Louie's married life
Date: 2024-04-26T00:00:00+00:00
Keywords: England -- Social life and customs -- 19th century -- Fiction; Man-woman relationships -- Fiction; Wives -- Fiction

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Title: Louie's married life

Author: Sarah Doudney

Illustrator: W. Rainey

Release date: April 26, 2024 [eBook #73473]

Language: English

Original publication: London: S. W. Partridge & Co, 1894

Other information and formats: www.gutenberg.org/ebooks/73473

*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK LOUIE'S MARRIED LIFE ***

Transcriber's note: Unusual and inconsistent spelling is as printed.

THERE WAS SOMETHING IMPOSING
AND SUMPTUOUS ABOUT HER BEAUTY.

LOUIE'S MARRIED LIFE

BY

SARAH DOUDNEY

AUTHOR OF "WHEN WE TWO PARTED," "WHERE THE DEW FALLS IN LONDON,"
"A ROMANCE OF LINCOLN'S INN," ETC.

ILLUSTRATED BY W. RAINEY, R. I.

LONDON

S. W. PARTRIDGE & CO.

8 & 9 PATERNOSTER ROW.

CONTENTS.

CHAPTER

I. BEGINNING

II. LOOKING BACK

III. INEZ

IV. RONALD

V. RECOVERY

VI. THE GUITAR

VII. JARS

VIII. MARIAN

IX. GOING OUT

X. SHADOWS DEEPEN

XI. POISONED WORDS

XII. JEALOUSY

XIII. ANGUISH

XIV. STRICKEN

XV. FLIGHT

XVI. A FEVERISH DREAM

XVII. AWAKING

XVIII. HEART TO HEART

XIX. THE OLD ALBUM

XX. THE JEWELS

XXI. CLOSING WORDS

LOUIE'S MARRIED LIFE

CHAPTER I.

BEGINNING.

"Sweetheart, sweetheart," I hear the two clear notes,
And see the sunlight shining through the shower;
"Sweetheart," how faintly from the meadow floats
The early fragrance of the cuckoo-flower!
The wind is keen, and April skies are grey;
But love can wait till rain-clouds break apart;
And still the bird sings through the longest day;
"Sweetheart, sweetheart."

When lives are true, the springtide never dies,
When souls are one, the love-notes never cease;
Our bird sings on beneath the cloudy skies,
Our little world is full of light and peace;
Fresh as the breath of violets new-born
Comes the sweet thought to hearts that cannot part,
"After the night of weeping breaks the morn,
"Sweetheart, sweetheart."

SURELY no one would ever believe that this song was written by a Londoner, and yet I, who wrote it, am a Londoner in heart and soul. But I was born far away in the country, and all the familiar sights and sounds of old days lend themselves to my rhymes, so that I oftener sing of fields, and birds, and flowers, than of those things which are always before my eyes. Moreover, as all authors know, it is sometimes easier to write of the unseen than of the seen, and these home fields of mine have borrowed much of their beauty from the glamour of distance.

It is because this tale is called "Louie's Married Life," that I shall give you my songs. They were all written for Ronald to sing to the accompaniment of his guitar; and if it had not been for Ronald, I hardly think that they would ever have been written at all. For if I had married somebody else (as I nearly did, once upon a time), this little flame of song which is in me would have been extinguished altogether, and I should have become the dullest woman in the world. These songs are a part of my life as a wife.

I daresay, however, that many people have wasted a great deal of pity on the wife of Ronald Hepburne; and if they do not openly point at the lines on my forehead and the crow's feet at the corners of my eyes, they convey by looks and tones their deep distress on seeing my altered appearance. I admit that they have every possible right to indulge in polite lamentations. Never having been a buxom woman, I had not much flesh to lose; and nursing through long days, and watching through longer nights, have left upon me certain traces which are not likely to be effaced, even in this present time of peace.

When I wrote the foregoing little song, it was early in an April morning; the only sunbeams that I could see were shining on brick walls, blackened with smoke; and the only sky that I could see was a patch of pale blue above the chimney-tops. But, as I lifted my head from my pillow, a feeling of unutterable gratitude thrilled me through and through: it was the last night that we should ever spend in that dreary London room, and Ronald had been sleeping soundly and long. Weeping may endure for a night (and with me it had endured for many nights), but joy cometh in the morning.

I thought of all the other watchers in the crowded houses around me, of mothers counting the hours by the beds of sick children, of wives who had agonised as I had done and prayed as I had prayed; and then, as I looked at Ronald's face, in the dim dawn, I began to recall the note of an early bird in my old country home—and so the song was made.

We had only been married six months when Ronald was stricken with fever. First a slight cold, a few days of languor and depression, and then, before I had had time to realise the danger, he was face to face with death. So the battle for life was fought and won in the dark chamber of a London lodging, and on that April morning I was tasting the first sweets of the great deliverance.

But when with a great effort he rose from the bed whereon he had lain for weeks, I almost feared that the conflict was about to begin again. He had never answered to the popular notion of a fine, handsome man (and I must needs say here that I have no fancy for burly men), yet I had not thought it possible that he could become so fragile, so spectre-like, as he now appeared. Mine is, I suppose, a transparent character, for Ronald always reads my thoughts at a glance; and as his eyes met mine, he gave me a reassuring smile.

"Never fear, Louie," he said, cheerfully. "I shall grow more substantial by-and-by." And then, touching my thin arm, he added, with a sadder look, "I am afraid, poor child, that you have thrown your own strength away in trying to save mine."

"I'm very strong," I answered, buttoning his great-coat with vigorous fingers. "The cab will be here in a minute, and we have no time to spend in bemoaning our leanness. Are you not very glad, Ronald, to leave this dismal old sick room fer ever and ever?"

But, even while I spoke, there flitted across my brain a faint foreshadowing of a time when the memory of that dim little room would become painfully dear. The feeling passed as quickly as it came, and I drew the folds of Ronald's wrapper over his mouth to guard him from the chilly wind of spring. Then the cab came up to the door, and we stood at the window to watch the disposal of our luggage on the roof.

"The guitar will go inside," said I to the servant.

So the guitar was carried out in its case and deposited on the front seat, and Ronald followed, so slowly and feebly that my heart ached to see him. I was the last to get in; and so we turned our backs upon that dreary house where we had suffered the sharpest sorrow that we had ever yet known.

The drive to our new abode was not a long one; and as it was fated that we were to meet with a disaster, it was well that it did not come upon us until we were very near our home. As we turned sharply out of Welbeck Street another cab came smashing into ours, and we were overturned in a moment. Assistance was soon forthcoming; the two drivers exchanged compliments after the manner of their kind; ready helpers collected our boxes, and placed us, quite unharmed, in another vehicle; in short, it was one of those "marvellous escapes" of which one hears so much, and there was only one thing belonging to us which was much the worse for the accident.

And that one thing was Ronald's guitar.

Until I was fairly inside our new rooms, I did not realise that the poor guitar was completely done for, and then I confess I shed some very bitter tears. Our new landlady (who had been a dear old nurse of mine) was much amazed and scandalised by my excessive grief, and instantly fell to reproving me as she had done in the days of my childhood.

"I'm astonished at you, Miss Louie," said she, forgetting my matronly dignity. "If your husband's bones had been smashed, you couldn't have made a greater fuss, and all about a musical instrument of no account whatever! A pianner, now, would be worth crying over, but there never was much noise to be got out of that poor silly stringed thing."

I am quick of temper, and I felt very much inclined to slap nurse at that moment.

"Go away," I said, crying anew. "You never can understand how dear that guitar is to me. I first f-f-fell in love with Ronald when he was playing upon it."

"What a fool I be!" soliloquised nurse, smiling. "I might have known as much. Why, I remember that I took a fancy to my old man when he was blowing his flute; and yet most folks say that a flute's dreadfully disfiguring to the countenance."

After that I kissed nurse, and she went off cheerfully to prepare our seven o'clock dinner, while I took my way to our little sitting-room. Finding Ronald lying tranquilly on an old-fashioned sofa, and looking a trifle more like his old self, my spirits rose again, and I began to feel myself a happy woman.

Most Londoners are well enough acquainted with Chapel Place—that convenient little alley which runs from Oxford Street into Henrietta Street, Cavendish Square—and it was in Chapel Place that we, a lonely pair of lovebirds, had now found a settled nest. Our rooms were on the ground-floor, and we looked out upon the grey stone wall of the great post-office, and were thankful for any "small mercies" vouchsafed us by stray sunbeams.

And yet, from that very first afternoon in nurse's house, I felt that here was to be the truest and happiest home that I had ever known. I watched the pigeons fluttering softly about the east gable of St. Peter's Church, and saw the faint crescent of the new moon rise above the house-roofs, and show its pale golden outline against a background of misty lilac sky. And Ronald, languid but content, studied my brightened face, and lazily whispered that I was once more like the girl he had wooed two years ago.

When I read a novel, I always make a point of skipping the explanations, and now that I am writing a story I shall endeavour to explain as little as I can, and to leave as much as possible to the instincts of my intelligent readers. It is necessary, however, that I should briefly state how I came to know Ronald Hepburn, and who and what my husband was.

First of all, let me say that he was a soldier, sprung from a long line of soldiers who had fought and served in India. In India he was born, and when I met him, he had just been invalided home and had left the service. You have only to stroll into the neighbourhood of the best clubs and you will see dozens of men exactly like him any day. He was not in any way remarkable, and he had never been handsome, but he possessed a certain indolent grace of manner and bearing—a certain air of high breeding and perfect repose, which are attractions in the eyes of some women. After saying all this, I have merely to add that I like high breeding and repose, and it was therefore not surprising, perhaps, if Ronald Hepburne succeeded, pretty easily, in fascinating me.

CHAPTER II.

LOOKING BACK.

I HAD grown-up, a penniless little orphan, in my uncle's quiet country cottage, and when he died, I knew not where to look for another home. He had commended me to the care of his oldest friend, the rector of the parish, and had left me all that he had to leave—a thousand pounds and his blessing. The rector was a good man and a wise; he invested my small fortune to the best advantage, and sent me up to town to be the protégée and companion of his widowed sister, Lady Waterville.

It had seemed to me a hard thing that nurse, who had been my loving tyrant from baby-hood, should have left me just twelve months before my uncle's death. After years of comfortable widowhood, she had yielded to the prayers of an old admirer, whose liking for her comely, rustic face had survived through many chances and changes. And so, with tears, she had taken leave of my uncle and me, and had gone off with her husband to his London home, little thinking how soon I was destined to follow her.

Lady Waterville was very stout, very amiable, and indescribably lazy. I have said "indescribably," because no word in any language would ever completely express that wonderful indolence of hers. Many people are sufficiently ashamed of their idleness to veil it under pretty shams of work; but Lady Waterville never was ashamed in the least. She was uncompromisingly honest, and would plainly admit that anything in the shape of an occupation was hateful to her. The world was far too busy, she declared; as for herself, it had not pleased a kind Providence to give her a vocation, and she did not mean to thwart its designs by trying to find employment.

"Here I sit," she would say, "with my idle hands before me, and even Satan himself has never found any mischief for them to do. So Dr. Watts is not infallible, my dear."

In one of his stories, Mr. Wilkie Collins has introduced us to a lady who sat through life, and she must certainly have borne a strong resemblance to Lady Waterville. Strange as it may seem, this sitting existence appeared to agree with her extremely well; and, despite her obesity, she was a pretty old woman, with an open, good-tempered face, and soft hair which was a mixture of silver and gold. I have heard Ronald say that she always reminded him of an immense doll, smiling fatuously upon you through its glass window, untouched by any human ills, unaltered by the lapse of time. But although she was not blessed (or cursed) with any deep feelings, she was very comfortable to live with, and unvarying in her kindness to me.

Her husband, Sir Clement Waterville, had been knighted for his services in India; and, having done with the army, he had settled himself in an old house in George Street, Hanover Square. There his widow was still living when I came up to town to be her companion, and there she continued to live to the end of her days.

The house was let on a long lease at two hundred and sixty pounds a year, and was the property of Ronald Hepburne. It was the only property that he possessed, and it had been left to him by his aunt, Inez Greystock, who had perished in the Indian Mutiny.

Sir Clement Waterville and Colonel Greystock (the husband of Inez) had been intimate friends in India; and so it came to pass that Ronald became acquainted with the Watervilles, and continued to visit the widow after Sir Clement's death.

Lady Waterville did not receive many visitors, as she hated the trouble of entertaining; but any one who had been liked by her husband was welcomed to her house; and there were two young men in whom Sir Clement had taken an especial interest. These two were William Greystock and Ronald Hepburne.

Colonel Greystock had survived his wife many years; he had never had any children, and William, his nephew, had taken the place of a son. Through his influence, William had obtained a Government appointment in India, and had inherited all that his uncle had to leave. When I came to live with Lady Waterville, the colonel had been dead some time; and William, a single man, was living comfortably on his means.

"William Greystock would be a good match for you, Louie," said Lady Waterville one day.

How well I remember that day! It was May time; the drawing-room was sweet with flowers, and through the open windows came the first warm breath of summer. We sat with a little tea-table between us; the clocks were just striking four, and the sunshine lay brightly on the old street and square. I had been in town three months, and my ears had grown accustomed to the ceaseless roll of wheels; the noises that had seemed deafening at first were pleasant now, and I had already begun to love that loud hum of unresting life which is still dear to me.

Not being in the least in awe of Lady Waterville, I never hesitated to speak my mind.

"I don't like Mr. Greystock much," I said, frankly.

"You might like him better, if he were to pay you particular attentions, my dear."

"I don't think I should. I liked our curate very much indeed until he became particularly attentive, and then I turned against him in the most extraordinary way. If I could have married him I would, just to please my uncle and the rector."

"So you are not quite such 'an unlesson'd girl' as I supposed," said Lady Waterville, surveying me with a benign smile. "You have had a lover; but as he didn't succeed, I think he must have played his cards very badly."

"He played them well enough, I believe," I replied, smiling at the remembrance of sundry proofs of devotion.

"I don't mean that he was not in earnest." The widow was still smiling at me across her teacup. "But he must have been terribly deficient in tact. You were in the dullest of country places; you saw nobody, and went nowhere. Under such circumstances, I don't see how any decent man could have failed to win you. My brother used to be rather fastidious about curates, so I suppose your admirer was presentable."

"Decidedly presentable and good-looking; but I got tired of him and his face."

"What was the matter with his face?"

"Nothing; but it was a face that had no story in it."

Lady Waterville held out her cup for more cream, and then looked at me with a slight shake of the head.

"I know you now," she said. "Louie, you are just the kind of girl who will marry badly or not marry at all."

I laughed gaily.

"What an awful prophecy, Lady Waterville!" I cried.

"Do you know what it is that writes the story on a man's face?" she went on. "I will tell you—folly, extravagance, sin, and bitter repentance."

I grew graver as I listened. Was she thinking of the very face that I was silently picturing at that moment? Despite her laziness, Lady Waterville possessed the faculty of observation; perhaps she saw all the more of life because she was wholly unoccupied. Her eyes were always at liberty; never being bent on crewelwork or patchwork, they studied human countenances in a leisurely fashion, and it is possible that they discovered a good many little secrets. I felt my cheeks beginning to burn.

"Give me another cup of tea, my dear," she said, speaking in quite a different tone. "The last was not sweet enough. How well those buttercups suit you!"

I had fastened a cluster of large water-buttercups into my bodice, and I thoroughly appreciated the widow's kindness in looking at them, and taking no notice of my blushes. She was talking on in a pleasant, rambling way, and I was gradually getting cool again, when the page threw open the door and announced Mr. Greystock.

William Greystock came in, dark, bland, inscrutable as he always was. He had black eyes, deep-set, and black hair, closely cropped, that lay in thick ripples over his head. As he wore no moustache, there was nothing to veil the hard outline of his thin lips and prominent chin; and I thought then (as I think now) that his was the strongest and most cruel profile I had ever seen in all my life.

He talked well and fluently; admired Lady Waterville's flowers, and even deigned to praise my humble buttercups. I told him that I had bought them of a little girl in the street, just because they reminded me of my old home; and then he asked me if I had not lately written some verses about the country.

My cheeks grew hot again. Lady Waterville looked with an amused glance from William Greystock's face to mine.

"I did not know that Miss Coverdale ever wrote poetry," she said to him. "Pray, how did you find it out?"

"Through Ronald," he replied, with one of his peculiar smiles. "I went into his room last night and found him as usual with his beloved guitar. He was setting some lines to music; I asked who had written them, and he told me."

"Does he always tell you everything?" I inquired, trying to speak playfully, and succeeding very badly.

"Yes," was the quiet answer.

"He has inherited his love of the guitar from his Aunt Inez," said Lady Waterville, not looking at me. "She had quite an unreasonable fondness for her guitar, poor woman! I used to see her sometimes when she was first married to Colonel Greystock, and I always thought her a most extraordinary person. Ronald's mother, her own sister, was not like her in the least."

"I have often looked at those two portraits in the dining-room," said I. "Mrs. Hepburne was not nearly as handsome as her sister, but I like her face better."

"Ronald is exactly like his aunt," Mr. Greystock remarked.

"As I was saying," went on Lady Waterville, "I always thought Inez a most extraordinary person. She expected too much happiness and never got any at all. Poor thing! She was a disappointed woman from beginning to end. Any one with a genius for scribbling might make a novel out of her history."

"I should like to hear it," I said.

Lady Waterville was rather fond of storytelling, and she had been, as I soon discovered, more than commonly interested in Inez Greystock.

"Inez and Estella Winton," she began, "were the daughters of Captain Winton, an English naval officer who had married a Spanish lady. The mother died when the children were young; the father was often at sea, and they were left a good deal to their own devices. Inez was beautiful, and had, of course, a train of admirers; but she cared for no one save a young soldier, who was known in those days as Lieutenant Greystock. He liked her well enough, Louie, but not half as well as she liked him. She lavished gold, you see, and got only silver in return."

"My uncle was a matter-of-fact man," put in William, in his quiet voice. "There never could have been an atom of romance in his nature."

"Just so," said Lady Waterville. "Inez was a fool to expect too much from him. He was not rich enough to marry, nor patient enough to bear with her exacting ways, and the affair ended, as such affairs often do, in a quarrel and a parting."

"What a pity," I cried, regretfully.

Inez

"I don't know that it was a pity, Louie. They would have gone wrangling through their youth together. But Inez, foolish girl, could never forget Greystock, although she married the richest man of her acquaintance, a Mr. Wendall. He was a diamond merchant, and after their marriage, he brought her to this very house, and invited Estella to come and live with them."

"He was a good husband, I believe," said William.

