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.