Chapter Five.Bronzie.It was in church I saw her first. She was seated some little way in front of me, somewhat to one side. My eyes had been roving about, I suppose, for I was only a boy, fifteen or thereabouts at most, and she was—let me see—she could not have been more than nine, though by the pose of her head, the dignity of the small figure altogether, the immaculate demeanour—which said all over her, “I am in church, and behaving myself accordingly”—one might well have taken her for at least five years older.I remember positively starting when I first caught sight of her—ofit, I should rather say; forher, in the ordinary sense of seeing a person—that is to say, her face—I never once saw during the whole of the first stage of our one-sided acquaintance—the first act of the drama, so to speak. The “it” was her hair. Never—never before or since, I do verily believe, has such hair gladdened mortal eyes. “Golden” was no word for it, or, rather, was but one of the many words it suggested. It was in great floods of waving and wavering shades of reddish—reddish, notred, mind you—brown, dark brown. The mass of it was certainly dark, though the little golden lights gleamed out all over as you will see the sparkling threads of the precious metal ever and anon through the texture of some rich antique silk with which they are cunningly interwoven. I worried myself to find an adjective in any sense suitable for this marvellous colour, or colours; but it was no use, and at last, in a sort of despair, I hit upon the very inadequate but not unsuggestive one of “bronze.” It seemed to come a degree nearer it than any other, and it struck me, too, as not commonplace. From “bronze” I went a step further; I found I must have a name for her—a same all my own, that no one would understand even if they heard it; and, half without knowing it, I slipped into calling her to myself, into thinking of my little lady-love as “Bronzie.” For I had fallen in love with her—looking back now I am sure of it—I had fallen in love with her in the sweet, vague, wholly ridiculous, wholly poetical way that a boy falls in love. And yet I had never seen her face; nay, stranger still, I did not want to see it!It was not so at first; for two or three Sundays after the fateful one on which the glorious hair dazzled me into fairy-land, my one idea was to catch sight of Bronzie’s face. But from where I sat it was all but impossible; she wore a shady hat, too—a hat with a long ostrich feather drooping over the left side, which much increased the difficulty. In time, and with patience, no doubt I should have succeeded; but, as I have said, before long the wish to succeed left me. I was only in London for my Christmas holidays, and, somehow, I fancied that Bronzie, too, was but a visitor there.“I shall never see her again,” I reflected, with a certain sentimental enjoyment of the thought; “but I can always think of her. And if her face were not in accordance with her hair and her figure—that dear little dignified, erect figure—what a disappointment! If she had an ugly mouth, or if she squinted, or even if she were just commonplace and expressionless—no, I don’t want to see her.”Accident favoured me; all those Sundays, as I have said, I never did see her face. The church was crowded; we made our exit by different aisles, and, as I was staying with cousins who were never in time for anything, we always came in late—later than Bronzie, any way. The little figure, the radiant hair, were always there in the same corner for my eyes to rest upon from the moment I ensconced myself in my place. And so it was to the end of the holidays—somewhat longer that year than usual, from illness of an infectious nature, having broken out among the brothers and sisters at my home.I went back to school, to Latin verses and football, to the mingled work and play which make up the intensepresentof a boy’s life; I was, to all appearance, just the same as before, and yet I was changed. I never talked about my Bronzie to any one, I made up no dreams about her, built no castles in the air of ever seeing her again, and yet I never forgot her. No, truly, strange and almost incredible as it may seem, I never did forget her; I feel almost certain there was no day in which the remembrance of her did not flash across my mental vision.It was three years later. School-days were over—so recently over that I had scarcely realised the fact, not, certainly, to the extent of feeling sad or pathetic about it—such regrets come afterwards, and come to stay; my feeling was rather one of rejoicing in my new liberty, and pride in being considered man enough