Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

[Illustration: THERE WAS SOMETHING IMPOSING AND SUMPTUOUS ABOUT HER
BEAUTY.]



                           LOUIE'S MARRIED LIFE


                                   BY

                             SARAH DOUDNEY


     AUTHOR OF "WHEN WE TWO PARTED," "WHERE THE DEW FALLS IN LONDON,"
                     "A ROMANCE OF LINCOLN'S INN," ETC.


                     ILLUSTRATED BY W. RAINEY, R. I.



                                LONDON
                         S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.
                         8 & 9 PATERNOSTER ROW.



[Illustration]

                               CONTENTS.


CHAPTER

    I. BEGINNING

   II. LOOKING BACK

  III. INEZ

   IV. RONALD

    V. RECOVERY

   VI. THE GUITAR

  VII. JARS

 VIII. MARIAN

   IX. GOING OUT

    X. SHADOWS DEEPEN

   XI. POISONED WORDS

  XII. JEALOUSY

 XIII. ANGUISH

  XIV. STRICKEN

   XV. FLIGHT

  XVI. A FEVERISH DREAM

 XVII. AWAKING

XVIII. HEART TO HEART

  XIX. THE OLD ALBUM

   XX. THE JEWELS

  XXI. CLOSING WORDS

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

                        LOUIE'S MARRIED LIFE

CHAPTER I.

BEGINNING.

  "Sweetheart, sweetheart," I hear the two clear notes,
     And see the sunlight shining through the shower;
  "Sweetheart," how faintly from the meadow floats
     The early fragrance of the cuckoo-flower!
   The wind is keen, and April skies are grey;
     But love can wait till rain-clouds break apart;
   And still the bird sings through the longest day;
                              "Sweetheart, sweetheart."

   When lives are true, the springtide never dies,
     When souls are one, the love-notes never cease;
   Our bird sings on beneath the cloudy skies,
     Our little world is full of light and peace;
   Fresh as the breath of violets new-born
     Comes the sweet thought to hearts that cannot part,
  "After the night of weeping breaks the morn,
                              "Sweetheart, sweetheart."


SURELY no one would ever believe that this song was written by a
Londoner, and yet I, who wrote it, am a Londoner in heart and soul.
But I was born far away in the country, and all the familiar sights
and sounds of old days lend themselves to my rhymes, so that I oftener
sing of fields, and birds, and flowers, than of those things which are
always before my eyes. Moreover, as all authors know, it is sometimes
easier to write of the unseen than of the seen, and these home fields
of mine have borrowed much of their beauty from the glamour of distance.

It is because this tale is called "Louie's Married Life," that I
shall give you my songs. They were all written for Ronald to sing to
the accompaniment of his guitar; and if it had not been for Ronald,
I hardly think that they would ever have been written at all. For
if I had married somebody else (as I nearly did, once upon a time),
this little flame of song which is in me would have been extinguished
altogether, and I should have become the dullest woman in the world.
These songs are a part of my life as a wife.

I daresay, however, that many people have wasted a great deal of pity
on the wife of Ronald Hepburne; and if they do not openly point at the
lines on my forehead and the crow's feet at the corners of my eyes,
they convey by looks and tones their deep distress on seeing my altered
appearance. I admit that they have every possible right to indulge in
polite lamentations. Never having been a buxom woman, I had not much
flesh to lose; and nursing through long days, and watching through
longer nights, have left upon me certain traces which are not likely to
be effaced, even in this present time of peace.

When I wrote the foregoing little song, it was early in an April
morning; the only sunbeams that I could see were shining on brick
walls, blackened with smoke; and the only sky that I could see was a
patch of pale blue above the chimney-tops. But, as I lifted my head
from my pillow, a feeling of unutterable gratitude thrilled me through
and through: it was the last night that we should ever spend in that
dreary London room, and Ronald had been sleeping soundly and long.
Weeping may endure for a night (and with me it had endured for many
nights), but joy cometh in the morning.

I thought of all the other watchers in the crowded houses around me, of
mothers counting the hours by the beds of sick children, of wives who
had agonised as I had done and prayed as I had prayed; and then, as I
looked at Ronald's face, in the dim dawn, I began to recall the note of
an early bird in my old country home—and so the song was made.

We had only been married six months when Ronald was stricken with
fever. First a slight cold, a few days of languor and depression, and
then, before I had had time to realise the danger, he was face to face
with death. So the battle for life was fought and won in the dark
chamber of a London lodging, and on that April morning I was tasting
the first sweets of the great deliverance.

But when with a great effort he rose from the bed whereon he had lain
for weeks, I almost feared that the conflict was about to begin again.
He had never answered to the popular notion of a fine, handsome man
(and I must needs say here that I have no fancy for burly men), yet
I had not thought it possible that he could become so fragile, so
spectre-like, as he now appeared. Mine is, I suppose, a transparent
character, for Ronald always reads my thoughts at a glance; and as his
eyes met mine, he gave me a reassuring smile.

"Never fear, Louie," he said, cheerfully. "I shall grow more
substantial by-and-by." And then, touching my thin arm, he added, with
a sadder look, "I am afraid, poor child, that you have thrown your own
strength away in trying to save mine."

"I'm very strong," I answered, buttoning his great-coat with vigorous
fingers. "The cab will be here in a minute, and we have no time to
spend in bemoaning our leanness. Are you not very glad, Ronald, to
leave this dismal old sick room fer ever and ever?"

But, even while I spoke, there flitted across my brain a faint
foreshadowing of a time when the memory of that dim little room would
become painfully dear. The feeling passed as quickly as it came, and I
drew the folds of Ronald's wrapper over his mouth to guard him from the
chilly wind of spring. Then the cab came up to the door, and we stood
at the window to watch the disposal of our luggage on the roof.

"The guitar will go inside," said I to the servant.

So the guitar was carried out in its case and deposited on the front
seat, and Ronald followed, so slowly and feebly that my heart ached to
see him. I was the last to get in; and so we turned our backs upon that
dreary house where we had suffered the sharpest sorrow that we had ever
yet known.

The drive to our new abode was not a long one; and as it was fated
that we were to meet with a disaster, it was well that it did not
come upon us until we were very near our home. As we turned sharply
out of Welbeck Street another cab came smashing into ours, and we
were overturned in a moment. Assistance was soon forthcoming; the two
drivers exchanged compliments after the manner of their kind; ready
helpers collected our boxes, and placed us, quite unharmed, in another
vehicle; in short, it was one of those "marvellous escapes" of which
one hears so much, and there was only one thing belonging to us which
was much the worse for the accident.

And that one thing was Ronald's guitar.

Until I was fairly inside our new rooms, I did not realise that the
poor guitar was completely done for, and then I confess I shed some
very bitter tears. Our new landlady (who had been a dear old nurse
of mine) was much amazed and scandalised by my excessive grief, and
instantly fell to reproving me as she had done in the days of my
childhood.

"I'm astonished at you, Miss Louie," said she, forgetting my matronly
dignity. "If your husband's bones had been smashed, you couldn't have
made a greater fuss, and all about a musical instrument of no account
whatever! A pianner, now, would be worth crying over, but there never
was much noise to be got out of that poor silly stringed thing."

I am quick of temper, and I felt very much inclined to slap nurse at
that moment.

"Go away," I said, crying anew. "You never can understand how dear
that guitar is to me. I first f-f-fell in love with Ronald when he was
playing upon it."

"What a fool I be!" soliloquised nurse, smiling. "I might have known
as much. Why, I remember that I took a fancy to my old man when he was
blowing his flute; and yet most folks say that a flute's dreadfully
disfiguring to the countenance."

After that I kissed nurse, and she went off cheerfully to prepare our
seven o'clock dinner, while I took my way to our little sitting-room.
Finding Ronald lying tranquilly on an old-fashioned sofa, and looking
a trifle more like his old self, my spirits rose again, and I began to
feel myself a happy woman.

Most Londoners are well enough acquainted with Chapel Place—that
convenient little alley which runs from Oxford Street into Henrietta
Street, Cavendish Square—and it was in Chapel Place that we, a lonely
pair of lovebirds, had now found a settled nest. Our rooms were on the
ground-floor, and we looked out upon the grey stone wall of the great
post-office, and were thankful for any "small mercies" vouchsafed us by
stray sunbeams.

And yet, from that very first afternoon in nurse's house, I felt that
here was to be the truest and happiest home that I had ever known.
I watched the pigeons fluttering softly about the east gable of St.
Peter's Church, and saw the faint crescent of the new moon rise above
the house-roofs, and show its pale golden outline against a background
of misty lilac sky. And Ronald, languid but content, studied my
brightened face, and lazily whispered that I was once more like the
girl he had wooed two years ago.

When I read a novel, I always make a point of skipping the
explanations, and now that I am writing a story I shall endeavour to
explain as little as I can, and to leave as much as possible to the
instincts of my intelligent readers. It is necessary, however, that I
should briefly state how I came to know Ronald Hepburn, and who and
what my husband was.

First of all, let me say that he was a soldier, sprung from a long
line of soldiers who had fought and served in India. In India he was
born, and when I met him, he had just been invalided home and had left
the service. You have only to stroll into the neighbourhood of the
best clubs and you will see dozens of men exactly like him any day. He
was not in any way remarkable, and he had never been handsome, but he
possessed a certain indolent grace of manner and bearing—a certain air
of high breeding and perfect repose, which are attractions in the eyes
of some women. After saying all this, I have merely to add that I like
high breeding and repose, and it was therefore not surprising, perhaps,
if Ronald Hepburne succeeded, pretty easily, in fascinating me.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER II.

LOOKING BACK.

I HAD grown-up, a penniless little orphan, in my uncle's quiet country
cottage, and when he died, I knew not where to look for another home.
He had commended me to the care of his oldest friend, the rector of
the parish, and had left me all that he had to leave—a thousand pounds
and his blessing. The rector was a good man and a wise; he invested my
small fortune to the best advantage, and sent me up to town to be the
protégée and companion of his widowed sister, Lady Waterville.

It had seemed to me a hard thing that nurse, who had been my loving
tyrant from baby-hood, should have left me just twelve months before my
uncle's death. After years of comfortable widowhood, she had yielded to
the prayers of an old admirer, whose liking for her comely, rustic face
had survived through many chances and changes. And so, with tears, she
had taken leave of my uncle and me, and had gone off with her husband
to his London home, little thinking how soon I was destined to follow
her.

Lady Waterville was very stout, very amiable, and indescribably lazy. I
have said "indescribably," because no word in any language would ever
completely express that wonderful indolence of hers. Many people are
sufficiently ashamed of their idleness to veil it under pretty shams
of work; but Lady Waterville never was ashamed in the least. She was
uncompromisingly honest, and would plainly admit that anything in the
shape of an occupation was hateful to her. The world was far too busy,
she declared; as for herself, it had not pleased a kind Providence to
give her a vocation, and she did not mean to thwart its designs by
trying to find employment.

"Here I sit," she would say, "with my idle hands before me, and even
Satan himself has never found any mischief for them to do. So Dr. Watts
is not infallible, my dear."

In one of his stories, Mr. Wilkie Collins has introduced us to a lady
who sat through life, and she must certainly have borne a strong
resemblance to Lady Waterville. Strange as it may seem, this sitting
existence appeared to agree with her extremely well; and, despite her
obesity, she was a pretty old woman, with an open, good-tempered face,
and soft hair which was a mixture of silver and gold. I have heard
Ronald say that she always reminded him of an immense doll, smiling
fatuously upon you through its glass window, untouched by any human
ills, unaltered by the lapse of time. But although she was not blessed
(or cursed) with any deep feelings, she was very comfortable to live
with, and unvarying in her kindness to me.

Her husband, Sir Clement Waterville, had been knighted for his services
in India; and, having done with the army, he had settled himself in
an old house in George Street, Hanover Square. There his widow was
still living when I came up to town to be her companion, and there she
continued to live to the end of her days.

The house was let on a long lease at two hundred and sixty pounds a
year, and was the property of Ronald Hepburne. It was the only property
that he possessed, and it had been left to him by his aunt, Inez
Greystock, who had perished in the Indian Mutiny.

Sir Clement Waterville and Colonel Greystock (the husband of Inez) had
been intimate friends in India; and so it came to pass that Ronald
became acquainted with the Watervilles, and continued to visit the
widow after Sir Clement's death.

Lady Waterville did not receive many visitors, as she hated the trouble
of entertaining; but any one who had been liked by her husband was
welcomed to her house; and there were two young men in whom Sir Clement
had taken an especial interest. These two were William Greystock and
Ronald Hepburne.

Colonel Greystock had survived his wife many years; he had never had
any children, and William, his nephew, had taken the place of a son.
Through his influence, William had obtained a Government appointment in
India, and had inherited all that his uncle had to leave. When I came
to live with Lady Waterville, the colonel had been dead some time; and
William, a single man, was living comfortably on his means.

"William Greystock would be a good match for you, Louie," said Lady
Waterville one day.

How well I remember that day! It was May time; the drawing-room was
sweet with flowers, and through the open windows came the first warm
breath of summer. We sat with a little tea-table between us; the clocks
were just striking four, and the sunshine lay brightly on the old
street and square. I had been in town three months, and my ears had
grown accustomed to the ceaseless roll of wheels; the noises that had
seemed deafening at first were pleasant now, and I had already begun to
love that loud hum of unresting life which is still dear to me.

Not being in the least in awe of Lady Waterville, I never hesitated to
speak my mind.

"I don't like Mr. Greystock much," I said, frankly.

"You might like him better, if he were to pay you particular
attentions, my dear."

"I don't think I should. I liked our curate very much indeed until he
became particularly attentive, and then I turned against him in the
most extraordinary way. If I could have married him I would, just to
please my uncle and the rector."

"So you are not quite such 'an unlesson'd girl' as I supposed," said
Lady Waterville, surveying me with a benign smile. "You have had a
lover; but as he didn't succeed, I think he must have played his cards
very badly."

"He played them well enough, I believe," I replied, smiling at the
remembrance of sundry proofs of devotion.

"I don't mean that he was not in earnest." The widow was still smiling
at me across her teacup. "But he must have been terribly deficient in
tact. You were in the dullest of country places; you saw nobody, and
went nowhere. Under such circumstances, I don't see how any decent man
could have failed to win you. My brother used to be rather fastidious
about curates, so I suppose your admirer was presentable."

"Decidedly presentable and good-looking; but I got tired of him and his
face."

"What was the matter with his face?"

"Nothing; but it was a face that had no story in it."

Lady Waterville held out her cup for more cream, and then looked at me
with a slight shake of the head.

"I know you now," she said. "Louie, you are just the kind of girl who
will marry badly or not marry at all."

I laughed gaily.

"What an awful prophecy, Lady Waterville!" I cried.

"Do you know what it is that writes the story on a man's face?"
she went on. "I will tell you—folly, extravagance, sin, and bitter
repentance."

I grew graver as I listened. Was she thinking of the very face that
I was silently picturing at that moment? Despite her laziness, Lady
Waterville possessed the faculty of observation; perhaps she saw all
the more of life because she was wholly unoccupied. Her eyes were
always at liberty; never being bent on crewelwork or patchwork, they
studied human countenances in a leisurely fashion, and it is possible
that they discovered a good many little secrets. I felt my cheeks
beginning to burn.

