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?