to escort an elder sister on a somewhat distant journey had effectually put everything else out of my head that Christmas-time—it was always at Christmas-time—when—I sawheragain. We were at a railway station, a junction; our through carriage was being shunted and bumped about in the mysterious way peculiar to those privileged vehicles. We had been “sided” into a part of the station different from that where we had arrived; I was leaning out, staring about me, when suddenly, some little way off, there gleamed upon me for a moment the glow of that wonderful hair. The platform was crowded; Bronzie was walking away in an opposite direction, though slowly. She was with two ladies; as usual, it was only the hair and figure I saw—no glimpse of the face was possible; yet I knew it was she. Nor, of course, would the sight of a face I never had seen have helped to identify her.“By Jove!” I exclaimed aloud, unconscious that my sister was close behind me; “by Jove! how she has grown!”“Who?” Isabel exclaimed; “whom are you speaking of? Is there some one there we know?” and in another instant she too was craning her neck out of the window. “I don’t see any one,” she added, withdrawing her head, in disappointment. “Who was it, Vic?”I think I had turned pale; I felt myself now grow crimson.“Oh!” I blurted out, saying, of course, in my confusion exactly what I wouldnothave said: “only a—a little girl with such wonderful hair.”“Where?” asked Isabel, again poking her head out—in the wrong direction, of course; she was tired of the long waiting, and jumped at the smallest excitement. “Oh, yes! I see! at the door of the refreshment, room. Yes, itismagnificent hair; but, Vic, you said—”“Nonsense!” I interrupted, “she’s nowhere near the refreshment room; it’s not possible it’s the same.”Nor was it. Bronzie was by this time out of sight, far off among the throng of travellers at the left extremity of the platform, and the refreshment room was some yards to our right. It was absolutely, practically impossible. “Nonsense!” I repeated peevishly, looking out, nevertheless, in expectation of seeing some childish head of ordinary fair hair at the spot my sister indicated. But I started violently—yes, itwasBronzie again; the self-same hair, at least. And the girl was standing, with her back to us, at the door of the first-class refreshment room, as Isabel had said. I felt as if I were dreaming; my brain was in a whirl. I sat down in my place for a moment to recover myself.“I wonder,” said my sister, “if her face is as lovely as her hair? She is sure to turn round directly. Wait a minute, Vic, I’ll tell you if she oh, how tiresome! I do believe we are off; after waiting so long, they might as well have waited one moment longer.”And off we were—in the opposite direction too. We could see no more of her—Bronzie, or not Bronzie! On the whole I was not sorry that my sister’s curiosity was doomed to be unsatisfied. But my own perplexity was great. Howcouldthe child have been spirited all the length of the station in that instant of time?“She is a fairy; that is the only explanation,” I said to myself, laughingly. “Perhaps I have dreamt her only—in church, that Christmas too—but no; Isabel saw the hair as well as I.”Time went on, faster and faster. I was a man—very thoroughly a man—for seven years had passed since that winter day’s journey. I was five-and-twenty; I had completed my studies, travelled for a couple of years, and was about settling down to my own home and its responsibilities—for my father was dead, and I was an eldest son—when the curtain rises for the third and last time in this simplest of dramas. I was unmarried, yet no misogamist, nor was there the shadowiest of reasons why I should not marry; rather, considerably even, the other way. My family wished it; I wished it myself in the abstract. I had money enough and to spare. I loved my home, and was ready to love it still more; but I had never cared for any woman as I knew I must care forthewoman I could make happy, and be happy with, as my wife. It was strange—strange and disappointing. I had never fallen in love, though I may really say I hadwishedto do so. Never, that is to say since I was fifteen, and the gleaming locks of my Bronzie—like Aslauga’s golden tresses—had irradiated for me the corner of the gloomy old London church where she sat.That was ten years ago now, yet I had not forgotten my one bit of romance.It was Christmas again. For the day itself I was due at home, of course; but on the way thither I had promised to spend a night with Greatrex, a friend of some few years’ standing, whom I had not seen since his