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.