GOING OUT.
THE charm of Marian's presence seemed to linger with us after she was
gone. It gratified me to hear Ronald's praises of my friend; he had
enjoyed her conversation and her singing, and looked forward with
pleasure to the thought of spending an evening in Mrs. Baldock's house
in Curzon Street. I had tact enough to tell him that she had admired
the artistic decorations of our little room—especially the tambourine.
"Ah," said Ronald, sinking back complacently into his favourite corner
of the sofa, "I might have done something in the art line with proper
training."
"I always thought so," I answered, warmly. And then, for the hundredth
time, I fell to wondering secretly why it was that he could not get
on better in life? It was hard to see humdrum men succeeding while he
failed. He was so clever—so versatile—and he looked so interesting in
his attitude of languid repose, his pale, delicately-cut face showing
out against the dark crimson cushion, that I began to fall in love with
him anew.
"But," he continued, "I must give up all thought of art now-a-days,
Louie, and devote myself to the City. Greystock is putting me up to
some good things; and I am going every day to his office to write his
letters and make myself generally useful."
I was so glad to be taken into confidence again, that I resolved never
to say another disparaging word of William Greystock. For a little
while, at any rate, I would banish the remembrance of unpaid weekly
bills, and all the anxieties of everyday life; and I would bask once
more in the warmth of that love which had shed its glow over my world
in days gone by.
"Ah, Ronald, I wish we had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves in this
summer-time!" I said, going to the sofa and kneeling down by his side.
"I wish we could ramble under the trees and among the buttercups, as if
we were children. Do you recollect a day we spent at Richmond in May?
There was a great lilac bush in the hotel garden, and I buried my face
in a mass of bloom, and half-intoxicated myself with perfume! Dear, I
felt as if my heart was not large enough to hold its happiness! The
flowers—the fragrance—the sunshine-and—you!"
"My poor child," he answered, drawing me close to his breast, "the
sunshine did not last very long. You have only one or two poor little
holidays to look back upon;—only a few golden hours snatched from a
life of care! But perhaps there are brighter times coming, pet; and you
shall take your fill of the flowers again."
But as I knelt there in his arms with his face close to mine, I felt
I could live without the flowers. We were only a poor young couple,
clinging to each other in a dim London room; but just then our lives
were full of sweeter poetry than can ever be put into words. Other
couples, more fortunate in their surroundings, were drinking in the
sweetness of the scented twilight in country places far away.
"Some wandering hand in hand through arching lanes;
Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;
Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss."
Yet I hardly think that any of them could be happier than we were in
these quiet moments, when we seemed to have but one heart between us.
It was true that my life was full of care; true that I had given up my
untroubled girlhood for a troubled wifehood. But does any true woman
ever love a man less because she has sacrificed all her best years for
his sake? Does not the very fact of the sacrifice endear him for whom
it was made?
Later on, when perhaps it is a woman's bitter lot to find that her
self-abnegation was all in vain, there may come to her some passionate
regrets for the squandered strength and the wasted devotion. But even
then (if that devotion has been of the purest kind), I think that her
life is not so poor as the lives of some of her wiser sisters, who have
never loved well enough to lavish anything. Moreover, I believe it is
impossible for a woman of the best type to exhaust the store-house of
her affections. Like the widow's cruse of oil, it is ever replenished
by some unseen power.
In the course of the next day, there came an affectionate little note
from Marian, asking us to dine at her aunt's house in Curzon Street,
and fixing an early date. Ronald's face brightened at the invitation.
"We have been living like two hermits," he said. "It's time that we saw
a little more of the world. Not that I am tired of your society, Louie;
but I'm afraid I shall bore you awfully if you never see any one else,
and I like this friend of yours; she is worth knowing."
I, too, was well pleased, although my pleasure was considerably damped
by the consciousness of having to wear an old gown. Marian was, I knew,
incapable of any unkindly criticism; but other eyes might look less
indulgently on my old frock. Sixpences and shillings were very precious
in these days, and I shrank even from purchasing the cheap lace that
could be converted into an adornment for the neck and bosom of my
well-worn black satin.