"Give me another cup of tea, my dear," she said, speaking in quite
a different tone. "The last was not sweet enough. How well those
buttercups suit you!"

I had fastened a cluster of large water-buttercups into my bodice,
and I thoroughly appreciated the widow's kindness in looking at them,
and taking no notice of my blushes. She was talking on in a pleasant,
rambling way, and I was gradually getting cool again, when the page
threw open the door and announced Mr. Greystock.

William Greystock came in, dark, bland, inscrutable as he always was.
He had black eyes, deep-set, and black hair, closely cropped, that lay
in thick ripples over his head. As he wore no moustache, there was
nothing to veil the hard outline of his thin lips and prominent chin;
and I thought then (as I think now) that his was the strongest and most
cruel profile I had ever seen in all my life.

He talked well and fluently; admired Lady Waterville's flowers, and
even deigned to praise my humble buttercups. I told him that I had
bought them of a little girl in the street, just because they reminded
me of my old home; and then he asked me if I had not lately written
some verses about the country.

My cheeks grew hot again. Lady Waterville looked with an amused glance
from William Greystock's face to mine.

"I did not know that Miss Coverdale ever wrote poetry," she said to
him. "Pray, how did you find it out?"

"Through Ronald," he replied, with one of his peculiar smiles. "I
went into his room last night and found him as usual with his beloved
guitar. He was setting some lines to music; I asked who had written
them, and he told me."

"Does he always tell you everything?" I inquired, trying to speak
playfully, and succeeding very badly.

"Yes," was the quiet answer.

"He has inherited his love of the guitar from his Aunt Inez," said Lady
Waterville, not looking at me. "She had quite an unreasonable fondness
for her guitar, poor woman! I used to see her sometimes when she was
first married to Colonel Greystock, and I always thought her a most
extraordinary person. Ronald's mother, her own sister, was not like her
in the least."

"I have often looked at those two portraits in the dining-room," said
I. "Mrs. Hepburne was not nearly as handsome as her sister, but I like
her face better."

"Ronald is exactly like his aunt," Mr. Greystock remarked.

"As I was saying," went on Lady Waterville, "I always thought Inez a
most extraordinary person. She expected too much happiness and never
got any at all. Poor thing! She was a disappointed woman from beginning
to end. Any one with a genius for scribbling might make a novel out of
her history."

"I should like to hear it," I said.

Lady Waterville was rather fond of storytelling, and she had been, as I
soon discovered, more than commonly interested in Inez Greystock.

"Inez and Estella Winton," she began, "were the daughters of Captain
Winton, an English naval officer who had married a Spanish lady. The
mother died when the children were young; the father was often at
sea, and they were left a good deal to their own devices. Inez was
beautiful, and had, of course, a train of admirers; but she cared for
no one save a young soldier, who was known in those days as Lieutenant
Greystock. He liked her well enough, Louie, but not half as well as she
liked him. She lavished gold, you see, and got only silver in return."

"My uncle was a matter-of-fact man," put in William, in his quiet
voice. "There never could have been an atom of romance in his nature."

"Just so," said Lady Waterville. "Inez was a fool to expect too much
from him. He was not rich enough to marry, nor patient enough to bear
with her exacting ways, and the affair ended, as such affairs often do,
in a quarrel and a parting."

"What a pity," I cried, regretfully.

[Illustration: Inez]

"I don't know that it was a pity, Louie. They would have gone
wrangling through their youth together. But Inez, foolish girl, could
never forget Greystock, although she married the richest man of her
acquaintance, a Mr. Wendall. He was a diamond merchant, and after their
marriage, he brought her to this very house, and invited Estella to
come and live with them."

"He was a good husband, I believe," said William.

"He must have had the patience of Job," Lady Waterville replied. "After
enduring his wife's irritable temper for seven years, he died, and left
her handsomely provided for. And then, for two years more she lived
here in peace and quietness with Estella and the guitar."

"No wonder that she chose to be painted playing on it," William
Greystock remarked. "Her fondness for the thing must have amounted to a
positive mania. It had belonged to her mother, had it not?"

"To her mother and grandmother. It was never far from her side, and
she would compose airs and set words to them, just as Ronald does
now-a-days. That portrait in the dining-room is Inez herself; there she
sits as she did in life, her great Spanish eyes looking into space, and
her guitar resting on her knees. It is a fine picture."

"It is beautiful," I said, "but very sad. And her second marriage—how
did that come to pass?"

"It came to pass through Colonel Greystock's need of money," answered
Lady Waterville, with her usual frankness. "William knows that I am
telling an unvarnished tale. His uncle returned from India on leave,
and sought out his old love, and Inez fancied, no doubt, that she had
found her lost youth again. Captain Hepburne was Colonel Greystock's
friend, and he happened to fall in love with Estella. On the same day
the two sisters were married, very quietly, in St. George's Church, and
the two husbands took their wives back with them to India."

"Then Inez was happy in her last days?" said I.

But Lady Waterville shook her head.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER III.

INEZ.

WILLIAM GREYSTOCK was looking at me with a quiet, provoking smile.

"Miss Coverdale will be disappointed in the story," he said. "It is
only in the fairy-tales that the prince and princess, when they are
brought together, 'live happily ever afterwards.' For my part, I think
a woman is sincerely to be pitied if she marries the hero of her first
love-dream."

I knew that he was talking at me. From the very beginning of my
intercourse with Ronald Hepburne, he had been watching me silently,
and reading this tell-tale face of mine until I had often wished
desperately for Mokanna's silver veil to hide my burning cheeks. They
did not burn when he was not present; it was that quiet, persistent
scrutiny which made me intolerably self-conscious, and deprived me of
all ease and freedom. I disliked William Greystock heartily, and I was
unwise enough to show my aversion. If I had been a woman of the world,
I should have concealed it under a pleasant manner and a sweet smile;
but even then I could hardly have helped making an enemy of him.

For, if he had found out my secret, I had discovered his. Strange and
incredible as it may seem, he had actually fallen in love with Lady
Waterville's companion, the simple little girl fresh from the country.
And with him, and with those like him, love merely means a strong
desire for possession, not a willingness for self-sacrifice. It was
the sort of love that will strike because it is forbidden to caress,
and longs to wound the thing that will have none of its kisses. I do
not think that a love of this kind is very common now-a-days; strong
feelings have gone out of fashion, and men and women usually accept
their disappointments with admirable coolness and good sense. But here
and there we do occasionally find a fierce heart beating under everyday
broadcloth, and then we are wise if we avoid, as much as possible, all
intimate association with its owner.

I would not take any notice of Mr. Greystock's remark, and did my
best to look as if it had made no impression upon my mind. But Lady
Waterville could not let it pass; and I fancied that she, too, felt it
was aimed at me.

"I really believe William is right," she said, thoughtfully. "There is
nothing in life so sad as disillusion, and nothing that so embitters a
woman's nature. Well, I must tell you the end of my story, Louie; it is
nearly finished now."

"You left Inez and Estella in India," said I, a little impatiently.

"Yes; they went to India, and the elder sister had the satisfaction
of seeing the happiness of the younger. This was the only joy that
poor Inez could ever have known, her own wedded life was a bitter
disappointment; she had been married—not for the old love's sake, but
for the money's sake."

"Yet she might have been happy if she could have been content with a
moderate affection," put in William, with his detestable smile.

"She could be content with nothing that fell short of her
expectations," Lady Waterville went on. "There are children who refuse
the crust because they cannot get the cake; Inez was only a passionate,
grown-up child. She had quarrels with her husband: and Estella made
peace between the pair more than once. But the peace-maker was soon
removed; her health failed after the baby Ronald was born, and Captain
Hepburne sent his wife and child home to England."

My eyes filled with tears, and I drew back into the shade to shelter my
face from William's glances. From Ronald I had heard how his father had
fallen at the taking of Delhi, and I hoped that Lady Waterville would
pass quickly over the last parting of the husband and wife. Perhaps she
divined my thoughts; moreover, it was the story of Inez Greystock, and
not the story of Estella Hepburne that she had volunteered to tell.

"After Estella's departure," she continued, "the breach widened between
Colonel Greystock and Inez. She left off her tantrums, and ceased to
make bitter speeches—indeed I think her stock of bitter speeches must
have been quite exhausted—but she cared less and less for her husband's
society, and loved to shut herself up alone with the guitar. She had
no children; she made no friends; other women could not break through
the impenetrable barrier of reserve which she had built up around her.
I daresay a great many people pitied Colonel Greystock; but I don't
think he concerned himself very much about his melancholy wife. He went
his way, and left her strumming on the guitar and brooding over her
miseries. You are angry with him, Louie, I see."

"He is just the kind of man I could hate!" cried I.

"Nonsense, my dear. He was moral and highly respectable, quite an
ornament, as people said, to his profession. A heart, you know, is a
most unfortunate thing for any one to possess; it is sure to retard
one's advancement in life. Colonel Greystock was a lucky man; he had
no heart, and he got on very well indeed. In fact, he seemed always to
escape the disasters that overtook others, and when the mutiny broke
out at Meerut, he happened to be away from the place."

"It was there that his wife met her death," said William Greystock.

"Yes, but the particulars have never been fully known. It was on a
Sunday that the Sepoys rose, and most of the ladies of Meerut were in
church. Inez, poor soul, was at home in her own house, and was killed
there. It was said afterwards that a native soldier tried vainly to
save her life, and that she had begged him with her last breath to take
care of her guitar. A most incredible story, it seems to me."

"I don't know that it is incredible," William remarked. "She was either
quite mad, or there really was a mysterious reason for preserving her
guitar. Ronald, you know, has always inclined to the latter belief. He
thinks that if the guitar could be found, those missing jewels of hers
would be found also."

"That story of the missing jewels is a mere fiction," Lady Waterville
answered, contemptuously. "Surely, William, you are not romantic enough
to believe in such a wild tale! No one ever saw those wonderful jewels;
even Colonel Greystock declared that his wife had never mentioned them
to him. The only person who ever spoke of their existence was Estella
Hepburne, and her account of them was of the vaguest kind."

"But she believed in them," said William, "and I fancy she must have
had some substantial reason for her belief. They were chiefly diamonds,
I think; and had been left, of course, to Inez Greystock by her first
husband, Wendall, the diamond merchant."

Lady Waterville was so astonished at Mr. Greystock's absurdity that she
became almost excited.

"It was just because Wendall happened to be a diamond merchant that
somebody started that fable," she cried. "If Inez had ever possessed
any diamonds, she would have flung them at your uncle's feet in the
excess of her devotion. Why, she was perfectly infatuated about him!
The moment he returned to her, all her old love revived, and she gave
him everything she had."

"Excepting this old house," said William.

"Excepting this house. This was intended to be the home of the
Hepburnes and their son. Inez never meant to live in it again; she
always said that when the Colonel had done with India, she should
persuade him to go to some quiet country place. I think she had a dream
of growing old with her husband, and of finding him a lover to the very
last."

"But the guitar, was it never found?" I asked.

"My dear Louie, is it likely that such a thing would ever be found?
Imagine all the destruction and confusion of that terrible time! No,
don't imagine it, for if you do you will not get a moment's sleep
to-night."

I had no desire to picture the horrors of the mutiny, and I said so.
Yet I secretly resolved that the next time Ronald and I were alone
together, I would lead him on to talk of the lost guitar.

It was now time to dress for our usual drive before dinner. Mr.
Greystock, who was well acquainted with Lady Waterville's habits, rose
to depart, but lingered, standing, to say a few last words to me.

"Hereditary traits are an interesting study, Miss Coverdale; don't you
think so?" asked he.

"I suppose they are," I replied, carelessly. "It is clear that Ronald
has inherited his aunt's passion for the guitar," he went on.

"He is a happier fellow than I am."

"Indeed!" I said, with an air of incredulity.

"Well, he is young, to begin with. And he has gifts, and I have none;
do you wonder that I envy him a little?"

"Yes, I do wonder," I answered. "I thought you were very well satisfied
with yourself and your lot."

"Lately I have become dissatisfied. Mine is an empty life, and I'm
beginning to grow disgusted with it. As to Ronald, he gets all the good
things that he wants."

I only said: "Does he?"

"I am sure you know that he does. I am no judge of such matters, but I
have heard it said that he has a way which no woman can resist. It must
have been his Aunt Inez who gave him those tragic, musing eyes, and
that look of unfathomable sorrow which he puts on sometimes. It is all
very effective."

I gathered up my energies and succeeded, I believe, in preserving a
tolerably calm face.

"Good-bye," he said. Then stepping back, he added, in an easy tone:
"We were speaking of hereditary traits; by the way, there is one trait
which Ronald has inherited from his father."

"What is that?" I foolishly asked.

"A love of gambling."

William went his way in quiet triumph, and left me with a dull ache
in my heart. I ran quickly upstairs to dress for the drive; and then,
finding that Lady Waterville was not quite ready, I went down to the
dining-room and stood gazing at the portrait of Inez.

It was painted by a master's hand, and showed a beautiful brunette,
wearing a gown of dark-red velvet, and holding the guitar upon her lap.
The face, perfectly oval in shape, was thrown a little forward, as if
listening; and the wonderful eyes, large, luminous, heavily fringed
with black lashes, were so full of passion and sorrow that their gaze
thrilled me with pain. Ronald's eyes were not so splendid as these, yet
they had a little of this unfathomable melancholy; and the shape of his
face was like hers. There was a strong likeness between this ill-fated
Inez and the nephew who had never known her.

Hearing Lady Waterville's slow footstep on the stairs, I turned away
from the picture and went out into the hall.

"You look rather sad, Louie," she said, as I joined her.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IV.

RONALD.

I LIVED two years with Lady Waterville; and to outside observers, mine
must have seemed the most peaceful and uneventful of lives.

But any one who could have seen beneath the surface would have found
impatience, anxiety, and heartache always going on within me; and yet I
was neither impatient nor anxious about myself. It was for Ronald that
I suffered. Until he entered my life, I had been contented with little
joys; pleased with trifles; easily moved to gladness; but he came, and
shadows came with him. It was a very common love-story after all; and
I know that many a girl who reads these pages will pause and say to
herself: "This is my experience."

He loved me deeply and truly, all the more because I was not only his
love but his friend. To me were confided embarrassments, worries,
even mistakes, and there was never any fear of being repulsed or
misunderstood. I was a mere country girl; but I had thought and read
and studied in my uncle's quiet cottage, and I found the hero of my
real life-story not so very much unlike some of the heroes of fiction.
My knowledge of human nature was only second-hand, but affection turned
it to good account, and made the best of it.

Moreover, I had always possessed that useful power of assimilation
which makes it a positive delight to be confided in. In old days, when
boys came to stay at the rectory, I had seldom failed to adapt myself
readily to such themes as interested them. I learned the names of their
schoolfellows and masters in a trice, and never confused identities,
and I would talk with them for hours about people I had never seen, and
games I had never played. To this very day, I retain the parting tokens
of their boyish friendship—a formidable knife with several blades, some
marbles, and a pocket telescope, through which I have never yet been
able to discern a single object, near or far.

