"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.