Univ.of 111. Library 
 
 51 ' 
 
 Z69Z 
 
 THE UNIVERSITY 
 OF ILLINOIS 
 LIBRARY 
 
 I 
 
 From the collection of 
 Julius Doerner, Chicago 
 Purchased, 1918, 
 
A TAG-RANT "WTETl 
 
 AUTHOR OF 
 
 BY 
 
 FLORENCE WARDEN 
 
 DEEDES,” “ SCHEHERAZADE,” ** A WITCH OF THE HILLS, w WO, 
 
 NEW YORK 
 
 INTERNATIONAL BOOK COMPIN’* 
 
 3IO-318 SIXTH AVENUF 
 
A Vagrant Wife. 
 
 The country town of Beckham was astir. It was a 
 cloudy, changeful May afternoon, and the white-capped 
 country lasses who were alighting from all sorts of strange 
 vehicles at the churchyard gate had to hold up their clean 
 cotton frocks with what untutored grace they might, as 
 they trod the worn, wet flagstones that led up to the 
 church door. Three or four hundred lads and lasses of 
 Beckham and the neighborhood were collecting at the 
 sound of the church-bells for the bishop to lay his hands 
 on their empty heads and confirm them in the faith in 
 which they were baptized. 
 
 The big bare building filled quickly, the vicar on Sunday 
 never gathered such a congregation. The candidates filled 
 the two middle aisles, the girls occupying the whole of one 
 and the front benches of the other, the boys the rest. The 
 latter looked shame-faced, the former self-conscious but 
 content. 
 
 Long before the bishop’s appearance the church was full 
 in every part, for it was a pretty sight even to those who 
 had no personal interest in any of the candidates. 
 
 When from time to time the sun burst through the 
 swift-flying clouds and shone through the long windows 
 full upon the young faces crowned with the demure little 
 white caps, women whispered to each other softly that it 
 looked like heaven. There were thoughts not unworthy 
 of this simile in some of the young minds, especially in 
 1 those of the girls ; others, while trying to fix their thoughts 
 
 —as they had been told to do — upon the Catechism, could 
 I not help wishing they could renounce the pomps and van- 
 > ities in white cashmere with pretty frills of lace at throat 
 and wrists, like Miss Main waring of Garstone Vicarage, 
 who looked so like a picture of some fair -haired saint, as 
 phe sat with her starry blue eyes fixed steadily on the 
 
 BY FLORENCE f ARDEN. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
4 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 communion table in front of her, that it was impossible to 
 guess that she was thinking more of her new ivory-bound 
 church-service than of the ceremony she was about to go 
 through. She and the girl by her side attracted more at- 
 tention than any others. There were a few of their class 
 present, but of types as commonplace and faces as vacu- 
 ous as those of the village- girls. 
 
 Betty Mainwaring was sixteen. Her fresh young face 
 was sweet and silly, charming by the look of modest purity 
 which passed so easily under the tulle cap and veil for the 
 expression of pious devotion; but in truth Betty’s very in- 
 nocence, and the fact that she had passed her whole life in 
 an atmosphere of the simplest, strictest religion, had made 
 it impossible for her to concentrate much earnest thought 
 upon this important step in the Christian life. She had 
 read through the devotional works prescribed for her as 
 attentively as she could, and had accepted all the formulas 
 and dogmas of the Church with the unshrinking faith of 
 the most complete ignorance of their meaning. She had 
 been taught that confirmation is one of the most serious 
 events of life, and she believed it and let the fact rest, 
 while her innocent thoughts wandered to a consideration 
 of the backs of the row of girls in front of her, and to the 
 reflection how strange it seemed to be confirmed with one’s 
 own governess. 
 
 For the girl beside her, with the passionate dark eyes 
 and set, serious face, only eighteen herself, and already 
 carrying on her young shoulders the responsibility of di- 
 recting the minds of girls of her own age, was Miss Lane, 
 who taught “advanced” English, French, German, 
 Italian, music, and singing to the two grown-up Misses 
 Mainwaring, and the earlier stages of the same to their 
 two younger sisters and their seven-year-old brother. To 
 her life was a serious hard-working affair enough, and her 
 tardy confirmation an event of quite desperate impor- 
 tance, involving much doubt and anxious self-examining. 
 She had even thought of asking the vicar, her pupils’ 
 father, for a private interview, of laying bare the bewil- 
 dered state of her mind, and of asking him whether he 
 thought her fit for confirmation. The papers on the sub- 
 ject which he had given her to read had proved but dry 
 bones to the eager, earnest girl ; but she had a strong con- 
 viction that confession would procure little more. The 
 Reverend John Mainwaring’s religion was not of the hys- 
 terical, but of the independent sort; and the girl felt that 
 all he could do would be to throw her back on prayer and 
 her own conscience for an answer to her doubts. What 
 was certain was that he would unhesitatingly have pro- 
 nounced the conscientious little worker, striving hard to 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 5 
 
 live up to an ideal standard of excellence in her dull pro- 
 fession, as fitter for confirmation than almost any mem- 
 ber of his flock. 
 
 So she sat by her pupil’s side, with downcast eyes and 
 mind fixed on the service she was about to hear, curiously 
 conscious at the-same time — being keenly alive to outward 
 things and not without a young girl’s vanity— of the inter- 
 est her pretty, modest appearance was exciting. 
 
 But, just before the entrance of the bishop, three per- 
 sons came in to whom all eyes turned at once, and there 
 was almost a murmur of admiration even in the hush of 
 the sacred building at sight of the girl who, at the foot of 
 the middle aisle, stopped for her mother and brother to 
 take off the long white mantle which was wrapped round 
 her, and then followed the Reverend John Mainwaring up 
 the aisle to the seat he had kept for her in the pew with 
 his own daughter and the governess, Annie Lane. 
 
 Lilian Braithwaite came of a handsome race. Tall, with 
 a well molded figure, gray eyes, brown hair, and com- 
 plexion rich enough in its tints to promise something more 
 lovely still when a season or two in town should have 
 toned down its coloring, she gave promise of beauty dis- 
 tinguished enough to hold its own amongst the fairest 
 women she might meet. The plain white cashmere which 
 looked so simple on Betty Mainwaring had quite a differ- 
 ent effect upon her handsome figure, and the tulle head- 
 dress, half cap, half veil, which she wore in common with 
 the other candidates of her own class, had as much of the 
 veil and as little of the cap about it as possible. Already, 
 at seventeen, she walked through the crowd of admiring 
 faces with a bearing which showed more of the dignity of 
 an acknowledged beauty than of the modesty of a young 
 girl. She smiled at the young governess good-humoredly 
 enough, however, and would even have entered into a 
 whispered conversation, with scornfully critical remarks 
 upon the rest of. the candidates, if Miss Lane had not re- 
 ceived her overtures shyly and with all the primness of 
 her profession. Miss Braithwaite, who was not easily re- 
 pulsed, gave a little amused shrug of the shoulders, and 
 said, in a loud whisper: 
 
 “Are you afraid the vicar is looking at you?” 
 
 And then she met his rather uneasy glance in her own 
 direction with a bland smile. 
 
 It had been rather a difficult matter for him to bring 
 himself to believe that Miss Braithwaite was in all respects 
 fit for confirmation ; but, as no scruple had ever entered 
 her own head, and as, moreover, she was technically pre- 
 pared for the rite, being able to repeat the Lord’s Prayer, 
 the Ten Commandments, and the Catechism with perfect 
 
6 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 fluency, he had no choice but to bring her to the bishop 
 with the rest of the candidates. 
 
 When the service was over, and she rejoined her mother 
 and brother, a young man with a rather handsome face, 
 but deformed and resting on crutches, came up to her and 
 stood silently by while her brother wrapped her again in 
 the long, white mantle she had come in. 
 
 “ You here, Stephen! How did you come? The doctor 
 said you were not to go out until your cough was better,” 
 said Miss Braithwaite, in a voice scarcely as low as it 
 ought to have been. 
 
 “ I wanted to see you— all in white like a bride, making 
 all the other girls look ugly and clumsy,” whispered the 
 cripple, with his face flushing; “so I got Thompson to 
 get the pony-carriage ready, arid followed you as fast as I 
 could.” 
 
 Stephen Lawler’s contempt for the appearance of the 
 rest of the candidates was not shared by his cousin, Harry 
 Braithwaite, who turned to watch one of the girls admir- 
 ingly, and whispered : 
 
 “ I say, Lilian, how awfully fetching little 1 Miss Prim ’ 
 looks in that get-up!” “Little Miss Prim” was Annie 
 Lane, the governess. 
 
 “Yes, she is a pretty girl,” answered his sister, who 
 was handsome enough to be able to afford to acknowledge 
 beauty in others. 
 
 Meanwhile the crowd was surging toward the door, and 
 Harry Braithwaite kept his mother and sister as near the 
 Vicarage party as he could. At the church door they dis- 
 covered that a heavy shower of rain was coming down, 
 and Mrs. Mainwaring was lamenting piteously that her 
 husband, who had come on the box of the brougham be- 
 side the coachman, would lose his voice entirely if he 
 were to return in the same way through the rain. Harry 
 Braithwaite whispered a few words into his mother’s ear, 
 and, raising his hat, stepped forward and placed a seat in 
 their own carriage at the disposal of the vicar’s wife, in 
 his mother’s name. 
 
 “ If Miss Lane will come with us, there will be lots of 
 room in the brougham for you and your two daughters 
 and the vicar too,” said he. 
 
 And before Mrs. Mainwaring could say more than 
 “Oh, thank you, but,” he had severed Miss Lane from 
 her pupils and was escorting her under an umbrella to 
 the big Braithwaite barouche. 
 
 Mrs. Mainwaring looked uneasy; her two daughters, 
 Joan and Betty, looked displeased. 
 
 “I am sure papa will not approve of that arrangement. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 7 
 
 ftiatnma,” said Joan, the eldest of the family, who had 
 come to see her sister confirmed. 
 
 “Well, what could I do, Joan? He meant to be good- 
 natured ; and it would not do for the wife of the vicar of 
 the parish to show any prejudice. Of course I should not 
 have allowed you or Betty to go, but with Miss Lane it is 
 different; she can take care of herself.” 
 
 “ I should think so!” said Joan, sharply. 
 
 And then the vicar came up, and his wife hurried him 
 into the brougham, saying there was plenty of room ; and 
 it was not until they were on the point of stating that she 
 confessed, in answer to his inquiries, that Miss Lane was 
 going home in the Braith waites’ carriage. 
 
 “That was Master Harry’s doing, I suppose?” said the 
 vicar, with a very grave face. 
 
 “ It was all done so quickly, it was impossible for me to 
 stop him,” said his wife, deprecatingly. “You know you 
 would not have minded if it had been anybody else’s car- 
 riage ; and, if they are rather a wild set, we cannot reform 
 them by holding aloof from them. And it is not as if I 
 had let one of the girls go,” said she, hurriedly, lowering 
 her voice. 
 
 “But you have let 4 one of the girls ’ go. Miss Lane is 
 only a few months older than Joan,” he answered, more 
 gravely than ever. 
 
 And she, being a wise woman, dropped the conversation, 
 to take it up again when they two should be alone together. 
 
 This little incident and the discussion it had caused dis- 
 turbed the peace of all the occupants of the carriage. The 
 vicar was annoyed that a member of his household should 
 be thrown into such very uncongenial and perhaps danger- 
 ous society on the very day of her confirmation. His wife 
 was uneasy on account of his annoyance. Joan and Betty 
 were somewhat agitated, too; but they gave no vent to 
 their feelings except in a little soft-toned wrangle about 
 the amount of space each was authorized to take on the 
 rather small front seat of the brougham. When the 
 Braithwaite carriage passed them they became suddenly 
 :silent, both gazing eagerly out until it had passed out of 
 «ight. They had time to see the portly Lady Braithwaite 
 and her handsome daughter leaning back comfortably on 
 one seat, while Miss Lane and Harry Braithwaite sat op- 
 posite; he was talking to her, and did not notice the 
 brougham. 
 
 When the Vicarage was reached, a group of children 
 rushed to the hall door to criticise their elder sister in her 
 white gown, and the missing governess. 
 
 ‘‘Hasn’t Miss Lane come back yet?” asked Mrs. Main- 
 waring, rather anxiously. “Their carriage passed us a 
 
8 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 long time ago,” she added, when the children had shaken 
 their heads in surprise. 
 
 “ She will stay at the Grange to tea, of course, mamma,” 
 said Joan, acidly. 
 
 And again Mrs. Mainwaring, with a glance at her hus- 
 band, dropped the subject. 
 
 The Grange was a sort of an ogre’s castle to the simple 
 lady, and not quite without reason. There is in most 
 quiet country neighborhoods a house with this sort of 
 reputation, where there lives a wicked man who does not 
 come regularly to church, and who goes to bed and gets 
 up again at unorthodox hours, and whose guests do the 
 same and worse things besides ; where there is a tribe of 
 servants who find it difficult to obtain places in the neigh- 
 borhood on leaving; and where, above all, there is a fam- 
 ily of healthy, high-spirited, ill-disciplined children, rough 
 girls and rougher boys, who grow up with a bad name, 
 which becomes steadily worse as the wild lads grow into 
 manhood, and the girls, without any one’s saying that 
 there is any “ harm in them,” acquire the stigma of being 
 “fast.” The Grange was more worthy of its bad reputa- 
 tion than most homes of the same type. Sir George 
 Braithwaite, the present owner, had in his youth on sev- 
 eral occasions narrowly escaped appearing in the London 
 police courts; he had sobered down somewhat on coming 
 into the baronetcy ; but in four wild sons, whose doings 
 were the scandal of the neighborhood, he saw the follies 
 of his own youth repeated and developed. 
 
 When, two years before, theBeverend John Mainwaring 
 became Vicar of Garstone, the inmates of the Grange had 
 made advances to the new-comers, had petted the pretty 
 Betty and invited the elder boys to fish and shoot during 
 the holidays. But the vicar and his wife soon took alarm, 
 and, while striving to maintain an appearance of perfect 
 good-will, discouraged the intimacy between the younger 
 members of the families, until the proud Braith waites, 
 seeing at last through the civil excuses and regrets, drew 
 back suddenly and held themselves as far aloof as Mrs. 
 Mainwaring could wish. The intimacy thus abruptly 
 checked had never been renewed, and, although the 
 members of the two families greeted each other without 
 apparent ill-will when by chance they met, there was no 
 cordiality on either side — the Grange laughed at the 
 Vicarage as “ slow,” the Vicarage shuddered at the Grange 
 as “ fast.” 
 
 The interest the latter took in the prim little Vicarage 
 girls and their brothers had died out long since, while, on 
 the other hand, the “wild Braithwaites ” had an ever- 
 increased secret attraction for the clergyman’s family. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 9 
 
 Joan and Betty were more constrained than usual when 
 accident brought them face to face with any of the hand- 
 some Braithwaite boys, and they both in their hearts sat 
 in judgment upon their parents, and thought that a policy 
 of conciliation would be a much more Christian way of 
 treating the scapegraces. And each of these demure and 
 somewhat stiff maidens began, as she left the school-room, 
 to think she saw signs of redeeming grace in one of the 
 Grange lads, and to feel that she would like to have a 
 hand in his reform. 
 
 So that, when Miss Lane — who, however prim and staid 
 her manner might be, was undeniably a very pretty girl 
 — was carried off before their eyes by one of their wicked 
 neighbors, and taken to the interesting Grange, feelings 
 which their simple-minded mother never dreamed of min- 
 gled with the indignation Joan expressed. Betty was si- 
 lent, but inclined to be tearful. 
 
 The Mainwarings were a somewhat stolid race, and meals 
 at which no stranger was present were very solemn feasts 
 indeed. On this occasion tea-time was passed in dead si- 
 lence — even Marian and Bertram, the two youngest, 
 scarcely dared kick each other under the table. When 
 they all rose, a tear was rolling down Betty’s fair cheek. 
 Her mother caressed her anxiously, fearing that the excite- 
 ment of the solemn vows she had made that day had 
 proved too much for her. Betty gave way. 
 
 “Oh, how that Miss Lane must be enjoying herself at 
 the Grange!” she cried bitterly. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 Meanwhile the Braithwaite carriage had reached the 
 Grange, and, Miss Lane’s timid remonstrances having 
 been overcome, it had been arranged that she was to stay 
 to dine there, and a boy was sent to the Vicarage with a 
 message to that effect. Harry, who had gone to Beckham 
 on horseback, and had sent his horse home and returned 
 in the carriage to be near the pretty governess, was suffer- 
 ing from a certain sense of disappointment. Miss Lane 
 proved even prettier on closer inspection than she had 
 given promise at a distance of being. As he sat beside her 
 in the carriage, he thought to himself that there was a 
 beauty in the rich yet delicate tints of a brunette complex- 
 ion which no lily fairness could vie with, and that the 
 sweep of long, dark eyelashes over a girl’s cheeks was the 
 loveliest thing in the world. But he saw too much of 
 those eyelashes and not enough of the eyes they shaded — 
 only a swift, shy look as she answered any question of his, 
 and then they fell again or turned to his sister, who chat- 
 
10 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 tered on fast about the ceremony they had just passed 
 through, and the people who had been in the church. 
 
 Harry himself was less talkative than usual ; he could 
 not think of anything to say worthy the attention of this 
 beautiful, brave girl with the soft voice and steady, brown 
 eyes. He became impatient at last, snubbed his sister for 
 being a magpie, and told her gruffly to “shut up,” when 
 she made an angry reply. He was glad when they 
 reached the Grange and the ladies went up stairs; then he 
 strolled into the stable-yard and met his eldest brother 
 George. 
 
 “Who was that in the carriage?” 
 
 “ Only little Miss Lane, the Mainwarings’ governess.” 
 “Eh? Oh, that was why you came home with the fam- 
 ily-party ! What is she like?’ ’ 
 
 “Like? Oh, like— a governess! Stiff, prim— won’t 
 talk, or can’t talk. Awful mistake for her to have such a 
 pretty face; it’s thrown away on a girl like that.” 
 
 “Perhaps she’ll talk by and by. I think life at the 
 Vicarage doesn’t encourage liveliness much. Where is she 
 now?” 
 
 “ Up-stairs with mamma and Lil. I say, she’s my dis- 
 covery; I brought her here, and I won’t have you monopo- 
 lizing her. I’ve seen you starifig at her in church, and 
 wrinkling up your ugly face with annoyance because she 
 
 wouldn’t look at you; but ” 
 
 “My dear boy, you shall have undisturbed possession of 
 your prize, as far as I am concerned. I don’t look for my 
 goddesses in the Sunday-school. I admire your wisdom, 
 though, all the same. She can do you no possible harm, 
 and will give you some excellent advice as a reward for 
 your attentions.” 
 
 “Hope she’ll give you a snub as a reward for yours!” 
 said Harry, with a heartiness which went beyond broth- 
 erly pleasantry. 
 
 Both faces were darkening into frowns when the dinner- 
 bell rang. When they entered the dining-room, as they 
 did together a few minutes later, they found little Miss 
 Lane completely engrossed by their youngest brother, a 
 great overgrown lad of fifteen or sixteen, whose usual 
 shyness with women had been overcome in a quarter of an 
 hour’s tete-a-tete with the governess in the drawing-room. 
 He had placed her in the seat between his own and his 
 father’s; but, before he had had time to sit down, George 
 dropped quietly into the chair he was holding. 
 
 “ That’s my place,” said he roughly. 
 
 “Mine for to-night, dear William, ” answered his elder 
 brother coolly, bending his handsome face close to that of 
 the girl by his side, “This is a pleasure I have long 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 11 
 
 wished for, Miss Lane,” he said, in the tender tones of the 
 experienced flirt. 
 
 She looked at him shyly, laughed and blushed. 
 
 4 4 It is very unkind of you to laugh. Don’t you believe 
 me?” 
 
 44 Not quite, I think.” 
 
 4 4 Someoody has been poisoning your mind against me 
 already, 1 see,” he said, with mock fierceness. 44 You 
 would not pay any attention to what the juvenile William 
 might say. It must have been Harry. It was Harry, was 
 it not?” 
 
 44 Which is ‘Harry’?” 
 
 “ Harry is the grumpy-looking one over there— the one 
 who came back in the carriage with you. He would give 
 the world at this moment to pitch me out of the window.” 
 44 Why?” 
 
 44 Never mind why. It is his nasty temper.” 
 
 44 He wouldn’t find it so easy, I should think.” 
 
 44 No. We should be always pitching each other out of 
 the window if we were not so well matched; as it is, when 
 any of us are excited beyond endurance, we pitch the child 
 out.” 
 
 44 The child?” 
 
 44 Yes — that great gawky boy who thought he was going 
 to have all your conversation to himself by putting you 
 between himself and my father. He hasn’t come to his 
 full strength yet. We can still do great execution upon 
 him if we take him unawares.” 
 
 The talk continued chiefly on his side until the general 
 conversation turned upon racing, and he hastened, with 
 an eager interest which no woman could excite in him, to 
 join in the argument that was going forward. When he 
 again glanced at the girl by his side, she was looking puz- 
 zled and rather prim. 
 
 44 Our talk about horses and betting shocks you, I see,” 
 he laughed. 44 You think it very wicked.” 
 
 44 No, indeed, I don’t. But I am not used to it. It is so 
 new to me, at least, since I have been a governess.” 
 
 44 Since you have been a governess? Well, that can’t be 
 very long. And did you hear talk like ours before?” 
 
 44 Not— quite like yours; but I have heard gentlemen 
 talk about racing and theaters, and — things like that, at 
 home, before my father died.” 
 
 44 Is that long ago?” 
 
 44 No ’’—rather tremulously. 
 
 44 Are you happy at the Vicarage?” 
 
 44 0h, yes, they are very kind to me!” 
 
 44 So that now any conversation that is not serious sur- 
 prises and distresses you?” 
 
12 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “ Oh, no; I like it!” 
 
 “ You like our profane conversation? Then why were 
 you looking so prim just now? When I turned to you, you 
 looked so solemn and severe, that the first words that oc- 
 curred to me froze on my lips. I hadn’t a word to say.” 
 
 “ That was because I can’t talk about horses.” 
 
 The little governess plucked up spirit enough to fire this 
 shot under cover of the rising of the ladies, and George 
 Braithwaite followed the small retreating figure with his 
 eyes with more interest than he had yet felt in her. In 
 the talk with his father and brothers which now went on 
 unrestrainedly upon their favorite topics, Harry found 
 occasion to disagree with his eldest brother upon every 
 point. George bore this with a good-humor he seldom 
 showed except when he wished to be irritating. The 
 younger was already almost at boiling-point when they 
 left the dining-room, where it had been unanimously de- 
 cided that Miss Lane was very pretty, but had no spirit, 
 no “go,” and that the Vicarage had crushed all the youth 
 out of everything about her but her face. 
 
 George and Harry left the dining-room, the former by 
 the door, the latter by the French window ; and they en- 
 tered the drawing-room at the same moment. Their 
 mother and sister were at the piano looking for a missing 
 song, but the demure little figure in white was not in the 
 room. George merely asked if either of them had seen 
 his cigar-case; but Harry burst out: 
 
 “ Where’s Miss Lane?” 
 
 “Oh, the child has taken her off somewhere to play 
 with him!” said Lilian. “You all seem very much ex- 
 cited about the governess,” she added rather contempt- 
 uously. 
 
 But Harry left the room. Miss Lane was prim, certainly, 
 and had nothing to say for herself; but she was very 
 pretty, and, moreover, he felt bound to show George that 
 he was not to have it all his own way, as he had seemed at 
 dinner to think he was doing. 
 
 He searched the billiard-room, the morning-room, opened 
 the windows, and looked out on to the lawn. At last he 
 thought he heard the sound of laughter up stairs, and, 
 mounting the staircase in a few bounds, he was led by the 
 excited cries of “the child!” — “Take care.!”— “ Well 
 done!” — “Caught, by Jove!” — and by girlish laughter and 
 the scuffling of feet toward the picture-gallery. On the 
 inner side of the door by which he entered it hung a heavy 
 curtain; he pulled it aside just far enough to peep through 
 into the long half-lighted gallery. 
 
 There stood the grave, sedate, prematurely old governess 
 of half an hour before panting with laughter and exertion 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 18 
 
 in the pause after a game of shuttlecock. There was no 
 mistaking the fact ; for she still held the battledoor in one 
 hand while she rallied William on his clumsiness. 
 
 “ If you try to catch it so, you must miss it, and perhaps 
 lose your balance, besides exhibiting yourself in an ex- 
 tremely ungraceful attitude;” and she threw out her arms 
 in laughing imitation of him in the act of saving himself 
 from a fall. “ Now try again. Are you ready?” 
 
 “ Yes, I should think so! You sha’n’t laugh at me this 
 time!” 
 
 The game began again. The shuttlecock was tossed from 
 the one to the other amid cries and more laughter, both 
 combatants being nimble, quick of eye and hand, and as 
 much excited as if their very lives depended on the keep- 
 ing up of the flimsy thing of leather and feathers. 
 Harry’s own breath came and went as fast as theirs as he 
 watched, not the game, but the graceful, active little 
 player in white, whose movements in the abandon of the 
 game had a fascination such as no famous dancer he had 
 ever seen had exercised upon him; and when, as, once 
 more pausing, the shuttlecock fell to the ground, she stood 
 panting under the soft light of a Chinese lantern, her 
 cheeks flushed, her dark eyes sparkling, her beautiful 
 brown hair shining as her head moved, and her lips 
 parted with smiles, the blood mounted to his face, and he 
 watched her, with all the passionate admiration of his 
 twenty years in his heart ana in his eyes. He dared not 
 move ; he would not for the world have broken the charm 
 by letting her know that the game had a spectator. * 
 
 A minute later the shuttlecock was flying again. Op- 
 posite to the door where Harry was standing hidden was 
 another door; and, as, with her eyes fixed upon the toy 
 in the air above her head, Miss Lane tripped backward 
 against the curtain, her foot caught in its folds, she stum- 
 bled, and might have fallen, had not an arm from behind 
 the curtain caught and saved her. It was George’s. He 
 had taken up his position just as his brother had taken his 
 a few minutes later, at the opposite door. 
 
 Quick as thought, Miss Lane had shrunk at the touch of 
 the unexpected hand into the shell of demure propriety she 
 generally wore. 
 
 She showed not even surprise, only a little shame and 
 confusion. 
 
 “ Thank you. I am much obliged to you,” said she, 
 modestly, without raising her eyes, extricating herself 
 gently from the obliging arm. “ I— I caught the curtain 
 with my foot.” 
 
 “ Are you sure you have not twisted your ankle?” asked 
 George, bending down over her with great solicitude. 
 
14 
 
 a Vagrant wire. 
 
 “ Quite, thank you.” 
 
 George bowed his handsome head still lower, and mur- 
 mured mischievously. 
 
 “ Now I see why I couldn’t amuse you at dinner. It 
 was becanse I can’t talk about shuttlecocks!” 
 
 She colored, but made no answer, except by a mischiev- 
 ous smile as she raised her eyes to his face. Harry came 
 out from behind his curtain. 
 
 “Will you come and have a game at billiards, Miss 
 Lane? I’ll teach you.” 
 
 “I can play a little; but I musn’t now, thank you. I 
 must go back to the Vicarage. ” 
 
 “How anxious you are to get away from us!” said 
 George. 
 
 “Oh, indeed, it is not that! I haven’t been so happy 
 for, oh, I don’t know how long, as I have been here to- 
 day !” 
 
 “ Then why are you in such a hurry to get away?” 
 
 “I am not in a hurry; it is because I must go,” said 
 she, the almost child- like gayety quite gone out of her 
 voice, which remained sweet, but low and grave; “be- 
 sides, I — I ought not to have enjoyed myself so much. I 
 had forgotten.” 
 
 “Forgotten what?” said George, kindly. 
 
 “ To-day — my confirmation. It was wrong, very wrong 
 of me! Such an example for my pupil Betty, too !’ ’ 
 
 George could not help smiling. 
 
 “ I don’t think your bad example would do much harm 
 to Betty, Miss Lane. I dare say she wishes she had a 
 chance of spending her evening in the same way.” 
 
 “I am afraid she does,” said the governess, simply. 
 
 Then, hearing the voices of Lady Braithwaite and her 
 daughter outside, she went out to meet them, followed by 
 “the child,” and leaving the two elder brothers face to 
 face. 
 
 “Charming little creature! That dash of the prig 
 leaves her a delicious spice of novelty,” said George, light- 
 ing a cigar, and seeming not to notice his brother’s frowns. 
 
 “ I thought ‘ you didn’t choose your goddesses out of the 
 Sunday-school’? I thought I ‘was to have undisturbed 
 enjoyment of my discovery, as far as you were con- 
 cerned ’?” 
 
 “ And so you might have had, if you had had the wit to 
 forestall me. The pleasure of her society was absolutely 
 forced upon me, for I could not leave a defenseless woman 
 to be bored to death all through dinner by William and 
 Sir George.” 
 
 “Where are you going?” asked the other, sharply, for 
 George had his hand upon the door. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 18 
 
 “ To the stables, if you have no objection.” 
 
 “Yob are not going to see Miss Lane home?” shouted 
 Harry. 
 
 “By Jove, I never thought of it! But it would be a 
 good action to save the poor little woman from a tete-a-tete 
 with such a cub.” 
 
 In his delight at tormenting his fiery -tempered brother, 
 George had gone a little too far. As he lounged against 
 the doorway, a sudden blow had sent him reeling back 
 into the gallery, the door was slammed, and his brother 
 was at the other end of the corridor before he could say a \ 
 word. Harry met his sister in the corridor. 
 
 “ Where’s Miss Lane?” 
 
 “Why? What do you want with Miss Lane?” 
 
 “Never mind. Where is she?” 
 
 •But his sister was in a teasing mood. She had more 
 than George’s cruelty in her disposition, and, being a girl, 
 she could give it freer rein. She delighted in watching 
 the excited working of Harry’s face as she evaded his 
 questions. 
 
 “My dear boy, I am not Miss Lane’s guardian-angel. 
 You should ask 4 the child ’ where she is.” 
 
 “For Heaven’s sake, don’t torment me so! You met 
 her outside the picture-gallery a few minutes ago, and 
 took her away with you.” 
 
 “Oh, sol did! But you see I’ve dropped her some- 
 where.” 
 
 Harry seized her arm and shook it roughly. But the 
 action only roused the girl’s spirit from idle teasing to hot 
 defiance. 
 
 “ Do you think you can make me tell you? If you were 
 to kill me, I wouldn’t tell you unless I chose!”— and she 
 shook herself free with a violence which sent him stagger- 
 ing a few paces. 
 
 He changed his tactics. 
 
 “ Don’t be silly, Lil. You know I didn’t mean to hurt 
 you; and, if we did come to blows, you would be just as 
 likely to hurt me. But do tell me where Miss Lane is. ” 
 
 “ She’s gone.” 
 
 “Gone! Alone?” 
 
 “No. Stephen has gone with her; and it was I who 
 sent him,” said she, defiantly. 
 
 “ Oh, to annoy me, I suppose?” 
 
 ‘ 4 Partly, perhaps — you and George. I thought there 
 had been quite fuss enough made about the little governess, 
 and I thought that Stephen, being a cripple, and, therefore, 
 not quite so rough as you, would make her a safer escort.” 
 
 Without a word in answer, Harry gave her a sharp box 
 on the ear, and swung himself into the hall over the 
 
16 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 balusters, dashed into the garden, and plunging into a 
 shrubbery to a short cut to the road, came out scratched 
 and breathless a few yards behind Miss Lane and Stephen. 
 
 “You had better go in, Stephen, or you’ll make your 
 cold worse. I’ll see Miss Lane safely "home,” said he, 
 abruptly. 
 
 A hot flush came over the cripple’s face. 
 
 “You’ve grown very considerate for me— for once,” he 
 said, bitterly. “ Did Lilian send you?” 
 
 “No; it would have been better for her if she had.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ What have you done to her?’ ’ cried Stephen, anxiously. 
 
 “I’ve only boxed her ears for impertinence,” said 
 Harry, haughtily. 
 
 “You brute! How dared you? I wish George had 
 seen you.” 
 
 “ George was lying on his back in the picture gallery, 
 where I left him.” 
 
 A sharp cry escaped the lips of the little governess. 
 
 “What! You have hurt your brother — perhaps killed 
 him!” 
 
 “ I haven’t hurt him, Miss Lane,” said Harry, with an 
 uncomfortable blush. “ I shouldn’t have touched him if 
 he hadn’t wanted to prevent my seeing you home. You 
 will let me now, won’t you ?” said he, with sudden gentle- 
 ness. 
 
 “ Thank you. Mr. Lawler has offered to take me,” an- 
 swered she, freezingly. 
 
 “But Mr. Lawler has a bad cold, and ought not to be 
 out at night.” 
 
 “ Then I will go home alone.” 
 
 Harry turned white with rage. The handsome lad was 
 not used to snubs from women of any class, when he took 
 the trouble to pay them any attention. Stephen’s eyes 
 gleamed maliciously. 
 
 “ You won’t send me back? The air won’t hurt me in 
 the least ; I am out in it every night, ’ ’ said he, eagerly. 
 
 She could not refuse the cripple, and, bowing very 
 coldly to Harry, she went on with Stephen toward the 
 Vicarage. 
 
 It was always a terrible ordeal to the sensitive little 
 Southron to shake four cold hands and smile “ good-night ” 
 up into four cold faces when, the day’s work over, she 
 could run through the garden to the cottage built in one 
 corner of it, where she lived with an old servant of the 
 family to wait upon her. But to-night it was far more 
 terrible than it had ever been before. One degree more of 
 frost in the manner of papa, mamma, eldest girl, and sec- 
 ond girl made her feel that her sin, in letting herself be 
 carried off by those worldlings, and possibly enjoying their 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 17 
 
 godless society, was grievous indeed. But they never 
 guessed the pain they were inflicting. Nay, they meant 
 to be rather kind about it ; and Mrs. Mainwaring asked, 
 not without veiled curiosity : 
 
 “Well, did you enjoy yourself at the Grange? I sup- 
 pose fchey were very kind to you?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, very kind.” 
 
 “ You had a beautiful dinner, didn’t you?” asked Betty, 
 who was rather a gourmand . 
 
 “ Yes, very nice,” answered Miss Lane, who had indeed 
 not been insensible to the difference between the cookery 
 of the Grange and that of the Vicarage. 
 
 “Did they all get tipsy?” asked Bertram, aged seven, 
 very shyly. 
 
 “ Oh, no! What makes you ask that, Bertram?” 
 
 “Ben said they did,” whispered he, sheepishly with- 
 drawing— Ben was the coachman, with a dash of gar- 
 dener. 
 
 “Did you think them nice?” asked Joan, inquisitori- 
 ally. 
 
 “They were all very kind; but, oh, they quarrel dread- 
 fully!” 
 
 “ You wouldn’t like to be governess there, I suppose?” 
 
 “Oh, no, Mrs. Mainwaring!” answered Miss Lane, fer- 
 vently and sincerely. 
 
 Yet, when she was once more alone, trying faithfully to 
 banish outward thoughts and prepare herself for her pray 
 ers, the admiration, the warm kindliness of the wrong-head- 
 ed Braithwaites would rush in and contrast itself with the 
 logical conduct of the Mainwarings, who hung about her 
 when she was in high spirits and neglected her when she 
 was unhappy and unwell. 
 
 “ I do hope he is not hurt!” was her last thought. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 Meanwhile Stephen Lawler had returned to the Grange, 
 happy in the favor pretty Miss Lane had accorded him at 
 the expense of Harry, whom he hated with a hatred which, 
 if unreasonable, was not without excuse. He joined his 
 cousins in the billiard- room, where a hot quarrel between 
 George and Harry was only just kept from blazing forth 
 afresh by the presence of their father, the only power on 
 earth which could keep in check the ungovernable pas- 
 sions of his unruly brood. Stephen glanced from one to 
 the other of the two angry, flushed faces, and rolled the 
 spot- ball along the table in an idle manner, through which 
 the least glimpse of the conqueror showed. Georg© 
 laughed unpleasantly. 
 
18 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 4 4 Stephen looks happy. ’ ’ 
 
 “ He’s the fox who carried off the lamb while the lion 
 and tiger were fighting about it,” said Wilfred, the second 
 son, quoting from iEsop’s fables rather at random. 
 
 4 * Was she kind, Stephen?” asked George, mockingly. 
 
 “Very kind — much kinder than she was to you.” 
 
 “ That goes without saying, my dear fellow, ” answered 
 George, with a cruel patronage in his tone which made the 
 cripple wince. 
 
 “ All women don’t worship brutes! I wouldn’t enter the 
 lists with you for your Molly and Sukey; but ladies are 
 different.” 
 
 “ Different from what? From Molly and Sukey, or from 
 Miss Lane, the governess?” 
 
 “Ah, you can look down upon ‘Miss Lane, the govern- 
 ess,’ since she calls you a brute!” 
 
 44 When did sue call me a brute? It’s a lie !” said George, 
 sharply. 
 
 “It’s not a lie! She said you and Harry were both 
 brutes; and, by Jove, she was right!” 
 
 George raised his fist, but dropped it with an ostenta- 
 tious self restraint. 
 
 44 You are a privileged person,” said he, coolly. 
 
 Stephen sprung forward and struck him in the face ; but 
 George remained as irritatingly quiet as ever. 
 
 “But you shouldn’t presume upon your advantages. 
 You can tell lies as other gentlemen may not do, and you 
 can strike a man without getting struck back; but you 
 can’t expect to hold your own with a woman against me, or 
 even Harry. It’s absurd!” 
 
 “ What do you mean by 4 even Harry?’ ” asked the third 
 brother, savagely. 
 
 “ What I mean by it in this case is that, by a little care- 
 ful management you might have got the tete-a-tete you 
 wanted with pretty Miss Lane, but that, if I had stepped 
 in, not all the management in the world would have availed 
 you to get what you wanted.” 
 
 “You think yourself irresistible?” 
 
 '“No, I don’t. But I think I know more about women 
 than you do; and I’m not quite such a cub as to think I can 
 impress a woman favorably by merely staring across the 
 dinner-table at her and insulting everybody who is civil to 
 her.” 
 
 Harry grew red at this home- thrust. 
 
 “ And I suppose you think you have impressed her very 
 favorably by drawling compliments into her ear one min- 
 ute and turning your back to her the next?” 
 
 “That’s all his science,” said Wilfred, who had been 
 prinking more than the rest, but who had as much wit 
 
a vagrant wife, 
 
 when he was tipsy as his brothers had when they were 
 sober. 
 
 “ Well, haven’t we exhausted the little governess?” 
 asked George, yawning. 
 
 “Yes; let us talk of the Duchess of Shoreditch,” pro- 
 posed Wilfred, mimicking him. 
 
 “ Oh, y-e-s, we will!’ ’ said Harry, following his example 
 rather clumsily. “You might have condescended to see a 
 duchess home yourself, perhaps?” 
 
 “ To the man of principle all women are duchesses,” an- 
 swered Wilfred, who was becoming tiresome. 
 
 “My dear Wilfred, what do you know about the man of 
 principle?” asked his eldest brother, with a look which re- 
 called to the sententious one various occasions on which his 
 morality had given way rather suddenly. “All women 
 are not duchesses; and I would rather see a governess home 
 on a moonlit evening than a duchess, for the simple 
 reason that I should get better paid for my trouble.” 
 
 “Not by Miss Lane!” cried Harry, starting up, his face 
 aflame. 
 
