It was Christmas again. For the day itself I was due at home, of course; but on the way thither I had promised to spend a night with Greatrex, a friend of some few years’ standing, whom I had not seen since his marriage, at which something or other had prevented my being present. He had invited me before, but I had not felt specially keen about it. He was rapturously in love with his wife I could see by his letters, and that sort of thing, under the circumstances, made me feel rather “out in the cold”—not unnaturally. But at last I had given in: I was to stay a night, possibly two, at Moresham, Greatrex’s home, where, as he had written, on receiving my acceptance, “You will see her at last,” for all the world as if I had been dying to behold Mrs Greatrex, and counting the hours till my longings for this privilege should be gratified.
Greatrex met me at the door. It was afternoon, but clear daylight still, though December, when I drove up.
“So delighted, so uncommonly pleased, old fellow, at last,” he ejaculated, shaking me vigorously by the hand; “and so will Bessie be. I don’t know much about your taste, but you can’t but agree that I have shown some, when you see her. One of her great beauties is her hair; I wonder if you’ll like the way she—; what’s the matter?” as the footman interrupted him with a “Beg pardon, sir,” “Oh yes, I’ll tell Barnes myself;” and he turned back to the groom, still at the door. “Excuse me one instant, old fellow. Bessie is in the drawing-room.”
“Don’t announce me. I will introduce myself,” I said hastily to the servant. A queer, a very queer feeling had come over me, at that mention, by her husband, of Mrs Greatrex’s hair—could it be? And her name was Bessie. I could not imagine Bronzie by that name—my stately little maiden—what if it were though? and my dream to end thus?
I stepped quietly into the room. She was standing by the window; there was snow outside. I saw her, all but her face, perfectly: I saw it—the hair—and for an instant I felt positively faint. It was it—it must be she; the way she wore it was peculiar, though very graceful; the head was pretty, but the small figure, though neat and well proportioned, was by no means what I had pictured Bronzie as a woman. But what did it matter? She was Greatrex’s wife.
“I must introduce myself; Mrs Greatrex,” I began, and then, as my words caught her ears, she turned, and for the first time I saw the face—the face I had so often pictured as a fit accompaniment to that glorious hair.
Oh, the disappointment—the strange disappointment—and yet the still stranger relief! For she was Greatrex’s wife! But she wasn’t Bronzie—my Bronzie had never been. There was no Bronzie!
Yet it was a sweet and a pretty little face, and a good little face too. Now that I know it well I do not hesitate to call it a very dear and charming little face, though the features are only pretty; the eyes nothing particular, except for their pleasant expression; the nose distinctly insignificant.
I exerted myself to be agreeable. When Greatrex came in, a moment or two afterwards, he was evidently quite satisfied as to the terms on which we already stood. Then followed afternoon tea. It seemed to go to my head. I felt curiously excited, reckless, and almost bitter, and yet unable mentally to drop the subject as it were. The absurdity of the whole filled me with a sort of contempt for myself, and still there was a fascination about it. I determined to go through with it, to punish myself well for my own fantastic nonsense, to show my own folly up to myself.
“You may be surprised, Mrs Greatrex,” I said, suddenly, “to hear that—I feel sure I am not mistaken in saying so—that I have seen you before.”