RONALD.
I LIVED two years with Lady Waterville; and to outside observers, mine
must have seemed the most peaceful and uneventful of lives.
But any one who could have seen beneath the surface would have found
impatience, anxiety, and heartache always going on within me; and yet I
was neither impatient nor anxious about myself. It was for Ronald that
I suffered. Until he entered my life, I had been contented with little
joys; pleased with trifles; easily moved to gladness; but he came, and
shadows came with him. It was a very common love-story after all; and
I know that many a girl who reads these pages will pause and say to
herself: "This is my experience."
He loved me deeply and truly, all the more because I was not only his
love but his friend. To me were confided embarrassments, worries,
even mistakes, and there was never any fear of being repulsed or
misunderstood. I was a mere country girl; but I had thought and read
and studied in my uncle's quiet cottage, and I found the hero of my
real life-story not so very much unlike some of the heroes of fiction.
My knowledge of human nature was only second-hand, but affection turned
it to good account, and made the best of it.
Moreover, I had always possessed that useful power of assimilation
which makes it a positive delight to be confided in. In old days, when
boys came to stay at the rectory, I had seldom failed to adapt myself
readily to such themes as interested them. I learned the names of their
schoolfellows and masters in a trice, and never confused identities,
and I would talk with them for hours about people I had never seen, and
games I had never played. To this very day, I retain the parting tokens
of their boyish friendship—a formidable knife with several blades, some
marbles, and a pocket telescope, through which I have never yet been
able to discern a single object, near or far.
And now that Ronald Hepburne came to me for sympathy, I seemed to live,
move, and have my being in him and his concerns. Outwardly I belonged
to Lady Waterville, but I scarcely gave her a thought; I could think
only of Ronald and the difficulties that beset his path, and made it
impossible for us to walk side by side.
Later on, I learned that William Greystock had pretended to remove
those difficulties. To him, as to an elder brother, Ronald had
naturally confided his desire to increase his income and marry.
Mr. Greystock had acquired a reputation for keen sagacity; he was
acquainted with city men, and even Lady Waterville spoke with respect
of his abilities for business. With his knowledge and influence it
seemed easy for him to obtain a post for Ronald, but somehow that
post was never found, and once or twice when the poor fellow, had
thought himself almost sure of a situation, there had been a mysterious
obstacle placed in his way.
Yet his belief in William remained unshaken. Ronald himself was
constitutionally delicate, and seemed to have a natural incapacity
to push through the crowd of fortune-seekers and gain his end. But
William, who had never known a day's illness, seldom failed in getting
anything he wanted, and yet he was always so cool and deliberate in his
actions, that his object was attained without apparent effort or fuss.
He was an energetic man, and Ronald was an indolent one.
Impartial observers, looking at the two men, invariably decided that
William Greystock was a far better and grander character than Ronald
Hepburne. William had added to his income by shrewd and cautious
money-making; he gave liberally to public charities, he bestowed
advice on frivolous bachelor friends, and was regarded by them as a
model counsellor. Lady Waterville quoted his wise sayings continually,
and was often heard to wish that Ronald—"poor, foolish, fascinating
Ronald—" would put himself completely under the guidance of Mr.
Greystock.
"Do you think Mr. Hepburne fascinating?" I said, one day.
"Yes," she answered, "and so do you, Louie. I admire that soft, languid
manner of his; and you are in love with his melancholy face and
manifold misfortunes. It does not matter to you that he brought a good
many of those misfortunes on himself; like all women of your type, you
are willing to heal wounds without inquiring how they were gained. In
my opinion, you are a ridiculous girl, and I won't waste any more sound
advice upon you!"
These words were said in her usual good-humoured way, and accompanied
by a caressing pat on the shoulder. I had not then acknowledged that
Ronald was my lover, and in Lady Waterville's presence we met only as
friends. But I think she suspected that there was something more than
friendship between us.
"I grant that your advice is always sound," I said, "yet if I followed
it, I don't believe I should be happy. It is quite possible for some
natures to be uncomfortable in the midst of comfort."
"Perfectly true," she replied. "As for you, Louie, you could not rest
without wearing yourself out for another's sake. Your life is not worth
living unless it is lived for somebody else. For me, and for thousands
of other women, self is sufficient. It is not sufficient for you; but
you are as heaven made you."