 George did not answer. 
 
 “Not by Miss Lane!” said Harry again, in a louder 
 voice. “Answer, you— conceited liar!” 
 
 “It is of no use to continue the discussion if you only lose 
 
 your temper and throw your manners to the winds ’ ’ 
 
 “ Harry’s manners !” chuckled Wilfred ; but nobody took 
 any notice of him. 
 
 “ Say what you mean then, or by ” 
 
 “ I only mean that I should have neglected my oppor- 
 tunities, and put a cruel slight upon a very pretty girl, if I 
 had not got a kiss when I wished her good-night.” 
 
 “She would never have spoken to you again if you had 
 
 done such a thing. She would have boxed your ears ” 
 
 “ She would have done nothing of the kind. Your ex- 
 perience being confined to barmaids, who very naturally 
 resent your rough overtures in the free-and-easy manner 
 you describe, you cannot tell how a woman of more refine- 
 ment accepts the homage due to her charms when it is 
 properly offered.” 
 
 “ I think this is blackguard talk,” said Wilfred; but the 
 time had long gone past for him to get a hearing. 
 
 “You think she would have let you kiss her willingly?” 
 said Harry, not so loudly as before, but with his whole 
 frame quivering with restless excitement. 
 
 “ I don’t wish to be boastful, but I think it most likely.” 
 “It’s a ” 
 
 Stephen shook his cousin’s arm. 
 
 “ Let him prove it, Harry; let him prove it.” 
 
 But Harr;^ shrunk from that. He was as thoughtless 
 
20 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 and unprincipled as the rest of them; but he was not 
 blase. He was only twenty ; and some instincts of chivalry 
 and respect for the beautiful girl whose name was being 
 bandied about so freely made him hesitate. 
 
 “ He knows better than to agree to that!” sneered 
 George, 
 
 “Why don’t you try to be beforehand with him?” sug- 
 gested Stephen. 
 
 “I will, by Jovel” said Harry, stung and excited past 
 all scruples. “We’ll see if my rough overtures may not 
 be more to her taste than your what-do-you-call-it homage. 
 I bet Fire King to a five- pound note I’ll have a kiss from 
 her to-morrow.” 
 
 “Willingly, mind?” 
 
 “Willingly,” 
 
 “ Done, then! [But how am I to be sure you have won 
 fairly if you come and claim it?” 
 
 “You will have my word.” 
 
 There was a general laugh. There are .some families, as 
 lawless as the Braithwaites, in which truth is part of their 
 code, and a lie held to be beneath a gentleman ; but the 
 Braithwaites, while fiercely proud of their birth, consid- 
 ered that it placed them above obligations, and that 
 the title “gentleman,” descended to them from their 
 fathers, was a sort of inherited, inalienable fortune which 
 required no effort of theirs to support or to increase. 
 
 However, Harry having refused to let the bet hold ex- 
 cept on this condition, it was resolved to trust him, George 
 having fully made up his mind to supplement his brother’s 
 account of the interview by the evidence of his own 
 eyes. 
 
 The next morning, at breakfast time, when the wine was 
 gone out of his head and his temper was cooler, Harry was 
 a little ashamed of his bet, for to increase his compunc- 
 tion came the very strongest doubts as to his power to win 
 it. However, when George asked with a sneer whether 
 he did not wish the bet were off, his brother answered 
 fiercely that he never made bets which he did not intend 
 to keep. So George only shrugged his shoulders, told him 
 he was a fool, and walked off to the stable-yard, already 
 looking upon his brother’s favorite horse, Fire King, as 
 his own by right, although he did not expect to enter into 
 possession without a struggle. In spite of his ostenta- 
 tiously cynical speeches the night before, his own respect 
 for the demure girl-governess stood higher than he wished 
 to have it believed, and he thought it extremely unlikely 
 that his younger brother, who was still at the stage of 
 being alternately boisterous and shy with women, would 
 even risk a meeting with Miss Lane. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 21 
 
 But Harry, nerved by the danger of losing Fire King, 
 had strung himself up to do great things. Fate favored 
 him. 
 
 It was Saturday ; and on that day the vicar’s children 
 always had a half holiday, and their governess was free to 
 spend the afternoon as she liked. When it was fine she 
 generally used her liberty to enjoy her one chance in the 
 week of a walk by herself, and with a book— some solidly 
 instructive book in her hand, just to justify her ramble 
 to herself and relieve her conscience of the reproach of 
 “wasting her time.” So on this Saturday afternoon she 
 had strolled out with a sketch-book and a small camp- 
 stool, and, after wandering through the fields alongside 
 the hedges, watching the young rabbits playing about their 
 holes, gathering a few late primroses, singing to herself 
 all the while very happily, she opened her camp-stool in 
 the corner of a field where there was a pond half sur- 
 rounded by trees, seated herself, and began to draw. 
 
 On the other side of the pond, divided from it by a 
 stretch of uneven grass -covered ground, ran a private 
 road, and beyond that was a thick plantation from which, 
 unknown to her, Harry had for some time been watching 
 the governess; and further along the road were some 
 stables and outbuildings, in the shelter of which his 
 brother George had been for some time watching Harry. 
 
 Miss Lane set to work with the dry enthusiasm of the 
 conscientious amateur, and was soon too much absorbed 
 in calculating distances and making little dots on the paper 
 with her pencil to notice Harry, until, by making a long 
 circuit through the plantation, across the road and along 
 the edge of the field she was in, he came through the long 
 grass to her side. Filled with the guilty consciousness of 
 the enterprise he had in hand, he was half sheepish, half 
 bold, and Miss Lane’s greeting, which was a rather cold 
 little bow and a complete ignoring of his proffered hand, 
 did not help him to recover his self-possession. 
 
 “You are drawing, I see,” he remarked, rather huskily. 
 
 “Yes,” said she. Then, as there was a pause which 
 her companion evidently did not know how to fill, she 
 added, glancing first at her paper, and then at the pond 
 in front of her, “It doesn’t look much like it yet, does 
 it?” 
 
 “ I dare say it will^ook more like when it is finished.” 
 
 “No, it won’t,” said Miss Lane, candidly; “that is the 
 worst of it. I can’t draw, though I really do try very 
 hard.” 
 
 “Then why do you give yourself all the trouble of try- 
 ing?” 
 
 Harry felt that his share in the talk was not in the style 
 
23 A VAGRANT WINN, 
 
 he had intended, but her rather stiff simplicity of m&niier 
 disconcerted him. 
 
 “ It is an excuse for coming out of doors.” 
 
 “ An excuse? I never want one. I only want excuses 
 for not coming home. I hate houses— they are so beastly 
 stuffy; don’t you think so?” 
 
 He felt he was getting further and further from the 
 lover-like manner which was to overcome Miss Lane ; but 
 he could not help it. She considered a little before an- 
 swering. 
 
 “I like houses too — some houses, I wonder you don’t 
 like yours. I think it is one of the nicest I have ever been 
 in.” 
 
 “Do you? Do you like it better than the Vicarage?” 
 
 “Oh, yes! The Vicarage is only a place to eat and 
 drink and sleep in!” she said, scornfully. “As for the 
 drawing-room, everything in it is an insult to one’s eyes.” 
 
 “ I suppose you mean that it is not artistic, ” said Harry. 
 “But it isn’t the furniture that insults me; it is the people. 
 I feel as if I were in church, or as if I had had a bucket of 
 cold water over me when I didn’ t expect it, directly I get 
 inside the house.’ ’ 
 
 “ Oh, don’t say that! They are all very kind.” 
 
 “Then you like the Vicarage people better than the 
 Grange people?” 
 
 “ 1 did not say that. But I know them better.” 
 
 “Oh, yes; I remember! You said we were a set of 
 brutes.” 
 
 He felt that this was worse and worse ; he was getting 
 positively rude. 
 
 “I have never said anything of the kind, Mr. Braith- 
 waite,” said she, coldly. 
 
 “Didn’t you tell Stephen that George and I were 
 brutes?” 
 
 “I did say it was brutal to box your sister’s ears and 
 knock your brother down just because they contradicted 
 you ; and I think so, 5 ’ said Miss Lane, quietly. 
 
 “But it was about you. It was because they wouldn’t 
 tell me where you were, and wouldn’t let me see you 
 home.” 
 
 “That doesn’t make any difference.” 
 
 This answer was a blow. Miss Lane was the first woman 
 who had ever excited in him any bu&the most fleeting ad- 
 miration. He looked upon women as a nuisance in the 
 hunting-field and a positive danger at a battue , pretty 
 things whose society at any sort of gathering gave one 
 more trouble than it was worth, and who ought accord- 
 ingly to feel deeply grateful for any admiration that might 
 be cast to them. Of course this applied only to his equals ; 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 n 
 
 with women of a lower rank he was at his ease ; and it 
 was a current prophecy that he would be a bachelor till 
 he was forty five, and then marry his cook. So he looked 
 down at Miss Lane in amazement without speaking, when 
 she thus candidly stated that his admiration 44 didn’t make 
 any difference.” 
 
 “Then you hate me, I see,” said he, at last, deeply hurt 
 and offended. 
 
 “ Hate you? No; indeed I don’t, Mr. Braithwaite!” she 
 answered, rising. 
 
 It had only just dawned upon her that his unusually 
 restless manner and his flushed face were the result of any- 
 thing but his natural awkwardness, and she was anxious 
 to cut the interview short, for fear any of the Main war - 
 ings should pass— they would perhaps not even believe she 
 had met him by accident. 
 
 44 Then why do you want to run away from me? I may 
 be a brute; but I won’t hurt you.” 
 
 “Oh, no; I am not afraid of that!” said she, her face 
 breaking into the bright, childlike smile that made her so 
 charming to him. “But it is really time for me to 
 go in.” 
 
 She held out her hand; but he did not seem to see it. 
 He was positively shaking with nervousness, preparing for 
 a bold stroke. 
 
 “Won’t you shake hands, or have I offended you too 
 deeply?” she asked, with simple, smiling coquetry. 
 
 Harry jerked his head suddenly down to her upturned 
 face, and kissed her. George, who was observing this 
 scene, watched for the girl’s start, listened for the 
 scream. 
 
 But there was neither. She remained quite still, with- 
 out a sound but a short, quick sob that George was too far 
 off to hear, and he could only see that she bent her head, 
 without being able to catch the expression of her face. 
 He watched a moment longer, then, with a curious look 
 of cynical surprise, turned and sauntered back to the 
 Grange. 
 
 But Harry was near enough to know better. He saw 
 the color leave her cheeks and her very lips, and he knew 
 that his impertinence had made her dumb and still with 
 horror. Then the tears began to gather in her eyes ; she 
 stooped to feel blindly for the book she had dropped, then 
 turned her back upon him without a word. 
 
 In a moment he was mad with remorse. 
 
 “ Miss Lane!” said he huskily; but she took no notice, 
 and began to walk away. 
 
 All his better instincts were aroused, and moved him to 
 words less boorish than usual. 
 
2t A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 'Miss Lane,” he repeated, “I would give my right 
 hand to undo my impertinence or to make you forget it ! 
 Upon my soul, you cannot hate me for it as much as I 
 hate myself! Won’t you — won’t you just look at me? 
 Only just let me see you look again as you looked before 
 — even if you don’t speak. Good heavens, you look like 
 stone!” 
 
 But she shook her head without looking up. 
 
 “Go away, please,” was all she said, in a voice from 
 which the bright ring had gone. 
 
 Harry was sobbing himself. _ 
 
 “You — you are more cruel than I,” said he, unsteadily. 
 
 But he dared not stay. Those few words of dismissal 
 were too cutting for him to try any more entreaties. He 
 scrambled through the hedge, rather anxious that she 
 should see he was hurting himself in his eagerness to 
 obey her. But she never looked round. She made her 
 way back to her cottage more quietly, without even shed- 
 ding any more tears. She was too much excited for that. 
 But, when she was once more in her little sitting-room, 
 she gave way, threw herself on the floor by the sofa, and 
 cried until she could scarcely see. She was so proud, so 
 haughtily reserved to men, that this outrage to her dig- 
 nity and self-respect wounded her far more deeply than it 
 would have done an ordinary girl. 
 
 “He would not have dared if I hadn’t been ‘ only a gov- 
 erness,’ ” she thought bitterly. 
 
 In the meantime Harry had slunk home to the Grange, 
 where the first person he met was George. 
 
 “ By Jove, Harry, I didn’t think you had it in you!” was 
 his greeting. 
 
 “ What the deuce do you mean?” 
 
 “ Nothing but what is complimentary on this occasion. 
 Here are your five pounds, fairly won.” 
 
 He took out his pocket-book, and handed a note leisurely 
 to his brother, who crumpled it in his hand and tossed it 
 into a flower-bed. 
 
 “ What! Have you suddenly grown above filthy lucre? 
 Very well, I’ll take it back again;” and George was stoop- 
 ing over a geranium to pick it up when his brother brought 
 his hand roughly down upon his shoulder. 
 
 “What do you mean by this tomfoolery?” 
 
 “ Well, to be frank, I watched your interview, quite by 
 accident, and saw you win your bet.” 
 
 “ I didn’t win it,” said the other, surlily. 
 
 “ Not win it? Why, I saw you!” 
 
 “I — tell— you — I— didn’t — win — it,” said Harry, sav- 
 agely. “I kissed her — like a beastly cad — and she looked 
 as if I had killed her.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 26 
 
 He turned round quickly and made for the house. His 
 brother followed. 
 
 “Here, but I say, Harry ” 
 
 The other paid no attention, but disappeared into the 
 house. 
 
 But the consequences of the act were not over. When 
 tea-time came, and, having bathed her red and swollen 
 eyes, Miss Lane appeared in the family circle, a deadlier 
 chill than usual was evidently upon them. Joan looked 
 like an ugly statue of disgust or some kindred emotion ; 
 Betty’s cheeks were flushed, and her pretty vacant eyes 
 bright with anger ; Mrs. Main waring was cold and nerv- 
 ous; the Rev. Mr. Mainwaring, above all human passions, 
 was quietly attentive to his tea and toast, as usual. The 
 governess’ heart sunk. 
 
 After tea, when she had said “Good -night ” in an agony 
 under this frigidity, Mrs. Mainwaring followed her into 
 the hall and asked her to come into the schoolroom for a 
 few minutes. After closing the door with ominous care- 
 fulness, the elder lady faced her victim. 
 
 “I am very sorry to have to say anything of this kind 
 to you, Miss Lane; but I must ask whether there is any 
 sort of engagement between you and Mr. Harry Braith- 
 waite?” 
 
 “None, Mrs. Mainwaring, ” said the girl, white to the 
 lips. 
 
 “ And is it true— excuse me for asking— that he kissed 
 you this afternoon?” 
 
 “Yes, Mrs. Mainwaring.” The answer came at once, 
 clear and cold. 
 
 The elder lady was disconcerted for a moment by this 
 prompt reply ; then she said, between tightly compressed 
 lips : 
 
 “ I did not think you would allow a gentleman you were 
 not engaged to to take such a liberty.” 
 
 Miss Lane gave a little hard laugh. 
 
 “Not a liberty, Mrs. Mainwaring; surely you make a 
 mistake ! Mr. Braith waite did not wait to be allowed ; he 
 was good enough to give me a kiss as he would, with his 
 easy good-nature to any dependent. I only wonder you 
 did not know me better than to think I c ould object.” 
 
 Mrs. Mainwaring read the acute misery in the girl’s face. 
 She was sorry for her. However, as she m urmured out 
 rather incoherently, Betty was out walking and had seen 
 the kiss given, anckof course it was not a proper sight for 
 her, and would Miss Lane kindly understand she must 
 leave at the end of the quarter? 
 
 And Miss Lane said she would be very glad to do go. 
 
26 A Vagrant wife : 
 
 And so she would have been, if she had known where 
 to go. 
 
 CHAPTER IV. 
 
 It was now the end of May, and Miss Lane was to leave 
 Garstone Vicarage in the last days of June. She went 
 through the dull round of her daily duties as carefully as 
 ever; but the buoyancy of spirit that had formerly made 
 her the children’s favorite playfellow out of school-hours 
 had deserted her. 
 
 The meals, at which the bright young girl had once set 
 the talk going, were once more the most solemn of cere- 
 monies. The Reverend Mr. Main waring wished that that 
 unlucky kiss had been ignored; he saw in fancy her in- 
 evitable successor, the usual under-bred, old-young gov- 
 erness, without an idea, but with a fund of chirpy Small- 
 talk, of the kind which he had suffered before the advent 
 of Miss Lane. He knew she must be blameless in this 
 matter; but he was not a man given to interference in 
 domestic affairs, and, as his wife had decreed that she 
 should go, he made a half-hearted remonstrance, forbade 
 her being sent away before the end of the quarter, and 
 submitted. 
 
 Joan and Betty, especially the latter, would have liked 
 to show their resentment more openly had they dared; 
 but it was not easy in face of their victim’s well-judged 
 conduct. She was so grave, so mat ter-of-fact, so pains- 
 taking with them in school-hours, put it so plainly before 
 them that their heads could find out for themselves as 
 much as she could tell them — which was far from being 
 the case— that they could not but treat her with respect in 
 the schoolroom ; while out of it she scarcely spoke to them 
 more than was absolutely necessary. But it was a dull 
 life for her; and, shut out thus from the world around 
 her, she found a resource in writing. This little creature 
 was full of fiery ambitions, and one of them was to make 
 a name some day as an author. So, when tea was over, 
 and she could throw off the Mainwarings for the day, she 
 hurried through the garden to her cottage, and spent the 
 last hours of the day, half in quiet study for self-improve- 
 ment, half with pen, paper, and her own fancy. 
 
 So the weeks went on toward the time of her departure ; 
 and meanwhile she saw no more of the Braithwaites, 
 except when one or other of the brothers would ride past 
 her and the children in their morning walks. 
 
 But George was interested enough in the pretty little 
 governess to find out, without apparent curiosity, that she 
 was going to leave ; and he kept this discovery to himself. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 21 
 
 He did not neglect to warn Harry not to force himself into 
 the girl’s society again; but he resolved to have a farewell 
 interview with her himself. The chance came in the third 
 week in June, when a grand flower-show, held just out- 
 side Beckham, had brought all the scattered neighborhood 
 together. 
 
 It was a showery day, and the festivities suffered. 
 Showily -dressed and sometimes well-dressed women made 
 their way over sodden grass and slippery earth from one 
 dripping tent to another under the umbrellas of men who 
 were only looking out for a chance of slipping away for a 
 cigar, and did not care a straw for the roses which their 
 companions told them were “lovely,” and were roused 
 only to a limp enthusiasm by some uninteresting patent 
 invention in the “ agricultural implement ” tent. 
 
 The Mainwarings were all there. Gardening was a 
 hobby with the elders; they knew, and called all flowers 
 by their Latin names, and Mrs. Mainwaring’s happiest 
 hours were spent, with dress tucked up, hands hugely 
 gloved, and face glowing with enthusiasm, bedding out 
 geraniums, or collecting and carrying off for destruction 
 myriads of slugs which threatened her favorite plants. 
 Joan and Betty did not care much for flowers; but they 
 were glad of an opportunity to wear new and particularly 
 tasteless dull-green gowns trimmed with many little bits 
 of fringe of a different shade, and their appearance might 
 chance to get them an invitation to a dance or a garden- 
 party. The children had begged to go, to get a holiday, 
 and Miss Lane went to look after them. 
 
 So that, when George Braithwaite came on to the 
 ground, in dutiful attendance upon his mother and sister, 
 a rapid inspection of the tents soon convinced him that his 
 opportunity was come. He knew better than to set to 
 work with Harry’s clumsiness. He went up to the Main- 
 waring children, talked to them a little while without 
 taking any notice of the governess beyond raising his hat 
 to her, and then drew Mrs. Mainwaring’s attention to a 
 plant which he said had a strange history, which she must 
 ask the owner to tell her, insinuated a compliment to lean 
 pink-eyed Joan, and talked to mother and daughters for 
 some time in what he considered his best manner. And 
 then he told Bertram, whose hand he held all the while, 
 that there was “a grand gentleman ” making a speech in 
 another of the tents, and asked him if he would not like to 
 see him, and then asked the two younger girls if they, 
 would not like to go too; and they all thought they should 
 like to go anywhere with this nice, kind gentleman, and 
 they all said, “Yes.” Then Mr. Braithwaite was afraid 
 
38 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 he could not take th*m all three across without their get- 
 ting wet, but said to the elder of the two small girls: 
 
 “ Ask your governess to take Jyou under one umbrella, 
 and I will take care of these two little ones.” 
 
 And the nice, kind gentleman ran off with Bertram and 
 Marian, directing Miss Lane to follow with Ellen. But 
 when, through the rain, they reached the long, damp tent 
 where the people were crowding round a narrow deal- 
 table to listen to the speech which an insignificant-looking 
 little gentleman, standing in the mud, was delivering in a 
 very low, monotonous voice, the little ones were disap- 
 pointed; and Bertram said he did not look grand at all, 
 in a voice much louder than the speaker’s. But George 
 still pushed him benevolently forward through the crowd, 
 until, by civil words and strong shoulders, he had man- 
 aged to get all three children quite close to the table, 
 where they could “ hear Lord Ben Nevis distinctly ” as he 
 whispered. Then he dropped unselfishly into the back 
 row of the crowd himself, and joined the governess. 
 
 “ You will get your feet wet standing in all this slush,” 
 said he. 
 
 And he found a board for her to put her feet on, and a 
 kox for her to sit on, and then stood bending down to talk 
 to her with courteous attention which would have brought 
 tears of envy to Joan’s eyes, had she seen him. 
 
 “ What a shame of them to drag you out in the rain,” 
 said he sympathetically. 
 
 “Oh, no!” she answered, smiling. “I am glad to be 
 dragged anywhere, in any weather, as a change from the 
 musty old school rooom.” 
 
 “ I suppose you are. I can’t imagine how any girl can 
 become a governess.” 
 
 She looked up at him in pathetic surprise. 
 
 “I don’t suppose any girl likes to be a governess ; but 
 there is nothing else for her if she is poor.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, there is— there’s the Thames!” 
 
 “But you wouldn’t recommend that, surely?” 
 
 “ I don’t know that I wouldn’t. I would try it myself, 
 rather than endeavor to cram knowledge into the heads of 
 little fools who will never be any the better for it.” 
 
 “ Oh, don’t say that,” she entreated. “It is just what 
 I am tempted to think myself sometimes ; but, if I gave 
 way and really did believe I wasn’t doing them any good 
 at all, just think what a martyrdom my life would be!” 
 “So it is,” said he, looking with his eyes a stronger 
 meaning than his words bore. 
 
 She cast hers down and blushed. She had all a girl’s 
 thirst for admiration, and the unaccustomed attention of 
 a handsome man threw fresh charm into her manner. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE \ 2$ 
 
 brightened her eyes, and made her lovelier than she 
 dreamed. 
 
 “If not the Thames, what is there — what profession?” 
 Bhe asked as his eyes answered her. 
 
 “ Well, there is the stage.” 
 
 “The stage!” she echoed, in horror. “You wouldn’t 
 advise that, surely!” 
 
 “You speak of it with more horror than of the Thames. ” 
 “ Why, yes! I’d rather be a corpse than an actress!” 
 
 “ But you wouldn’t have such a lively time of it,” said 
 he, dryly. 
 
 “ But, oh, to be stared at by everybody, and to paint, 
 and be among horrid people, and for everybody else to 
 
 look down upon you, and Oh, I should not like it at 
 
 all.” 
 
 “Well, isn’t it better to be looked at by everybody than 
 not to be looked at, at all? But I suggested it only as an 
 alternative to the Thames. Seriously, the Vicarage school- 
 room must be a dull place.” 
 
 “ It is. But I am going to leave it,” she answered, look- 
 ing away, and her face flushing. 
 
 “Are you? I thought you would not be able to stand it 
 long. You may do much better, and, at any rate, you 
 have the satisfaction of knowing that you can’t do worse.” 
 “I don’t know about that,” said she, very gravely. 
 
 “At any rate, you will have a pleasant holiday among 
 your friends first.” 
 
 She gave a rather grim smile. 
 
 “I don’t know about that, either. A semi-detached 
 villa in the suburbs, among a family of children compared 
 to whom the Main war in gs are angels, is not the place one 
 would choose for a holiday.” 
 
 “You have a lot of young brothers and sisters, then?” 
 “Oh, no, I have none! I am an orphan; so I have to 
 spend my spare time with an aunt who doesn’t particu- 
 larly want me.” 
 
 “ That is hard lines. Then you will teach again?” 
 
 “Yes, if I can get any pupils,” said she, rather sadly, 
 thinking how much the shortness of her stay at the Vicar- 
 age would be against her chances of getting another en- 
 gagement. “ Not like this, though ! I shall take lodgings 
 in London and try to get daily pupils, for music, perhaps. 
 Then I shall have more time to myself, and I can study 
 better.” 
 
 “ But you know enough already; and you will be fright- 
 fully dull if you live by yourself.” 
 
 “ Not so dull as I am here. And, when I have got on 
 with music and other things, I shall take another resident 
 
30 
 
 "A VAGRANT WIFE \ 
 
 engagement— abroad this time. I think I should like to 
 go to Russia or Canada.” 
 
 “Have you many friends in London?” 
 
 “No. I had some once, before papa died. But one falls 
 out of the way of one’s friends somehow when one gets 
 very poor. It isn’t their fault, and it doesn’t seem to be 
 one’s own; but it always happens.” 
 
 “I want you to promise me something,” said George, 
 in a low voice. 
 
 She looked up inquiringly. 
 
 “I want you to promise to give me your address in Lon- 
 don if you settle there by yourself.” 
 
 Miss Lane hesitated. She was very much touched by 
 his sympathy, very anxious not to lose it by offending him ; 
 but she did not think his request was one which she could 
 or ought to grant. Independence had made her careful. 
 
 “ I have not the least idea where I shall be, or if I shall 
 be able to carry out my plan at all,” said she, evasively. 
 
 “ Where there is a will there is a way, you know; and 
 I should think that is more the case with you than with 
 most people.” 
 
 “You are laughing at me. You think me too strong- 
 minded.” 
 
 “ I will tell you what I think of you when you have an- 
 swered me. Now will you promise?” 
 
 “I don’t see of what use knowing my address would be 
 to you, because as I shall be living quite alone, I can’t ever 
 see any one.” 
 
 “That doesn’t follow. Do you mean that you would 
 live the life of a hermit, and condemn yourself to solitary 
 confinement of your own free will?” 
 
 “ For a time. There is no help for it.” 
 
 “Yes, there is. We are going up to town, some of us, 
 before long. I will ask my mother and Lilian to call on 
 you. But I must know your address. And I could send 
 you tickets for concerts and things, where you could go 
 with your pupils, if you wouldn’t let any one accompany 
 you who would enjoy it more. Would you let me take 
 you to a concert?” he said, bending lower. 
 
 Miss Lane looked nervously down, then entreatingly up. 
 “ I couldn’t,” she said, in a low voice. 
 
 He saw the pleading reluctance in her eyes, and pressed 
 his advantage. 
 
 “ You do not know how unhappy it makes me to think 
 of your sacrificing your bright life alone in a dingy Lon- 
 don lodging. However nice your pupils and their friends 
 may be to you, their affection or — or esteem — can never be 
 $o strong as that of your own disinterested friends.” 
 
 He knew hovf to throw into these words a feeling and 
 
A Vagrant wife. ai 
 
 warmth which made the girl’s cheeks flush. There was a 
 pause. 
 
 “You do believe in my friendship, do you not?’ ’ he asked, 
 more softly still. 
 
 •“ Of course I do,” answered the girl, looking up with an 
 effort. “I — I-am sure you mean to be very kind, Mr. 
 Braith waite. ” 
 
 “ Then don’t be too unkind to me. Promise me that 
 you will send me your address in town.” 
 
 “ I cannot,” said the girl; then, glancing round, she saw 
 fixed upon her glassily the light, colorless eyes of her eld- 
 est pupil Joan. 
 
 Defiant bitterness and a dozen kindred feelings woke up 
 within the little governess. 
 
 “I promise/’ said she; and she let him take her hand 
 and press it gently in his* 
 
 He turned and saw Joan— saw the malignant look in her 
 eyes, and knew that she had been watching them. Noth- 
 ing could have pleased him better. 
 
 “Ah, Miss Mainwaring, have you too been listening to 
 Lord Ben Nevis’ speech? Not a bad speaker, though he 
 gets rather in a tangle with ’ is quotations sometimes.” 
 
 Joan would have liked to say something satirical, but 
 nothing occurred to her. She had even to swallow her im 
 dignation so far as to talk quite amicably to this deceitful 
 Lovelace, and to persuade herself into thinking that, 
 though he might amuse himself for a few odd moments 
 with that little Miss Lane, he found a taller, slimmer, less 
 talky woman more permanently attractive. Still he had 
 certainly been looking at Miss Lane, as he bent over her, 
 where she sat in a corner of the tent, in an irritatingly 
 admiring manner. 
 
 The truth was, though he scarcely acknowledged it to 
 himself, that he was really a little in love with Miss Lane. 
 She was not only sweetly pretty, but “good style,” the 
 best-dressed woman there, in his opinion, not even except- 
 ing his sister. And he had no intention of losing sight of 
 her. And why should he? She was already predisposed 
 in his favor; she had few friends — none who could warn 
 her that he was a dangerous acquaintance ; she was going 
 to live alone a dull life which would make her hail with 
 gratitude any companionship as pleasant as he felt his to 
 be to her; he would have many a dull and idle hour in 
 town which might be pleasantly filled up by the charitable 
 act of taking the pretty, prim little lady to a theater, or he 
 would not even mind a picture-gallery, if she proved en- 
 tertaining enough to reward him for such waste of his 
 time. It would be pleasant for her, pleasant for him ; and, 
 as she had no friends, it could do her no harm in the eyes 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 of the world which ignored her. He left the ground, sat- 
 isfied that he had put this matter well in train. 
 
 She, meanwhile, in spite of one more degree of frost in 
 the manner of her companions, went back to the Vicarage 
 with them, feeling happier than she had felt for a long 
 time. The kindly sympathy of this man, whose handsome 
 face grew so soft when he spoke to her, and who had been 
 her favorite among the Braithwaite brothers from the 
 first, had taken her out of the shell of reserve she wore 
 among the torpid natures around her. As she thought 
 over the event of the day to her, that low-spoken conver- 
 sation in the corner of the tent; recalled again each tone, 
 each look of his ; felt again in fancy the warm pressure of 
 his hand, the question would rise in her mind, “Does he 
 love me?” And she fell asleep, scarcely daring to hope, 
 yet half believing that he did. At the moment when he 
 said good-bye he had contrived to ask her on what day she 
 was going back to London, and, almost without thinking 
 what she was doing, she had told him. Would he be there 
 to see her off, she wondered. 
 
 But the little fantastic dream she was indulging was not 
 to last long. Joan was the person to destroy it. Within 
 a few days of Miss Lane’s departure she asked her mother 
 at tea-time if she had heard that George Braithwaite was 
 going to be married. 
 
 “Dear me, no !” said Mrs. Mainwaring. “ Who told you 
 about it, Joan?” 
 
 “I heard it at the Lawsons’. It is to some cotton- 
 lady, it appears, with large feet and a large fortune. I 
 wonder how they will get on together; they say he never 
 admires any woman of his own rank. But, then, I sup- 
 pose he doesn’t consider a cotton- lady to be of his own 
 rank ; or perhaps he thinks more of her fortune than her 
 face. I suppose that is necessary, with such a character 
 for being dissipated as he has.” • 
 
 Mrs. Mainwaring gave a warning glance from her eldest 
 daughter to her husband. But the vicar did not mind 
 a little bit of mild scandal— it amused him ; and the rep- 
 utation of the Braithwaite boys could hardly be injured by 
 anything Joan might say. So she went on with all she 
 had heard, and her own comments thereon, every word in- 
 flicting a wound, as, perhaps, she meant it to do upon one 
 of her hearers. 
 
 Annie Lane walked back to her cottage that night with 
 heart too sore for study. So he had been only amusing 
 himself with her, after all, as she might have known he 
 was doing ! She should have known better than to trust 
 another Braithwaite after Harry’s conduct toward her. 
 She felt utterly humiliated and fierce with indignation 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 88 
 
 against them. She had been the plaything of both, and 
 the girlish pleasure she had felt in their admiration and 
 attention had been dearly paid for. 
 
 She had one small revenge upon George. On Sunday, 
 the day before her departure, he went to church and 
 found an opportunity to whisper to her as they came out: 
 
 “ I am going to see you off to-morrow. I shall be at the 
 station.” 
 
 All the girl’s proud spirit flashed from her dark eyes as 
 she raised her little head, and looking full into his face, 
 said distinctly : 
 
 “ I must beg that you will do nothing of the kind.” 
 
 He was amazed, but was clever enough to suppress 
 everything but one quick glance of annoyance and sur- 
 prise. Then he merely elevated his eyebrows, raised his 
 hat, and with a careless “As you please,” went on to 
 Joan Main waring. 
 
 The next day Miss Lane took a cold farewell of the fam- 
 ily in which she had worked so hard, and was allowed to 
 go by herself in a cab to Beckham Station. She had been 
 able to remain calm in the face of them all ; but before the 
 two-mile drive was over, she was half -blind with tears. 
 To be dismissed so coldly when she had tried so hard to 
 do her duty well and to please them! To be dismissed, 
 too, with an undeserved stain upon her character! It 
 was too hard, too cruel, that at the outset of her life, when 
 her very livelihood depended upon her own efforts, she 
 should find herself clogged by this most unjust burden. 
 
 She was drying her eyes and trying to look as if she had 
 not been crying as the cab reached the town, when a 
 young man on horseback, who was riding in the opposite 
 direction, passed, caught sight of her, and turning his 
 horse’s head, followed the cab into the station. She was 
 late, and the ticket-office was already open. She had just 
 taken her ticket, and was walking away, with her eyes 
 upon the purse in her hand, when a voice by her side made 
 her look up with a start. It was Harry’s. 
 
 He was all mud-splashed with hard riding, his face was 
 red and ashamed, and his voice was low and unsteady. 
 
 “ Miss Lane, let me see after your luggage. Do— do let 
 me, or— or I shall never forgive myself!” 
 
 She pointed it out to him very quietly, without a word 
 except “ Thank you.” 
 
 He saw it put into the van, found a corner-seat for her in 
 an empty second-class carriage, helped her in, and stood by 
 the door nervously twisting the heavy handle. 
 
 “When are the holidays over, Miss Lane? When are 
 you coming back?” 
 
 “ I am not coming back here.” 
 
34 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 She turned away her head ; the tears were breaking forth 
 again. 
 
 “ Not coming back ! Why?” he cried, quickly. 
 
 Her tears were flowing fast now. She looked at him 
 with one swift glance of misery and reproach, and whis- 
 pered brokenly: 
 
 “ You ought to know why. Betty— Betty saw you!” 
 
 Harry sprung up on the step. 
 
 “ What— that day when I — when I behaved like — like a 
 cad? And you are going away because of me?” 
 
 The hasty, passionate nature of the lad was moved to a 
 mighty impulse of remorse. She could only answer, pity- 
 ing him and holding out her hand while she tried to smile 
 through her tears : 
 
 “Nevermind — nevermind! I have forgiven you long 
 ago. I — I— I only told you because you asked.” 
 
 He had seized her offered hand, when the guard came 
 up to shut the door. 
 
 “ Going, sir?” 
 
 “ Yes!” cried Harry, carried away by the impulse of the 
 moment. 
 
 He jumped into the carriage, the door was locked, the 
 train was in motion, and he and Miss Lane had started to* 
 gether for London. 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 That night there was consternation at the Grange— 
 Harry had not returned. His horse, which he had left in 
 charge of a man he knew at the station, was brought 
 back late in the day to Garstone, with the intelligence 
 that his master had gone by the London train. The man 
 said he thought it must have been a sudden determination 
 of Mr. Braithwaite’s, who had only said, when he left the 
 horse in his care : 
 
 “ I shall be back in five minutes, Tom. He’ll keep quiet 
 enough; he doesn’t mind the trains.” 
 
 Such a freak was not at all an unheard-of thing among 
 the Braith waites, and little more was thought of it after 
 Sir George’s return home that evening, for he looked 
 upon it as an escapade which would end in the truant’s re- 
 turn the next day with an empty pocket and the appear- 
 ance of having been up all night. 
 
 But, when a week passed, and still no tidings were heard 
 of him, and when, moreover, it came to be known that 
 the late governess of the Mainwarings had left Beckham 
 by the same train, and, as appeared later, in the same 
 carriage, then the people of the village and the people in 
 the town began to chatter, George to swear, and the Vicar 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 35 
 
 of Gar stone to look very grave. Mrs. Main waring wrote 
 to the aunt to whose house Miss Lane had said she was 
 going, and received in answer the news that the girl had 
 not arrived, but had written, without giving her address, 
 to say she was in lodgings in London. And Mrs. Main- 
 waring repented her abrupt harshness most bitterly, and 
 did not need the reproaches of her husband, who blamed 
 now his own inaction in allowing the young girl-gover- 
 ness’ abrupt dismissal. Joan and Betty ceased their snap- 
 pish comments on her, and talked together in whispers 
 about her. And at the Grange they wondered how Harry 
 was getting on without any money, for they knew he had 
 only a small sum with him on the day he left Beckham. 
 
 Then came a letter from a friend of Sir George’s, saying 
 that Harry had been seen in Paris, where he seemed to be 
 enjoying himself very much. And then an event hap- 
 pened which, for the time, turned all thoughts away from 
 the truant son. 
 
 Sir George, who passed most of his time on horseback, 
 was riding home one afternoon on a horse which had car- 
 ried him safely through many a hard day’s hunting, when, 
 in taking a fence, with a ditch on the further side, over 
 which they had gone easily time after time together, the 
 horse slipped on landing, and rolled into the ditch on the 
 top of his rider. Sir George tried to rise, but found that 
 he was too much hurt to do so; he called for help, but 
 fainted with pain before any came. At last a man who 
 was passing with a cart saw him, and brought others to 
 the spot by his shouts. They carried him home to the 
 Grange, the doctor was ridden for with all speed, and, be- 
 fore night came, all Garstone knew that the baronet’s life 
 was in danger. Day after day he lingered on, though the 
 hope of his recovery grew slender; hour after hour he lay 
 conscious, but silent to all. The only person he asked for 
 was the missing Harry. Every morning he asked the 
 same questions. 
 
 “ Has Harry come back? Has any one heard from 
 him?” 
 
 And every morning the reply was the same. There 
 were no tidings of him. 
 
 At last one evening George entered his father’s room 
 with a face dark with ill news. Sir George knew that 
 something had happened which his son scarcely dared to 
 tell him. His eyes brightened with stern eagerness. 
 
 “ Well, speak out. You have heard news of Harry— bad 
 news?” 
 
 “Yes, bad news.” 
 
 4 ‘ Is he dead?” 
 
 “ No.” 
 
36 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “ Worse?** 
 
 44 1 — I think so; I am afraid so.” 
 
 “ Go on. I am not afraid to hear.” 
 
 44 1 have just received a letter from Stanmer & Lloyd.” 
 
 44 Ah ” — the sick man drew a sharp breath — 44 the bank- 
 ers! Well?” 
 
 44 They wrote about a check which ” 
 
 “Was forged?” 
 
 44 They think so. It was in your name, and for three 
 hundred pounds.” 
 
 There was a long silence. When Sir George spoke again, 
 his voice was changed. 
 
