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.

"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!"