And now that Ronald Hepburne came to me for sympathy, I seemed to live,
move, and have my being in him and his concerns. Outwardly I belonged
to Lady Waterville, but I scarcely gave her a thought; I could think
only of Ronald and the difficulties that beset his path, and made it
impossible for us to walk side by side.

Later on, I learned that William Greystock had pretended to remove
those difficulties. To him, as to an elder brother, Ronald had
naturally confided his desire to increase his income and marry.
Mr. Greystock had acquired a reputation for keen sagacity; he was
acquainted with city men, and even Lady Waterville spoke with respect
of his abilities for business. With his knowledge and influence it
seemed easy for him to obtain a post for Ronald, but somehow that
post was never found, and once or twice when the poor fellow, had
thought himself almost sure of a situation, there had been a mysterious
obstacle placed in his way.

Yet his belief in William remained unshaken. Ronald himself was
constitutionally delicate, and seemed to have a natural incapacity
to push through the crowd of fortune-seekers and gain his end. But
William, who had never known a day's illness, seldom failed in getting
anything he wanted, and yet he was always so cool and deliberate in his
actions, that his object was attained without apparent effort or fuss.
He was an energetic man, and Ronald was an indolent one.

Impartial observers, looking at the two men, invariably decided that
William Greystock was a far better and grander character than Ronald
Hepburne. William had added to his income by shrewd and cautious
money-making; he gave liberally to public charities, he bestowed
advice on frivolous bachelor friends, and was regarded by them as a
model counsellor. Lady Waterville quoted his wise sayings continually,
and was often heard to wish that Ronald—"poor, foolish, fascinating
Ronald—" would put himself completely under the guidance of Mr.
Greystock.

"Do you think Mr. Hepburne fascinating?" I said, one day.

"Yes," she answered, "and so do you, Louie. I admire that soft, languid
manner of his; and you are in love with his melancholy face and
manifold misfortunes. It does not matter to you that he brought a good
many of those misfortunes on himself; like all women of your type, you
are willing to heal wounds without inquiring how they were gained. In
my opinion, you are a ridiculous girl, and I won't waste any more sound
advice upon you!"

These words were said in her usual good-humoured way, and accompanied
by a caressing pat on the shoulder. I had not then acknowledged that
Ronald was my lover, and in Lady Waterville's presence we met only as
friends. But I think she suspected that there was something more than
friendship between us.

"I grant that your advice is always sound," I said, "yet if I followed
it, I don't believe I should be happy. It is quite possible for some
natures to be uncomfortable in the midst of comfort."

"Perfectly true," she replied. "As for you, Louie, you could not rest
without wearing yourself out for another's sake. Your life is not worth
living unless it is lived for somebody else. For me, and for thousands
of other women, self is sufficient. It is not sufficient for you; but
you are as heaven made you."

I knew that if I married Ronald, Lady Waterville would persist in
regarding me as an interesting martyr to the end of her days. I knew
that she would speak of me to her friends as a perfectly unselfish
girl who had thrown herself away on a good-for-nothing man. But was
Ronald really good-for-nothing? I was a better judge of his character
than any one else could possibly be. A true love is never blind; it is
keener-sighted even than hate, it makes itself acquainted with all the
weak places in the loved one's nature that it may mount guard over the
undefended spots. And my insight into Ronald's inner self revealed to
me a wealth of unsuspected good.

Knowing that I understood him far better than she did, I permitted Lady
Waterville to say what she liked; but she could not delude me into the
belief that I was a heroine. Nor could she even persuade me to alter my
opinion of Mr. Greystock.

It was Lady Waterville's custom to leave town in the beginning of
August, and stay away until the first of October; and when I first came
to live with her, this autumn holiday had seemed very pleasant to me.
I enjoyed the life one leads at a gay watering-place, and found that
military bands, stylish costumes, and casual acquaintance were much
to my liking. But the second autumn was not half as delightful as the
first. I did not want to leave London, and felt listless and bored at
the seaside. Straitened means had condemned Ronald to do penance in
town till through the hot weather; and what were sea-breezes to me? It
was a joyful day when my term of banishment was ended, and we returned
to the old house in Hanover Square.

It was afternoon when we found ourselves in George Street again—a dim,
quiet afternoon, made cheerful by some last gleams of autumn sunshine.
The cab stopped at our door, and I got out with such a beaming face
that the parlour-maid congratulated me on my appearance. It was the
last time that I ever heard that cheery phrase:

"How well you are looking, miss, to be sure!"

In the days that came and went afterwards, most people surveyed me with
a silence that was more eloquent than words. Miss Coverdale, the petted
companion of Lady Waterville, with her rounded cheeks and smiling lips,
was soon destined to become a creature of the past.

We lingered long over our afternoon tea, and were still sitting with
the cups and the little table between us, when Ronald came in. He was
looking noticeably worn and sad—so sad, that after one glance at his
face all my gay spirits deserted me.

"We have been enjoying ourselves immensely," said Lady Waterville, in
a mischievous tone. "Louie got through a good deal of flirting; it's
astonishing to see the progress that she has made in the art! Last year
she was a mere beginner, but now—"

"Now she is more disgusted with flirtation than she ever was in her
life!" I interrupted, with impatience. "Why do you misrepresent Louie,
Lady Waterville? You know she is sick of the band, and the pier, and
all the seaside nonsense, and heartily glad to be at home again!"

Lady Waterville gave a sleepy little laugh, and sank back upon the
cushions of her chair. In the next minute, she was snoring audibly;
and Ronald and I were as much left to ourselves as if she had been in
another room.

He drew nearer to my side as I sat in the glow of the firelight. There
was a shaded lamp on a distant table, and the drawing-room was but
dimly illuminated that evening. But the flickering flames revealed the
lines on his face, and lit up the melancholy eyes that sought mine with
a troubled gaze.

"I have been very lonely, Louie."

Is there any woman who can hear this confession from a man, and refrain
from pitying him? Women are themselves accustomed to loneliness, and
to many of them it is only another word for peace. We are not, as
a rule, so sociably inclined as men; we can be content with a soft
chair, a book, and the unfailing cup of tea, when a man will pine for
companionship, and go out of doors, in rain or wind, to seek the face
of a friend. I had learnt from Ronald's letters that he had missed me,
but when we came face to face again, I knew, for the first time, that
his yearning had become an absolute pain.

I could not find words to say to him at that moment; but involuntarily
my hand touched his, and was seized and held in a close clasp. My eyes
were fixed upon the fire; but they saw visions of an Eden, sunlit and
glorious, full of granted desires and realised dreams. Perhaps he, too,
saw the same vision, and rebelled all the more fiercely against his
cramped and fettered life.

"Are we never to be happy together?" he whispered, passionately. "Are
we to wait on and on, and let the best part of our lives go by? I have
only a poor home to offer you, Louie; but I will work for you, dear.
Will you come to me?"

Lady Waterville still slumbered peacefully; the large tabby cat kept up
a drowsy purr on the hearth-rug at my feet, and there was no one near
to utter a word of caution. Yet, in my own heart, a stern voice failed
not to make itself heard above all love's fervent pleadings; and for an
instant I paused, and listened to that inward warning. Then Ronald's
eyes met mine, and the bright vision of an Eden came back at once; I
should have been more than woman if I could have resisted its spell.

"I will come to you," I said, softly. And a brilliant flame shot
suddenly up from the neglected fire, and showed me all the joy and
triumph in his face.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER V.

RECOVERY.

IF we had been wise, we should have waited till my nurse could give us
rooms under her roof. But we would not wait. And so it came to pass
that we were married, one grey autumn morning, in St. George's Church,
and took up our quarters among strangers. Lady Waterville was seriously
angry. She even went so far as to say some cutting things that I could
not easily forget. I parted with her coldly, and left the old house
with a firm determination not to enter it again unless I was sent for.

How sorrow came upon us in those dreary lodgings I have already told.
Six months of mingled bliss and anxiety, and then my husband was
stricken down. I sought for no help or sympathy from Lady Waterville in
my trouble. Quite alone I watched by Ronald's sick-bed; and nurse was
the only friend who visited us in our time of calamity.

Yet not the only friend. There was one face that came like sunshine
into the sickroom, one voice that never failed to bid me be of good
cheer. The face was shrewd, bright, and kindly, with eyes that were
well used to studying poor humanity, and the voice was deep-toned
and pleasant to hear. Dr. Warstone was, in the truest sense of the
word, a friend. He was not a courtly, flattering doctor by any means,
sweetening his doses with little compliments. But he looked straight
into your heart, and read all your doubts and fears, all your unspoken
longings and womanly anguish; and he sympathised with every weakness as
only a large-hearted man can.

The clocks were striking eight, and I was just persuading Ronald not to
sit up any longer, when the doctor paid us his first visit in Chapel
Place.

"This boy is fast getting well," he said, sitting by the patient's
sofa, and criticising him quietly. "He seems to have got into good
quarters; your new room looks like a home."

My nurse had contrived to bring something of the country even into her
London house. There were bulrushes on the walls that had grown by our
old village stream, and the bunches of dried grass on the chimney-piece
had been gathered in the fields behind my grandfather's cottage. There
were no cheap modern ornaments to be seen; but we had put some quaint
blue china on the shelf, and some more was visible through the glazed
door of the corner cupboard. Up among the bulrushes hung a painted
tambourine, decked with bows of bright satin ribbon; and between the
windows was an oval mirror which had often reflected my grandmother's
charms. Our decorations were simple enough; but they brightened the
dim little room, and gave it that home-like look which the doctor had
noticed at once.

"I wish I could take Ronald out of town," I said.

"Wait a bit," Doctor Warstone replied.

"These spring days are as treacherous as usual. There isn't a lively
view to be seen from your windows, but you must contrive to amuse him
indoors."

"I shall soon be able to amuse myself," Ronald declared. "There's the
guitar, you know, doctor; it's one of the best companions in the world
for an invalid. By Jove, Louie, I forgot to ask you if it had got
damaged in the smash?"

"What smash?" Doctor Warstone asked.

I was glad that he put the question; it prevented me from answering my
husband.

"It was only a cab collision," I replied. "Very little mischief was
done. At first I was afraid Ronald would suffer, but he seems to be
none the worse for it."

"Are you quite sure you are none the worse for it?" demanded the
doctor, looking searchingly at me.

"Do you think she is?" cried Ronald, anxiously. "She did look
uncommonly pale afterwards. Louie, if there are any sprains or bruises
that you haven't mentioned—"

"I always mention everything," I interrupted, laughing.

Doctor Warstone got up to take his leave, telling Ronald that it was
time for him to go to bed. I followed the doctor out into the passage,
closing the parlour door behind me.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Nerves out of order? The cab
smash must have given you a shake."

"It didn't hurt me. But, oh, doctor, how foolish you will think me!"

"I have thought you foolish ever since I first saw you," he responded,
with one of his kindly smiles.

"I know; everybody does. I am fretting about the guitar. I don't know
how to tell my poor boy that it is broken; and—worse still—I can't
imagine how we shall get another."

"A man with a good little wife can exist without a guitar. You are at
your old tricks—taking things too seriously."

"I daresay it seems so," I admitted, meekly. "But, do you believe in
hereditary tendencies?"

"Humph! What of that?"

"Ronald's love of the guitar is hereditary. His aunt, Inez Greystock,
is said to have been passionately attached to her guitar. She could
not rest unless it was ever by her side: her hands were seeking for it
always. It is the same with Ronald. When he finds that the thing is
battered and useless, there will be something gone from his life. I can
hardly hope to make you understand all that it has been to him."

"Humph," said the doctor again. "Suppose I say that it is quite
possible to replace this precious guitar. Suppose I tell you that I
know of one—a good one, too—that you can have for nothing. Will that
comfort you, I wonder?"

"Comfort me! You are like a good magician!"

"A good magician is only a doctor practising under another name. Now
listen. Give Ronald his breakfast in bed to-morrow, and then leave him
hurriedly, pretending that you must do some shopping. Make your way, as
fast as you can, to Soho Square; saunter up and down before the door of
the great piano store, and wait till I come."

"I will do all that you tell me," I promised, gratefully.

And he went into the dusk of the April night.

When I came back to Ronald, I found him comfortably drowsy, and ready
for a long night's rest. He really was too sleepy to ask any more
questions, or even to wonder what the doctor and I had been saying to
each other in the entry. I had a bright fire burning in the bedroom,
and I carried the shaded lamp out of the parlour, and sat down to sew
by my husband's bedside.

He soon fell into a sound slumber. I sat sewing, and listening to his
regular breathing, thinking of the time when he would be quite strong
and well again.

The future had to be faced. Illness is a terrible thing to people
whose means are small. Our scanty purse could hardly meet all the
demands that Ronald's sickness had made upon it. Expensive medicine and
nourishment—heavy lodging-house bills—fees to servants—all amounted to
a sum total that made my brain dizzy when I thought of it.

One of Lady Waterville's parting prophecies had been already
fulfilled. I wished I could forget her words, but they were haunting
my memory to-night. She had said that before the first year of my
married life had ended, I should taste poverty. Then there would be
disappointment—then bitter regret. Why did she say such things? Even if
my future had been verily revealed to her, she might have closed her
lips, and let me go my way. I would scarcely acknowledge that I knew
the taste of poverty yet; but some of its bitterness I did know. Well
as I loved my nurse, it hurt my pride to live in her house, and get
into her debt, as I was doing now. It is true that she gladly trusted
me, and had perfect confidence in the coming of better days; but I
smarted secretly under the sense of humiliation.

Some women were clever enough to bring grist to the mill, but I was
not of that gifted sisterhood. Story-writing was far beyond my powers,
and although I could make little songs for Ronald to sing, I was by no
means tempted to fancy myself a poet. All the talents that I possessed
were decidedly commonplace. Sewing, converting old gowns into new,
mending neatly, and wearing shabby clothes in a way that did not reveal
their shabbiness, this was almost all that I could do.

Well, I was tasting some of the bitterness of the poverty; but how
about the disappointment and the bitter regret? Nothing would persuade
me that I should ever be disappointed in Ronald. Mine was not a blind
love. I had never thought that I was marrying a perfect being; nor did
I want perfection. To me, the poor human idol, full of divers faults
and flaws, was far dearer than an immaculate saint set high above my
head.

The warm room and the monotonous work began to have a sleepy influence
upon me at last. I had spent many wakeful nights, and now that the
anxiety was ended, I often found myself dropping off unawares into a
nap. With my sewing still in my hands, I dozed sitting in the chair,
and then I had a curious dream.

I dreamt that I was standing before a mirror, looking at the reflection
of my own face and figure. My arms, neck, and head were glittering with
wonderful jewels; and yet it did not seem strange to me that I should
be decked out in such a regal fashion. The glitter of the gems was
almost too bright to be borne—so bright that I woke with a start, and
found that a coal in the grate had burst into a brilliant blaze. No
doubt it was that sudden light, dancing before my closed eyes, that had
been the cause of my dream.

