POISONED WORDS.
THE summer days, so full of joy for others, brought only sorrow and
weariness to me.
Marian came to me often, and her looks seemed to invite the confidence
which I would not bestow. At her first coming, I had been prompted to
open my heart to her; but, after the dinner-party in Curzon Street, my
impulse was checked. I was far too proud to tell her that I was jealous
of my husband's old sweetheart; and she had too much delicacy to let
me see that she suspected such a thing. Yet sometimes I almost fancied
that she had found out the reason of my reserve.
I carefully avoided all mention of Miss Lorimer, but one day Marian
introduced her name.
"Ida Lorimer is one of Aunt Baldock's friends," she remarked. "She
always manages to amuse the old lady with her chitchat, and that is why
she is asked to all our dinner-parties."
From Marian's tone, I inferred that she did not want Ida to be her
friend; but I kept silence.
There were no more quarrels between Ronald and myself, but in the
depth of my heart, I owned that our Eden was fast becoming a sorry
wilderness. Our debts increased, and all my quiet savings were of no
avail. It was indeed but "lost labour" for me to eat the bread of
carefulness, for Ronald, sure of that glorious future of which he had
spoken, was not disposed to deny himself little comforts. When he dined
at home he was not contented with the plain fare which had satisfied
him in our earlier wedded days. William Greystock had developed his
natural taste for luxuries.
Every man is, I believe, a gourmand at heart, but the chance of being
a glutton does not come to all. Greystock gave my husband plenty of
opportunities of indulging his liking for dainties; and when Ronald and
I ate at our table together, I had to listen to long lectures on the
art of cooking. They were not uninstructive lectures; most women will
do well to listen when a lord of the creation discourses of roast and
boiled, sauce and gravy; but the consciousness of an empty purse made
all this talk a weariness to we. Worse than a weariness—it was a pain.
One July afternoon, when I was sitting at the open window with my
eternal mending work, a drowsiness began to steal over me, and my hands
dropped heavily on my lap. It was a hot day; far off in country places
the corn was ripening fast, and scarlet poppies were flaunting among
the golden grain. I shut my eyes and called up a vision of the arbour
at the end of my grandfather's garden—a veritable bower—
"Where honeysuckles, ripened by the sun,
Forbid the sun to enter."
Once more I seemed to tread the long grass-path that led to the bower;
once more a rush of perfume, intoxicatingly sweet, swept over me, and
filled me with delight. Again the overblown damask roses shed a shower
of petals at my feet, and the large white lilies stood in stately file
on each side of the old walk. I was back again in the delicious, dreamy
place where my childish days were spent, and all the cares of the
present life were forgotten and blotted out, when a loud, harsh noise
suddenly broke the spell.
It was only a double knock, but who does not know how unwelcome such a
sound may be in the middle of an afternoon nap? Sleep was not such a
common blessing that I could afford to lose ever so little of it. Many
wakeful nights had made a few moments of oblivion as precious as gold;
my sojourn in happy dreamland might have done me a world of good, if it
had not been cut short.
Just as the parlour door was flung open, I started up, suddenly
conscious that I was in a most ungraceful attitude. Seated in our only
easy chair, I had put my feet up on another, and on this extemporised
couch I had enjoyed an interval of most blissful repose. There are few
who have not experienced the intense sweetness of that sleep which
comes to us at unexpected times, and in somewhat inconvenient places—a
sweetness which we often miss when we lie down on the orthodox couch at
night, and anxiously await the coming of the drowsy god. Even now, when
heart and brain are at rest, I can remember those snatches of perfect
forgetfulness of this life and its sordid troubles, and I like to fancy
that they were sent to me by a Divine kindness.
Half-bewildered, and still entangled in the web of dreams, I rose, and
found myself face to face with William Greystock.
"I am afraid I have startled you, Mrs. Hepburne," he said, in a voice
which was lunch softer than his usual tone. "You have not been well, I
hear—indeed, you are not looking strong."
There was something almost tender in the fixed look of his dark eyes;
but it was a tenderness that did not draw me towards him for a moment.
"No, I am not very strong," I admitted, simply. "My husband's illness
was long and trying, you know, and anxiety wore me out."
"You are very much changed."
The words seemed to fall involuntarily from his lips, and the pity in
his face stung me.
"I was prepared for changes when I married," I said, coldly. "Every
girl is. I never expected to go on leading the easy do-nothing life I
lived with Lady Waterville."
"Ah, yes! You got tired of that life. You even preferred trouble to
monotony; that's always the way with women."
"Isn't it the way with men also?" I asked, with a smile.
"That was said like Miss Coverdale—you were always fond of putting
questions. Well, no; I believe women care more about excitement than we
do, that's the truth."
