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.