 44 It must be hushed up. And you must find out the 
 boy and bring him back to me. If — if I were well, it 
 might be different; but I must forgive him now. You will 
 find him out, George?” 
 
 “Yes, father.” 
 
 Sir George lay back again in silence; but his face was 
 still very stern; there was remorse for his own conduct as 
 well as shame for his ill-brought-up sons in the expression 
 it wore. 
 
 George went up to town the next day, and fulfilled the 
 first part of his father’s commission, that relating to the 
 check, without much difficulty; but he failed to find a 
 clew to his brother’s hiding-place, if he were in hiding, 
 which George doubted. It was more characteristic of the 
 Braith waites to do wrong and brave the consequences 
 openly; and this course, while apparently favoring detec- 
 tion, often proved the safest. 
 
 Then a suggestion occurred to him for tracking the run- 
 away. He wrote to Mrs. Main waring for the address of 
 Miss Lane’s aunt, and, on the day he received it, he 
 knocked in the afternoon at the door of a very small semi- 
 detached house a few miles out of London. The door had 
 figured glass let into it in place of the upper panels, and 
 he saw a face pressed against one of these in doubtful con- 
 templation of him some minutes after his second ring. 
 His hand was on the bell for the third time, when the door 
 was opened, and a little servant with a very small and 
 very dirty face asked what he wanted. He had not got 
 further than to ask doubtfully if Mrs. Mansfield lived 
 there when she turned round and abruptly left him stand- 
 ing at the entrance of the most pretentious “hall.” for its 
 size, that he had ever seen. For it was esthetically 
 papered, and had an inappropriate dado, while a pair of 
 ugly China monsters left scarcely room for the stranger to 
 pass between them and the umbrella-stand. It was so 
 small that he could distinctly hear the conversation which 
 followed in the backyard. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 37 
 
 “ It’s a gentleman, ma’am, who wants to see you— such 
 a nice gentleman, in a great long coat !’ ’ 
 
 “ Did you show him into the drawing-room?” 
 
 “No, ma’am.” 
 
 “ Show him in at once, and then you hang up the rest of 
 the stockings. Say I will be with him in a minute, and 
 take the pin out of my gown behind.” Then, in a severe 
 tone, “You dirty little thing, you are not fit to speak to a 
 visitor!” And indeed this domestic did not harmonize 
 well with the dado. 
 
 The small servant showed Georg e into a tiny room, the 
 furniture and arrangement of which told more of its 
 owner’s history than the hall had done. For it was a 
 room which belonged to an anterior period of civilization. 
 The carpet was of the aggressive kind, with old-fashioned 
 impossibly -colored roses. There was an inlaid round table, 
 
 much too big for the room, jutting a long way out of one 
 corner; the piano was worn and old-fashioned, the chairs 
 were evidently relics of two or three different suits of fur- 
 niture. The books were suggestive too — the “ Pilgrim’s 
 Progress,” with much gilt on the binding, odd numbers of 
 the Sunday at Home , and the current number of the Quiver , 
 two or three Keepsakes , some little-used volumes of miscel- 
 laneous poetry, which looked like school-prizes, et cetera. 
 But the ornaments spoke more plainly than anything in 
 the room -large, blue -glass vases on the mantel-piece, 
 crochet antimacassars, each of a different pattern, over 
 the chairs; and every ornament stood on a wool mat. 
 
 He had to wait some time; he heard Mrs. Mansfield 
 go softly past the door and up the stairs, and the small 
 servant follow her with hot water, as he could tell by her 
 spilling it as she went along. Presently the door opened, 
 and a woman of about forty, dressed in rusty black, much 
 covered by trimmings which enhanced the shabbiness they 
 were meant to hide, came in and apologized more than was 
 necessary. 
 
 He stated the object of his visit as soon as he could. He 
 had come on behalf of his mother and some other friends 
 of Miss Lane, to find out her address. 
 
 “I could not have given it you myself before this 
 morning,” said Mrs. Mansfield. “ She has written twice 
 to me since she left Garstone; but it was only in the let- 
 ter I received to-day from her that she put any address. 
 She is lodging in London by herself, and trying to get daily 
 pupils.” 
 
 “ Are you going to see her?” asked George. 
 
 “No, I have no time; she knows that herself, and 
 doesn’t expect me,” 
 
38 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “ Do you approve of her plan of living by herself? It 
 seems a strange one for such a young girl.” 
 
 “Indeed Annie doesn’t trouble herself about my ap- 
 proval. I can’t say I think it a proper thing for a girl to 
 do who has been brought up like Annie; but she is so ob- 
 stinate-just like her mother, my poor sister.” 
 
 “ It is a great pity that she does not consult you more,” 
 said George deferentially. “ Having no mother, she ought 
 certainly to defer to you as her representative.” 
 
 “That is just what Isay!” cried Mrs. Mansfield, grow- 
 ing confidential. “ I have begged her to come and live 
 here; the house is certainly smaller than she is used to, 
 but still it’s a home, and she would be more comfortable, 
 or she ought to be ” — this with some asperity— “ among 
 her own relations.” 
 
 “Certainly,” said George, with conviction. He had just 
 caught the sound of children quarreling and screaming 
 up-stairs, and his thoughts hardly went with his words. 
 
 “She might go backward and forward to town for her 
 music-lessons from here quite easily; and why should she 
 not get daily pupils about here as well as in town, if she 
 has made up her mind to that? Then she would have 
 the comforts of a home to come to in the evening, and 
 she might amuse herself in her spare time by helping me 
 to teach my own children. ” 
 
 “ It wouid be a delightful arrangement,” said George, 
 with fervor; then, growing bold — “And, as she is a nice, 
 lady- like girl, I have no d oubt she would soon find a hus- 
 band among her own friends. ” 
 
 Mrs. Mansfield shook her head, with her lips drawn 
 tightly together. 
 
 “I am sorry to say, Mr. Braith waite, that Annie con- 
 siders herself too good for my friends. I don’t wish to say 
 anything against one of my own blood ; but I must say I 
 don’t think such high-and -mighty airs becoming. It is not 
 as if she was living now as she did when her father was 
 alive, and when nothing was too good for her.” 
 
 “ Her father was well off, I believe?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes; and, if he had been prudent, instead of spend- 
 ing heaps of money upon her education, he would have 
 left her a little to live upon!” 
 
 “It must be a hard change for her, though. She is so 
 young, and of course it is so natural to spoil a beautiful 
 girl.” 
 
 This rather rash speech caused Mrs. Mansfield to draw 
 herself up. 
 
 “ Well, I can’t say that I see her beauty myself! I don’t 
 say she is a bad-looking girl; but I don’t think her face is 
 likely tQ do much for her: in my young days gentle ; . 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 men looked for something more than a pretty face in a 
 wife, though to be sure they liked a pair of fine eyes too!” 
 
 George gathered from her manner of saying this that 
 she judged her own vacant, round, bead like eyes to be 
 handsome; and he smiled a compliment, which brought a 
 gratified but not becoming blush to her particularly plain 
 face. 
 
 Before long he succeeded in getting from her Miss Lane’s 
 address, in one of the streets off Regent Street; and, pon- 
 dering this choice of a rather expensive locality, he left 
 Mrs. Mansfield’s domestic paradise, and returned to town. 
 At his hotel he found the following telegram : 
 
 “ Come back at once. Sir George much worse. Harry 
 has returned.” 
 
 That night he was again at the Grange— not a minute 
 too soon. They told him, on his arrival, that his father 
 was not expected to live till morning, and he went straight 
 up to the sickroom. Harry was there on his knees by the 
 bedside, very still and grave and unlike himself. Sir 
 
 George opened his eyes as his eldest son came in. 
 
 “George,” said he, with difficulty, “I have forgiven 
 him. Don’t let it be mentioned again. I cut him out of 
 my will a week ago; it is too late to alter it. Promise me 
 to provide for him.” 
 
 “I promise,” said George, in a low voice. 
 
 “ Call the rest. It’s near now.” 
 
 And they came one by one softly into the room. An old 
 hound, a great favorite of his, slipped in too, slunk up to 
 the bed, and wagged his tail at the master he had missed 
 for days. 
 
 “ Hallo, Diamond, come to say good-bye to me?” 
 
 And the hound, thus encouraged, licked his master’s 
 hand. 
 
 “ Have you forgotten the old days, Diamond? They are 
 over for me as well as for you now, my old beauty !” Then, 
 gathering a remnant of strength, he gave a ringing “ View- 
 halloo!” 
 
 The hound bounded away in great excitement among the 
 silent figures in the room, then came back, and once more 
 licked his master’s hand. But he got no answering caress, 
 for the hand was still forever. 
 
 The days which followed between Sir George’s death 
 and the funeral were an awkward time for Harry and his 
 eldest brother. The younger purposely held aloof, and 
 avoided any private conversation with the present head of 
 the family. Only once did George catch him alone, and 
 instantly took advantage of the opportunity. 
 
 “Don’t go,” said he, laying his hand on the arm of his 
 
40 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 brother, who was going to leave the stable as he entered 
 it. “I have been waiting for a chance to speak to you. 
 Our father left your future in my hands, you know,” ho 
 added, in a tone which, if he chose, the other might take 
 as a warning. 
 
 “Well, what is it?” asked Harry, impatiently. 
 
 “ Don’t be so fidgety. It is nothing unpleasant. I only 
 want to know if you can tell me where to find the Main- 
 warings’ late governess, Miss Lane?” 
 
 “ And you said you had nothing unpleasant to say! I 
 call it unpleasant — confoundedly unpleasant — to ask me 
 such a question ! As if I had anything to do with Miss 
 Lane! What do you want to know for?” His manner 
 changed from sullen to fierce with this question. 
 
 “Your manner is a little inconsistent. If you know 
 nothing about her, why are you so angry when I ask you 
 if you do?” 
 
 “ I don’t care to be put through my catechism. You ask 
 more questions than my father did. ’ ’ 
 
 “Then he spoke to you about this matter?” 
 
 “What if he did?” 
 
 “ And you told him the truth?” 
 
 “Yes, the truth. I swear it! But I am not bound to 
 answer your questions, and I won’t. Take your hand off 
 my arm ; do you hear?” 
 
 “Only one question. When you have answered it, I 
 won’t bother you again. Do you know where Miss Lane 
 lives?” 
 
 A light suddenly came into his brother’s eyes, and he 
 answered readily : 
 
 “ I haven’t the least idea where Miss Lane lives; I swear 
 it!” 
 
 His brother took his hand sharply off his arm and 
 turned away. He thought it was a lie ; but he had no 
 means of extracting the truth. He was more interested in 
 Miss Lane than the younger guessed, more anxious for 
 the interview he was about to seek with the prim little 
 girl than he had ever been before about a meeting with a 
 woman. 
 
 He had to keep his impatience in check until the 
 funeral was over; but on the very day after, the young 
 baronet went up to town and to the address Mrs. Mans- 
 field had given him. 
 
 “Is Miss Lane at home?” he asked of the servant who 
 opened the door. “ Ask if she will see Sir George Braith- 
 waite,” he added, as the girl did not answer. 
 
 She left him in the hall while she went up stairs, and 
 then returned and asked him to walk up. And in the sit- 
 ting-room into which he was shown sat Miss Lane— but 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 41 
 
 not the downcast little creature of Garstone Vicarage 
 days — a little, smiling fairy in cream- colored muslin, with 
 a rose at her throat, and a small hand put out in welcome. 
 After the first greetings, her glance fell on his deep hat' 
 band. 
 
 “ My father is dead,” said he. 
 
 She looked grave and sorry at once, but not so much 
 surprised as if the fact of his illness had been unknown 
 to her. 
 
 “You had heard of his accident?” 
 
 “Yes, I saw it in the papers,” she answered, blushing, 
 and not looking at him. 
 
 He looked at her searchingly. Who could have told her 
 all about it but Harry? 
 
 “Were they all there when he died?” she asked, 
 softly. 
 
 “All the family were there — yes. Didn’t you know?” 
 
 “How could I know, Sir George? I have not kept up 
 correspondence with the Mainwarings. They do not care 
 enough about me.” 
 
 “ But you left others behind you at Garstone who did,” 
 said he, more hurriedly than he generally spoke such 
 speeches, for his heart was beating faster. 
 
 He had never yet looked on a woman who so completely 
 fulfilled his ideal of a beautiful and graceful lady. A pas- 
 sionate wish sprung up in him that he might be mistaken 
 in spite of all, and that his brother might have no interest 
 for her. He glanced at her hands; they were ringless. 
 He would fain have convinced himself that the very 
 glance of her steadfast brown eyes proved her to be in- 
 nocent of any evil. Yet these rooms, this dainty dress, 
 did not proclaim the struggling governess out of work. 
 For the first time it flashed across his mind, as he looked 
 at her, that, if only she could convince him that she was 
 as free and as pure as he would fain believe, he, Sir George 
 Braithwaite of Garston Grange, would be ready to marry 
 the little governess out of employment. 
 
 She had noticed his compliment only by a short, sharp 
 breath, and asked after the vicar’s family to divert the 
 conversation. 
 
 “I am sure I shall like daily teaching much better than 
 my life with them,” she went on quickly. 
 
 “ You have some pupils then?” 
 
 “ Not yet. I — there have been difficulties in the way of 
 my getting any before now; but I hope to do so soon,” she 
 said, hurriedly. 
 
 “And you don’t find this life dull?” said Sir George, 
 his jealousy awake again. 
 
 “Oh, no!” 
 
42 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “ I suppose your friends come to see you very often?” 
 
 “ No; I don’t have many visitors.” 
 
 “Perhaps they don’t know where you are. You know 
 you promised to give me your address; but you never 
 did. You left me to find it out as best I could for my- 
 self.” 
 
 “ It— it is very kind of you to come,” said the girl, 
 flushing, “How did you find me out?” she asked, anx- 
 iously. 
 
 “ I asked Mrs. Mainwaring for your aunt’s address, and 
 went from Garstone to her house.” 
 
 “ You went all the way to my aunt’s!” 
 
 “I would have gone to the world’s end to find you!” 
 He left his seat and stood by the mantel piece, bending 
 over her. “Didn’t you know I loved you? You were 
 kind to me that day at the flower show. You promised 
 me your address, you told me the train you were going 
 by.” She was trying to stop him; but it was out of her 
 power now. “Then, when I said I would see you off, as 
 your own words had given me the right to do, you gave 
 me a cruel snub. And then you let Harry see you off, and 
 — and travel up to town with you, they say.” 
 
 She had risen, and was confronting him with bright, 
 eager eyes. 
 
 “I did not let him — I did not expect him. He came, 
 and I could not prevent it.” 
 
 “Is that true, my darling?” cried George, passionately. 
 She was standing, with upturned face, close to him. He 
 threw his arms round her. 
 
 “Then you don’t love him! You have nothing to do 
 with him and his forgeries?” 
 
 “ Forgeries?” she cried, paralyzed even while she tried 
 to free herself. 
 
 As they stood, he with one arm round her, she still with 
 horror, Harry came in. He sprung upon his brother and 
 tore the trembling girl out of his arms. 
 
 “ Oh, is this true? Is it true? You heard what he said !” 
 she cried, with a shudder. 
 
 “ Is it a time to accuse me when I find you in another 
 man’s arms?” he cried, fiercely. 
 
 “ And by what right do you object to her being any- 
 where she pleases?” 
 
 “ Pleases?” 
 
 “Yes. You swore to me two days ago that you did not 
 know where Miss Lane lived. It was a lie!” 
 
 “ It was not a lie. There is no such person as Miss Lane. 
 This is Mrs. Harry Braith waite, my wife!” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 4a 
 
 CHAPTER YI. 
 
 When Harry uttered the words “ My wife!” his brother 
 looked from one to the other for a few moments without a, 
 word; then* in a low, sullen voice, he said: 
 
 “ You have tricked me and deceived me, both of you. 
 It was very clever — very clever indeed, but hardly wise. I 
 won’t take up your time any longer now.” Then, turning 
 to Annie, he continued, ”1 am much obliged to you for 
 your kind welcome. I must apologize for having brought 
 down your husband’s anger upon you; but, you see, you 
 left me rather in the dark.” Then to Harry — “You will 
 hear from me in a day or two. Our father made me 
 promise to provide for you, and I have a proposal to 
 make which I don’t think you will find ungenerous. Send 
 me an answer as quickly as you can.” 
 
 He shook his brother’s hand and then Annie’s and left 
 the room. Harry turned to his wife, looking rather anx- 
 ious. 
 
 “ He is going to do something nasty, Annie— I am sure 
 of it. I know George’s manner when he is spiteful, and 
 our chances look very bad, darling. No more Paris, no 
 more pretty gowns, for the present, at any rate!” 
 
 But Annie did not answer. With trembling fingers she 
 was pulling to pieces the flower which had fallen from her 
 throat. 
 
 “Why, Annie, what is the matter? You look ill— you 
 are crying!” 
 
 “ I am not ill,” said she, repulsing him. “ I am heart- 
 sick, miserable.” 
 
 “But you mustn’t give way like that, my darling. 
 George will have to come round. He sha’n’t make my 
 wife spoil her pretty eyes.” 
 
 “ It is not George,” she said, with fire. “Do you think 
 I am such a coward as to mind not having pretty dresses? 
 What was that he said about forgery?” 
 
 “ Oh, nothing to make such a fuss about !” answered the 
 young fellow sulkily. “I was hard up, I had no money 
 for our wedding trip, and I couldn’t help it. It wasn’t as 
 if I committed a crime, and copied somebody else’s name, 
 it was my own father’s. I knew it would be all right, and 
 :so it was. He hushed it up directly, and said hardly any- 
 thing about it.” 
 
 “You call that nothing!” said Annie, raising her eyes 
 wide with horror to his face. 
 
 “Of course I know it was wrong,” replied he impa- 
 tiently; “ but there was nothing else to be done. I could 
 
44 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 not have married you without, or you would have had to 
 pass your honeymoon in an attic.” 
 
 “ I would rather have passed it as a tramp on the high- 
 road than as we did, if I had known.” 
 
 “ Well, you are an ungrateful little cat. When I thought 
 of nothing but pleasing you and buying you pretty things 
 from morning till night.” 
 
 “Pretty things that were bought with stolen money !” 
 
 “How dare you say such thing to me?” he shouted. 
 “Don’t you know I’m your husband; and do you suppose 
 I am not the best judge of my own conduct? Do you sup- 
 pose I should ever do anything a gentleman need be 
 ashamed of?” 
 
 “I think you have done a thing a beggar would be 
 ashamed of.” 
 
 “Thank you, thank you ! You call me a beggar and you 
 call me a thief. I shall be a murderer next, I suppose; 
 and, by Jove, it would serve you right if I were. Haven’t 
 I behaved well to you? Didn’t I come to London with you 
 just to stop you from crying? And didn’t I marry you 
 when I knew very well that all my family would disap- 
 prove of it?” 
 
 “Oh, yes; you made a noble sacrifice. I am deeply 
 grateful to you for throwing yourself away. It spoils the 
 look of it a little, though, that your elder brother was will- 
 ing to do so, too, if you hadn’t been beforehand with 
 him.” 
 
 “You may say what you like; but it is a sacrifice of a 
 man's liberty to marry at twenty. As for George, I be- 
 lieve you like him better than me all the time. Answer 
 me — do you — did you ever care for him?” demanded he 
 roughly. 
 
 “ I shall not answer your insulting questions,” said the 
 young wife, in a very calm voice; ana, as quickly as she 
 could, she left the room. For she felt as if her heart were 
 breaking; this sharp wrangle had made her almost hys- 
 terical, and she did not want to break down before the 
 husband whom, for the time at least, she despised and all 
 but hated. 
 
 Already during the few weeks of their wedded , life, it 
 had needed all the strength of his outbursts of demon- 
 strative affection, all the bright contentment she felt at 
 her release from schoolroom drudgery, to cloak the fact 
 that they had not one taste, one sympathy in common; 
 that their tempers were ill suited to each other, and the 
 moral standard of the wife as different from that of the 
 husband as light from darkness. This crime, which Harry 
 had made light of, tore down the last shred of illusion 
 from before the eyes of the wife of eighteen. She had 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 45 
 
 made an awful mistake. Carried away by the passionate 
 pleading of a headstrong boy at a time when she felt her- 
 self to be utterly friendless, and when his impulsive re- 
 morse had seemed to her to show a high and generous 
 nature, she had bound herself by a tie which would last 
 her life to an ignorant, uncouth, unprincipled lad who did 
 not even love her. For already the sensitive woman felt 
 that his caresses were growing careless; and she. knew 
 that no husband of a few weeks could have used the words 
 Harry had used to-day to a woman for whom he cared 
 deeply. 
 
 Harry had gone out; and for three long hours Annie 
 knelt on the floor by the bed pondering what she should 
 do with her life, and praying for help to show her where 
 her duty lay. She came to a resolution strangely wise for 
 so young a woman; and, when her husband returned, she 
 was as nearly her usual bright s elf as she could manage to 
 be. Harry, of course, did not appreciate the struggle she 
 had gone through before she could do this, but came to 
 the conclusion that she saw how silly she had been to 
 make such a fuss about a trifle which did not concern her, 
 and thought it was time for him to show a little just in- 
 dignation at finding his brother’s arm round her. 
 
 But she stopped him with surprising promptness, as if 
 his remarks were beneath argument. He began to bluster 
 a little. 
 
 “Do you really doubt the propriety of my conduct?” she 
 asked, coldly. 
 
 “ Well, it is not a usual thing, is it, to find one’s wife — 
 er — er— like that?” 
 
 “ Is it a usual thing for a wife to be requested by her 
 husband to conceal the fact that she is married, especially 
 from his relatives?” 
 
 “ Why, no, of course not! And it doesn’t matter now, 
 you see, since I told my father all about it,” said Harry, 
 trying to speak more good-humoredly, since he saw by 
 the steady look of his wife’s eyes, as he had seen before in 
 less serious discussions, that, if the argument went on he 
 would get very much the worst of it. 
 
 So the peace was kept between them, though the warmth 
 of their feelings for each other was getting rapidly less. 
 An incident happened a few days later, however, which 
 revived it for a time. George’s promised proposal came, 
 and Harry had scarcely read it before lie was at his wife’s 
 feet, pressing his lips to her very dress * \th all the en- 
 thusiasm of a few weeks back. 
 
 “ He wants us to go to the Grange— not for my sake, 
 though; but to get you there; but he sha’n’t ! I’d sweep a 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 
 46 
 
 crossing rather than let you go there! My generous 
 brother — hang him!” 
 
 “ To go to the Grange! To live there?” 
 
 “Yes; that is his way of fulfilling his promise to our 
 father. He says there are too many burdens on the estate 
 for him to make me a suitable allowance, unless we go 
 and live there. But I wouldn’t let you go there for the 
 world!” 
 
 “But, Harry, I should be quite safe with you. You 
 speak of your brother as if he were a savage. ’ ’ 
 
 “So he is. We are all a set of savages; and, being a 
 savage myself, you see, I know how to trust the rest. I 
 tell you you shall not go; and, if you try to persuade me, 
 I shall think you don’t love me.” 
 
 He flung his arm round her, and looked up into her face 
 with an air of boyish authority which she did not attempt 
 to resist, though it made her smile. A. few months of self- 
 dependence had made her so much older, so much wiser 
 than this spoiled child who was her lord and master. 
 
 She knew he could not live long in defiance of his elder 
 brother; she knew he had no money of his own, and no 
 capabilities of making any, or that, if he had any capabili- 
 ties, he had no intention of using them. He had indeed 
 most of the qualities necessary in a groom and some of 
 those wanted by a jockey; but, being a gentleman, though 
 he could copy their manners and share their tastes, he 
 could follow their occupations only as an amusement. He 
 had given her money so recklessly at first that she, though 
 inclined to be extravagant, had, with out saying anything 
 to him about it, put some by in case of an emergency ; so 
 that, when his supplies to her stopped rather suddenly, 
 she was able to go on paying their weekly bills without 
 running into debt. But this could not last long ; and she 
 began to look out for some music- pupils, still without say- 
 ing anything to her husband, whose pride would have 
 cried out at the idea of his wife working for her living and 
 his. 
 
 It was easy enough by this time to leave some hours in 
 the day unaccounted for. Harry had met some acquaint- 
 ances in town and picked up some others, and spent but 
 little of his time with his wife, who, he complained, did 
 not take as much trouble t o amuse him as at first, and 
 who could always amuse herself with a book— a most un 
 accountable taste in his eyes, so that she could publish an 
 advertisement, answer others, go for the few replies she 
 got to a neighboring stationer’s, and give a lesson three 
 times a week in Onslow Square without exciting his sus- 
 picions. 
 
 She knew that Lady Braithwaite and her daughter wer$ 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 47 
 
 now in town, staying with a sister of the former’s at Lan- 
 caster Gate, but, as she would have thought nothing less 
 likely than that they should take any notice of her, she 
 stood for a moment in the doorway in silent astonishment 
 when, coming into her sitting-room, after having given a 
 music-lesson, she found Lilian, looking superbly hand- 
 some in her deep mourning, walking about examining the 
 pictures and ornaments. 
 
 “ I think you must be very comfortable here,” said she, 
 coming forward and kissing her, as if they had been af- 
 fectionate friends of long standing. 
 
 Lilian’s manners were charming when she chose, and 
 she was at her best this afternoon — always queenly, but 
 smiling and willing to be pleased with anything. She 
 drew her tiny sister-in-law on to the sofa and sat down 
 beside her. Annie, very glad of this visit, yet hardly 
 daring to believe that Lilian could have heard of her mar- 
 riage, scarcely knew what to say ; but the other saved her 
 the trouble of finding a remark. 
 
 “ I wish we lived like this. These rooms are neither too 
 large nor too small, while Aunt Constantia’s big rooms 
 are so big that you lose your way in them, and the small 
 ones are so small that, if the door opens inside, it scrapes 
 the opposite wall. I am supposed to be still a child, and 
 therefore of no consequence; so I am put into a nice little 
 cupboard, so compact that Jennings has to open the door 
 and stand in the corridor to brush my hair.” 
 
 Annie laughed at the picture of self-willed, spoiled Miss 
 Braith waite as a victim to neglect, and then asked after 
 Lady Braith waite. 
 
 “ Oh, she is quite well, thank you, though of course she 
 hasn’t got over poor papa’s death yet! You heard all 
 about it from Harry, of course?” 
 
 “Yes,” said Annie, wondering at the easy way in which 
 her proud sister-in-law thus alluded to their new relation- 
 ship. She was still more surprised when the other con- 
 tinued : 
 
 “It seems so strange to think of Harry as a married 
 man ! I suppose he will think I ought not to box his ears 
 any longer now; but you will let me, won’t you? I can’t 
 keep him in order in any other way ; but I suppose you 
 can.” 
 
 Annie laughed — not very heartily. 
 
 “I haven’t tried that plan, certainly. It wouldn’t do 
 for such a little woman as I am ; I think I am too small 
 for him,” she added, as if this really had struck her sud- 
 denly as a grave obj ection. 
 
 Lilian burst out laughing. 
 
 “ What an odd little creature you are ! I have always 
 
48 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 heard that a little woman can make a big man as submiss-/ 
 ive as a dog, and rule him with a rod of iron, while h4 
 thinks all the time that he is the master. I am sure you 
 would not condescend to obey Harry.” 
 
 “Yes, I do,” said the young wife, seriously — “at least) 
 I do the things he tells me to do; but he doesn’t tell me t<j> 
 do many things.” And the thought flashed through her 
 mind, “ He doesn’t take enough interest in me to mind 
 what I do.” 
 
 “And you don’t ever want to do anything he doesn’t 
 wish you to do? 1 ’ 
 
 “ When I do, I do it without telling him about it.” 
 Lilian was delighted with this speech, which Annie 
 rather regretted having made. 
 
 “ I am glad you are not so superhumanly good as I was 
 beginning to fear. Don’t you find him very dull company? 
 He can hardly write his own name, he can’t spell a bit, 
 and he can talk about nothing but horses and guns.” 
 Annie would not own that she had not enough of her 
 husband’s company to mind it. 
 
 “I don’t want him to read when he is with me, and I 
 haven’t asked him to spell much. And I like horses my- 
 self, though I don’t know much about them.” 
 
 “Well, your life is not so dull as mine, at any rate,” de- 
 clared Lilian. “You are a married woman, and can go 
 where you like and with wh^m you like; I wish I could,” 
 she added, petulantly. 
 
 “But I have nowhere to go and no one to go with ex- 
 cept, of course, Harry,” Annie added, hastily. 
 
 “You have got over the silly stage of newly-married 
 life very soon,” said Lilian, amused, but rather surprised. 
 “Now I want to go to a hundred places I can’t go to. 
 Aunt Constantia looks down at my black gown and says, 
 ‘ Too soon, my dear, too soon!’ And she and mamma both 
 disapprove of all the persons I like. I never was so 
 wretched in my life- just when I am in mourning too, and 
 want cheering dreadfully!” 
 
 “ Well, you will soon be able to go out more, and then 
 you will certainly leave off envying my quiet life.” 
 
 “Oh, but there will be far worse trials for me then! 
 Now that we are in mourning, at least no one can find 
 fault with my dress; but, when we begin to go out again 
 — and I am to be presented next season— I shall want 
 money ; and George is so mean — he says he is so poor, but 
 that is nonsense !— that I know he will open his eyes and 
 say that a hundred a year ought to buy me everything I 
 want, and the same day he will send a groom up to Tat- 
 tersall’s to buy him a couple of hunters, and wonder at 
 the selfish extravagance of women! It is so silly, too; for 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 49 
 
 the very best thing he can do is to get me well married as 
 soon as possible; and who will see me if I never go out, and 
 who will look at me if I am dressed 4 with tasteful econ- 
 omy?’ As if economy was ever tasteful— as if I did not do 
 my dressmaker credit, too! I assure you I look quite nice 
 when I am well dressed.” 
 
 She threw back her graceful head and smiled at Annie 
 with playful insolence, which was charming in such a 
 beautiful girl; and, having got, for a time, to the end of 
 her grievances, she gave a plaintive sigh, and then laughed 
 at herself. 
 
 “I have been taking the privileges of a relative in bor- 
 ing you to death; but really my wrongs were getting too 
 heavy to be borne in silence. It is very good of you to 
 listen without yawning.” 
 
 “Oh, you don’t know how glad I am to see you and 
 listen to you ! I was afraid you would be so angry about 
 Harry’s marrying me.” 
 
 “ I won’t pretend we were glad to hear of it; but every- 
 thing else was swallowed up in papa’s death. I don’t 
 think mamma has quite forgiven either of you yet; but 
 she will come round in time. And, you see, as I told her, 
 if Harry hadn’t married you, George would have done 
 so.” 
 
 Annie started, and the color rushed to her face. 
 
 “Oh, you need not look surprised ! I am sure of it. He 
 was much more in love with you than Harry was; and, to 
 tell you the truth, when you had left Garstone, and no- 
 body could tell what had become of you, I thought George 
 was more likely than Harry to know where you were.” 
 
 She rattled on without taking much notice of Annie’s 
 continued agitation. After a minute’s pause for breath, 
 she added : 
 
 “ And I did credit to your being a good little thing and 
 a clever little thing, for George has far fewer scruples and 
 far less sense of honor than even Harry, I can tell you. 
 Harry is not a bad fellow at heart, though he is such a 
 lout; there is no other word for him. Will you forgive 
 my frankness? I am a pretty good judge of my brothers, 
 and my*knowledge may be useful to you.” 
 
 She rose from the sofa and took Annie’s trembling hand. 
 
 “ I have frightened you, worried you. You won’t let 
 me come again. But you will, won’t you?” she added, in 
 a coaxing tone — “for I am so dull. May I come on Thurs- 
 day, the day after to-morrow, and we will go to the 
 Academy together? It will soon close now, so it will be full 
 of country bumpkins; but I will brave them, if you will. 
 Mamma and Aunt Constantia find it too tiring for them. 
 May I come?” 
 
60 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 She asked quite restlessly and anxiously; and Annie, 
 surprised, begged her to come, and promised to be ready 
 at whatever time she pleased. 
 
 When Harry returned home, and his wife told him of 
 his sister’s visit, he was even more surprised than she had 
 been. 
 
 “Well, she is a queer girl; but I think this beats any 
 freak she has had yet,’ 7 he said. “You should just have 
 heard her go on at me — and at you— at Garstone, when she 
 first heard about it— just after our father’s death too. I 
 told her if she didn’t hold her tongue, I would turn her out 
 of the room.” And presently he broke out again, “ I won- 
 der what she is up to now?” 
 
 Without suspecting any deep-laid plot under Lilian’s 
 friendliness, as her husband seemed to do, Annie was more 
 surprised than ever when Thursday came and Miss Braith* 
 waite drove up in a hansom very punctually, to see how 
 excited she seemed to be over such a simple diversion as a 
 visit to the Academy with her sister-in-law. She was 
 looking radiantly lovely. The mourning, which did not at 
 all set off Annie’s brunette beauty, was the most perfect 
 setting possible for Lilian’s bright, fair complexion and 
 chestnut-brown hair. She was in good spirits too, and so 
 anxious to start that she gave Annie doubtful help in 
 dressing with her own hands. Then they got into the han- 
 som which was waiting outside, and were at Burlington 
 House in five minutes. 
 
 Lilian did not care a straw about pictures, and gave 
 most of her attention to the curious crowd which may be 
 seen at the Academy every year during the last week of 
 the season. They had been through two rooms, and were 
 entering a third, when a gentleman came up to them, and 
 the color deepened on Lilian’s face. He was a tall, strik- 
 ingly handsome man, of slighter build than the Braith- 
 waites, and much better carriage. Lilian introduced him 
 to her companion as “ Colonel Richardson.” 
 
 Then they all went on together. Miss Braithwaite, being 
 in a brilliant mood, did all the talking; and, as her talk 
 was chiefly addressed to the new-comer, Annie gradually 
 fell behind them and gave her attention entirely to the 
 pictures. As she noticed how happy Lilian looked, how 
 evidently she was taking pains to please, and how atten- 
 tive Colonel Richardson was to her, it occurred to the quiet 
 little woman behind that this meeting was not accidental; 
 she was not surprised at their pleasure in each other’s so- 
 ciety, and thought to herself what a handsome pair they 
 would make. When they had nearly finished their inspec- 
 tion of the pictures, which had become a very transparent 
 pretext to Annie’s eyes, they turned to her, and Lilian 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 51 
 
 dropped out of the conversation to allow Colonel Richard- 
 son to talk to her companion. He could talk a bout the 
 pictures very well, she found, though he had ignored them 
 a good deal that day; and, when he presently asked per- 
 mission to call upon her and lend her a book with valuable 
 engravings which he had brought from Italy, she could 
 not easily refuse. , . , , 
 
 So, two days later, he called and brought the book; and 
 while he was there Lilian came in, and they both stayed 
 to tea. Annie, who was always rather overpowered by 
 the brilliant and rather exacting Miss Braitbwaite, was a 
 sweet and gracious little hostess, but listened more than 
 she talked. And Colonel Richardson called alter that very 
 frequently. It generally happened that Lilian was there; 
 but that did not seem surprising, for she had got into the 
 habit of spending a good deal of time with the gentle little 
 sister-in-law who made such an amused and therefore 
 amusing listener to her chatter. Sometimes Harry was 
 there ; and the influence of the elder man Colonel Rich- 
 ardson was between thirty -five and forty upon the 
 younger soon became very strong. The latter worshiped 
 his new friend, and would follow him about like his 
 shadow when he could, so that the colonel had to get him 
 a mount or a seat on a drag to get rid of him. 
 
 One evening Harry came home from visiting his aunt 
 and his mother with “a good joke ” to tell his wife. ^ 
 “Aunt Constantia and my mother have found a mare s 
 nest,” said he, with his usual elegance of speech. “They 
 have discovered that the colonel is a most dangerous man, 
 that he comes here not to see me, who can talk about 
 horses and shooting and all the things he likes, but to 
 make love to you and Lilian! Why, he never speaks to 
 either of you if I’m here! He has too much sense to go 
 dangling after any woman. I told my aunt I could kv ok 
 after my wife, and Lilian could look after herself. She is 
 not the girl to throw herself at any man’s head. 
 
 “ But there is no reason why she should not accept his 
 
 attentions.” , 
 
 “No reason! What— is his wife no reason? asked 
 Harry, sharply. . . _ , . 
 
 “ His wife! Is he married?” cried Annie, in a low, fright- 
 ened voice 
 
 “ Of course he is. Been married for the last ten years !” 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 The announcement that Colonel Richardson was married 
 entirely changed the aspect in which his attention to Lilian 
 had appeared. Annie understood now that she herself 
 
S2 
 
 A VAGRANT t VINE. 
 
 had been used to cover a friendship which the girl’s rela- 
 tives disapproved of, and the young wife’s heart beat fast 
 with excitement and dread of the scene she had to go 
 through when she next heard Lilian’s footstep outside her 
 sitting-room door. She was doubtful how to open the sub- 
 ject ; but her companion soon paved the way by asking if 
 the colonel had brought a book from Mudie’s. 
 
 44 He called; but I had told Lydia to say I was not at 
 home.” 
 
 Lilian’s face instantly wore its haughtiest expression. 
 
 “ You sent such a message as that to Colonel Richard- 
 son?” 
 
 44 Yes.” 
 
 44 Why?” Her beautiful gray eyes were fixed in indig- 
 nant astonishment on her companion’s face. 
 
 4 1 1 have decided that I cannot receive his visits any 
 longer.” 
 
 She was trembling. Lilian mistook this for a sign of 
 fear. 
 
 44 Do you not consider my introduction a sufficient as- 
 surance that a gentleman is worthy of the honor of your 
 acquaintance?” 
 
 “ Not in this case,” said Annie, looking at her steadily. 
 
 44 Explain what you mean.” 
 
 44 Certainly. I have the strongest reason for believing 
 that you introduced Colonel Richardson to me and led me 
 to think he was unmarried, because your friends, who 
 knew more about him than I, disapproved of the ac- 
 quaintance for you.” 
 
 Lilian rose quickly from her seat, and seemed to be at- 
 tempting to quell the smaller woman by her dignified ap- 
 pearance. 
 
 44 You have insulted me grossly— shamefully ! I suppose 
 I have deserved it for condescending so far to you as I 
 have done.” 
 
 44 You forget,” Annie said, simply, without any show of 
 either timidity or arrogance. “Two months ago you 
 might have talked to me of condescension, for I was then 
 only Miss Lane, the governess. Now I am Mrs. Harold 
 Braithwaite, your brother’s wife, your equal, and your 
 superior — for the present — as a married woman.” 
 
 44 My equal — my superior!” 
 
 “Yes; that is not a matter of argument, but of fact. 
 You cannot suppose for a moment that I wish to presume 
 upon it. You made the first advances toward friendship 
 with me, when I was rather lonely here and grateful for 
 your society and that of the gentleman you introduced 
 to me. Now I know your friendship was offered only 
 that I might innocently help you to deceive your friends, 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 58 
 
 and I am quite as ready to draw back as you can be ’ and 
 her brown eyes met the brilliant gray ones steadily. 
 
 Lilian was defeated, though she would not own it. 
 
 “ You have caught up the grand manner very quickly,” 
 said she, patronizingly. 
 
