found in his chambers quite dead. He died of heart disease, and his doctor proved that he had been suffering from it for a long time."
I shivered from head to foot; and Ronald, frightened at the effect of his words, began to soothe me by every means in his power. But although I clung to him, and realised to the full the happiness of having him with me, I could not help picturing that parting scene with William Greystock. He had gone out of my presence with all the savage misery of a disappointed man burning in his heart, and thus had hastened the death that had been ever near at hand.
It was no fault of mine that had hurried on his end, yet I must have been a far harder woman than I was, if I could have heard of that end unmoved. We were set free for ever from the baneful spell that he had exercised over our lives; and there came to me at that moment a prophetic conviction that all our doubts and misunderstandings would be buried with him.
"And now," said Ronald, still stroking my hair with his old fond touch, "let us talk of happier things, Louie. I have something else to tell you that will drive all sad thoughts away. Your good old friend, the rector, has taken me into his favour and—"
"Then he is going to help you! Oh, Ronald, he has influence, but he seldom cares to use it."
"He has already used it for our sakes. This morning he put a letter into my hand, offering me the post of secretary to a rich company. I will tell you all about the company later on; at present you certainly are not strong enough to be bothered with business details."
"I don't care in the least about details," said I, nestling up to him in an ecstasy of delight. "I know all that I want to know, Ronald."
"Not quite all, little woman. We must solve the mystery of that letter from Ida. But as it is a delicate matter, I think it will be well to entrust it to Marian; she has perfect tact, and Ida will be frank with her."
I was quite satisfied with this arrangement; and just then Marian herself entered the room.
"You two have talked long enough," she said, in that kindly domineering way, which she often had with me. "Ronald must go downstairs to the rector, who is waiting for him in the study; and you, Louie, must be put to bed."
"Not yet," I pleaded. "Wait till it grows darker. It is so lovely to see the day dying behind the dear old trees."
But Marian was inexorable, and Ronald seconded her by rising and bidding me good-night. His parting words and kisses left me with a heart at peace, and I went quietly to rest.
In a few days, Marian had an answer from Miss Lorimer, which cleared up for ever the mystery of the letter.
Ida acknowledged that she had written the note in those bygone days when she and Ronald were lovers, tasting the sweetness of "stolen waters," and carrying on a clandestine intercourse, shrewdly suspected by the lady's guardian. At that time, William Greystock had been their confidential friend, and to his hands Ida committed the letter which was destined to work such terrible mischief at a later period.
She remembered that William had come to her with a grave face and a thousand apologies, confessing that he had lost the letter. At first she had felt uneasy about the loss; but as time passed on, and the romantic attachment on both sides began to cool, the circumstance faded out of her mind. She had never for a moment suspected William Greystock of anything like treachery, and the revelation of his base conduct to me came as a shock. Then followed kind messages to Mrs. Hepburne—regrets for the suffering that had arisen—hopes for my future happiness. And so the matter ended.
So, also, ended all intercourse between Miss Lorimer and ourselves. She never met us again; and I felt sure that she avoided a meeting with infinite pains and care. Heartless as she was, I believe she had grace enough to be ashamed of the part she had played at the Richmond picnic. And although she never confessed the fact, I was certain that Greystock's subtle influence had made her act as she did that day.
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THE OLD ALBUM.
I CAME downstairs two days after my reconciliation with my husband, and was received affectionately by the good rector. Lady Waterville, too, was so moved by the account of my illness that she actually exerted herself enough to write a kind note, saying that she had quite forgiven me and taken me back again into favour. The sudden death of William Greystock had shaken her nerves; life was short; and she wanted to be at peace with all those whom she had ever known and loved.
She added that, among her poor nephew's effects, there had been found an album which had been given by Inez Greystock to her sister, Estella Hepburne. The book was full of scraps of prose and verse, all in the handwriting of the ill-fated Inez, and the name of Estella was written on the fly-leaf, followed by an urgent injunction to her husband to place the volume in Mrs. Hepburne's hands if Inez were the first to die. The Colonel had, no doubt, instructed William Greystock to fulfil that earnest request; and William (for reasons of his own) had failed to obey him.
"We have so few relics of your aunt Inez that we shall value that album," I said to Ronald.
"Yes," he answered, thoughtfully. "But what a strange fellow Greystock was! What possible motive could he have had for keeping a book which was useless to him?"
"He was full of mysteries, Ronald; let us try to banish him from our thoughts entirely," I said, with an involuntary shudder. "As soon as we return to London, you shall call on Lady Waterville, and get the album. I long to see it—I think it may tell us more of Aunt Inez than we have ever yet known."
September had set in, and the woods about my old country home were taking their first autumn tints, when I said good-bye to the rectory. Dear, peaceful house, in which Ronald and I had begun a new and better life together! I felt that I should love those ivied walls to the very last day of my life, and thank God that I had found a shelter there in the hour of my sharp distress.