"I don't agree with you," I replied, shaking my head. "But we won't
begin one of our old interminable arguments—besides, a good deal of the
spirit of contradiction has died out of me. How is Lady Waterville?"
"Very well; and yet I don't know that I ought to say 'very well.' She
is far too stout and apathetic to be in perfect health."
"But she has been stout and apathetic for any number of years, and the
condition seems to agree with her," I said. "I haven't lost one bit of
my old affection for her, Mr. Greystock, although I suppose she never
will forgive me."
He laughed, but the pitying look was still in his eyes. "I think she
has forgiven you in her heart," he answered. "But sometimes forgiveness
is never acknowledged in a lifetime. It is only revealed when death has
'set his seal' upon the lips. Poor Lady Waterville! She has missed you."
My eyes filled with tears; for a moment I could not speak.
"The forsaken are apt to be bitter," he went on. "You have, beyond
other women, a power of winning love which is past explaining. Do
not be surprised if people get angry at finding that they have been
despoiled of your affection—even an unconscious despoiler cannot hope
to escape indignation."
"A very unjust indignation," I said, faintly.
"Perhaps it is," he admitted, in a quiet voice. "But it is no light
trial to see all the richest offerings heaped upon the shrine of a
saint who accepts them with cold complacency. We, whose altars are
bare, would have given worlds for a single gem or flower."
The words sent a thrill of sharp pain through my heart. Had he observed
that growing coldness of which I had been conscious in Ronald? Did he
know that my husband had turned back in spirit to a woman whom he had
loved before he had ever seen me?
The jealousy which was silently burning deep down at the bottom of my
soul, had consumed all my peace. I could not speak of it to any one,
but I was always haunted by a vague notion that Ronald saw Ida Lorimer
often, and found a delight in her society that he had ceased to find in
mine.
There was a pause, and I sat waiting almost breathlessly for William
Greystock's next words, feeling miserably afraid that he would say
something to confirm my fears.
"Ronald's handiwork, I see," he remarked, going close to the
chimney-piece to inspect the tambourine. "How clever he is in doing
this kind of thing! Miss Lorimer is making some progress under his
instruction, but she has not much taste."
He spoke in a natural, easy tone, as if he had taken it for granted
that I knew all about the intimacy between my husband and Ida Lorimer.
I turned faint and sick, and my voice sounded strangely harsh when I
spoke.
"I did not know that Ronald was giving lessons," I said, involuntarily.
"Did you not?" William turned, and looked at me with a smile. "Yes, he
is not a bad teacher, I believe. But, Mrs. Hepburne, I am forgetting
the object of my visit; I came to invite you to a picnic at Richmond.
Ronald is coming, of course, and I hope you will be persuaded to join
us."
How could he smile so blandly when my poor distressed face was fronting
his? Either he was utterly obtuse, or he was taking a positive pleasure
in my sufferings.
I did not want to go to Richmond—I did not want to go anywhere—the
desire to see green trees and fields was still strong within me, but I
longed to be alone in the old haunts of my childhood, in scenes which
were unconnected with the love and pain of my later life. Yet how could
I refuse an invitation which had been already accepted by my husband?
"I am a very poor creature now-a-days," I said, with a miserable
attempt to speak lightly. "People who go to picnics ought to be good
walkers, and have a fund of animal spirits. I am not gay enough to join
your party, Mr. Greystock."
Again there was a softening in his voice, and an indescribable look of
tenderness in his face which made him far handsomer than I had ever
seen him before.
"Does one only want gay companions?" he asked. "I think not. For my own
part, I turn with relief to some one who is not gay, some one who can
sympathise with my own gravity of temperament. Take pity on me then,
Mrs. Hepburne, and spare me a few hours of your society next Thursday."
Still I hesitated, wondering why he pressed the point.
"The air will do you good," he continued, earnestly. "And I will take
care that you are not bored or persecuted in any way. Then, too, there
are Ronald's wishes to be considered: he says you are shutting yourself
up too much."
"Did he say that?" I demanded, eagerly.
"Indeed he did," Those inscrutable dark eyes were looking deep into
mine. "Is it not natural that he should be anxious about his wife's
health and spirits, and natural, too, that he should sometimes speak
his thoughts to till old friend?"
I reflected for a moment.
William Greystock's words sounded kind and reasonable, and I was
secretly glad to know that Ronald had displayed some anxiety on my
account.
"I will come to your picnic, Mr. Greystock," I said at last. "It is
kind of you to take an interest in me. Perhaps my husband is right; I
have given way too much to depression, and have stayed too long in the
house."
He thanked me, gravely and courteously, and then quietly went his way.
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