HEART TO HEART.
NEXT day, they moved me from the bed to a large old sofa near the
window, and found that I was recovering fast. The hope of happiness
renewed was a better tonic than any that the doctor could give me; and,
following Marian's good counsel, I resolutely put all minor worries out
of my mind.
"The first thing to think of is health," she said, firmly. "When that
comes back, perhaps you will find that Ronald's affairs are looking
better than they have been for some time. But, of course, you can
neither be well nor happy till you have had a perfect understanding
with your husband."
"When shall I see him?" I asked.
"Will you be very good and composed if I bring him to you now, Louie?
He naturally objects to being kept out of the room; but we dared not
let him see you till your mind was quite clear and tranquil."
"Indeed," I said, earnestly, "I will put out all my powers of
self-control—I will not even speak many words if I may but see his face
for a minute. Oh, Marian, I am hungering for a sight of him!"
"And oh, Louie, how can I trust you when you show me such flushed
cheeks and tearful eyes? But be quiet a little while, dear, and he
shall come."
She went away, and I turned my hot face to the window, and tried to
steady my nerves as well as I could.
It was an exquisite August morning, hazy and soft, with a sky of
deepest blue, and a lovely purple mist clouding all the boundary lines
of the distant fields. Below me lay the rectory garden, with its
cool shadows and morning lights; the dew had but just dried on the
leafy boughs of apple and pear trees, and from the herb beds came up
the sweetness of mint and thyme, and the old-fashioned fragrance of
lavender. I leaned back on my cushions and unconsciously enjoyed all
these fresh, delicate scents, while my heart throbbed faster at the
slightest sound.
How long would it be before Ronald came? I felt convinced that waiting
must be much worse for me than the excitement of our meeting. I could
hear the sound of voices in the garden, but it was only the rector
holding a consultation with his gardener. And then it occurred to me to
wonder, for the first time, whether my host and my husband had yet met,
and whether they liked each other? Perhaps Mr. Drury might be disposed
to think less harshly of my marriage if he really knew Ronald. Perhaps
this illness of mine, and this enforced stay at the old rectory, might
be the means of reviving a dead friendship. I thought that it would;
I could not believe that the rector's kind heart could be completely
hardened against me.
How blue the sky looked between the twisted boughs of the tall pear
tree! Marian and I had often sat under that tree when we were children,
reading a fairy tale together; and kind Miss Drury would come to
look for us, and fill our hands with cakes. Just as my thoughts were
wandering back into my childhood, the sound of footsteps in the
corridor recalled them, and set my heart beating afresh.
It was Ronald—really Ronald—who came quietly into the room and moved
towards me with a grave face. I was not prepared to see him looking so
worn and wasted, and at the sight of his altered countenance my feeble
strength gave way. Speechless, I could only stretch out a thin hand,
and welcome him with eyes full of tears.
Our meeting was a very quiet one. He knelt down beside the sofa, and
folded me gently in his arms.
The silence, that lasted for some seconds, was only broken by the
sweet rustle of the leaves outside the window. There was much to be
said between us; but we were not, after all, in haste to begin the
explanation which had been so eagerly desired by both. In truth, I
believe that if that explanation had been altogether denied us, we
should have taken each other "for better, for worse" again, quite
contentedly, and walked side by side to our life's end.
"How could you have left me, Louie?" he murmured at last.
"Because I thought you did not want me any more," I answered, with my
face pressed close to his.
It is needless to tell what he said in reply; but I was thoroughly
convinced that he did want me. There was another silence; and when he
spoke again, it was in the old easy tone of authority.
"Now tell me, Louie, what on earth is the mystery about that letter?
How could Greystock have made you, believe that I dropped it in his
office?"
I produced the letter, and my husband studied it attentively for a
moment or two. Still holding it in his hand, he looked at me with a
puzzled expression in his eyes.
"There is no doubt that Ida did really write this letter," he said,
frankly. "One can't mistake her hand. I see that it is supposed to have
been written on Thursday night, and, to tell you the truth, Louise, I
can understand your indignation."
"Then, Ronald, you will promise never to see her again! She must have
lost all sense of shame when she wrote such a thing to my husband."
