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]