"He must have had the patience of Job," Lady Waterville replied. "After enduring his wife's irritable temper for seven years, he died, and left her handsomely provided for. And then, for two years more she lived here in peace and quietness with Estella and the guitar."

"No wonder that she chose to be painted playing on it," William Greystock remarked. "Her fondness for the thing must have amounted to a positive mania. It had belonged to her mother, had it not?"

"To her mother and grandmother. It was never far from her side, and she would compose airs and set words to them, just as Ronald does now-a-days. That portrait in the dining-room is Inez herself; there she sits as she did in life, her great Spanish eyes looking into space, and her guitar resting on her knees. It is a fine picture."

"It is beautiful," I said, "but very sad. And her second marriage—how did that come to pass?"

"It came to pass through Colonel Greystock's need of money," answered Lady Waterville, with her usual frankness. "William knows that I am telling an unvarnished tale. His uncle returned from India on leave, and sought out his old love, and Inez fancied, no doubt, that she had found her lost youth again. Captain Hepburne was Colonel Greystock's friend, and he happened to fall in love with Estella. On the same day the two sisters were married, very quietly, in St. George's Church, and the two husbands took their wives back with them to India."

"Then Inez was happy in her last days?" said I.

But Lady Waterville shook her head.

CHAPTER III.

INEZ.

WILLIAM GREYSTOCK was looking at me with a quiet, provoking smile.

"Miss Coverdale will be disappointed in the story," he said. "It is only in the fairy-tales that the prince and princess, when they are brought together, 'live happily ever afterwards.' For my part, I think a woman is sincerely to be pitied if she marries the hero of her first love-dream."

I knew that he was talking at me. From the very beginning of my intercourse with Ronald Hepburne, he had been watching me silently, and reading this tell-tale face of mine until I had often wished desperately for Mokanna's silver veil to hide my burning cheeks. They did not burn when he was not present; it was that quiet, persistent scrutiny which made me intolerably self-conscious, and deprived me of all ease and freedom. I disliked William Greystock heartily, and I was unwise enough to show my aversion. If I had been a woman of the world, I should have concealed it under a pleasant manner and a sweet smile; but even then I could hardly have helped making an enemy of him.

For, if he had found out my secret, I had discovered his. Strange and incredible as it may seem, he had actually fallen in love with Lady Waterville's companion, the simple little girl fresh from the country. And with him, and with those like him, love merely means a strong desire for possession, not a willingness for self-sacrifice. It was the sort of love that will strike because it is forbidden to caress, and longs to wound the thing that will have none of its kisses. I do not think that a love of this kind is very common now-a-days; strong feelings have gone out of fashion, and men and women usually accept their disappointments with admirable coolness and good sense. But here and there we do occasionally find a fierce heart beating under everyday broadcloth, and then we are wise if we avoid, as much as possible, all intimate association with its owner.

I would not take any notice of Mr. Greystock's remark, and did my best to look as if it had made no impression upon my mind. But Lady Waterville could not let it pass; and I fancied that she, too, felt it was aimed at me.

"I really believe William is right," she said, thoughtfully. "There is nothing in life so sad as disillusion, and nothing that so embitters a woman's nature. Well, I must tell you the end of my story, Louie; it is nearly finished now."

"You left Inez and Estella in India," said I, a little impatiently.

"Yes; they went to India, and the elder sister had the satisfaction of seeing the happiness of the younger. This was the only joy that poor Inez could ever have known, her own wedded life was a bitter disappointment; she had been married—not for the old love's sake, but for the money's sake."

"Yet she might have been happy if she could have been content with a moderate affection," put in William, with his detestable smile.

"She could be content with nothing that fell short of her expectations," Lady Waterville went on. "There are children who refuse the crust because they cannot get the cake; Inez was only a passionate, grown-up child. She had quarrels with her husband: and Estella made peace between the pair more than once. But the peace-maker was soon removed; her health failed after the baby Ronald was born, and Captain Hepburne sent his wife and child home to England."

My eyes filled with tears, and I drew back into the shade to shelter my face from William's glances. From Ronald I had heard how his father had fallen at the taking of Delhi, and I hoped that Lady Waterville would pass quickly over the last parting of the husband and wife. Perhaps she divined my thoughts; moreover, it was the story of Inez Greystock, and not the story of Estella Hepburne that she had volunteered to tell.

"After Estella's departure," she continued, "the breach widened between Colonel Greystock and Inez. She left off her tantrums, and ceased to make bitter speeches—indeed I think her stock of bitter speeches must have been quite exhausted—but she cared less and less for her husband's society, and loved to shut herself up alone with the guitar. She had no children; she made no friends; other women could not break through the impenetrable barrier of reserve which she had built up around her. I daresay a great many people pitied Colonel Greystock; but I don't think he concerned himself very much about his melancholy wife. He went his way, and left her strumming on the guitar and brooding over her miseries. You are angry with him, Louie, I see."

"He is just the kind of man I could hate!" cried I.

"Nonsense, my dear. He was moral and highly respectable, quite an ornament, as people said, to his profession. A heart, you know, is a most unfortunate thing for any one to possess; it is sure to retard one's advancement in life. Colonel Greystock was a lucky man; he had no heart, and he got on very well indeed. In fact, he seemed always to escape the disasters that overtook others, and when the mutiny broke out at Meerut, he happened to be away from the place."

"It was there that his wife met her death," said William Greystock.

"Yes, but the particulars have never been fully known. It was on a Sunday that the Sepoys rose, and most of the ladies of Meerut were in church. Inez, poor soul, was at home in her own house, and was killed there. It was said afterwards that a native soldier tried vainly to save her life, and that she had begged him with her last breath to take care of her guitar. A most incredible story, it seems to me."

"I don't know that it is incredible," William remarked. "She was either quite mad, or there really was a mysterious reason for preserving her guitar. Ronald, you know, has always inclined to the latter belief. He thinks that if the guitar could be found, those missing jewels of hers would be found also."

"That story of the missing jewels is a mere fiction," Lady Waterville answered, contemptuously. "Surely, William, you are not romantic enough to believe in such a wild tale! No one ever saw those wonderful jewels; even Colonel Greystock declared that his wife had never mentioned them to him. The only person who ever spoke of their existence was Estella Hepburne, and her account of them was of the vaguest kind."

"But she believed in them," said William, "and I fancy she must have had some substantial reason for her belief. They were chiefly diamonds, I think; and had been left, of course, to Inez Greystock by her first husband, Wendall, the diamond merchant."

Lady Waterville was so astonished at Mr. Greystock's absurdity that she became almost excited.

"It was just because Wendall happened to be a diamond merchant that somebody started that fable," she cried. "If Inez had ever possessed any diamonds, she would have flung them at your uncle's feet in the excess of her devotion. Why, she was perfectly infatuated about him! The moment he returned to her, all her old love revived, and she gave him everything she had."

"Excepting this old house," said William.

"Excepting this house. This was intended to be the home of the Hepburnes and their son. Inez never meant to live in it again; she always said that when the Colonel had done with India, she should persuade him to go to some quiet country place. I think she had a dream of growing old with her husband, and of finding him a lover to the very last."

"But the guitar, was it never found?" I asked.

"My dear Louie, is it likely that such a thing would ever be found? Imagine all the destruction and confusion of that terrible time! No, don't imagine it, for if you do you will not get a moment's sleep to-night."

I had no desire to picture the horrors of the mutiny, and I said so. Yet I secretly resolved that the next time Ronald and I were alone together, I would lead him on to talk of the lost guitar.

It was now time to dress for our usual drive before dinner. Mr. Greystock, who was well acquainted with Lady Waterville's habits, rose to depart, but lingered, standing, to say a few last words to me.

"Hereditary traits are an interesting study, Miss Coverdale; don't you think so?" asked he.

"I suppose they are," I replied, carelessly. "It is clear that Ronald has inherited his aunt's passion for the guitar," he went on.

"He is a happier fellow than I am."

"Indeed!" I said, with an air of incredulity.

"Well, he is young, to begin with. And he has gifts, and I have none; do you wonder that I envy him a little?"

"Yes, I do wonder," I answered. "I thought you were very well satisfied with yourself and your lot."

"Lately I have become dissatisfied. Mine is an empty life, and I'm beginning to grow disgusted with it. As to Ronald, he gets all the good things that he wants."

I only said: "Does he?"

"I am sure you know that he does. I am no judge of such matters, but I have heard it said that he has a way which no woman can resist. It must have been his Aunt Inez who gave him those tragic, musing eyes, and that look of unfathomable sorrow which he puts on sometimes. It is all very effective."

I gathered up my energies and succeeded, I believe, in preserving a tolerably calm face.

"Good-bye," he said. Then stepping back, he added, in an easy tone: "We were speaking of hereditary traits; by the way, there is one trait which Ronald has inherited from his father."

"What is that?" I foolishly asked.

"A love of gambling."

William went his way in quiet triumph, and left me with a dull ache in my heart. I ran quickly upstairs to dress for the drive; and then, finding that Lady Waterville was not quite ready, I went down to the dining-room and stood gazing at the portrait of Inez.

It was painted by a master's hand, and showed a beautiful brunette, wearing a gown of dark-red velvet, and holding the guitar upon her lap. The face, perfectly oval in shape, was thrown a little forward, as if listening; and the wonderful eyes, large, luminous, heavily fringed with black lashes, were so full of passion and sorrow that their gaze thrilled me with pain. Ronald's eyes were not so splendid as these, yet they had a little of this unfathomable melancholy; and the shape of his face was like hers. There was a strong likeness between this ill-fated Inez and the nephew who had never known her.

Hearing Lady Waterville's slow footstep on the stairs, I turned away from the picture and went out into the hall.

"You look rather sad, Louie," she said, as I joined her.

CHAPTER IV.

RONALD.

I LIVED two years with Lady Waterville; and to outside observers, mine must have seemed the most peaceful and uneventful of lives.

But any one who could have seen beneath the surface would have found impatience, anxiety, and heartache always going on within me; and yet I was neither impatient nor anxious about myself. It was for Ronald that I suffered. Until he entered my life, I had been contented with little joys; pleased with trifles; easily moved to gladness; but he came, and shadows came with him. It was a very common love-story after all; and I know that many a girl who reads these pages will pause and say to herself: "This is my experience."

He loved me deeply and truly, all the more because I was not only his love but his friend. To me were confided embarrassments, worries, even mistakes, and there was never any fear of being repulsed or misunderstood. I was a mere country girl; but I had thought and read and studied in my uncle's quiet cottage, and I found the hero of my real life-story not so very much unlike some of the heroes of fiction. My knowledge of human nature was only second-hand, but affection turned it to good account, and made the best of it.

Moreover, I had always possessed that useful power of assimilation which makes it a positive delight to be confided in. In old days, when boys came to stay at the rectory, I had seldom failed to adapt myself readily to such themes as interested them. I learned the names of their schoolfellows and masters in a trice, and never confused identities, and I would talk with them for hours about people I had never seen, and games I had never played. To this very day, I retain the parting tokens of their boyish friendship—a formidable knife with several blades, some marbles, and a pocket telescope, through which I have never yet been able to discern a single object, near or far.

And now that Ronald Hepburne came to me for sympathy, I seemed to live, move, and have my being in him and his concerns. Outwardly I belonged to Lady Waterville, but I scarcely gave her a thought; I could think only of Ronald and the difficulties that beset his path, and made it impossible for us to walk side by side.

Later on, I learned that William Greystock had pretended to remove those difficulties. To him, as to an elder brother, Ronald had naturally confided his desire to increase his income and marry. Mr. Greystock had acquired a reputation for keen sagacity; he was acquainted with city men, and even Lady Waterville spoke with respect of his abilities for business. With his knowledge and influence it seemed easy for him to obtain a post for Ronald, but somehow that post was never found, and once or twice when the poor fellow, had thought himself almost sure of a situation, there had been a mysterious obstacle placed in his way.

Yet his belief in William remained unshaken. Ronald himself was constitutionally delicate, and seemed to have a natural incapacity to push through the crowd of fortune-seekers and gain his end. But William, who had never known a day's illness, seldom failed in getting anything he wanted, and yet he was always so cool and deliberate in his actions, that his object was attained without apparent effort or fuss. He was an energetic man, and Ronald was an indolent one.

Impartial observers, looking at the two men, invariably decided that William Greystock was a far better and grander character than Ronald Hepburne. William had added to his income by shrewd and cautious money-making; he gave liberally to public charities, he bestowed advice on frivolous bachelor friends, and was regarded by them as a model counsellor. Lady Waterville quoted his wise sayings continually, and was often heard to wish that Ronald—"poor, foolish, fascinating Ronald—" would put himself completely under the guidance of Mr. Greystock.

"Do you think Mr. Hepburne fascinating?" I said, one day.

"Yes," she answered, "and so do you, Louie. I admire that soft, languid manner of his; and you are in love with his melancholy face and manifold misfortunes. It does not matter to you that he brought a good many of those misfortunes on himself; like all women of your type, you are willing to heal wounds without inquiring how they were gained. In my opinion, you are a ridiculous girl, and I won't waste any more sound advice upon you!"

These words were said in her usual good-humoured way, and accompanied by a caressing pat on the shoulder. I had not then acknowledged that Ronald was my lover, and in Lady Waterville's presence we met only as friends. But I think she suspected that there was something more than friendship between us.

"I grant that your advice is always sound," I said, "yet if I followed it, I don't believe I should be happy. It is quite possible for some natures to be uncomfortable in the midst of comfort."

"Perfectly true," she replied. "As for you, Louie, you could not rest without wearing yourself out for another's sake. Your life is not worth living unless it is lived for somebody else. For me, and for thousands of other women, self is sufficient. It is not sufficient for you; but you are as heaven made you."

I knew that if I married Ronald, Lady Waterville would persist in regarding me as an interesting martyr to the end of her days. I knew that she would speak of me to her friends as a perfectly unselfish girl who had thrown herself away on a good-for-nothing man. But was Ronald really good-for-nothing? I was a better judge of his character than any one else could possibly be. A true love is never blind; it is keener-sighted even than hate, it makes itself acquainted with all the weak places in the loved one's nature that it may mount guard over the undefended spots. And my insight into Ronald's inner self revealed to me a wealth of unsuspected good.

Knowing that I understood him far better than she did, I permitted Lady Waterville to say what she liked; but she could not delude me into the belief that I was a heroine. Nor could she even persuade me to alter my opinion of Mr. Greystock.

It was Lady Waterville's custom to leave town in the beginning of August, and stay away until the first of October; and when I first came to live with her, this autumn holiday had seemed very pleasant to me. I enjoyed the life one leads at a gay watering-place, and found that military bands, stylish costumes, and casual acquaintance were much to my liking. But the second autumn was not half as delightful as the first. I did not want to leave London, and felt listless and bored at the seaside. Straitened means had condemned Ronald to do penance in town till through the hot weather; and what were sea-breezes to me? It was a joyful day when my term of banishment was ended, and we returned to the old house in Hanover Square.

It was afternoon when we found ourselves in George Street again—a dim, quiet afternoon, made cheerful by some last gleams of autumn sunshine. The cab stopped at our door, and I got out with such a beaming face that the parlour-maid congratulated me on my appearance. It was the last time that I ever heard that cheery phrase:

"How well you are looking, miss, to be sure!"

In the days that came and went afterwards, most people surveyed me with a silence that was more eloquent than words. Miss Coverdale, the petted companion of Lady Waterville, with her rounded cheeks and smiling lips, was soon destined to become a creature of the past.

We lingered long over our afternoon tea, and were still sitting with the cups and the little table between us, when Ronald came in. He was looking noticeably worn and sad—so sad, that after one glance at his face all my gay spirits deserted me.

"We have been enjoying ourselves immensely," said Lady Waterville, in a mischievous tone. "Louie got through a good deal of flirting; it's astonishing to see the progress that she has made in the art! Last year she was a mere beginner, but now—"

"Now she is more disgusted with flirtation than she ever was in her life!" I interrupted, with impatience. "Why do you misrepresent Louie, Lady Waterville? You know she is sick of the band, and the pier, and all the seaside nonsense, and heartily glad to be at home again!"

Lady Waterville gave a sleepy little laugh, and sank back upon the cushions of her chair. In the next minute, she was snoring audibly; and Ronald and I were as much left to ourselves as if she had been in another room.

He drew nearer to my side as I sat in the glow of the firelight. There was a shaded lamp on a distant table, and the drawing-room was but dimly illuminated that evening. But the flickering flames revealed the lines on his face, and lit up the melancholy eyes that sought mine with a troubled gaze.

"I have been very lonely, Louie."

Is there any woman who can hear this confession from a man, and refrain from pitying him? Women are themselves accustomed to loneliness, and to many of them it is only another word for peace. We are not, as a rule, so sociably inclined as men; we can be content with a soft chair, a book, and the unfailing cup of tea, when a man will pine for companionship, and go out of doors, in rain or wind, to seek the face of a friend. I had learnt from Ronald's letters that he had missed me, but when we came face to face again, I knew, for the first time, that his yearning had become an absolute pain.

I could not find words to say to him at that moment; but involuntarily my hand touched his, and was seized and held in a close clasp. My eyes were fixed upon the fire; but they saw visions of an Eden, sunlit and glorious, full of granted desires and realised dreams. Perhaps he, too, saw the same vision, and rebelled all the more fiercely against his cramped and fettered life.

"Are we never to be happy together?" he whispered, passionately. "Are we to wait on and on, and let the best part of our lives go by? I have only a poor home to offer you, Louie; but I will work for you, dear. Will you come to me?"

Lady Waterville still slumbered peacefully; the large tabby cat kept up a drowsy purr on the hearth-rug at my feet, and there was no one near to utter a word of caution. Yet, in my own heart, a stern voice failed not to make itself heard above all love's fervent pleadings; and for an instant I paused, and listened to that inward warning. Then Ronald's eyes met mine, and the bright vision of an Eden came back at once; I should have been more than woman if I could have resisted its spell.

"I will come to you," I said, softly. And a brilliant flame shot suddenly up from the neglected fire, and showed me all the joy and triumph in his face.

CHAPTER V.

RECOVERY.

IF we had been wise, we should have waited till my nurse could give us rooms under her roof. But we would not wait. And so it came to pass that we were married, one grey autumn morning, in St. George's Church, and took up our quarters among strangers. Lady Waterville was seriously angry. She even went so far as to say some cutting things that I could not easily forget. I parted with her coldly, and left the old house with a firm determination not to enter it again unless I was sent for.

How sorrow came upon us in those dreary lodgings I have already told. Six months of mingled bliss and anxiety, and then my husband was stricken down. I sought for no help or sympathy from Lady Waterville in my trouble. Quite alone I watched by Ronald's sick-bed; and nurse was the only friend who visited us in our time of calamity.