"What is the matter, little woman? Why are you looking so grave?" my
husband demanded, when the day came.
"Oh, I was thinking about dress," I answered, incautiously. "I am so
shabby, you know."
His brow darkened.
"What a nuisance poverty is!" he said, in an impatient tone. "It's hard
that my wife can't dine out without worrying herself to death about the
state of a gown. I should like to deck you in diamonds, Louie, but—"
He paused, and the very mention of diamonds sent a strange thrill of
remembrance through my brain. When had we ever had anything to do with
diamonds? And yet I was haunted by a vague notion that I had once seen
myself glittering with splendid gems. So vivid was this impression
that I forgot all about my old black silk, and sat staring into space,
wondering from what source this phantom of memory had been produced.
"I recollect now," I said, with a little laugh. "One night, soon after
we came here, you were lying asleep, and I was sewing by your bedside.
It was late; I dropped into a doze, and dreamed that I was standing
before a glass, with diamonds flashing on my head and neck. You can't
imagine how clear the dream was, Ronald. At this moment I can scarcely
believe that it was only a dream. It seems as if I had verily handled
and worn those diamonds."
"I wish I could make the dream come true," he answered, kissing me,
with a troubled look in his eyes. "But if diamonds are unattainable,
flowers are always to be had, and you don't want jewels to wear at a
quiet dinner. This evening I will bring you some of your favourite
roses."
"And they are a great deal prettier than jewels," I told him, eagerly.
"I remember the first flower you ever gave me was a rose, a Marshal
Niel, and I was absurdly delighted with it."
"I remember too," he replied, the trouble ladling out of his face.
"Ah, I'm glad you have not forgotten. Ronald! Lady Waterville used to
say that men always forgot the very things that women treasured up in
their memories. As to jewels, I shan't want them in the least, and you
may be quite sure that I shall not envy any woman who may happen to be
better dressed than I am!"
These words came back to me afterwards as if to mock me for my
self-confidence. But; when I uttered them, they sprang straight from my
heart, and I fancied that Ronald's smile, in answer, was brighter than
it had been for a long time.
When he had gone City wards, I turned my thoughts again to the black
silk gown, and presently I sallied out into Oxford Street to buy the
indispensable lace. It did not take long to choose some that was pretty
and effective; but when I opened my purse to pay for it, I felt a rush
of hot colour burn my cheeks. I had been brought up with what are
called old-fashioned principles, and to me it seemed a dreadful thing
to spend money that was owing elsewhere.
I left the shop with a sense of degradation that took the sweetness
out of all my pleasure. The morning was glorious, everybody seemed to
be making purchases that day; bright-faced girls and portly mothers
were flocking into Marshall & Snelgrove's, serene in the consciousness
of ample funds. Pretty young matrons, followed by obsequious shopmen
with parcels, swept out to their carriages, well satisfied with their
shopping; and I, a shabbily-clad little wife, wended my way homewards,
feeling that I had but little in common with them all.
Debts are the prickly brambles that encompass an imprudent marriage,
and tear the clasped hands of wedded love. It was very seldom that I
ventured to speak of them to Ronald; the subject irritated him; and so
I endured the pain inflicted by all those little thorns in silence.
Sometimes the smart was almost intolerable, and no one knew what bitter
tears it wrung from me in solitary hours. Nurse was the only person who
guessed my sufferings, but she could not realise how sharp they were.
I entered the house, and sat down wearily on the sofa in the little
parlour, with my parcel in my lap. It would have been a relief to cry,
but I forced back the tears. What would Ronald have said to a wife who
went out to dine with red eyes? And I did want to look my best, for his
sake, that evening.
Then I composed myself, laid aside my bonnet, and set about my task
in right earnest. As I proceeded, I could not help feeling a certain
amount of womanly satisfaction in my own skill; the ruffled lace looked
delicate and creamy when I arranged it about my neck, and surveyed
myself in the glass.