marriage, at which something or other had prevented my being present. He had invited me before, but I had not felt specially keen about it. He was rapturously in love with his wife I could see by his letters, and that sort of thing, under the circumstances, made me feel rather “out in the cold”—not unnaturally. But at last I had given in: I was to stay a night, possibly two, at Moresham, Greatrex’s home, where, as he had written, on receiving my acceptance, “You will see her at last,” for all the world as if I had been dying to behold Mrs Greatrex, and counting the hours till my longings for this privilege should be gratified.Greatrex met me at the door. It was afternoon, but clear daylight still, though December, when I drove up.“So delighted, so uncommonly pleased, old fellow, at last,” he ejaculated, shaking me vigorously by the hand; “and so will Bessie be. I don’t know much about your taste, but you can’t but agree thatIhave shown some, when you see her. One of her great beauties is her hair; I wonder if you’ll like the way she—; what’s the matter?” as the footman interrupted him with a “Beg pardon, sir,” “Oh yes, I’ll tell Barnes myself;” and he turned back to the groom, still at the door. “Excuse me one instant, old fellow. Bessie is in the drawing-room.”“Don’t announce me. I will introduce myself,” I said hastily to the servant. A queer, a very queer feeling had come over me, at that mention, by her husband, of Mrs Greatrex’shair—could it be? And her name was Bessie. I could not imagine Bronzie by that name—my stately little maiden—what if itwerethough? and my dream to end thus?I stepped quietly into the room. She was standing by the window; there was snow outside. I saw her, all but her face, perfectly: I sawit—the hair—and for an instant I felt positively faint. It wasit—it must be she; the way she wore it was peculiar, though very graceful; the head was pretty, but the small figure, though neat and well proportioned, was by no means what I had pictured Bronzie as a woman. But what did it matter? She was Greatrex’s wife.“I must introduce myself; Mrs Greatrex,” I began, and then, as my words caught her ears, she turned, and for the first time I saw the face—the face I had so often pictured as a fit accompaniment to that glorious hair.Oh, the disappointment—the strange disappointment—and yet the still stranger relief! For she was Greatrex’s wife! But she wasn’t Bronzie—my Bronzie had never been. Therewasno Bronzie!Yet it was a sweet and a pretty little face, and a good little face too. Now that I know it well I do not hesitate to call it a very dear and charming little face, though the features areonlypretty; the eyes nothing particular, except for their pleasant expression; the nose distinctly insignificant.I exerted myself to be agreeable. When Greatrex came in, a moment or two afterwards, he was evidently quite satisfied as to the terms on which we already stood. Then followed afternoon tea. It seemed to go to my head. I felt curiously excited, reckless, and almost bitter, and yet unable mentally to drop the subject as it were. The absurdity of the whole filled me with a sort of contempt for myself, and still there was a fascination about it. I determined to go through with it, to punish myself well for my own fantastic nonsense, to show my own folly up to myself.“You may be surprised, Mrs Greatrex,” I said, suddenly, “to hear that—I feel sure I am not mistaken in saying so—that I have seen you before.”She was surprised, but she smiled pleasantly.“Indeed,” she said; while “where? when? Let’s hear all about it. Why didn’t you tell us before?” exclaimed Greatrex, in his rather clumsy way.“Can you carry your memory back, let me see, nine, ten years?” I asked. “Do you remember if at that time you spent a winter in London; or was London your home?”She shook her head. “No, it was not; but I did spend the winter of in London.”“Had you—can you possibly recollect if you wore a large, rather slouching, felt hat, with a long feather—grey, the hat, too, was grey—that fell over the left side? and a coat of grey, too, some kind of velvet, I think, trimmed with dark fur?”Greatrex looked extremely astonished.“Come, now,” he ejaculated.Mrs Bessie smiled.“Yes,” she said, “I remember the whole get-up perfectly.”Greatrex looked triumphant. I did not, for I did not feel so.“And,” I went on listlessly, almost—I felt so sure of it now—“did you not come to church for several Sundays that winter; and on Christmas Day, to Saint Edric’s, in — Square?”For the first time Mrs Greatrex shook her head.“No,” she said. “I never remember being in Saint Edric’s in my life.”Greatrex’s face fell; he had been quite excited and delighted, poor fellow.