Yet not the only friend. There was one face that came like sunshine into the sickroom, one voice that never failed to bid me be of good cheer. The face was shrewd, bright, and kindly, with eyes that were well used to studying poor humanity, and the voice was deep-toned and pleasant to hear. Dr. Warstone was, in the truest sense of the word, a friend. He was not a courtly, flattering doctor by any means, sweetening his doses with little compliments. But he looked straight into your heart, and read all your doubts and fears, all your unspoken longings and womanly anguish; and he sympathised with every weakness as only a large-hearted man can.

The clocks were striking eight, and I was just persuading Ronald not to sit up any longer, when the doctor paid us his first visit in Chapel Place.

"This boy is fast getting well," he said, sitting by the patient's sofa, and criticising him quietly. "He seems to have got into good quarters; your new room looks like a home."

My nurse had contrived to bring something of the country even into her London house. There were bulrushes on the walls that had grown by our old village stream, and the bunches of dried grass on the chimney-piece had been gathered in the fields behind my grandfather's cottage. There were no cheap modern ornaments to be seen; but we had put some quaint blue china on the shelf, and some more was visible through the glazed door of the corner cupboard. Up among the bulrushes hung a painted tambourine, decked with bows of bright satin ribbon; and between the windows was an oval mirror which had often reflected my grandmother's charms. Our decorations were simple enough; but they brightened the dim little room, and gave it that home-like look which the doctor had noticed at once.

"I wish I could take Ronald out of town," I said.

"Wait a bit," Doctor Warstone replied.

"These spring days are as treacherous as usual. There isn't a lively view to be seen from your windows, but you must contrive to amuse him indoors."

"I shall soon be able to amuse myself," Ronald declared. "There's the guitar, you know, doctor; it's one of the best companions in the world for an invalid. By Jove, Louie, I forgot to ask you if it had got damaged in the smash?"

"What smash?" Doctor Warstone asked.

I was glad that he put the question; it prevented me from answering my husband.

"It was only a cab collision," I replied. "Very little mischief was done. At first I was afraid Ronald would suffer, but he seems to be none the worse for it."

"Are you quite sure you are none the worse for it?" demanded the doctor, looking searchingly at me.

"Do you think she is?" cried Ronald, anxiously. "She did look uncommonly pale afterwards. Louie, if there are any sprains or bruises that you haven't mentioned—"

"I always mention everything," I interrupted, laughing.

Doctor Warstone got up to take his leave, telling Ronald that it was time for him to go to bed. I followed the doctor out into the passage, closing the parlour door behind me.

"What is the matter with you?" he asked. "Nerves out of order? The cab smash must have given you a shake."

"It didn't hurt me. But, oh, doctor, how foolish you will think me!"

"I have thought you foolish ever since I first saw you," he responded, with one of his kindly smiles.

"I know; everybody does. I am fretting about the guitar. I don't know how to tell my poor boy that it is broken; and—worse still—I can't imagine how we shall get another."

"A man with a good little wife can exist without a guitar. You are at your old tricks—taking things too seriously."

"I daresay it seems so," I admitted, meekly. "But, do you believe in hereditary tendencies?"

"Humph! What of that?"

"Ronald's love of the guitar is hereditary. His aunt, Inez Greystock, is said to have been passionately attached to her guitar. She could not rest unless it was ever by her side: her hands were seeking for it always. It is the same with Ronald. When he finds that the thing is battered and useless, there will be something gone from his life. I can hardly hope to make you understand all that it has been to him."

"Humph," said the doctor again. "Suppose I say that it is quite possible to replace this precious guitar. Suppose I tell you that I know of one—a good one, too—that you can have for nothing. Will that comfort you, I wonder?"

"Comfort me! You are like a good magician!"

"A good magician is only a doctor practising under another name. Now listen. Give Ronald his breakfast in bed to-morrow, and then leave him hurriedly, pretending that you must do some shopping. Make your way, as fast as you can, to Soho Square; saunter up and down before the door of the great piano store, and wait till I come."

"I will do all that you tell me," I promised, gratefully.

And he went into the dusk of the April night.

When I came back to Ronald, I found him comfortably drowsy, and ready for a long night's rest. He really was too sleepy to ask any more questions, or even to wonder what the doctor and I had been saying to each other in the entry. I had a bright fire burning in the bedroom, and I carried the shaded lamp out of the parlour, and sat down to sew by my husband's bedside.

He soon fell into a sound slumber. I sat sewing, and listening to his regular breathing, thinking of the time when he would be quite strong and well again.

The future had to be faced. Illness is a terrible thing to people whose means are small. Our scanty purse could hardly meet all the demands that Ronald's sickness had made upon it. Expensive medicine and nourishment—heavy lodging-house bills—fees to servants—all amounted to a sum total that made my brain dizzy when I thought of it.

One of Lady Waterville's parting prophecies had been already fulfilled. I wished I could forget her words, but they were haunting my memory to-night. She had said that before the first year of my married life had ended, I should taste poverty. Then there would be disappointment—then bitter regret. Why did she say such things? Even if my future had been verily revealed to her, she might have closed her lips, and let me go my way. I would scarcely acknowledge that I knew the taste of poverty yet; but some of its bitterness I did know. Well as I loved my nurse, it hurt my pride to live in her house, and get into her debt, as I was doing now. It is true that she gladly trusted me, and had perfect confidence in the coming of better days; but I smarted secretly under the sense of humiliation.

Some women were clever enough to bring grist to the mill, but I was not of that gifted sisterhood. Story-writing was far beyond my powers, and although I could make little songs for Ronald to sing, I was by no means tempted to fancy myself a poet. All the talents that I possessed were decidedly commonplace. Sewing, converting old gowns into new, mending neatly, and wearing shabby clothes in a way that did not reveal their shabbiness, this was almost all that I could do.

Well, I was tasting some of the bitterness of the poverty; but how about the disappointment and the bitter regret? Nothing would persuade me that I should ever be disappointed in Ronald. Mine was not a blind love. I had never thought that I was marrying a perfect being; nor did I want perfection. To me, the poor human idol, full of divers faults and flaws, was far dearer than an immaculate saint set high above my head.

The warm room and the monotonous work began to have a sleepy influence upon me at last. I had spent many wakeful nights, and now that the anxiety was ended, I often found myself dropping off unawares into a nap. With my sewing still in my hands, I dozed sitting in the chair, and then I had a curious dream.

I dreamt that I was standing before a mirror, looking at the reflection of my own face and figure. My arms, neck, and head were glittering with wonderful jewels; and yet it did not seem strange to me that I should be decked out in such a regal fashion. The glitter of the gems was almost too bright to be borne—so bright that I woke with a start, and found that a coal in the grate had burst into a brilliant blaze. No doubt it was that sudden light, dancing before my closed eyes, that had been the cause of my dream.

The hands of my watch pointed to a quarter to ten. I rose from my seat, undressed as quietly as possible, and went to bed. All night long I slept as soundly and peacefully as a child, and the dream did not come to me again.

I woke at seven the next morning, and got up without noise to wash and dress. Looking through the window of my little dressing-room, I saw the London sun shining cheerfully on the yard where nurse had cultivated ferns and ivy. She seemed to have had uncommon luck with her plants, for they flourished as town-plants seldom do. The bold sparrows were twittering merrily in the early light, and their notes were full of joy and hope. After all, there were plenty of chances in life; and the world was not quite as dark as it had seemed to my fancy last night.

Ronald had slept well, and was wide awake when I brought him the breakfast-tray. I had found time to tell nurse about my mysterious appointment in Soho Square. She entered heartily into my little plan, and came into the parlour while I was putting on my bonnet and mantle.

"Where is Mrs. Hepburne?" my husband asked, when nurse went to see how he was getting on with breakfast.

"Gone out for a little fresh air and shopping, sir," I heard her answer, promptly. "She'll be back in half-an-hour. Nothing like a morning run, sir, for one who has been nursing, you know. Dear me, how fast you are picking up, to be sure!"

I hastened out of the house, knowing well enough that I could trust the good soul to look after Ronald in my absence. At the top of my speed I raced along Oxford Street, keeping pace with the bustling clerks on their way to business, and never once stopping to glance at a shop window. When I turned at last into Soho Street, I was out of breath, and glad to stroll slowly along the pavement of the old square. Neither the doctor nor his carriage were to be seen; I was the first at the place of rendezvous, and had leisure to rest and look round.

First I looked at the piano store, and wondered how the doctor knew that there was a guitar to be found there? And then I stood still, and gazed at the so-called garden in the middle of the square, and watched my merry friends, the sparrows, hopping about on the budding twigs. This uncountrified spot of green had a sort of attraction for my eyes, and kept my thoughts busy till Dr. Warstone's carriage came rattling up to the place where I stood.

"Good morning," said the doctor, cheerily. "Haven't been waiting long, have you? Now come with me, and I'll introduce you to the guitar."

"Is it in here?" I asked, as we entered the warehouse.

"It is up in a room high above the store. I hope you don't mind stairs. The fact is that Messrs. Harkaby are good people, and are kind enough to give a poor old piano-tuner a shelter for his head. He won't need it much longer; he is going fast. The other day he asked me if I knew any one who would care to have his guitar? I told him I would find somebody, and now I am keeping my word."

He did not tell me that he himself was the best friend that the dying man possessed; but as I followed him up those long flights of stairs, I quickly guessed the truth. One might know Doctor Warstone for years without finding out one quarter of the good that he did every day. Often and often I have heard clergymen extolled to the skies for doing splendid things which a doctor does naturally and simply, never getting a word of praise. They are great men, these doctors who toil in our large towns—cheerful in the midst of sorrow, quick to help, prompt to save. And to this day, when any one talks about an ideal hero, the face of Doctor Warstone rises up in my memory, and I think of all the noble deeds, known and unknown, that this quiet worker has done.

We got at length to the top of the last flight, and paused before a door on the landing.

"I will go in first," the doctor said, "and prepare Monsieur Léon for your coming. You will not mind waiting here for a few moments while I speak to my patient?"

CHAPTER VI.

THE GUITAR.

THERE was a window on the landing, commanding a fine view of roofs and chimney-pots, and I stood watching little white clouds sailing swiftly across the blue April sky. I could hear the doctor's deep voice in the sick room, and then a faint tone in reply. At length the door opened, and I was bidden to enter.

The room was large, and looked lighter and more airy than London rooms generally do. There was a light paper on the walls, and some kind hand had pinned up several coloured engravings, which made the sick chamber look something like a nursery. The invalid was sitting in an easy chair stuffed with pillows, and placed near a bright fire. Resting against the arm of the chair, just within reach of the sick man's hand, was the guitar.

The doctor quietly introduced us to each other; and Monsieur Léon's eyes, looking strangely brilliant in his worn face, seemed to flash me a glance of welcome. He was very ill; the pinched features and hollow cheeks told a pathetic tale of long suffering; but the smile, that came readily and brightly, was full of courage and sweetness. Evidently Monsieur Léon was not to be daunted by the approach of death.

"It is very good of you to come and see me, madame," he said, with easy courtesy. "Will you be seated, and talk a little while? As for that dear doctor, his minutes are worth guineas. Ah, I wish sometimes that he could waste an hour, as idle people can! Now, I see that he is going to scold me!"

"Not to scold you, only to warn you, Léon," put in Dr. Warstone, kindly. "Don't let your spirit run away with your strength. Remember that you must not say many words without resting. You have a great deal to tell Mrs. Hepburne;—well, you will be wise to make your story as short as possible. She has an invalid at home who will watch the clock till she comes back."

"Ah, your husband, is it not?" said Monsieur Léon, turning eagerly to me. "It is he to whom I am to give my guitar?"

The doctor gave us a parting smile and went his way.

"Yes," I answered, as the door closed. "It will be a great kindness, gratefully accepted. But can you spare it, Monsieur Léon?"

"Spare it!" he repeated. "Ah, madame, do you suppose I would leave my guitar to the mercy of ignorant strangers? It is you who are doing the kindness. You are willing to shelter this beloved friend of mine, and give it a home when I am gone. More! You will let it speak to you in the sweet language which has so often soothed and comforted me. You will not condemn it to dust and silence and decay!"

"Oh, no," I said, earnestly, struck with the poor Frenchman's grace of manner and expression. "To my husband, the guitar will be as dear as it has been to you. It will always be within his reach—always taken up in his spare moments. As for me, I love to hear it played, although I am no player myself."

Monsieur Léon had remembered the doctor's injunction, and was silent for a moment. His voice sounded a little weaker when he spoke again.

"It was in India," he went on, "that I first became possessed of my guitar. When I was young I had friends, and they sent me to Bombay to be clerk in a mercantile house. But ah, madame, it was my misfortune to love music better than figures, and so I did not make the best of clerks. I saw the guitar in a bazaar one day, and bought it for a mere trifle. It is old, as you see, and of Spanish make. Look at this beautiful mosaic work of mother-o'-pearl and silver! You do not find anything like it now-a-days."

He drew the instrument towards him, and pointed out its beauties with evident pride. It was of dark wood, delicately inlaid with a quaint and fanciful pattern. But the tone? I wished he would touch the strings.

"I will not weary you with a history of myself and my doings," he continued. "It is enough to say that the guitar has been with me through many years of sorrow and misfortune. When it has spoken to me, I have forgotten my troubles. Often I have sat alone in a dreary London room, and listened to the tinkle of mule-bells on the passes. Or I have seen the southern moon rise over the walls of the Alhambra, and heard the dark-eyed gipsies sing the songs of Spain. But sometimes my guitar has said things that I cannot understand.

"Sometimes there are melodies of which I fail to find the meaning. It is strange."

HIS THIN FINGERS BEGAN TO STRAY OVER THE STRINGS.

Was his mind wandering? There was a dreamy look in his face as he sank back on the pillows, and his thin fingers began to stray over the strings. I waited in silence.

Mechanically he tuned the guitar, and played a few chords. Then came a strange, sweet tune that reminded me of fairy music floating down from distant hills.

"The horns of Elfland faintly blowing—"

Might have sounded just as soft and gay. There was nothing sad in the melody, but it left its hearer unsatisfied. What did it mean? What words were set to this enchanting air? One wanted to hear it again and yet again.

The feeble hands soon came to a pause, and I saw that all the fire had died out of Monsieur Léon's eyes. It was time for me to go. I had long outstayed the "half-hour" to which nurse had limited my absence. Ronald would be anxiously looking for my return.

"I am afraid you are exhausted," I said, rising. "Is there nothing I can do before I leave you?"

He thanked me softly and shook his head. Then, with a gesture, he desired me to take up the guitar. But I touched it reluctantly. It must have been so hard for him to part with it. It seemed so cruel to take it away.

"Are you really willing to let it go?" I asked, anxiously.

He roused himself, and looked at me with a sudden smile.

"The time has come," he said. "I cannot take it with me where I am going. Give it to your husband, madame, with the good wishes of a dying man. I send it away with a blessing."

The words were almost solemnly uttered. When he had spoken, he sank back wearily and closed his eyes; and I saw that the short-lived strength, lent him by excitement, had ebbed away. There was nothing more for me to stay for, but my eyes were full of tears when I left the room. That last farewell was echoing in my ears as I carried the guitar carefully downstairs.

In my old country home I had often heard it said that the blessing of the dying is a good gift. I was glad to recall those parting words, although they made me weep. And little did I then know how strangely significant they would seem to me in a time that was yet to come.

Before I had got to the bottom of the stairs, I met a nursing Sister, evidently on her way to the sick room. She stood aside to let me pass, and it comforted me to feel that Monsieur Léon would not long be left alone.

The world scarcely seemed to be like itself when I came out into Soho Square again. There had been something dreamy and romantic in the poor Frenchman's talk, and it was strange to find myself out in the fresh spring air with the guitar in my arms. A small boy called a hansom for me, and I went rattling home through the work-a-day streets, half sad and half glad, holding fast to my new possession. What would Ronald say when he saw me coming into his room? I had been away quite a long while, and he would be tired of lying still and waiting for my return.

The cab set me down in Chapel Place, and I let myself in with a latch-key. In the next minute, I entered the parlour, triumphantly bearing the guitar, and found myself face to face with my husband. He was dressed, and lying on the sofa, looking just a little inclined to find fault with everybody, and with me in particular.

"I didn't think you would have got up," I began in a tone of apology.

"Why not? I felt quite well enough, and nurse helped me. I've had enough of bed, I can assure you. Your shopping seems to have taken a whole morning! What have you there? A guitar?"

"Yes, Ronald. I suppose nurse has told you that yours is broken. This is another that I have got to-day."

"Dear little woman!" cried the poor fellow, brightening. "I was afraid you would say that we could not afford another. Where did you buy it? How much did you give? I wish I had tried it before it was bought."

"Supposing it isn't bought at all?" I said, putting Monsieur Léon's treasure into the eager hands outstretched to receive it.

"Oh, then I suppose you have only borrowed it!"

He swept his fingers across the strings, and a sudden look of pleasure flashed into his face. "It is very good—better than mine, Louie. Do they want much money for it?"

"Who are 'they'?" I demanded, provokingly. "Ah, Ronald, I won't tantalise you any more! The guitar is yours, really yours; and there is nothing to pay for it."

"You are a little witch," said my husband. "Go and take off that shabby old bonnet of yours, and then come here and tell me all about it."

The bonnet was shabby; I knew that well enough; and I knew, too, that it would be a long time before I could get a fresh one. But the "outward adorning" did not occupy my mind just then, nor did I even bestow one regretful thought on the faded face inside the poor bonnet. I was eager to get back to Ronald's side, and see him enjoying his new possession. Moreover, I had a wonderful story to tell, and the telling of it would make the rest of the morning pass pleasantly away.

He was deeply interested in my account of the doctor's poor patient, and asked more questions about Monsieur Léon than I could possibly answer. And then the gift underwent a close examination; in fact, he scarcely cared to part with it even for a moment.

I had gone out of the room to speak to nurse, and when I returned I found my husband standing close to the window. He was looking into the guitar with earnest eyes, and glanced up at me as I came in, saying that he had just made a discovery.

"Do go back to your sofa, dear," I entreated.

"I wanted to get the light," he answered. "This is such a dark room. Louie, here is a curious thing."

"Well, go back to the sofa, and then tell me what it is."

"No, no," he said, petulantly, "come here and see. You know that inside a guitar there is generally a paper pasted, bearing the maker's name. Well, look at this paper, and read what is written upon it."

He held the instrument up to catch the light. And then, indeed, I did see the paper, and some words inscribed upon it in a woman's hand. These words were written in Spanish, and I did not know their meaning till he translated them.