The hands of my watch pointed to a quarter to ten. I rose from my seat,
undressed as quietly as possible, and went to bed. All night long I
slept as soundly and peacefully as a child, and the dream did not come
to me again.

I woke at seven the next morning, and got up without noise to wash and
dress. Looking through the window of my little dressing-room, I saw the
London sun shining cheerfully on the yard where nurse had cultivated
ferns and ivy. She seemed to have had uncommon luck with her plants,
for they flourished as town-plants seldom do. The bold sparrows were
twittering merrily in the early light, and their notes were full of
joy and hope. After all, there were plenty of chances in life; and the
world was not quite as dark as it had seemed to my fancy last night.

Ronald had slept well, and was wide awake when I brought him the
breakfast-tray. I had found time to tell nurse about my mysterious
appointment in Soho Square. She entered heartily into my little plan,
and came into the parlour while I was putting on my bonnet and mantle.

"Where is Mrs. Hepburne?" my husband asked, when nurse went to see how
he was getting on with breakfast.

"Gone out for a little fresh air and shopping, sir," I heard her
answer, promptly. "She'll be back in half-an-hour. Nothing like a
morning run, sir, for one who has been nursing, you know. Dear me, how
fast you are picking up, to be sure!"

I hastened out of the house, knowing well enough that I could trust the
good soul to look after Ronald in my absence. At the top of my speed
I raced along Oxford Street, keeping pace with the bustling clerks on
their way to business, and never once stopping to glance at a shop
window. When I turned at last into Soho Street, I was out of breath,
and glad to stroll slowly along the pavement of the old square. Neither
the doctor nor his carriage were to be seen; I was the first at the
place of rendezvous, and had leisure to rest and look round.

First I looked at the piano store, and wondered how the doctor knew
that there was a guitar to be found there? And then I stood still, and
gazed at the so-called garden in the middle of the square, and watched
my merry friends, the sparrows, hopping about on the budding twigs.
This uncountrified spot of green had a sort of attraction for my eyes,
and kept my thoughts busy till Dr. Warstone's carriage came rattling up
to the place where I stood.

"Good morning," said the doctor, cheerily. "Haven't been waiting long,
have you? Now come with me, and I'll introduce you to the guitar."

"Is it in here?" I asked, as we entered the warehouse.

"It is up in a room high above the store. I hope you don't mind stairs.
The fact is that Messrs. Harkaby are good people, and are kind enough
to give a poor old piano-tuner a shelter for his head. He won't need
it much longer; he is going fast. The other day he asked me if I knew
any one who would care to have his guitar? I told him I would find
somebody, and now I am keeping my word."

He did not tell me that he himself was the best friend that the dying
man possessed; but as I followed him up those long flights of stairs,
I quickly guessed the truth. One might know Doctor Warstone for years
without finding out one quarter of the good that he did every day.
Often and often I have heard clergymen extolled to the skies for doing
splendid things which a doctor does naturally and simply, never getting
a word of praise. They are great men, these doctors who toil in our
large towns—cheerful in the midst of sorrow, quick to help, prompt to
save. And to this day, when any one talks about an ideal hero, the face
of Doctor Warstone rises up in my memory, and I think of all the noble
deeds, known and unknown, that this quiet worker has done.

We got at length to the top of the last flight, and paused before a
door on the landing.

"I will go in first," the doctor said, "and prepare Monsieur Léon for
your coming. You will not mind waiting here for a few moments while I
speak to my patient?"



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VI.

THE GUITAR.

THERE was a window on the landing, commanding a fine view of roofs and
chimney-pots, and I stood watching little white clouds sailing swiftly
across the blue April sky. I could hear the doctor's deep voice in the
sick room, and then a faint tone in reply. At length the door opened,
and I was bidden to enter.

The room was large, and looked lighter and more airy than London rooms
generally do. There was a light paper on the walls, and some kind hand
had pinned up several coloured engravings, which made the sick chamber
look something like a nursery. The invalid was sitting in an easy chair
stuffed with pillows, and placed near a bright fire. Resting against
the arm of the chair, just within reach of the sick man's hand, was the
guitar.

The doctor quietly introduced us to each other; and Monsieur Léon's
eyes, looking strangely brilliant in his worn face, seemed to flash me
a glance of welcome. He was very ill; the pinched features and hollow
cheeks told a pathetic tale of long suffering; but the smile, that came
readily and brightly, was full of courage and sweetness. Evidently
Monsieur Léon was not to be daunted by the approach of death.

"It is very good of you to come and see me, madame," he said, with easy
courtesy. "Will you be seated, and talk a little while? As for that
dear doctor, his minutes are worth guineas. Ah, I wish sometimes that
he could waste an hour, as idle people can! Now, I see that he is going
to scold me!"

"Not to scold you, only to warn you, Léon," put in Dr. Warstone,
kindly. "Don't let your spirit run away with your strength. Remember
that you must not say many words without resting. You have a great deal
to tell Mrs. Hepburne;—well, you will be wise to make your story as
short as possible. She has an invalid at home who will watch the clock
till she comes back."

"Ah, your husband, is it not?" said Monsieur Léon, turning eagerly to
me. "It is he to whom I am to give my guitar?"

The doctor gave us a parting smile and went his way.

"Yes," I answered, as the door closed. "It will be a great kindness,
gratefully accepted. But can you spare it, Monsieur Léon?"

"Spare it!" he repeated. "Ah, madame, do you suppose I would leave my
guitar to the mercy of ignorant strangers? It is you who are doing the
kindness. You are willing to shelter this beloved friend of mine, and
give it a home when I am gone. More! You will let it speak to you in
the sweet language which has so often soothed and comforted me. You
will not condemn it to dust and silence and decay!"

"Oh, no," I said, earnestly, struck with the poor Frenchman's grace of
manner and expression. "To my husband, the guitar will be as dear as it
has been to you. It will always be within his reach—always taken up in
his spare moments. As for me, I love to hear it played, although I am
no player myself."

Monsieur Léon had remembered the doctor's injunction, and was silent
for a moment. His voice sounded a little weaker when he spoke again.

"It was in India," he went on, "that I first became possessed of my
guitar. When I was young I had friends, and they sent me to Bombay to
be clerk in a mercantile house. But ah, madame, it was my misfortune
to love music better than figures, and so I did not make the best of
clerks. I saw the guitar in a bazaar one day, and bought it for a
mere trifle. It is old, as you see, and of Spanish make. Look at this
beautiful mosaic work of mother-o'-pearl and silver! You do not find
anything like it now-a-days."

He drew the instrument towards him, and pointed out its beauties with
evident pride. It was of dark wood, delicately inlaid with a quaint and
fanciful pattern. But the tone? I wished he would touch the strings.

"I will not weary you with a history of myself and my doings," he
continued. "It is enough to say that the guitar has been with me
through many years of sorrow and misfortune. When it has spoken to me,
I have forgotten my troubles. Often I have sat alone in a dreary London
room, and listened to the tinkle of mule-bells on the passes. Or I have
seen the southern moon rise over the walls of the Alhambra, and heard
the dark-eyed gipsies sing the songs of Spain. But sometimes my guitar
has said things that I cannot understand.

"Sometimes there are melodies of which I fail to find the meaning. It
is strange."

[Illustration: HIS THIN FINGERS BEGAN TO STRAY OVER THE STRINGS.]

Was his mind wandering? There was a dreamy look in his face as he sank
back on the pillows, and his thin fingers began to stray over the
strings. I waited in silence.

Mechanically he tuned the guitar, and played a few chords. Then came a
strange, sweet tune that reminded me of fairy music floating down from
distant hills.

   "The horns of Elfland faintly blowing—"

Might have sounded just as soft and gay. There was nothing sad in the
melody, but it left its hearer unsatisfied. What did it mean? What
words were set to this enchanting air? One wanted to hear it again and
yet again.

The feeble hands soon came to a pause, and I saw that all the fire had
died out of Monsieur Léon's eyes. It was time for me to go. I had long
outstayed the "half-hour" to which nurse had limited my absence. Ronald
would be anxiously looking for my return.

"I am afraid you are exhausted," I said, rising. "Is there nothing I
can do before I leave you?"

He thanked me softly and shook his head. Then, with a gesture, he
desired me to take up the guitar. But I touched it reluctantly. It must
have been so hard for him to part with it. It seemed so cruel to take
it away.

"Are you really willing to let it go?" I asked, anxiously.

He roused himself, and looked at me with a sudden smile.

"The time has come," he said. "I cannot take it with me where I am
going. Give it to your husband, madame, with the good wishes of a dying
man. I send it away with a blessing."

The words were almost solemnly uttered. When he had spoken, he sank
back wearily and closed his eyes; and I saw that the short-lived
strength, lent him by excitement, had ebbed away. There was nothing
more for me to stay for, but my eyes were full of tears when I left the
room. That last farewell was echoing in my ears as I carried the guitar
carefully downstairs.

In my old country home I had often heard it said that the blessing of
the dying is a good gift. I was glad to recall those parting words,
although they made me weep. And little did I then know how strangely
significant they would seem to me in a time that was yet to come.

Before I had got to the bottom of the stairs, I met a nursing Sister,
evidently on her way to the sick room. She stood aside to let me pass,
and it comforted me to feel that Monsieur Léon would not long be left
alone.

The world scarcely seemed to be like itself when I came out into Soho
Square again. There had been something dreamy and romantic in the poor
Frenchman's talk, and it was strange to find myself out in the fresh
spring air with the guitar in my arms. A small boy called a hansom for
me, and I went rattling home through the work-a-day streets, half sad
and half glad, holding fast to my new possession. What would Ronald
say when he saw me coming into his room? I had been away quite a long
while, and he would be tired of lying still and waiting for my return.

The cab set me down in Chapel Place, and I let myself in with a
latch-key. In the next minute, I entered the parlour, triumphantly
bearing the guitar, and found myself face to face with my husband. He
was dressed, and lying on the sofa, looking just a little inclined to
find fault with everybody, and with me in particular.

"I didn't think you would have got up," I began in a tone of apology.

"Why not? I felt quite well enough, and nurse helped me. I've had
enough of bed, I can assure you. Your shopping seems to have taken a
whole morning! What have you there? A guitar?"

"Yes, Ronald. I suppose nurse has told you that yours is broken. This
is another that I have got to-day."

"Dear little woman!" cried the poor fellow, brightening. "I was afraid
you would say that we could not afford another. Where did you buy it?
How much did you give? I wish I had tried it before it was bought."

"Supposing it isn't bought at all?" I said, putting Monsieur Léon's
treasure into the eager hands outstretched to receive it.

"Oh, then I suppose you have only borrowed it!"

He swept his fingers across the strings, and a sudden look of pleasure
flashed into his face. "It is very good—better than mine, Louie. Do
they want much money for it?"

"Who are 'they'?" I demanded, provokingly. "Ah, Ronald, I won't
tantalise you any more! The guitar is yours, really yours; and there is
nothing to pay for it."

"You are a little witch," said my husband. "Go and take off that shabby
old bonnet of yours, and then come here and tell me all about it."

The bonnet was shabby; I knew that well enough; and I knew, too,
that it would be a long time before I could get a fresh one. But the
"outward adorning" did not occupy my mind just then, nor did I even
bestow one regretful thought on the faded face inside the poor bonnet.
I was eager to get back to Ronald's side, and see him enjoying his new
possession. Moreover, I had a wonderful story to tell, and the telling
of it would make the rest of the morning pass pleasantly away.

He was deeply interested in my account of the doctor's poor patient,
and asked more questions about Monsieur Léon than I could possibly
answer. And then the gift underwent a close examination; in fact, he
scarcely cared to part with it even for a moment.

I had gone out of the room to speak to nurse, and when I returned I
found my husband standing close to the window. He was looking into the
guitar with earnest eyes, and glanced up at me as I came in, saying
that he had just made a discovery.

"Do go back to your sofa, dear," I entreated.

"I wanted to get the light," he answered. "This is such a dark room.
Louie, here is a curious thing."

"Well, go back to the sofa, and then tell me what it is."

"No, no," he said, petulantly, "come here and see. You know that inside
a guitar there is generally a paper pasted, bearing the maker's name.
Well, look at this paper, and read what is written upon it."

He held the instrument up to catch the light. And then, indeed, I did
see the paper, and some words inscribed upon it in a woman's hand.
These words were written in Spanish, and I did not know their meaning
till he translated them.

"Hope guards the jewels," he read, thoughtfully. "Now, what does that
mean, I wonder?"

"How can we ever tell?" I cried. "What do we know of those who once
owned this guitar? But you are looking fagged and pale, Ronald; and if
you are going to lose your afternoon nap, I shall wish that I had never
brought that thing into the house."

He consented at last to lie down on the couch and shut his eyes. Soon I
had the satisfaction of seeing that he was fast asleep, with the guitar
lying by his side.

Later on, when the soft dusk of the spring evening was creeping over
Chapel Place, my husband's fingers began to wander lovingly across the
strings; and I sat and listened to him in the twilight, just as I had
done a hundred times before. It was the resting time of the day; my
hands lay idly folded in my lap, and I was leaning back in a low chair
with a sense of quietness and peace. He was not strong enough yet to
sing the songs that I had written in our happy courting-days. He could
only strike the chords, and bring out of them that fairy-like music
which is always sweetest when it is heard in the gloaming.

Presently there came again that soft, gay melody that Monsieur Léon had
played, and again it stirred me with a strange surprise. Surely it was
unlike anything I had ever heard before. How and where did Ronald learn
it? He repeated the air, and I listened, entranced and wondering. It
seemed to me that the chords were giving out a fuller sound than I had
ever heard yet.

"Ronald, what is that? Where did you first hear it?" I asked, raising
myself, and bending eagerly towards him.

He did not immediately reply. A flame shot up suddenly from the low
fire, and showed me the thoughtful, dreamy look upon his face. At
length he spoke.

"I was just wondering," he answered, "where I had first heard it. It
seems to be an echo of something that I knew years and years ago. And
yet, I could fancy that it came out of my own brain, just as your
verses come out of yours."

"But I heard it from Monsieur Léon this morning," I said, "and it had a
strange effect upon me."

"Did the Frenchman play it? Then, depend upon it, I have got it from
some old music book that I have not seen for ages. Only I can't
remember playing it on my old guitar."

"You never did," I replied. "I know all that you play. Poor Monsieur
Léon has laid his spell upon those strings!"

"You are getting fanciful, Louie," he said, looking wonderingly at me
through the mist of twilight.

"Perhaps I am. Monsieur Léon's talk to-day was fanciful; it might have
been that his mind was wandering. He said that the guitar sometimes
spoke to him of things that he could not understand, and then he played
that very air. It is an air that needs a poem to interpret its meaning."

"Well, why don't you write one?" Ronald asked. "I will try to play it
again."

He did play it again. And once more I felt the influence of the soft
gladness—the faint, sweet triumph that was expressed in the melody. But
when he paused, I shook my head.

"It goes beyond me," I confessed. "I can find no words that will
harmonise with that air. It leaves me with an inexplicable longing to
find out its true meaning; but I think I shall never know it."