 Annie smiled; such a sneer could not hurt her. Lilian 
 left the room majestically ; and it was only then that the 
 features of her hostess assumed an anxious look. Would 
 this headstrong girl give up her dangerous acquaintance 
 simply because another difficulty had been put in the way 
 of it? It was not likely. She had known quite well that 
 Lilian, looking upon her only as a useful acquaintance, 
 not as an ally, would not listen to any entreaties or re- 
 monstrances from her; therefore she had not tried any; 
 but she almost reproached herself now for not having 
 made the attempt. 
 
 She did not say anything to her husband about this in- 
 terview, as that would have entailed the confession that 
 she had refused to see his friend, which would have drawn 
 down a useless fury of reproaches upon her own head. 
 
 She felt rather awkward therefore when Harry, after 
 complaining and wondering that the colonel did not call, 
 brought him home in triumph to dinner one evening, 
 about a week after the scene with Lilian. He was sharp- 
 sighted enough to notice a slight constraint in his wife’s 
 greeting of their guest, a slight diffidence in that of the 
 colonel. While Harry dressed for dinner, the latter came 
 nearer to Annie and said, in a low voice: 
 
 “ I am in a difficult position, Mrs. Braith waite. I have 
 had the misfortune to offend you in some way ; but, when 
 your husband invited me here this evening, and I hinted 
 that I was afraid you would not care to receive me, he 
 would not listen to my objections, and insisted upon my 
 coming. ’ ’ 
 
 “Prav do not think I wish to be discourteous,” said 
 Annie, tearful of being ungracious to a guest— one, too, 
 whom she could not help liking. 
 
 “ I am sure you do not, therefore I know I must have been 
 guilty of some most unintentional offense to be punished 
 with the severe snub I received last week. May I know 
 what I have done?” 
 
 He was gently putting her in the wrong, and she felt 
 uncomfortable and inclined to be remorseful. It was 
 Lilian who had introduced him, and she herself had wel- 
 comed his visits. She answered deprecatingly : 
 
 “You have done nothing to offend me; it was on ac- 
 count of Lilian.” 
 
 The words might have been dictated by a feeling of 
 jealousy, but the tone in which they were spoken pre- 
 
54 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 eluded that idea. Colonel Richardson did not pretend to 
 misunderstand her. 
 
 “I see,” he said, after a short pause. “But I think I 
 have been rather hardly dealt with. I am forced by cir- 
 cumstances to remain in town when most of my friends 
 have left it, and my wife, who is an invalid, is staying at 
 Bournemouth. At the house of a common friend I make 
 the acquaintance of a charming girl, whose relations, being 
 in deep mourning, receive few visitors. She, finding me 
 rather forlorn and friendless, offers to introduce me to her 
 sister-in-law, an equally charming lady. I accept the offer 
 eagerly— trespass perhaps too much upon the kindness of 
 both ladies in coming whenever I have a chance to see 
 them, and am rightly punished when ” 
 
 “Oh, no, no — forgive me!” cried poor Annie, over- 
 whelmed with remorse at the apparent strength of the 
 case against her. “ I would not for the world have risked 
 wounding you but for Lilian. You know how harsh the 
 world is to such a beautiful young girl, and the pleasure 
 we both took in your society has been already miscon- 
 strued in her case and has alarmed her friends. I have 
 been very frank — perhaps too frank ; but I think it was 
 better, was it not?” she added pleadingly. 
 
 Of course he forgave her readily enough ; and Annie, 
 who felt that her husband would not be above listening at 
 the keyhole, if he thought anything interesting was going 
 on on the other side of the door, hastened to drop the con- 
 fidential tone of their conversation. 
 
 Lilian being now offended without remedy, there was 
 no reason to put any further check upon Colonel Richard- 
 son’s visits. He did not call so often as before; but Annie 
 was most grateful for the breaks he afforded in her mo- 
 notonous life. 
 
 They spent most of hot August in London, for the most 
 hopeless of reasons that they could not afford to go away. 
 Harry got a little money— she did not know how, and was 
 afraid to ask ; but even he saw that they must be careful 
 with it. However, in the last days of the month they got 
 an invitation to go for a voyage in a yacht, and the five 
 weeks they spent in that way were the happiest Annie had 
 ever known. 
 
 There was only one other lady on board, the wife of the 
 owner, and a much older woman, so Annie was a little 
 queen for the time and received unlimited attention from 
 every man but her husband, who showed however to’ 
 greater advantage in her eyes than he had ever done be- 
 fore, for he knew how to manage a yacht as well as he 
 knew how to manage a horse, and was, in fact, the best 
 sailor on board. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 58 
 
 By the first of October they were again in London. Harry 
 more sulky, his wife more reserved than ever. This could 
 not last long. 
 
 One morning at breakfast he threw a letter in a shame- 
 faced sort of way across to his wife. It was from George, 
 and contained a renewal of his offer to receive them at the 
 Grange. The poor little wife had reason to dread this 
 arrangement now, for Lady Braithwaite and Lilian, both 
 of whom disliked her, the one for receiving Colonel 
 Richardson and the other for dismissing him, were at 
 the old home at Garstone. She read the letter and gave 
 it back. 
 
 “Are you going to accept?” she asked simply. 
 
 “Well, I don’t see what else there is to be done,” he 
 answered, without looking at her. “ It is only fair that 
 he should help us, and perhaps it is true that he can’t 
 spare enough just now to give me my due and let me go. 
 We might go there for a month and try it. There would 
 be some shooting now and some hunting later on, at any 
 rate. And you would be more comfortable with Lil and 
 mother than here by yourself, I’m sure.” 
 
 Annie did not try to undeceive him on that point. She 
 saw, by the eagerness with which he alluded to the coun- 
 try pleasures he was going back to, that nothing she could 
 say would alter his determination to accept his brother’s 
 offer. She had known it must come to this, so she heard 
 his decision quietly, and prepared with a heavy heart to 
 go back to Garstone, a place full of bitter memories to 
 her, for it was there she had been dismissed without a 
 kind word by the cold Mainwarings, and it was there she 
 had met her husband, who was, she felt already, to be a 
 burden crushing down her life and robbing her of the ca- 
 reer she had been fond of picturing to herself. For Annie 
 was too high-principled a girl to try to undo her own act 
 by leaving the three-months- wedded husband who already 
 neglected and, in fact, bored her. She was useful to him 
 in a way; he was a trifle more orderly in his mode of life 
 since his marriage; she wrote his letters or told him what 
 to say and how to spell the words. She did not care 
 enough about him to put any irksome restraint upon him, 
 having seen early that her reproaches only made him 
 drink more and spend more of his time with his inferiors; 
 but, on the whole, her influence improved his habits some- 
 what. She said to herself, with a bitter smile, that, by 
 marrying, she had taken only a rather harder situation as 
 governess, with none of the comforts of home and a pre- 
 carious salary. She packed up her things, gloomily, for 
 their journey, and her heart sunk lower and igweras they 
 neared its end. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 «T6 
 
 Harry, on the contrary, grew more and more excited 
 and light-hearted as the train approached Beckham. His 
 happiness at finding himself again on the way to his be- 
 loved dogs and horses found vent in a burst of affection. 
 He bounced into the seat next to his wife at the last stop- 
 ping station but one, when, two passengers having got out, 
 they were left alone in the carriage. Then he treated her 
 to a rough embrace. 
 
 “ Aren’t you glad to have left that smoky hole behind 
 you and come into the air again — eh, Annie?” 
 
 But Annie was not, and a furtive tear told him so. He 
 kissed her pretty little face that the yachting trip had 
 bronzed. 
 
 “Don’t cry, dear. Do you remember our last journey 
 on this line, Annie, when you were so frightened because I 
 jumped in, and wanted me to get out at the next station? 
 And what a long time it was before I could make you leave 
 off crying ! But you have nothing to cry about now, you 
 know, and I want you to look your best when we get to 
 the station, that everybody may say what a pretty little 
 wife I’ve brought home.” 
 
 But there was nothing in this speech soothing to Annie, 
 who looked anything but her best when they did steam 
 into Beckham station. Sir George was on the platform to 
 meet them, with a dog-cart waiting outside, and Harry 
 felt disgusted and angry with his wife, when logically he 
 should have felt glad, as he saw by his brother’s first 
 glance at her that he thought her appearance much 
 changed for the worse. George drove, and Annie sat 
 beside him, while Harry got up behind with the groom. 
 She was not verj r entertaining to-day, though she tried 
 hard to be so ; but there was something pathetic to George 
 in her attempts to be lively, and the very tones of her soft 
 voice had a charm in themselves to him, so that he was 
 touched, and listened to her with a quiet kindliness in his 
 manner which made much greater impression upon her 
 than the compliments and tender tones he had used to her 
 before her marriage. 
 
 “ I hope you don’t so very much mind having to come 
 and live at the Grange. We will all try to make you 
 happy,” he took the opportunity of saying when Harry’s 
 voice, in hot argument with the groom, rose loudly enough 
 to drown the tete-a-tete in front. 
 
 She looked up at him gratefully, with the too ready tears 
 in her eyes* 
 
 “ Thank you; I am sure you will,” she said, gently. 
 
 Words better left unsaid to the heartsore and neglected 
 little wife rose to his lips; but her straightforwardness 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 57 
 
 and a lull in the conversation at the back checked them 
 —for the present. 
 
 She treasured up those few words of kindness and wel- 
 come, all the more carefully that the greetings she received 
 from the rest of the family were cruelly cold. Lady 
 Braithwaite and her daughter held out icy hands to her; 
 Stephen had evidently taken sides with them; Wilfred was 
 kind, but rather indifferent; and William, the youngest, 
 was restrained by a very needless fear of exciting Harry’s 
 jealousy from showing the warmth he really felt toward 
 the sad-looking little lady who had made such a delightful 
 playfellow. 
 
 The fatigue she felt after such a long journey excused 
 her from talking much. She sat very quiet during dinner, 
 feeling scarcely awake, and hardly catching the sense of 
 the talk going on around her. Lilian did not know very 
 much about the odds for the great races which were under 
 discussion; but she liked to think she did, and joined in 
 the conversation confidently. Lady Braithwaite listened 
 with interest to the sort of squabbling laying down of the 
 law on their favorite subjects to which her sons had ac- 
 customed her for years. 
 
 Harry was rampant, rejoicing to find himself once more 
 able to hold his own in the talk around him ; he drank 
 more than usual, contradicted everybody, and, as George 
 quietly said, did his best to make his unobtrusive pres- 
 ence felt. 
 
 Annie alone took no part in it all, but sat dreading the 
 time when she should have to accompany the other ladies 
 into the drawing-room and be at their mercy. 
 
 At last the moment came. She followed them quietly, 
 receiving a parting chill at the dining-room door from the 
 steady way in which crippled Stephen, who liked to show 
 his activity by jumping up to open the door for them, 
 though he was not the nearest to it, looked on the ground, 
 and not at her, as she passed. 
 
 It was not so bad as she had expected, after all. Lilian 
 had no pettiness, and did not descend to small persecutions. 
 She did not show much cordiality, but hunted out all the 
 newest songs from among the music for Annie to try, 
 and then left her to amuse herself. Annie was grateful 
 for this; it took her out of the range of Lady Braith- 
 waite’ s disapproving eyes, and the occupation of trying 
 new music kept her own tears from falling. She could de- 
 fend herself or even attack boldly in argument or dispute, 
 but this armed coldness took all the spirit out of her ; she 
 could retreat behind her natural reserve and seem not to 
 care, but there followed a bitter reaction when she was 
 alone. 
 
58 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 It was a long time before the gentlemen came in to break 
 the silence in the drawing-room. Lady Braithwaite was 
 dozing, Lilian was sitting on the hearth-rug, playing with 
 a retriever pup, Annie was softly trying over songs at the 
 piano at the other end. Sounds of high voices and loud 
 laughter came from time to time across the hall ; at last 
 they heard the dining-room door open, and Harry’s voice 
 above the rest in tones of high excitement. 
 
 “ I tell you I can prove it, I can prove it!” he was say- 
 ing to George as they two came in first ; his face was 
 flushed and his gait unsteady, and his manner more dic- 
 tatorial than ever. 
 
 “How can you prove it?” asked George, who might 
 have been drinking as much, but who showed it less. 
 
 “ By a paper I’ve got somewhere. Annie,” said he to 
 his wife, scarcely turning toward where she sat at the 
 piano, “ where is that American paper the colonel gave 
 me, about the trotting-matches?” 
 
 “I packed it with your papers. I can find it if you 
 want it.” 
 
 “Yes, yes, I want it. Then I’ll show you I was right,” 
 said he, triumphantly, to his brother. Annie had risen, 
 and was crossing the room to the door. George inter- 
 posed. 
 
 “ No, no, not to night. Don’t you see she is tired? You 
 can’t ask her to ransack your portmanteau to-night for a 
 paper of no importance. It will do to-morrow.” 
 
 “No, it won’t do to-morrow,” said Harry, who was not 
 in a state to brook contradiction. 4 4 1 say I will prove it 
 to you now, to night. It is of importance, of great impor- 
 tance, very important! You said I was wrong; I say I’m 
 right, and I’ll prove it.” 
 
 Before the end of this speech, the last words of which 
 were spoken with halting gravity, Annie had left the room, 
 gently insisting upon passing George, who would still have 
 tried to prevent her going. Harry, luckily, did not see 
 his brother’s good-natured attempt to save his tired little 
 wife a tedious search for an old newspaper. She went up 
 to their room; it was Harry’s old room, with a second lit- 
 tle bed put up in it. His portmanteau had been unstrapped. 
 She turned out the gas in trying to turn it up; so she 
 opened the door and dragged the portmanteau into the 
 corridor, under the burner outside. 
 
 Fatigue had dulled her faculties, and it was a long time 
 before she found what she wanted. She was still search- 
 ing when she heard heavy footsteps behind her, and look- 
 ing round from where she was on her knees, she saw Wil- 
 fred leaning against the friendly wall. 
 
59 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “ Let me help you,” said he; and he knelt down beside 
 her, not without difficulty. 
 
 She thanked him, though his assistance was not likely 
 to prove valuable. 
 
 "Harry is a brute to you,” he said, solemnly. 
 
 “Oh, no; he is only a little thoughtless!” 
 
 “Yes, he is,” said Wilfred. “ He is a brute, because he 
 is a fool. But he will have to treat you better now he has 
 brought you home. We’ll see to that.” 
 
 “ Oh, I hope you won’t interfere; it would only make it 
 a great deal worse for me ! He is not cruel to me, and I 
 don't mind his neglect.” 
 
 “ I dare say you would rather have his neglect than his 
 attention, and I quite agree with you. And now you 
 have three nice new brothers, who will give you all the at- 
 tention you want,” said he, looking at her affectionately 
 over the portmanteau, while he supported himself on his 
 elbows on the edge of it. 
 
 “Thank you; you won’t find me very exacting,” said 
 she, turning over some papers in search of the one she 
 wanted. 
 
 But he would not go. 
 
 “You maybe as exacting as you like to me,” he con- 
 tinued, monotonously; “ I would do anything for you. 
 You are a sweet, good little lady, and you may take me to 
 church if you like.” 
 
 She had at last found what she wanted, and rose quickly 
 from her knees, while Wilfred slowly followed her ex- 
 ample. She had shut the portmanteau and pushed it back 
 into the room before he had had time to do more than 
 offer to do so. 
 
 As she shut the door and was going down- stairs, he put 
 his hand gently on her arm, and they went down stairs to- 
 gether. In the hall he said, gently : 
 
 “ You need not think I am offended because you 
 wouldn’t let me help you,” and went off to the billiard- 
 room. 
 
 Wilfred was the most notorious reprobate of the lot; 
 but the instincts of a gentleman showed oftener in him 
 than in the others. 
 
 Annie went on to the drawing-room, where her hus- 
 band, reproaching her for being so long, seized the paper 
 from her. But his hands and eyes were too unsteady to 
 find what he wanted, and she had to find and read it out 
 to him. 
 
 The passage, about the pace of a celebrated American 
 trotting-mare, proved Harry to be right, and he tri- 
 umphed loudly, not thinking to thank his wife for her 
 trouble. Then he asked her to write to their late lodging 
 
<50 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 for a pipe and pair of spurs he had left behind, and again 
 she quietly left the room, and went into the study to do 
 so. 
 
 This time it was William who interrupted her. He 
 knocked softly at the door, and came in rather shyly. 
 
 “I thought I’d show you where the pens and paper 
 are,” said he; and he collected the writing materials for 
 her and hunted for a stamp while she wrote. 
 
 Then, when she had directed the envelope, he put the 
 stamp on and brought his fist down upon it with an unnec- 
 essary thump. 
 
 “What is that for?” 
 
 44 That’s to make it stick, of course.” 
 
 For the first time that evening Annie burst out laugh- 
 ing. The boy threw his arms round her and gave her a 
 sounding kiss. 
 
 “ I’m so glad to hear you laugh again. You looked as if 
 you would never laugh any more. And I’m so glad you’re 
 come, so jolly glad!” 
 
 She was laughing and crying together now, as she drew 
 the boy’s face to her and kissed his cheek. 
 
 “ And I’m so glad you’re glad. We’ll have another 
 game at shuttlecock to-morrow.” 
 
 “ Oh, no,” he said earnestly; “I’ve got something better 
 than that for you to-morrow. I’ve got ajnew terrier, the 
 gamest you ever saw, and we’ll have the most splendid 
 rat-hunt you ever were at in your life.” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 Annie did not find life at the Elms such a miserable af- 
 fair as she had expected. That first evening the key-note 
 was struck of the conduct of each member of the family 
 toward her. Lady Braithwaite continued to treat her 
 with distant coldness, or affected to ignore her entirely. 
 Lilian followed suit, except at odd moments of capricious 
 good humor, when she would treat her like a pretty child 
 to be teased and caressed. George was kind, but instinct 
 made her shun tete-a-tetes with him. She did not see much 
 of Wilfred, who used to tell her that she made him 
 ashamed of himself and promise to reform. He even went 
 so far as to attend a temperance-meeting in the village, 
 where, he declared afterward, that he heard a lot of things 
 which were very true, and where he signed the pledge 
 without being asked, in the hope of pleasing her; he was 
 not quite sober at the time. When on his return home he 
 went straight to the sideboard and mixed himself some 
 whisky-and-water, Stephen reminded him of his vowj 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 61 
 
 but Wilfred only said, softly: “ Hang the pledge!” and 
 went to bed in the same state as usual. 
 
 Stephen scarcely spoke to her. She soon found out that 
 his admiration of Lilian, which she had noticed on her first 
 visit to Garstone Grange, had grown into a mad passion 
 Kffiich the object of it was not slow to make use of. He 
 was her slave; she might snub him, torment him, hurt his 
 sensitive feelings ; nothing could change his devotion to 
 her, which was very touching to Annie, who knew how 
 hopeless his passion was, and that the handsome girl used 
 her crippled lover only as a tool and a toy. For Lilian 
 was a headstrong, willful girl, more difficult to manage 
 than her mother and brothers guessed. 
 
 She had commissions to give her cousin which nobody 
 else knew of, letters which she had to coax him to post, 
 and answers to them which had to come under cover to 
 him. And the poor young fellow never faltered in his 
 allegiance, but, after a stormy war of words with her, 
 which she knew how to end with a careless kiss brushed 
 across his burning forehead, he always gave way; and 
 her little secrets, whatever they might be, remained as 
 safe as if no one but herself in the household knew of 
 them. 
 
 One of these secrets, and perhaps the most important, 
 had a narrow escape of being revealed one evening, how- 
 ever, when Annie and her constant companion, William, 
 were standing still as statues in the large, wire-faced house 
 where the rabbit-hutches were kept, amusing themselves 
 by watching the mice play about, and finally run into the 
 traps they had prepared for them. 
 
 This was a very favorite pastime, always ending in a 
 friendly squabble, as William wanted to “ drown the little 
 pets ” and Annie insisted upon letting 4 4 the dear little 
 things have their liberty again.” Finally half used to be 
 drowned or given to the cat, and half let loose again ; and, 
 if there was an odd one, William tossed up for it. 
 
 It was about six o’clock on a November evening that 
 they were standing breathless with excitement, straining 
 their eyes in the dusk to see one cautious little mouse run- 
 ning round and round and all but into the trap, when they 
 heard footsteps outside, but were far too deeply interested 
 to look round. Presently they heard another sound, and 
 knew by the noise of the crutches on the ground that it 
 was Stephen who was approaching. They heard the foot- 
 steps of the first comer going to meet him, and Lilian’s 
 voice saying impatiently : 
 
 “What a long time you have been! I thought you 
 were never coming I Is there one? Give it me — quick, 
 
62 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “There it is,” said Stephen, sullenly. “What— aren’t 
 you going to give me a word of thanks, when I went out 
 all the way to Beckham for you when I was in such pain? 
 Oh, Lilian, have you no heart?” 
 
 William and Annie could not see the speakers, though 
 they could hear every word— could hear too the impatient 
 tearing of an envelope. Then Lilian’s voice, in a soft, 
 cooing, but only half-attentive tone, said : 
 
 “Yes, you are a dear, dear good boy, and my best — 
 friend — in the world. ” Then more quickly. 4 4 Just let me 
 finish reading this, there’s a dear, kind fellow!” 
 
 There was a pause, and a heavy sigh from the cripple. 
 Then Lilian spoke again more brightly : 
 
 “ Now, I can thank you as you deserve. I feel as happy 
 as a bird, and all thanks to you,” she added, caressingly. 
 But Stephen was sullen. 
 
 “It is not thanks to me; it is thanks to the man who 
 wrote that infernal letter! I wish I had died before I 
 brought it to you!” 
 
 “ Why did you bring it then? Why have you brought 
 me a dozen from the same person, all under cover to 
 you?” 
 
 “ Because— because I couldn’t help it — because I must 
 do what you tell me, in spite of myself. Oh, Lilian, can 
 you reproach me with what I do for you?” 
 
 “Iam not reproaching you, you dear old, silly boy! 
 I was thanking you, when you suddenly began to scold 
 me. I trust you more than anybody else in the world; 
 you know I do.” 
 
 “Then why don’t you trust me entirely, and tell me 
 whom the letters are from? You know I would never be- 
 tray you. You know that, whoever it was, I would do 
 for you then all that I do now, and more— if that could be. ’ ’ 
 
 4 4 Why don’t you tear them open and see? They all pass 
 through your hands.” 
 
 41 1 would if they were any one’s letters but yours. But 
 your wishes are sacred to me — they are, indeed, and, if I 
 were to do that, you would never speak to me again.” 
 
 44 Well, to judge from the way you reproach me, that 
 would be a very good thing.” 
 
 “No, Lilian, no, no! Be cruel to me as you like; but 
 don’t talk of casting me aside like that. What more can 
 
 I do for you than I have done? What ” 
 
 They heard his voice in passionate protest long after the 
 words themselves were lost, as the sound of the crutches, 
 following Lilian toward the house, grew fainter on the 
 pathway. The interest Annie and William had taken in 
 the mice was quite gone. They still stood opposite to each 
 pther in the deepening dusk ; but for some minutes after 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 63 
 
 the voices had become inaudible they could not find a word 
 to say. At last William broke the silence. 
 
 “ I say, Annie, what on earth do you think Lilian is up 
 to?” 
 
 “I don’t know; I can’t think!” 
 
 “ It can’t be all square, you know. I wonder who it is 
 that is writing to her? However, she always was full of 
 tricks, and it is no good saying any thing. I shall just hold 
 my tongue about it; wouldn’t you?” 
 
 “ Yes, certainly. We can’t do anything to stop it, and 
 we heard it all by accident. We should only make every- 
 body angry with her and she ” 
 
 “Would swear we have told lies, and Stephen would 
 back her up.” 
 
 “And we shouldn’t prevent her getting her own way 
 even then,” said Annie, sorrowfully. 
 
 She had a shrewd suspicion who the unknown corre- 
 spondent was, and an incident which occurred a little later 
 confirmed it. 
 
 Meanwhile the quiet outdoor country life she led, always 
 driving, or walking, or playing some game of their own 
 invention with William, had rapidly restored to her beauty 
 the bloom that unhappiness and ennui had begun to rob it 
 of. George took the most notice of this improvement, and 
 Harry the least. Yet even the lat ter was not quite insen- 
 sible to the change for the better in his wife’s good looks, 
 and told her one day, with rough good humor, that mar- 
 ried life seemed to agree with her, though she did not seem 
 to appreciate what it had done for her. Annie answered 
 with a rather ironical laugh. It seemed to her that the 
 appreciation ought to be on the other side. 
 
 For he remained one of the most careless and selfish of 
 husbands, while she fulfilled her duty to him with an ex- 
 actness which got no thanks from him. She was his slave 
 in little things, and never asked for the smallest service or 
 attention in return. Perhaps Wilfred was right when he 
 suggested that she would rather be without it. However 
 that might be, he was as free to go where he pleased and 
 do as he pleased as in his bachelor days, while he alone, of 
 all these young men, never had to hunt for things he had 
 mislaid, never had to cry out for a missing button, and 
 had his scanty correspondence done for him much better 
 than he could have done it for himself. 
 
 William once humbly expressed a wish that she would 
 get the servants to look after his hunting-things as she 
 did for Harry. But she only laughed at him. 
 
 “Well,” said William, rather aggrieved, swinging his 
 legs backward and forward from the gate on which they 
 
64 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 were sitting together, “ I do ever so many more things for 
 you than Harry does.” 
 
 “Ah, but then he is my husband!” returned she, offer- 
 ing him an apple. 
 
 “ I say, Annie, you don’t like Harry, do you?” he asked, 
 mysteriously, after a pause. 
 
 “Of course I do! How can you ask me such a ques- 
 tion?” said the outraged wife indignantly. 
 
 “Oh, well, I don’t believe you do, all the same!” said 
 he, obstinately. “ And I don’t wonder! If I were you, I 
 would let him run away, and then you could get rid of 
 him and marry somebody nicer.” 
 
 “Do you know what you are talking about?” asked 
 Annie, haughtily, drawing herself up with as much dig- 
 nity as the maintenance of her balance on the top rail of a 
 five-barred gate would allow. 
 
 “Yes, quite well, Annie dear; I am saying it only for 
 your good,” said he, his boyish sense of humor peeping 
 out in spite of his being really half in earnest. 
 
 And then they laughed themselves off the gate. 
 
 For this was how the regime of coldness and neglect on 
 the part of her husband, mother-in-law, and sister-in-law 
 had turned out. It had thrown Mrs. Harold Braith waite 
 upon the society of her youngest brother-in-law, and made 
 of her a melancholy statue in the house, a happy hoiden 
 out of it. The only thing she was careful of was to avoid 
 the scenes of the daily walks of her late pupils during 
 their out-of-school hours, as she told William it might 
 have a bad moral effect upon them to see their late gov- 
 erness scrambling up banks, and in other undignified situa- 
 tions. 
 
 She was out of doors nearly all day, it not having yet 
 occurred to Lady Braith waite to torment her daughter-in- 
 law, who was very submissive to her, by making her stay 
 in to help to entertain chance visitors. She got two in- 
 vitations, however, with the other ladies, and endured 
 with them and George a dull dinner-party, and with 
 them, without George, a duller afternoon tea, at both of 
 which she was much admired and looked upon as a pretty 
 child. Her style of beauty led to this mistake; she was so 
 small, so low- voiced, had such fresh-colored, rounded 
 cheeks, and such timid though pretty manners that no- 
 body suspected the strength of will, and ambition, and 
 other deep-seated qualities, of which their young possessor 
 was herself scarcely aware. They lay dormant indeed 
 just now. The uppermost side of her many-sided nature 
 at present was a buoyancy of spirit which made a lad 
 scarcely sixteen her favorite companion, and a wild de- 
 light in having escaped from the shackles of the school- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 65 
 
 room on the one hand, and of lodging alone with a sulky, 
 ignorant husband on the other. 
 
 And, just when her heart began to cry out for some- 
 thing more than this, she made a discovery which sent her 
 to her knees in utter joy and thankfulness to Heaven. No 
 more ennui , no more repining now ; even in the house the 
 gravity of her little face gave place to an expression full 
 of hope and sweetness, while, once escaped from silent 
 submission and Lady Braithwaite, her eyes would dance 
 and her lips break into soft song, till William declared he 
 did not know what had come over her, and confessed one 
 day, with a lump in his throat when she stopped to rest on 
 a felled tree, that he believed she was going to die and go 
 to heaven. 
 
 ‘ 4 And — and you seem to be glad ; and — and it is beastly 
 of you when you know how fond I ” 
 
 Here the lad gave way; and she laughed at him and 
 made him sit by her, and told him he was talking non- 
 sense. 
 
 “ If I look ‘so sweet ’ as you say, that marvelous effect 
 is due, not to my being dying of consumption, but to the 
 Garstone air, which is making another woman of me.” 
 
 “ Then why do you always want to stop and rest? You 
 never used to.” 
 
 “ Because — because the cold weather is coming on, and 
 that always tries me. ’ ’ 
 
 “But it oughtn’t to; it ought to brace you up.” 
 
 “ Here come the Mainwarings! Let us get through the 
 hedge,” interrupted Annie. 
 
 And an undignified exit put a stop to the conversation. 
 Annie told her secret to no one living. 
 
 That very day, when these two returned home just in 
 time for dinner, they found that an unexpected guest had 
 arrived. It was Colonel Richardson. Beckham was not 
 in a hunting-country, but a journey of an hour and a half 
 by train took the Braithwaites within an easy distance of 
 the meets of a very good pack of fox-hounds; and it was 
 at a hunt-breakfast that day that the three eldest Braith' 
 waites had met him. Harry, delighted to see his idol 
 again, had introduced him to his brothers, and Sir George 
 had invited him to return with them to the Grange, to 
 break the journey to Scotland, where the colonel was due. 
 He scarcely recognized Annie, she was so much changed 
 for the better. Lilian received him with an indifference 
 which, to Annie’s observant eyes, seemed rather over- 
 done. 
 
 That evening, after dinner, when the ladies went into 
 the drawing-room, Annie went as usual straight to the 
 piano, while Lilian lounged upon a low seat in the corner 
 
66 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 near the entrance to the conservatory; her favorite re- 
 triever came to rub his head against her hand, and Annie 
 thought, as she looked from the dog to its mistress, that 
 she had never seen such a lovely womafi. For Lilian had 
 taken the utmost pains with her dress that evening; her 
 black gown, cut square at the neck, set off the fairness 
 of her complexion. She habitually despised ornaments, 
 and could afford to do so; but to-night a few sprays of 
 white azalea and white heath and delicate maiden-hair fern 
 relieved the somber dress, and a very small bunch of azalea 
 and fern was fastened by a gold-headed pin in her chestnut 
 hair. And Annie saw the girl’s face flush when they 
 heard the dining-room door open and the gentlemen’s 
 voices across the hall ; but when they all entered the room, 
 Colonel Richardson came, in a few minutes, not to that 
 seat near the conservatory, but to the piano, and told 
 Annie that Schubert was his favorite composer. For it 
 was a song from the “ Schwanengesang,” arranged for the 
 piano, that she was playing. 
 
 Annie looked up with irrepressible surprise that he 
 should recognize it. She was so used to an audience who 
 considered all music above the level of Offenbach as a not 
 unpleasant noise that her face beamed with pleasure at his 
 very simple remark. 
 
 “I will play you another — my favorite,” said she. 
 
 And, in her delight at being with an appreciative list- 
 ener,! she played better than usual, and at the end 
 looked up naively for his approval. He gave it without 
 stint ; and she went on from these to other favorite pieces, 
 which she knew well enough to be able to talk at the 
 same time. 
 
 “You must lead an isolated life here, I should think, 
 with no one to talk to?” 
 
 “So I don’t talk,” said she, smiling; “ I run wild in the 
 fields with William.” 
 
 “ Do you like the life?” 
 
 “Yes and — no. I like it when I don’t think. I like 
 walking so far and running so fast and jumping over so 
 many ditches that I am too tired at night to do anything 
 but long for bed-time.” 
 
 “ But you can’t pass all your life like that.” 
 
 “That is the worst of it. I hate the thought of coming 
 back to semi-civilization when I am too old for my savage 
 pastimes.” 
 
 “ You used to write a little, I think you told me. Have 
 you given it up!” 
 
 “Quite. I could never make a great author now, and 
 nothing less would content me.” 
 
 He smiled ; there was something of the simplicity of a 
 
A VAGBANT WIFE 
 
 0 7 
 
 child about this matron. To be a great author one had 
 but to wish it and to be unmarried. And he lingered 
 about the piano a long time, discussing authors and au- 
 thorship, and now and then hazarding a remark made ex- 
 pressly to bring the indignant fire into her eyes and some 
 speech to her pretty lips piquant in its severity. 
 
 At last Lilian could bear it no longer; she rose and, with 
 heightened color, and a dangerous light in her eyes, 
 walked to the piano. 
 
 44 Won’t you sing something, Annie?” 
 
 Her sister-in-law at once complied, and, before she had 
 finished the first verse, Lilian had diverted the colonel’s 
 attention from all but herself. The song ended, Annie 
 rose, and, her cheeks still flushed with the excitement of 
 playing her best, slipped into the cool conservatory, mur- 
 muring the last words of her song still softly to herself. 
 She had not been there two minutes before George joined 
 her. 
 
 “You don’t mind smoke, Annie, do you?” 
 
 “ No; besides, I am going back into the drawing-room.” 
 44 Don’t go yet. It is much nicer out here. And Harry 
 has a quarrelsome fit on and would disgust you.” 
 
 That instantly checked her steps. Harry’s bursts of 
 childish petulance were among her greatest trials. She 
 turned with an impatient sigh again to the flowers. 
 
 44 You played beautifully to-night, much better than you 
 ever play for any of us.” 
 
 44 Colonel Richardson understands music.” 
 
 44 While we understand only drinking and fighting; that 
 is what you mean, isn’t it?” 
 
 “Oh, no, it is not ! You understand a great many things 
 which I know nothing about — how to tease a person to 
 death, for instance,” said she, with weary petulance. 
 
 44 That is unkind, ” said George, quietly. 44 Never mind ; 
 I won’t reproach you now, when you are tired and excited 
 by your own playing.” 
 
 She looked up at him with some surprise. 
 
 44 It is astonishing that such a boor as I should have no- 
 ticed that, isn’t it, and that I should know the difference 
 between the half-mechanical playing of pretty tunes and 
 music full of passion and feeling, like that you gave Colonel 
 Richardson to-night.” 
 
 “ I did not know you liked music,” said she, in a low, 
 troubled voice. 
 
 44 You never took the trouble to inquire; did you? But 
 even among the 4 semi-civilized ’ — to quote some words I 
 heard you use to-night— there may be capabilities for 
 something better, may there not?” 
 
 Annie hung her head in confusion. He spoke quite 
 
68 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 gently, and looked down at her as if he were hurt, not 
 angry. 
 
 44 1 am sorry— I spoke without thinking,” she said, in an 
 unsteady voice. 4 4 You were right; I am very tired, and 
 that makes me cross and — and foolish. But I won’t play 
 mechanically to you again. I will find out what you like 
 best, and learn to play that as well as I possibly can; and 
 I’m so sorry you were hurt by my rude speech!” 
 
 She held out her hand to him, to see whether he had for- 
 given her; he took it, held it in the warm pressure of his, 
 and finally kissed the little fingers two or three times be- 
 fore letting them go. 
 
 44 You are a dear little creature, and I should like you 
 to insult me every day for the pleasure of forgiving you. 
 But that is too much to hope for; you won’t do more than 
 ignore me.” 
 
 44 Is that fair? You pretend to forgive me, and then 
 bring another accusation against me in the same breath,” 
 protested Annie, who did, indeed, habitually avoid tete-a- 
 tetes with him, but who, as usual, once brought to bay, 
 was perfectly at her ease and able to defend herself. 
 
 44 Well, I thought I had better state all my grievances at 
 once, as I know it will be a long time before you give me 
 another chance. Seriously, it gives me great pain to see 
 you sitting silent in my house or slipping through the rooms 
 like a snubbed and neglected child, only waking up into 
 life and brightness when you are out of sight of — those 
 who are longing to see you happy.” 
 
 The tears were in her eyes. She was touched by the 
 kindness of his words ; but how could she tell him that his 
 own mother and sister cast, by their coldness, a chill upon 
 her from which, in their presence, it was impossible for 
 her to escape? 
 
 44 I will try to be more cheerful,” said she humbly, and 
 rather dismally. 
 
 “No, that won’t do,” declared George, impatiently. 44 1 
 don’t want you to pump up liveliness that you don’t feel, 
 or laugh when you feel inclined to cry.” 
 
 4 4 Then what do you want me to do?” 
 
 4 4 W ell, when anything amuses you, and you look stealth- 
 ily at William with a perfectly stolid face but a laugh in 
 your eyes, will you look at me, too? I can enjoy a joke as 
 well as he.” 
 
 “Did you notice that?” said Annie, wonderingly. 
 
 “Yes; you exaggerate my dullness enormously. Now, 
 will you promise to share the joke with me?” 
 
 “But William is only a boy. If I were to laugh with 
 you as I do with him, Harry would think himself shunted 
 &nd be horribly unpleasant, as usual. I don’t mean to 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 60 
 
 say anything against Harry,” she added, hastily. “He 
 is your brother ” 
 
 “Do you think I feel so tenderly toward him, that I 
 cannot hear a word of truth about him?” said George pas- 
 sionately. “Do you think I cherish any deep affection 
 for the brute who first robbed me of the treasure I Would 
 have died to win, and then neglected her, crushed the 
 brightness out of her youth by his boorish ignorance, in- 
 sulted and disgusted her by his tastes and habits?” 
 
 Annie was frightened by his vehemence — moved too in 
 spite of herself. He saw this, and seized his advantage. 
 
 “Annie,” said he, bending down over her with his hand- 
 some face full of passionate tenderness, “it is too late 
 now; but didn’t you care for me a little once?” 
 
 With a long sobbing breath which was almost a cry, 
 Annie bent her head instinctively to hide her face, and, 
 springing away before he could detain her, went back into 
 the drawing-room. 
 
 Sir George drew himself up again to his full height, and 
 mechanically put his long- since- extinguished cigar to his 
 lips. He was answered. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 The next day Colonel Richardson went to Scotland, afte* 
 taking a very warm farewell of Annie, who, so far as she 
 herself was concerned, was extremely sorry for his de- 
 parture. He was the only man to whom she had spoken 
 since her marrige who had tastes in common with her, and 
 whose views of life were not bounded by the stable, the 
 kennel, and the dinner-table. George had indeed shown 
 himself to be ready to enter into her feelings, but his sym- 
 pathy she was afraid to encourage. It was true that she 
 had felt for him, from the first time he had talked to her 
 at the Grange dinner-table, a warmer sentiment than she 
 had ever felt for Harry or any other man ; and, though 
 since her marriage she had stifled it without much diffi- 
 culty, she could not but know his interest in her remained 
 strong. She felt, however, that since last night’s talk she 
 would have to be more careful as to her conduct, and com- 
 bine prudence with a little more graciousness. It did not 
 prove so difficult, after all. 
 
 That very afternoon she had gone into the library to 
 amuse herself among the old books that nobody else ever 
 touched, but in whose very presence she delighted; and 
 she was perched upon the ladder that stood there by 
 which to reach the highest shelves, and had covered her- 
 self with dust in her endeavors to get at the dingy -looking 
 volume whose only attraction lay in the fact that it was 
 
70 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 out of reach, when Sir George came in. She was sur- 
 prised to see him, as she had never seen any of the broth- 
 ers indulge in heavier reading than that which a sporting 
 paper afforded. 
 
 4 4 What are you doing among my books?” he asked, with 
 severity. 
 
