SHADOWS DEEPEN.
ALTHOUGH Ronald continued to go regularly every day into the City, and
although he talked a great deal about Greystock's valuable help and
counsel, I did not find that our funds increased.
He dined out, however, so frequently that I was able to economise in
the matter of dinners. Anything did for me, when he was absent; but
I don't think nurse approved of my scanty meals; and I did not seem
to thrive upon my fare. The truth was, that, as the days went on, I
was fast losing my hope of the future. I could not forget that, while
Ronald was looking forward to "better luck," we were gradually sinking
deeper and deeper into the mire.
One evening he came in unexpectedly when I was sitting down to some
fragments of cold mutton; and I saw his face darken at the sight of the
food.
"What a feast you have got there!" he said, half angrily. "Nurse could
have hashed those tempting morsels, I suppose. Why do you sit here
alone, and make a martyr of yourself, Louie?"
"I am not a martyr," I answered, cheerfully. "I did not want a hash,
that was all. I wasn't expecting you, Ronald, or I would have had
something nice."
"Oh, tell them to cook a chop," he responded in a hurried tone. "Don't
fidget about me, Louie; I shall do well enough. The fact is, I was half
engaged to dine with Greystock, and then he suddenly remembered that
Lady Waterville had asked him this evening. The old lady ages visibly."
"Did you see her?" I said, pausing with my hand on the bell.
"Yes; Greystock made me go in and speak to her. She was very glad to
see me, I believe; but of course she maundered on about our wickedness
in getting married. I saw that Ida Lorimer was laughing quietly behind
her."
"Oh, was Miss Lorimer there?"
I put the question with all possible calmness, but the blood rushed
into my cheeks, making them burn intolerably for a moment. I took care
that he should not see my face.
"Yes; she is often there," he replied. "Greystock is a great ally of
hers; and he has persuaded her to take pity on the old soul in her
loneliness. Lady Waterville was really fond of you, Louie. She misses
you so much that she can't help being bitter."
"She used to be very good to me," I said, with a sigh.
"Everybody would be good to you, little woman, if you would let them.
But you take far too gloomy a view of people, and of life in general;
and your face is getting to wear a settled look of melancholy. Lady
Waterville asked, quite maliciously, if you were not rather dismal
now-a-days?"
"How did she know I was dismal?" inquired, with a desperate effort to
be composed.
"Well, I suppose she questioned Ida. You know, my dear girl, you looked
like a mute at a funeral when you dined at Mrs. Baldock's. I don't know
what possessed you."
I felt that all the burning colour had deserted my cheeks; they were
cold and white enough now. So Ida Lorimer had been making scornful
remarks about me, and my husband had agreed with all that she had said!
I sat down again in my place at the table, and presently the maid came
in with chops, which had been cooked for our landlord, and were now
placed before Ronald. He began to eat with good appetite, although the
fare was plain; and it was clear that he had not noticed the effect of
his words.
"Why can't you cheer up, Louie?" he said, after a pause. "Why will you
persist in giving people the impression that you are a wretched wife? I
know we have had our troubles, pet, but they are over now, and better
days are coming. You are growing as thin as a lath, and you 'gang like
a ghaist.' What can be done with you?"
There was an undertone of impatience running through the apparent
kindness of his words. I sat desperately trying to swallow scraps of
mutton, which seemed as tasteless as if I had been eating in a dream.
He was expecting a reply, and by-and-by I spoke in a choked voice.
"I am not very strong, Ronald; but as to giving people the impression
that I am wretched, that can hardly be done; I am not often seen. Of
course I don't appear to advantage beside a woman who has never had
anything but prosperity."
"Oh, you mean Ida Lorimer. Well, you see, she doesn't take things to
heart as you do."
"That I can quite believe, Ronald. Indeed, I think it is doubtful
whether she has any heart at all."
"That's what the sentimental women always say of the matter-of-fact
ones," he remarked, laughing.