I knew that if I married Ronald, Lady Waterville would persist in
regarding me as an interesting martyr to the end of her days. I knew
that she would speak of me to her friends as a perfectly unselfish
girl who had thrown herself away on a good-for-nothing man. But was
Ronald really good-for-nothing? I was a better judge of his character
than any one else could possibly be. A true love is never blind; it is
keener-sighted even than hate, it makes itself acquainted with all the
weak places in the loved one's nature that it may mount guard over the
undefended spots. And my insight into Ronald's inner self revealed to
me a wealth of unsuspected good.
Knowing that I understood him far better than she did, I permitted Lady
Waterville to say what she liked; but she could not delude me into the
belief that I was a heroine. Nor could she even persuade me to alter my
opinion of Mr. Greystock.
It was Lady Waterville's custom to leave town in the beginning of
August, and stay away until the first of October; and when I first came
to live with her, this autumn holiday had seemed very pleasant to me.
I enjoyed the life one leads at a gay watering-place, and found that
military bands, stylish costumes, and casual acquaintance were much
to my liking. But the second autumn was not half as delightful as the
first. I did not want to leave London, and felt listless and bored at
the seaside. Straitened means had condemned Ronald to do penance in
town till through the hot weather; and what were sea-breezes to me? It
was a joyful day when my term of banishment was ended, and we returned
to the old house in Hanover Square.
It was afternoon when we found ourselves in George Street again—a dim,
quiet afternoon, made cheerful by some last gleams of autumn sunshine.
The cab stopped at our door, and I got out with such a beaming face
that the parlour-maid congratulated me on my appearance. It was the
last time that I ever heard that cheery phrase:
"How well you are looking, miss, to be sure!"
In the days that came and went afterwards, most people surveyed me with
a silence that was more eloquent than words. Miss Coverdale, the petted
companion of Lady Waterville, with her rounded cheeks and smiling lips,
was soon destined to become a creature of the past.
We lingered long over our afternoon tea, and were still sitting with
the cups and the little table between us, when Ronald came in. He was
looking noticeably worn and sad—so sad, that after one glance at his
face all my gay spirits deserted me.
"We have been enjoying ourselves immensely," said Lady Waterville, in
a mischievous tone. "Louie got through a good deal of flirting; it's
astonishing to see the progress that she has made in the art! Last year
she was a mere beginner, but now—"
"Now she is more disgusted with flirtation than she ever was in her
life!" I interrupted, with impatience. "Why do you misrepresent Louie,
Lady Waterville? You know she is sick of the band, and the pier, and
all the seaside nonsense, and heartily glad to be at home again!"
Lady Waterville gave a sleepy little laugh, and sank back upon the
cushions of her chair. In the next minute, she was snoring audibly;
and Ronald and I were as much left to ourselves as if she had been in
another room.
He drew nearer to my side as I sat in the glow of the firelight. There
was a shaded lamp on a distant table, and the drawing-room was but
dimly illuminated that evening. But the flickering flames revealed the
lines on his face, and lit up the melancholy eyes that sought mine with
a troubled gaze.
"I have been very lonely, Louie."
Is there any woman who can hear this confession from a man, and refrain
from pitying him? Women are themselves accustomed to loneliness, and
to many of them it is only another word for peace. We are not, as
a rule, so sociably inclined as men; we can be content with a soft
chair, a book, and the unfailing cup of tea, when a man will pine for
companionship, and go out of doors, in rain or wind, to seek the face
of a friend. I had learnt from Ronald's letters that he had missed me,
but when we came face to face again, I knew, for the first time, that
his yearning had become an absolute pain.
I could not find words to say to him at that moment; but involuntarily
my hand touched his, and was seized and held in a close clasp. My eyes
were fixed upon the fire; but they saw visions of an Eden, sunlit and
glorious, full of granted desires and realised dreams. Perhaps he, too,
saw the same vision, and rebelled all the more fiercely against his
cramped and fettered life.
"Are we never to be happy together?" he whispered, passionately. "Are
we to wait on and on, and let the best part of our lives go by? I have
only a poor home to offer you, Louie; but I will work for you, dear.
Will you come to me?"
Lady Waterville still slumbered peacefully; the large tabby cat kept up
a drowsy purr on the hearth-rug at my feet, and there was no one near
to utter a word of caution. Yet, in my own heart, a stern voice failed
not to make itself heard above all love's fervent pleadings; and for an
instant I paused, and listened to that inward warning. Then Ronald's
eyes met mine, and the bright vision of an Eden came back at once; I
should have been more than woman if I could have resisted its spell.
"I will come to you," I said, softly. And a brilliant flame shot
suddenly up from the neglected fire, and showed me all the joy and
triumph in his face.
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