"I have had that feeling once or twice in my life," said Ronald,
musingly. "I remember a winter afternoon when I was waiting for a train
in a strange town, and strolled into an old church to pass away the
time. Some one was playing on the organ—a voluntary, perhaps—and the
music came drifting along the empty aisles. I stood just inside the
west door, and listened, trying to find out what it meant. But I could
not tell."

"Let us put the guitar away now," I entreated, catching the tone of
weariness in his voice. "You have been sitting up quite long enough,
dear, and there is a bright fire in the next room. What a chilly spring
it is! This evening is as cold as winter."

For a wonder he complied meekly with my request, and walked from the
parlour into the bed-chamber with his arm round my shoulders. In a
little while he was in a sound sleep, his head resting quietly on the
pillow, while I moved gently about the room and put things in order for
the night.

I was too tired to sit long over my needlework, although a piled up
work-basket reminded me that there was plenty of mending to be done.
But, sleepy as I really was, that mysterious melody was still haunting
my brain, and I found myself trying to set words to it unawares. Only
fragments of rhyme came to me; bits of verses never to be finished; and
at last I endeavoured to forget the air altogether. Yet even in slumber
it came back, and again I saw Monsieur Léon's thin face and brilliant
eyes, and heard his parting blessing.

When the morning came, and I went into the parlour to get my husband's
breakfast, there lay the guitar upon the sofa. And I almost started at
the sight of it, for I had half persuaded myself that it was merely a
thing of my dreams.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]


CHAPTER VII.

JARS.

IT almost seemed as if the guitar helped Ronald on to perfect recovery.
As the spring days advanced, his strength increased, and Doctor
Warstone's visits were discontinued. How much I missed those visits I
never owned. I think the influence of that good man's strong nature
and wise, cheerful words had sustained me unawares. And when I lost
sight of the kind face, and ceased to hear the friendly voice, I became
conscious of my own weakness.

We had not money enough to go out of town for change of air. Moreover,
with Ronald's returning health came the urgent need of finding work to
do; and where was he to find work if it was not to be found in London?
When we were first married I had been quite sanguine about his chance
of getting employment. He could do so many things, that it seemed
impossible for him to fail. But later on, I discovered that the man who
can do many things is precisely the man who does fail.

He could paint a tambourine beautifully, and hang it up on a wall with
good effect; and he had a perfect genius for arranging old china, and
giving artistic touches to a room. And there was the guitar-playing,
and the singing, to say nothing of a graceful manner and a way of
gliding naturally into the best society. Useful gifts these, were they
not? Gifts which ought, of course, to have ensured their possessor a
good income, and complete immunity from all the petty anxieties of life!

But, alas! They did not. Days lengthened into weeks; we left off fires,
and were glad to open the windows and let the London air enter our
little room. All the best people were in town; streets and squares
were gay with carriages; women looked charming in their freshly-donned
costumes; but I, Louie Hepburne, crept about in my shabby old gown,
carrying a heavy heart, and perpetually doing long addition sums. Oh,
those weekly bills which my good nurse never presented! Would they ever
be paid?

It was about this time that Ronald began to miss my old cheerfulness.
Somehow there were not so many things to laugh at as there used to
be. The comic side of life seemed to be hidden from my gaze. Mental
arithmetic does not foster one's sense of humour, and the fun was
gradually dying out of my nature. I suppose I was a dull companion; and
even devotedness cannot quite make up for dulness. One evening, when we
were sitting together in our small parlour, he looked at me and sighed.

"I don't think I acted quite fairly in persuading you to marry me,
Louie," he said, after a brief pause.

"Are you going in for vain regret, and that sort of thing?" I asked,
feeling my checks flush.

"No; but I ought to have waited till I was better off, or—"

"Or what?" I cried, hotly. "I hate an unfinished sentence. Shall I
finish it for you? 'You ought to have waited till you were better off,
or till you had met a richer woman!'"

It was the most foolish speech that I could possibly have made. But is
there ever a loving woman who does not at certain times say the most
disastrous things? The more she loves, the more likely she is to speak
unwisely. It was just one of those moments when a man sees that he has
the advantage, and Ronald was as quick-sighted as most men. Moreover
he, too, was by no means in his best mood that night, although he
answered with a calmness that nearly maddened me.

"I met a richer woman long before I ever saw you," he said, looking at
me steadily to note the effect of his words.

There was a sharp pain at my heart, and the blood rushed into my face
and then receded, leaving me deadly pale.

"Why didn't you take her?" I demanded, in a voice that did not sound in
the least like mine. "It was a pity that you missed so good a chance."

He smiled faintly, as if my suppressed excitement amused him.

"Well, there were obstacles in the way," he replied, in a provokingly
tranquil tone. "She had a perfect dragon of an uncle, who was her
guardian. And after some months of futile love-making, we had to say a
long good-bye."

"You did not tell me all this before we got engaged," said I, in my
new, strange voice. "Wouldn't it have been more honourable if you had
told me that you only sought me because you had failed in winning a
girl you liked better?"

"It would, Louie, always supposing that I had liked the other girl
better."

There was a silence, and my heart beat with quick, heavy throbs. Until
now I had never known the tremendous power of jealousy that lay dormant
within me. To the last day of my life I shall remember the fierce agony
that rent my soul as I sat in my seat by the window, idly watching the
passers-by. What did they know of my trouble? Had any of them ever
tasted such a bitter cup as mine?

"Is she still unmarried?" I asked at last.

"Yes."

"What is her name?"

"Ida Lorimer."

I had some vague recollection of that name. It must have been mentioned
by Lady Waterville. Surely I had heard her say something about having
lost sight of an Ida Lorimer who had been rather a favourite of hers.
As I sat and mused, a host of memories came trooping back; and then I
distinctly recalled a certain photograph in Lady Waterville's album,
and remembered the widow's languid complaint that "Ida never came to
see her now-a-days."

I was in the state of mind when bitter words are one's sole relief. And
the words that burst from my lips were as bitter as if an evil spirit
had prompted their utterance.

"It was a pity that you had to say good-bye to her! I wish she had had
to bear all that I have borne. I wish that she were in my place at this
moment!"

Of course there was but one thing for Ronald to do after that outburst,
and he did it. He got up quietly, put on his hat, left the room, and
went out of doors. In the next moment I saw him stride past the window,
with his chin well up, and eyes looking straight ahead.

Dear heaven, what a dark cloud had suddenly descended on the little
parlour, where we had spent so many happy hours together! It was all my
fault, I told myself; and then I got up sad wandered aimlessly into the
other room.

Before the looking-glass I came to a pause, and gazed wearily at the
reflection of my own face. I suppose it was once a pretty face; but
now the grey eyes looked at me with an expression of infinite woe;
the complexion, always pale, had taken a sallow tinge, and even the
sunny chestnut hair was less abundant than it had been in happier
days. Nursing and anxiety had stolen away a good deal of my youth and
brightness. But Ida Lorimer had doubtless kept all her attractions. I
remembered the photograph of a fair, calm-faced woman in evening dress,
with a beautiful neck and shoulders, and a general look of prosperity
and self-satisfaction, and the cruel fangs of jealousy began to gnaw my
heart again, and I turned away from the glass with a low moan of pain.

By-and-by the clock struck seven, and, for the first time since my
marriage, I sat down to dinner alone. It was then that I began to
realise what it was to feed on the "bread of affliction." Ronald's
empty place deprived me of all appetite, and the chicken, which nurse
had roasted to perfection, went back to the kitchen almost untasted. In
my remorse and loneliness, I was even more severe on myself than there
was any need to be. The vixenish wife had driven her much-enduring
husband out of doors to seek his food elsewhere! It was quite likely
that, sickened with grief and heartache, he would go without a dinner
altogether.

This last fear was about as silly a notion as ever tormented a
weak-minded woman. As a rule, the man of unquiet mind will fly to
dinner as a solace, instead of turning from it in disgust. Quarrel with
him at home, and he rushes out to the best restaurant in Regent Street,
and consoles himself with perfect cookery. But I, being new to men and
their ways, had not then discovered all their sources of consolation.

Moreover, I forgot that the wear and tear of Ronald's illness, and
the worry of our straitened means, had told upon my health, and made
my temper unnaturally irritable. As I sat, dropping my foolish tears
upon the table-cloth, I did not realise the fact that I had been the
chief burden-bearer in our married life. For many weeks Ronald had
had nothing to do but get well, and accept all the petting that was
lavished upon him. I had had to work, slave, struggle to make two ends
meet, and sink down crushed under the load of embarrassments that I
could not lift alone.

Yet we were both to blame, Ronald and I. When we had stood at the altar
in St. George's Church (where so many wealthier couples had stood
before us), we had perfectly realised that we were taking each other
for better, for worse. When there is "the little rift within the lute"
you may generally conclude that it has been made by two, not by one
alone. Patch it up before it widens, deal with the damaged instrument
as tenderly as you can, if you want to keep its music. Even if the
sounds are never again so sweet as they used to be, they are better
than the total silence that makes all life a long regret.

The May daylight lingered long, even on the grey walls of Chapel Place.
I sat watching the slow fading of the sunbeams, and starting at every
footstep that seemed to pause at the house door. Every knock or ring
set all my nerves quivering. Meanwhile, I prepared a hundred little
speeches of conciliation, and thought of a hundred little ways of
atoning for my unkind words; and the weary hours crawled away, and the
stars came out above the great restless London world. Would he never
return? Must I watch and wait all through the long night?

Ten o'clock—did the clocks ever make such a dreadful din before? I
began to pace my two rooms like a wild creature in its cage; and so
another hour went by, and I had to stop, worn-out, and sink into a
seat. Eleven. Every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon my brain.

I got up from my chair, hardly knowing what I did, and staggered
towards the door with some vague intention of seeking nurse, and asking
her what was to be done. But just at that moment, I heard a key turn in
the hall door, and then the parlour door was suddenly flung open, and
my husband came in. With a cry that I could not repress, I sprang up to
him, and put my arms round his neck, hiding my poor worn face on his
breast.

"Oh, Ronald," I sobbed, "I have been breaking my heart for you. Forgive
my cruel words, and try to love me again!"

He folded me in a close embrace, and answered me with fond murmurs
that were more reassuring than a thousand formal sentences. Spent and
exhausted as I was, I had seldom, perhaps never, known a happier moment
than this. The ecstasy of relief was almost more than I could bear.

"I didn't mean to stay out so late, dear little woman," he said,
penitently. "The fact was that I met Greystock, and he asked me to dine
with him. It's a long while since I saw him, and we had a good many
things to talk about. Altogether, it was a lucky meeting; he is the man
to give one a helping hand, you know. But how fearfully white you look,
poor child!"

He bent over me with a face full of anxiety. Somehow the mere mention
of Greystock's name had an ominous sound in my ears. Even in that
moment, I recalled the many plans that had failed;—the seemingly good
counsel that had led to no substantial result. In every case William
Greystock had been the planner and counsellor, and I could not persuade
myself that this meeting with him had been, as my husband thought, a
lucky meeting.

But those we love best are precisely the people who can never be made
to see with our eyes. I knew that Ronald would not be induced to
distrust Greystock at my bidding; and as I was still smarting from
the consciousness of having spoken unadvisedly once that day, I would
not commit a second blunder. So I owned meekly that I was over-tired
and over-worn, and let Ronald soothe me and wait on me to his heart's
content.

I slept soundly that night, the heavy sleep of exhaustion, and when I
woke the next morning I had aching limbs and a general sense of languor
and weakness. Ronald was full of anxiety, and a self-reproach which he
would not put into words. It was a rare thing for me to break down, and
it troubled him to see the effort I made to get up to breakfast and
seem like my old self.

"I wish I had not promised to go to Greystock's office to-day," he
said, regretfully. "I don't like leaving you, Louie, although I think I
have a chance of getting employment."

"Have you, really?" I asked. "Don't think of staying indoors for me,
dear; I shall be quite bright when you return. It will be delightful
to feel you are a City man, with important business to attend to every
day. You are looking much better."

"I am gaining my strength, but you are losing yours," he said, kissing
me, and keeping back a sigh.

We had finished breakfast, but, instead of going out at once, he took
up the guitar and ran his fingers across the strings. Again came the
soft sweet tune that had no name, the tune which had so often haunted
me in my dreams.

"What does it mean?" I cried, involuntarily.

"I don't know," he said, "I can't help asking myself the same question
every time I play it. If I could only remember how I learnt it first, I
could solve the mystery."

"I think there is something rather fascinating about the mystery," I
remarked. "That air always cheers, while it perplexes me. It comes like
a suggestion of sunshine. It seems full of promises—promises of what? I
wish I knew."

Ronald smiled at me as he put down the guitar.

"Promises of better fortune,—let us believe that," he said. "But good
fortune doesn't always come to those who sit and wait. I am going to
seek it in Greystock's office."

Again I felt a sudden heart-sinking. And yet how absurd and
unreasonable this dislike to William Greystock would appear to others.
As far as I knew, he had never done me the slightest harm, nor had he
ever crossed my path since my marriage. Even supposing he had once been
somewhat in love with me, was that any reason why I should hate the
sound of his name? Any way, he had never pestered me with unwelcome
attentions, but had withdrawn himself quietly when he found that my
heart was not for him. And being a strong-minded, strong-willed man, he
had doubtless conquered his fancy long ago.

Ronald took up his hat and stick, kissed me again, and went off,
whistling as gaily as a school-boy. He really had the air of a man who
was going to find good things; and I could not help fancying that our
mysterious melody had inspired him with a cheerful spirit. And then,
after he had gone his way, the miserable experience of last night
rushed back into my mind like a flood, and, silly woman that I was, I
sat still and brooded over it.

I felt I should like to know a little more about his affair with Ida
Lorimer. But not for the world would I ever mention her name to him
again—no, not if we lived together as man and wife for a hundred years!
Yet if any one who had known my husband in his bachelor days—Lady
Waterville, for instance—would give me some scraps of information about
him and Ida, I knew that I should fasten greedily upon them.

Later on, I learnt that love should listen to no tales that do not come
from the loved one's own lips. But heaven only knows what bitter hours
we spend before we have mastered that lesson.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER VIII.

MARIAN.

IT was five in the afternoon when Ronald returned from the city.
He came home in capital spirits; but, although I paid the closest
attention to all that he said, I really could not discover any definite
ground to build a hope upon.

"When you look about you," he remarked, "you soon find out that
money-making is very easy work."

"I have already found that money-spending is very easy work," I
replied, rather dolefully.

"Don't be gloomy, Louie—for heaven's sake don't be gloomy!" implored my
husband, sinking down upon the sofa with a groan. "How is a man to go
to work if you depress his spirit? You are a good girl, my dear, but
you are always ready with your extinguisher!"

I was a little hurt. There had been a time when He had called me
his light-bearer, guiding him out of the darkness and perplexity of
a lonely life. The falling off of poetry after marriage has been a
sore trial to many a young matron; but few, perhaps, are quite as
oversensitive as I was in those days. The first two or three months of
our wedded life had been an idyl; then there were no curt speeches,
no sarcasms, no disagreements. But now it seemed as if we were always
saying the wrong things to each other. What was to be done?