 44 1 don’t wonder you are astonished to see any one read- 
 ing them,” said she, looking down saucily, with her dull 
 discovery open in her hand. 
 
 44 You think I don’t know how to read, I believe.” 
 
 44 1 am sure you couldn’t read this, at any rate. It is 
 called 4 Extracts from the Sermons of the Reverend 
 Thomas Dobbs, late Vicar of Garstone,’ and it is dated 
 1844 .” 
 
 44 Why, no; I indulge in that only on very special occa- 
 sions! I don’t think much of your literary taste.” 
 
 44 And I don’t think much of your library. I can’t find 
 anything better.” 
 
 44 Oh, nonsense! Here’s the 4 Life of Knox,’ and the 
 4 Works of Josephus,’ and 4 Fox’s Martyrs.’ I remember 
 my mother cured us of the vice of reading when we were 
 youngsters by letting us have these entertaining works to 
 read on Sundays. Have you ever noticed, Annie, that 
 careless and irreligious parents are always very particular 
 about what their children read on Sunday?” 
 
 4 4 But I am too old to be cured in that simple manner. 
 Find me something nicer, please.” 
 
 44 Come down, then, and sit by the fire, and I'll find you 
 ‘Clarissa Harlovve,’ or something else as light and frivo- 
 lous.” 
 
 She came down and sat in the chair he drew on to the 
 hearth-rug, while he brought one book after another, and, 
 after dusting it carefully, placed it on her lap. Sometimes 
 he would kneel by her side for a few minutes to look over 
 one with her, and listen to her remarks upon it; and they 
 got on so well together over this pastime that by the time 
 the light of the December afternoon had faded, and the 
 red glow of the fire was all they had to see by, the awk- 
 ward barrier between them was quite broken down, and 
 a friendly intercourse between them begun, which was to 
 Annie merely a new pleasure, but which brought to the 
 young baronet a delight which he knew to be full of peril. 
 
 After that day she avoided him no longer, but treated 
 him with gracious gratitude for his kindness, which would 
 have disarmed a man of better principles. 
 
 Lilian’s coldness to her had grown into more open dislike 
 since Colonel Richardson’s fondness for music had kept him 
 so long at her side on the eve of his journey to Scotland. 
 But the girl could not do xiiuch to make her sister-in-l^w 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 11 
 
 uncomfortable for fear of her eldest brother, with whom 
 she jealously felt Annie’s interest to be strong. Young 
 Sir George was a harder and somewhat colder man than 
 his father had been, and took the lead in the family of 
 which he was now the head as much by character as by 
 position. 
 
 It was getting very near Christmas when the baronet 
 told his sister one day at luncheon that he wished to speak 
 to her. They went into the library together, had a long 
 interview, and, when the girl came out, her face was red 
 and swollen with crying. She was very silent that even- 
 ing, and Stephen watched her in wistful wretchedness. 
 He had not been able to speak to her that afternoon; he 
 could only guess at the reason for her unhappiness, and he 
 sat brooding sullenly over George’s cruelty in bringing 
 tears to those proud eyes, and longing to be with her 
 alone, that he might learn what her trouble was and com- 
 fort her. It was late in the evening before he got an 
 opportunity of speaking to her in the mornin^room, 
 whither she had gone on the pretext of fetching some 
 work, knowing well that her cousin would follow her. 
 ;She broke into the subject at once. 
 
 “ Mr. Falconer has proposed for me, and George insists 
 on my accepting him.” 
 
 Mr. Falconer was a rich gentleman of about forty, who 
 had paid Lilian marked attention for some time. Lilian 
 affected to look down upon him because his father had 
 made his money in “cotton;” but the sneer was absurd, 
 as her admirer was a man scarcely less stalwart and hand- 
 some than her own brothers, and as much their superior 
 in intellect, character, and feeling as it was possible for a 
 jnan to be. 
 
 Stephen leaned on his crutches, trembling from head to 
 foot at the news. He had known very well, poor fellow, 
 in spite of mad dreams after an occasional moment of her 
 fascinating kindness, that she could never be his; but her 
 marriage had been a horrible dread for the distant future, 
 and, now that it proved a not distant reality, his heart 
 sunk within him. She was touched by the utter prostra- 
 tion of this poor cripple, who would, as she very well 
 knew, have given his life at any moment for her. She led 
 him to a chair, and tried to cheer him with a sort of regal 
 tenderness. At last he said, his lips trembling : 
 
 “ But George can’t force you to marry him, Lily.” 
 
 “Yes, he can, practically. The money that ought to 
 have been mine, of course, I shall never get from this 
 spendthrift crew. George says it is impossible that he can 
 give me what my father intended me to have, that the es- 
 tate is so burdened that there may be a break-up before 
 
*72 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 very long, and I am half inclined to believe him. So I am 
 portionless, and ought to think myself lucky to get a hus- 
 band at all, it seems.” 
 
 “But, Lilian, that is nonsense! You are the most beau- 
 tiful girl in the country; you will make a sensation in 
 London, and marry a duke, if you like. You are surely 
 never going to let George do what he likes with you, with 
 your high spirit?” 
 
 The girl did not answer, but impulsively hid her face in 
 her hands. A light came into Stephen’s troubled eyes, and 
 he shuddered as he looked at her. 
 
 “ Lily,” he whispered, “ has George heard anything?” 
 
 “ 1 think so,” she answered, without looking up. “ He 
 just hinted, in a way that made me think he must have 
 been prying into my affairs, that it would be better for me 
 to do as he wished. But, after all,” she cried, in a differ- 
 ent tone, raising her proud head from the table as sud- 
 denly as she had cast it down, “ I have done nothing wrong 
 — nothing to be ashamed of. It is not my fault if I am so 
 hunted and teased and mistrusted by my own family that 
 I cannot see what friends I please, but must correspond 
 with them secretly. For I won’t give up my friends at 
 any one’s bidding!” 
 
 “ But you saw him not long ago, and by your friends’ 
 invitation,” said Stephen, in a low voice. 
 
 “ What do you mean?” 
 
 “Do you think I didn’t know at the first moment of 
 seeing you with Colonel Bichardson, that it was his letters 
 I had been receiving for you? Oh, Lilian — and he is mar- 
 ried!” 
 
 “And what if he is?” asked the girl, quietly. “ I like 
 him well enough to marry him if he were free; but I am 
 not going to give up his friendship just because Aunt Con- 
 stantia and mamma and Annie insulted him and me when 
 I was in town by saying our acquaintance was improper. 
 I shall have what friends I please — now and always; and, 
 if I am to marry Mr. Falconer soon after Christmas, 1 will 
 see Colonel Bichardson again before then.” 
 
 “Soon after Christmas!” echoed Stephen, in a low 
 voice. 
 
 “So George says. And the sooner the better, for then I 
 shall be free,” said the girl, impatiently. “And now you 
 must post a letter for me at Beckham to-morrow— just one 
 more— the last,” she added, coaxingly. 
 
 “To Colonel Bichardson, under cover, as "sual, I sup- 
 pose?” 
 
 “Yes. And, as it is perhaps the very last service you 
 will ever be able to do me, I am sure you won’t tease 
 about it, will you?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 73 
 
 “ It is a very bad service I am doing you, Lily. If 
 George were really to find it out, I think he would kill me, 
 and perhaps you.” 
 
 “ Oh, the sense of honor is not so keen as you imagine 
 in our family!” sneered Lilian. “He would bully us 
 both, and perhaps strike one of us; but he wouldn’t risk 
 hanging on your account or mine.” 
 
 “But what do you want to say to Colonel Richardson?” 
 “ I want to tell him to come and say good-bye to me be- 
 fore he goes away, for he lias been ordered abroad. George 
 won’t invite him here again, I know; but I must see him, 
 and I will.” 
 
 “ But how can you ” 
 
 “He must come on Christmas Day, in the evening. You 
 know how my brothers will celebrate Christmas by drink- 
 ing more than usual, and then quarreling among them- 
 selves. They will soon give me an excuse for leaving 
 their society, and I will meet Colonel Richardson at the 
 gate at the bottom of the garden — the one that leads to the 
 short cut to Beckham.” 
 
 “You would risk that? Think what you are doing, 
 Lilian. Colonel Richardson would never consent to put 
 your reputation in peril like that.” 
 
 “He will put himself in peril too, with my wild brothers 
 about; so he’ll risk it. And I know howto make him 
 come. I’ll tell him, if he doesn’t come down here, I’ll 
 come up to London to see him.” 
 
 “ Lily, are you mad? I will not help you to do this.” 
 “Very well, then; I’ll risk it without your help — post 
 my own letter, receive the answer, and you may betray 
 me to George if you dare. I believe I am mad, I am so 
 miserable!” 
 
 “And all for a man who doesn’t appreciate you, who 
 likes Annie better than you?” 
 
 “ It is not true,” said she fiercely. “If I believed that, 
 she should not stay in the house a day longer — I would not 
 rest until I got the little hypocrite turned out! But it is 
 not true — it is not true ! Now, will you desert me at the 
 last just when I am so wretched, and have nobody to help 
 me?” 
 
 “ I will serve you to the end, for good or for evil, as I 
 have always done, Lily; you know I live only for that. 
 When you are gone, whether Mr. Falconer marries you 
 or somebody else, my wretched life will be no good to me, 
 and I don’t care how soon I lose it. No one will ever 
 worship you as I do, Lily, nor for so little thanks.” 
 
 But she soothed him with sweet words and kind eyes. 
 She did indeed feel the strength of his devotion, and, 
 
74 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 moreover, he was too useful an ally not to be worth a few 
 kind speeches. 
 
 So the letter was sent, and the answer came — and the 
 secret was safe. 
 
 Since the regular hunting season had begun, Harry’s 
 neglect of his wife had not only grown more open than 
 ever, but had been supplemented by sneers at her “ refined 
 tastes” and “poetry, prunes, prism” manners. She could 
 not tell the cause of this change, and went on quietly in 
 her own way, dutifully caring for his small comforts, and 
 accepting his coarse snubs with the same placid indif- 
 ference with which she had formerly taken his scanty 
 thanks. 
 
 When Christmas Day arrived it was spent just as Lilian 
 had predicted. In the morning the ladies went to church, 
 accompanied by Stephen and William. As there was no 
 hunting, and Lady Braith waite had insisted upon the 
 grooms having a holiday, the other young men spent the 
 afternoon in the stable and the biliiard-room, wrangling 
 more than usual. Wilfred had already remonstrated with 
 George for teasing Harry. 
 
 “You are always saying things to put his back up now. 
 What do you do it for?” he asked. 
 
 “I don’t care a straw what he says!” cried Harry, sul- 
 lenly, who was flushed and excited long before the after- 
 noon was over. “ And, as for my not being ‘ a person of 
 authority,’ as he calls it, I have as much authority as 
 anybody here.” 
 
 “ Over whom or over what, pray?” said George, taunt- 
 ingly. “ I don’t say you can’t manage a horse as well as 
 — an hostler; but show me the man or woman on whom 
 your word or your opinion has the slightest effect.” 
 
 “ Well, I like that!” burst out Harry, his face twitching 
 with passion. “ Don’t I manage my own wife — doesn’t 
 she obey me, and quickly, too? Do you ever hear her con- 
 tradict me or differ from my opinion? Answer me, or, by 
 Jove, I’ll make you!” 
 
 “Your wife doesn’t think your opinion worth differing 
 from, and she obeys you as the shortest way of getting rid 
 of your presence. Everybody knows that.” 
 
 “ I say, George, do shut up !” broke in Wilfred. “ Can’t 
 you see you are only irritating him against his poor little 
 wife, who has quite enough to put up with from him 
 already? What on earth are you driving at? Can’t 
 make you out lately !” 
 
 “ Don’t interfere with your infernal preaching !” shouted 
 Harry. “ So my wife has enough to put up with from me 
 already! Very well, she’ll have more than enough, then, 
 before long, if she doesn’t get rid of her confoundedly cold 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 75 
 
 tragedy-queen airs, I can tell her! Ill show her and you 
 too if I’m not master of my own wife !” And Harry flung 
 away the cigar-end he had been biting, and swung him- 
 self out of the yard, unable to control himself any longer. 
 
 Wilfred turned to his brother. 
 
 “Why the dickens did you badger the boy like that? 
 He’ll only go and let off his ill-temper on poor little Annie, 
 and perhaps take to proving his authority with his fists or 
 his boots, the hulking bully!” 
 
 “ Well, the sooner he does, and disgusts her thoroughly, 
 and makes her throw him over altogether, the better for 
 her.” 
 
 Wilfred looked at his brother keenly. 
 
 “ I say, George, you’re not playing square.” 
 
 “Yes, lam; you don't know the game;” and the bar- 
 onet lounged out of the stable-yard with his hands in his 
 pockets, but with teeth so firmly set that he bit his cigar 
 in two. 
 
 Dinner that evening began quietly enough. There was 
 a lull in the hostilities between the young men, Harry 
 being sullen, Wilfred rather sleepy, and George giving all 
 his attention to Lilian, who was in her most brilliant 
 mood, talking, laughing, teasing her eldest brother, and 
 delighting him by her archness ; only one person at the 
 table noticed how feverishly bright her eyes were, and the 
 nervous play of her delicate fingers when she was not 
 speaking. For Stephen never took his eyes off her; he 
 drank scarcely anything and ate nothing. Annie was pale 
 to the lips, and the sound of Harry’s voice made her 
 start. Only Lady Braithwaite and William were quite 
 their usual selves. 
 
 “So this is the last Christmas I am to spend as Miss 
 Braithwaite!” said Lilian. “I wonder how I shall like 
 married life.” 
 
 “ Ask Annie how she likes it,” suggested George. 
 
 The young wife did not look up; but all could see that a 
 shiver passed over her slight form. Harry made a restless 
 movement on his chair. 
 
 “Confound her!” William, who sat next, heard him 
 mutter; and the boy’s blood took fire. Wiser than George 
 or Wilfred in the interests of his play-fellow, however, he 
 said nothing, and clinched his hands together under the 
 table to keep himself from punching his brother’s head. 
 Such acts as that had not been unknown in past times at 
 the Grange dinner-table, and a repetition of them seemed 
 perilously near. 
 
 When they at last came into the drawing-room after 
 dinner, after sitting an unusually long time over their 
 wine, Annie was seated— it almost seemed that she was 
 
W 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 hidden— in the shadow of one of the window-curtains close 
 to the conservatory. Lady Braith waite was happily doz- 
 ing as usual, and Lilian was flitting about the room, more 
 animated, more restless than usual. She looked at her 
 brothers searchingly as they came in, they were all talk- 
 ing and laughing loudly and discordantly. Stephen was 
 the only one perfectly sober, and he, white to the lips and 
 silent, was more excited than they. He watched Lilian 
 with glistening eyes full of fear and anxiety. 
 
 She had scarcely listened to half a dozen sentences of 
 her brothers when she left them and crossed the room. 
 
 “Where are you going? We want you to play some- 
 thing.” 
 
 “I think you can amuse yourselves better without me 
 to-night,” she said, with playful insolence — “at least for 
 the present. I’ll come down presently, when I’ve finished 
 my letter to Aunt Constantia, and give you ‘John Peel.’ ” 
 
 She calculated upon their having found some other 
 means of passing the time long before they thought of her 
 again ; and, before they could stop her, she had left the 
 room. The little black figure in the shadow of the curtain 
 sprung up, and was at the door to follow her example, 
 when Harry’s voice thundered: 
 
 “ Annie, stop where you are!” 
 
 But for once she took no notice, and she was turning the 
 handle when he sprung forward and stumbled over a foot- 
 stool. George laughed. William darted across the room 
 to Annie, and, holding the door open, said : 
 
 “Go, dear— quick!” 
 
 But the power to do so had gone from the frightened 
 woman’s limbs. She hesitated. In that one moment 
 Harry had recovered himself, and, just as William was 
 giving her a gentle little push, her husband reached them, 
 and, seizing Annie’s arm roughly, swung her round into 
 the middle of the room again. 
 
 There came a sullen imprecation from the lips of every 
 other man in the room, and William, with a howl of rage, 
 felled his staggering brother like an ox to the ground. 
 Wilfred, sober for the moment, turned to the wife, who 
 had clasped her hands in fright as she saw her husband 
 fall, 
 
 “ Go, my child, go!” he said earnestly. “ He isn’t hurt. 
 For Heaven’s sake, go before he gets up!” 
 
 They were all between her and the door now, swearing, 
 fallen husband and the rest. She turned, fled through 
 the conservatory, and out into the garden; she ran, ran — 
 over the steeply-sloping lawn and down into the shrub- 
 bery at the bottom, too much scared to stop herself. She 
 fancied she saw a tall, black figure among the trees in 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 11 
 
 frbnt of her, and called “Lilian!” — but there was no an- 
 swer. Then, having reached the path that ran between 
 the trees all around the garden she leaned against a tree 
 to get back her breath. The next minute she heard a 
 man’s footsteps coming hurriedly down the walk. Her 
 excited fancy told her it was her husband come to wreak 
 his disappointed fury on her; she tried to get behind a 
 tree, but there was a wire fence which stopped her. She 
 crouched down on the ground with her face hidden, until 
 the footsteps came quite close and stopped. 
 
 “Don’t, don’t! I can’t bear any more!” she said, 
 hoarsely. 
 
 But an arm was put round her very gently, and tried to 
 raise her from the ground. 
 
 “My darling, it is not your brutal husband. Don’t you 
 know who it is?” 
 
 “Oh, George!” she cried, with a gasp of relief, as he 
 raised her from the ground. 
 
 She hung on his arm, quite still, except for a convulsive 
 trembling from time to time, for a few minutes, until her 
 shaken sense began to return; then she tried to stand 
 alone. 
 
 “I am better now, thank you, George* But, oh, I was 
 so frightened!” 
 
 “Lie still in my arms, my darling,” said he, his voice 
 shaking. 
 
 He drew her more closely to him, and she could feel the 
 quick beating of his heart against hers. 
 
 “Let me go, George; lam quite well now. You 
 frighten me too!” she said, piteously, imploringly, trying 
 to unlock his hands with her slender fingers. 
 
 He held her more closely at once. 
 
 “I frighten you, Annie! I would not hurt a hair of 
 your beautiful head for the world. Oh, my darling, my 
 darling, tell me you are better! Look up at me, Annie.”" 
 
 She raised her eyes timidly to his face, then dropped 
 them again, as his passionate gaze met hers. 
 
 “ I am much better. Let me go, George, please. Won’t 
 you do what I ask you? I am tired ; I want to go in — to 
 bed. Oh, George, if you are really sorry for me, let me 
 go in, or I shall die out here in the cold!” 
 
 “You shall not die; you shall not be cold in my arms. 
 Do you want to go back to the husband who is waiting to 
 bully you, perhaps to strike you, away from the man 
 who loves you with all his soul?” 
 
 Annie gathered all her strength and gave one ringing 
 cry: 
 
 “ Harry!” 
 
 The bare branches of the shrubbery- trees rustled and 
 
TO 
 
 a Vagrant wife. 
 
 cracked as a man sprung into the pathway and tore the 
 trembling woman from the unprepared George. She 
 looked up. 
 
 ‘ 4 Thank Heaven ! Colonel Eichardson !’ ’ 
 
 George looked at him, too, dumb with surprise. But 
 his eyes saw what Annie’s did not. From the opposite 
 side of the path Lilian’s handsome eyes were flashing in 
 the moonlight in jealous anger at the woman who lay 
 unconscious in Colonel Eichardson’ s arms. 
 
 CHAPTEE X. 
 
 Careless of herself and her own secret, in the burning 
 desire to be revenged upon Annie, Lilian sped back to the 
 house, not knowing that George had seen her, and found 
 Harry with the rest in the billiard-room, still quarreling 
 hotly about the scene in the drawing-room, of which she 
 had not yet heard. Stephen had been forbidden by her to 
 leave the house that night, and he had been tortured with 
 anxiety on her account ever since he saw Annie go into the 
 conservatory, and then noticed a few minutes later that 
 George had also disappeared. 
 
 Lilian beckoned Harry imperiously out of the room. 
 
 44 1 have something important to say to you.” 
 
 Her wide, glistening eyes, panting bosom, and resolutely 
 subdued manner, checked his oaths at this interruption. 
 He followed her into the hall. 
 
 4 4 George and Colonel Eichardson are in the garden, in 
 the copse at the bottom, quarreling over your wife. I am 
 sorry if I have startled you ; but I thought you had better 
 know.” 
 
 “She is the blight of my life,” hissed out Harry, with a 
 bitter imprecation, trying to steady himself. 
 
 44 Hadn’t you better do something more than stand here 
 and abuse her?” asked Lilian, dryly. 
 
 She turned in disgust from the infuriated lad, and went 
 into the drawing-room. He was on the point of following 
 her, when Annie came into the hall from the garden by 
 another door. There was not a trace of color in her face; 
 she crept slowly, and it seemed to her drunken husband 
 guiltily, toward the staircase. 
 
 44 Stop!” growled Harry. 44 You have something to say 
 to me now. Where have you been?” 
 
 “ In the garden.” 
 
 “ Whom were you with?” 
 
 44 With George.” 
 
 44 And Colonel Eichardson?” 
 
 44 Yes.” 
 
 She spoke wearily, all spirit seemed to have been taken 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 79 
 
 out of hep by the scenes she had gone through since Harry’s 
 first bullying that afternoon. 
 
 “ What were you doing there? Tell me at once.” 
 
 “ I was doing nothing to be ashamed of; you know that 
 perfectly well. I will tell you all about it to-morrow. It 
 would be of no use to try to make you understand now,” 
 said she, glancing up at his flushed face with an involun- 
 tary shudder of disgust. 
 
 “You will tell me now, whether I understand or not— 
 that is my lookout,” returned he, doggedly. “I’ve had 
 enough of your infernal airs of superiority, and I mean to i 
 show you I’m master. You go about with a long face, 
 telling everybody you are too good for me, when all the 
 while ” 
 
 “Take care what you say!” she broke in, with sudden 
 spirit. 
 
 “ What were you doing in the garden, then?” thundered 
 he. “ What was Colonel Kichardson there for?” 
 
 She did not answer. It was not so much to shield Lilian 
 as from fear of another and worse quarrel between the 
 brothers that she was silent ; and excitement, fatigue, and 
 disgust were making her reckless. 
 
 “Do you intend to answer me or not?” asked Harry, 
 laying a heavy hand on her shoulder. 
 
 His touch made her defiant. 
 
 “Not now.” 
 
 He raised his hand and struck her. It was not really a 
 severe blow ; but it was enough to throw the fragile little 
 creature to the ground. 
 
 “ You brute, you cruel, cowardly brute!” She cried, in a 
 low, sobbing voice, looking up at him with passionate dark 
 eyes full of hatred, from where she had fallen. “You 
 may have killed your child !” — and her head fell back upon 
 the floor at his feet, while he stood still in stupid, dumb 
 bewilderment. 
 
 Only for a moment. The rough, drunken fellow was 
 not heartless. When his dim, dazed eyes saw clearly the 
 white, senseless face at his feet, and his dull ears began to 
 admit a suggestion of her meaning, he flung himself down 
 beside her and gathered the unconscious woman into his 
 arms in a passion of loud, demonstrative remorse. 
 
 “I have killed her — I have killed her!” lie moaned to 
 the group of frightened people from the drawing-room, 
 billiard-room, and servants’ -hall whom his cries brought 
 quickly into the hall. “Heaven forgive me, she is dead! 
 My poor, pretty little wife! Oh, I am a brute, a beast! 
 Annie, Annie! She will never speak to me again!” — and 
 the slight frame he held in his arms and pressed to his 
 
80 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 convulsed and swollen face shook with the violence of his 
 sobs. 
 
 It was a genuine grief that prompted this outburst ; but 
 it was the grief, not of a man, but of a child who in a fit 
 of thoughtless anger had taken the life of a pet dog or 
 bird. 
 
 They took her from him with difficulty, assuring him 
 that she had only fainted; and George and Wilfred led 
 him away, while the women tried to restore her to con- 
 sciousness. It was a long time before they succeeded; 
 then Lady Braithwaite came into the billiard-room where 
 the young men were. 
 
 “She must have a doctor. Somebody must ride to 
 Beckham at once,” she said. 
 
 “ I will!” cried Harry, jumping up. 
 
 “Nonsense; you are not sober enough,” said George 
 curtly. He was bearing his share of remorse at the result 
 of the day’s work. 
 
 But, before he had reached the door. Harry passed him 
 with a rough push and an oath. The shock had sobered 
 the lad for the time ; but he had been drinking since to 
 drown his remorse. However, he was so familiar with the 
 stable as to be able almost by instinct to find what he 
 wanted ; he put saddle and bridle himself on to the fastest 
 horse there, and, once in the saddle, he was all right, for, 
 drunk or sober, Harry could ride. 
 
 He got back before the doctor, and ran, all breathless, 
 heated, and splashed, up the stairs to the door of the room, 
 into which Annie had been taken, knocked as softly as he 
 could, and opened the door. She was lying on the bed, 
 and his mother and the housekeeper were with her. They 
 made gestures to him to go back; but he stood there, his 
 face all quivering with wistful anxiety. 
 
 “Only let me just say one word to her,” pleaded he, 
 hoarsely. He was panting still from the speed with which 
 he had come. 
 
 Annie, who had been lying half-unconscious, opened her 
 eyes and turned to Lady Braithwaite with a low cry: 
 
 “ Don’t let him come near me!” she whispered. 
 
 But Harry heard; and he slunk out of the room, stunned 
 as no physical blow could have stunned him. 
 
 Annie lay ill for weeks, and in all that time no messages, 
 no entreaties would induce her to see her husband. The 
 only glimpses he got of her were by stealth, when she was 
 asleep. For the sweet hope of being a mother, which had 
 made her secretly, silently happy under all his neglect, 
 had now been taken from her, and she felt that it was his 
 brutality which had snatched away the one joy her 
 wretched marriage had brought her. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 81 
 
 Lady Braithwaite tried to soothe her mind and induce 
 her to forgive her husband. But the submissive daughter- 
 in-law was strong in her weakness ; and no persuasion on 
 the part of the elder lady, who had now grown as kind as 
 she had formerly been cold, could extract more than: 
 
 “ Tell him I forgive him; but don’t let me see him.” 
 
 She was so obstinate in this decision that, even when 
 she was well enough to be carried down-stairs, she refused 
 to move from her room, and the women about her knew 
 that it was the dread of meeting her husband which kept 
 her a prisoner. So that Lady Braithwaite had to make 
 her way to Harry’s room one night, and persuade him to 
 go away for a time. It was a difficult task for a mother, 
 for the lad’s passion broke out vehemently in alternate fits 
 against his wife and of fondness for her. First he said he 
 would go to the ends of the earth, if that would do her any 
 good, and the next minute he swore she was a hard, un- 
 grateful little vixen, and deserved to have her ears boxed. 
 
 However, at last Lady Braithwaite carried her point; 
 and he agreed to go away for a fortnight to some relatives 
 of hers in Leicestershire — no very great hardship, in truth, 
 as the hunting-season was not yet over. 
 
 So one morning, before Annie was awake, he stole into 
 her room with elaborately clumsy movements expressive 
 of his intention not to make the least noise, all ready for 
 his journey, except that he was without his boots — he had 
 left them outside the door for fear of their creaking. He 
 stood looking at her wistfully for a few minutes, and then 
 crept close to the bed and softly kissed her. She did not 
 move or wake. Then he took out of his pocket a letter, 
 directed, rather quaintly, to “ Mrs. Harold Braithwaite, 
 Garstone Grange, Lancashire.” He had first written out- 
 side it simply, “ Annie;” but then it had occurred to him 
 that the dignity of the offended husband required the full 
 title. This letter he tucked gently under her shoulder, as 
 he did not want anybody else to see it. Then, with an- 
 other kiss and the murmur, “ She doesn’t deserve it— I’m 
 blessed if she does!” he left the room. 
 
 When he got outside the door, he hesitated a moment. 
 
 “Wonder if it would hurt her to wake her? She might 
 just say good-bye. Oh, well, it is only for a fortnight!” 
 and he put on his boots and went down-stairs. 
 
 Only a fortnight— so he thought! 
 
 When Annie woke that morning, she found the letter. 
 It was badly written, strangely spelled, not punctuated at 
 all, an authentic uninspired document evidently : 
 
 “ My dear Annie, — I ought not to have to write to you 
 at all as a husband ought to see his wife whenever he likes 
 
82 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 and she ought to think it a compliment but you are ill 
 though I believe you are nearly well now and I say no 
 more. You don’t know how sorry I am about it all or you 
 would be kinder for I can not ride or sleep or do anything 
 hardly for thinking of you. Then all say I am silly to go 
 on like this just for a woman and I dare say they are right 
 in the abstrackt but they don’t know how much a man feels 
 this sort of tretment until they are married themselves 
 which I hope they won’t be till they are older than you 
 and me for a man should not marry until five-and- twenty 
 I am sure of that now. I do not say that to reproach you 
 for it was not your fault, and it is nearly as bad for you as 
 for me and it will all be different in a fortnight when 
 I come back for I will be very gentle and kind to you and 
 I want you to promise that you won’t say any more about 
 it nor throw it in my face afterward when you are 
 angry with me and that you won’t always be so dredfully 
 quiet before people as if you were afraid of me. I know 
 I am not good enough for you and everybody is always 
 telling me so and it is not at all a pleasant thing for a fel- 
 low and I think if you were a little less good it would be 
 better. I would as soon you gave me a slap in the face 
 than obey me in the way you do like a statue or a martyr 
 which you are not. Don’t think I want to say hard things 
 to you for everybody will tell you how wretched I have 
 been and I will say a lot more to you when I see you but 
 now as the dog-cart is round and I have not had my break- 
 fast I will say good-by and if you are not awake I will put 
 it under your pillow. Your affectionate husband, 
 
 “ Harry.” 
 
 As Annie read this letter, it struck her for the first time 
 that she had not appreciated the extreme youthfulness of 
 her husband, who was much younger at twenty than she 
 was on the eve of being nineteen. The letter, in its boyish 
 simplicity, amused and touched her ; however, it did not 
 alter, but rather strengthened, a resolution which she had 
 been busily forming and developing during those quiet 
 weeks of illness. 
 
 On the day following Harry’s departure for Leicester- 
 shire she was led down stairs, being strong enough to walk 
 now, and enthroned in the drawing-room as a special pet 
 and sovereign. She was rather shy with George at first ; 
 but he knew how to be so quietly kind as to put her at her 
 ease. William danced wild hornpipes of joy round her, 
 until they threatened to turn him out for being noisy, upon 
 which he instantly subsided, and fell into the opposite ex- 
 treme of speaking only in a thick whisper. All the rest 
 were kind ; Lilian rather ashamed of herself, but grateful 
 
a VAGRANT WIFE. 63 
 
 to Annie for not having mentioned her name to indiscreet 
 Harry on that eventful Christmas night. 
 
 George, after another stormy interview with his sister in 
 the library, in which she had been in a position to give 
 him back taunt for taunt, wisely agreed to bury all allu- 
 sion to that night’s events, and merely used the power 
 they gave him to insist on her marrying Mr. Falconer 
 sooner than she wished. It had been a miserable business, 
 that moonlit scene in the copse, requiring hushing up all 
 round, but especially on Lilian’s account; so her eldest 
 brother and Colonel Richardson had had to content them- 
 selves with an exchange of hard words, and the latter had 
 returned to the station and the former to the house, each 
 with an uneasy consciousness that he had never appeared 
 to less advantage in his own eyes in his life. 
 
 By the time Annie came down-stairs for the first time, 
 the preparations for Lilian’s wedding were already in 
 progress; and, when Annie suggested to Lady Braithwaite 
 that she thought she wanted change of air, the latter of- 
 fered to take her away to the seaside as soon as Lilian was 
 married, saying she could not leave home before. But 
 Annie thanked her, and said she would be well enough 
 to travel by herself in a day or two; and she wanted to go 
 as soon as she could to her aunt’s, she thought. 
 
 When George heard of it, he begged his sister-in-law to 
 wait until after the wedding, when he himself would take 
 both her and his mother to Southport. She thanked him, 
 but without accepting or declining the proposal. 
 
 On the very day before Harry's expected return, how- 
 ever, George having left home early in the morning for a 
 day’s hunting, Annie came into the morning- room — where 
 Lady Braithwaite and her daughter were inspecting some 
 newly arrived wedding presents — dressed for a journey. 
 
 “ I knew the obstinate little thing would go off by her- 
 self, after all,” said Lilian, rather glad of her sister-in- 
 law’s resolution. 
 
 The elder lady was completely taken by surprise. 
 
 “ What about your luggage? You can’t go away with- 
 out any,” she said. 
 
 “ I packed it all last night, and ordered a cab from Beck- 
 ham yesterday— at least, it was I who sent the order. The 
 cab is at the door now.” 
 
 “ But you can’t go off in that way; people would think 
 it so strange! Wait until after dinner, and I will take 
 you.” 
 
 “ Thank you. William is going to drive me. The dog- 
 cart will be round in a minute.” 
 
 This diverted Lady Braithwaite’s thoughts. 
 
 “That horrid dog-cart! You are going to let him take 
 
84 a vagrant wife . 
 
 you in that! You will certainly be thrown out and 
 killed !” 
 
 “I am not afraid,” said Annie, smiling; and, hearing 
 William’s voice calling her from the hall, she bade them 
 both good-bye and left the room, they following her to the 
 front door. 
 
 Her manner was very quiet and composed ; but Lilian 
 was not easily deceived. She turned to her mother as the 
 dog-cart disappeared down the drive. 
 
 44 She does not mean to come back, mamma,” she said, 
 in a low voice. And one of the servants standing at the 
 back overheard and nodded to another, whispering: 
 
 4 4 1 told you so.” 
 
 William was in high spirits at driving his dear Annie 
 again; but she was very silent, or talked without her 
 usual brightness. He said nothing; but he thought to 
 himself, 44 If she is so sorry to go away, she will be back 
 all the sooner,” and, when, at the station, he had taken 
 her ticket — first-class, in spite of her directions — and found 
 her a comfortable carriage, he got in and flung his arms 
 around her affectionately, and told her he should count 
 the days till she came back. Then, to his sudden dismay, 
 she burst into tears. The boy’s face fell. 
 
 44 Annie, what is the matter?” Then, in a mysterious 
 voice, “ You haven’t cut away from Harry, have you?” 
 
 Annie nodded. 
 
 44 Don’t tell any one at the Grange yet, William, there’s 
 a dear, good old boy. I will write and explain. But I’m 
 glad you know. I couldn’t bear it any longer. It was 
 ruining both our lives; we never could have agreed, and 
 we shall both be happier apart.” 
 
 44 But where are you going? What are you going to do? 
 You are not going to be a governess again, are you?” 
 
 44 1 don’t know. I am not sure of anything yet, only of 
 this— that I shall be all right, and nobody need be anxious 
 about me.” 
 
 “But I shall be. Oh, Annie, don’t go! Let me go with 
 you and see you safely to your aunt’s. I have some money 
 with me— George gave me my allowance only this morn- 
 ing. Do let me go!” 
 
 “No, no; you must not think of such a thing,” said 
 Annie, almost laughing. 
 
 4 4 And you were going to leave me just like the rest, 
 without a word about your not coming back! Oh, Annie, 
 when we’ve been such chums!” 
 
 The boy’s reproachful face overcame Annie. 
 
 ‘‘Look here— I’ll tell you what I haven’t told anybody 
 else, and don’t mean to tell anybody else,” said she, 
 affectionately; and she whispered something into his ear. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 85 
 
 u 0h, Annie!” 
 
 “Mind you are not to tell any one— ever. I have not 
 even made you promise, you see.” 
 
 “You needn’t be afraid. Your brother-in-law is a 
 gentleman,” said William, gravely. 
 
 The express by which she was going stopped twenty 
 minutes at Beckham; but now the guard was crying, 
 “Take your seats!”— and William had to jump out. He 
 got up on the step outside to see as much as he could of her • 
 at the very last, and said, in an important whisper: 
 
 “ But I sha’n’t know where to write to you.” 
 
 “ I will let you know. And mind, William, you are not 
 to drink — at least, not like the others!” 
 
 “ All right; I won’t. I may smoke, mayn’t I?” 
 
 “Oh, yes, you may smoke, and you may ride and fish 
 and shoot as much as you like ; only do try to read a little, 
 and don’t swear quite so much as Wilfred or Harry.” 
 
 “All right. You don’t mind my saying a big, big D 
 
 when I get a bad fall just before the finish?” 
 
 “ N — o, I’ll pass that. Now get down ; the train is going, 
 and you will be hurt.” 
 
 William jumped off, but dashed down the platform be- 
 side the moving train a minute after, panting out, as he 
 threw his purse into the carriage : 
 
 “You must take it; I’ve taken out all I want, and you 
 may want it. You know I took first-class when you said 
 second. Write.” 
 
 The last impression she carried away of her life at the 
 Grange was the memory of the big, handsome boy stand- 
 ing looking at the disappearing train, with an expression 
 on his face which threatened tears when he should be out 
 of sight of the busy crowd around him. 
 
 When Annie’s own tears had stopped, she picked up the 
 boy’s purse, which had fallen as he flung it, on to the op- 
 posite seat. It was a handsome purse and pocket-book, 
 given him by his mother; but it had suffered from experi- 
 ments made upon it with the various articles in his tool- 
 chest. He had begun a diary in it when it was new, which 
 had dwindled down to an occasional note of his transac- 
 tions in rabbits. There were other boyish documents, a 
 cutting from the Field, et ccetera , and there was more than 
 five pounds in money, a broken scarf-pin, and two used 
 foreign postage-stamps. She had no scruples about ac- 
 cepting the money, which was a welcome addition to her 
 not very large store, and the pocket-book she put in her 
 desk later as a cherished souvenir of the being she cared 
 most about in the world. The boy’s high spirits and 
 frank pleasure in hers had won her from the first, and the 
 only things she regretted in her life at the Grange were 
 
a vagrant wife. 
 
 the walks and drives and barbaric sports of ratting and 
 mouse-hunting with him as a companion. 
 
 When she got to London, she went straight to a street 
 she had been told of, north of Oxford Street, well known 
 for cheap lodgings. She took a furnished bedroom at the 
 top of a dingy house, and then next day she returned to 
 Euston Station to fetch her luggage, which she had left at 
 the parcels-office there, for fear of the extra expense of 
 driving about in a cab with it, in case she should have any 
 difficulty in finding a suitable lodging. She was on foot; 
 and, as she entered the station, a hansom passed her with 
 a young man in it who quite startled her by his likeness td 
 Harry. The resemblance was so strong that she stopped, 
 half inclined to turn back and walk about for a little 
 while, in case it should be, indeed, her husband, so that 
 he might have left the station before she got there. But 
 then she reasoned with herself that Harry was in 
 Leicestershire, and was expected at Garstone to-day, 
 even if he were not already there; so that she decided to 
 go boldly on. Another feeling impelled her forward — an 
 unacknowledged hankering for a last sight of her hus- 
 band, or even for a look at the man who so strongly re- 
 sembled him. 
 
 Annie did not love her husband — she had never really 
 loved him; and since Christmas she almost hated him. 
 But, now that she had left him forever, and that too with- 
 out any farewell, a natural inconsistency prompted her to 
 try to steal a last look at the handsome lad who had been 
 her lord and master. 
 