“Come, now,” he said again, in a different tone, “are you sure, Bessie? I think you must be mistaken.”“I think so, too,” I added, a little more eager myself now. “You may have forgotten the name. Saint Edric’s is—” and I went on to describe the church.“You came with a lady who looked like a governess,” and I concluded with some details as to this person’s appearance.“Yes,” Mrs Greatrex said, “that sounds like our governess—Mrs Mills; she was with us several years. But it is not only that I was never at Saint Edric’s; I was never at church all those weeks in London at all. I had a bad attack of bronchitis. I remember particularly how vexed I was not to wear my new things, especially as we—” suddenly a curious change of expression came over her face, and just at that instant her husband interrupted her.“I have it,” he began excitedly, but he got no farther. “Bessie,” he exclaimed, with almost a shriek, “my dearest child, you’ve scalded me!” and he looked up ruefully from the contents of a cup of tea deposited on his knee.“No, no,” his wife exclaimed, “it was only a little water I was pouring into my cup, and it was not very hot. But come along, I have a cloth in the conservatory, where I was arranging some flowers. I’ll rub it dry in an instant.”She almost dragged him off—with unnecessary vehemence, it seemed to me. I could not make her out. “An odd little woman,” I thought. “I hope, for Greatrex’s sake, she’s not given to nerves or hysterics, or that sort of thing.”But they were back in two minutes, Greatrex quite smiling and content, though he has owned to me since that his kneewasscalded, all the same.No more was said on the subject of reminiscences. Indeed, it seemed to me that Bessie rather avoided it, and a new idea struck me—perhaps Greatrex was given to frightful jealousy, though he hid it so well, and his wife had got him off into the conservatory to smooth him down. Yes, his mannerwasqueer. Poor little woman! I forgave her her hair.We strolled off to the stables, then to have a smoke, and thus idled away the time till the dressing-bell rang.“We’re very punctual people,” said Greatrex, as he showed me to my room.So I made haste, and found myself entering the drawing-room some few minutes before the hands of my watch had reached the dinner-hour.“Sheis punctual,” I thought, as I caught sight of a white-robed figure standing with its back to me, full in the light of a suspended lamp, whose rays caught the gleam of her radiant hair. “Not—not very wise to be down before him, if he has the uncomfortable peculiarity that I suspect. By Jove! how much taller she looks in evening dress! Strange that it should make such a difference!”“So your husband is the laggard, in spite of his boasted punctuality, Mrs Greatrex?” I began.She turned towards me.“I am not Mrs Greatrex,” she said, while she raised her soft brown eyes to my face, and a little colour stole into her cheeks.The words were unnecessary. I stood silent, motionless, spell-bound.“I—I am only her sister—Imogen Grey,” she went on.I have asked her since if she thought me mad: she says not; but I feel as if I must have seemed so. For still I could not speak, though certain words seemed dancing like happy fairies across my brain. “Bronzie, my Bronzie! found at last. Bronzie!”And in another instant good little Bessie Greatrex was in the room, busy introducing me to her sister, “Miss Grey,” and explaining that she had not been sure of Imogen’s arriving in time for dinner—had I heard the wheels just as we went up to dress?She was a little confused; but it was not till afterwards that I thought of it. In a sort of dream I went in to dinner; in a sort of dream I went through that wonderful evening. They were as unlike as sisters could well be, except for the hair: unlike, and yet alike; for, if there is one woman in this world as good and true as my Bronzie, it is her sister Bessie.Yes, she was—sheismy Bronzie, though no one knows the name, nor the whole story, but our two happy selves.And I had it out with Bessie; she suspected the truth while I was questioning her about her recollections, and then she saw it must have been Imogen, and not herself: the dragging off poor Greatrex into the conservatory was to tell him to hold his tongue. She wanted so to “surprise” me! I believe, at the bottom of my heart, that Greatrex and she had planned something of the kind even before they heard my unexpected reminiscences; and if they did, there was no harm in it. But—if she hadn’t been my Bronzie, nothing would have been any use; I should have lived and died unmarried.