Some gleams of afternoon sunshine were making their way into our
little parlour, and lighting up the ancient silver teapot and cream
jug which I had brought from my faraway home in the country. Poor
relics of peaceful maiden days, I looked at them now With misty eyes,
and thought of tea-drinkings with my girl friends, of my grandfather's
benevolent face, of the rustle of leaves outside the cottage, and the
scent of flowers that drifted in through open windows. And suddenly and
unreasonably, I was seized with a longing to return to the old place,
and see if I could find any of the old tranquillity lingering there.

But it is not to the past that we should go if we would find peace,
for there is never anything gained by running backward. I gave myself
a mental shaking, banished the sweet country visions and foolish
yearnings, and turned to Ronald with a smile.

"I will be as sanguine as you please," I said, brightly. "Forgive me,
dear, if I don't understand these City schemes. I am stupid sometimes,
and business matters always puzzle me. But I have often heard Lady
Waterville say that Mr. Greystock could help you if he liked, and if
you were willing to be helped."

"Ah, that was like Lady Waterville! She used to insinuate that I was
not willing to be helped."

"Oh, Ronald, she never insinuated things! And of course I always knew
that you were anxious to get on. If Mr. Greystock really means to
assist you now, I shall never cease thanking him."

"Of course he means to keep his word. Until to-day he has never made a
definite promise."

"Oh, then he has really promised?"

"Yes. It is a pity, Louie, that you call only believe in demonstrative
people. William Greystock is one of the most undemonstrative men on
earth; he always says less than he means, therefore you never give him
credit for any good intentions."

My quick temper rose at these words.

"I will believe in him, Ronald," I said, "when I have seen the fruit of
those good intentions."

He started up from the sofa, and began to pace angrily up and down the
little room.

Then I was sorry that I had spoken in a bitter tone. Only a few minutes
ago I had firmly resolved to make the very best of my life, and avoid
the slightest approach to a quarrel. And yet, here we were, on the very
verge of warfare again!

There was an uncomfortable pause. I poured out tea, and gently pushed
a cup towards him; but he took no notice of the action. Stopping in
his walk, he stood leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands in his
pockets, and his eyes looking out into space. At that moment I saw his
resemblance to the portrait of Inez, as I had never seen it before.

"Ronald,—" I began, timidly.

"Don't pursue the subject, Louie," he said, in a cold tone. "I shall
never ask you to believe in my friend's intentions again, nor will I
trouble you with any of my plans for the future."

The words fell on my heart like drops of icy rain.

I tried to think of something conciliatory to say, but nothing came to
my lips, and I sat gazing helplessly at my husband's gloomy face. After
a moment's silence, he took up his hat and moved towards the door.

"Ronald," I cried, rising suddenly, "don't stay out as you did last
night."

"No," he answered, with formal politeness, "you need not be concerned.
I shall come back at seven to dine."

The door closed behind him, and again I was left alone with my misery.
I was young, and there is a tendency in youth to believe that every
grief will be eternal.

In my turn I, too, began to pace up and down the room, with throbbing
temples and an aching heart. And when at last tears came to my relief,
I wept like a child, until I was exhausted and utterly worn-out.

All at once I remembered that it was summer-time, and that other people
were revelling in the sunshine, while I was sitting alone in this dim
room—alone with my misery and bitter regret. The thought set my tears
flowing afresh, and then I rose, scarcely knowing what I was doing,
and began to arrange some books and papers which were scattered over a
little table in a corner.

When I moved my blotting-book, a paper fell from between its leaves,
and fluttered down upon the floor. I picked it up, unfolded it, and
read some verses which I had written a year ago.

   "The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,
       And the leaves are fresh and new;
    The bloom lies thick on the lilac bough,
       The clouds drift over the blue;
    And the earth is as fair as it used to be
       In times that have passed away;
    When we shared its bliss with the bird and bee,
       And laughed in the light of May.

   "The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,
       And the river shines like gold;
    But the sweets are gone from the lilac bough,
       And the skies are grey and cold;
    For I miss your step in the flowery grass,
       Your voice in the scented glade;
    And the birds sing on, and the sweet hours pass,
       Like dreams in the light and shade.

   "The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,
       But the flowers of love are dead;
    And under the bloom of the lilac bough
       I stand with a drooping head;
    If I heard your voice by my side to-day,
       I never could trust its tone;
    And here, in the light of the sweet young May,
       I live in the past alone."

When I wrote these lines, how little I knew that they would be
prophetic! But there is, I fancy, an undertone of prophecy in every
poet-nature; and even while Ronald and I were rejoicing together under
the lilac blossoms, I had vague dreams of faded blooms and clouded
skies. Now that I read the little poem again, by the light of my new
experience, I remembered that past foreshadowing, and put the paper
away with a deep sigh of pain.

Just at that moment there was a double knock at the hall door, which
almost tempted me to believe that my husband had returned. But no, a
woman's voice was heard asking for me; and then the door of my room was
thrown open, and the parlour-maid announced "Miss Bailey."

It was a name that called up a thousand pleasant memories. Marian
Bailey had been the playmate of my childhood, and the companion of my
early girlhood, till her home in our village was suddenly broken up,
and she had gone to live abroad. But although I had lost sight of her,
I had never forgotten her, and the sight of her familiar face was like
a gleam of sunshine.

"What brings you here, Marian?" I said, forgetting the traces of tears
on my cheeks. "How did you find me?"

She answered that she had traced me through some of nurse's relatives
in our old village; and then her kind eyes rested anxiously on my face
for a moment. I remembered all at once that I must present a most
doleful spectacle, and there was an awkward pause.

"I have been crying dreadfully," I admitted, taking her hands in mine,
and clinging to her as I used to cling in the old days when anything
troubled me, "Oh, Marian, how good it is to see you again! I have been
cut off so long from everything connected with my old home that you
seem to bring me back my lost happiness."

"Don't talk so, dear," she answered, kissing me; "you are a wife now,
and you would not, I know, exchange the present for the past. My sudden
appearance has excited you, I daresay; and, Louie, you don't look quite
well. Perhaps you want the country air."

"No," I said, wearily. "I would not exchange this smoky old street for
all the green trees and fields in the world. It is not the country air
that I want, but the peace of mind—the freedom from care."

"My dear child," she said, sitting down on the sofa and drawing me to
her side, "we must have a long talk. As to freedom from care, do you
really think that any married woman can reasonably expect that? I am
single, you see, and so I suppose you will be surprised at my remark.
But—"

"But, Marian, you always understand people, no matter in what state of
life they are. Yes, we must indeed have a long talk."

But Marian was not one of those people who are always in such a hurry
to gain one's confidence that they will not give one time to open one's
heart. When she had got me beside her on the sofa, she began to talk
about herself and her own concerns, explaining the circumstances that
had brought her to London, and telling me some good news in her own
simple, natural way.

"I am no longer poor Marian Bailey," she said, gaily. "Indeed, Louie,
I hardly know myself in my new character of rich Marian. What do you
think of six hundred a year, and a home with my old aunt in Curzon
Street? It was a great surprise to hear that my old uncle, who had
never noticed me in his life, had remembered me at his death. Then his
widow wrote to me, begging me to come and live with her; and here I am."

"And I am very glad you are here," I answered, looking up into her
frank face, and feeling that I had got a trusty friend.

Marian was a large woman, a little heavily-built, perhaps, but
comfortable, and pleasant to look upon. She was not pretty, but hers
was one of those good faces which always attract you wherever you meet
them. If you had been in a land of strangers, you would have turned
instinctively to that face in your hour of need. The very clasp of her
hand had comfort in it; it was a firm hand, not small and fragile like
mine.

"How the old days come back!" she said, smiling down at me after a
little pause. "You still have your wistful eyes, Louise; and your
pretty brown hair is as bright as ever. What a confiding child you
were, and how you always clung to me if you fancied yourself in any
difficulty or danger! It seems strange for us two to be sitting here
in a London room, doesn't it? Last time we sat together we were in the
parlour in the dear old cottage; it was summer, the doors and windows
were open, and every breeze brought in a shower of jessamine petals and
scattered them over the floor. Your grandfather was pacing up and down
his favourite path in the garden; and you were repeating some poem that
had pleased you. When you liked verses, you always wanted me to set
them to music, and sing them."

"Oh! Marian, do you ever sing now?" I cried. "And your dear old
guitar—have you got it still?"

"Yes, I have never parted with it. Why, Louie, you have a guitar here!
Is it yours?"

"No; that is Ronald's. Ah, Marian, how I should like to hear you
sing again! Can't you remember any of your old songs? Sing one of
Moore's—something sweet and old-fashioned—I am so tired of all our
ballads of to-day. There should not be too many deep thoughts in verses
that are written for music. A little sentiment—a little pathos—a dash
of hope—that is all that we want to sing about. There are poems that
are inscribed on our hearts with the point of a diamond, but we do not
care to sing them."

While I rambled on, Marian was running her fingers over the strings;
and suddenly I paused and started. She was playing that strange, soft
melody that Ronald had played so often; and into her eyes there stole
that musing look which always came into his, whenever he played this
air.

"What is that?" I asked, eagerly. "Ronald plays it sometimes, but he
never can think where he first heard it."

"I am trying to remember," she answered in a thoughtful tone. The air
was repeated; sweet and tender and gay, it seemed to charm Marian just
as it had charmed us. She stopped at last with a baffled expression on
her face.

"There are words set to that air," she said, "but I cannot recall them
now. Who was it that ever played and sung this melody to me? I wish I
knew."

"That is what Ronald is always saying," I remarked. And then I told her
the story of poor Monsieur Léon, and the way in which the guitar had
come into our hands.

"I will play the air once more," she said, taking up the guitar again.
"It is very simple, but wonderfully sweet. Now listen, and perhaps the
words will come to me."

But they did not come.

Then she sang one of our old favourite ballads, and when that was
ended, I begged her to take off her bonnet and stay to dinner.

"Aunt Baldock will be distracted," she told me. But there was an
unspoken pleading in my face that must have gone to her heart. Perhaps
she guessed that I had some special reason for wishing her to stay that
evening.

And I had indeed a special reason. For the first time in my life, I
shrank from sitting down to a tête-à-tête meal with my husband.

Any one who is intimately acquainted with the ways of men must know
that they are never more unpleasant than when they are acting from a
sense of duty. I could fancy the lofty moral air with which Ronald
would seat himself at our humble board. I pictured the virtuous
resignation in his manner when he ate his roast mutton, knowing all the
while that William Greystock would have given him salmon a la maître d'
hotêl and beef olives. I could imagine the magnanimous way in which he
would try to get up a little conversation with his wife, thus letting
her see that an aggrieved man does not always bear malice, but is
capable of making the best of his condition.

But if Marian Bailey were with us, everything would be changed for
the better. She had travelled; she was musical; she had the gift of
talking pleasantly without being positively brilliant. In short, she
possessed the useful gift (more to be desired than the ten talents) of
putting people into good humour with themselves and their surroundings.
Unselfish, even-tempered, sound in health and in heart, Marian Bailey
was born to be a blessing to herself and to her friends; and when she
had consented to stay with me, I could await Ronald's coming with
cheerfulness.

He came in, prepared to be just the man I had expected him to be, but
Marian's frank manner won his heart at once.

I left them together, and went to have a short conference with nurse,
who was always good at an emergency. The result of that conference was
that we turned our little dinner into a sort of festival, and Ronald
gave me an approving glance across the table.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER IX.

GOING OUT.

THE charm of Marian's presence seemed to linger with us after she was
gone. It gratified me to hear Ronald's praises of my friend; he had
enjoyed her conversation and her singing, and looked forward with
pleasure to the thought of spending an evening in Mrs. Baldock's house
in Curzon Street. I had tact enough to tell him that she had admired
the artistic decorations of our little room—especially the tambourine.

"Ah," said Ronald, sinking back complacently into his favourite corner
of the sofa, "I might have done something in the art line with proper
training."

"I always thought so," I answered, warmly. And then, for the hundredth
time, I fell to wondering secretly why it was that he could not get
on better in life? It was hard to see humdrum men succeeding while he
failed. He was so clever—so versatile—and he looked so interesting in
his attitude of languid repose, his pale, delicately-cut face showing
out against the dark crimson cushion, that I began to fall in love with
him anew.

"But," he continued, "I must give up all thought of art now-a-days,
Louie, and devote myself to the City. Greystock is putting me up to
some good things; and I am going every day to his office to write his
letters and make myself generally useful."

I was so glad to be taken into confidence again, that I resolved never
to say another disparaging word of William Greystock. For a little
while, at any rate, I would banish the remembrance of unpaid weekly
bills, and all the anxieties of everyday life; and I would bask once
more in the warmth of that love which had shed its glow over my world
in days gone by.

"Ah, Ronald, I wish we had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves in this
summer-time!" I said, going to the sofa and kneeling down by his side.
"I wish we could ramble under the trees and among the buttercups, as if
we were children. Do you recollect a day we spent at Richmond in May?
There was a great lilac bush in the hotel garden, and I buried my face
in a mass of bloom, and half-intoxicated myself with perfume! Dear, I
felt as if my heart was not large enough to hold its happiness! The
flowers—the fragrance—the sunshine-and—you!"

"My poor child," he answered, drawing me close to his breast, "the
sunshine did not last very long. You have only one or two poor little
holidays to look back upon;—only a few golden hours snatched from a
life of care! But perhaps there are brighter times coming, pet; and you
shall take your fill of the flowers again."

But as I knelt there in his arms with his face close to mine, I felt
I could live without the flowers. We were only a poor young couple,
clinging to each other in a dim London room; but just then our lives
were full of sweeter poetry than can ever be put into words. Other
couples, more fortunate in their surroundings, were drinking in the
sweetness of the scented twilight in country places far away.

   "Some wandering hand in hand through arching lanes;
    Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;
    Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss."

Yet I hardly think that any of them could be happier than we were in
these quiet moments, when we seemed to have but one heart between us.
It was true that my life was full of care; true that I had given up my
untroubled girlhood for a troubled wifehood. But does any true woman
ever love a man less because she has sacrificed all her best years for
his sake? Does not the very fact of the sacrifice endear him for whom
it was made?

Later on, when perhaps it is a woman's bitter lot to find that her
self-abnegation was all in vain, there may come to her some passionate
regrets for the squandered strength and the wasted devotion. But even
then (if that devotion has been of the purest kind), I think that her
life is not so poor as the lives of some of her wiser sisters, who have
never loved well enough to lavish anything. Moreover, I believe it is
impossible for a woman of the best type to exhaust the store-house of
her affections. Like the widow's cruse of oil, it is ever replenished
by some unseen power.

In the course of the next day, there came an affectionate little note
from Marian, asking us to dine at her aunt's house in Curzon Street,
and fixing an early date. Ronald's face brightened at the invitation.

"We have been living like two hermits," he said. "It's time that we saw
a little more of the world. Not that I am tired of your society, Louie;
but I'm afraid I shall bore you awfully if you never see any one else,
and I like this friend of yours; she is worth knowing."