Where was my good angel at that moment? Out leaped the sharp retort,
swift as lightning.
"I am sorry that you did not marry a matter-of-fact one. She would have
suited you much better than I do."
"You have said the same thing before." He had become suddenly grave and
cold. "Doesn't it strike you that these regrets are worse than useless?
As we have got to live with each other, we had better cultivate the art
of nicking agreeable speeches."
"With all my heart," I answered, haughtily. "Only I hope you will see
that the agreeable speeches can't be all on one side. If you will take
your share of making them, I will take mine."
"Very well. I will do my best to be on my guard. It's a mistake,
I find, to speak out candidly to one's wife. Restraint and formal
courtesy shall be the rules of my home-life for the future; only, you
know, my home will be wofully unlike a home!"
"Oh, Ronald, what has come to us?" The question broke suddenly and
passionately from my lips. "I never please you now. If I go out with
you, nothing goes well; if I stay at home, you find fault with me. Am I
to be blamed because 'my heart and my flesh faileth?' Is it likely that
I can be gay and smiling when we are getting poorer every day? I am
tired—yes, very tired—and I think I am growing too weak to keep up the
struggle."
There was a silence. I was crying now, not noisily, but very bitterly,
and I had crept away from the table to the sofa. Presently—after a
pause—he rose, and came across the room to my side.
"Louie," he said, "it will never do to go on like this? You are very
tired, poor child; I see that plainly enough. But can't you try
to believe in a better future, dear? Have little patience, and my
investments are sure to turn out well."
"Investments?" I repeated, suddenly raising my tearful face. "We have
no money to invest, Ronald."
"Greystock has lent me some." He made the admission with some
reluctance. "So you see, Louie, he has proved himself to be more
unselfish than you thought. Of course he knows that it is perfectly
safe—I never do anything without his advice—but some men never will
part with money, even for a month or two. Greystock is really a friend."
Was he? I was as far as ever from believing in his friendship.
"I will try to be brighter, Ronald," I said, putting my hand into his.
"It is hard on you, I daresay, to see me so changed and sorrowful. I
have spoken foolishly this evening, but—I was overwrought and worn."
This time it was a very quiet reconciliation; there were no passionate
embraces, no fond murmurs. He kissed me tenderly, remarked that the
fresh air would do us both a world of good, and took me out for a walk.
I have always loved old Cavendish Square on a summer evening, when its
garden is looking fresh and green, and its stately houses are wearing
their brightest aspect. There were dinner-parties going on, carriages
coming and going, well-groomed horses prancing, tall menservants here
and there, but I could not take my usual pleasure in the scene. I
managed to talk (with a fair show of good spirits), and Ronald did his
best to be good-humoured, yet there were certain words of his that lay
heavily on my heart.
He had borrowed money of William Greystock.
This new cause for anxiety drove all jealous thoughts of Miss Lorimer
out of my head for a time. It was an unlooked-for fear, which had
suddenly started up in a path already thickly-planted with thorns.
I had no doubt that my husband had perfect faith in those investments
of which he spoke so brightly; but I also knew that it was a faith
derived from Greystock alone, and not from his own knowledge of
matters of business. I might be unreasonable and unjust; I had not the
slightest ground for suspicion, and yet I dreaded William Greystock
more now than I had ever done before.
He had got a hold on Ronald. The thought made my spirit sink within
me, for my instincts had detected the cruelty that was latent in his
nature. If he were kind, there must be a cruel motive for the kindness.
And I—fragile, weary, already spent with a sore conflict—what could I
do to deliver my husband from the strong hand that held him fast?
That night, I lay awake while Ronald slept peacefully by my side. There
was no change in my love for him; it was as pure and true as it had
been on the day when we came out of the old church, man and wife; but I
was beginning to lose confidence in myself. And deep in my soul dwelt
the haunting fear that he was growing a little weary of the wife he had
wedded.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]