Nurse came to me, late in the afternoon, and insisted on brushing my
thick hair with her own hands, and twisting it up in sunny coils,
in a fashion which could not have been improved upon. We both tried
valiantly to persuade ourselves that the black silk gown looked very
well indeed; we even decided that it was a mistake for silk to be too
lustrous and new; and as to the fichu of creamy lace, it called forth
cries of rapturous admiration. Nurse walked backward to get the full
effect of me, and fell to gesticulating wildly in her efforts to make
me understand how well I looked.
But although her honest flattery was very sweet, I knew that it was a
changed face that I saw reflected in the glass; a face which lacked
the softness of contour, and freshness of colouring, which are the
chief charms of youth. The springtide of life was gone. Instead of the
Louie of old days, I beheld a pale, fragile little woman, with pathetic
eyes, that seemed to have grown larger and darker of late, and lips
that quivered painfully with any passing emotion. This was what my
love-match had made of me.
"Don't you recollect the parties at the rectory, ma'am?" said nurse,
still hovering round me. "And the white muslin with the red spots,
that you looked so nice in? And the curate, who was that silly about
you that we used to fear for his poor brain? And Farmer Danby's son
a-capering whenever you came in his way? Capering Danby was his name
from one end of the village to the other, and yet he was as still a man
as one could wish to see, till you turned his head. Not that you ever
trifled with him, Miss Louie; that was far from you, ma'am. But you
captivated him, innocent-like; and the simple soul was never the same
again."
While the old woman talked, I called up a vision of my old country
home, and the rustic swains whose antics had amused me in those early
days. The scent of fields full of long grass, came drifting back; the
young roses were in bloom on our cottage walls; the lanes leading to
the rectory were fragrant with a wealth of hawthorn blossoms. I was a
girl again, with a girl's unawakened heart and childish fancies, like
the little princess in a fairy tale, standing among leafy ways and
watching for the prince's coming.
Then the clock of St. Peter's struck six, and I heard a well-known
knock which brought me back to the realities of my present life. The
prince had come indeed; and the poor little shabby princess must get
out his evening suit, and lay his fresh linen on the bed, all ready for
the royal wearer.
He came in, with a little bouquet done up in silver paper. Three
perfect roses of palest yellow—were there ever flowers more beautiful,
even in the fairy land of my dreams? I lifted my face to kiss him for
his gift, and there was a wistful look in the eyes that met mine.
"Am I turned out well?" I asked, anxiously.
"Admirably," he answered, with a slight quiver in his voice. "What
a long time it is since I saw you in festal array! Pin the flowers
just there—a little higher—that's right. My darling, how thin your
hands are—the rings are loose;—there is something unsubstantial and
spirit-like about you altogether!"
I had seen that the change wrought in me by trial and anxiety was more
visible now than at ordinary times; and he saw it too, and was deeply
moved. Nurse had noiselessly departed, and for a few moments he hung
over me, with fond, regretful murmurs, forgetting all else save our
love, and the sorrows that had knit us so closely together. A little
while ago, I had silently lamented the loss of my early bloom: now I
did not care about it in the least. These sorrowful caresses, these
loving, whispered words, were ample compensation for the charms that
had fled.
A little later we were rattling towards Curzon Street in a hansom,
and overhead the clear evening sky was smiling down upon the restless
streets. Both were silent; my husband's face still wore its wistful
look, but I felt such a depth of content within me that I was sorry
when the short drive came to an end.
Marian Bailey received us in a faded old drawing-room, made bright with
choice flowers; and Mrs. Baldock greeted us with old-fashioned courtesy.
Presently two other guests were announced; first, a Mr. Hartley, who
proved to be a distant cousin of Marian's; and then—Miss Lorimer.