"Hope guards the jewels," he read, thoughtfully. "Now, what does that mean, I wonder?"

"How can we ever tell?" I cried. "What do we know of those who once owned this guitar? But you are looking fagged and pale, Ronald; and if you are going to lose your afternoon nap, I shall wish that I had never brought that thing into the house."

He consented at last to lie down on the couch and shut his eyes. Soon I had the satisfaction of seeing that he was fast asleep, with the guitar lying by his side.

Later on, when the soft dusk of the spring evening was creeping over Chapel Place, my husband's fingers began to wander lovingly across the strings; and I sat and listened to him in the twilight, just as I had done a hundred times before. It was the resting time of the day; my hands lay idly folded in my lap, and I was leaning back in a low chair with a sense of quietness and peace. He was not strong enough yet to sing the songs that I had written in our happy courting-days. He could only strike the chords, and bring out of them that fairy-like music which is always sweetest when it is heard in the gloaming.

Presently there came again that soft, gay melody that Monsieur Léon had played, and again it stirred me with a strange surprise. Surely it was unlike anything I had ever heard before. How and where did Ronald learn it? He repeated the air, and I listened, entranced and wondering. It seemed to me that the chords were giving out a fuller sound than I had ever heard yet.

"Ronald, what is that? Where did you first hear it?" I asked, raising myself, and bending eagerly towards him.

He did not immediately reply. A flame shot up suddenly from the low fire, and showed me the thoughtful, dreamy look upon his face. At length he spoke.

"I was just wondering," he answered, "where I had first heard it. It seems to be an echo of something that I knew years and years ago. And yet, I could fancy that it came out of my own brain, just as your verses come out of yours."

"But I heard it from Monsieur Léon this morning," I said, "and it had a strange effect upon me."

"Did the Frenchman play it? Then, depend upon it, I have got it from some old music book that I have not seen for ages. Only I can't remember playing it on my old guitar."

"You never did," I replied. "I know all that you play. Poor Monsieur Léon has laid his spell upon those strings!"

"You are getting fanciful, Louie," he said, looking wonderingly at me through the mist of twilight.

"Perhaps I am. Monsieur Léon's talk to-day was fanciful; it might have been that his mind was wandering. He said that the guitar sometimes spoke to him of things that he could not understand, and then he played that very air. It is an air that needs a poem to interpret its meaning."

"Well, why don't you write one?" Ronald asked. "I will try to play it again."

He did play it again. And once more I felt the influence of the soft gladness—the faint, sweet triumph that was expressed in the melody. But when he paused, I shook my head.

"It goes beyond me," I confessed. "I can find no words that will harmonise with that air. It leaves me with an inexplicable longing to find out its true meaning; but I think I shall never know it."

"I have had that feeling once or twice in my life," said Ronald, musingly. "I remember a winter afternoon when I was waiting for a train in a strange town, and strolled into an old church to pass away the time. Some one was playing on the organ—a voluntary, perhaps—and the music came drifting along the empty aisles. I stood just inside the west door, and listened, trying to find out what it meant. But I could not tell."

"Let us put the guitar away now," I entreated, catching the tone of weariness in his voice. "You have been sitting up quite long enough, dear, and there is a bright fire in the next room. What a chilly spring it is! This evening is as cold as winter."

For a wonder he complied meekly with my request, and walked from the parlour into the bed-chamber with his arm round my shoulders. In a little while he was in a sound sleep, his head resting quietly on the pillow, while I moved gently about the room and put things in order for the night.

I was too tired to sit long over my needlework, although a piled up work-basket reminded me that there was plenty of mending to be done. But, sleepy as I really was, that mysterious melody was still haunting my brain, and I found myself trying to set words to it unawares. Only fragments of rhyme came to me; bits of verses never to be finished; and at last I endeavoured to forget the air altogether. Yet even in slumber it came back, and again I saw Monsieur Léon's thin face and brilliant eyes, and heard his parting blessing.

When the morning came, and I went into the parlour to get my husband's breakfast, there lay the guitar upon the sofa. And I almost started at the sight of it, for I had half persuaded myself that it was merely a thing of my dreams.

CHAPTER VII.

JARS.

IT almost seemed as if the guitar helped Ronald on to perfect recovery. As the spring days advanced, his strength increased, and Doctor Warstone's visits were discontinued. How much I missed those visits I never owned. I think the influence of that good man's strong nature and wise, cheerful words had sustained me unawares. And when I lost sight of the kind face, and ceased to hear the friendly voice, I became conscious of my own weakness.

We had not money enough to go out of town for change of air. Moreover, with Ronald's returning health came the urgent need of finding work to do; and where was he to find work if it was not to be found in London? When we were first married I had been quite sanguine about his chance of getting employment. He could do so many things, that it seemed impossible for him to fail. But later on, I discovered that the man who can do many things is precisely the man who does fail.

He could paint a tambourine beautifully, and hang it up on a wall with good effect; and he had a perfect genius for arranging old china, and giving artistic touches to a room. And there was the guitar-playing, and the singing, to say nothing of a graceful manner and a way of gliding naturally into the best society. Useful gifts these, were they not? Gifts which ought, of course, to have ensured their possessor a good income, and complete immunity from all the petty anxieties of life!

But, alas! They did not. Days lengthened into weeks; we left off fires, and were glad to open the windows and let the London air enter our little room. All the best people were in town; streets and squares were gay with carriages; women looked charming in their freshly-donned costumes; but I, Louie Hepburne, crept about in my shabby old gown, carrying a heavy heart, and perpetually doing long addition sums. Oh, those weekly bills which my good nurse never presented! Would they ever be paid?

It was about this time that Ronald began to miss my old cheerfulness. Somehow there were not so many things to laugh at as there used to be. The comic side of life seemed to be hidden from my gaze. Mental arithmetic does not foster one's sense of humour, and the fun was gradually dying out of my nature. I suppose I was a dull companion; and even devotedness cannot quite make up for dulness. One evening, when we were sitting together in our small parlour, he looked at me and sighed.

"I don't think I acted quite fairly in persuading you to marry me, Louie," he said, after a brief pause.

"Are you going in for vain regret, and that sort of thing?" I asked, feeling my checks flush.

"No; but I ought to have waited till I was better off, or—"

"Or what?" I cried, hotly. "I hate an unfinished sentence. Shall I finish it for you? 'You ought to have waited till you were better off, or till you had met a richer woman!'"

It was the most foolish speech that I could possibly have made. But is there ever a loving woman who does not at certain times say the most disastrous things? The more she loves, the more likely she is to speak unwisely. It was just one of those moments when a man sees that he has the advantage, and Ronald was as quick-sighted as most men. Moreover he, too, was by no means in his best mood that night, although he answered with a calmness that nearly maddened me.

"I met a richer woman long before I ever saw you," he said, looking at me steadily to note the effect of his words.

There was a sharp pain at my heart, and the blood rushed into my face and then receded, leaving me deadly pale.

"Why didn't you take her?" I demanded, in a voice that did not sound in the least like mine. "It was a pity that you missed so good a chance."

He smiled faintly, as if my suppressed excitement amused him.

"Well, there were obstacles in the way," he replied, in a provokingly tranquil tone. "She had a perfect dragon of an uncle, who was her guardian. And after some months of futile love-making, we had to say a long good-bye."

"You did not tell me all this before we got engaged," said I, in my new, strange voice. "Wouldn't it have been more honourable if you had told me that you only sought me because you had failed in winning a girl you liked better?"

"It would, Louie, always supposing that I had liked the other girl better."

There was a silence, and my heart beat with quick, heavy throbs. Until now I had never known the tremendous power of jealousy that lay dormant within me. To the last day of my life I shall remember the fierce agony that rent my soul as I sat in my seat by the window, idly watching the passers-by. What did they know of my trouble? Had any of them ever tasted such a bitter cup as mine?

"Is she still unmarried?" I asked at last.

"Yes."

"What is her name?"

"Ida Lorimer."

I had some vague recollection of that name. It must have been mentioned by Lady Waterville. Surely I had heard her say something about having lost sight of an Ida Lorimer who had been rather a favourite of hers. As I sat and mused, a host of memories came trooping back; and then I distinctly recalled a certain photograph in Lady Waterville's album, and remembered the widow's languid complaint that "Ida never came to see her now-a-days."

I was in the state of mind when bitter words are one's sole relief. And the words that burst from my lips were as bitter as if an evil spirit had prompted their utterance.

"It was a pity that you had to say good-bye to her! I wish she had had to bear all that I have borne. I wish that she were in my place at this moment!"

Of course there was but one thing for Ronald to do after that outburst, and he did it. He got up quietly, put on his hat, left the room, and went out of doors. In the next moment I saw him stride past the window, with his chin well up, and eyes looking straight ahead.

Dear heaven, what a dark cloud had suddenly descended on the little parlour, where we had spent so many happy hours together! It was all my fault, I told myself; and then I got up sad wandered aimlessly into the other room.

Before the looking-glass I came to a pause, and gazed wearily at the reflection of my own face. I suppose it was once a pretty face; but now the grey eyes looked at me with an expression of infinite woe; the complexion, always pale, had taken a sallow tinge, and even the sunny chestnut hair was less abundant than it had been in happier days. Nursing and anxiety had stolen away a good deal of my youth and brightness. But Ida Lorimer had doubtless kept all her attractions. I remembered the photograph of a fair, calm-faced woman in evening dress, with a beautiful neck and shoulders, and a general look of prosperity and self-satisfaction, and the cruel fangs of jealousy began to gnaw my heart again, and I turned away from the glass with a low moan of pain.

By-and-by the clock struck seven, and, for the first time since my marriage, I sat down to dinner alone. It was then that I began to realise what it was to feed on the "bread of affliction." Ronald's empty place deprived me of all appetite, and the chicken, which nurse had roasted to perfection, went back to the kitchen almost untasted. In my remorse and loneliness, I was even more severe on myself than there was any need to be. The vixenish wife had driven her much-enduring husband out of doors to seek his food elsewhere! It was quite likely that, sickened with grief and heartache, he would go without a dinner altogether.

This last fear was about as silly a notion as ever tormented a weak-minded woman. As a rule, the man of unquiet mind will fly to dinner as a solace, instead of turning from it in disgust. Quarrel with him at home, and he rushes out to the best restaurant in Regent Street, and consoles himself with perfect cookery. But I, being new to men and their ways, had not then discovered all their sources of consolation.

Moreover, I forgot that the wear and tear of Ronald's illness, and the worry of our straitened means, had told upon my health, and made my temper unnaturally irritable. As I sat, dropping my foolish tears upon the table-cloth, I did not realise the fact that I had been the chief burden-bearer in our married life. For many weeks Ronald had had nothing to do but get well, and accept all the petting that was lavished upon him. I had had to work, slave, struggle to make two ends meet, and sink down crushed under the load of embarrassments that I could not lift alone.

Yet we were both to blame, Ronald and I. When we had stood at the altar in St. George's Church (where so many wealthier couples had stood before us), we had perfectly realised that we were taking each other for better, for worse. When there is "the little rift within the lute" you may generally conclude that it has been made by two, not by one alone. Patch it up before it widens, deal with the damaged instrument as tenderly as you can, if you want to keep its music. Even if the sounds are never again so sweet as they used to be, they are better than the total silence that makes all life a long regret.

The May daylight lingered long, even on the grey walls of Chapel Place. I sat watching the slow fading of the sunbeams, and starting at every footstep that seemed to pause at the house door. Every knock or ring set all my nerves quivering. Meanwhile, I prepared a hundred little speeches of conciliation, and thought of a hundred little ways of atoning for my unkind words; and the weary hours crawled away, and the stars came out above the great restless London world. Would he never return? Must I watch and wait all through the long night?

Ten o'clock—did the clocks ever make such a dreadful din before? I began to pace my two rooms like a wild creature in its cage; and so another hour went by, and I had to stop, worn-out, and sink into a seat. Eleven. Every stroke fell like a heavy blow upon my brain.

I got up from my chair, hardly knowing what I did, and staggered towards the door with some vague intention of seeking nurse, and asking her what was to be done. But just at that moment, I heard a key turn in the hall door, and then the parlour door was suddenly flung open, and my husband came in. With a cry that I could not repress, I sprang up to him, and put my arms round his neck, hiding my poor worn face on his breast.

"Oh, Ronald," I sobbed, "I have been breaking my heart for you. Forgive my cruel words, and try to love me again!"

He folded me in a close embrace, and answered me with fond murmurs that were more reassuring than a thousand formal sentences. Spent and exhausted as I was, I had seldom, perhaps never, known a happier moment than this. The ecstasy of relief was almost more than I could bear.

"I didn't mean to stay out so late, dear little woman," he said, penitently. "The fact was that I met Greystock, and he asked me to dine with him. It's a long while since I saw him, and we had a good many things to talk about. Altogether, it was a lucky meeting; he is the man to give one a helping hand, you know. But how fearfully white you look, poor child!"

He bent over me with a face full of anxiety. Somehow the mere mention of Greystock's name had an ominous sound in my ears. Even in that moment, I recalled the many plans that had failed;—the seemingly good counsel that had led to no substantial result. In every case William Greystock had been the planner and counsellor, and I could not persuade myself that this meeting with him had been, as my husband thought, a lucky meeting.

But those we love best are precisely the people who can never be made to see with our eyes. I knew that Ronald would not be induced to distrust Greystock at my bidding; and as I was still smarting from the consciousness of having spoken unadvisedly once that day, I would not commit a second blunder. So I owned meekly that I was over-tired and over-worn, and let Ronald soothe me and wait on me to his heart's content.

I slept soundly that night, the heavy sleep of exhaustion, and when I woke the next morning I had aching limbs and a general sense of languor and weakness. Ronald was full of anxiety, and a self-reproach which he would not put into words. It was a rare thing for me to break down, and it troubled him to see the effort I made to get up to breakfast and seem like my old self.

"I wish I had not promised to go to Greystock's office to-day," he said, regretfully. "I don't like leaving you, Louie, although I think I have a chance of getting employment."

"Have you, really?" I asked. "Don't think of staying indoors for me, dear; I shall be quite bright when you return. It will be delightful to feel you are a City man, with important business to attend to every day. You are looking much better."

"I am gaining my strength, but you are losing yours," he said, kissing me, and keeping back a sigh.

We had finished breakfast, but, instead of going out at once, he took up the guitar and ran his fingers across the strings. Again came the soft sweet tune that had no name, the tune which had so often haunted me in my dreams.

"What does it mean?" I cried, involuntarily.

"I don't know," he said, "I can't help asking myself the same question every time I play it. If I could only remember how I learnt it first, I could solve the mystery."

"I think there is something rather fascinating about the mystery," I remarked. "That air always cheers, while it perplexes me. It comes like a suggestion of sunshine. It seems full of promises—promises of what? I wish I knew."

Ronald smiled at me as he put down the guitar.

"Promises of better fortune,—let us believe that," he said. "But good fortune doesn't always come to those who sit and wait. I am going to seek it in Greystock's office."

Again I felt a sudden heart-sinking. And yet how absurd and unreasonable this dislike to William Greystock would appear to others. As far as I knew, he had never done me the slightest harm, nor had he ever crossed my path since my marriage. Even supposing he had once been somewhat in love with me, was that any reason why I should hate the sound of his name? Any way, he had never pestered me with unwelcome attentions, but had withdrawn himself quietly when he found that my heart was not for him. And being a strong-minded, strong-willed man, he had doubtless conquered his fancy long ago.

Ronald took up his hat and stick, kissed me again, and went off, whistling as gaily as a school-boy. He really had the air of a man who was going to find good things; and I could not help fancying that our mysterious melody had inspired him with a cheerful spirit. And then, after he had gone his way, the miserable experience of last night rushed back into my mind like a flood, and, silly woman that I was, I sat still and brooded over it.

I felt I should like to know a little more about his affair with Ida Lorimer. But not for the world would I ever mention her name to him again—no, not if we lived together as man and wife for a hundred years! Yet if any one who had known my husband in his bachelor days—Lady Waterville, for instance—would give me some scraps of information about him and Ida, I knew that I should fasten greedily upon them.

Later on, I learnt that love should listen to no tales that do not come from the loved one's own lips. But heaven only knows what bitter hours we spend before we have mastered that lesson.

CHAPTER VIII.

MARIAN.

IT was five in the afternoon when Ronald returned from the city. He came home in capital spirits; but, although I paid the closest attention to all that he said, I really could not discover any definite ground to build a hope upon.

"When you look about you," he remarked, "you soon find out that money-making is very easy work."

"I have already found that money-spending is very easy work," I replied, rather dolefully.

"Don't be gloomy, Louie—for heaven's sake don't be gloomy!" implored my husband, sinking down upon the sofa with a groan. "How is a man to go to work if you depress his spirit? You are a good girl, my dear, but you are always ready with your extinguisher!"

I was a little hurt. There had been a time when He had called me his light-bearer, guiding him out of the darkness and perplexity of a lonely life. The falling off of poetry after marriage has been a sore trial to many a young matron; but few, perhaps, are quite as oversensitive as I was in those days. The first two or three months of our wedded life had been an idyl; then there were no curt speeches, no sarcasms, no disagreements. But now it seemed as if we were always saying the wrong things to each other. What was to be done?

Some gleams of afternoon sunshine were making their way into our little parlour, and lighting up the ancient silver teapot and cream jug which I had brought from my faraway home in the country. Poor relics of peaceful maiden days, I looked at them now With misty eyes, and thought of tea-drinkings with my girl friends, of my grandfather's benevolent face, of the rustle of leaves outside the cottage, and the scent of flowers that drifted in through open windows. And suddenly and unreasonably, I was seized with a longing to return to the old place, and see if I could find any of the old tranquillity lingering there.

But it is not to the past that we should go if we would find peace, for there is never anything gained by running backward. I gave myself a mental shaking, banished the sweet country visions and foolish yearnings, and turned to Ronald with a smile.

"I will be as sanguine as you please," I said, brightly. "Forgive me, dear, if I don't understand these City schemes. I am stupid sometimes, and business matters always puzzle me. But I have often heard Lady Waterville say that Mr. Greystock could help you if he liked, and if you were willing to be helped."

"Ah, that was like Lady Waterville! She used to insinuate that I was not willing to be helped."

"Oh, Ronald, she never insinuated things! And of course I always knew that you were anxious to get on. If Mr. Greystock really means to assist you now, I shall never cease thanking him."

"Of course he means to keep his word. Until to-day he has never made a definite promise."

"Oh, then he has really promised?"

"Yes. It is a pity, Louie, that you call only believe in demonstrative people. William Greystock is one of the most undemonstrative men on earth; he always says less than he means, therefore you never give him credit for any good intentions."