I, too, was well pleased, although my pleasure was considerably damped
by the consciousness of having to wear an old gown. Marian was, I knew,
incapable of any unkindly criticism; but other eyes might look less
indulgently on my old frock. Sixpences and shillings were very precious
in these days, and I shrank even from purchasing the cheap lace that
could be converted into an adornment for the neck and bosom of my
well-worn black satin.

"What is the matter, little woman? Why are you looking so grave?" my
husband demanded, when the day came.

"Oh, I was thinking about dress," I answered, incautiously. "I am so
shabby, you know."

His brow darkened.

"What a nuisance poverty is!" he said, in an impatient tone. "It's hard
that my wife can't dine out without worrying herself to death about the
state of a gown. I should like to deck you in diamonds, Louie, but—"

He paused, and the very mention of diamonds sent a strange thrill of
remembrance through my brain. When had we ever had anything to do with
diamonds? And yet I was haunted by a vague notion that I had once seen
myself glittering with splendid gems. So vivid was this impression
that I forgot all about my old black silk, and sat staring into space,
wondering from what source this phantom of memory had been produced.

"I recollect now," I said, with a little laugh. "One night, soon after
we came here, you were lying asleep, and I was sewing by your bedside.
It was late; I dropped into a doze, and dreamed that I was standing
before a glass, with diamonds flashing on my head and neck. You can't
imagine how clear the dream was, Ronald. At this moment I can scarcely
believe that it was only a dream. It seems as if I had verily handled
and worn those diamonds."

"I wish I could make the dream come true," he answered, kissing me,
with a troubled look in his eyes. "But if diamonds are unattainable,
flowers are always to be had, and you don't want jewels to wear at a
quiet dinner. This evening I will bring you some of your favourite
roses."

"And they are a great deal prettier than jewels," I told him, eagerly.
"I remember the first flower you ever gave me was a rose, a Marshal
Niel, and I was absurdly delighted with it."

"I remember too," he replied, the trouble ladling out of his face.

"Ah, I'm glad you have not forgotten. Ronald! Lady Waterville used to
say that men always forgot the very things that women treasured up in
their memories. As to jewels, I shan't want them in the least, and you
may be quite sure that I shall not envy any woman who may happen to be
better dressed than I am!"

These words came back to me afterwards as if to mock me for my
self-confidence. But; when I uttered them, they sprang straight from my
heart, and I fancied that Ronald's smile, in answer, was brighter than
it had been for a long time.

When he had gone City wards, I turned my thoughts again to the black
silk gown, and presently I sallied out into Oxford Street to buy the
indispensable lace. It did not take long to choose some that was pretty
and effective; but when I opened my purse to pay for it, I felt a rush
of hot colour burn my cheeks. I had been brought up with what are
called old-fashioned principles, and to me it seemed a dreadful thing
to spend money that was owing elsewhere.

I left the shop with a sense of degradation that took the sweetness
out of all my pleasure. The morning was glorious, everybody seemed to
be making purchases that day; bright-faced girls and portly mothers
were flocking into Marshall & Snelgrove's, serene in the consciousness
of ample funds. Pretty young matrons, followed by obsequious shopmen
with parcels, swept out to their carriages, well satisfied with their
shopping; and I, a shabbily-clad little wife, wended my way homewards,
feeling that I had but little in common with them all.

Debts are the prickly brambles that encompass an imprudent marriage,
and tear the clasped hands of wedded love. It was very seldom that I
ventured to speak of them to Ronald; the subject irritated him; and so
I endured the pain inflicted by all those little thorns in silence.
Sometimes the smart was almost intolerable, and no one knew what bitter
tears it wrung from me in solitary hours. Nurse was the only person who
guessed my sufferings, but she could not realise how sharp they were.

I entered the house, and sat down wearily on the sofa in the little
parlour, with my parcel in my lap. It would have been a relief to cry,
but I forced back the tears. What would Ronald have said to a wife who
went out to dine with red eyes? And I did want to look my best, for his
sake, that evening.

Then I composed myself, laid aside my bonnet, and set about my task
in right earnest. As I proceeded, I could not help feeling a certain
amount of womanly satisfaction in my own skill; the ruffled lace looked
delicate and creamy when I arranged it about my neck, and surveyed
myself in the glass.

Nurse came to me, late in the afternoon, and insisted on brushing my
thick hair with her own hands, and twisting it up in sunny coils,
in a fashion which could not have been improved upon. We both tried
valiantly to persuade ourselves that the black silk gown looked very
well indeed; we even decided that it was a mistake for silk to be too
lustrous and new; and as to the fichu of creamy lace, it called forth
cries of rapturous admiration. Nurse walked backward to get the full
effect of me, and fell to gesticulating wildly in her efforts to make
me understand how well I looked.

But although her honest flattery was very sweet, I knew that it was a
changed face that I saw reflected in the glass; a face which lacked
the softness of contour, and freshness of colouring, which are the
chief charms of youth. The springtide of life was gone. Instead of the
Louie of old days, I beheld a pale, fragile little woman, with pathetic
eyes, that seemed to have grown larger and darker of late, and lips
that quivered painfully with any passing emotion. This was what my
love-match had made of me.

"Don't you recollect the parties at the rectory, ma'am?" said nurse,
still hovering round me. "And the white muslin with the red spots,
that you looked so nice in? And the curate, who was that silly about
you that we used to fear for his poor brain? And Farmer Danby's son
a-capering whenever you came in his way? Capering Danby was his name
from one end of the village to the other, and yet he was as still a man
as one could wish to see, till you turned his head. Not that you ever
trifled with him, Miss Louie; that was far from you, ma'am. But you
captivated him, innocent-like; and the simple soul was never the same
again."

While the old woman talked, I called up a vision of my old country
home, and the rustic swains whose antics had amused me in those early
days. The scent of fields full of long grass, came drifting back; the
young roses were in bloom on our cottage walls; the lanes leading to
the rectory were fragrant with a wealth of hawthorn blossoms. I was a
girl again, with a girl's unawakened heart and childish fancies, like
the little princess in a fairy tale, standing among leafy ways and
watching for the prince's coming.

Then the clock of St. Peter's struck six, and I heard a well-known
knock which brought me back to the realities of my present life. The
prince had come indeed; and the poor little shabby princess must get
out his evening suit, and lay his fresh linen on the bed, all ready for
the royal wearer.

He came in, with a little bouquet done up in silver paper. Three
perfect roses of palest yellow—were there ever flowers more beautiful,
even in the fairy land of my dreams? I lifted my face to kiss him for
his gift, and there was a wistful look in the eyes that met mine.

"Am I turned out well?" I asked, anxiously.

"Admirably," he answered, with a slight quiver in his voice. "What
a long time it is since I saw you in festal array! Pin the flowers
just there—a little higher—that's right. My darling, how thin your
hands are—the rings are loose;—there is something unsubstantial and
spirit-like about you altogether!"

I had seen that the change wrought in me by trial and anxiety was more
visible now than at ordinary times; and he saw it too, and was deeply
moved. Nurse had noiselessly departed, and for a few moments he hung
over me, with fond, regretful murmurs, forgetting all else save our
love, and the sorrows that had knit us so closely together. A little
while ago, I had silently lamented the loss of my early bloom: now I
did not care about it in the least. These sorrowful caresses, these
loving, whispered words, were ample compensation for the charms that
had fled.

A little later we were rattling towards Curzon Street in a hansom,
and overhead the clear evening sky was smiling down upon the restless
streets. Both were silent; my husband's face still wore its wistful
look, but I felt such a depth of content within me that I was sorry
when the short drive came to an end.

Marian Bailey received us in a faded old drawing-room, made bright with
choice flowers; and Mrs. Baldock greeted us with old-fashioned courtesy.

Presently two other guests were announced; first, a Mr. Hartley, who
proved to be a distant cousin of Marian's; and then—Miss Lorimer.

Well-trained as he was in all the ways of society, I saw a slight
change pass over my husband's face. It was gone in an instant; and,
in his turn, he moved from his station near the window to shake hands
with a tall, stately woman. Her golden hair shone as the light touched
it, and there was something imposing and sumptuous about her beauty
which made me long to go and hide myself. For was not this the very Ida
Lorimer who had once been Ronald's chosen love?

There she stood, untouched by poverty and pain, unchanged by any of
those daily trials which had stolen my youth away. And as Ronald's head
bent towards her, and his eyes seemed to speak the old language that
they had spoken to hers long ago, the keen fangs of jealousy began to
rend my heart once more.

The long-continued pressure of secret cares—the weakness caused by
enfeebled health—the consciousness of altered looks—all these things
combined to render me morbid and suspicious as the hours of that
memorable evening went on. Once I caught a glimpse of my own mournful
little face in a glass; and in the background I saw Miss Lorimer's
golden head. What a poor, frail creature I seemed beside that splendid
blonde! Mr. Hartley tried to draw me into a conversation, and Marian
came many times to my side with smiles and kind words; but nothing
could make me forget Miss Lorimer's presence.

At first the stately beauty seemed disposed to ignore me altogether.
Once or twice I fancied that she was quietly quizzing my unfortunate
black silk, and making silent comments on my dejected aspect. In her
eyes I was a little nobody—Lady Waterville's companion—who had been
married by Ronald Hepburne in one of his romantic freaks. But before
the evening was over, she seemed to have a desire to know something
more about me, and came to the corner where I had taken refuge.

"Mr. Hepburne and I are old friends," she said, with a gracious society
smile. "I had been wondering where he had hidden himself after his
marriage; but he has been telling me about that long illness. How sad
it must have been for you! Nursing is such dreary work, isn't it?"

"It was very sad," I admitted quietly, feeling that there was no real
sympathy in the cold blue eyes that met mine. "But he is quite well
now, and almost as strong as ever."

"He still looks delicate, I fancy. However, Mr. Greystock tells me that
he is learning to be a City man, and that must require a great deal of
strength and energy I am sure. What a delightful man Mr. Greystock is!"

"I suppose so; I don't know him very well," I replied.

"He will be a great help to Mr. Hepburne," she went on, still eyeing
me coldly. "Such an excellent adviser and friend. By the way, you are
musical, I daresay?"

"No; I am very fond of music, but I neither play nor sing."

"Really; and Mr. Hepburne sings so well. His love for his guitar used
to be almost a mania; has he given it up?"

"Oh, no," said Marian Bailey, coming to my corner, and taking it on
herself to answer the question. "His guitar is always taken up in spare
moments, and the verses that Mrs. Hepburne writes for him to sing are
some of the most charming things you ever heard."

"Really?" repeated Miss Lorimer, raising her golden eyebrows. "I must
ask to see those verses one of these days."

I saw Ronald watching us from his station on the other side of the
room, and felt that I did not succeed in making myself agreeable to
his old love. What would I not have given to have recalled the old
bright manner with which I used to charm the people who came to Lady
Waterville's "At homes." But I was too young to wear a mask gracefully,
and of all disguises, the sparkling mask is the most difficult to
assume. If the wearer be inexperienced, ten to one that it will drop
off suddenly, in some unguarded moment, and reveal the haggard face and
heavy heart that was meant to hide.

Just then, Marian contrived to lead Miss Lorimer away to the piano, and
I was left in peace. Ida was a cold, brilliant player; her performance
was creditable enough, I daresay, but not a single note touched my
heart.

The evening came to an end. We uttered our good-nights; I folded a
shabby woollen wrap round my shoulders, and Ida muffled herself in a
golden plush opera cloak, bordered with rich dark fur. How regal she
looked when my husband put her into the brougham that was waiting
before the door.

We departed next, sitting side by side in hansom; but I did not enjoy
the drive this time.

"You are tired to death, Louie," said Ronald, after a long silence.

And I answered, "Yes, tired to death."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER X.

SHADOWS DEEPEN.

ALTHOUGH Ronald continued to go regularly every day into the City, and
although he talked a great deal about Greystock's valuable help and
counsel, I did not find that our funds increased.

He dined out, however, so frequently that I was able to economise in
the matter of dinners. Anything did for me, when he was absent; but
I don't think nurse approved of my scanty meals; and I did not seem
to thrive upon my fare. The truth was, that, as the days went on, I
was fast losing my hope of the future. I could not forget that, while
Ronald was looking forward to "better luck," we were gradually sinking
deeper and deeper into the mire.

One evening he came in unexpectedly when I was sitting down to some
fragments of cold mutton; and I saw his face darken at the sight of the
food.

"What a feast you have got there!" he said, half angrily. "Nurse could
have hashed those tempting morsels, I suppose. Why do you sit here
alone, and make a martyr of yourself, Louie?"

"I am not a martyr," I answered, cheerfully. "I did not want a hash,
that was all. I wasn't expecting you, Ronald, or I would have had
something nice."

"Oh, tell them to cook a chop," he responded in a hurried tone. "Don't
fidget about me, Louie; I shall do well enough. The fact is, I was half
engaged to dine with Greystock, and then he suddenly remembered that
Lady Waterville had asked him this evening. The old lady ages visibly."

"Did you see her?" I said, pausing with my hand on the bell.

"Yes; Greystock made me go in and speak to her. She was very glad to
see me, I believe; but of course she maundered on about our wickedness
in getting married. I saw that Ida Lorimer was laughing quietly behind
her."

"Oh, was Miss Lorimer there?"

I put the question with all possible calmness, but the blood rushed
into my cheeks, making them burn intolerably for a moment. I took care
that he should not see my face.

"Yes; she is often there," he replied. "Greystock is a great ally of
hers; and he has persuaded her to take pity on the old soul in her
loneliness. Lady Waterville was really fond of you, Louie. She misses
you so much that she can't help being bitter."

"She used to be very good to me," I said, with a sigh.

"Everybody would be good to you, little woman, if you would let them.
But you take far too gloomy a view of people, and of life in general;
and your face is getting to wear a settled look of melancholy. Lady
Waterville asked, quite maliciously, if you were not rather dismal
now-a-days?"

"How did she know I was dismal?" inquired, with a desperate effort to
be composed.

"Well, I suppose she questioned Ida. You know, my dear girl, you looked
like a mute at a funeral when you dined at Mrs. Baldock's. I don't know
what possessed you."

I felt that all the burning colour had deserted my cheeks; they were
cold and white enough now. So Ida Lorimer had been making scornful
remarks about me, and my husband had agreed with all that she had said!

I sat down again in my place at the table, and presently the maid came
in with chops, which had been cooked for our landlord, and were now
placed before Ronald. He began to eat with good appetite, although the
fare was plain; and it was clear that he had not noticed the effect of
his words.

"Why can't you cheer up, Louie?" he said, after a pause. "Why will you
persist in giving people the impression that you are a wretched wife? I
know we have had our troubles, pet, but they are over now, and better
days are coming. You are growing as thin as a lath, and you 'gang like
a ghaist.' What can be done with you?"

There was an undertone of impatience running through the apparent
kindness of his words. I sat desperately trying to swallow scraps of
mutton, which seemed as tasteless as if I had been eating in a dream.
He was expecting a reply, and by-and-by I spoke in a choked voice.

"I am not very strong, Ronald; but as to giving people the impression
that I am wretched, that can hardly be done; I am not often seen. Of
course I don't appear to advantage beside a woman who has never had
anything but prosperity."