Well-trained as he was in all the ways of society, I saw a slight
change pass over my husband's face. It was gone in an instant; and,
in his turn, he moved from his station near the window to shake hands
with a tall, stately woman. Her golden hair shone as the light touched
it, and there was something imposing and sumptuous about her beauty
which made me long to go and hide myself. For was not this the very Ida
Lorimer who had once been Ronald's chosen love?
There she stood, untouched by poverty and pain, unchanged by any of
those daily trials which had stolen my youth away. And as Ronald's head
bent towards her, and his eyes seemed to speak the old language that
they had spoken to hers long ago, the keen fangs of jealousy began to
rend my heart once more.
The long-continued pressure of secret cares—the weakness caused by
enfeebled health—the consciousness of altered looks—all these things
combined to render me morbid and suspicious as the hours of that
memorable evening went on. Once I caught a glimpse of my own mournful
little face in a glass; and in the background I saw Miss Lorimer's
golden head. What a poor, frail creature I seemed beside that splendid
blonde! Mr. Hartley tried to draw me into a conversation, and Marian
came many times to my side with smiles and kind words; but nothing
could make me forget Miss Lorimer's presence.
At first the stately beauty seemed disposed to ignore me altogether.
Once or twice I fancied that she was quietly quizzing my unfortunate
black silk, and making silent comments on my dejected aspect. In her
eyes I was a little nobody—Lady Waterville's companion—who had been
married by Ronald Hepburne in one of his romantic freaks. But before
the evening was over, she seemed to have a desire to know something
more about me, and came to the corner where I had taken refuge.
"Mr. Hepburne and I are old friends," she said, with a gracious society
smile. "I had been wondering where he had hidden himself after his
marriage; but he has been telling me about that long illness. How sad
it must have been for you! Nursing is such dreary work, isn't it?"
"It was very sad," I admitted quietly, feeling that there was no real
sympathy in the cold blue eyes that met mine. "But he is quite well
now, and almost as strong as ever."
"He still looks delicate, I fancy. However, Mr. Greystock tells me that
he is learning to be a City man, and that must require a great deal of
strength and energy I am sure. What a delightful man Mr. Greystock is!"
"I suppose so; I don't know him very well," I replied.
"He will be a great help to Mr. Hepburne," she went on, still eyeing
me coldly. "Such an excellent adviser and friend. By the way, you are
musical, I daresay?"
"No; I am very fond of music, but I neither play nor sing."
"Really; and Mr. Hepburne sings so well. His love for his guitar used
to be almost a mania; has he given it up?"
"Oh, no," said Marian Bailey, coming to my corner, and taking it on
herself to answer the question. "His guitar is always taken up in spare
moments, and the verses that Mrs. Hepburne writes for him to sing are
some of the most charming things you ever heard."
"Really?" repeated Miss Lorimer, raising her golden eyebrows. "I must
ask to see those verses one of these days."
I saw Ronald watching us from his station on the other side of the
room, and felt that I did not succeed in making myself agreeable to
his old love. What would I not have given to have recalled the old
bright manner with which I used to charm the people who came to Lady
Waterville's "At homes." But I was too young to wear a mask gracefully,
and of all disguises, the sparkling mask is the most difficult to
assume. If the wearer be inexperienced, ten to one that it will drop
off suddenly, in some unguarded moment, and reveal the haggard face and
heavy heart that was meant to hide.
Just then, Marian contrived to lead Miss Lorimer away to the piano, and
I was left in peace. Ida was a cold, brilliant player; her performance
was creditable enough, I daresay, but not a single note touched my
heart.
The evening came to an end. We uttered our good-nights; I folded a
shabby woollen wrap round my shoulders, and Ida muffled herself in a
golden plush opera cloak, bordered with rich dark fur. How regal she
looked when my husband put her into the brougham that was waiting
before the door.
We departed next, sitting side by side in hansom; but I did not enjoy
the drive this time.
"You are tired to death, Louie," said Ronald, after a long silence.
And I answered, "Yes, tired to death."
[Illustration]
[Illustration]