FLIGHT.
"DO not distress yourself about Ronald," said William Greystock, gently
laying a hand on my arm and putting me back into my seat. "I have seen
him to-day, and he is well enough. It is not the state of his health
that need concern you now."
I sat down again, panting for breath. What was coming next? I began to
wonder vaguely how much I could bear, and yet continue to live on?
"I am doing you a cruel kindness, Mrs. Hepburne," went on Greystock,
still with that burning light in his eyes; "but you must know all; at
any cost the veil must be torn from your sight. Did not yesterday's
experience prepare you in some degree for what was coming?"
That hand of ice was now tightening its grasp on my heart so that I
could scarcely breathe. My lips moved; but no sound came from them.
He had taken a paper from his breast and was slowly unfolding it,
keeping his gaze fixed on me all the while. And then, after a pause, he
held it out to me, and asked me to read its contents.
I took it mechanically from his hand, but the lines swam before my
eyes; yet I retained sense enough to understand the words that he was
saying.
"That letter was dropped by Ronald in my office to-day. I did not find
it till he was gone. It was without an envelope, and I picked it up and
unfolded it, not knowing what it was. After I had read it, I decided to
give it to you instead of returning it to your husband."
Gradually the mist had cleared away from my sight, and I could read the
brief note that I was holding in my cold fingers. It was written in a
woman's hand; large and clear, and ran as follows:
"GROSVENOR STREET
"Thursday Night.
"DEAREST RONALD—
"I have almost determined, after seeing you to-day, to risk everything
for your sake. It will be a terrible thing to brave my uncle's anger,
and the sneers of all my relations, but it will be easier than living
without you. Let us meet to-morrow, if possible, and then we can talk
the matter over once more. Good-night, dearest.
"Your loving
"IDA."
"To risk everything for your sake!" She loved him—that cold,
golden-haired woman loved him well enough to endure the scorn of the
world! I could see all things now in a new light. He had married in a
fit of hopelessness or pique, and they had tried to forget each other.
But the separation could not be borne any longer: they had met and
tasted the old sweetness of their love again.
Yes; William Greystock lied divined the truth. Ronald meant to leave
me; he would not resist the temptation. Life without Ida Lorimer
was not worth having; he had grown utterly weary of the poor little
delicate wife who fretted him with her low spirits and constant anxiety
about bills. What was to be done? How was I—a heart-broken, deserted
woman—to face life?
Still grasping the letter in my icy hand, I gazed blankly at the man
who had brought it to me. At that moment my old distrust and dislike of
William Greystock were quite forgotten.
Swallowed up in this overwhelming anguish, he sympathised with me, and
would have spared me the blow if he could. I did not blame him then for
what he had done.
But what should I do? Was I to remain here, in the room which Ronald
and I had beautified together? I did not even know whether he would
come back to his home again; perhaps his flight with Ida was already
planned, and I might never see him more. The question that was in my
poor, confused mind, issued involuntarily from my lips. As one in a
dream, I heard my own voice saying—
"What shall I do?"
"There is only one thing to be done."
William Greystock had risen to his feet, and his tone was strong and
firm. He stood before me, tall and upright, and the afternoon sun shone
in upon his darkly handsome face and brilliant eyes.
"Yes, Mrs. Hepburne, there is only one thing to be done. Did I not say
that there was one power left to you—the power of using your wings? You
must fly."
"I must fly," I repeated, stupidly. "I cannot stay here."
"You need not stay here another hour. You can come away and forget the
man who has so basely wronged you. Let him seek happiness where he
will; let him go, Louie: he never was worthy of your love."
"He will go," I murmured. "Already he is lost to me."
"Utterly lost. Louie, you must begin a new life. Come with me; let me
lay at your feet the heart that has always been your own. Let me devote
myself to you until I have made you forget your false husband; let me
show you how a man can love when he has won the woman of his choice."
Was I going mad? There arose from the depths of my soul a passionate
prayer that I might awake and find that I had been dreaming a strange
and evil dream. But no; I was sitting on the old sofa in the familiar
little room, and there was William Greystock, a veritable form of flesh
and blood.
As the consciousness of his reality smote upon my bewildered brain, I
too rose suddenly to my feet, and felt myself inspired with feverish
courage and strength.
"I never thought to have fallen so low as this," I said, sternly
confronting him. "Has there been anything in me to lead you to think
that I could be false to my marriage vow? Do you suppose that Ronald's
desertion can make me forget my duty to God and myself?"
"You are absolved from all vows," he cried, hastily. "Listen to me,
Mrs. Hepburne, I entreat you!"
"I have already listened too long. You came here, supposing that
the deserted wife would be an easy victim. Well, you are quickly
undeceived. Villain—traitor—tempter—I am ready to go to my grave; but I
will never stir one step from this house with you!"
The glow had faded out of his face, leaving it as white as death. He
had played his last card, and he would never begin the game again.
A weaker man would have lingered and tried to move me; but William
Greystock knew that mine were no idle words.
In another moment the door had opened and shut, and I was delivered
from his evil presence. Even in that hour of intense anguish, I found
strength enough to thank God that he was gone.