My quick temper rose at these words.

"I will believe in him, Ronald," I said, "when I have seen the fruit of those good intentions."

He started up from the sofa, and began to pace angrily up and down the little room.

Then I was sorry that I had spoken in a bitter tone. Only a few minutes ago I had firmly resolved to make the very best of my life, and avoid the slightest approach to a quarrel. And yet, here we were, on the very verge of warfare again!

There was an uncomfortable pause. I poured out tea, and gently pushed a cup towards him; but he took no notice of the action. Stopping in his walk, he stood leaning against the mantelpiece, his hands in his pockets, and his eyes looking out into space. At that moment I saw his resemblance to the portrait of Inez, as I had never seen it before.

"Ronald,—" I began, timidly.

"Don't pursue the subject, Louie," he said, in a cold tone. "I shall never ask you to believe in my friend's intentions again, nor will I trouble you with any of my plans for the future."

The words fell on my heart like drops of icy rain.

I tried to think of something conciliatory to say, but nothing came to my lips, and I sat gazing helplessly at my husband's gloomy face. After a moment's silence, he took up his hat and moved towards the door.

"Ronald," I cried, rising suddenly, "don't stay out as you did last night."

"No," he answered, with formal politeness, "you need not be concerned. I shall come back at seven to dine."

The door closed behind him, and again I was left alone with my misery. I was young, and there is a tendency in youth to believe that every grief will be eternal.

In my turn I, too, began to pace up and down the room, with throbbing temples and an aching heart. And when at last tears came to my relief, I wept like a child, until I was exhausted and utterly worn-out.

All at once I remembered that it was summer-time, and that other people were revelling in the sunshine, while I was sitting alone in this dim room—alone with my misery and bitter regret. The thought set my tears flowing afresh, and then I rose, scarcely knowing what I was doing, and began to arrange some books and papers which were scattered over a little table in a corner.

When I moved my blotting-book, a paper fell from between its leaves, and fluttered down upon the floor. I picked it up, unfolded it, and read some verses which I had written a year ago.

"The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,
And the leaves are fresh and new;
The bloom lies thick on the lilac bough,
The clouds drift over the blue;
And the earth is as fair as it used to be
In times that have passed away;
When we shared its bliss with the bird and bee,
And laughed in the light of May.

"The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,
And the river shines like gold;
But the sweets are gone from the lilac bough,
And the skies are grey and cold;
For I miss your step in the flowery grass,
Your voice in the scented glade;
And the birds sing on, and the sweet hours pass,
Like dreams in the light and shade.

"The trees are in blossom at Richmond now,
But the flowers of love are dead;
And under the bloom of the lilac bough
I stand with a drooping head;
If I heard your voice by my side to-day,
I never could trust its tone;
And here, in the light of the sweet young May,
I live in the past alone."

When I wrote these lines, how little I knew that they would be prophetic! But there is, I fancy, an undertone of prophecy in every poet-nature; and even while Ronald and I were rejoicing together under the lilac blossoms, I had vague dreams of faded blooms and clouded skies. Now that I read the little poem again, by the light of my new experience, I remembered that past foreshadowing, and put the paper away with a deep sigh of pain.

Just at that moment there was a double knock at the hall door, which almost tempted me to believe that my husband had returned. But no, a woman's voice was heard asking for me; and then the door of my room was thrown open, and the parlour-maid announced "Miss Bailey."

It was a name that called up a thousand pleasant memories. Marian Bailey had been the playmate of my childhood, and the companion of my early girlhood, till her home in our village was suddenly broken up, and she had gone to live abroad. But although I had lost sight of her, I had never forgotten her, and the sight of her familiar face was like a gleam of sunshine.

"What brings you here, Marian?" I said, forgetting the traces of tears on my cheeks. "How did you find me?"

She answered that she had traced me through some of nurse's relatives in our old village; and then her kind eyes rested anxiously on my face for a moment. I remembered all at once that I must present a most doleful spectacle, and there was an awkward pause.

"I have been crying dreadfully," I admitted, taking her hands in mine, and clinging to her as I used to cling in the old days when anything troubled me, "Oh, Marian, how good it is to see you again! I have been cut off so long from everything connected with my old home that you seem to bring me back my lost happiness."

"Don't talk so, dear," she answered, kissing me; "you are a wife now, and you would not, I know, exchange the present for the past. My sudden appearance has excited you, I daresay; and, Louie, you don't look quite well. Perhaps you want the country air."

"No," I said, wearily. "I would not exchange this smoky old street for all the green trees and fields in the world. It is not the country air that I want, but the peace of mind—the freedom from care."

"My dear child," she said, sitting down on the sofa and drawing me to her side, "we must have a long talk. As to freedom from care, do you really think that any married woman can reasonably expect that? I am single, you see, and so I suppose you will be surprised at my remark. But—"

"But, Marian, you always understand people, no matter in what state of life they are. Yes, we must indeed have a long talk."

But Marian was not one of those people who are always in such a hurry to gain one's confidence that they will not give one time to open one's heart. When she had got me beside her on the sofa, she began to talk about herself and her own concerns, explaining the circumstances that had brought her to London, and telling me some good news in her own simple, natural way.

"I am no longer poor Marian Bailey," she said, gaily. "Indeed, Louie, I hardly know myself in my new character of rich Marian. What do you think of six hundred a year, and a home with my old aunt in Curzon Street? It was a great surprise to hear that my old uncle, who had never noticed me in his life, had remembered me at his death. Then his widow wrote to me, begging me to come and live with her; and here I am."

"And I am very glad you are here," I answered, looking up into her frank face, and feeling that I had got a trusty friend.

Marian was a large woman, a little heavily-built, perhaps, but comfortable, and pleasant to look upon. She was not pretty, but hers was one of those good faces which always attract you wherever you meet them. If you had been in a land of strangers, you would have turned instinctively to that face in your hour of need. The very clasp of her hand had comfort in it; it was a firm hand, not small and fragile like mine.

"How the old days come back!" she said, smiling down at me after a little pause. "You still have your wistful eyes, Louise; and your pretty brown hair is as bright as ever. What a confiding child you were, and how you always clung to me if you fancied yourself in any difficulty or danger! It seems strange for us two to be sitting here in a London room, doesn't it? Last time we sat together we were in the parlour in the dear old cottage; it was summer, the doors and windows were open, and every breeze brought in a shower of jessamine petals and scattered them over the floor. Your grandfather was pacing up and down his favourite path in the garden; and you were repeating some poem that had pleased you. When you liked verses, you always wanted me to set them to music, and sing them."

"Oh! Marian, do you ever sing now?" I cried. "And your dear old guitar—have you got it still?"

"Yes, I have never parted with it. Why, Louie, you have a guitar here! Is it yours?"

"No; that is Ronald's. Ah, Marian, how I should like to hear you sing again! Can't you remember any of your old songs? Sing one of Moore's—something sweet and old-fashioned—I am so tired of all our ballads of to-day. There should not be too many deep thoughts in verses that are written for music. A little sentiment—a little pathos—a dash of hope—that is all that we want to sing about. There are poems that are inscribed on our hearts with the point of a diamond, but we do not care to sing them."

While I rambled on, Marian was running her fingers over the strings; and suddenly I paused and started. She was playing that strange, soft melody that Ronald had played so often; and into her eyes there stole that musing look which always came into his, whenever he played this air.

"What is that?" I asked, eagerly. "Ronald plays it sometimes, but he never can think where he first heard it."

"I am trying to remember," she answered in a thoughtful tone. The air was repeated; sweet and tender and gay, it seemed to charm Marian just as it had charmed us. She stopped at last with a baffled expression on her face.

"There are words set to that air," she said, "but I cannot recall them now. Who was it that ever played and sung this melody to me? I wish I knew."

"That is what Ronald is always saying," I remarked. And then I told her the story of poor Monsieur Léon, and the way in which the guitar had come into our hands.

"I will play the air once more," she said, taking up the guitar again. "It is very simple, but wonderfully sweet. Now listen, and perhaps the words will come to me."

But they did not come.

Then she sang one of our old favourite ballads, and when that was ended, I begged her to take off her bonnet and stay to dinner.

"Aunt Baldock will be distracted," she told me. But there was an unspoken pleading in my face that must have gone to her heart. Perhaps she guessed that I had some special reason for wishing her to stay that evening.

And I had indeed a special reason. For the first time in my life, I shrank from sitting down to a tête-à-tête meal with my husband.

Any one who is intimately acquainted with the ways of men must know that they are never more unpleasant than when they are acting from a sense of duty. I could fancy the lofty moral air with which Ronald would seat himself at our humble board. I pictured the virtuous resignation in his manner when he ate his roast mutton, knowing all the while that William Greystock would have given him salmon a la maître d' hotêl and beef olives. I could imagine the magnanimous way in which he would try to get up a little conversation with his wife, thus letting her see that an aggrieved man does not always bear malice, but is capable of making the best of his condition.

But if Marian Bailey were with us, everything would be changed for the better. She had travelled; she was musical; she had the gift of talking pleasantly without being positively brilliant. In short, she possessed the useful gift (more to be desired than the ten talents) of putting people into good humour with themselves and their surroundings. Unselfish, even-tempered, sound in health and in heart, Marian Bailey was born to be a blessing to herself and to her friends; and when she had consented to stay with me, I could await Ronald's coming with cheerfulness.

He came in, prepared to be just the man I had expected him to be, but Marian's frank manner won his heart at once.

I left them together, and went to have a short conference with nurse, who was always good at an emergency. The result of that conference was that we turned our little dinner into a sort of festival, and Ronald gave me an approving glance across the table.

CHAPTER IX.

GOING OUT.

THE charm of Marian's presence seemed to linger with us after she was gone. It gratified me to hear Ronald's praises of my friend; he had enjoyed her conversation and her singing, and looked forward with pleasure to the thought of spending an evening in Mrs. Baldock's house in Curzon Street. I had tact enough to tell him that she had admired the artistic decorations of our little room—especially the tambourine.

"Ah," said Ronald, sinking back complacently into his favourite corner of the sofa, "I might have done something in the art line with proper training."

"I always thought so," I answered, warmly. And then, for the hundredth time, I fell to wondering secretly why it was that he could not get on better in life? It was hard to see humdrum men succeeding while he failed. He was so clever—so versatile—and he looked so interesting in his attitude of languid repose, his pale, delicately-cut face showing out against the dark crimson cushion, that I began to fall in love with him anew.

"But," he continued, "I must give up all thought of art now-a-days, Louie, and devote myself to the City. Greystock is putting me up to some good things; and I am going every day to his office to write his letters and make myself generally useful."

I was so glad to be taken into confidence again, that I resolved never to say another disparaging word of William Greystock. For a little while, at any rate, I would banish the remembrance of unpaid weekly bills, and all the anxieties of everyday life; and I would bask once more in the warmth of that love which had shed its glow over my world in days gone by.

"Ah, Ronald, I wish we had nothing to do but enjoy ourselves in this summer-time!" I said, going to the sofa and kneeling down by his side. "I wish we could ramble under the trees and among the buttercups, as if we were children. Do you recollect a day we spent at Richmond in May? There was a great lilac bush in the hotel garden, and I buried my face in a mass of bloom, and half-intoxicated myself with perfume! Dear, I felt as if my heart was not large enough to hold its happiness! The flowers—the fragrance—the sunshine-and—you!"

"My poor child," he answered, drawing me close to his breast, "the sunshine did not last very long. You have only one or two poor little holidays to look back upon;—only a few golden hours snatched from a life of care! But perhaps there are brighter times coming, pet; and you shall take your fill of the flowers again."

But as I knelt there in his arms with his face close to mine, I felt I could live without the flowers. We were only a poor young couple, clinging to each other in a dim London room; but just then our lives were full of sweeter poetry than can ever be put into words. Other couples, more fortunate in their surroundings, were drinking in the sweetness of the scented twilight in country places far away.

"Some wandering hand in hand through arching lanes;
Some listening for loved voices at the lattice;
Some steeped in dainty dreams of untried bliss."

Yet I hardly think that any of them could be happier than we were in these quiet moments, when we seemed to have but one heart between us. It was true that my life was full of care; true that I had given up my untroubled girlhood for a troubled wifehood. But does any true woman ever love a man less because she has sacrificed all her best years for his sake? Does not the very fact of the sacrifice endear him for whom it was made?

Later on, when perhaps it is a woman's bitter lot to find that her self-abnegation was all in vain, there may come to her some passionate regrets for the squandered strength and the wasted devotion. But even then (if that devotion has been of the purest kind), I think that her life is not so poor as the lives of some of her wiser sisters, who have never loved well enough to lavish anything. Moreover, I believe it is impossible for a woman of the best type to exhaust the store-house of her affections. Like the widow's cruse of oil, it is ever replenished by some unseen power.

In the course of the next day, there came an affectionate little note from Marian, asking us to dine at her aunt's house in Curzon Street, and fixing an early date. Ronald's face brightened at the invitation.

"We have been living like two hermits," he said. "It's time that we saw a little more of the world. Not that I am tired of your society, Louie; but I'm afraid I shall bore you awfully if you never see any one else, and I like this friend of yours; she is worth knowing."

I, too, was well pleased, although my pleasure was considerably damped by the consciousness of having to wear an old gown. Marian was, I knew, incapable of any unkindly criticism; but other eyes might look less indulgently on my old frock. Sixpences and shillings were very precious in these days, and I shrank even from purchasing the cheap lace that could be converted into an adornment for the neck and bosom of my well-worn black satin.

"What is the matter, little woman? Why are you looking so grave?" my husband demanded, when the day came.

"Oh, I was thinking about dress," I answered, incautiously. "I am so shabby, you know."

His brow darkened.

"What a nuisance poverty is!" he said, in an impatient tone. "It's hard that my wife can't dine out without worrying herself to death about the state of a gown. I should like to deck you in diamonds, Louie, but—"

He paused, and the very mention of diamonds sent a strange thrill of remembrance through my brain. When had we ever had anything to do with diamonds? And yet I was haunted by a vague notion that I had once seen myself glittering with splendid gems. So vivid was this impression that I forgot all about my old black silk, and sat staring into space, wondering from what source this phantom of memory had been produced.

"I recollect now," I said, with a little laugh. "One night, soon after we came here, you were lying asleep, and I was sewing by your bedside. It was late; I dropped into a doze, and dreamed that I was standing before a glass, with diamonds flashing on my head and neck. You can't imagine how clear the dream was, Ronald. At this moment I can scarcely believe that it was only a dream. It seems as if I had verily handled and worn those diamonds."

"I wish I could make the dream come true," he answered, kissing me, with a troubled look in his eyes. "But if diamonds are unattainable, flowers are always to be had, and you don't want jewels to wear at a quiet dinner. This evening I will bring you some of your favourite roses."

"And they are a great deal prettier than jewels," I told him, eagerly. "I remember the first flower you ever gave me was a rose, a Marshal Niel, and I was absurdly delighted with it."

"I remember too," he replied, the trouble ladling out of his face.

"Ah, I'm glad you have not forgotten. Ronald! Lady Waterville used to say that men always forgot the very things that women treasured up in their memories. As to jewels, I shan't want them in the least, and you may be quite sure that I shall not envy any woman who may happen to be better dressed than I am!"

These words came back to me afterwards as if to mock me for my self-confidence. But; when I uttered them, they sprang straight from my heart, and I fancied that Ronald's smile, in answer, was brighter than it had been for a long time.

When he had gone City wards, I turned my thoughts again to the black silk gown, and presently I sallied out into Oxford Street to buy the indispensable lace. It did not take long to choose some that was pretty and effective; but when I opened my purse to pay for it, I felt a rush of hot colour burn my cheeks. I had been brought up with what are called old-fashioned principles, and to me it seemed a dreadful thing to spend money that was owing elsewhere.

I left the shop with a sense of degradation that took the sweetness out of all my pleasure. The morning was glorious, everybody seemed to be making purchases that day; bright-faced girls and portly mothers were flocking into Marshall & Snelgrove's, serene in the consciousness of ample funds. Pretty young matrons, followed by obsequious shopmen with parcels, swept out to their carriages, well satisfied with their shopping; and I, a shabbily-clad little wife, wended my way homewards, feeling that I had but little in common with them all.

Debts are the prickly brambles that encompass an imprudent marriage, and tear the clasped hands of wedded love. It was very seldom that I ventured to speak of them to Ronald; the subject irritated him; and so I endured the pain inflicted by all those little thorns in silence. Sometimes the smart was almost intolerable, and no one knew what bitter tears it wrung from me in solitary hours. Nurse was the only person who guessed my sufferings, but she could not realise how sharp they were.

I entered the house, and sat down wearily on the sofa in the little parlour, with my parcel in my lap. It would have been a relief to cry, but I forced back the tears. What would Ronald have said to a wife who went out to dine with red eyes? And I did want to look my best, for his sake, that evening.

Then I composed myself, laid aside my bonnet, and set about my task in right earnest. As I proceeded, I could not help feeling a certain amount of womanly satisfaction in my own skill; the ruffled lace looked delicate and creamy when I arranged it about my neck, and surveyed myself in the glass.

Nurse came to me, late in the afternoon, and insisted on brushing my thick hair with her own hands, and twisting it up in sunny coils, in a fashion which could not have been improved upon. We both tried valiantly to persuade ourselves that the black silk gown looked very well indeed; we even decided that it was a mistake for silk to be too lustrous and new; and as to the fichu of creamy lace, it called forth cries of rapturous admiration. Nurse walked backward to get the full effect of me, and fell to gesticulating wildly in her efforts to make me understand how well I looked.

But although her honest flattery was very sweet, I knew that it was a changed face that I saw reflected in the glass; a face which lacked the softness of contour, and freshness of colouring, which are the chief charms of youth. The springtide of life was gone. Instead of the Louie of old days, I beheld a pale, fragile little woman, with pathetic eyes, that seemed to have grown larger and darker of late, and lips that quivered painfully with any passing emotion. This was what my love-match had made of me.

"Don't you recollect the parties at the rectory, ma'am?" said nurse, still hovering round me. "And the white muslin with the red spots, that you looked so nice in? And the curate, who was that silly about you that we used to fear for his poor brain? And Farmer Danby's son a-capering whenever you came in his way? Capering Danby was his name from one end of the village to the other, and yet he was as still a man as one could wish to see, till you turned his head. Not that you ever trifled with him, Miss Louie; that was far from you, ma'am. But you captivated him, innocent-like; and the simple soul was never the same again."