It was in church I saw her first. She was seated some little way in front of me, somewhat to one side. My eyes had been roving about, I suppose, for I was only a boy, fifteen or thereabouts at most, and she was—let me see—she could not have been more than nine, though by the pose of her head, the dignity of the small figure altogether, the immaculate demeanour—which said all over her, “I am in church, and behaving myself accordingly”—one might well have taken her for at least five years older.
I remember positively starting when I first caught sight of her—ofit, I should rather say; forher, in the ordinary sense of seeing a person—that is to say, her face—I never once saw during the whole of the first stage of our one-sided acquaintance—the first act of the drama, so to speak. The “it” was her hair. Never—never before or since, I do verily believe, has such hair gladdened mortal eyes. “Golden” was no word for it, or, rather, was but one of the many words it suggested. It was in great floods of waving and wavering shades of reddish—reddish, notred, mind you—brown, dark brown. The mass of it was certainly dark, though the little golden lights gleamed out all over as you will see the sparkling threads of the precious metal ever and anon through the texture of some rich antique silk with which they are cunningly interwoven. I worried myself to find an adjective in any sense suitable for this marvellous colour, or colours; but it was no use, and at last, in a sort of despair, I hit upon the very inadequate but not unsuggestive one of “bronze.” It seemed to come a degree nearer it than any other, and it struck me, too, as not commonplace. From “bronze” I went a step further; I found I must have a name for her—a same all my own, that no one would understand even if they heard it; and, half without knowing it, I slipped into calling her to myself, into thinking of my little lady-love as “Bronzie.” For I had fallen in love with her—looking back now I am sure of it—I had fallen in love with her in the sweet, vague, wholly ridiculous, wholly poetical way that a boy falls in love. And yet I had never seen her face; nay, stranger still, I did not want to see it!
It was not so at first; for two or three Sundays after the fateful one on which the glorious hair dazzled me into fairy-land, my one idea was to catch sight of Bronzie’s face. But from where I sat it was all but impossible; she wore a shady hat, too—a hat with a long ostrich feather drooping over the left side, which much increased the difficulty. In time, and with patience, no doubt I should have succeeded; but, as I have said, before long the wish to succeed left me. I was only in London for my Christmas holidays, and, somehow, I fancied that Bronzie, too, was but a visitor there.
“I shall never see her again,” I reflected, with a certain sentimental enjoyment of the thought; “but I can always think of her. And if her face were not in accordance with her hair and her figure—that dear little dignified, erect figure—what a disappointment! If she had an ugly mouth, or if she squinted, or even if she were just commonplace and expressionless—no, I don’t want to see her.”
Accident favoured me; all those Sundays, as I have said, I never did see her face. The church was crowded; we made our exit by different aisles, and, as I was staying with cousins who were never in time for anything, we always came in late—later than Bronzie, any way. The little figure, the radiant hair, were always there in the same corner for my eyes to rest upon from the moment I ensconced myself in my place. And so it was to the end of the holidays—somewhat longer that year than usual, from illness of an infectious nature, having broken out among the brothers and sisters at my home.
I went back to school, to Latin verses and football, to the mingled work and play which make up the intensepresentof a boy’s life; I was, to all appearance, just the same as before, and yet I was changed. I never talked about my Bronzie to any one, I made up no dreams about her, built no castles in the air of ever seeing her again, and yet I never forgot her. No, truly, strange and almost incredible as it may seem, I never did forget her; I feel almost certain there was no day in which the remembrance of her did not flash across my mental vision.
It was three years later. School-days were over—so recently over that I had scarcely realised the fact, not, certainly, to the extent of feeling sad or pathetic about it—such regrets come afterwards, and come to stay; my feeling was rather one of rejoicing in my new liberty, and pride in being considered man enough to escort an elder sister on a somewhat distant journey had effectually put everything else out of my head that Christmas-time—it was always at Christmas-time—when—I sawheragain. We were at a railway station, a junction; our through carriage was being shunted and bumped about in the mysterious way peculiar to those privileged vehicles. We had been “sided” into a part of the station different from that where we had arrived; I was leaning out, staring about me, when suddenly, some little way off, there gleamed upon me for a moment the glow of that wonderful hair. The platform was crowded; Bronzie was walking away in an opposite direction, though slowly. She was with two ladies; as usual, it was only the hair and figure I saw—no glimpse of the face was possible; yet I knew it was she. Nor, of course, would the sight of a face I never had seen have helped to identify her.
