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."