While the old woman talked, I called up a vision of my old country home, and the rustic swains whose antics had amused me in those early days. The scent of fields full of long grass, came drifting back; the young roses were in bloom on our cottage walls; the lanes leading to the rectory were fragrant with a wealth of hawthorn blossoms. I was a girl again, with a girl's unawakened heart and childish fancies, like the little princess in a fairy tale, standing among leafy ways and watching for the prince's coming.

Then the clock of St. Peter's struck six, and I heard a well-known knock which brought me back to the realities of my present life. The prince had come indeed; and the poor little shabby princess must get out his evening suit, and lay his fresh linen on the bed, all ready for the royal wearer.

He came in, with a little bouquet done up in silver paper. Three perfect roses of palest yellow—were there ever flowers more beautiful, even in the fairy land of my dreams? I lifted my face to kiss him for his gift, and there was a wistful look in the eyes that met mine.

"Am I turned out well?" I asked, anxiously.

"Admirably," he answered, with a slight quiver in his voice. "What a long time it is since I saw you in festal array! Pin the flowers just there—a little higher—that's right. My darling, how thin your hands are—the rings are loose;—there is something unsubstantial and spirit-like about you altogether!"

I had seen that the change wrought in me by trial and anxiety was more visible now than at ordinary times; and he saw it too, and was deeply moved. Nurse had noiselessly departed, and for a few moments he hung over me, with fond, regretful murmurs, forgetting all else save our love, and the sorrows that had knit us so closely together. A little while ago, I had silently lamented the loss of my early bloom: now I did not care about it in the least. These sorrowful caresses, these loving, whispered words, were ample compensation for the charms that had fled.

A little later we were rattling towards Curzon Street in a hansom, and overhead the clear evening sky was smiling down upon the restless streets. Both were silent; my husband's face still wore its wistful look, but I felt such a depth of content within me that I was sorry when the short drive came to an end.

Marian Bailey received us in a faded old drawing-room, made bright with choice flowers; and Mrs. Baldock greeted us with old-fashioned courtesy.

Presently two other guests were announced; first, a Mr. Hartley, who proved to be a distant cousin of Marian's; and then—Miss Lorimer.

Well-trained as he was in all the ways of society, I saw a slight change pass over my husband's face. It was gone in an instant; and, in his turn, he moved from his station near the window to shake hands with a tall, stately woman. Her golden hair shone as the light touched it, and there was something imposing and sumptuous about her beauty which made me long to go and hide myself. For was not this the very Ida Lorimer who had once been Ronald's chosen love?

There she stood, untouched by poverty and pain, unchanged by any of those daily trials which had stolen my youth away. And as Ronald's head bent towards her, and his eyes seemed to speak the old language that they had spoken to hers long ago, the keen fangs of jealousy began to rend my heart once more.

The long-continued pressure of secret cares—the weakness caused by enfeebled health—the consciousness of altered looks—all these things combined to render me morbid and suspicious as the hours of that memorable evening went on. Once I caught a glimpse of my own mournful little face in a glass; and in the background I saw Miss Lorimer's golden head. What a poor, frail creature I seemed beside that splendid blonde! Mr. Hartley tried to draw me into a conversation, and Marian came many times to my side with smiles and kind words; but nothing could make me forget Miss Lorimer's presence.

At first the stately beauty seemed disposed to ignore me altogether. Once or twice I fancied that she was quietly quizzing my unfortunate black silk, and making silent comments on my dejected aspect. In her eyes I was a little nobody—Lady Waterville's companion—who had been married by Ronald Hepburne in one of his romantic freaks. But before the evening was over, she seemed to have a desire to know something more about me, and came to the corner where I had taken refuge.

"Mr. Hepburne and I are old friends," she said, with a gracious society smile. "I had been wondering where he had hidden himself after his marriage; but he has been telling me about that long illness. How sad it must have been for you! Nursing is such dreary work, isn't it?"

"It was very sad," I admitted quietly, feeling that there was no real sympathy in the cold blue eyes that met mine. "But he is quite well now, and almost as strong as ever."

"He still looks delicate, I fancy. However, Mr. Greystock tells me that he is learning to be a City man, and that must require a great deal of strength and energy I am sure. What a delightful man Mr. Greystock is!"

"I suppose so; I don't know him very well," I replied.

"He will be a great help to Mr. Hepburne," she went on, still eyeing me coldly. "Such an excellent adviser and friend. By the way, you are musical, I daresay?"

"No; I am very fond of music, but I neither play nor sing."

"Really; and Mr. Hepburne sings so well. His love for his guitar used to be almost a mania; has he given it up?"

"Oh, no," said Marian Bailey, coming to my corner, and taking it on herself to answer the question. "His guitar is always taken up in spare moments, and the verses that Mrs. Hepburne writes for him to sing are some of the most charming things you ever heard."

"Really?" repeated Miss Lorimer, raising her golden eyebrows. "I must ask to see those verses one of these days."

I saw Ronald watching us from his station on the other side of the room, and felt that I did not succeed in making myself agreeable to his old love. What would I not have given to have recalled the old bright manner with which I used to charm the people who came to Lady Waterville's "At homes." But I was too young to wear a mask gracefully, and of all disguises, the sparkling mask is the most difficult to assume. If the wearer be inexperienced, ten to one that it will drop off suddenly, in some unguarded moment, and reveal the haggard face and heavy heart that was meant to hide.

Just then, Marian contrived to lead Miss Lorimer away to the piano, and I was left in peace. Ida was a cold, brilliant player; her performance was creditable enough, I daresay, but not a single note touched my heart.

The evening came to an end. We uttered our good-nights; I folded a shabby woollen wrap round my shoulders, and Ida muffled herself in a golden plush opera cloak, bordered with rich dark fur. How regal she looked when my husband put her into the brougham that was waiting before the door.

We departed next, sitting side by side in hansom; but I did not enjoy the drive this time.

"You are tired to death, Louie," said Ronald, after a long silence.

And I answered, "Yes, tired to death."

CHAPTER X.

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.

CHAPTER XI.

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.

CHAPTER XII.

JEALOUSY.

WHEN Ronald came in, I told him at once of William Greystock's visit, and added that I had accepted the invitation.

"Have you? I said to Greystock that I was sure you would not go," remarked my husband, taking up his old station on the hearth with his back to the empty grate.

"I thought you would be vexed if I refused," I rejoined, watching him keenly as I spoke.

"It would vex me still more if you did anything that you hated doing, Louie. And lately you have shown such a dislike to society that—"

"That I had better keep out of it, Ronald? Well, it isn't too late to send an excuse."

"Nonsense," he answered, irritably; "Greystock would think you mad. Only, as you have promised to go, do try to enter into the spirit of the thing. Leave your little worries at home, and enjoy yourself with the others."

At that moment I wished passionately that I had sent William Greystock away with decided negative. Ronald did not want we to go to this picnic; he was afraid that I should be a kill-joy. Nobody wanted we now; I had only been desirable while my youth and gaiety lasted.

I wondered whether the life-stories of other women were anything like mine? Had they, too, been worshipped in their brief, bright girlhood, and neglected in their sad wifehood? Disappointed, driven back into myself, crushed down under a load of daily increasing anxieties, it is no marvel that I looked at Ronald and was secretly astonished to see that he was getting younger and brighter.

The truth was that he had never yet fairly realised our position as I did. All through that long illness of his—all through the weary weeks of convalescence, I had done my utmost to keep the veil over his eyes. While I beheld the grim, ugly facts of our life, he saw only a rose-coloured haze that softened every unlovely detail; and that veil, which anxious love had woven, had never yet been entirely rent away.

It was not a great wonder, then, that he fancied I was making the worst of everything, and was surprised at my anxious outlook into a future which he believed to be sunshiny enough. Too late I was learning the bitter truth, which every woman must learn sooner or later, that she who makes an idol of a man must always burn incense before his shrine. Instead of letting Ronald descend from the pedestal on which I had placed him—instead of making him take his lawful share of our common burdens—I had chosen to shoulder all the load, while he stood, high aloft, looking down with half-contemptuous surprise at the weak creature who was staggering at his feet.

What influences were at work, hardening his heart? How was it that he did not watch me with the old anxious tenderness, and see that I was losing strength every day? Alas! He had grown tired of being anxious and tender. If he had married a rich wife, his life would have been untroubled by the sight of a pale face and an enfeebled frame. Nothing preserves a woman's beauty like prosperity. Let her tread upon roses—guard her from all the worries that come from lack of money—if you want her to keep her charms.

For the thousandth time, the face of Ida Lorimer, fair, calm, unworn, rose up before me like a vision. Ronald was in the habit of seeing that face often; every day, perhaps. I could fancy that his hand would touch hers as he guided her pencil; I could guess that her golden head sometimes brushed his shoulder as he bent to watch her progress. Did not that contact ever inspire him with a vain regret for the days when she might have been won?

It has taken a long time to write these thoughts upon paper, but they drifted through my mind as swiftly as leaves that are driven before the wind. There stood Ronald, with the old tragic look in his eyes that always reminded me of the portrait of Inez—a look that seemed to settle on his face now-a-days whenever he was alone with me.

"I believe you dread going out with me, Ronald?" I said, after a brief pause. "What does it matter whether William Greystock thinks me mad or sane? I will write an excuse this very evening."

"It matters a great deal what Greystock thinks," he answered, with a frown that told of gathering wrath. "I don't want my friends to think strange things of my wife. You say that you have accepted the invitation, and so the affair is settled. Pray don't take offence at my timely counsels; they am well meant, and greatly needed."

I started up, sharply stung by the unkind words. And then in the next moment, the flame of anger suddenly died in my heart, and I was conscious only of my miserable weakness and loneliness. Unawares, a little wailing cry escaped from my lips, and I sank helplessly into a chair, and wept quiet tears.

So bitter was my sorrow that it did not comfort me even to feel Ronald's hand on my shoulder, and hear his voice saying soothing words in my ear. We might make up this difference as we had made up others, but our innermost selves could not be changed. I did not want to quarrel; of all the silly things in this world, a quarrel between married people seemed to me the silliest and most useless. Wedlock (as I once heard a cynic say) is an iron chain covered with velvet, and those couples only are wise who keep the soft covering on the chain.

As for me, I loved my fetters, and felt that my heart would break with the breaking of a single link. But I feared that Ronald had already caught a glimpse of the iron under the velvet, and had begun to sigh for release.

"Don't cry, Louie," he was saying, penitently. "You do make me feel myself such a brute when you take to weeping. And, really, you have wept so much lately, that we seem to be always living in a damp atmosphere. Why shouldn't we bask in the sun sometimes? Look up, dear, and tell me that you will try to be bright."

He might as well have commanded a dying woman to make an effort to live. All that I could do was to wipe away the tears, and struggle feebly to produce a smile.

"Never mind me, Ronald," I answered, seeing the disappointed look in his face. "I shall get stronger and wiser by-and-by. Sit there, in your favourite corner of the sofa, and sing and play. That will do me more good than anything else."

He needed no second bidding; the guitar, as usual, was close at hand, and he began to touch it with loving fingers.

"What shall I sing?" he asked. "I know; it shall be your own song, 'Sweetheart, sweetheart,'—I like it better than any you have ever written."

"Yes," I said, eagerly; "I would rather hear that than anything else."

But even while I spoke, I remembered the days when I wrote those lines—days full of thankfulness, brightened by an intense belief in the immutability of our love.

I have sometimes wondered whether a great poet ever takes up his own volume, and recalls the time in which each song was born. The song lives on, fresh and sweet as when it first started into life; but only the writer can see the withered hopes—the poor faded dreams and worn-out associations that cling to every line. So many dead things are hanging round those living verses that I fancy the author can hardly sing them over to himself without tears. And as I sat quietly listening for the first words of my love-song, written in the spring, and touched with springtide hope and confidence, my heart was aching for the happier past.

But it was not the prelude to my song that my husband began to play. As he swept the strings, there came again that sweet, strange melody which always soothed us, even while it baffled all attempts to catch its meaning.

Over and over he played that soft air, till the last trace of vexation faded out of his face; and his eyes, with a musing look in them, sought mine inquiringly. Again the music hushed all my troubled thoughts, as a nurse stills the fretful wailing of a child; again it seemed to murmur faintly of a coming time of peace and joy and rest.

"Shall I ever know where I learnt that air?" asked Ronald at last, letting the guitar rest on his knee. "Louie, I will tell you a curious thing. One night I was dining with some friends of Greystock's; they had a guitar in the room, and I took it up and tried to play our mysterious melody. But it would not come; and had to give up the attempt to recall it. What do you think of that, little woman?"

"I don't know what to think, Ronald," I replied; "but I do know that there is something in the air that gives me new courage and comforts me as nothing else does. Perhaps it is a message from some unknown spirit friend. Who can tell?"

And he echoed thoughtfully, "Who can tell?"

CHAPTER XIII.

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!"

CHAPTER XIV.

STRICKEN.

THERE was a silence after I had spoken those incautious words. I heard my companion breathing quickly; but when he spoke again, it was in a quiet voice.

"We all wish sometimes to follow those who are gone," he said, taking up the latter part of my sentence. "Their love seems the only real love; everything pure and true seems to have passed away with them."

He had exactly expressed my thoughts. Of late I had felt as if my place were with the departed, and not in this world at all. I had succeeded so ill with the living, that I was only fit for the company of the dead.

"But," he went on, in a deepening voice, and with eyes fixed on mine, "we only turn to the past because our hour is not yet come. Do you follow me? I believe that to everyone of us there comes once—perhaps twice—in a life the chance of a happy love. We are blessed indeed if we seize that chance, but most of us let it go by. It may return, and we may recognise in it our last possibility of happiness."

It was not until later on that I took in his full meaning. I was too much excited just then to perceive the true significance of his words; but the earnestness of his look and tone impressed me strangely.

"You are unhappy to-night," he continued. "You have seen with your own eyes that a pre-occupied heart will always be constant to its first tenant. Sooner or later the second love finds itself pushed out into the cold; and it is happiest and wisest when it turns to some warm shelter that stands open and ready."

"A wife can never permit herself to be pushed out into the cold," I cried, with sudden passion. "She will assert her rights, and retain possession."

"Right is a poor thing unsupported by love," he said, sadly.

The train had now reached its destination, and our tête-à-tête was at an end. I sprang quickly out of the carriage, and strained my eyes to discern Ronald and Ida in the dim light.

Hundreds were moving to and fro; the other members of our party gathered round us, but those two seemed to be long in coming. At last, quite suddenly, I found them close upon me. Miss Lorimer, leaning heavily on my husband's arm, looked full into my face with indifferent eyes.

"I am tired, Ronald," I said, in an unsteady voice. "Let us get home as quickly as we can. Pray come at once."

"What a delightful day we have had, Mrs. Hepburne!" said Ida, without removing her hand from Ronald's arm. "I am afraid you have not enjoyed yourself as much as we have."

Commonplace words enough; but for me they contained a sting!

"Mrs. Hepburne is not well," said Greystock, kindly. "The heat has been too much for her."

"And Mr. Hepburne has been basking in the sun!" remarked Ida, with a little laugh. "He ought to have stayed in the tropics. Now I am going to release him," she added, looking at me. "He is free to return to his duties."

There was a quiet insolence in this speech which almost maddened me, over-worn and over-strained as I already was. Well was it that the instincts and habits of a gentlewoman came to my aid at that moment, and prevented a scene.

As in a lightning flash, I saw that Ronald feared for my self-control. Was it possible that Ida had gone too far even for him? The consciousness of this feeling on his part was a great help to me.

"Thanks, Miss Lorimer," I said, with creditable calmness, as I put my hand within the arm that she had let go. "I am so glad you have done with him. Being a stupid, tired woman I am really thankful for any support. Good-night, I am happy to know you have had a pleasant day."

William Greystock said a quiet adieu, and I went off with my husband in silence.

In another minute we were in a hansom, rattling home to Chapel Place; but no words passed between us. My resentment was strong and deep, and he knew that it was just.

Still in moody silence we entered the little room in which we had spent so many happy hours together. I looked round sadly at all our decorations and ornaments, remembering the days when we had worked with loving hands to make this humble home attractive in our own eyes. How idle all that work seemed to me now! Nothing would ever make Ronald contented here when his heart was elsewhere.

"I have been very miserable to-day," I said, at last breaking the long silence and looking steadfastly at his gloomy face.

"Any one could see that," he answered, sullenly. "I felt that you had made a mistake in accepting the invitation."

"Yes, Ronald." I spoke with rising indignation. "I now perfectly understand why you did not wish me to go."

"You always understood me, Louie; I have spoken plainly enough. I did not want you to go unless you could enjoy yourself; and you would not enjoy yourself—that is all."

"Do you think it was possible for any woman to enjoy herself under such circumstances?" I demanded, passionately.

"Quite possible; it was a fine day, and the people were all agreeable."

His cool tone drove me to distraction. He was standing on the hearth in his old attitude, evidently prepared for a quarrel.

"Oh, Ronald," I said, "you knew all the time that you were making me wretched. Was it manly—was it right—to flirt openly with a woman who tried to ignore me?"

"My dear Louie," he began, in that tone of easy superiority which a man nearly always assumes when he is in the wrong. "I wish—I really do wish—that you would go and consult Dr. Warstone to-morrow. You are suffering from hysteria or dyspepsia, or—"

He paused, unable to think of any other disorder on the spur of the moment; but I had calmed myself by a mighty effort; I would be as cool as he was.

"Perhaps I am suffering from one of those complaints," I said, composedly. "I know I have been ill for a long time, but I don't want to give in if I can help it."

"Why shouldn't you give in?" he demanded, pettishly. "I gave in when I was ill. Anything is better than going about in a chronic state of bad temper, and snubbing unoffending people."

I did not reply. It cost me no effort to be silent now. I saw the uselessness of this war of words, and quietly took up the bedroom candlestick.

"As to people trying to ignore you," he continued, following me into the next room, "all that they try to do is to get out of the way of your wrath. If you had only seen your own face to-day, you would have known why you were shunned."

My heart seemed to be fast hardening within me, and still I kept silence. As I stood before the glass unbinding my hair, I noticed the stony look that had settled on my features. No wonder Ronald cared nothing about a woman who was so haggard and unlovely. And then I thought of that other woman, with her pink-and-white face and golden tresses.

My silence was not without an effect. He was ashamed of his unkind words; but this, alas! I did not know till long afterwards.

If he had but yielded then to one of his old affectionate impulses, all might have been well. But who does not remember the loving words that were not spoken at the right moment? How heavily they weigh on the heart after the opportunity of uttering them has gone by!

Still in sullen silence we lay down side by side. I know not whether he slept; I only know that I lay wide awake all through the weary hours of that memorable night. Ah me, I thought of other nights when I had watched beside his pillow, praying that he might be spared to me! I recalled those long midnight hours when he had wakened from fevered dreams to find me near, and many a broken word of love and gratitude yet haunted my memory. Had he loved Ida Lorimer then? Had he secretly sighed for her presence in the sick room instead of mine?

