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.