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.