 So she went into the station, and, leaving her luggage for 
 future consideration, looked about cautiously for the man 
 she had seen in the hansom. He was not to be seen about 
 the ticket offices, and, growing bolder, she slipped in and 
 out among the groups of people on the platform. A train 
 was about to start for the North. Still with caution, but 
 attracted in spite of herself toward that train, which, as 
 she knew, would stop at Beckham, Annie advanced until 
 she was nearly opposite to the doors of the refreshment- 
 room. They opened, and a young man came out. Annie 
 stopped, with the color rushing to her face; for it was 
 Harry. He looked so handsome in his light traveling-suit, 
 with liis overcoat hanging loosely over his arm, that she 
 felt quite proud of him, and stood there with her eyes fixed 
 upon him, half hoping that he would turn and see her. 
 
 But he did not, for he was gazing eagerly in the opposite 
 direction— so eagerly that he risked being left behind, as the 
 carriage doors were being closed. Annie’s eyes followed 
 his, and found that the object of his evident admiration 
 was a showily dressed woman with bold eyes and impos- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 87 
 
 sibly yellow hair, who was tottering along the platform in 
 boots which had long slender pegs instead of heels.. 
 
 With a sigh of disgust, Annie turned away. It was 
 years before she saw her husband again. 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 The first thing Annie had done on arriving at her Lon- 
 don lodging had been to takeoff her wedding-ringand hide 
 it away in a corner of her desk. She had given to the 
 landlady the name “ Miss Langton,” which she had re- 
 solved to adopt for the future. These were her first steps 
 toward cutting herself off from her past life; the next was 
 a bolder one. 
 
 During these long weeks when she had lain ill in bed, 
 she had pondered in her mind how she could live when she 
 had left her husband, as she at the very beginning of her 
 illness determined to do. One trial of the life of a govern- 
 ess had been enough for her, and she could not easily have 
 re-entered it except in some sort under false pretenses. 
 Besides, now that she had thrown herself upon her own re- 
 sources, and stood once more alone in the world, her old 
 ambitions had awakened within her, the old spirit cried 
 out, the vague but strong consciousness of untried powers 
 turned her thoughts to a career of art. One form of art 
 alone seemed open to her — the stage. All that she knew, 
 or almost all that she knew, of a theatrical life was dis- 
 tasteful to her, and her instinct would have led her to give 
 herself up to writing. But she had already tried that, 
 knew how hard it was even to get a hearing from the read- 
 ing public, and cast aside the thought of literary distinc- 
 tion as taking too long to win. 
 
 Of course, knowing nothing about the stage, she fell into 
 the common error of thinking that talent made itself more 
 quickly manifest there, and utterly ignored the fact that 
 it is about as easy for a woman of high principles, with- 
 out either money or interest, to attain a good position in a 
 London theater as for a drummer-boy to become a general. 
 She knew she would have to wait and to work before she 
 found her way to the front rank ; but how long that weary 
 waiting would last, or how dull that work would be, she 
 had not the least idea. She had unbounded faith in her- 
 self, she had energy, a little patience, and she believed 
 herself to have talent, and her heart beat fast with the 
 thought that she was now free to measure her strength 
 against the world. 
 
 As for the horror of her husband and the rest of the 
 Braith waites, if they ever came to hear of the step she 
 had taken, why, she did not care for their opinion, and 
 
88 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 their disgust could not humiliate her. Besides, the fact of 
 her having become an actress would effectually cut her off 
 from them forever and prevent their trying to bring her 
 back to them, a possibility too dreadful to be considered 
 calmly. 
 
 For, now that they were over, yet still fresh in her mind, 
 the trials she had suffered during those few months of 
 married life seemed, in these first days of relief from 
 them, even greater than they had really been. Harry 
 seemed more brutal, more ignorant, more dissipated, Lady 
 Braith waite and Lilian more coldly insolent, George more 
 selfish, Wilfred more drunken, Stephen more unkind; so 
 that the stage held out attractions for her in the social ob- 
 livion it involved which it would have been far from hav- 
 ing in her eyes in other circumstances. 
 
 Not once did the thought occur to Annie that she was 
 doing wrong in thus leaving her husband without consult- 
 ing him. From the first she had been too obviously his 
 superior in judgment t o set any value on his opinion, and 
 now she only thought she was ridding him as well as her- 
 self of an intolerable burden in the simplest manner. She 
 had tried hard to do her duty as a wife, and had succeeded 
 only in exasperating him against her and in unwittingly 
 irritating him to more than his customary excesses. In 
 leaving him free she thought she was rendering him the 
 highest service in her power ; and in freeing herself she 
 felt, with a throb of joy, that she was once more able to 
 indulge in her old dreams of ambition and success. 
 
 But in this argument with herself she forgot one thing— 
 namely, that she had not left Harry free. This forgetful- 
 ness was the natural result of the effacement she had suf- 
 fered at Garstone Grange which had caused her to depre- 
 ciate her duties as they had depreciated her rights. It 
 did not occur to her to think that she, morally the stronger 
 of the two, was aban doning her husband, in all the first 
 heat of a singularly wild and passionate nature, to a life 
 in which the innocent indulgence of the affections was no 
 longer possible; for she looked upon him as a brute in- 
 capable of any but the lowest forms of love. As for her- 
 self, she did not think herself in danger— she was of cooler 
 temperament and higher intellect; her imagination took 
 fire much more readily than her heart; she had thrown 
 herself into the prospect of a brilliant career, and the idea 
 of leading a loveless life had few terrors for her at first, 
 except in rare moments of depression. 
 
 But, though the future was full of charm for her, the 
 present was not without great difficulties. How was she 
 tp enter upon her new life? She remembered that some 
 years ago, in the old days when her father was alive, when 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 89 
 
 she was still a school girl and theatrical matters had the 
 charm of mystery, she had been with her father on one 
 occasion when he had met and introduced to her an ac- 
 quaintance of his who was a manager and an actor too, 
 and whom she had wondered to find so exceedingly silent 
 and grave when she remembered how he had made her 
 laugh upon the stage. She now hit upon the bold measure 
 of writing to him, and asking if he would see her; but a 
 week passed, and her letter received no answer. She 
 wrote again to his theater, and this time inclosed a 
 stamped directed envelope, with an apology for doing so, 
 and an earnest request for five minutes of his time. She 
 received in reply a hasty note naming a day and hour 
 when he could see her ; and, more excited than she had 
 ever been in her life before, she arrived at the theater at 
 the appointed time. She had to wait a long, weary time, 
 very much ashamed of herself, very much afraid her ap- 
 plication would be in vain, very much wishing herself 
 out of the group of shabby men — whom she mistook for 
 actors— with whom she was waiting, when at last the 
 manager came. As his eyes fell on her, she stepped for- 
 ward, holding his letter and giving her maiden name. 
 
 As she had expected, he had long since forgotten her; 
 but he asked her to follow him up-stairs, and gave her a 
 courteous hearing at the back of the dress-circle. After 
 some difficulty, he remembered, or said he remembered, 
 their former meeting. He strongly advised her not to go 
 on the stage, telling her that even great talent did not 
 always command success, that it was a hard life, full of 
 disappointments. Finding her resolution still firm, and 
 for the sake of her father, with whom he had at one time 
 been intimate, he agreed to let her make a very modest 
 first appearance at his theater as a silent ‘ 4 guest. ’ ’ He did 
 not much approve of lady amateurs, even in this humble 
 capacity, but the girl was much in earnest, her pretty 
 pleading was so touching, that he made this small conces- 
 sion, scarcely doubting that, if she went through all the 
 rehearsals, after a few nights of a suffocating dressing- 
 room and a draughty stage, she would appear no more, 
 cured of her unfortunate whim. 
 
 The rehearsals were a hard trial, certainly. To stand 
 about for three or four hours on a dark stage in the com- 
 pany of two or three more “ladies ” who would have been 
 scarcely refined enough for her to engage as maids, and 
 then sometimes to be dismissed without having to go 
 through her simple duty of walking across at the back of 
 the scene with a shabby man who by day filled the 
 position of a bill-sticker, was not work too exciting to leave 
 time for some unpleasant reflection. When the piece came 
 
90 
 
 T'A~ VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 out things were a little better. Of the three girls who 
 dressed with her in a large, bare room which seemed miles 
 away, up at the top of the theater, two were illiterate but 
 inoffensive, and the third proved to be one of the merriest 
 little creatures whoever wished to be a great actress when 
 nature intended her for a good washer- woman. 
 
 Going home alone at night frightened her dreadfully, 
 and she never got quite used to it* Luckily there were 
 omnibuses which took her nearly the whole way ; but the 
 short distance she had to walk before she caught one was 
 a nightly agony, though nobody ever took any notice of 
 the insignificant muffled up figure. 
 
 The piece was a failure, and did not run long; but she 
 did duty again in the same humble capacity with the same 
 companions in4he comedy which followed, hoping for an 
 opening to something more dignified and better calculated 
 to show off her histrionic powers, if she possessed any. 
 The opening came. It was a very small one, merely the 
 opportunity of saying one line as a maid-servant; but the 
 minutes before hearing her own voice for the first time in 
 public were fraught with a terribly intense excitement 
 which no important part in after-times ever called up in 
 her with the same strength. 
 
 It was a few nights after this ordeal that on returning 
 from the theater she was seized, for the first time since 
 leaving Garstone, with a longing to hear what was going 
 on there— how her departure had been taken, and how 
 William passed his time without her. So she wrote to her 
 brother-in-law, giving, as the address for him to write 
 to, that of a stationer whose shop she passed on her way 
 to and from the theater. It was not that she mistrusted 
 the boy’s word, or even his carefulness; but she did not 
 wish to get him into trouble, as would certainly have been 
 the case if any of the rest suspected him of knowing her 
 real address. 
 
 In answer she got the following letter: 
 
 “My dear Annie,— I thought you were never going to 
 keep your promise and write to me after all, and you 
 haven’ t told me much now you do write to me. For I want 
 to know ever so much more than you say. You need not 
 be afraid of anybody seeing your letter. For when I got 
 it at Moss’ I took it straight back and down to the willow- 
 pond. I read it, and fastened it under the lining of my 
 hunting-cap. So its all rigt. There was a shindy when 
 they new you were gone. George went to your aunt and 
 first he scolded mother and Lil and said they ought to be 
 ashamed of themselves and your aunt dident know where 
 you were. And Harry you should have seen him go on. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 91 
 
 You would have thought he was a good husbend and you 
 a bad wife if you heard him. He had been to London and 
 sold his hunting-wach and bougfc you a dimand ring which 
 I think you would have liked but of course you were write 
 to go away and I said so and he punched my head and I 
 punched him back. So he dident get much good by his 
 interferring with me. They thought I new where you 
 were and I said if they thought I did they migt just try 
 to make me say thats all. So they lissened to reason and 
 Harry drinks more than ever he is as bad as Wilfred evry 
 bit. And he is allways hanging about Green’s forge now. 
 Susan Greens come back a pretty thing for a man married 
 like he is now. I only tell you this becos I think you ought 
 to know being his wife which is a great pity. They none 
 of them know you will never come back except Lil who 
 says you wont and that makes George very angry and one 
 evening made Harry cry like a great baby insted of trying 
 to find you. The place is beesly now you are gone and if 
 I wasent going to uncle Geralds in Ireland I thing I should 
 have to come an^i dig you out. 
 
 “ Your afecsionate brother-in-law, 
 
 “ William Fitzpatrick Braithwaite. 
 
 “ P.S. — If you could see the black and white rabit now I 
 think you would laugh for his legs are alright but so stiff 
 that he hops bout as if he was made of wood. Jo bit the 
 pups tail off a fortnigt ago.” 
 
 This letter made Annie thoughtful. The Rubicon was 
 passed now ; she could not have gone back, even had she 
 wished to do so, with what they would have considered 
 the contamination of the stage upon her. But what 
 William said about Harry caused her to ask herself for 
 the first time whether she had not done him wrong, 
 whether she ought not still to have stayed and continued 
 coldly to fulfill her wifely duty to the letter, whether there 
 had not been more selfishness than self-sacrifice in giving 
 him back his liberty. She felt not one whit more of affec- 
 tion for the drunken lad who had become the ardent ad- 
 mirer of the blacksmith’s daughter, but this last fact was 
 too significant not to awaken her self-reproach. She felt 
 at the bottom of her heart an unacknowledged gladness 
 that it was no longer in her power to go back, and in the 
 cares of her present life she soon forgot again those of her 
 past. 
 
 For the few shillings she received for her work at the 
 theater were not enough to pay her modest expenses for 
 food and lodging without her drawing upon the small sum 
 she had brought with her from the Grange; William’s 
 money she had resolved not to touch except in case of ufc 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 92 
 
 most need. So she tried her strength by living too simply , 
 while she passed, in spite of herself, at the theater as a 
 “rich ” lady, who “ came behind ” for a freak. She had 
 clothing enough to last for some time, and before the end 
 of the summer she was lucky in being able to sell a short 
 story ; and then, after being for a few weeks out of work 
 and in debt, and almost in danger of absolute want, she 
 got an engagement at a salary which was just enough to 
 live upon, but with no chance of more than a few lines to 
 speak. 
 
 And this was her life, with now and then a hope of some- 
 thing better to do, followed alwaysjby disappointment and 
 sometimes by despair for nearly tliree years, at the end of 
 which time she was still appearing at a fashionable comedy 
 theater, where she had been figuring in the programmes 
 for some months on the last line of the list of characters, 
 thus — “ Maid, Miss Langton.’ ’ 
 
 And the brilliant future she had pictured once for her- 
 self seemed further away than ever. For she had by this 
 time mastered some of the secrets of success on the stage. 
 The highest success, she still knew, fell only to the highest 
 talent; and this belief, which was directly against the 
 creed of most of her companions, she held to the end. It 
 was all luck, they said. It was chiefly luck, she thought 
 too— the luck of being somebody’s son or somebody’s 
 daughter, of having good looks and bad principles or 
 wealthy friends, of being by chance on the right spot at the 
 right time; and luck had been against her. 
 
 Disappointment, too, and weary, weary waiting had 
 taken the bloom off her beauty, which was of a type de- 
 pending very much on expression ; and the look her face 
 habitually wore now was that of a woman whom cares 
 and failures and struggles with necessity had reduced to 
 an automaton. Yet in some respects her position would 
 not have been an unenviable one to a less ambitious 
 woman. The conscientious care which had formerly made 
 her a good governess, and later an almost too submissive 
 wife to her careless husband, made her now fill her very 
 unimportant roles with an attention to the most trifling 
 details which obtained for her the consideration of the 
 authorities in the theater, although it was of course not 
 possible that her efforts to be artistic in her representation 
 of monosyllabic maids should attract the attention of the 
 general public or of the critics in front. And her salary, 
 though not high, was now sufficient to keep her in com- 
 fort, which might have been greater, had she been more 
 economical. So that the privilege of thinking herself a 
 martyr was almost out of her reach. 
 
 She had not quite given up hope, though it was no Ion- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 93 
 
 ger joined to bright confidence in ultimate success, when 
 a small part was intrusted to her which enabled her 
 to show unmistakable signs of talent. It was such a very 
 small part, and it would so undoubtedly have improved 
 the piece from a dramatist’s point of view to cut out the 
 scene it was in altogether, that the critics took no notice, 
 and the public did not seem impressed. But it drew the 
 attention of her companions to her ; and Annie, with her 
 heart beating wildly, overheard more than one prediction 
 that she would “get on.” 
 
 With reawakened ambition, her old high spirits came 
 back to her ; the cloud of cold reserve which closed over 
 her in spite of herself when she was unhappy, disappeared, 
 and for the first time Annie found pleasure in her profes- 
 sion. The society afforded at that time by the theater she 
 was in, was some of the pleasantest in London. It in- 
 cluded men and women who were among the world’s recog- 
 nized pets— women of beauty and men of wit, handsome 
 actors, and two actresses of whom Europe had acknowl- 
 edged the genius. Annie felt the charm of this brilliant 
 circle, which was indeed, as theaters so seldom are, as at- 
 tractive as the outside world imagined it to be. 
 
 She was sitting in the green-room one evening, between 
 the acts, when two of the actors came in, discussing the 
 beauty of a lady who sat in one of the boxes nearest to the 
 stage. 
 
 “I’m sure I’ve seen her in the Park,” said one; “and 
 I’ve been told her name; but I forget it.” 
 
 “ Is that her husband behind her — the tall man with the 
 eye-glass?” 
 
 “ Don’t know, I’m sure. Should think not.” 
 
 The other laughed. 
 
 “She is the handsomest woman we have had in front 
 for a long time— much better-looking than any of the pro- 
 fessional beauties. Perhaps she is a professional beauty— 
 eh?” 
 
 ‘ 4 No — too good-looking. ’ ’ 
 
 It was the other’s turn to laugh; and, when they were 
 called on to the stage, they were still criticising the un- 
 known fair one and anxious for another view of her. 
 
 Annie’s curiosity was excited, and, contrary to her cus- 
 tom of devoting her attention entirely to what was going 
 on on the stage, she managed, on her next appearance to 
 say a few lines, to get an opportunity of looking toward 
 the box the two speakers had indicated. And she gave 
 one of the slightest, most imperceptible of starts, for the 
 lady was Lilian, exquisitely dressed and looking hand- 
 somer than ever. Annie could not see the face of the 
 man behind her in her glance at the box ; but she was 
 
u 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 anxious to know who it was, and later in the evening she 
 was satisfied; for a young actor named Gerald Gibson 
 told another in her hearing that the lady was Mrs. 
 Falconer, that he had been to a dance at her house two 
 nights before, and that “ the tall man with the eye-glass,” 
 who was one of the other occupants of the box, was a 
 Colonel Richardson, who had just returned from abroad. 
 
 All this filled Annie with excitement and anxiety. Had 
 Lilian recognized her? Who were the other people in the 
 box? Had Colonel Richardson really only just returned 
 from abroad? These and other questions concerning her 
 sister in-law and the rest of her husband’s family kept her 
 awake that night in a fever of newly awakened interest in 
 the Braith waites. The remembrance of her life at Gar- 
 stone occupied her very little now, the long, solitary hours 
 of daylight, when she was not engaged in rehearsal, she 
 filled by writing, her old taste for which had revived to 
 console her for lier otherwise monotonous life. After the 
 exchange of a few letters with William, she had heard no 
 more from him, and it was now more than two years since 
 she had received his last. During all this time no news 
 had reached her, of her husband or his family. She had 
 said of late bitterly to herself that, if they had cared to do 
 so, they would have found her out long ago, and she had 
 begun to wonder whether she would ever see any of them 
 again, when this unexpected, yet most natural event, 
 showed her again the one of all the Braith waites whom 
 she least cared to see. 
 
 Annie liked Gerald Gibson, as everybody in the theater 
 did — a grave, quiet, thoughtful-looking man, whose re- 
 served manners impressed those around him with respect, 
 even though it was often merely the result of his having 
 nothing in particular to say. He might have been the son 
 of a cheesemonger, but he was as perfect a gentleman not 
 only in look and manner, but in mind, as if he had been the 
 son of a duke. Annie knew, though she had known him only 
 a few weeks, that she could speak without reserve to him. 
 On the evening after she had seen Lilian, therefore, she 
 found an opportunity, when they were on the stage to- 
 gether, but not immediately concerned in the business of 
 the scene, of alluding to the beauty who had made such a 
 sensation among them the night before. 
 
 “ I think I heard you say you were fortunate enough to 
 know her, Mr. Gibson,” said she, her interest peeping out 
 from under the indifferent words. 
 
 “ I don’t know her well. I was introduced to her about 
 ten days ago, and somebody got me a card for an ‘At 
 home ’ at her house.” 
 
 “ $he is very beautiful, ain’t she?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 95 
 
 “ Yes, very, for those who admire massive beauty.” 
 “Then don't you admire her?” 
 
 “ Yes; but I have seen women I admire more.” 
 
 “ I don’t like such frosty enthusiasm. Is she nice, pleas- 
 ant, amiable?” 
 
 “I don’t think ‘amiable’ is quite the word for that 
 type of woman. But she is very brilliant, very charm- 
 ing.” 
 
 “ I used to know her once before she was married,” said 
 Annie in a low voice. “I am glad to hear she is happy.” 
 “Iam scarcely able to judge of that. Ladies act so 
 well, even when they are not on the stage, and they are 
 often charming when at heart they are very miserable ; so 
 the novelists say.” 
 
 “You don’t think she is miserable, do you?” asked 
 Annie, anxiously. 
 
 “Indeed I have no reasons for thinking so. She seems 
 to have everything she can want, beauty, wealth, position, 
 a good husband.” 
 
 “ Then Mr. Falconer is nice?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ He is generally popular, I believe ; but I have scarcely 
 seen him.” 
 
 “Ah!” escaped suddenly from Annie’s lips. She 
 thought those last words significant. 
 
 She could not bring the conversation round to Colonel 
 Bichardson now without exciting his suspicions, so she 
 merely asked him not to mention that she had ever known 
 Mrs. Falconer. 
 
 “ I wish to remain perdu to my old friends until I have 
 got on — if I ever do get on,'’ she added, sadly. 
 
 “You will get on, Miss Langton. How can you doubt 
 it!” 
 
 “How can I do anything but doubt it? I have waited 
 so long, and seem no nearer the end.” 
 
 “ But you must be nearer the end.” 
 
 “Ah— but what end?” 
 
 She turned away with a little shrug of the shoulders, 
 and his eyes followed her with interest. She was not 
 massive and he found more attraction in her face than in 
 those of all the professional beauties. 
 
 A few evenings later, as he was leaving the theater 
 when his share of the performance was over, he saw Miss 
 Langton in front of him walking down the quiet street 
 where the stage-door was. A gentleman standing on the 
 opposite pathway crossed over and raised his hat to her. 
 Gerald Gibson saw her start, stop, hesitate, and finally 
 put out her hand. Gerald passed them, but neither 
 noticed him ; and he recognized the gentleman as Colonel 
 Bichardson, whom he had met at Mrs. Falconer’s. 
 
96 
 
 v. 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “That was the reason of her interest in Mrs. Falconer 
 then!” thought Gerald. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 Gerald Gibson had not gone many yards further down 
 the street, after seeing the meeting between Miss Langton 
 and Colonel Richardson, when he was overtaken by a 
 fellow-actor, Aubrey Cooke. 
 
 “ Did you see who little Langton was talking to?” 
 
 “Some friend of hers, I suppose. I didn’t notice.” 
 
 “It was Frank Richardson, the man there was all that 
 scandal about a few years ago — Lord Berwick’s wife— don’t 
 you remember?” 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 “ Well, I’m sorry he has got hold of little Langton, that 
 is all.” 
 
 “You are sorry without cause, then. Miss Langton is a 
 long way above his level. She can’t refuse to speak to 
 him, for he knew her people well years ago. ’ ’ 
 
 With unerring certainty Gerald Gibson had jumped to 
 this conclusion. The other looked surprised. 
 
 “ Oh, you know all about it, then? You are the favorite 
 one for whom Miss Prim opens her lips. Well, I really 
 am glad to hear it, for she is the flag I always hold out 
 when old ladies tell me there are no virtuous women on 
 the stage; and, if she were to go I don’t know where on 
 earth I should look for another.” 
 
 “ You are too cynical, Cooke.” 
 
 “ Don’t shy long words at me. If I deserve them it is 
 because I was led away to a meeting of the Society for the 
 Mutual Improvement of the Clerical and Dramatic Pro- 
 fessions this afternoon. Capital institution — the parsons 
 looked happy and the pro.’s looked good. But that can’t 
 last. Goodnight.” 
 
 Aubrey Cooke was not at his best with Gibson ; the two 
 men had too little in common. But he was a clever fel- 
 low. He had a plain, silly face, a bitter tongue, and a 
 manner which found favor with most women. He adored 
 women. Those, however, he worshiped the most deferen- 
 tially would scarcely have approved of the manner in 
 which he spoke of them among other men in their absence, 
 for there was a strong dash of young Paris in his adora- 
 tion. He was too shrewd to make many mistakes; and no 
 man knew better the exact tone in which to address any 
 particular woman of his large and varied acquaintance. 
 He bore Miss Langton no ill-will for repeated unmerited 
 snubs; the caprices of women are infinite, prettier and less 
 prim women abounded, and lie could revenge himself so 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 97 
 
 easily by an epigram — not a slanderous one, but none the 
 less cutting— in the dressing-room. 
 
 When Annie first recognized Colonel Richardson as he 
 crossed the road toward her, her impulse was to walk on; 
 but anxiety to hear something about the family at the 
 Elms changed her intention, and she stopped, shook hands 
 with him, and allowed him to walk down the street with 
 her. 
 
 “ I knew you the moment you came on,” said he. “ It 
 was a happy thought to go on the stage ; I admire your 
 courage.” 
 
 “ I don’t think it was courage that sent me on; and at 
 present I have had no reason to congratulate myself on 
 my attempt, I assure you. Did Mrs. Falconer know me?” 
 
 “No. She did not care for the piece, and was not pay- 
 ing much attention to it. She does not know you are on 
 the stage, for she told me she thought you had become a 
 governess somewhere. You have done better than that.” 
 
 “Yes. And the rest of the Braithwaites? Have you 
 seen any of them since your return?” 
 
 “No; but Mrs. Falconer gives a very bad account of 
 some of them.” 
 
 “ What does she say? Tell me quickly, please.” 
 
 “ It seems there have been quarrels among the brothers 
 lately, about money -matters, I believe. Sir George and 
 Harry are the chief disputants, and Mrs. Falconer never 
 knows what the next news about them may be. But I am 
 paining you ” 
 
 “ No, no; I want to hear everything. Will you tell me 
 all you know about my husband? Is he well? Is he no 
 steadier?” 
 
 “ I believe he is well now; but he was ill some months 
 ago. ’ ’ 
 
 “ 111. What was the matter with him?” 
 
 Colonel Richardson hesitated. 
 
 “You know his habits are rather irregular, and he had 
 ridden too much and excited himself too much, and I be- 
 lieve he was ill from the effects of overexcitement. But 
 why do you wish to know these things? You are happily 
 spared the wrangles and disturbances of that unlucky 
 household now. You have the interest of your own career 
 to occupy your mind ; it is much better for you not to con- 
 cern yourself any more with the doings of that barbaric 
 crew. ’ ’ 
 
 “Don’t say that. Every word you say makes me re- 
 proach myself more. I am not heartless, though I see 
 now how selfish it was of me to sneak away as I did. You 
 will hardly believe that I thought I was doing what was 
 best for my husband as well as myself. I thought he was 
 
98 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFti. 
 
 too young to be burdened with a wife. We did not suit 
 each other; I seemed to irritate him to worse brutality ; 
 we were spoiling each other’s lives and our own.” 
 
 “You were quite right to come away. He would only 
 have crushed your life out by his coarse cruelty before 
 now, if you had stayed with him. How could you, with 
 your sensitive feelings and cultivated tastes, bear with 
 that uncouth boor? I used to wonder at your patience 
 with him when I first knew you in town with him.” 
 
 “I was wrong, though,” said Annie, gravely. “ If I 
 thought I could do him any good I would go back now.” 
 
 “ I beg you not to do anything so rash,” said Colonel 
 Richardson, hastily. “Your husband is worse than an 
 uncouth lad now ; he is a coarse, savage- tempered man. 
 Lilian— Mrs. Falconer— his own sister, is afraid of him; 
 and you know she is not meek-spirited. ’ - 
 
 “ What does he say of me? Does he never speak about 
 me? Do you know?” 
 
 “ The last time his sister saw him he told her that, if he 
 ever met his wife again — and he used language which nei- 
 ther she nor I could repeat to you — he would k crush the 
 beauty out of the face that made a fool of him.’ Forgive 
 my repeating his words to you; I think they will be the 
 best warning I can give you to keep out of his reach.” 
 Annie sighed. 
 
 “ You don’t make me afraid of him; you only make me 
 pity him as I would a fierce hound who had been unwisely 
 treated. If Harry were to crush my face, as he said, in a 
 fit of passion, it would be the one thing which would make 
 him treat me tenderly ever afterward.” 
 
 Colonel Richardson looked surprised. 
 
 “You almost make me bold enough to wonder ” 
 
 “ Why I left him? I suppose my strongest reason really 
 was that he was unbearable to me. His tenderness was 
 odious as his anger, and worse than his neglect. I should 
 dislike him more than ever now ; but I should know how- 
 to treat him more wisely.” 
 
 Colonel Richardson understood women too well to say 
 more on that subject. He turned the conversation. 
 
 “ Mrs. Falconer expects her brother William next week,” 
 he said. “ Shall I bring him to the theater and see if he 
 knows you?” 
 
 Annie caught eagerly at the idea of seeing her favorite 
 William again. She had nothing to fear from his know- 
 ing where she was, and she was anxious to find out 
 whether he was growing into a less worthless man than 
 his brothers. He was now eighteen. She was anxious, 
 too, to learn whether he still retained the affectionate re- 
 membrance of her. So her last words to Colonel Richard- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 99 
 
 Son were a repetition of her injunction to bring him to the 
 theater without any warning that he would see her. She 
 did not doubt that he would know her, especially as he 
 was the one member of the family who knew she was on 
 the stage. 
 
 The season was nearly over now, and night after night 
 she scanned the audience anxiously in the hope of seeing 
 those two faces she knew ; but it was not until the very 
 last night of all that, as she came on to the stage, she saw 
 a tall young man in the stalls half rise from his seat, with 
 the exclamation, just loud enough for her to hear — 
 4 4 Annie!” 
 
 At the end of the street William met her, and could 
 hardly be restrained from embracing her, regardless of ap- 
 pearances. He was broader, manlier in figure; but in his 
 manner to her he was exactly the same as before. She 
 was thankful to see that he did not look dissipated, and he 
 hastened to assure her that he had observed all her com- 
 mands, that he read a great deal and ‘‘quite liked it.” 
 He had not lived much at Elms, having passed most of his 
 time with his uncle, his mother’s brother, in Ireland. 
 
 “And, Annie, I’m not going to lead an idle life. I’m 
 going to be a soldier.” 
 
 “Well, that is the next thing to it.” 
 
 44 No disrespect to the army, I beg, madam. It is very 
 hard work to get in at all nowadays. No Braith waite ever 
 had to study so much before as I shall have to do to pass 
 the exams. I’m sure to be 4 plucked ’ the first time, of 
 course, and very likely the second. I must get through 
 the third time, you know, or else it will be all up with 
 me.” 
 
 “You must get through the first time,” said Annie in- 
 dignantly. “If you don’t, I will never speak to you 
 again.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, you will. If I don’t pass, you will have to 
 console me, and, if I do pass, you will congratulate me. 
 Oh, Annie, I wish I had been old enough to marry you, or 
 that you had married George, so that you might come 
 back to the Elms again.” No suggestion that she should 
 go back to Harry, however. Annie looked up at him 
 quickly. 
 
 “How is Harry? He is not anxious for my return, I 
 suppose?” 
 
 “ Oh, to think of your being his wife is intolerable! He 
 is not worthy to look at you. Sometimes he is sorry, in a 
 maudlin sort of way, that he can’t see you, and complains 
 that you have deserted him, and that you are the only 
 woman he ever cared about. But that is all nonsense, and 
 he says it only when he is drunk. He drinks worse than 
 
100 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 Wilfred. And a few months ago Well, never mind 
 
 that! You mustn’t trouble your head any more about 
 him.” 
 
 Annie listened in silence, her heart aching with remorse. 
 She knew well enough now that she had done irretrievable 
 wrong in leaving her husband, whom at least she could, at 
 the entire sacrifice of herself, have kept from this. But it 
 was too late now, she told herself. If she returned to him 
 now unbidden, with the feeling of repulsion toward him a 
 thousand-fold stronger than ever, she could not expect a 
 welcome, she could not even repress the disgust she felt. 
 
 She told William that she was going to leave town and 
 travel with a theatrical company, to gain experience in 
 better parts than she could hope to play in London yet. 
 He walked all the way home with her, and, looking at her 
 gravely as he stood saying the last words to her, he com- 
 plained that she was thin and pale. 
 
 “Do you know, Annie, you are so much altered I should 
 hardly have known you. You have lost all your pretty 
 color, and your eyes are not half so bright as they used to 
 be. It is all that beast Harry, making you have to work 
 for your living !” he broke out, passionately. ‘ 4 He deserves 
 to be kicked!” 
 
 “Come, be reasonable, William; that is not Harry’s 
 fault. Women must expect to 4 go off ’ in looks, you know, 
 as they grow older.” 
 
 44 But you are not old. That is nonsense.” 
 
 44 1 am two-and-twenty. When you last saw me, I was 
 not nineteen.” 
 
 44 Well, you ought not to have changed so much in less 
 than three years. Never mind,” added he affectionately, 
 seeing that his words seemed to depress his sister-in-law — 
 44 1 love you just as much as ever; and you will soon get 
 back your color when you get out of London and forget 
 all about Harry again.” 
 
 And he kissed her and bade her good-bye most unwill- 
 ingly ; for the following morning he had to go back to the 
 Elms, to see George about the expenses of a 44 coach ” to 
 cram him for the examination he would have to go 
 through. 
 
 Annie went up-stairs to her rooms — she could afford to 
 have a sitting-room now — feeling ashamed of the pain his 
 remarks upon her looks had given her. It was a fact she 
 had known for a long time now, that her beauty hr*d 
 fallen off, so that there were barely traces of it left. A 
 thin, brown face, without a tinge of pink in the cheeks, 
 and with scarcely more than a tinge in the lips, eyes from 
 which the brightness of hope and joy had gone, and a 
 vreary, worn expression, were what less than three years 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 101 
 
 of lonely work and disappointment had left of her youth- 
 ful prettiness. No woman, and especially an actress, can 
 suffer the sense of lost beauty to be suddenly brought 
 home to her without a pang, and Annie’s vanity was 
 strong enough to make her cry at William’s evident 
 regret. 
 
 “Perhaps Harry himself would not know me,” she 
 thought to herself, “and would be disgusted if I were 
 pointed out to him as his wife.” 
 
 So she cried herself to sleep. 
 
 When William arrived at the Elms next day, he was 
 even less inclined than usual to meet his brother Harry on 
 friendly terms. For he looked upon the latter as being the 
 cause of Annie’s exile — so he chose to consider her volun- 
 tary flight— and therefore as the cause also of all her 
 struggles and the terrible alteration in her looks. So the 
 lad avoided his brother as much as he could until dinner- 
 time, when there was no help for their coming in contact 
 with each other, as their places were set side by side. An 
 unlucky accident brought the name of the half- forgotten 
 wife into the conversation. Wilfred rallied his youngest 
 brother, who had not been at the Elms for some time, upon 
 being “ so confoundedly abstemious.” 
 
 “One would think little Annie were still here reading 
 you sermons across the table with her pretty eyes,” said 
 he. 
 
 The blood rushed to the lad’s face, for Harry uttered an 
 oath at the mention of his wife. 
 
 “I wish we had never frightened the dear little thing 
 away,” Wilfred went on, in a maudlin manner. “She 
 was our little bit of righteousness. It made me take to 
 bad courses, her going away did.” 
 
 This was not a happy speech, and it was followed by a 
 minute’s silence on the part of all three of his brothers; 
 Stephen was not there. 
 
 “Why don’t you hunt her up, Harry?” went on Wil- 
 fred, who either wished to irritate his brother or had less 
 tact than usual. “ I wouldn’t let my wife leave me in the 
 lurch, if I had one, and go tramping about all over the 
 world, amusing herself without me.” 
 
 4 ‘ She may go to the deuce for what I care, if she isn’t 
 gone already!” burst out Harry. 
 
 William clinched his fists and tried to keep still. The 
 injured husband went on : 
 
 “ A little, sly, vagabond governess, glad enough to en- 
 trap a gentleman into marrying her, and then cutting 
 away and bringing disgrace upon his name!” 
 
 “Disgrace!” cried William, turning with flashing eyes 
 upon his brother, “As if any wife could disgrace you! 
 
102 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 As if Annie, who was a thousand times too good for you 
 to black her shoes, could have any worse disgrace than to 
 be your wife!” 
 
 “You hold your tongue, you young cub!” said his 
 brother, doggedly. “I say she didn’t deserve a decent 
 husband.” 
 
 “ Well, she didn’t get one ’’—this from Wilfred. 
 
 “She didn’t deserve a decent husband, and she couldn’t 
 be expected to stay in a respectable house.” 
 
 “What respectable house?” — Wilfred again. 
 
 Harry went on without noticing the interruptions. 
 
 “ It was natural that her vagrant instincts should get 
 the better of her again, and she should take the first 
 chance of going off on the tramp.” 
 
 “You infernal liar!” shouted William, too much ex- 
 cited to be careful. “She is no more a tramp than you 
 are. And, as for her ‘ vagrant instincts,’ you stupid ass, 
 they have led her into much better society than she would 
 ever have got into with you at her heels!” 
 
 All t he others were startled, and William checked him- 
 self as he was going to say more. Harry brought a rough 
 hand down on his shoulder. 
 
 “So you are in the secret, are you? Come now, out 
 with it; where is she?” 
 
 “ Out of your reach, luckily for her.” 
 
 “ Yes, but you are not, unluckily for you!” said Harry, 
 thickly, rising to his feet and standing threateningly over 
 his brother, not heeding Sir George’s voice crying, “ Sit 
 down !” 
 
 “Now, then, where is she?” 
 
 William thrust away his chair and faced his tipsy 
 brother steadily. 
 
 “I would not help to put her in your power again by tell- 
 ing you where to find her, even if I knew, if you were to 
 tear me to pieces!” 
 
 He stepped aside quickly to avoid the lunge Harry made 
 at him, and left the room. 
 
 “ Bravo, young un!” said Wilfred. 
 
 The baronet afterward tried gentler and subtler means 
 to find out Annie’s hiding-place from the lad; but William 
 kept the secret safely. 
 
 Meanwhile, the fugitive wife was preparing for a new 
 experience. She had, as she had told William, resolved 
 upon leaving London for awhile, hoping that practice in 
 the country might mature her talent and enable her at the 
 end of a few months to take a higher position than she 
 could aspire to at present. She knew very well that, once 
 out of London, it would be by no means easy to get back ; but 
 the feeling that she was advancing no further, and could 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 103 
 
 not hope to advance farther without more experience, 
 prevailed over every other; and she thought herself fort- 
 unate in getting an engagement, in a traveling company, 
 just about to start on tour, to play second parts in old 
 comedy. It was not going to what are considered the best 
 towns in a theatrical sense; but it was a good company, 
 and Annie had heard that one of the actors of the theater 
 she had just left would be in it too. 
 
 She had heard Gerald Gibson speak of going into the 
 country, and had come at once to the conclusion that he 
 must be the actor alluded to ; she was very glad of this, 
 for he was one of her favorites. 
 
 When, however, she got on to the stage of the theater 
 which had been engaged for their rehearsals, which was 
 as dark as most stages are in the day-time, she saw no 
 face she knew among the people assembled there, except 
 that of the manager who had engaged her. 
 
 “I thought you said I should meet one of my late 
 companions,” she remarked to him when he shook hands 
 with her. 
 
 44 Yes, Mr. Cooke is here somewhere,” he answered. 
 
 44 Oh, Mr. Cooke!” she echoed, in a tone of evident dis- 
 appointment. 
 
 Now Aubrey was standing in the shadow only a few feet 
 away from her. He was always particularly quiet when 
 he was not remarkably noisy, and. having nobody to talk 
 to at the moment, he had been still as a statue, and had 
 heard every word of this short colloquy, and noticed the 
 tone of Miss Langton’s exclamation: and he was nettled by 
 it. For he had made up his mind that she was decidedly 
 the most attrafctive of the ladies of the company, and had 
 resolved to pay her the compliment of devoting his at- 
 tention to her during the tour. 
 