“By Jove!” I exclaimed aloud, unconscious that my sister was close behind me; “by Jove! how she has grown!”
“Who?” Isabel exclaimed; “whom are you speaking of? Is there some one there we know?” and in another instant she too was craning her neck out of the window. “I don’t see any one,” she added, withdrawing her head, in disappointment. “Who was it, Vic?”
I think I had turned pale; I felt myself now grow crimson.
“Oh!” I blurted out, saying, of course, in my confusion exactly what I wouldnothave said: “only a—a little girl with such wonderful hair.”
“Where?” asked Isabel, again poking her head out—in the wrong direction, of course; she was tired of the long waiting, and jumped at the smallest excitement. “Oh, yes! I see! at the door of the refreshment, room. Yes, itismagnificent hair; but, Vic, you said—”
“Nonsense!” I interrupted, “she’s nowhere near the refreshment room; it’s not possible it’s the same.”
Nor was it. Bronzie was by this time out of sight, far off among the throng of travellers at the left extremity of the platform, and the refreshment room was some yards to our right. It was absolutely, practically impossible. “Nonsense!” I repeated peevishly, looking out, nevertheless, in expectation of seeing some childish head of ordinary fair hair at the spot my sister indicated. But I started violently—yes, itwasBronzie again; the self-same hair, at least. And the girl was standing, with her back to us, at the door of the first-class refreshment room, as Isabel had said. I felt as if I were dreaming; my brain was in a whirl. I sat down in my place for a moment to recover myself.
“I wonder,” said my sister, “if her face is as lovely as her hair? She is sure to turn round directly. Wait a minute, Vic, I’ll tell you if she oh, how tiresome! I do believe we are off; after waiting so long, they might as well have waited one moment longer.”
And off we were—in the opposite direction too. We could see no more of her—Bronzie, or not Bronzie! On the whole I was not sorry that my sister’s curiosity was doomed to be unsatisfied. But my own perplexity was great. Howcouldthe child have been spirited all the length of the station in that instant of time?
“She is a fairy; that is the only explanation,” I said to myself, laughingly. “Perhaps I have dreamt her only—in church, that Christmas too—but no; Isabel saw the hair as well as I.”
Time went on, faster and faster. I was a man—very thoroughly a man—for seven years had passed since that winter day’s journey. I was five-and-twenty; I had completed my studies, travelled for a couple of years, and was about settling down to my own home and its responsibilities—for my father was dead, and I was an eldest son—when the curtain rises for the third and last time in this simplest of dramas. I was unmarried, yet no misogamist, nor was there the shadowiest of reasons why I should not marry; rather, considerably even, the other way. My family wished it; I wished it myself in the abstract. I had money enough and to spare. I loved my home, and was ready to love it still more; but I had never cared for any woman as I knew I must care forthewoman I could make happy, and be happy with, as my wife. It was strange—strange and disappointing. I had never fallen in love, though I may really say I hadwishedto do so. Never, that is to say since I was fifteen, and the gleaming locks of my Bronzie—like Aslauga’s golden tresses—had irradiated for me the corner of the gloomy old London church where she sat.
That was ten years ago now, yet I had not forgotten my one bit of romance.
It was Christmas again. For the day itself I was due at home, of course; but on the way thither I had promised to spend a night with Greatrex, a friend of some few years’ standing, whom I had not seen since his marriage, at which something or other had prevented my being present. He had invited me before, but I had not felt specially keen about it. He was rapturously in love with his wife I could see by his letters, and that sort of thing, under the circumstances, made me feel rather “out in the cold”—not unnaturally. But at last I had given in: I was to stay a night, possibly two, at Moresham, Greatrex’s home, where, as he had written, on receiving my acceptance, “You will see her at last,” for all the world as if I had been dying to behold Mrs Greatrex, and counting the hours till my longings for this privilege should be gratified.