But Ronald—my Ronald, whom I still loved with all the devotion of true
womanhood and wifehood! That man, evil as he was, had spoken truth
in saying that Ronald was utterly lost to me. The note that I still
clasped tightly in my fingers was a proof of his cruel infidelity. I
knew Ida Lorimer's handwriting; I had seen notes written by her to
Marian Bailey; it was a peculiar hand, and I should have recognised it
anywhere. There was not, in this case, the faintest possibility of a
deception.
As the door closed, I had sunk exhausted on the sofa; but now I rose,
gaining fictitious strength from the resolution that I had rapidly
formed. I would go away—away from London—back to my old home, and
strive to earn a humble living among the people who had known me from
my childhood.
But before my plan was put into execution, there were certain things
that must be done. Nurse had gone out soon after luncheon, and there
was no one in the house who would take any notice of my doings. It was
a positive relief to feel that my faithful old friend was absent; I
dreaded any influence that might be exerted to turn me from my purpose.
Although my temples ached and burned, and every pulse in my body
throbbed violently, I carried on my preparations with unnatural
calmness. First I filled my hand-bag with some indispensable things,
assured myself that I had money enough for immediate wants, and then
sat down to write my farewell to my husband.
But this was the hardest part of my task. I wrote a line, and then
paused, and let my glance wander round the room, until memories came
thronging upon me thick and fast. Was there no way that might lead us
back into our happy past? Must I go onward, along this terrible road to
which an inexorable hand was pointing? For a moment or two I wavered in
my purpose, and then I remembered Ida's letter. It was not I who was
leaving Ronald, he had already left me.
But my hand trembled sadly as I traced my parting words. They were
simple and few; I wasted no time in useless reproaches, but frankly
told him why I said good-bye.
"An accident," I wrote, "has thrown into my hands a certain note
written to you last night. The writer was Ida Lorimer; and I now know
that you can no longer bear to live with me. Good-bye, Ronald; I have
tried to make you happy, and miserably failed."
I put my note into an envelope, addressed it, and placed it on the
chimney-piece, where it would be sure to meet his eye. If he did not
return to Chapel Place, it would only have been written in vain—that
was all. Nothing mattered very much now.
This done, I was ready for my departure. Once more I glanced round
the room, taking a silent farewell of those trifles which loving
associations had made intensely dear. And as my gaze rested on the
guitar, I felt as sharp a thrill of anguish as if it had been a living
thing which I must leave for ever. Going over to the corner where it
stood, I stooped and kissed the strings as if they could have responded
to my caress.
As my lips touched the chords they seemed to give out a faint, sweet
sound. I do not know how it was that this faintest hint of music
recalled to mind that mysterious air, whose origin and meaning had
baffled us so long. I only know that the melody began to ring softly in
my ears; and it was not until I had fairly plunged into the noise of
the streets that I lost its haunting sweetness.
There was one more thing to do before I turned my back on London.
My strength was already beginning to fail when I turned my steps
towards that dim street in which my husband and I had begun our married
life. Yet I would not go away without one farewell look at the house
to which I had gone as a young bride. It was there that I had spent my
first sweet days of perfect trust and love; and there, too, that the
sharp battle had been fought betwixt life and death. Ah, if death had
been the conqueror in that strife, I should not have been as utterly
hopeless and heart-broken as I was to-day!
Coming to the house, I paused before the window of our old
sitting-room, which overlooked the street. And, standing there
silently, I seemed to see the ghost of my old self drawing aside the
lace curtains, and watching anxiously for the doctor's carriage. Hopes,
fears, prayers, all came thronging back into my mind; and my misery
grew so intolerable that I could fain have sat down, like some poor
castaway, on the doorstep, and drawn my last breath there.
Oh, love—life—time! Even in these tranquil days, I find myself
wondering how human beings, weak as myself, can live under their
burdens of sorrow. I had saved a life that was to blight mine; I had
rescued him from death, and he had broken my heart.
If I had lingered any longer in that spot, my strength, already so
nearly spent, would have utterly failed. I roused myself, grasped my
bag with a firmer hand, and turned, away from the house, as weary and
forlorn a woman as could be found in the vast city that day.
At the end of the street I called a hansom, and directed the driver to
go to Euston Square. And at last, hardly certain whether I was awake or
asleep, I found myself in a second-class railway carriage on my way to
my old home.
How the hours of my journey went by I can scarcely tell. Passengers got
in and got out; and one elderly lady, with a kind face, insisted on my
taking a draught of wine-and-water from her travelling-flask. I have
but a vague remembrance of the gentle words that she spoke, warning me
not to put too severe a strain upon my health; but I can distinctly
recall her pitying smile, and the parting pressure of her hand. God
bless her, wherever she is; and if ever there should come to her, or
hers, a time of bitter need, may that motherly kindness be paid back
fourfold!
It is said to be a cold world; and yet, if the truth were told, I
believe that there are many who could tell of the good deeds done to
them by utter strangers. Has not many a painful journey been brightened
by the company of some unknown friend, who will never meet us on this
earth again?
[Illustration]