Marian had gone back to her aunt, in Curzon Street, and I travelled back to London alone. Memories came rushing in upon my heart as the train bore me back again to the home of my wedded life. New thoughts, new prayers, new resolutions, made the journey seem short to me. There was a clearer light shining now upon the path which the young wife had to tread—a path in which her feeble feet had often stumbled, and her hands groped blindly for some guiding touch. But experience had taught me where the dangerous places were to be found; and the mist of doubt and fear would obscure my way no more.
It did not trouble me to know that we should have to live as cheaply as possible for many a month to come. Ronald had declared himself heartily willing to economise, and save enough out of his salary to pay off all that we owed. My health, still delicate, would oblige me to lead the quietest of lives, and my husband repeatedly assured me that he desired nothing better than home-like peace and rest. We had promised each other to begin a fresh existence, making light of small crosses, and thinking the most of every joy that came to our lot.
Ronald had already entered into his new employment heart and soul; and as his presence was required at his office, it was nurse who came to meet me at the railway-station.
It was between two and three in the afternoon when the train arrived at its destination, and I caught sight of a well-known, comely face, and a portly figure on the platform. There was a suppressed rapture in nurse's greeting, which diverted, while it almost unnerved me; the good soul's gratitude at seeing me restored to health and happiness was expressed in her own quaint fashion:
"Ah, how sweet you look, Miss Louie, ma'am! As pretty again as ever, and everything about you smells of the country! Why, that's a bunch of Glory-de-John roses from dear master's own old tree! And here's a basket of the rectory pears, that make my mouth water to behold 'em! Come, my dear, step into a cab, and don't speak a word till you have had a cup of tea and a good rest."
Obeying her kind command, I was silent as we rolled on through the sunshiny London streets; but when we drew near home, my heart began to throb fast with the bliss of the old love and the new peace.
Still in silence, I entered the little room from which I had fled in such wild haste and anguish. All the familiar objects seemed to give me a mute welcome; there were Ronald's tambourines with their bright streamers of ribbon; there were the bulrushes and the old china. On the table was my ancient silver teapot, covered by a satin cosy of my own making, and everything spoke of forethought and expectation. This was my true home; within these two rooms, my husband and I were destined, as I then believed, to spend many an hour together.
When nurse had sent one of the maids to boil a new-laid egg, and had taken off my bonnet with her own hands, she began to fuss over me, and wait upon me as if I had been her little charge of long ago. I had emptied one cup of tea, and was ready for another, before she remembered that she had a message to give me.
"Lady Waterville's man called with a parcel this morning, my dear," she said. "Her ladyship's love, and she wished to see you as soon as you were well enough to go to her."
"I shall very soon be well enough," I answered. "But where is the parcel, nurse?"
"Now drink your tea in peace like a good girl, ma'am," said nurse, authoritatively.
"I shan't drink it in peace if you don't let me see that parcel," I replied.
The parcel was brought, the string untied, and within the paper envelope lay an old-fashioned book, with well-preserved covers of scarlet morocco, and gilt edges. It was just such a book as one sees in the drawing-rooms of ancient maiden ladies; and to me there has always been something touching in such volumes—shrines of memories and dead loves.
When nurse had gone to look after household matters, and I was left alone once more, I carried the book to the sofa and sat down with it upon my knees. Close beside me was the guitar, and a few rays of afternoon sunlight illumined its polished wood and delicate mosaic ornamentation. I toyed with it carelessly for a second or two, and then began to turn over the album leaves.
Evidently poor Inez Greystock had been a woman who loved poetry and flowers. Her water-colour drawings of lilies and roses and pansies were superior to much of the boarding school art which was in vogue in her day. As to the poems, they were chiefly extracts from Byron and Shelley; all melancholy—all harping more or less on one sad string—the utter loneliness of a disappointed heart.
But at last I came to one page, near the end of the book, which was gayer and brighter than any which had preceded it. A large card, with a gaily gilded pattern for a margin, was inscribed with three verses, far inferior in literary merit to the rest of the poetry in the volume; and these lines were set to music.
A simple air it was, apparently written out by a careful hand—every note being perfectly distinct; and at the top of the page there were these words—
"Hope: a Song for my Guitar."
What remembrance was it that thrilled me with a sudden shock as my glance rested on the first words of the little poem? I read it from beginning to end, and the lines, commonplace as they will seem to strangers, must always remain imprinted on my memory.
