ANGUISH.
WE went down to Richmond early in the afternoon—a true July
afternoon—sultry and still. The air was full of a dreamy haze that
softened the outlines of objects without hiding them. Even the
brilliant colours of the flower-beds seemed to be subdued as we passed
the well-kept gardens, where women in light summer dresses were sitting
under awnings, and men were taking their ease in cane chairs. We had
decided not to go upon the overcrowded river, and William Greystock led
his little party straight to the lower park.
It was a very small party, and yet, at this hour, I have but a very
faint recollection of those who wandered with me under the old trees
that day. I saw but two persons, my husband and Ida Lorimer. The others
seemed to move about them like phantoms; and I think I must have looked
and spoken as if I were in a dream.
The picture of Ida is stamped indelibly upon my memory. She wore a
large straw hat of some fantastic shape, lined with pale blue, and
adorned with a bunch of tea roses. Her gown, too, was a combination of
cream-colour and blue, and, as she moved languidly over the grass, she
reminded me of one of those Watteau-like figures that are painted on
fans.
She took very little notice of me, greeting me with a cool courtesy
which I repaid with some haughtiness. Ronald was watching our meeting
with a furtive glance, and did not seem to be as much at ease as usual.
William Greystock, too, watched, and his face was as inscrutable as
ever.
Miss Lorimer took possession of my husband in the most natural way in
the world. She displayed no coquettish airs; she did not appear to
make any marked exhibition of power; but quite easily and calmly she
summoned him to her side with a few commonplace words.
"Let us try to get nearer to those deer," she said. "I keep up my old
fondness for animals, and deer are the most delightful creatures in the
universe."
It was a clever way of separating herself and Ronald from the rest
of the party. He attended her, willingly enough; they went together
towards the herd, which, of course, moved off at their nearer approach;
and then the pair followed, although they must have known the
uselessness of the pursuit.
My glance went after them, over the soft grass, now golden with the
light of the afternoon sun. What a fair scene it was, those great trees
casting their shadows across the sunlit turf; the dappled herds, the
mellow haze filling up every space, the two graceful figures moving
farther and farther away!
With a start, I found William Greystock close to my side, and heard him
speaking to me in a peculiarly quiet voice.
"I used to dream of walking here with some dear friend, Mrs. Hepburne,"
he said. "An afternoon like this always revives old dreams. Mine have
never been realised; Ronald has been more fortunate than I have."
"Ah! It is not always a blessing to realise one's dream!"
The words broke from me involuntarily, and were spoken to myself rather
than to my companion. But he answered the remark with a touch of
sadness in his tone.
"That is a bitter speech to come from your lips," he said, softly. "I
hope you do not speak from your own experience."
"Oh! I suppose people's experiences are very much alike," I replied,
with an attempt at lightness. "There is always the inevitable
disenchantment when we have fairly entered our promised land."
He sighed, and there was a brief silence.
"It is a kind of disenchantment I shall never know," he said at last.
"All that I have known is the weary march across the desert, the
gnawing hunger and burning thirst. Even if the Canaan is less fair than
our fancies, it must, at any rate, be sweeter than the endless waste of
sand."
At that moment I sincerely pitied William Greystock.
"But why must your life be a weary march?" I asked, forgetting my usual
cold caution in his presence. "Why should there not be a Canaan for you
as well as for others?"
"Can you ask? No, Mrs. Hepburne, I will not sadden you with any story
of myself and my lot. Believe me, my greatest desire is to see you and
Ronald happy. I have no stronger interest in life than this."
I was beginning to believe in him. The sight of those two figures
strolling ahead of us under the trees had begun to confuse my powers of
judgment. I ceased to remember, at that moment, the William Greystock
who had come to Lady Waterville's; the hard, bitter man, whose true
nature had been revealed to me in many little ways, and who had never
yet, in spite of apparent friendship, rendered any real service to
Ronald. It seemed to be a new and softer Greystock who was walking by
my side, and speaking in this quiet, melancholy voice.
Moreover, the burning pain in my heart, and the ache of my weary head,
were fast bewildering my reasoning faculties; and I even began to ask
myself whether I had ever known the true Ronald at all? Perhaps he had
never loved me; or his love might only have been of that spurious kind
which is the outcome of a disappointment.
It is a true saying that nature abhors a void; and many a hasty
marriage has been brought about by the dethronement of an old love. Had
Ronald taken me only because he wanted to fill up an empty place in his
life?