Greatrex met me at the door. It was afternoon, but clear daylight still, though December, when I drove up.
“So delighted, so uncommonly pleased, old fellow, at last,” he ejaculated, shaking me vigorously by the hand; “and so will Bessie be. I don’t know much about your taste, but you can’t but agree thatIhave shown some, when you see her. One of her great beauties is her hair; I wonder if you’ll like the way she—; what’s the matter?” as the footman interrupted him with a “Beg pardon, sir,” “Oh yes, I’ll tell Barnes myself;” and he turned back to the groom, still at the door. “Excuse me one instant, old fellow. Bessie is in the drawing-room.”
“Don’t announce me. I will introduce myself,” I said hastily to the servant. A queer, a very queer feeling had come over me, at that mention, by her husband, of Mrs Greatrex’shair—could it be? And her name was Bessie. I could not imagine Bronzie by that name—my stately little maiden—what if itwerethough? and my dream to end thus?
I stepped quietly into the room. She was standing by the window; there was snow outside. I saw her, all but her face, perfectly: I sawit—the hair—and for an instant I felt positively faint. It wasit—it must be she; the way she wore it was peculiar, though very graceful; the head was pretty, but the small figure, though neat and well proportioned, was by no means what I had pictured Bronzie as a woman. But what did it matter? She was Greatrex’s wife.
“I must introduce myself; Mrs Greatrex,” I began, and then, as my words caught her ears, she turned, and for the first time I saw the face—the face I had so often pictured as a fit accompaniment to that glorious hair.
Oh, the disappointment—the strange disappointment—and yet the still stranger relief! For she was Greatrex’s wife! But she wasn’t Bronzie—my Bronzie had never been. Therewasno Bronzie!
Yet it was a sweet and a pretty little face, and a good little face too. Now that I know it well I do not hesitate to call it a very dear and charming little face, though the features areonlypretty; the eyes nothing particular, except for their pleasant expression; the nose distinctly insignificant.
I exerted myself to be agreeable. When Greatrex came in, a moment or two afterwards, he was evidently quite satisfied as to the terms on which we already stood. Then followed afternoon tea. It seemed to go to my head. I felt curiously excited, reckless, and almost bitter, and yet unable mentally to drop the subject as it were. The absurdity of the whole filled me with a sort of contempt for myself, and still there was a fascination about it. I determined to go through with it, to punish myself well for my own fantastic nonsense, to show my own folly up to myself.
“You may be surprised, Mrs Greatrex,” I said, suddenly, “to hear that—I feel sure I am not mistaken in saying so—that I have seen you before.”
She was surprised, but she smiled pleasantly.
“Indeed,” she said; while “where? when? Let’s hear all about it. Why didn’t you tell us before?” exclaimed Greatrex, in his rather clumsy way.
“Can you carry your memory back, let me see, nine, ten years?” I asked. “Do you remember if at that time you spent a winter in London; or was London your home?”
She shook her head. “No, it was not; but I did spend the winter of in London.”
“Had you—can you possibly recollect if you wore a large, rather slouching, felt hat, with a long feather—grey, the hat, too, was grey—that fell over the left side? and a coat of grey, too, some kind of velvet, I think, trimmed with dark fur?”
Greatrex looked extremely astonished.
“Come, now,” he ejaculated.
Mrs Bessie smiled.
“Yes,” she said, “I remember the whole get-up perfectly.”
Greatrex looked triumphant. I did not, for I did not feel so.
“And,” I went on listlessly, almost—I felt so sure of it now—“did you not come to church for several Sundays that winter; and on Christmas Day, to Saint Edric’s, in — Square?”
For the first time Mrs Greatrex shook her head.
“No,” she said. “I never remember being in Saint Edric’s in my life.”
Greatrex’s face fell; he had been quite excited and delighted, poor fellow.
“Come, now,” he said again, in a different tone, “are you sure, Bessie? I think you must be mistaken.”