 But, after this unconsciously administered rebuff, he had 
 to resort to the other alternative— of basking in the more 
 easily won smiles of the leading lady, Miss Muriel West. 
 All that Annie could see of this lady in the dim light on 
 the stage was that she was very handsome, with great, 
 winning, velvety brown eyes shaded by long, black 
 lashes, and that she was very badly dressed, apparently 
 in odds and ends from her stage wardrobe. 
 
 They were rehearsing 44 She Stoops to Conquer,” and 
 Miss West played Miss Hardcastle, while Annie herself 
 was Miss Neville. Annie discovered in the course of the 
 morning that Miss West had a sweet, rich voice and a 
 kindly manner, an unrefined accent, and a rather heavy 
 touch in comedy. During the succeeding rehearsals she 
 further discovered that Miss West was good-humored and 
 amusing, and that she already exerted a strong fascina- 
 
104 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 tion over most of the men of the company ; Aubrey Cooke, 
 foremost as usual where a charming woman was concerned, 
 being absent from her side only when he was wanted on 
 the stage for his part of Tony Lumpkin. 
 
 The rest of the women were uninteresting. There was 
 a common but clever girl of about her own age who played 
 old women; she called herself “Lola Montrose,” but did 
 not look like it, and was dressed in clothes which would 
 have been neat and appropriate if she had not tried to 
 “ smarten herself up a bit ” with large bunches of cheap 
 but brilliant artificial flowers. And there was a well-born 
 and well-educated girl who had gone on the stage against 
 the wishes of her friends, and who stayed on it against the 
 wishes of the audience; she played chamber-maids; but, 
 though she could make witty speeches of her own off the 
 stage, she always failed to extract the wit from any speech 
 she had to make on it. And there was also a curiously 
 incapable girl who was the manager’s niece. 
 
 On the day of the last rehearsal, before the tour began, 
 Aubrey Cooke followed Annie to a corner of the stage, 
 where she was standing quietly, as usual, rather apart 
 from the rest. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon,” said he shyly — Aubrey was very 
 shy sometimes — “ I hope you won’t think what I am going 
 to say impertinent; but I couldn’t help overhearing pare 
 of your conversation with Miss West this morning about 
 — about your living together.” 
 
 “ Oh, yes! She was suggesting that we should lodge to- 
 gether, as it is so much cheaper than living apart. And 
 she knows all about touring, and I know nothing at all 
 about it. I thought it was very kind of her.” 
 
 “She meant to be kind, I have no doubt,” mumbled 
 Aubrey. But I don’t think arrangements of that sort 
 ever answer, unless people know all about one another; 
 and, if you have not settled anything, I would strongly 
 advise you to try lodging for a week by yourself first; 
 and then, of course, after that you would know all about 
 everybody, and be able to make arrangements with any 
 lady you liked. I hope you will forgive my interference; 
 
 I could not help seeing "that, as you say, you know noth- 
 ing at all about touring yet.” 
 
 Annie had scarcely time to thank him for his advice be- 
 fore he had raised his hat and left her. Aubrey Cooke 
 was a gentleman, and, in spite of her apparent prejudice 
 against him, he felt sympathy with the forlorn little lady. 
 When Annie left the theater that morning, Miss West was 
 coming out at the same time, and for the first time Annie 
 saw her complexion by daylight; and the force of Aubrey 
 Cooke’s advice struck Miss Langton at once, for the pink 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 106 
 
 and white and black of the leading lady’s beauty showed 
 a difference of tastes between them which was more than 
 skin-deep. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII. 
 
 Before the company Annie had joined started on a tour, 
 she had heard more tidings to distress her about the 
 Braith waite family. It was Aubrey Cooke who brought 
 them this time. He was telling her that he had met their 
 late companion, Gerald Gibson, at Mrs. Falconer’s the day 
 before. 
 
 “Oh! Do you know her too?” 
 
 “ Yes; I have known her much longer than Gibson has. 
 He and I have long arguments about her.” 
 
 “ I can guess which side you take.” 
 
 “I always take the part of a beautiful woman. And 
 Gibson really does her cruel injustice. She might sit for 
 the portrait of the favorite handsome panther-woman of 
 the lady novelists.” 
 
 “ I expected something more complimentary than that. 
 I don’t call that high praise.” 
 
 “Don’t you? Well, I don’t know any pretty woman 
 who would not feel flattered at being called a panther; 
 most of them only get as far as to be like cats.” 
 
 “Now you are absolutely libelous! I know you will go 
 on to say that panthers are as cruel as they are graceful, 
 that they delight in human victims, and you might add, 
 if you dared, that the pursuit of them was an exciting 
 sport. And then you will ask if the parallel does not hold 
 good.” 
 
 “Indeed, I shall say nothing so commonplace, Miss 
 Langton. I always maintain, to begin with, that beautiful 
 women are not cruel. It is not their fault if we crowd 
 round them in such numbers that they mix us up a little, - 
 and hurt our feelings by forgetting us. I have a great ad- 
 vantage over most of my rivals in one respect— my ap- 
 pearance. I heard a lady call me the other day the nice, 
 quiet young man who looks so stupid. She was asking a 
 man named Colonel Richardson who I was.” 
 
 “ Colonel Richardson?” 
 
 “ Yes. He is a gentleman whom I always meet at Mrs. 
 Falconer’s, a very old friend of the family, I believe.” 
 Now Aubrey Cooke had noted well, without appearing 
 to remark it, the expression of pain and anxiety which 
 passed over Annie’s face as he mentioned that Colonel 
 Richardson was always at Mrs. Falconer’s. But not hav- 
 ing the least suspicion that she herself knew the popular 
 beauty, he misunderstood the cause of her distress, and 
 
106 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 connected it with the fact of the meeting he and Gibson 
 had seen a little way from the stage-door some nights be- 
 fore; and he wondered whether she knew that Colonel 
 Richardson was married, and whether she had heard cer- 
 tain old scandals connected with his name. 
 
 For the first few weeks of the tour Aubrey saw very 
 little of Miss Langton. She had taken his advice and 
 drawn back, as civilly as she could, from the proposal of 
 living with Miss West, whom she soon found out to be a 
 coarse woman of not too reputable life, whose beauty and 
 a certain rough good- humor made her dangerous to many 
 men. She saw through the motive of Annie’s shyness at 
 once, and said, with a laugh : 
 
 “I suppose I am nob good enough for you, little 
 Puritan?” 
 
 But she showed neither anger nor bitterness about it, 
 and was consistently kind, after her fashion, all the time 
 the tour lasted, to the quiet little girl to whom she had 
 taken a capricious liking. So that Annie could not help a 
 sneaking liking for her, especially as Miss West showed, 
 in parts requiring dramatic power, a rough force which in 
 some scenes kept Annie spell bound in the wings watching 
 her, and asking herself if this were not genius. And then 
 Miss West would destroy the illusion by coming off at the 
 side, scolding the prompter for not being at his post, and 
 calling for stout or for brandy and water. 
 
 Annie, therefore, chose to live alone, the only girl of her 
 own standing in the company being the amateur chamber- 
 maid, who was so ostentatiously poor and aggressively 
 economical that Miss Langton felt that life with her would 
 be a sort of voluntary martyrdom. 
 
 She had some trials with lazy landladies, extortionate 
 landladies, maids-of -all- work who did not give her enough 
 attention, and others who gave her too much. They had 
 been traveling some weeks, when, in a certain town which 
 is one of the oldest in England, she got into some lodgings 
 where the landlady was always out, and, being a lone 
 widow who kept no servant, sometimes left her lodgers to 
 wait upon themselves more than was meet. 
 
 Aubrey Cooke had rooms above Annie’s in this house, 
 and, on reaching the door, tired, hot, and hungry after a 
 long rehearsal of a piece which had just been added to 
 their repertory, Annie found her fellow-lodger kicking the 
 paint viciously off the inhospitable portal. 
 
 “It is qf no use, Mr. Cooke,” said Annie, resignedly. 
 “ The stupid old woman has gone to market, and we 
 shall have to wait till she comes back, unless we go and 
 hunt her up where she is making her bargains in stale cab- 
 bages,” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 10 ? 
 
 I{ But it is abominable to make her lodgers stand kick- 
 ing their heels in the blazing sun. while she is haggling 
 over a penn’orth of onions!” said he, with another lunge 
 at the door. 
 
 Annie meanwhile had been prowling about. 
 
 “ Do you think you could open the kitchen window, Mr. 
 Cooke?” she asked, dubiously. “We might get in there. 
 It isn’t far from the ground.” 
 
 It was a small window, just low enough for him to 
 reach the fastening easily with his pocket-knife. In a few 
 minutes he had pushed the fastening aside, scrambled up 
 on to the sill, opened the window, and got in amid the 
 crash of timber. 
 
 “What have you done?” asked Annie, anxiously, as he 
 appeared again, disguised in flour and paste. 
 
 “I’ve fallen into a lot of things, it seems,” said he, “and 
 I believe I’ve sprained my ankle.” 
 
 “Oh, my roly-poly pudding!” cried Annie, not heeding 
 his ailments in the unhappy discovery. 
 
 “ I’m afraid it is done for now,” answered Mr. Cooke, 
 as he removed the body of the uncooked pudding from his 
 sleeve. “It will do for a poultice forme, however,” he 
 said, cheerfully; “and Mrs. Briggs will put it down in 
 both our bills, so it won’t be wasted. Wait, I’ll give you 
 a chair to help you up.” 
 
 She got in; and they both began to look about for some- 
 thing to make dinner of. Annie went to the cupboard, 
 while Mr. Cooke opened a door and fell down two steps 
 into the back kitchen with a cry of joy. He had knocked 
 his head against a skinny -looking bird, already plucked, 
 which was hanging down from the ceiling. But Annie 
 shook her head contemptuously when she saw it. 
 
 “ It is one of Mrs. Briggs’ prehistoric chickens, and it 
 would want a lot of preparation before we could cook it. 
 Besides, I don’t know how, and the fire is out.” 
 
 So they hunted again, and, not finding anything but 
 bones and Mr. Cooke’s cheese, Aubrey went out to buy 
 chops, having said doubtfully that he thought he could 
 cook a chop, but wasn’t sure, while Miss Langton set to 
 work to make a fire. When she came back, after a rather 
 long absence, they were both radiant; for Annie, as she let 
 him in, told him in great delight that she had made a 
 lovely fire, and found where the plates, and knives, and 
 forks were kept, and he pulled out of his pockets a num- 
 ber of small parcels and a gridiron, and produced from 
 under his arm a huge cookery book, which he laid tri- 
 umphantly down upon a bag containing cheese cakes. 
 
 “The baker’s wife lent me this; so now we can have 
 fifteen courses if we like. This will tell us how to make a. 
 
108 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 vol-au-vent a la financier e, or a fricandeau de veau with 
 sauce piquante, or ” 
 
 ‘‘But it won’t tell us how to cook a chop without burn- 
 ing it to a cinder, or how to boil a potato when I can’t find 
 where they are kept,” said Annie, taking up the gridiron 
 and turned it over thoughtfully. 
 
 “ Why, I can show you what to do with that!” said he, 
 with superiority. 
 
 And at last, after a great deal of unnecessary trouble 
 and excitement, and after having burned their hands and 
 scorched their faces and gone through a sort of purgatory 
 on a hot early September afternoon, they did succeed in 
 cooking the chops ; and then Aubrey danced round them in 
 affectionate pride, while Annie suggested that they should 
 dine in her sitting-room, which was only on the other side 
 of the passage. 
 
 “Oh, no,” said Aubrey; “let us have it in herej and 
 then we can do some more cooking!” 
 
 So they pulled the kitchen-table out of range of the fire, 
 and put bits of firewood and paper under the rickety legs, 
 and laid the cloth and arranged the knives and forks with 
 elaborate carefulness, and Aubrey rushed to the tap and 
 filled a jug which they then discovered to have contained 
 milk; and, the mania of cooking being still strong upon 
 him, he insisted on putting the battered cheese-cakes into 
 the oven “ to revive them,” and then made buttered toast 
 “ for dessert,” to work off his culinary energy. And Annie 
 laughed at him, and enjoyed herself very much. And then 
 she suggested boiling some water for coffee, which she knew 
 how to make, she said. 
 
 “Yes, because it doesn’t require any making. Every- 
 thing that demands a little science falls to me,” said 
 Aubrey, decisively, putting the kettle on the fire so that it 
 immediately fell over on its side with a loud hiss. 
 
 However, the coffee was made at last, and of course 
 Aubrey said it was the only time he had tasted good 
 coffee out of Paris; and, the landlady not having yet re- 
 turned, though the afternoon was drawing to a close, 
 Annie was rising to put away some of the things, when 
 Aubrey stopped her. 
 
 “ Don’t be so wrong-headed as to save that unprincipled 
 old lady trouble,” said he. “Besides, I dare say she will 
 stay away till about nine o’clock, and we shall want the 
 things again for tea.” 
 
 Annie made a grimace. 
 
 “ Then we shall have to wash them up.” 
 
 “ That is very simple. Put them all in the sink add turn 
 the tap on.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 109 
 
 He was stilting the action to the word when Annie 
 
 ell, don’t let us go away then, because the fire might 
 go out, and then poor Mrs. Briggs might find it cold when 
 She comes back,” said he, with unexpected solicitude. 
 
 He did not want to break up this tete-a-tete , in which 
 Annie, for the first time, had been in her most charming, 
 est mood with him. 
 
 o stay,” be said coaxingly. “Let us tell each other 
 stories by the fire-light. I’ll begin; I’ll tell you a beauty 
 that I made up myself, all about ogres and a good little 
 girl and a bad little girl.” 
 
 He was patting Mrs. Briggs’ rocking-chair persuasively, 
 and at last Annie allowed herself to fall into it, while Au- 
 brey went on in a chirping tone : 
 
 “ There was once a very dreadful ogre as bad as he was 
 ugly — he had a mouth as big as mine — and he had for his 
 play -fellows and companions all the bad little boys and 
 girls in the neighborhood ; but of course the good boys and 
 girls ran away as soon as they saw him, especially one 
 little girl who felt quite sure that he would eat her up if she 
 spoke civilly to him. So she was always as distant as she 
 could be, and sometimes made the poor ogre quite uncom- 
 fortable, which of course was quite right and proper ; until 
 one day she met the poor ogre when somebody had stolen 
 his dinner— and hers too, by the way — and instead of eat- 
 ing her up as she expected, he did his best to make himself 
 
 as agreeable as circumstances would permit; and 
 
 What are you laughing at, Miss Langton?” 
 
 “ I was laughing at something I was thinking about, Mr. 
 Cooke. You can't expect me to keep my attention fixed 
 on your idiotic nursery stories.” 
 
 “Oh! And so at last the good little girl got quite saucy; 
 and — I really must beg you to restrain your mirth at your 
 own private thoughts, Miss Langton. It is not courteous 
 when a gentleman is doing his best to be entertaining — 
 and instructive as well. To resume. And so the ogre 
 wondered to himself whether the good little girl would 
 feel quite sure for the future that he didn’t want to eat 
 her up, and whether she would think he was not such a 
 bad fellow after all, and not half a bad cook at a pinch. 
 That is all, Miss Langton, unless you would like the 
 moral.” 
 
 “ Let us have the moral, by all means, if you can find 
 one in all that tissue of nonsense.” 
 
 “ I pass over your impertinent comments in silence. 
 
 The moral is What have I done to make you dislike 
 
 me so much, Miss Langton?” 
 
 “I don’t understand you, Mr. Cooke. If I disliked 
 
 ;d him. 
 
iiO ^ 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 you, should I have devoted all my energies, as I havo 
 done this afternoon, to preparing your dinner and being to 
 you all that Mrs. Briggs ever was and more — for she never 
 gives you coffee after dinner?” 
 
 “Your civility to me to-day has been dictated by the 
 purest selfishness. If it had not been for me you would 
 have had to go out and buy your own dinner, and you would 
 not have known which side of the gridiron to hold. I re- 
 peat, without me you would have been a forlorn, dinner- 
 less woman. Look here — there is no making a bargain 
 with a lady, because she can always cry off when she 
 likes. But if you would only believe that nothing would 
 give me so much pleasure as to be able to render you any 
 service at any time, and that your reserve really does 
 hurt sometimes, I should be so "glad of having had this 
 chance of telling you so.” 
 
 He got shy against the end of this speech ; and Annie 
 turned toward him a face which looked very sweet as well 
 as pretty in the fire light. 
 
 “I do believe it,” she said, simply. “And I promise 
 you that for the future you shall not only not have to 
 complain of my reserve, but you may think yourself lucky 
 if you do not have to check my forwardness.” 
 
 “Madam, my innate dignity will awe you sufficiently,” 
 said Aubrey haughtily. 
 
 But he looked as much pleased as his inexpressive face 
 ever allowed him to look. And when Mrs. Briggs came in 
 just in time to get tea ready, affecting great surprise at 
 their being home before her, and protesting that she had 
 understood both of them to say they would dine out, they 
 were both still chatting amicably by the kitchen fire. 
 Aubrey was in such high spirits that he seized the 
 occasion to thunder forth a long harangue at the fright- 
 ened and apologetic old woman. 
 
 “Is this the way to treat two members of a profession 
 which numbers m its ranks the fairest of England’s 
 women and the noblest of her men? Woman, do you 
 take us for amateurs? Your four hours of trifling and 
 foolish chattering in the market-place— a tiling which 
 Bunyan condemns as most reprehensible— have been 
 gained at the expense of an afternoon of unspeakable 
 suffering and wretchedness to two of the most pecuniarily 
 desirable inmates who have ever condescended to take up 
 a temporary residence under your inhospitable roof!” 
 
 Mrs. Briggs was overwhelmed. 
 
 “ I am sure, sir, I am very sorry. But you looked pretty 
 comfortable sitting there by the fire together.” 
 
 “Comfortable! This woman says we looked comfort- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . Ill 
 
 able,” said Aubrey, turning in amazement to Annie, who 
 hastened to say: 
 
 “And so we were, Mrs. Briggs— at least, I was. As for 
 Mr. Cooke, some people are never contented, you know.” 
 
 And she ran away laughing to her sitting-room, while 
 Aubrey went up-stairs to his, singing Siebel’s song in 
 “ Faust ” in a very loud but very melancholy voice. 
 
 After that afternoon in Mrs. Briggs’ kitchen, Miss Lang- 
 ton and Mr. Cooke were very good friends. Annie found 
 in him just the same boyish high spirits which had made 
 William such a delightful companion, while the fact of his 
 being well educated and witty gave him a charm in which 
 the Braithwaites were one and all sadly deficient. So that 
 it gradually came to be a matter of course that he should 
 find out what was worth seeing about each town which 
 the company visited, and that he should then take her to 
 see it, and that, if they were in sentimental mood, they 
 should unite in conjuring up pictures of the olden time in 
 the ruined abbeys and crumbling walls they inspected; 
 while, if they felt inclined to scoff at antiquity, they 
 laughed together. The half-tender tone of deference which 
 gradually grew up in his manner to her did not cause 
 Annie the least uneasiness. She looked upon him as a uni- 
 versal lover, who could not keep sentiment quite out of 
 his intercourse with any woman, and, if any one had told 
 her that Aubrey Cooke was growing seriously in love with 
 her, and that her friendly manner was encouragement, 
 she would have been very much amused at the suggestion. 
 
 But Aubrey had in truth grown quite conscious of the 
 fact that this capricious little woman, with her alternate 
 fits of cold shyness and madly high spirits, who could 
 parry his nonsense with nonsense just as wild one moment, 
 and the next hold her own in a serious discussion, had a 
 charm for him which made all other women seem insipid 
 in his eyes. She was lovely to him; even when her little 
 brown face looked colorless and unattractive to others, it 
 was full of pathetic interest to him; when she was looking 
 her best, when the wind had brought the bright hue of 
 health to her cheeks and her eyes were sparkling with fun 
 or easily roused excitement, he could not take his own 
 vacuous light-blue eyes off her face. If his face had been 
 more expressive, she could not have failed to discover that 
 his interest in her was deeper than was safe for his own 
 peace of mind; but unluckily Aubrey’s features were the 
 most perfect mask ever worn by a man whose feelings 
 were in reality as keen as his intellect. 
 
 Time after time he had made up his mind that he would 
 propose to her at such a time, at such a place. For it had 
 come to this, that he felt he must make her promise to be 
 
112 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 his wife, if she would, before this tour was over. But, 
 whenever the moment came which he had looked upon as 
 propitious for the plunge, his heart failed him, or she 
 would be in the wrong mood, too friendly or too satirical, 
 and the question had to be put off. After all, there was 
 no need to hurry matters; there were some weeks of the 
 tour to run yet, and in the meantime their intercourse was 
 delightful, and in the awful possibility of her saying “ No ” 
 there would be an end of even that. 
 
 And there was a burden on his mind which he was 
 anxious to find an opportunity of removing. It concerned 
 Colonel Richardson and the interest Miss Langton took in 
 that handsome Lovelace. He made himself an opportu- 
 nity rather clumsily. They were reading an epitaph of 
 the usual order on some man who seemed to have had 
 all the virtues, to have been beloved and respected by 
 everybody, and to have made a blank in the universe by 
 his death. 
 
 “He was too perfect,” said Aubrey. “I suppose his 
 widow put up this as a salve to her conscience after worry- 
 ing her husband to death.” 
 
 “ Well, perhaps she really thought it.” 
 
 “ Perhaps. In that case he must have been a handsome 
 scamp, a sort of Colonel Richardson,” he hazarded, watch- 
 ing her. 
 
 “You should not take it for granted that all women like 
 scamps.” 
 
 “All women seem to like Colonel Richardson.” 
 
 “Well, he is nice! He knows just how to treat them, 
 to be interesting and amusing without making love to 
 them.” 
 
 “Oh, I beg your pardon! I should not have been so 
 rash as to sneer at him if I had known he was so lucky as 
 to have such a strong advocate in you,” said Aubrey, out 
 of temper. 
 
 “Advocate? What nonsense! He has plenty without 
 me.” 
 
 “ That is why I am surprised to find you worshiping at 
 such a general shrine.” 
 
 “Worshiping! Really, Mr. Cooke, you are quite rude. ” 
 
 “I did not mean to be, I assure vou. I only envy him 
 his luck.” 
 
 And Aubrey stalked off over the old tombstones and 
 began digging out bits of moss from a wall with the end of 
 his cane, too angry to trust himself to say any more. 
 
 “Good-bye, Mr. Cooke; I am going home!” sung out 
 Annie; and, before he had made up his mind whether his 
 dignity would allow him to follow her, she had left the 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 113 
 
 churchyard and disappeared from his sight behind the 
 wall. 
 
 That decided him, and in a few strides he was out of the 
 gate and crying humbly from behind her. 
 
 “ Miss Langton, aren’t you coming to have another of 
 those tarts you liked so much, as we arranged?” 
 
 “Not if you are going to stalk off to the other side of 
 the road if I happen to say something you don’t agree 
 with.” 
 
 “I beg your pardon. I am in a bad temper this 
 morning, I suppose. I will agree with everything you 
 say. I think Colonel Richardson is the nicest man I 
 know.” 
 
 “Then there we sha’n’t agree,” said Annie, smiling; 
 “ for, although I think his manner is good, I don’t much 
 care about him.” 
 
 “ Don’t you?” interrogated Aubrey, delightedly ! “I’m 
 so glad ! Do you know, I didn’t think he was the kind of 
 man you would like much. Then you said what you did 
 only to tease me?” 
 
 “Did I?” said Annie, surprised that he should make 
 such a fuss about a trifle. ‘ ‘ I don’t think I did. 1 say, 
 shall we stay here next week, as we are not going to 
 York?” 
 
 “No; we are going out of our route a little. The gov- 
 ernor has got us a week at Beckham.” 
 
 “ Beckham!” cried Annie, while all the color fled from 
 her face. 
 
 “ Yes. Why, what is the matter?” 
 
 “Nothing,” said she, in her usual voice, but the color 
 did not come back to her cheeks. 
 
 Now, Aubrey knew very well that “ nothing ” would not 
 affect Miss Langton as that mere mention of a place had 
 done; but he saw, toe, that she did not intend to give him 
 a truer answer. It was not difficult to come to the con- 
 clusion that there were unpleasant associations connected 
 in her mind with the place to which they were going; and, 
 after long deliberation, he made up his mind definitely 
 that Beckham should be the place where he would at last 
 screw up his courage to the point of asking her to be his 
 wife. 
 
 “If she likes me — and I think— I almost think she does ” 
 — he reflected that night — “why, my proposal will be the 
 very best thing to drive any unhappy recollections of the 
 place out of her head. If she won’t have me — well, there 
 is a river at Beckham!” 
 
 With which dark suggestion Aubrey blew out his candle 
 and went to sleep. 
 
114 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE , 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 Annie felt half inclined at first to request the manager, 
 on the plea of illness, to let his niece, who was her “un- 
 derstudy,” play her parts for the week the company were 
 to spend at Beckham, and take her chance of his allowing 
 her to rejoin them at the next town they visited. The in- 
 competent little niece was eager, as Annie knew, for such 
 a chance, and there would probably be little difficulty as 
 far as that part of the matter was concerned. 
 
 But, besides the fact that she could ill afford to lose even 
 one week’s salary and risk the canceling of the rest of her 
 engagement, she felt sure that there was one person whom 
 the plea of illness would in no way deceive. Aubrey 
 Cooke’s attention had already been awakened to her re- 
 luctance to visit Beckham, and he was far too sharp a 
 young man not to be dangerous if she were to give him in- 
 voluntarily a clew to a secret she did not want to trust 
 him with. 
 
 And the secret of her marriage she wished to keep from 
 all her present associates. The miserable tie seemed to 
 be less binding when all around her were ignorant of it. 
 For a long time she had almost forgotten it in the unfet- 
 tered life she had led since she left Garstone ; but the re- 
 membrance of it had begun lately to irritate her strangely. 
 There was now nothing on earth she dreaded so much as 
 the possibility of her husband’s finding her out, and in a 
 fit of capricious obstinacy or tyranny insisting on her re- 
 turn to him. The thought of being again at the mercy of 
 that ignorant, drunken boy filled her with a disgust which 
 was now not even mingled with pity. And she was to 
 be brought against her will to the very town which he and 
 his brothers visited almost daily. 
 
 But, after long reflection, she decided that the risk ot 
 her being recognized in Beckham was not so great as she 
 had pictured it to be in her first terror at the thought of 
 going thither. The families living round about Beckham, 
 as is usually the case with country towns, very seldom 
 visited the theater— the Braith waites never. Upon Wil- 
 liam’s authority, she was so much altered that, with the 
 help of a veil and other such simple disguises, she might 
 pass unrecognized even by people among whom she had 
 lived. When the young men from the Grange came into 
 Beckham, they were almost always on horseback or driv- 
 ing, so that it would be easy for any one on foot to avoid 
 them; and, above all, she was on the alert to escape them, 
 while they had not the least suspicion of her coining. In 
 the town itself there was very little fear of her being 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 115 
 
 recognized by the inhabitants. She had not been in it 
 much at any time, and was very little known there. The 
 mere change of name would be enough to prevent their 
 identification of “Miss Lane” or “Mrs. Harold Braith- 
 waite ” with “ Miss Langton.” 
 
 So, when the company arrived at Beckham, Annie was 
 still with them. No one noticed any difference in her 
 manner from her usual rather stolid composure, when 
 she stepped with the rest on to the platform at the sta- 
 tion which had more than one moving memory for her, 
 except Aubrey Cooke, who watched her narrowly, and at 
 once decided that she had been there before. She was too 
 wise to deny it when he asked her carelessly whether she 
 knew the place, and then she set herself to the task of 
 finding longings as near as possible to the theater. She 
 succeeded in engaging suitable rooms in a back street 
 within a few minutes’ walk of it; and she was growing 
 secure in her incognito when they had played for two 
 nights and she had seen no signs of the Mainwarings or 
 the Braithwaites, when an incident happened which 
 brought her into contact with the one she most dreaded 
 to meet, with quite unforeseen consequences. 
 
 Aubrey had not yet found the golden opportunity he 
 sought, for Annie declared that there was nothing in the 
 least interesting to be seen in Beckham or round about it; 
 and, the weather being wet and cold, she seized upon this 
 excuse to decline walks with him. The third day of their 
 stay was the fifth of November, and a friend of the man- 
 ager had invited some of the members of the company to 
 some simple festivities, which included a bonfire and fire- 
 works, after the performance. On the same night, Miss 
 West, the leading lady, had invited Aubrey to supper, 
 and, on his pleading a previous engagement, she said to 
 him with some pique and in no very subdued tones that 
 she knew whose charms outweighed those of any society 
 she could offer him, and warned him emphatically that 
 the pleasures he preferred were far more dangerous than 
 those he rejected. 
 
 “ Your little prude will throw you over some fine morn- 
 ing when you least expect it. 1 know what those quiet 
 little women do. And you won’t be able to console your- 
 self so quickly for her defection as I can myself for 
 yours.” 
 
 And Miss West marched away to bestow the charms of 
 her racy speech and artistic complexion where they were 
 better appreciated. For indeed Aubrey Cooke’s indiffer- 
 ence to her rather overpowering fascinations had become 
 very marked since he had found metal more attractive in 
 Miss Langton, whose promised presence at the house he 
 
116 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 was going to visit that night had more charm for him than 
 fireworks. 
 
 The lady and gentleman who gave this entertainment 
 were delighted with the good nature of Mr. Cooke and the 
 two brother- actors of his who were present, when they 
 took the rockets and catherine-wheels out of the clumsy 
 hands of the coachman and superintended the exhibition 
 themselves, to the great delight of the children, who had 
 been put to bed and then pulled out again, a few hours 
 later to enjoy these midnight festivities. But the young 
 men certainly condescended to enjoy themselves at least 
 as much as the children, and Aubrey in particular fired 
 squibs and burned his fingers and his clothes with great 
 spirit. When at last the bonfire was lighted and the 
 whole party jumped and whooped round it, and even the 
 most timid were excited to stir the burning twigs with a 
 pitchfork and then run screaming away, Aubrey had time 
 to sneak round to Miss Langton’s side and pay her the 
 grateful attention of putting into her hands an old garden- 
 rake which he had hunted out on purpose for her ; and 
 they tossed the blazing boughs together; and, as the lurid 
 light shone on her face, and she hopped about over smol- 
 dering branches and expiring squibs with the help of his 
 friendly hand, he felt that the moment was come. In the 
 excitement and hurly-burly which were going on around 
 them, nobody noticed the tenderness with which he drew 
 her back a few yards from the bonfire, on the darker side 
 of it, when her foot turned over on a glowing twig. 
 
 “ Take care; you are getting tired.. You must not play 
 any more now,” said he gently. 
 
 ‘ k Let me go back and give it just one more toss, ’ ’ pleaded 
 she earnestly but meekly. Annie had the charm of al- 
 ways yielding to any assumption of authority in small 
 things very submissively. 
 
 “No, I cannot allow it. This jumping through the fire 
 is a heathenish custom highly unbecoming in an enlight- 
 ened young lady of the nineteenth century.” 
 
 “Oh, yes, it meant something, didn’t it?” cried she, in- 
 terested. “ The Canaanitish children were passed through 
 the fire to propitiate Moloch. And I have heard of a lot 
 of Irish and German superstitions about bonfires.” 
 
 “Yes, they are all about luck and love. If you want to 
 see whether your love will be fortunate, you set a blazing 
 hoop rolling down a hill, and, if it reaches the bottom still 
 alight and is not caught by any obstacle, then you know she 
 loves you back.” 
 
 “Where did you find out that? Have you ever tried 
 it?” she asked lightly. 
 
 “ No,” said he, in a whisper; “ I should not dare. ” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 117 
 
 They were both silent for a moment; the fire had fallen 
 into mere smoke and blackness on the side near where 
 they stood, and they could not see each other’s faces. But 
 Annie heard the quick, loud breathing of the man beside 
 her, she could see him bending down over her with one 
 hand seeking hers, and a terrible fear leaped up suddenly 
 in her heart, as she moved quickly away from him with a 
 low sound that was almost a cry of pain. 
 
 Aubrey stood still, without attempting to follow or de- 
 tain her. She could not have misunderstood him, and she 
 shrunk away ; that was enough for him. It was a very 
 hard and very unexpected blow ; he had by no means felt 
 over confident of his success with her, but at the worst he 
 had counted upon her giving him a hearing, and this ab- 
 rupt repulse stung him to the quick. 
 
 He did not stand there long watching the flickering light 
 and shadow cast by the burning pile in front of him. He 
 sprung through the fire into the middle of the group of 
 howling, delighted children; and took his place as the 
 moving spirit of the throng with greater zeal than ever. 
 
 And, when they had all grown weary, and had burned 
 their clothes and scorched themselves as much as they 
 would, and the dying bonfire was at last left to the men- 
 servants to rake out, and, the children having been sent to 
 bed, the rest sat down to supper, Aubrey Cooke was the 
 wittiest there as he had been the most active outside, and 
 he gave to Annie’s watching eyes only this one sign that 
 she had wounded him — he did not look at her. 
 
 When they brdke up, between two and three o’clock 
 in the morning, the two other actors and the other actress 
 who had come left Miss Langton as a matter of course to 
 the care of Aubrey. But she slipped past him and went on 
 by herself. He did not attempt to overtake her, but fol- 
 lowed at a short distance, in case she should be frightened 
 by a stray drunken rough in going through the narrow 
 streets which led to her lodging. 
 
 She was just in front of the house where Miss West 
 lodged, when the door opened and two or three gentle- 
 men came down the steps. The foremost, who was walk- 
 ing very unsteadily, staggered against her as he was turn- 
 ing round to speak to his companions. She | gave a 
 frightened cry, and rushed past him in terror. As she 
 heard first a laugh and then a man’s footsteps behind her, 
 she broke into a run, but stumbled against the curbstone 
 of the pavement as she went over a crossing, with the man 
 close upon her. He caught her when her foot slipped ; and 
 then, as she turned round sharply, she suddenly gave a 
 startled cry and clung to his arms, sobbing out : 
 
 “You, Aubrey! Thank Heaven 1” 
 
118 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “ My dear child, who did you think it was?” 
 
 “I thought it was that tipsy man!” she whispered, 
 shuddering. 
 
 “The clumsy brute didn’t hurt you, my darling, did 
 he, when he ran up against you? I would have punched 
 his head ” 
 
 “No, no, no!” she cried, clinging to him again, in fear 
 of his returning. “ He didn’t hurt me at all; he scarcely 
 touched me. But I thought it was he who was running 
 after me, and I was frightened.” 
 
 4 ‘ That is all because you were a silly girl and were too 
 proud to let me see you home. It is a ‘ judgment.’ Why, 
 you are shaking all over still! I didn’t think you were 
 such a little coward!” 
 
 He soothed her tenderly, with a very happy remem- 
 brance of her delight in recognizing him, and of the im- 
 pulsive closing of the little hands on his arm. He began 
 to think that repulse of a few hours before might be dif- 
 ferently construed; she could not have smiled up more 
 than gratefully into his face as she was doing now if he 
 had been repugnant to her. Other women might, but not* 
 Annie Langton. 
 
 And Aubrey was right. She had felt just what her 
 face expressed, that the one person in the world whose 
 presence inspired her with perfect confidence had sud- 
 denly appeared at the very moment when she dreaded the 
 approach of the person she most feared to meet. 
 
 For, in the half tipsy man who had staggered down 
 from Miss West’s door and reeled against her, Annie had 
 instantly recognized her husband He had not known 
 her, he had scarcely seen her, for the little figure had 
 flown past almost before he had recovered his balance ; but 
 in the first moment of terror, Annie imagined that he had 
 seen, known, and was pursuing her. 
 
 She walked on with Aubrey very quietly, very silently, 
 her hand on his arm and his hand on hers, listening to his 
 gentle, playful scolding with a little laugh now and then, 
 but without speaking much, satisfied that she was safe 
 with him, and that she need not talk to show him that 
 she felt so. When they came to her door, she disengaged 
 her hand and held it out while bidding him “ Good -night ” 
 with a smile that made Aubrey bold. He took her hand 
 in his, passed his other arm round her, saying, in a quick, 
 jerky whisper : 
 
 “ Annie, you do— you will trust yourself to me, won’t 
 you?” 
 
 There was no eloquence in his speech; but for once his 
 light eyes spoke very plainly, his voice broke into tender- 
 ness. Annie trembled. Her eyes, as they met his, shone 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 119 
 
 with a light he had never seen in them before. But before 
 he could speak again, before he could draw her into his 
 arms, the light had faded. She gave him one look so 
 wildly, unutterably" sad that he never forgot it; then, 
 with bent head, she slipped gently out of the grasp of Ids 
 arm and turned to the door. She could not see the look, 
 for the tears were gathering in her eyes. After a few mo- 
 ments, Aubrey, who had stood behind her without speak- 
 ing, took the key from her shaking hand and opened the 
 door for her. 
 
 “Thank you, Aubrey. Goodnight,” said she, in a 
 quavering voice, without looking up. 
 
 “ Good night, darling!” he whispered back, managing to 
 give one last despairing squeeze to the little fingers before 
 she shut the door. 
 
 He went home to his lodgings utterly bewildered, but 
 resolved to get from her the next day some explanation of 
 her extraordinary treatment of his advances. She had 
 certainly understood him. She had at first repelled, then 
 encouraged him. He had seen in her eyes the very look 
 he had wished to call up in them, and the next minute it 
 had changed to an expression of plaintive misery and re- 
 gret which had chilled his hopes even as they rose. 
 
 But the next day, when he called upon her, he was told 
 Miss Langton was not well, and could not see any one. 
 He knew very well that she was only putting him off, and 
 he made up his mind that at night she should not escape 
 him. She took care however not to be caught alone, and 
 her share in the performance was nearly over before Au- 
 brey, always on the watch, saw Miss Montrose, who had 
 been standing at the side with her, go upon the scene at 
 her cue and leave Annie by herself at last. Then she 
 heard his voice behind her; she could not escape now, for 
 before long she would hear her own cue, and must be on 
 the watch for it. 
 
 “Good-evening, Miss Langton.” 
 
 “Oh, good-evening, Mr. Cooke!” She gave him her 
 hand ; it was trembling a little, and she did not look up 
 into his face. 
 
 “I have not had an opportunity of speaking to you be- 
 fore. You will let me see you home?” 
 
 “Not to-night; I have promised to go to supper with 
 Miss Norris.” 
 
 “You are putting me off, I see. Is it fair, Annie? Is it 
 right? Am I not worth an answer?” 
 
 “An answer to what?” 
 
 ‘ ‘ To what I said to you last night. You cant’t have for- 
 gotten so soon. If I were a stranger, if I were the most 
 contemptible wretch living, if you had always treated me 
 
120 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 with open dislike, you could not have misunderstood or 
 forgotten what I said to you last night.” 
 
 Annie turned and looked up at him, pale under her 
 rouge. 
 
 “ I have not forgotten, nor understood— at least, I think 
 not. I thought you too would have understood— that I 
 tried to avoid you, because I feared, I knew my answer, if 
 I must answer, would give you pain.” 
 
 “ Then you don’t like me?” 
 
 A ray of vehement passion flashed from her dark eyes. 
 “ Don’t torture me! You know I like you; but I can’t 
 —I can’t do more! I don’t know whether I have done 
 wrong — I never meant to lead you to feel like this. How 
 could I go on avoiding you when I was lonely and you 
 were kind?” 
 
