WILLIAM GREYSTOCK was looking at me with a quiet, provoking smile.
"Miss Coverdale will be disappointed in the story," he said. "It is only in the fairy-tales that the prince and princess, when they are brought together, 'live happily ever afterwards.' For my part, I think a woman is sincerely to be pitied if she marries the hero of her first love-dream."
I knew that he was talking at me. From the very beginning of my intercourse with Ronald Hepburne, he had been watching me silently, and reading this tell-tale face of mine until I had often wished desperately for Mokanna's silver veil to hide my burning cheeks. They did not burn when he was not present; it was that quiet, persistent scrutiny which made me intolerably self-conscious, and deprived me of all ease and freedom. I disliked William Greystock heartily, and I was unwise enough to show my aversion. If I had been a woman of the world, I should have concealed it under a pleasant manner and a sweet smile; but even then I could hardly have helped making an enemy of him.
For, if he had found out my secret, I had discovered his. Strange and incredible as it may seem, he had actually fallen in love with Lady Waterville's companion, the simple little girl fresh from the country. And with him, and with those like him, love merely means a strong desire for possession, not a willingness for self-sacrifice. It was the sort of love that will strike because it is forbidden to caress, and longs to wound the thing that will have none of its kisses. I do not think that a love of this kind is very common now-a-days; strong feelings have gone out of fashion, and men and women usually accept their disappointments with admirable coolness and good sense. But here and there we do occasionally find a fierce heart beating under everyday broadcloth, and then we are wise if we avoid, as much as possible, all intimate association with its owner.
I would not take any notice of Mr. Greystock's remark, and did my best to look as if it had made no impression upon my mind. But Lady Waterville could not let it pass; and I fancied that she, too, felt it was aimed at me.
"I really believe William is right," she said, thoughtfully. "There is nothing in life so sad as disillusion, and nothing that so embitters a woman's nature. Well, I must tell you the end of my story, Louie; it is nearly finished now."
"You left Inez and Estella in India," said I, a little impatiently.
"Yes; they went to India, and the elder sister had the satisfaction of seeing the happiness of the younger. This was the only joy that poor Inez could ever have known, her own wedded life was a bitter disappointment; she had been married—not for the old love's sake, but for the money's sake."
"Yet she might have been happy if she could have been content with a moderate affection," put in William, with his detestable smile.
"She could be content with nothing that fell short of her expectations," Lady Waterville went on. "There are children who refuse the crust because they cannot get the cake; Inez was only a passionate, grown-up child. She had quarrels with her husband: and Estella made peace between the pair more than once. But the peace-maker was soon removed; her health failed after the baby Ronald was born, and Captain Hepburne sent his wife and child home to England."