“I think so, too,” I added, a little more eager myself now. “You may have forgotten the name. Saint Edric’s is—” and I went on to describe the church.
“You came with a lady who looked like a governess,” and I concluded with some details as to this person’s appearance.
“Yes,” Mrs Greatrex said, “that sounds like our governess—Mrs Mills; she was with us several years. But it is not only that I was never at Saint Edric’s; I was never at church all those weeks in London at all. I had a bad attack of bronchitis. I remember particularly how vexed I was not to wear my new things, especially as we—” suddenly a curious change of expression came over her face, and just at that instant her husband interrupted her.
“I have it,” he began excitedly, but he got no farther. “Bessie,” he exclaimed, with almost a shriek, “my dearest child, you’ve scalded me!” and he looked up ruefully from the contents of a cup of tea deposited on his knee.
“No, no,” his wife exclaimed, “it was only a little water I was pouring into my cup, and it was not very hot. But come along, I have a cloth in the conservatory, where I was arranging some flowers. I’ll rub it dry in an instant.”
She almost dragged him off—with unnecessary vehemence, it seemed to me. I could not make her out. “An odd little woman,” I thought. “I hope, for Greatrex’s sake, she’s not given to nerves or hysterics, or that sort of thing.”
But they were back in two minutes, Greatrex quite smiling and content, though he has owned to me since that his kneewasscalded, all the same.
No more was said on the subject of reminiscences. Indeed, it seemed to me that Bessie rather avoided it, and a new idea struck me—perhaps Greatrex was given to frightful jealousy, though he hid it so well, and his wife had got him off into the conservatory to smooth him down. Yes, his mannerwasqueer. Poor little woman! I forgave her her hair.
We strolled off to the stables, then to have a smoke, and thus idled away the time till the dressing-bell rang.
“We’re very punctual people,” said Greatrex, as he showed me to my room.
So I made haste, and found myself entering the drawing-room some few minutes before the hands of my watch had reached the dinner-hour.
“Sheis punctual,” I thought, as I caught sight of a white-robed figure standing with its back to me, full in the light of a suspended lamp, whose rays caught the gleam of her radiant hair. “Not—not very wise to be down before him, if he has the uncomfortable peculiarity that I suspect. By Jove! how much taller she looks in evening dress! Strange that it should make such a difference!”
“So your husband is the laggard, in spite of his boasted punctuality, Mrs Greatrex?” I began.
She turned towards me.
“I am not Mrs Greatrex,” she said, while she raised her soft brown eyes to my face, and a little colour stole into her cheeks.
The words were unnecessary. I stood silent, motionless, spell-bound.
“I—I am only her sister—Imogen Grey,” she went on.
I have asked her since if she thought me mad: she says not; but I feel as if I must have seemed so. For still I could not speak, though certain words seemed dancing like happy fairies across my brain. “Bronzie, my Bronzie! found at last. Bronzie!”
And in another instant good little Bessie Greatrex was in the room, busy introducing me to her sister, “Miss Grey,” and explaining that she had not been sure of Imogen’s arriving in time for dinner—had I heard the wheels just as we went up to dress?
She was a little confused; but it was not till afterwards that I thought of it. In a sort of dream I went in to dinner; in a sort of dream I went through that wonderful evening. They were as unlike as sisters could well be, except for the hair: unlike, and yet alike; for, if there is one woman in this world as good and true as my Bronzie, it is her sister Bessie.
Yes, she was—sheismy Bronzie, though no one knows the name, nor the whole story, but our two happy selves.
And I had it out with Bessie; she suspected the truth while I was questioning her about her recollections, and then she saw it must have been Imogen, and not herself: the dragging off poor Greatrex into the conservatory was to tell him to hold his tongue. She wanted so to “surprise” me! I believe, at the bottom of my heart, that Greatrex and she had planned something of the kind even before they heard my unexpected reminiscences; and if they did, there was no harm in it. But—if she hadn’t been my Bronzie, nothing would have been any use; I should have lived and died unmarried.
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