"Wait a second, little woman. She never would have written such a thing
to your husband—I am certain of that. But she might have written it to
her lover in days gone by."
"You were her lover, Ronald, in days gone by."
"Yes; but I am sure I never received this letter. You say that
Greystock gave it to you? Well, he used, sometimes, to act as our
postman; can this be a note which was entrusted to him and never
delivered to me?"
"If you think so, Ronald," I said, struck with this new idea, "you
ought to ask him to explain the whole matter. I know now that he is
your enemy and mine. Do not be afraid to let him see that you distrust
him."
My husband waited for a moment before he spoke again. "Louie," he said
at last, "you do not know that Greystock has gone beyond my reach.
Don't be shocked, little woman; I must tell you an awful thing."
"Has he left the country?" I asked, eagerly.
"He has left the world! A few hours after you last saw him, he was
found in his chambers quite dead. He died of heart disease, and his
doctor proved that he had been suffering from it for a long time."
I shivered from head to foot; and Ronald, frightened at the effect of
his words, began to soothe me by every means in his power. But although
I clung to him, and realised to the full the happiness of having him
with me, I could not help picturing that parting scene with William
Greystock. He had gone out of my presence with all the savage misery
of a disappointed man burning in his heart, and thus had hastened the
death that had been ever near at hand.
It was no fault of mine that had hurried on his end, yet I must have
been a far harder woman than I was, if I could have heard of that end
unmoved. We were set free for ever from the baneful spell that he
had exercised over our lives; and there came to me at that moment a
prophetic conviction that all our doubts and misunderstandings would be
buried with him.
"And now," said Ronald, still stroking my hair with his old fond touch,
"let us talk of happier things, Louie. I have something else to tell
you that will drive all sad thoughts away. Your good old friend, the
rector, has taken me into his favour and—"
"Then he is going to help you! Oh, Ronald, he has influence, but he
seldom cares to use it."
"He has already used it for our sakes. This morning he put a letter
into my hand, offering me the post of secretary to a rich company. I
will tell you all about the company later on; at present you certainly
are not strong enough to be bothered with business details."
"I don't care in the least about details," said I, nestling up to him
in an ecstasy of delight. "I know all that I want to know, Ronald."
"Not quite all, little woman. We must solve the mystery of that letter
from Ida. But as it is a delicate matter, I think it will be well to
entrust it to Marian; she has perfect tact, and Ida will be frank with
her."
I was quite satisfied with this arrangement; and just then Marian
herself entered the room.
"You two have talked long enough," she said, in that kindly domineering
way, which she often had with me. "Ronald must go downstairs to the
rector, who is waiting for him in the study; and you, Louie, must be
put to bed."
"Not yet," I pleaded. "Wait till it grows darker. It is so lovely to
see the day dying behind the dear old trees."
But Marian was inexorable, and Ronald seconded her by rising and
bidding me good-night. His parting words and kisses left me with a
heart at peace, and I went quietly to rest.
In a few days, Marian had an answer from Miss Lorimer, which cleared up
for ever the mystery of the letter.
Ida acknowledged that she had written the note in those bygone days
when she and Ronald were lovers, tasting the sweetness of "stolen
waters," and carrying on a clandestine intercourse, shrewdly suspected
by the lady's guardian. At that time, William Greystock had been their
confidential friend, and to his hands Ida committed the letter which
was destined to work such terrible mischief at a later period.
She remembered that William had come to her with a grave face and a
thousand apologies, confessing that he had lost the letter. At first
she had felt uneasy about the loss; but as time passed on, and the
romantic attachment on both sides began to cool, the circumstance
faded out of her mind. She had never for a moment suspected William
Greystock of anything like treachery, and the revelation of his base
conduct to me came as a shock. Then followed kind messages to Mrs.
Hepburne—regrets for the suffering that had arisen—hopes for my future
happiness. And so the matter ended.
So, also, ended all intercourse between Miss Lorimer and ourselves.
She never met us again; and I felt sure that she avoided a meeting
with infinite pains and care. Heartless as she was, I believe she had
grace enough to be ashamed of the part she had played at the Richmond
picnic. And although she never confessed the fact, I was certain that
Greystock's subtle influence had made her act as she did that day.
[Illustration]
[Illustration]