By-and-by the London dawn crept into the chamber, and found me spent and worn with sleeplessness. While Ronald still slumbered, I rose, washed and dressed without noise, and went out into the little yard to see how nurse's ivy flourished. There I lingered, listening to the chirping of the sparrows, until it was time for breakfast.

It was a brief meal, eaten in silence and mutual restraint. Then, without a word of adieu, Ronald went his way to the City, and I was left to brood over the events of the previous day alone.

It chanced that nurse was busy that day, and did not come to talk to me and hear all about the picnic. I got my work-basket and went on sewing and mending as usual, trying not to feel the icy hand that was holding my heart in an iron grasp—trying to forget the dull pain in my temples. And so the morning wore away.

In the afternoon I established myself in my old seat in the arm-chair, determined to court repose. If I slept at all, it could only have been a doze which lasted a few minutes. And then, as before, a loud double knock made me start up, half-bewildered; and once again William Greystock was my visitor.

His first glance at me must have shown him the evident traces of misery and illness; my first glance at him revealed a change in his face which startled and astonished me.

His olive skin was glowing, and there was such an intense light in his dark eyes that I almost shrank from their gaze. But when he spoke, his voice was curiously gentle and calm.

"I have come to see how you are, Mrs. Hepburne," he began, as I rose, tottering, from my seat. "No better than I expected to find you, I fear?"

"I was scarcely strong enough to go to Richmond," I said, making a wretched attempt to be at ease.

MY FIRST GLANCE REVEALED A CHANGE IN HIS FACE WHICH STARTLED ME.

"The whole thing was a miserable mistake on my part," he said, sadly.

"I don't know that it was a mistake, Mr. Greystock," I answered, still trying to talk in a commonplace way. "Ronald thought it a very successful picnic. I am rapidly becoming a morose invalid, you know, and I can't enjoy myself as others can. For the future I must be content to be a home-bird."

"A home-bird whose song has ceased," he said, in his deep, mournful voice. "But there is still one power left to you."

"What power?" I asked, bewildered.

"The power to fly; the power to leave one who will very soon leave you. Ah, Mrs. Hepburne, I have come to say startling things; I know not how you will bear to hear them!"

"Speak on," I said, hoarsely. "Has Ronald sent you? There is some dreadful news to be told. Is my husband ill? For heaven's sake, tell me quickly what has happened!"

CHAPTER XV.

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?

CHAPTER XVI.

A FEVERISH DREAM.

THE sweet dusk of a summer night was fast stealing over my old village, when I took my way through the beautiful lanes once more.

When I had given up my ticket, and turned away from the quiet station, I was distinctly conscious of a strange confusion of ideas. I could not remember the name of the old inn which had been familiar to me as a child; nor could I recall the place where it stood. Was it not somewhere on the outskirts of the village? Was it at the top or at the bottom of the straggling street?

Perhaps if I were too stupid to find the inn—where I had intended to pass the night—I might manage to drag myself to the rectory. Do what I would, tax my brain to the uttermost, I could not tell whether the rector's aunt were living or dead. Yet I could plainly recollect happy hours spent in the study of the kind bachelor rector, who had allowed me to turn over his books to my heart's content. The good old aunt had been his housekeeper for many a peaceful year, and little Louie was always her chief favourite. Would she greet me with a kiss and blessing, and lead me to rest in the pleasant guest chamber to-night?

Alas! The kind old maiden lady had been sleeping in her appointed corner of the churchyard for two years and more; and the rector, influenced by Lady Waterville, had been much offended by my imprudent marriage. But, in my present confused state, I could not tell who was living and who was dead.

The fragrance of honeysuckle, rich and over-powering, greeted me as I passed along the lane. I stopped to gather some of the sprays, wet with dew, that flung their blossoms lavishly over the hedge.

Miss Drury had always been fond of honeysuckle. I suddenly determined to gather a good handful and carry it to the rectory. Then I would ask for her, and put the flowers into her hands, and tell her that little Louie had come back, sick and weary, to beg for a night's rest.

Feeling almost glad again, I broke off cluster after cluster, softly singing an old song to myself all the while. It was a song about the fleeting joys of childhood, and the little lovers who came with their simple gifts to win the heart of the merry child. Quite suddenly, while I was singing it, I remembered another lover, older and sadder, who had won me with the magic of his melancholy Spanish eyes, and whispered words of sad yearning. And then I burst out into a wild sob which put an end to the song.

Carrying my light burden of flowers, I went onward through the old lanes, quietly weeping. But the sweet breath of the fields, and the calm of the deepening dusk, tranquillised my spirit, and made me even as a little child.

Still pressing on, and still trying vainly to disentangle my brain from the web that was wound about it, I found myself at the end of the lane. It opened out upon a space of green sward, and then began to narrow again. But on my right, in the clear twilight, arose the familiar outline of a massive tower; and, protected by a low flint wall, were certain dark yews, whose evening whisper recalled other childish memories. On the left were more trees, beeches and sycamores, and a great cedar which stood as a patriarch among his brethren. I knew those trees quite well. The cedar boughs darkened the study window where the rector sat to write his sermons, and shadowed that very "guest chamber" wherein I hoped to sleep to-night.

And, indeed, it was time for me to go to sleep. I was so tired that my limbs seemed to be clogged with iron fetters, and my feet found it hard to keep to a straight line. The gate of the rectory garden stood wide open, and the friendly old trees rustled a welcome as I passed under their boughs and made my way, feebly and unsteadily, to the house door.

After some searching, I found the bell-handle, hidden somewhere in the thick ivy leaves, and gave it a pull. A muffled peal met my dull ears, and at length there were footsteps, and the heavy oaken door slowly opened. I was conscious of a dim light shining out of a dark entry, and of the face of an elderly woman-servant, whose eyes looked inquisitively into mine.

Gathering up all my forces, I spoke in a clear voice, eager to make myself known and understood at once.

I BROKE OUT INTO AN EXCEEDING BITTER CRY.

"I want to see Miss Drury. Please go and tell her that Louie Coverdale has brought her some honeysuckle, and ask her to come quickly."

"Lord, have mercy upon us!" ejaculated the woman, in great dismay. And then she disappeared for a moment, and her trembling voice went echoing through the long passages of the old house, while I, faint and weary, stood leaning against the post of the door.

A man came out next, a venerable man, with delicate features and snow-white hair; and at the sight of him, I broke out into an exceeding bitter cry.

"You are the rector," I wailed, "and you are angry with me. If Miss Drury would come, she would understand everything. Why don't you send for her? Why is she not here?"

Even while I was pouring out these wild words, I felt the rector's hands upon my arm, and I was drawn gently indoors and nearer to the light. But somehow the kind hands seemed not to be strong enough to hold me, and the light melted into darkness. There came a sound in my ears like the roaring of many waters, and then I knew no more.

Once or twice I was vaguely aware that one or two people were busy about me, and that I was in great pain of body and trouble of mind. But nothing was clear and plain. And once I dreamed a feverish dream of the house in the dreary London street where Ronald had lain sick unto death; and I thought that he was really dead, and that I was dying and going straight to him.

How long these strange fancies lasted I do not know. It seemed to me that I was a long while in a land of phantoms, where the dead and the living drifted about together; and their words had no meaning, their forms no substance. But at last I awoke, and the waking was as bewildering as the dreams had been.

CHAPTER XVII.

AWAKING.

OUT of the world of phantoms, I came one day into the familiar old work-a-day world again.

It was a world of softly-tempered light and shade. I became, at first, vaguely conscious of two open windows half veiled by lace curtains, and on each broad window-sill there stood a quaint old red-and-blue vase, holding roses and myrtle. Above a high chimney-piece hung a faded piece of crewelwork, framed and glazed, and representing (as I discovered afterwards) the Walk to Emmaus, and below the picture was a formidable row of medicine-bottles, some of them nearly empty.

I must, I suppose, have uttered some inarticulate words when I first saw these things around me. Anyhow, two persons, one on the right side of the bed and one on the left, rose quietly and bent over me.

One of these two faces, framed in an old-fashioned cap, was rosy and wrinkled like an apple from a store-room. The other was young and comely, although the kind eyes looked upon me through a mist of tears, and the pleasant lips were trembling.

It was Marian Bailey's face; but never before had I seen the calm Marian so deeply moved.

"How did you come here, Marian?" was the first question I asked.

I did not even know where "here" was. I could not tell how I came to be lying in this sunny old-world room, nor why all those bottles were ranged upon the mantelpiece. And yet I had an indistinct notion that Marian must have had some trouble in finding me.

"Never mind now, dear," said my friend, soothingly. "You have been ill, and mustn't talk much. But you are going to get well soon, and be very happy."

"Very happy." As she uttered those words I began to collect my scattered thoughts. What did happiness mean? It has a separate and distinct meaning for every human being who has ever tasted it. To me it meant life with Ronald, loving him and being entirely beloved in return.

But that kind of happiness could never again be mine. My song was ended; my tale was told. I suffered acutely under the first pangs of remembrance.

All the events of those last two days, before I fled from London, came crowding back into my weak head until I could hardly bear the burden of existence. The elderly body in the cap (who was the rector's housekeeper) gently raised me in the bed and brought me chicken-broth, and Marian watched patiently by my side. Perhaps she understood some of the thoughts that were in my mind, for she gave me a reassuring smile. How I longed to be alone with her and open my heart to this true friend!

Then the doctor came, and after he had seen me, I heard Marian conferring with him in a low tone at the end of the room. And when she came back to my side her face was brighter, and her smile had a new meaning.

"Cheer up, Louie," she whispered. "You are getting better fast, and you will soon be able to see Ronald."

"He does not want to see me any more," I said, sadly.

"My dear child, there have been terrible misunderstandings; but everything will be set right. Trust me, Louie, your husband has never truly loved any woman but yourself, and he has been suffering acutely since you left him."

"Suffering? Oh, Marian! Send for him; tell him to come at once!"

"Hush, hush, Louie. You must wait until you are a little stronger. He will be quite happy when he knows that you want him back again."

I closed my eyes and gave myself up to the new, blissful sense of thankfulness and peace. Somehow—I knew not in what way—my Ronald would be given back to me.

That night I had a sound sleep, and when I woke up, it was bright morning. Delicate perfumes came stealing in through the open windows; I could see the tops of fruit-trees gently stirred by a soft wind, and between the boughs I caught a glimpse of the grey chump tower.

Looking round fur Marian, I saw her entering the room with a basket of freshly-gathered roses and honeysuckle—such roses as are not to be found in every garden. Seeing that my eyes were open, she brought the basket to my side and let me bury my face in the great, sweet crimson flowers. She herself looked very fresh and pleasant in her pretty chintz gown, and there was a quiet expression of content on her face as she hovered round my pillow.

"Old times seem to have come back, Louie," she said, cheerfully. "We might fancy ourselves in your grandfather's cottage. Don't you remember that I used sometimes to play at being nurse there?"

I did remember it, and the recollection of those simple girlish days was like balm to the spirit. It was good for me to dwell on that time, and turn my thoughts away from the weary trials and anxieties that had beset my married life. At present, I was too weak to take in the fact that I was the uninvited guest of the rector, and that I had literally forced myself on the hospitality of an old friend who was displeased with me.

Nursed and soothed and petted, I found my strength coming back faster than those around me had dared to expect. And when the evening was closing in again, I called Marian to my bedside and assured her (in a somewhat unsteady voice) that I was well enough to bear a good long talk.

"Not a long talk, Louie," she answered. "But I think we may venture to say a few words to each other. Of course you want to know about Ronald, first of all?"

"Yes, yes," I whispered, pressing her hand.

"Well, I will begin with your departure from Chapel Place. Nobody missed you—nobody knew you had gone till your husband returned from the City. The first thing that he saw was your note on the mantelpiece, and the first thing that he did was to rush out of the house, call a hansom, and drive to Curzon Street to me."

"Did he think that I had gone to you, Marian?"

"I fancy that he did. He seemed sorely distressed to find that I could tell him nothing. At his request, I returned with him to Chapel Place, and found that nurse had just come home. She, too, was greatly troubled; but her quick instinct put us at once on the right track. She was sure you had fled to the dear old village, hoping there to find rest and peace."

"Ah, she knew my longing for this place!" I said, faintly.

"Then," Marian continued, "we lost no time in following you—Ronald and I."

"Did he come with you? Oh, Marian!"

"Did you suppose he could remain contentedly in town and wait for news? I don't tell you how distracted he was, it is because I fear to agitate you. But if you could have seen his misery and heard his self-reproaches, you would have felt your last doubt swept away. Ali, Louie, a wife should be very slow to doubt a husband's love. She may have a great deal to endure (most wives have), but she should guard her heart against jealousy, which is the worst foe of married life."

"He gave me cause to be jealous, Marian," I said. "You did not go to that dreadful picnic; you did not see his attentions to his old love."

"I know he was foolish, but not guilty. It is a mistake for a married man to be too intimate with an old sweetheart, even if he knows that he only gave her half a love, and that his wife has his entire heart. People are always ready to talk about those who have once been lovers; and Ida Lorimer was weak enough to want a little of the old homage."

"She was more than weak," I said, with a passion that made Marian lift a warning finger. "She is a wicked, bold woman. On Thursday night—after the picnic—she wrote a shameful letter to my husband."

"That letter, Louie, is a puzzle to us all. You referred to it in your farewell note to Ronald; and he, poor fellow, sent me to Ida to know what was meant. He had received no letter from her, and she declares she never wrote one."

"How can she dare to say she did not write it? Marian, you will find the letter in the inner pocket of my hand-bag. Take it and read it for yourself."

She rose to do my bidding; and then, pausing a moment, fixed a steadfast look on my face. "Tell me first, Louie," she said, "how this letter came into your possession."

"It was brought to me by William Greystock. Ronald dropped it in his office on Friday morning."

"It is as I suspected," said Marian, in a low voice. "That man was at the bottom of all this mischief. Well, he will do no more!"

She opened the bag, found the letter, and read it attentively once or twice before she spoke again.

"Yes, this is really Ida's handwriting," she admitted at last. "Yet I am bound to believe her when she solemnly declares that she never wrote to Ronald after the picnic. Louie, you will let me send this note to her?"

"I don't know," I said, doubtfully. "I want Ronald to see it; I want to hear what he will say to it."

"You shall see Ronald to-morrow, my dear child, and he will set all your doubts at rest. I freely confess that this note bewilders me, but I am, at any rate, quite certain that it was never received by Ronald, nor dropped by him in William Greystock's office. Louie, did not your heart tell you that William Greystock was not a good man?"

At the recollection of that last interview with Greystock, and our parting words to each other, I was covered with confusion and shame. How had I suffered this man to influence me? Why did I let him give me that hateful letter? I saw now that I had done a great wrong in stealing away from home, without first seeking an explanation from Ronald.

"Marian," I said, "I have not done well. But I was ill and over-excited and Ronald and I had been drifting farther and farther apart before that dreadful day came. I am calmer now, clear, although I am very, very weak."

While I spoke these words the tears were fast running down my cheeks, and Marian kissed me and wept too.

"It is the old story, Louie," she said, with a sigh:

"And constancy lives in realms above;
And life is thorny, and youth is vain;
And to be wroth with one we love
Doth work like madness on the brain."

CHAPTER XVIII.

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.

CHAPTER XIX.

THE OLD ALBUM.

I CAME downstairs two days after my reconciliation with my husband, and was received affectionately by the good rector. Lady Waterville, too, was so moved by the account of my illness that she actually exerted herself enough to write a kind note, saying that she had quite forgiven me and taken me back again into favour. The sudden death of William Greystock had shaken her nerves; life was short; and she wanted to be at peace with all those whom she had ever known and loved.

She added that, among her poor nephew's effects, there had been found an album which had been given by Inez Greystock to her sister, Estella Hepburne. The book was full of scraps of prose and verse, all in the handwriting of the ill-fated Inez, and the name of Estella was written on the fly-leaf, followed by an urgent injunction to her husband to place the volume in Mrs. Hepburne's hands if Inez were the first to die. The Colonel had, no doubt, instructed William Greystock to fulfil that earnest request; and William (for reasons of his own) had failed to obey him.

"We have so few relics of your aunt Inez that we shall value that album," I said to Ronald.

"Yes," he answered, thoughtfully. "But what a strange fellow Greystock was! What possible motive could he have had for keeping a book which was useless to him?"

"He was full of mysteries, Ronald; let us try to banish him from our thoughts entirely," I said, with an involuntary shudder. "As soon as we return to London, you shall call on Lady Waterville, and get the album. I long to see it—I think it may tell us more of Aunt Inez than we have ever yet known."

September had set in, and the woods about my old country home were taking their first autumn tints, when I said good-bye to the rectory. Dear, peaceful house, in which Ronald and I had begun a new and better life together! I felt that I should love those ivied walls to the very last day of my life, and thank God that I had found a shelter there in the hour of my sharp distress.

Marian had gone back to her aunt, in Curzon Street, and I travelled back to London alone. Memories came rushing in upon my heart as the train bore me back again to the home of my wedded life. New thoughts, new prayers, new resolutions, made the journey seem short to me. There was a clearer light shining now upon the path which the young wife had to tread—a path in which her feeble feet had often stumbled, and her hands groped blindly for some guiding touch. But experience had taught me where the dangerous places were to be found; and the mist of doubt and fear would obscure my way no more.

It did not trouble me to know that we should have to live as cheaply as possible for many a month to come. Ronald had declared himself heartily willing to economise, and save enough out of his salary to pay off all that we owed. My health, still delicate, would oblige me to lead the quietest of lives, and my husband repeatedly assured me that he desired nothing better than home-like peace and rest. We had promised each other to begin a fresh existence, making light of small crosses, and thinking the most of every joy that came to our lot.

Ronald had already entered into his new employment heart and soul; and as his presence was required at his office, it was nurse who came to meet me at the railway-station.

It was between two and three in the afternoon when the train arrived at its destination, and I caught sight of a well-known, comely face, and a portly figure on the platform. There was a suppressed rapture in nurse's greeting, which diverted, while it almost unnerved me; the good soul's gratitude at seeing me restored to health and happiness was expressed in her own quaint fashion:

"Ah, how sweet you look, Miss Louie, ma'am! As pretty again as ever, and everything about you smells of the country! Why, that's a bunch of Glory-de-John roses from dear master's own old tree! And here's a basket of the rectory pears, that make my mouth water to behold 'em! Come, my dear, step into a cab, and don't speak a word till you have had a cup of tea and a good rest."