"Hope guards the jewels, peerless gems and bright,To crown beloved brows with living light;When other guardians fail, and joy flies fast,Hope leads thee to the treasure-house at last."Hope guards the jewels; love may prove untrue,But faithful Hope creates thy life anew;To her, the fairest grace of all the three,I leave my precious things to keep for thee."Hope guards the jewels; there will come a day,When she, who loves thee, shall be far away;But Hope will hover near on angel wings,And guide thee by the tuneful song she sings."
As one in a dream, I put down the album and took up the guitar. Already the September sunshine was beginning to wane, and I carried it close to the window (just as my husband had done when it first came into the house) and examined the piece of paper pasted inside the instrument.
"Hope guards the jewels." The handwriting here was the same as that in the book. And as the truth flashed upon my mind, a feeling something like awe overwhelmed me for a moment, and made me tremble from head to foot.
It was verily the lost guitar of poor Inez which I was holding in my hands. Through changing scenes, through divers owners, through unknown chances and dangers, it had come back to her rightful heir at last. I remembered that a good man had guided me to the attic where it was to be found, and that a dying man had delivered it to me with a blessing.
And now, with the finding of the guitar, was it not possible that other lost things might be found too? Just as my heart was throbbing fast with this thought, I heard the sound of Ronald's key in the hall door, and in the next instant he had entered the room.
"My own dear little woman, welcome home!" he said, taking me into his arms, guitar and all. "Why, how bright you are looking! Is that red book my aunt's old album?"
"Yes," I said, eagerly; "and oh, Ronald, here is some guitar music in it! Play it to me at once; I am impatient to hear this tune."
He ran his eye over the notes, tuned the instrument, and yielded to my request at once. I was not deceived; the first chords, sweet and soft and gay, convinced me that we had discovered our mysterious melody at last.
"So this is really our haunting air!" said Ronald, when he had played it to the end. "And it was a memory of my childhood, after all. I must have heard my mother sing it."
I was silent for a minute, waiting for what he would say next. He read the title of the little song once or twice before it seemed to bring any light into his mind.
"Hope guards the jewels!" he cried at last. "Louie, those words are written in Spanish inside the guitar. It surely can't be possible, little woman, that we have got the lost guitar here!"
"It is the fact, Ronald," I said, quietly. "Just compare the writing in the album with the writing inside the guitar. And now, look at this page in the book. The card on which the music is written is merely kept in its place by means of four slits cut in the leaf; and the four corners of the card are slipped into the slits. Shall we draw it out and examine it?"
The hint was, enough for my husband. In a second or two, the volume lay upon the table, and Ronald stood by the window with the card in his hand. On the back of it there were a few words in Spanish.
"Remove the parchment label from the inside of the guitar, and read what is written on the reverse side of the parchment."
It was plain that had Estella lived she would have understood the hidden meaning in the song, even without this direction, and would have searched the guitar to find out the last wishes of her sister. The air was one which they had constantly sung together in their early days, and it had, perhaps, certain associations for them which were lost to us. That poor Inez, always unlike other women, and partly crazed by sorrow, should have used her beloved guitar as the depository of her secret, would not have appeared so strange to Estella as it seemed to Ronald and myself.
It was the work of a few moments to detach the label, which was only pasted at the corners; and, when this had been carefully done, the back of the label was found to be covered with fine and delicate writing in English.
"DEAREST ESTELLA—" (Ronald read)"I have hidden the most precious things I possess in your house in George Street. The diamonds given me by my first husband, remain in the hiding place which he made for them. Remove my portrait from the wall; press the panel marked with a red spot, and it will slide back and disclose a cavity. All that you find there belongs to you and your son. Deceived and disappointed in my second marriage, I have reserved my best treasures for you and Ronald Hepburne."(Signed) INEZ GREYSTOCK."
For a little while we stood and looked at each other in silence, and the same thought was in the minds of both. We could see now why William Greystock had kept the album in his own possession instead of delivering it to Ronald. He had always believed in the existence of the diamonds, although Colonel Greystock had laughed the idea to scorn. It was doubtful whether he had ever discovered the writing on the back of the card, but he might have fancied that the book contained some clue to the hiding place of the gems.
And it was evident to us now that he was scheming to get Ronald entirely into his power, that he might in the end obtain possession of the old house in George Street.
But the guitar had kept its secret faithfully, until the hour came for it to be revealed. How it was that the sweet air seemed to haunt its strings we never could explain; it was one of those things that are beyond man's philosophy. That some mysterious power had preserved the instrument from destruction, we could never doubt. But we often recalled the vague rumour which said that the dying Inez had begged a native soldier to take care of her guitar. Unable to save her, the Sepoy had, probably, obeyed her last request. And I remembered that it was from a Sepoy that Monsieur Léon had bought the guitar at Bombay.
"What if the diamonds should no longer be in the hiding place?" I said, suddenly breaking the silence. "Is it possible that they have been found and taken away?"
"I think not," Ronald answered. "But we will know to-night."