I ought to have known him too well to have asked this foolish question
of my own heart; but there are times when our best beloved seem to
present a new aspect to our eyes. I could still see those two figures
under the trees; they gave no sign of turning back, or of waiting for
the others to come up with them. There was a pause after my companion's
last words; and all at once I remembered that they were kind words, and
called for a reply.
"We have done nothing to deserve your interest in us, Mr. Greystock,"
I said, sadly. "What are we but a silly young couple who despised the
counsel of friends? I almost wonder why you should feel so kindly."
"I have very few people to care for," he answered. "As to Ronald, you
know we are half relations. I wish, however, that I had more influence
with him."
"I thought you always influenced him," I said, in surprise. "He quotes
you constantly, and seems to be guided by your advice." Glancing at Mr.
Greystock as I spoke, I saw him quietly shake his head.
"If I could guide Ronald," he began, and then suddenly broke off, and
looked away towards the strolling couple.
My jealous heart finished the incomplete sentence. I was sure that he
meant to add something about the intimacy with Ida Lorimer; and yet,
if he disapproved of that intimacy, why was Ida at Richmond that day?
But perhaps she had been invited at my husband's urgent request; and if
this were so, Ronald's vexation at my acceptance of the invitation was
explained.
The man at my side could furnish me with full particulars of Ronald's
old love-affair. Miss Lorimer and William Greystock were friends of
long standing.
Half maddened as I then was, I felt a wild desire to make my companion
speak more plainly. On looking back to that day, I see that he was
perfectly aware of all that was working in my heart, and was quietly
waiting for his opportunity. Just then some of the others joined us,
and I closed my lips and brooded over my grief in silence.
The hours went on, and a breath of coolness stole over the great park
as it drew near sunset. I gazed absently at the lovely golden lights
that fell softly here and there, and longed to be alone in my room at
Chapel Place. My desire for solitude increased every moment; I wanted
to go away and hide myself, and leave Ronald in the society he loved
best.
At length the weary day came to an end; but Ida seemed resolved to keep
her hold upon my husband to the very last. She had (or seemed to have)
a willing captive; he approached me once with a question and a smile,
and then went back quickly to her, driven off; I suppose, by my gloomy
face.
"I am taking care of Mrs. Hepburne, Ronald," said William Greystock,
pleasantly; and Ronald answered lightly that he knew I was in good
hands.
Afterwards I never heard how it was that our home-bound train chanced
to be unusually crowded that evening. We were all but too late when we
reached the station, and there was a great deal of bustle and hurry in
which I could only take a languid part. My head ached, and my limbs
were so tired after the very moderate exertions of the afternoon that I
could hardly drag myself along, and William Greystock's aid was really
needed. I caught a parting glimpse of the fantastic hat with its tea
roses, and saw that its wearer was still under Ronald's protection;
and then (how, I know not), I found myself in a compartment of a
first-class carriage with Greystock.
We were among strangers; not one of our own party was with us; and
of this I was almost glad. There was no necessity to keep up a
conversation with Greystock. He saw how thoroughly tired I was, and
understood my desire to be silent. Leaning back in a corner with closed
eyes, I tried to forget myself and my miseries for a little while; and
I think I had almost succeeded in sinking into oblivion when the train
came to a stop.
When I opened my eyes again, I found that all my fellow-passengers were
getting out, and we two were left in the compartment alone.
The twilight was now deepening fast; all the warm gold of the
after-glow had long faded, and there was only a soft grey sky with
silvery spaces here and there. To me it seemed a melancholy night, too
still and calm for a heart as passionately troubled as mine.
"Is the headache better?" asked William Greystock, gently. He was
sitting in the opposite corner, and bent towards me as he spoke.
"A little better," I answered, faintly.
"Mrs. Hepburne," he said, after a slight pause, "I can never forgive
myself for persuading you to come with us to-day. If I had only known—"
"Known what?" I asked, involuntarily.
"That you would have had to bear the neglect—the humiliation you
have borne to-day! Forgive me if I have spoken too plainly. I always
lamented your marriage, knowing as I did that Ronald had given away his
heart before he ever knew you. Now, perhaps, you can understand why
those who loved you best so bitterly regretted the sacrifice you made
in bestowing yourself on him."
Oh, if I had not been so weak and spent, I might have answered him as
a wife who had a true sense of her own dignity! But I was exhausted in
body and confused in mind.
"Who are those who loved me best?" I said, clasping and unclasping my
hands. "It seems to me sometimes that the only person who ever loved me
was my grandfather. And I wish, with all my heart, that I could follow
him!"
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