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!"