"Oh, you mean Ida Lorimer. Well, you see, she doesn't take things to
heart as you do."

"That I can quite believe, Ronald. Indeed, I think it is doubtful
whether she has any heart at all."

"That's what the sentimental women always say of the matter-of-fact
ones," he remarked, laughing.

Where was my good angel at that moment? Out leaped the sharp retort,
swift as lightning.

"I am sorry that you did not marry a matter-of-fact one. She would have
suited you much better than I do."

"You have said the same thing before." He had become suddenly grave and
cold. "Doesn't it strike you that these regrets are worse than useless?
As we have got to live with each other, we had better cultivate the art
of nicking agreeable speeches."

"With all my heart," I answered, haughtily. "Only I hope you will see
that the agreeable speeches can't be all on one side. If you will take
your share of making them, I will take mine."

"Very well. I will do my best to be on my guard. It's a mistake,
I find, to speak out candidly to one's wife. Restraint and formal
courtesy shall be the rules of my home-life for the future; only, you
know, my home will be wofully unlike a home!"

"Oh, Ronald, what has come to us?" The question broke suddenly and
passionately from my lips. "I never please you now. If I go out with
you, nothing goes well; if I stay at home, you find fault with me. Am I
to be blamed because 'my heart and my flesh faileth?' Is it likely that
I can be gay and smiling when we are getting poorer every day? I am
tired—yes, very tired—and I think I am growing too weak to keep up the
struggle."

There was a silence. I was crying now, not noisily, but very bitterly,
and I had crept away from the table to the sofa. Presently—after a
pause—he rose, and came across the room to my side.

"Louie," he said, "it will never do to go on like this? You are very
tired, poor child; I see that plainly enough. But can't you try
to believe in a better future, dear? Have little patience, and my
investments are sure to turn out well."

"Investments?" I repeated, suddenly raising my tearful face. "We have
no money to invest, Ronald."

"Greystock has lent me some." He made the admission with some
reluctance. "So you see, Louie, he has proved himself to be more
unselfish than you thought. Of course he knows that it is perfectly
safe—I never do anything without his advice—but some men never will
part with money, even for a month or two. Greystock is really a friend."

Was he? I was as far as ever from believing in his friendship.

"I will try to be brighter, Ronald," I said, putting my hand into his.
"It is hard on you, I daresay, to see me so changed and sorrowful. I
have spoken foolishly this evening, but—I was overwrought and worn."

This time it was a very quiet reconciliation; there were no passionate
embraces, no fond murmurs. He kissed me tenderly, remarked that the
fresh air would do us both a world of good, and took me out for a walk.

I have always loved old Cavendish Square on a summer evening, when its
garden is looking fresh and green, and its stately houses are wearing
their brightest aspect. There were dinner-parties going on, carriages
coming and going, well-groomed horses prancing, tall menservants here
and there, but I could not take my usual pleasure in the scene. I
managed to talk (with a fair show of good spirits), and Ronald did his
best to be good-humoured, yet there were certain words of his that lay
heavily on my heart.

He had borrowed money of William Greystock.

This new cause for anxiety drove all jealous thoughts of Miss Lorimer
out of my head for a time. It was an unlooked-for fear, which had
suddenly started up in a path already thickly-planted with thorns.

I had no doubt that my husband had perfect faith in those investments
of which he spoke so brightly; but I also knew that it was a faith
derived from Greystock alone, and not from his own knowledge of
matters of business. I might be unreasonable and unjust; I had not the
slightest ground for suspicion, and yet I dreaded William Greystock
more now than I had ever done before.

He had got a hold on Ronald. The thought made my spirit sink within
me, for my instincts had detected the cruelty that was latent in his
nature. If he were kind, there must be a cruel motive for the kindness.
And I—fragile, weary, already spent with a sore conflict—what could I
do to deliver my husband from the strong hand that held him fast?

That night, I lay awake while Ronald slept peacefully by my side. There
was no change in my love for him; it was as pure and true as it had
been on the day when we came out of the old church, man and wife; but I
was beginning to lose confidence in myself. And deep in my soul dwelt
the haunting fear that he was growing a little weary of the wife he had
wedded.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XI.

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XII.

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?"

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIII.

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!"

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIV.

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.

[Illustration: 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!"



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XV.

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?



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVI.

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.

[Illustration: 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.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVII.

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 love
       Doth work like madness on the brain."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XVIII.

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.

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XIX.

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."

[Illustration]



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XX.

THE JEWELS.

IT was no small surprise to Lady Waterville when we presented ourselves
in George Street that evening, and it was no small relief to us to find
her alone. She kissed me several times, cried a little over my thin
cheeks, called me a fool, and expressed her gladness at seeing me again
in the same breath. All the while that this scene was being enacted,
Ronald, bursting with impatience, was standing with the album under his
arm.

"'Why don't you sit down, Ronald?" she suddenly demanded. "You look
like a tax collector standing there with your red book."

"There is something in the red book that I want to show you, Lady
Waterville," he replied.

"Oh, I don't want to look at books," she said, patting my hand, which
she still held. "What I do want is to talk to your wife, now that I
have got her back again."

"But do listen, dear," I entreated. "We have a wonderful tale to tell.
I suppose you won't believe us when we assure you that we know where to
look for Inez Greystock's diamonds?"

She did at first declare that she would not believe us; but then,
growing interested in spite of herself, she let us read to her the
lines in the album, and the directions written on the parchment label.
Still protesting that the whole thing was a delusion and a snare, and
assuring us that Inez had been half crazed for years, she at last
consented that we should make our investigation.

"Of course you must let Cox help you to move the portrait, Ronald," she
said, reluctantly. "Poor Cox, he is getting old and stiff, like his
mistress, and he doesn't care about exerting himself. But young people
won't be satisfied unless we indulge their whims."

"I will make it worth Cox's while to indulge my whim," said Ronald,
quietly.

So the elderly butler was summoned, and then we all three went
downstairs into the dining-room.

It was now past eight o'clock, and the shutters were already closed for
the night. The large room, always sombre even in sunshine, was only
faintly lit by two candles in tall silver candlesticks, and looked
cheerless and dim. I glanced up at the beautiful face of Inez, and
fancied that her pensive eyes were watching us steadily in the gloom.

The picture was large, and the frame was massive and heavy. Lady
Waterville, looking on with a resigned air, expressed her conviction
that nothing but a pair of broken heads would be the result of this
freak. But I, leaning on the back of her chair, and anxiously watching
the movements of my husband and the butler, felt no fears about the end.

No sooner had I entered the dim room, and lifted my eyes to the
portrait, than I recalled a strange dream of mine. I had dreamed
it when I dozed over my darning by Ronald's bedside. And once more
in fancy, I saw the flash of the glittering jewels on my neck, and
believed that very soon I should see them with my bodily sight.

That dream had come to me while I was sitting by the bedroom fire, and
wondering, with a perturbed heart, how my husband and I were to face
the coming days. If it was to be realised to-night, I was thankful
that its fulfilment had been delayed. The time of our tribulation is
needed to prepare us for the time of our wealth; and it often fares ill
with those who are made suddenly rich without having first felt the
chastening hand of sorrow.

Slowly and carefully the two men lifted the picture from the strong
supports that kept it in its place; and then I left Lady Waterville,
and went to my husband's side.

Where the picture had hung, the oaken wall was veiled with dust, and
I, with a steady hand, began to clear those dusty panels with my
handkerchief.

"The girl is crazed," said Lady Waterville from her chair. "Why can't
somebody bring a cloth?"

But we could not wait for a cloth to be brought. As I wiped the dust
away, Ronald held one of the candles near the wall, and presently an
exclamation broke involuntarily from us both. We had found a red spot
on one of the panels.

Then I pressed my two hands hard upon the panel, and it yielded to my
efforts with a slight creaking sound. Cox drew nearer and held up the
other candle.

The light shone only a little way into the darkness of the cavity; but,
without an instant's hesitation, I thrust my hand and arm into the
hollow place.

When I drew it forth again, the hand was black with the dust of years,
and I was grasping a stout, leather-covered box, about the size of
a small desk. The box had brass handles, and it was by one of these
handles that I had dragged it out of the hole where it had lain for
nearly half a lifetime.

"I don't believe there is anything but rubbish in it!" cried Lady
Waterville, incredulous to the last.

The box was placed upon the long dining-table, and we all gathered
round and tried to open it. Cox did us good service with his strong
pocket-knife, and succeeded in forcing up the lid.

The first thing that we then saw was a layer of cotton-wool, which was
instantly removed by my dirty fingers. And then there was a subdued
shout from three throats—a shout which made Lady Waterville get up from
her chair with more agility than she had ever displayed in her life.

There, brighter than I had ever seen them in my vision, lay Inez
Greystock's diamonds; so large, so intensely brilliant, that they
seemed to carry us back to the days of Sinbad the Sailor. At the
sight of them, Lady Waterville immediately became a partaker of the
general ecstasy, and so exhausted herself with unwonted raptures and
exclamations that she had to lean on Ronald's shoulder for support.

I have only a confused recollection of all that followed. There is an
impression on my mind that we all fell to embracing each other in the
wildest way, and that Cox shook hands with me over and over again.
After that, he went out into the moonlit square, and hilariously hailed
a hansom; and Ronald and I drove home with our booty.

I do not think the discovery had taken any serious effect on our
heads, for we were both quite composed when the cab set us down in
Chapel Place. Nurse met us in the entry, and when we had wished her
good-night, we locked ourselves into our rooms, and took a long, long
look at our treasures.

And then Ronald would not be satisfied till he had decked me out in all
the diamonds, and made me stand before the glass to survey myself. Let
no one say, after my experience, that dreams never come true. They do
come true (not always, but now and then), and this assertion has been
proved in other lives as well as mine.

As my husband insisted on sleeping with the diamonds under his pillow,
it was a marvel to me that he had a good-night's rest, for jewels are
not comfortable things to sleep upon. I was at first somewhat tormented
by the fear of midnight robbers and assassins, but weariness soon
prevailed over excitement, and I slumbered soundly till morning.

When I awoke, it was very difficult to believe that the events of the
past night had not taken place in a dream. But there was the leather
box with Ronald mounting guard over it, and we both decided that it
must be deposited in a place of security without the least delay. It
is a pleasant thing to be the proud possessor of diamonds of immense
value, but by no means pleasant to spend all one's time in watching
them. Ronald declared himself quite tired of his charge already.

Moreover nurse, although she rejoiced with us heartily enough, was
obviously uneasy in mind. She had no sooner had a view of the gems than
she went to the hall door and looked for the "suspicious characters"
that were sure to be watching the house.

"We are none of us safe an hour, sir, while those things are under this
roof," she said, solemnly. "And if you don't take 'em straight to the
Horse Guards, or the Tower, or the Bank of England, you may depend on
having all our throats cut before night."

So our landlord whistled for a hansom, and we watched Ronald and the
diamonds getting into it, and then stood at the door to see it turn the
corner.

"Look at that man standing near the church, ma'am," said nurse, in an
appalling whisper. "Did you see him a-fastening of his eyes on the box?
It would be a good deed to call the police, and have him taken up this
moment."

I suggested that it was difficult to give a man into custody for using
his eyes. But nurse's portentous words were not without an effect, and
I had rather a bad time till the afternoon brought Ronald back.

The diamonds were safe in the strong-room of our bank, and my husband
had made an appointment with a dealer in precious stones, who would go
to see them early on the next day. I did not feel the least desire to
keep any of the gems for myself; the sooner they were turned into money
the better for Ronald and me.

"When we have paid all that we owe," I said, "there will not be a
single burden on my mind. And, whatever happens, we will never, never
get into debt again."

I have always been of Mr. Ruskin's opinion, that it is better to starve
and go to heaven than to buy things that you can't pay for. And I found
that my husband had come round to my way of thinking.

We spent the rest of that day happily and quietly. The guitar was not
forgotten, and Ronald sang our mysterious melody again and again. Never
had his voice sounded sweeter to me, and never had I felt so perfect a
sense of security and peace.

So the night closed in upon Chapel Place; and two fond hearts,
reunited, rejoiced in their newly found happiness.



[Illustration]

CHAPTER XXI.

CLOSING WORDS.

THERE is very little more to tell about Ronald and myself; the eventful
period of our lives lasted only a short time, and ended with the
finding of Inez Greystock's legacy.

The diamonds were sold for a sum so large that it ensured us a fair
competence for the rest of our days. And then, too, as the company
flourished, Ronald's salary increased, and we soon found ourselves in a
very comfortable position.

We did not leave our rooms in Chapel Place until the winter was past
and the spring had fairly set in; and then we moved into a pretty
little villa at Kensington.

It was not long before nurse gave up letting lodgings, and came to live
with us. Her husband died soon after our removal, and she was left
alone in the world. It was, therefore, the most natural thing that she
should take up her abode in our home; and at this present time she
domineers over my babies as she once domineered over me. Nothing can be
successfully arranged without her helping hands; and in all our little
difficulties and ailments she proves herself to be devoted to our
interests.

In these days of eye-service, our friends are inclined to covet our
faithful old servant; and we, on our side, repay her zeal with the
heartiest affection and kindness.

Lady Waterville, now a very old woman, still lives in the house in
George Street, and our frequent visits are her greatest pleasure. Mr.
Drury comes up twice a year from his pleasant rectory in the country,
and occupies a spare room in the Kensington villa—a room which is
always ready for his use. I can never forget that he took me in and
sheltered me in my need and sickness, and my husband owes him an
eternal debt of gratitude.

Our favourite friend, Marian, will soon cease to be Miss Bailey, and
a few weeks will find her settled in a villa close to ours. After
refusing several offers, she finally resigned her heart to one of
Ronald's friends, a clever barrister, who fell so desperately in love
with her that there was no resisting him. My husband says that he is
one of the most fortunate of men to have won so sweet a woman; and I
think that he fully understands the true value of his prize. Marian's
price is "far above rubies," and she will be as good and true in
wifehood as she has ever been in friendship.

Many friends come to the villa, and charm us with their bright talk
and news of that great world which we only peep into now and then. But
Ronald and I are very little known in society, and we prefer to hear of
its doings from others, instead of plunging into its whirl ourselves.
Our early misunderstandings have made us cling all the closer to each
other; life is so sweet to us (ay, and so short), that we do not care
to waste it in intercourse with mere acquaintances. The stranger
inter-meddleth not with our joy.

Only yesterday, just after the summer sunset, we two sat together at
the open window overlooking our garden. The scent of flowers drifted
into the room, and the warm blush of the west was lingering over the
trees. It was the very hour for music, and as he touched the strings of
the guitar, that sweet, gay melody sounded in my ears again.

It is not given to all of us to know the meaning of the melodies that
blend with our lives; and some may have to wait till such strains are
repeated by "the harpers harping with their harps" before the throne.
But to every one there comes the old music of Hope; the promise
(however faintly chanted) of that voice which heaven has lent to earth.
And, although the turmoil of the great crowd may often drown its notes,
the song is always the same; "a song and melody in our heaviness,"
breathing of labour ended, love repaid, and the satisfied heart at
peace in an everlasting rest.



                            THE END.



LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.