Obeying her kind command, I was silent as we rolled on through the sunshiny London streets; but when we drew near home, my heart began to throb fast with the bliss of the old love and the new peace.

Still in silence, I entered the little room from which I had fled in such wild haste and anguish. All the familiar objects seemed to give me a mute welcome; there were Ronald's tambourines with their bright streamers of ribbon; there were the bulrushes and the old china. On the table was my ancient silver teapot, covered by a satin cosy of my own making, and everything spoke of forethought and expectation. This was my true home; within these two rooms, my husband and I were destined, as I then believed, to spend many an hour together.

When nurse had sent one of the maids to boil a new-laid egg, and had taken off my bonnet with her own hands, she began to fuss over me, and wait upon me as if I had been her little charge of long ago. I had emptied one cup of tea, and was ready for another, before she remembered that she had a message to give me.

"Lady Waterville's man called with a parcel this morning, my dear," she said. "Her ladyship's love, and she wished to see you as soon as you were well enough to go to her."

"I shall very soon be well enough," I answered. "But where is the parcel, nurse?"

"Now drink your tea in peace like a good girl, ma'am," said nurse, authoritatively.

"I shan't drink it in peace if you don't let me see that parcel," I replied.

The parcel was brought, the string untied, and within the paper envelope lay an old-fashioned book, with well-preserved covers of scarlet morocco, and gilt edges. It was just such a book as one sees in the drawing-rooms of ancient maiden ladies; and to me there has always been something touching in such volumes—shrines of memories and dead loves.

When nurse had gone to look after household matters, and I was left alone once more, I carried the book to the sofa and sat down with it upon my knees. Close beside me was the guitar, and a few rays of afternoon sunlight illumined its polished wood and delicate mosaic ornamentation. I toyed with it carelessly for a second or two, and then began to turn over the album leaves.

Evidently poor Inez Greystock had been a woman who loved poetry and flowers. Her water-colour drawings of lilies and roses and pansies were superior to much of the boarding school art which was in vogue in her day. As to the poems, they were chiefly extracts from Byron and Shelley; all melancholy—all harping more or less on one sad string—the utter loneliness of a disappointed heart.

But at last I came to one page, near the end of the book, which was gayer and brighter than any which had preceded it. A large card, with a gaily gilded pattern for a margin, was inscribed with three verses, far inferior in literary merit to the rest of the poetry in the volume; and these lines were set to music.

A simple air it was, apparently written out by a careful hand—every note being perfectly distinct; and at the top of the page there were these words—

"Hope: a Song for my Guitar."

What remembrance was it that thrilled me with a sudden shock as my glance rested on the first words of the little poem? I read it from beginning to end, and the lines, commonplace as they will seem to strangers, must always remain imprinted on my memory.

"Hope guards the jewels, peerless gems and bright,
To crown beloved brows with living light;
When other guardians fail, and joy flies fast,
Hope leads thee to the treasure-house at last.

"Hope guards the jewels; love may prove untrue,
But faithful Hope creates thy life anew;
To her, the fairest grace of all the three,
I leave my precious things to keep for thee.

"Hope guards the jewels; there will come a day,
When she, who loves thee, shall be far away;
But Hope will hover near on angel wings,
And guide thee by the tuneful song she sings."

As one in a dream, I put down the album and took up the guitar. Already the September sunshine was beginning to wane, and I carried it close to the window (just as my husband had done when it first came into the house) and examined the piece of paper pasted inside the instrument.

"Hope guards the jewels." The handwriting here was the same as that in the book. And as the truth flashed upon my mind, a feeling something like awe overwhelmed me for a moment, and made me tremble from head to foot.

It was verily the lost guitar of poor Inez which I was holding in my hands. Through changing scenes, through divers owners, through unknown chances and dangers, it had come back to her rightful heir at last. I remembered that a good man had guided me to the attic where it was to be found, and that a dying man had delivered it to me with a blessing.

And now, with the finding of the guitar, was it not possible that other lost things might be found too? Just as my heart was throbbing fast with this thought, I heard the sound of Ronald's key in the hall door, and in the next instant he had entered the room.

"My own dear little woman, welcome home!" he said, taking me into his arms, guitar and all. "Why, how bright you are looking! Is that red book my aunt's old album?"

"Yes," I said, eagerly; "and oh, Ronald, here is some guitar music in it! Play it to me at once; I am impatient to hear this tune."

He ran his eye over the notes, tuned the instrument, and yielded to my request at once. I was not deceived; the first chords, sweet and soft and gay, convinced me that we had discovered our mysterious melody at last.

"So this is really our haunting air!" said Ronald, when he had played it to the end. "And it was a memory of my childhood, after all. I must have heard my mother sing it."

I was silent for a minute, waiting for what he would say next. He read the title of the little song once or twice before it seemed to bring any light into his mind.

"Hope guards the jewels!" he cried at last. "Louie, those words are written in Spanish inside the guitar. It surely can't be possible, little woman, that we have got the lost guitar here!"

"It is the fact, Ronald," I said, quietly. "Just compare the writing in the album with the writing inside the guitar. And now, look at this page in the book. The card on which the music is written is merely kept in its place by means of four slits cut in the leaf; and the four corners of the card are slipped into the slits. Shall we draw it out and examine it?"

The hint was, enough for my husband. In a second or two, the volume lay upon the table, and Ronald stood by the window with the card in his hand. On the back of it there were a few words in Spanish.

"Remove the parchment label from the inside of the guitar, and read what is written on the reverse side of the parchment."

It was plain that had Estella lived she would have understood the hidden meaning in the song, even without this direction, and would have searched the guitar to find out the last wishes of her sister. The air was one which they had constantly sung together in their early days, and it had, perhaps, certain associations for them which were lost to us. That poor Inez, always unlike other women, and partly crazed by sorrow, should have used her beloved guitar as the depository of her secret, would not have appeared so strange to Estella as it seemed to Ronald and myself.

It was the work of a few moments to detach the label, which was only pasted at the corners; and, when this had been carefully done, the back of the label was found to be covered with fine and delicate writing in English.

"DEAREST ESTELLA—" (Ronald read)

"I have hidden the most precious things I possess in your house in George Street. The diamonds given me by my first husband, remain in the hiding place which he made for them. Remove my portrait from the wall; press the panel marked with a red spot, and it will slide back and disclose a cavity. All that you find there belongs to you and your son. Deceived and disappointed in my second marriage, I have reserved my best treasures for you and Ronald Hepburne.

"(Signed) INEZ GREYSTOCK."

For a little while we stood and looked at each other in silence, and the same thought was in the minds of both. We could see now why William Greystock had kept the album in his own possession instead of delivering it to Ronald. He had always believed in the existence of the diamonds, although Colonel Greystock had laughed the idea to scorn. It was doubtful whether he had ever discovered the writing on the back of the card, but he might have fancied that the book contained some clue to the hiding place of the gems.

And it was evident to us now that he was scheming to get Ronald entirely into his power, that he might in the end obtain possession of the old house in George Street.

But the guitar had kept its secret faithfully, until the hour came for it to be revealed. How it was that the sweet air seemed to haunt its strings we never could explain; it was one of those things that are beyond man's philosophy. That some mysterious power had preserved the instrument from destruction, we could never doubt. But we often recalled the vague rumour which said that the dying Inez had begged a native soldier to take care of her guitar. Unable to save her, the Sepoy had, probably, obeyed her last request. And I remembered that it was from a Sepoy that Monsieur Léon had bought the guitar at Bombay.

"What if the diamonds should no longer be in the hiding place?" I said, suddenly breaking the silence. "Is it possible that they have been found and taken away?"

"I think not," Ronald answered. "But we will know to-night."

CHAPTER XX.

THE JEWELS.

IT was no small surprise to Lady Waterville when we presented ourselves in George Street that evening, and it was no small relief to us to find her alone. She kissed me several times, cried a little over my thin cheeks, called me a fool, and expressed her gladness at seeing me again in the same breath. All the while that this scene was being enacted, Ronald, bursting with impatience, was standing with the album under his arm.

"'Why don't you sit down, Ronald?" she suddenly demanded. "You look like a tax collector standing there with your red book."

"There is something in the red book that I want to show you, Lady Waterville," he replied.

"Oh, I don't want to look at books," she said, patting my hand, which she still held. "What I do want is to talk to your wife, now that I have got her back again."

"But do listen, dear," I entreated. "We have a wonderful tale to tell. I suppose you won't believe us when we assure you that we know where to look for Inez Greystock's diamonds?"

She did at first declare that she would not believe us; but then, growing interested in spite of herself, she let us read to her the lines in the album, and the directions written on the parchment label. Still protesting that the whole thing was a delusion and a snare, and assuring us that Inez had been half crazed for years, she at last consented that we should make our investigation.

"Of course you must let Cox help you to move the portrait, Ronald," she said, reluctantly. "Poor Cox, he is getting old and stiff, like his mistress, and he doesn't care about exerting himself. But young people won't be satisfied unless we indulge their whims."

"I will make it worth Cox's while to indulge my whim," said Ronald, quietly.

So the elderly butler was summoned, and then we all three went downstairs into the dining-room.

It was now past eight o'clock, and the shutters were already closed for the night. The large room, always sombre even in sunshine, was only faintly lit by two candles in tall silver candlesticks, and looked cheerless and dim. I glanced up at the beautiful face of Inez, and fancied that her pensive eyes were watching us steadily in the gloom.

The picture was large, and the frame was massive and heavy. Lady Waterville, looking on with a resigned air, expressed her conviction that nothing but a pair of broken heads would be the result of this freak. But I, leaning on the back of her chair, and anxiously watching the movements of my husband and the butler, felt no fears about the end.

No sooner had I entered the dim room, and lifted my eyes to the portrait, than I recalled a strange dream of mine. I had dreamed it when I dozed over my darning by Ronald's bedside. And once more in fancy, I saw the flash of the glittering jewels on my neck, and believed that very soon I should see them with my bodily sight.

That dream had come to me while I was sitting by the bedroom fire, and wondering, with a perturbed heart, how my husband and I were to face the coming days. If it was to be realised to-night, I was thankful that its fulfilment had been delayed. The time of our tribulation is needed to prepare us for the time of our wealth; and it often fares ill with those who are made suddenly rich without having first felt the chastening hand of sorrow.

Slowly and carefully the two men lifted the picture from the strong supports that kept it in its place; and then I left Lady Waterville, and went to my husband's side.

Where the picture had hung, the oaken wall was veiled with dust, and I, with a steady hand, began to clear those dusty panels with my handkerchief.

"The girl is crazed," said Lady Waterville from her chair. "Why can't somebody bring a cloth?"

But we could not wait for a cloth to be brought. As I wiped the dust away, Ronald held one of the candles near the wall, and presently an exclamation broke involuntarily from us both. We had found a red spot on one of the panels.

Then I pressed my two hands hard upon the panel, and it yielded to my efforts with a slight creaking sound. Cox drew nearer and held up the other candle.

The light shone only a little way into the darkness of the cavity; but, without an instant's hesitation, I thrust my hand and arm into the hollow place.

When I drew it forth again, the hand was black with the dust of years, and I was grasping a stout, leather-covered box, about the size of a small desk. The box had brass handles, and it was by one of these handles that I had dragged it out of the hole where it had lain for nearly half a lifetime.

"I don't believe there is anything but rubbish in it!" cried Lady Waterville, incredulous to the last.

The box was placed upon the long dining-table, and we all gathered round and tried to open it. Cox did us good service with his strong pocket-knife, and succeeded in forcing up the lid.

The first thing that we then saw was a layer of cotton-wool, which was instantly removed by my dirty fingers. And then there was a subdued shout from three throats—a shout which made Lady Waterville get up from her chair with more agility than she had ever displayed in her life.

There, brighter than I had ever seen them in my vision, lay Inez Greystock's diamonds; so large, so intensely brilliant, that they seemed to carry us back to the days of Sinbad the Sailor. At the sight of them, Lady Waterville immediately became a partaker of the general ecstasy, and so exhausted herself with unwonted raptures and exclamations that she had to lean on Ronald's shoulder for support.

I have only a confused recollection of all that followed. There is an impression on my mind that we all fell to embracing each other in the wildest way, and that Cox shook hands with me over and over again. After that, he went out into the moonlit square, and hilariously hailed a hansom; and Ronald and I drove home with our booty.

I do not think the discovery had taken any serious effect on our heads, for we were both quite composed when the cab set us down in Chapel Place. Nurse met us in the entry, and when we had wished her good-night, we locked ourselves into our rooms, and took a long, long look at our treasures.

And then Ronald would not be satisfied till he had decked me out in all the diamonds, and made me stand before the glass to survey myself. Let no one say, after my experience, that dreams never come true. They do come true (not always, but now and then), and this assertion has been proved in other lives as well as mine.

As my husband insisted on sleeping with the diamonds under his pillow, it was a marvel to me that he had a good-night's rest, for jewels are not comfortable things to sleep upon. I was at first somewhat tormented by the fear of midnight robbers and assassins, but weariness soon prevailed over excitement, and I slumbered soundly till morning.

When I awoke, it was very difficult to believe that the events of the past night had not taken place in a dream. But there was the leather box with Ronald mounting guard over it, and we both decided that it must be deposited in a place of security without the least delay. It is a pleasant thing to be the proud possessor of diamonds of immense value, but by no means pleasant to spend all one's time in watching them. Ronald declared himself quite tired of his charge already.

Moreover nurse, although she rejoiced with us heartily enough, was obviously uneasy in mind. She had no sooner had a view of the gems than she went to the hall door and looked for the "suspicious characters" that were sure to be watching the house.

"We are none of us safe an hour, sir, while those things are under this roof," she said, solemnly. "And if you don't take 'em straight to the Horse Guards, or the Tower, or the Bank of England, you may depend on having all our throats cut before night."

So our landlord whistled for a hansom, and we watched Ronald and the diamonds getting into it, and then stood at the door to see it turn the corner.

"Look at that man standing near the church, ma'am," said nurse, in an appalling whisper. "Did you see him a-fastening of his eyes on the box? It would be a good deed to call the police, and have him taken up this moment."

I suggested that it was difficult to give a man into custody for using his eyes. But nurse's portentous words were not without an effect, and I had rather a bad time till the afternoon brought Ronald back.

The diamonds were safe in the strong-room of our bank, and my husband had made an appointment with a dealer in precious stones, who would go to see them early on the next day. I did not feel the least desire to keep any of the gems for myself; the sooner they were turned into money the better for Ronald and me.

"When we have paid all that we owe," I said, "there will not be a single burden on my mind. And, whatever happens, we will never, never get into debt again."

I have always been of Mr. Ruskin's opinion, that it is better to starve and go to heaven than to buy things that you can't pay for. And I found that my husband had come round to my way of thinking.

We spent the rest of that day happily and quietly. The guitar was not forgotten, and Ronald sang our mysterious melody again and again. Never had his voice sounded sweeter to me, and never had I felt so perfect a sense of security and peace.

So the night closed in upon Chapel Place; and two fond hearts, reunited, rejoiced in their newly found happiness.

CHAPTER XXI.

CLOSING WORDS.

THERE is very little more to tell about Ronald and myself; the eventful period of our lives lasted only a short time, and ended with the finding of Inez Greystock's legacy.

The diamonds were sold for a sum so large that it ensured us a fair competence for the rest of our days. And then, too, as the company flourished, Ronald's salary increased, and we soon found ourselves in a very comfortable position.

We did not leave our rooms in Chapel Place until the winter was past and the spring had fairly set in; and then we moved into a pretty little villa at Kensington.

It was not long before nurse gave up letting lodgings, and came to live with us. Her husband died soon after our removal, and she was left alone in the world. It was, therefore, the most natural thing that she should take up her abode in our home; and at this present time she domineers over my babies as she once domineered over me. Nothing can be successfully arranged without her helping hands; and in all our little difficulties and ailments she proves herself to be devoted to our interests.

In these days of eye-service, our friends are inclined to covet our faithful old servant; and we, on our side, repay her zeal with the heartiest affection and kindness.

Lady Waterville, now a very old woman, still lives in the house in George Street, and our frequent visits are her greatest pleasure. Mr. Drury comes up twice a year from his pleasant rectory in the country, and occupies a spare room in the Kensington villa—a room which is always ready for his use. I can never forget that he took me in and sheltered me in my need and sickness, and my husband owes him an eternal debt of gratitude.

Our favourite friend, Marian, will soon cease to be Miss Bailey, and a few weeks will find her settled in a villa close to ours. After refusing several offers, she finally resigned her heart to one of Ronald's friends, a clever barrister, who fell so desperately in love with her that there was no resisting him. My husband says that he is one of the most fortunate of men to have won so sweet a woman; and I think that he fully understands the true value of his prize. Marian's price is "far above rubies," and she will be as good and true in wifehood as she has ever been in friendship.

Many friends come to the villa, and charm us with their bright talk and news of that great world which we only peep into now and then. But Ronald and I are very little known in society, and we prefer to hear of its doings from others, instead of plunging into its whirl ourselves. Our early misunderstandings have made us cling all the closer to each other; life is so sweet to us (ay, and so short), that we do not care to waste it in intercourse with mere acquaintances. The stranger inter-meddleth not with our joy.

Only yesterday, just after the summer sunset, we two sat together at the open window overlooking our garden. The scent of flowers drifted into the room, and the warm blush of the west was lingering over the trees. It was the very hour for music, and as he touched the strings of the guitar, that sweet, gay melody sounded in my ears again.

It is not given to all of us to know the meaning of the melodies that blend with our lives; and some may have to wait till such strains are repeated by "the harpers harping with their harps" before the throne. But to every one there comes the old music of Hope; the promise (however faintly chanted) of that voice which heaven has lent to earth. And, although the turmoil of the great crowd may often drown its notes, the song is always the same; "a song and melody in our heaviness," breathing of labour ended, love repaid, and the satisfied heart at peace in an everlasting rest.

THE END.

LORIMER AND GILLIES, PRINTERS, EDINBURGH.

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Table of Contents

- LOUIE'S MARRIED LIFE

- CHAPTER I.

- CHAPTER II.

- CHAPTER III.

- CHAPTER IV.

- CHAPTER V.

- CHAPTER VI.

- CHAPTER VII.

- CHAPTER VIII.

- CHAPTER IX.

- CHAPTER X.

- CHAPTER XI.

- CHAPTER XII.

- CHAPTER XIII.

- CHAPTER XIV.

- CHAPTER XV.

- CHAPTER XVI.

- CHAPTER XVII.

- CHAPTER XVIII.

- CHAPTER XIX.

- CHAPTER XX.

- CHAPTER XXI.

- THE FULL PROJECT GUTENBERG™ LICENSE