 “ Why should you avoid me? Why should you not love 
 me?” 
 
 She did not answer; but there was no mistaking the 
 misery on her face for coquetry or caprice. 
 
 “Are you bound by some other engagement, Annie?” 
 She shuddered. Before he could speak again, she turned 
 quickly to him. 
 
 “Don’t ask me any more; believe what I say, that I am 
 suffering more than you can, and it is my own fault. I 
 am bound by an engagement in which love is out of the 
 question, and always must be. What love is to most 
 women ambition is to me.” 
 
 “ Do you mean that you will marry for ambition? You, 
 Annie? Wait, wait a little for me; I will get on— I can — 
 I’m not a fool ” 
 
 “ Hush!” said Annie sharply. “ It is impossible; I can 
 never marry you ! You are only torturing me, and all 
 to no end. 1 cannot marry you; I cannot love you!” 
 “You could if you would, Annie. I could make you 
 love me; you are always happy when you are with me.” 
 His words moved her, and she stopped him abruptly. 
 “Happy? Yes, for the time. We have been good 
 friends, that is all. But there is something more in life 
 than you can give me.” 
 
 “ What is there?” 
 
 “Fame, position, the means of getting on.” 
 
 “ Is that what you care for most?” 
 
 “What if it is?” 
 
 “It is not; but, if it were, I would get those for you 
 easily enough.” 
 
 She laughed, but not merrily. 
 
 “ I think you overestimate your powers.” 
 
 Aubrey’s face looked in that moment as if carved in 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 121 
 
 wood, save for the steady shining of his light eyes. He 
 said, quietly: 
 
 “ Oh, I do, do I? Well, you shall see. ” 
 
 They were both silent for a few moments, and then 
 Annie heard her cue and went on. 
 
 This conversation took place on a Thursday evening, and 
 during the next two days Annie avoided Aubrey still, and 
 he did not again seek an interview with her, but contented 
 himself with simple greetings, and with watching her quite 
 unobtrusively. She missed his companionship keenly, far 
 too keenly. She did not dare to leave the house all day, 
 fearing as much to meet him as to meet any of the Braith- 
 waites, yet holding her breath when there was a knock at 
 the front door, in the hope that he at least had come to 
 ask after her. But he did not come. On Saturday night, 
 as she was leaving the theater, Aubrey came out, followed 
 by a boy carrying his portmanteau. For the first time for 
 three days, he ran after her. 
 
 “Good-bye, Miss Langton; I am going to town.” 
 
 Annie started. 
 
 “ What ! You are going away?” 
 
 “ Only till Monday. I am going on business. You will 
 wish me good luck?” 
 
 “ With all my heart!” 
 
 He wrung her hand and ran on without a word. They 
 could not trust themselves to speak again. The next day 
 Annie left Beckham with the rest of the company. 
 
 On Monday night they met once more at the theater. 
 Aubrey was looking paler and plainer than usual, and gave 
 as a reason for his altered appearance that he had not been 
 to bed for the last two nights. 
 
 “May I see you home to-night, Miss Langton?” asked 
 he, as soon as he found a chance of speaking to Annie. 
 “ I will not say a word that could offend you. I will not 
 touch upon the— the forbidden topic,” he whispered, ear- 
 nestly. 
 
 Annie could not refuse; but it was hard work for her to 
 hide her agitation — and her pleasure — when she once more 
 found him waiting for her that night at the stage door, 
 and slipped her hand falteringly within his proffered arm. 
 She had no need to be afraid ; his manner was as cool and 
 composed as if she had been his grandmother, and piqued 
 her into similar calmness. 
 
 “ I thought you would like to know how I got on in 
 town,” said he at once, in the most matter-of-fact tone. 
 “ I went up about a London engagement — at the Regent’s 
 Theater— and I’ve got it!” 
 
 “ I’m so glad,” said Annie, coolly. 
 
m 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “ Well, that is not all. I’ve got an offer [of an engage- 
 ment there for you too.” 
 
 “Not really?” 
 
 “I have, though. I knew there was a part in the piece 
 they are going to play which would suit you down to the 
 ground, so I mentioned that there was a lady of remark- 
 able promise in the company I was in, and said just what 
 I knew would attract attention about you; and it happens 
 that the manager wants some one for the part I have in 
 my eye, and I think you are pretty sure to get it if you 
 write. ’ ’ 
 
 “ Oh, Mr. Cooke, I don’t know how to thank you!” said 
 Annie, in wild delight, for more than one reason. 
 
 “Don’t mention it, Miss Langton,” said Aubrey, in his 
 old, deferential manner; then he turned ^the conversation. 
 “ I met an old favorite of yours last night— Gibson — at Mrs. 
 Falconer’s.” 
 
 “ Oh ! How is the beauty?” 
 
 “ Well, she affects great distress about one of her broth- 
 ers, who is ill, and not expected to live. It appears he fell 
 down as he was getting into a dog-cart, awfully tight, last 
 Wednesday night. But I don’t think she is as much af- 
 flicted as she would be if mourning didn’t suit her com- 
 plexion. And, though she mentioned that he was quite 
 alone, she did not suggest going to nurse him.” 
 
 “ Did she mention the name of the brother?” asked 
 Annie, quite quietly. 
 
 “Yes; she called him ‘ poor Harry.’ ” 
 
 Annie heard without giving one sign that the news 
 moved her. For the rest of the walk she spoke little, and 
 with an effort. At her door he was struck by the marked 
 constraint of her manner as she bade him good-bye. 
 When she had unlocked the door and he had turned away, 
 she said : 
 
 “Whatever you hear of me, remember I am not un- 
 grateful.” 
 
 When Aubrey got to the theater on the following even- 
 ing, he found that the manager’s niece was to play Miss 
 Langton’ s part, and learned that the latter had thrown up 
 her engagement and had already left town. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 The news of her husband’s illness had fallen like a knell 
 on Annie’s ears; for in a moment she saw that the bright 
 vision of pleasure and satisfied ambition which Aubrey’s 
 words about a London engagement in the same theater 
 with him had called up could not be indulged in, except at 
 the sacrifice of an unmistakable duty. It was her husband 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 m 
 
 who lay ill, neglected and solitary. For one moment she 
 tried to stifle conscience by saying to herself that she did 
 not know where he was; but then she felt ashamed of the 
 flimsy excuse, for she could not doubt that he was at Gar- 
 stone Grange. Aubrey had said that it was on Wednes- 
 day night that the accident had happened to him, and it 
 was on Wednesday night that she herself had seen and 
 even touched him in the streets of Beckham. She must go 
 to him, and at once, before Aubrey could guess her secret, 
 before she herself, in an unguarded moment, should let 
 him know how much this separation would cost her. She 
 dared not trust herself to think what a great part of the 
 fact of his being engaged at the same theater had had in 
 her joy at the prospect of playing again in London ; it was 
 a dangerous subject, and she shunned it instinctively. 
 She tried to keep her thoughts fixed on this one simple 
 idea— she must go to Garstone, nurse her husband through 
 his illness, bear his brutal temper and thankless snubs as 
 best she might, and then slip back quietly into her free 
 stage life once more, taking her chance of getting a town 
 engagement. 
 
 So, on the morning after her talk with Aubrey, she got 
 the manager to cancel the rest of her engagement, and, 
 having packed her trunk the night before, she left for 
 Beckham within an hour of his releasing her. She looked 
 restlessly and eagerly from the windows of the cab as she 
 drove to the station “to see if any of the company were 
 about.” At last she caught sight of Aubrey Cooke going 
 down a street, with his back to the cab, therefore so that 
 he could not see her ; and after that she looked out no 
 more, but sat with burning cheeks and her eyes fixed on 
 the front seat of the cab, all curiosity and interest gone 
 out of her. 
 
 She got to Beckham at three o’clock in the afternoon, 
 and drove straight to the Grange, which she reached be- 
 fore the dark November day had closed. To her surprise, 
 the man-servant who opened the door recognized her at 
 once. 
 
 To her questions he replied that Mr. Harold was being 
 nursed by the housekeeper, that Lady Braithwaite and 
 Mr. Stephen were abroad, Sir George was in town, Mr. 
 Wilfred in Leicestershire, and Mr. William somewhere— 
 he did not know where — “ studying.” 
 
 Annie then asked to see the housekeeper, and learned 
 from her that Harry’s accident was indeed as serious as 
 Aubrey Cooke’s words had implied. He had slipped as he 
 was getting into the dog-cart, one night after supping with 
 some friends in Beckham— Annie happened to know some- 
 thing about those friends— and the wheel had passed over 
 
124 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 him and broken his left arm, besides inflicting other less 
 serious injuries; he had not yet quite recovered from 
 another illness, and had been disregarding his doctor’s 
 orders. After being taken to a surgeon by the gentleman 
 who was with him, to have his arm set, he had insisted on 
 being driven back home to the Grange at five o’clock in 
 the morning. The housekeeper continued that he had 
 then, contrary to the advice she had ventured to give him, 
 insisted upon drinking brandy in the billiard-room ; that 
 she had waited about, not daring to go in and speak to 
 him again, until she heard a fall and a groan, and, running 
 in, had found that he had fallen and again displaced his 
 broken arm. She had got him to bed with the help of the 
 men-servants and sent for the doctor ; but no skill could 
 prevent inflammation of the wounded limb, and he was 
 now lying in a high fever and could recognize no one. 
 
 ‘‘I would strongly advise you not to see him, ma’am, 
 until he is quieter. He is very violent, and he uses dread- 
 ful language.” 
 
 “I don’t suppose he says anything worse than what I 
 have heard him say when he was in full possession of his 
 senses, Mrs. Stanley,” said Annie, quietly. “ It is not 
 fair that all the care of nursing my husband should fall 
 upon you; so, if you please, I will go to him now.” 
 
 Mrs. Stanley led the way to the room to which they had 
 carried him — not his own, but a larger and more conven- 
 ient one. She drew the arm of the young wife through 
 her own as they entered, for Annie had grown very white 
 and was shaking from head to foot when her husband’s 
 voice, speaking disjointedly to an imaginary listener, met 
 her ear. She recovered her self-command before ventur- 
 ing to look at him; but, however strong her emotion 
 might have been, it would not have affected him. He 
 took no notice of her presence; his wide-open eyes did not 
 even see her. 
 
 Annie did not give way again ; but from that hour she 
 took her place by his bedside alternately with Mrs. Stan- 
 ley, listening to idle babblings of his useless vicious life, to 
 invectives against the carelessness of grooms, the mean- 
 ness of his brother George, the “airs Sue gave herself.” 
 But there was never one word of herself; she had passed 
 out of his life; been forgotten, as if those few months of 
 their married life had never been. Only once did he refer 
 to her, and that was not to Annie, his wife, but to Miss 
 Lane of Garstone Grange. 
 
 “Saw the pretty little governess going to church; felt 
 half inclined to go too, just to look at her,” he murmured 
 once while she sat by his bedside listening. But then he 
 rambled off into talk which concerned a dog he had 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 125 
 
 bought, and Susan Green, the blacksmith’s daughter, and 
 let fall some epithets which, it occurred to Annie, would 
 apply particularly well to Miss West, at whose house he 
 and his companions had been supping on the Wednesday 
 night, or rather Thursday morning, when she had run 
 against him in Beckham Street, and when he had met with 
 his accident. 
 
 It was a hard punishment for the weakness of marrying 
 him and the fault of leaving him that she was suffering 
 now, as she listened to his wandering talk about other 
 women, which showed his contempt for a sex he did not 
 understand, or think worth the trouble of trying to under- 
 stand. And all the while she had to try to overcome the 
 disgust with which he inspired her and the longing to be 
 again in the society of one man, one brilliant, interesting 
 companion, for whom every word she uttered had a charm, 
 every action of hers was right. 
 
 When Mrs. Stanley took her place in the sickroom, she 
 would fly like an escaped bird out of doors, and wan- 
 der through the fields and the now leafless copses by her- 
 self, rejoicing in her temporary freedom, trying to for- 
 get the horrible fact that she was married, and the very 
 existence of that unconscious, senseless clog upon her life 
 that she had left in the darkened room up-stairs. These 
 rambles brought almost as much pain as pleasure to her; 
 they recalled to her so vividly the long marauding expedi- 
 tions she had had with William, when they used to return 
 home laden with birds’ eggs and ducks’ feathers, and 
 moss-covered twigs, all of which William had to carry as 
 soon as they got near the house, for fear any of the house- 
 hold should think that Mrs. Harold Braithwaite was so 
 childish as to care for such rubbish. Harry had been 
 merely an every-day trial then, to be shirked as much as 
 conscience permitted ; now he had become, and by her own 
 fault, an obstacle to her happiness which there was no pos- 
 sibility of removing. 
 
 She had returned to the sickroom one afternoon to re- 
 lieve the housekeeper, and, finding that Harry was sleep- 
 ing quietly — a fact which made her a little nervous, as it 
 proved he was getting better — she opened a book and set- 
 tled herself in an arm-chair by the nre, whence she could 
 see any movement of the invalid’s by merely raising her 
 eyes. The book was George Sands’ “ Consuelo.” Opening 
 it at first carelessly, the earliest pages fixed her attention, 
 and before long she bent over it, completely absorbed in 
 the fascinating story. 
 
 She did not see the sick man’s eyes open, fall upon her, 
 and remain fixed, at first vacantly, then intently, upon her 
 bent head. She did not even notice the slight sound ho 
 
126 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 made as he struggled to raise himself on his elbow, nor the 
 faint gasp of astonishment he gave when, having suc- 
 ceeded, he had satisfied himself that it was his long-forgot- 
 ten wife. 
 
 “ Annie !” he exclaimed, in a voice hoarse with weakness 
 and with no warmer emotion than amazement. 
 
 She looked up and said “Harry!” with just the same 
 amount of tenderness. 
 
 “Why are you here?” he asked curiously, as he fell 
 weakly back upon his pillow. 
 
 “ Why, to nurse you, of course!” said she in a soft voice, 
 rising at once without any noise or bustle, but in a quietly 
 matter-of-fact manner. 
 
 She came to the bed, arranged his pillow more comfort- 
 ably, raised his head, and gave him something to drink, 
 while he stared at her silently and received her attentions 
 without any remark, until she quietly went back again to 
 her arm-chair and “Consuelo.” Still he gazed at her 
 fixedly, and, as she opened the book at the right place, 
 which she had been careful not to lose on hearing her hus- 
 band address her for the first time after nearly four years’ 
 separation, he said: 
 
 “You’ve gone off shockingly!” 
 
 “Yes, I know I have,” said Annie, quite calmly, put- 
 ting her finger on the line she had come to as she looked 
 up. “But you had better not talk now,” she added, coax- 
 ingly ; “ it is very bad when you are still so weak.” 
 
 Down went her head again; but, with characteristic 
 tact, he insisted on continuing : 
 
 “ I don’t think I ever saw anybody so much altered. I sup- 
 pose that is why you have come back. You found nobody 
 else would admire you any longer, so it was time to come 
 and saddle yourself on your husband.” 
 
 Instead of being stung to the quick by this reproach, 
 which was meant to be very severe, Annie had some dif- 
 ficulty in repressing an impulse to laugh; but she only 
 said, soothingly: 
 
 “It is all right, Harry; I am going away again as soon 
 as ever you are well. I’ll turn away so ’’—and she moved 
 the chair round to face the fire — “and then you won’t 
 be annoyed by the sight of my ugly face.” 
 
 She went on reading, or pretending to read, for some 
 minutes, until her husband’s voice once more interrupted 
 her. 
 
 “A fine lot of affection you seem to have for me now 
 you have come back ! I dare say you wish I was dead 
 all the time. Never even asking me how I feel! What 
 did you come at all for?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 127 
 
 Annie put down her book again, and came toward the 
 bed. 
 
 “ I didn’t think it was good for you to talk just at first. 
 I thought, if I sat quite quietly, you would go to sleep 
 again.” 
 
 “No, you didn’t; you wanted to read your book. What 
 is it?” 
 
 “ It is a French book called ‘ Consuelo.’ ” 
 
 “French! Oh, of course — something too learned for 
 me!” 
 
 “ It is not learned at all. I’ll translate it to you if you 
 like; but I don’t think you would care much about it.” 
 
 “Oh, no; it would be over my head, of course!” 
 
 His voice was growing very feeble and husky. Annie 
 poured some medicine into a glass and brought it to him. 
 
 “Now,” said she, coaxingly, as she slipped her hand 
 under his pillow to raise his head, “you had better drink 
 this, and then lie still for a little while. You are not very 
 strong yet, you know.” 
 
 “ I sha’n’t drink it— I won’t have that vile stuff poured 
 down my throat!” said he, in a weak, dogged whisper. 
 
 “ You had better take it. Can’t you feel how weak your 
 voice is getting?” said Annie, persuasively. 
 
 “ I won’t take that, I tell you ! That won’t do — do me — 
 any good! Fetch me some brandy-and soda.” 
 
 “ No, I can’t do that; it wouldn’t be good for you.” 
 
 “ Do you hear what I say? Fetch me some brandy-and- 
 soda!” 
 
 He made a feeble, spasmodic effort to knock the glass 
 out of her hand ; but she held it out of his reach, and, lay- 
 ing his obstinate head, which she was still supporting, 
 gently dosvn on the pillow again, she put the medicine 
 down on the fable. 
 
 “Don’t you mean to obey me? I won’t drink your 
 filthy poisons! If you want to get rid of me you had 
 better doctor some brandy for me, and then perhaps I’ll 
 take it.” 
 
 “ The brandy by itself would be poison to you now, with- 
 out my doctoring,” said Annie, quietly. “As soon as you 
 are well again you can drink what you like, you know; 
 and the more faithfully you follow the doctor’s orders now, 
 the sooner you will be able to drink as much brandy as 
 you please.” 
 
 She said it in a very soft, gentle voice ; but she could not 
 quite keep the scorn she felt for him out of the last words. 
 Weak tears of impotent anger gathered in Harry’s eyes. 
 
 “You treat me like a dog! A fine make-believe your 
 wifely duty is. When I’m well again I’ll turn you out of 
 the house at an hour’s notice — that I will!” 
 
128 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE * . 
 
 She saw that he was exciting himself dangerously ; and 
 fearing the effects of this emotion upon him in his weak 
 state, she took the hand he was convulsively clinching on 
 the bedclothes in one of hers, and putting her lips to it, 
 said, in the most winning tone the actress could assume: 
 “My poor dear Harry, I would give you what you want 
 if I dared; and when the doctor comes, I will ask if you 
 may have it. And I will go away when you like; but you 
 will let me stay until you are well, won’t you?” 
 
 Harry was touched "by this unexpected appeal. 
 
 “All right; you may stay,” he murmured magnan- 
 imously. 
 
 “ And won’t you let me give you your medicine? I’ll 
 drink some of it first, if you like, to show you it isn’t 
 poison.” 
 
 “No, that is only nonsense. I’ll take it,” whispered 
 the grumpy invalid, conquered ; and when he had drank 
 it, and she laid his head gently down again, he said, 
 “ Thank you. You may kiss me if you like, old girl.” 
 Annie availed herself of this permission— not enthusias- 
 tically, but still not without a touch of tenderness; and she 
 sat in the chair by the bedside until he went quietly off to 
 sleep again. 
 
 The next few conversations she had with her husband, 
 who got better rapidly with the careful nursing he re- 
 ceived, were after the same pattern — a little wrangle, with 
 taunts and sneers on his side, and careless submission on 
 hers, followed by a sort of tame reconciliation. Before 
 long she had managed, by a firm refusal to do anything 
 which she did not think good for him and a very gentle 
 manner, to get the upper hand of the obstinate invalid; 
 and, when Mrs. Stanley had a tussle with him on account 
 of his unwillingness to have his wounds dressed or to take 
 his medicine at the proper hours, she always went to 
 Annie to get over the difficulty. Sometimes during a bat- 
 tle with the housekeeper he would say : 
 
 “ Well, send Annie, then, and perhaps I’ll have it done.” 
 This flattering preference was received by its object 
 with anything but gratitude. To be called up from her 
 sleep in the middle of the night, or to be sent for in the 
 course of a meal, because “Mr. Harold says he won’t take 
 any slops, ma’am, unless you come and see that his beef- 
 tea isn’t hot enough to scald his throat,” did not fill her 
 with any pride in this rise in her husband’s esteem. At 
 last, one night, when he was fairly on the road to conva- 
 lescence, she flatly refused to go when Mrs. Stanley came 
 to say Mr. Harold would not let her dress the wound on 
 his shoulder, but wanted his wife to do it. 
 
 “ Tell him I say you can do it much better than I, Mrs, 
 
a vagrant wife. 
 
 128 
 
 Stanley; and, if he won’t let you do it, he must wait till 
 to-morrow morning,” said the undutiful wife sleepily, as 
 she turned over and shut her eyes again. 
 
 The next morning Harry, who was to go down stairs fof 
 the first time that day, bounced over on his side away 
 from her as soon as she entered his room and came up to 
 the bedside. Annie walked softly toward the door ; then 
 the invalid, who had recovered much of the power of his 
 lungs, roared: 
 
 ‘ k Stop ! Where are you going?” 
 
 “I am going to breakfast,” said she, calmly. 
 
 “Without even wishing me good-morning! After re- 
 fusing point-blank just to step along the corridor in the 
 night when I might have been dying! You’re a nice 
 wife!” 
 
 “Now, look here, Harry ; I don’t pretend to do more than 
 just my simple duty to you, and don’t for a moment set 
 myself up for a model wife.” 
 
 “ I should think not indeed ! Everybody would laugh if 
 you did.” 
 
 “ Everybody would laugh, as you say, if I pretended to 
 show r any affection for a husband so selfish that he will 
 break a night’s rest of a very good nurse — I have been 
 that, remember — on the most trifling pretexts. I dare 
 say you think it an honor to choose me instead of Mrs. 
 Stanley to put on a poultice or arrange a bandage; but I 
 assure you it is one I don’t appreciate. You are nearly 
 well now, and the task I set myself of seeing you through 
 your illness is over. My presence can only irritate you 
 now, and I think of taking the hint you have often given 
 me, and going to-day.” 
 
 “ Go? What— leave me here all alone when I’ve shown 
 you I like to have you near me? All right — go along then, 
 you hard, heartless vixen! No, no,” he called, as she 
 turned again toward the door— “Annie, Annie, I didn’t 
 mean it — I’m not ungrateful— I have been selfish! Don’t 
 go till I’m quite well; don’t leave me all alone, Annie, till 
 1 can get about again ! I like to hear your voice; and you 
 move so quietly, and you talk so prettily — I’m always dull 
 when you’re out of the room— I’m sorry I’ve been so cross. 
 Don’t go, Annie, till I’m quite well. Wait till next week. 
 Won’t you wait just till next week, Annie?” 
 
 She came back to his side again, looking very grave. 
 
 “Look here, Harry,” she said; “you are well enough 
 now for me to speak to you seriously, as I could not speak 
 when you were lying there likely to die. You have been 
 very rude tome and ungracious, considering that I came 
 simply to do my best to get you *well quickly. Now the 
 duty I set myself is over, and I assure you, strange as it 
 
130 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 may seem to you, I feel no irresistible wish to stay here 
 a moment longer than is necessary. If you wish me to 
 stay here still and do my best to amuse you until you are 
 strong enough to amuse yourself again, I will do so, on one 
 condition. It is that now you will drop the tone of child- 
 ish insolence to me which I have excused on account of 
 your illness, and speak to me as other men speak to their 
 wives— no better than that ,’ 7 she added, with a slight 
 shade of irony. 
 
 “So you want to preach and domineer over me, 5 ’ pro- 
 tested Harry, rather sulkily, “just because I said I didn’t 
 mind your being in the room. Yes, yes, I will be civil,” 
 he added hastily, as Annie’s head moved away; “I didn’t 
 mean to be rude to you : I really am grateful for the way 
 you have taken care of me. Only don’t speak to me in 
 that hard voice: just say something in your soft, pretty 
 way, and I shall come round directly. You always get 
 over me when you speak in your soft voice, you know.” 
 
 “ Well, then, may I go to breakfast, Harry?” said she, 
 smiling, and taking the hand he involuntarily stretched 
 toward her. 
 
 “ Yes, yes ; I won’t be selfish again. Kiss me first,” said 
 the invalid, in a more contented tone. 
 
 And Annie put her lips lightly to his forehead and left 
 the room. It was very tiresome that she should have to 
 delay her departure from the Grange for this whim of her 
 capricious husband. She hoped that she might be able to 
 leave in a day or two, especially as George was expected 
 at the Grange; and, if she were to remain until his arrival, 
 she knew well that she would find it difficult to get away. 
 For she could not fail to see that, while she had lost the 
 first freshness of her beauty, she had acquired, by her early 
 encounters with the world and by contact with the wits of 
 the green-room, other charms of even greater power, which 
 a man of Sir George’s type would be likely to rate highly 
 — especially in the country, where women who can talk 
 are rare. She had no longer the least fear of him, and she 
 only dreaded, in worldly-wise feminine vanity, not his at- 
 traction for her, but hers for him. 
 
 For the longing to be again at work in her profession 
 was strong upon her, and an unacknowledged wish to see 
 that member of it whom she liked best was stronger still. 
 She knew, too, that these few days of delay in returning 
 to London might make the difference between her obtain- 
 ing or losing all chance of the engagement Aubrey Cooke 
 had spoken of to her. Her excitement and impatience 
 grew so high as she thought the matter over during her 
 solitary breakfast, that ghe felt obliged to throw a shawl 
 round her and rush into the open air to calm the fever 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 131 
 
 Tising within her before returning to her peevish lord and 
 master up- stairs. How could she induce him to let her go 
 at once, without exciting the spirit of contradiction in him 
 which would make him tease her to stay because he saw 
 she wished to go? She had turned reluctantly toward the 
 house again, and was going in-doors to Harry, who would 
 probably be dressed and up for the first time since his ill- 
 ness now, when a wild but delighted shout from the gate 
 frightened her. She saw a tall figure racing over the 
 lawn toward her, and in another minute she was in Will- 
 iam’s frantic embrace. 
 
 He lifted her off her feet, he made little rushes at her, 
 he danced round her with savage cries, he showed ecstasy 
 in every uncivilized and unheard-of way, asking her when 
 she had come and why she had not written to tell him. 
 
 “ I didn’t know where you were, William, my dear boy,” 
 said Annie. “ Did you know I was here?” 
 
 “ Rather! What do you think I’ve come for except to 
 see you? And I saw George in town yesterday, and I’ve 
 told him, and he is coming, and Wilfred and everybody; 
 
 and we’ll have the whole place lit up, and Hooray! 
 
 I must give you another hug!” 
 
 He was suiting the action to the word when the window 
 of Harry’s room, which was on that side of the house, was 
 thrown sharply up by the invalid, who was sitting by it, 
 and his angry and no longer weak voice called out: 
 
 “ Be off ! Leave her alone, you impudent young scamp! 
 Annie, come here ; I want you. Why have you been so 
 long gone? You don't care what happens to me!” 
 
 4 ‘I’m coming,” said Annie, resignedly. 
 
 CHAPTER XYI. 
 
 Annie soon found herself in a difficult position between 
 the brother-in-law she liked and the husband she disliked. 
 William was always wanting her to be out of doors with 
 him, Harry teased her with sulky reproaches if she was 
 away from him for more than half an hour at a time. The 
 invalid came down to the drawing-room, which was well 
 warmed and cheerful, on the second day after William’s 
 arrival, leaning on his brother’s arm. The ascendency 
 over him which Annie had gained in the sick-room she man- 
 aged to maintain still; and the artless William would 
 make gestures of admiration and astonishment at Harry’s 
 docility to her from behind her husband’s back, and there 
 was much unpleasantness on one or two occasions when 
 his brother caught him. William also made himself ob- 
 noxious by calling Harry “the Ogre,” sometimes out of 
 hearing of his elder brother and sometimes within, and 
 
V62 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 by assuming an intimate knowledge of Annie’s movements 
 during the four years of lier absence from the Grange, 
 which Harry of course did not possess. 
 
 In these early days of her return Annie put off questions 
 about the way in which she had occupied those four years, 
 and left Harry to imagine that she had supported herself 
 by teaching. Her skill in conversational fence being much 
 greater than that of either of her companions, she could 
 always lead the talk into what channel she would; but it 
 was growing a delicate matter to avoid collision between 
 Harry and William, each of whom considered himself to 
 have an exclusive right to her attention, when the situation 
 was changed by the arrival on the same day, though not 
 by the same train, of Wilfred and Sir George. 
 
 William was dispatched by Annie to Beckham in the 
 dog-cart to meet his eldest brother, and, when he was 
 gone, Harry, who, under his wife’s care, was getting rap- 
 idly through his convalescence, fidgeted about the room, 
 and at last knocked over a gypsy-table covered with 
 trifles. 
 
 “All right, Harry; I’ll pick them up,” said Annie, hear- 
 ing a muttered oath from her husband. 
 
 “ What are you in such a hurry for? I do hate a woman 
 to be in a hurry,” said he, testily, noticing unusual haste 
 in his wife’s movements as she knelt on the floor gather- 
 ing up the things his clumsiness had scattered. 
 
 “ It is getting very late, and I must dress for dinner now 
 George is coming back.” 
 
 Harry flung himself into a chair and scowled at her. 
 
 “ Oh, all this fuss for George! Your appearance didn’t 
 matter for me, I suppose? I’m only your husband!” 
 
 “ My dear Harry, if you will take the trouble to think 
 you will see that, as, sincg you have been ill, you have 
 not had late dinner, I have not insulted you by changing 
 my gown to see you eat toast and mutton-broth in your 
 dressing-gown. Besides, I should like to hide the falling 
 off in my looks which you were kind enough to tell me of 
 from George, who will not hurt my vanity by mentioning 
 it, if he does notice any great change.” 
 
 “ Look here, Annie! I didn’t want to hurt your feelings; 
 I didn’t think you were vain; and — and — do you know — 
 I really — I think sometimes, when you tell us anything to 
 make us laugh, for instance, you look prettier than you 
 ever did. You — you look so mischievous, and your eyes 
 sparkle so, you make one want to kiss you — only then — 
 then, somehow, you never seem to want to be kissed— at 
 least not by me!” he added, testily. 
 
 Annie burst out laughing, a little constrainedly perhaps. 
 
 “^Yhy, whom should I want to kiss me except my hus* 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 133 
 
 band?’’ said she, carelessly, as she bent over her occupa- 
 tion of fitting together two pieces of broken Dresden 
 china. 
 
 “ I don’t know, I am sure,” said Harry, rather sulkily, 
 feeling that his conciliatory speech had not met with the 
 response it deserved — 4 4 George, perhaps.” 
 
 “ Why, surely you are not jealous of George, Harry!” 
 she cried, laughing more naturally. 
 
 “I don’t know that I’m not; but it wouldn’t make 
 much difference to you if I was, would it?” he asked; and, 
 as, for one moment, she did not answer, he walked, with 
 the aid of the intervening chairs, from the one on which 
 he was sitting to one beside her, and laid his sound arm, 
 the right, on her shoulder. “It wouldn’t make any dif- 
 ference, would it?” he repeated. 
 
 Annie looked up rather mischievously. 
 
 “ I don’t think it would, Harry.” 
 
 This was a disconcerting answer to a husband. 
 
 “ Oh, very well!” said he, gruffly, after a minute’s pause. 
 “ Then I see what I am to expect;” and he got up to walk 
 away with offended dignity ; but, not having recovered his 
 strength yet, and having tired and excited himself already 
 that afternoon, he staggered before he had gone many 
 steps, and immediately he found his wife’s arm in his. 
 “Thank you,” said he, haughtily; then he added, with 
 the air of a martyr, “I’m not well yet, not nearly well; 
 I’m not strong enough to walk steadily.” 
 
 “Oh, well, Harry, I’ve seen you walk just as unstead- 
 ily when you were quite well!” said Annie, dryly. 
 
 Harry snatched his arm from her, and fell into the near- 
 est chair, flushing violently. 
 
 “Very well, ma’am; you call me a drunkard now! I 
 shouldn’t have thought any woman would have the heart 
 to make fun of a sick husband ; but you don’t care for any- 
 thing as long as you can laugh and scamper about the gar- 
 den like a great tomboy with that infernal long-legged 
 idiot William! You are enough to make any husband 
 drink, just to forget you, you unfeeling little creature, 
 you!” 
 
 “Come now, Harry, I don’t think you can say it was I 
 drove you to drink ; and I think you would have forgotten 
 me pretty quickly even without that assistance,” said she, 
 passing her hand soothingly down his arm and speaking 
 in a caressing voice, the charm of which always told on 
 him when she chose to use it. “ You know very well that 
 it will not require any more crimes on the part of your 
 wicked wife, for instance, to induce you to undo all the 
 progress you have made toward getting well during the 
 
134 A VAGIZ ANT WIFE . 
 
 last few days by sitting up to-night drinking with George 
 and Wilfred.” 
 
 “ And what do you care if T do?” 
 
 “ It is no affair of mine, of course, and I shall not annoy 
 you and bring down a storm upon my own head by inter- 
 fering. To borrow your own words, it would make no 
 difference if I did.” 
 
 “How do you know it wouldn’t? Don’t I always do 
 what you wish?” 
 
 . “ I think the temptation to do what I don’t wish will be 
 stronger now you will have pleasanter company than a 
 faded wife.” 
 
 “ Whoever called you ‘ faded’? I never did— you know 
 I never did! And you know I like your company. I 
 never knew you so pleasant before.” 
 
 44 Oh, you don’t think me pleasant always!” 
 
 “No; because you say such nasty things — things you 
 never used to dare to say when I was well. Now I’m ill, 
 you think you can say anything, because I’m not strong 
 enough yet to think of anything just as cutting to say 
 back. But I’ll pay you out when I get well again, clever 
 as you are.” He spoke in a rather irritated tone, but not 
 ill-humoredly; she was so smiling, so careless, that he was 
 as much amused as annoyed by her. 
 
 “ I sha’n’t give you a chance, because I have some very 
 important business in London, and my duty as your 
 nurse is over, and to-morrow I shall go to town.” 
 
 “ And when are you coming back?” — excitedly. 
 
 She did not answer. 
 
 44 When do you mean to come back, I say?” he repeated, 
 in a louder voice. 
 
 Still no answer. Harry clutched his wife’s arm. 
 
 “Then I shall not let you go! You are not my nurse; 
 you are my wife, and I forbid you to leave me again— do 
 you hear? What is this business you speak of? What is 
 it? I have a right to know— and i will know !” 
 
 Annie did not attempt to remove her arm from his 
 grasp, but looked slowly up at him with a steady, cold, 
 firm expression in her dark eyes, which silenced him even 
 before she spoke : 
 
 “You have a right to know, and you shall know. I 
 can’t tell you all now, but just this. For four years, dur- 
 ing which you never took the trouble to find out whether 
 I was starving— and I was not so very far off that some- 
 times — I have been working to lay the foundation of a ca- 
 reer for myself — an honorable career, I need not say, even 
 to you. I have been put back a little, just as I was going 
 to make a great stride forward, by coming to nurse you. 
 I have fulfilled that duty now, and, now you arc well, J 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 135 
 
 Pi in only wasting my time here. You must let me go. I 
 will come back when you please, if I can, and I will let 
 you know everything you wish. But my presence, now 
 you are all going to be together again, would only irritate 
 you — already it seems to be the cause of your quarreling 
 with William. You will be disgusted again with my 
 ‘learned airs,’ and with my preaching— for I shall not be 
 ~ able to keep myself from uttering useless remonstrances 
 when I see you going on in your old way, as I know you 
 will, and bringing back the fever, and making yourself ill 
 again ” 
 
 “ But, if I make myself ill again, you will have to nurse 
 me.” 
 
 “Indeed, you are mistaken!” answered Annie, raising 
 her eyes to his with spirit. ‘ ‘ If now, after being warned, 
 you choose, rashly, to put your life in danger, and to 
 undo all the good our constant watching and nursing 
 have done you, I shall not consider myself bound to sac- 
 rifice myself any longer to a man who could be guilty of 
 such foolish and selfish conduct, whether he is my husband 
 or not.” 
 
 “ Then you would leave me to die while you went on 
 enjoying your ‘career,’ as you call it?” 
 
 “I would leave you to take your chance.” 
 
 Harry began to tremble all over, and the tears rose to 
 his eyes. His hand relaxed its hold on Annie’s arm, and 
 fell down by his side. 
 
 Softened, frightened by the effect of her words, Annie 
 clasped her little hands on his shoulder, and told him not 
 to take her words so seriously, that she had spoken them 
 only because she wanted him to take care of himself and 
 get well fast. 
 
 “ No, you don’t— no, you don’t! You want me to die, 
 so that you may be free!” said he, in a hoarse, tremulous 
 voice, keeping his head turned away from her. 
 
 Happily, his own emotion prevented his noticing the ef- 
 fect of his words on Annie, whose cheeks flushed sud- 
 denly, and whose tongue faltered as she was about to in- 
 terrupt him. He continued: 
 
 “ I see, I see! You want me to drink and kill myself, or 
 ruin myself, so that you may go away and get praised for 
 being a martyr! Go away — go away from me! I don’t 
 want your little soft hands about me, when all the while I 
 know your heart is hard and you hate me!” said he, shak- 
 ing her off, vehemently. 
 
 Annie rose slowly, and walked with downcast head 
 toward the door. But she had not shut it behind her be- 
 fore her husband’s voice called her back. 
 
186 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 ‘‘Annie, Annie -come here— only one minute! I want 
 to speak to you !” 
 
 She returned, and stood, with her eyes still down, very 
 jneekly before him. 
 
 “ Annie,” said he, stretching forward to take her hand 
 and draw her toward him, “ I didn’t mean what I said just 
 how, I was only in fun— at least I didn’t think what I 
 was saying. I— I wanted to see if you would believe me. 
 I know you don’t want me to die; and look here— if you 
 will promise not to go away yet I won’t sit up with George, 
 and I will drink only just what you let me, and I’ll do just 
 what you tell me— till I get well.” 
 
 Annie shook her head. 
 
 “I will — I swear it! Now you will stay, won’t you? 
 Here— give me your other hand. There ! I swear to do 
 just what you tell me — till I get well. Now promise 
 not to go to London. No — you swear, too,” said he, ea- 
 gerly. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I promise ’ ’ 
 
 “ No, *swear.” 
 
 “ I swear not to go to London till you are quite well, if 
 you don’t do anything rash. There — I hear the dog-cart. 
 Harry, I must go to the door to meet him.” 
 
 “ Meet who?” 
 
 “ George, of course.” 
 
 “ Confound George !” 
 
 But Annie was already out of the room. 
 
 She was flushed with the excitement of the successful 
 battle she had just had with her husband, and with the 
 other excitement of meeting her eldest brother-in law, 
 and George showed nothing but pleasure at sight of her. 
 They came into the drawing-room talking brightly, and 
 the baronet scarcely exchanged more than a couple of sen- 
 tences and a hand-shake with his surly brother, so pleased 
 was he to find a pleasant woman again in his house. 
 
 When Wilfred arrived, just before dinner, he in his turn 
 engrossed her completely ; and at dinner these two new- 
 comers took up so much of her attention that the convales- 
 cent Harry, who was at dinner with the rest for the first 
 time since his illness, began to look very black, and to find 
 fault with everything which was put before him. 
 
 “ I can’t eat that. How am I to hack at it with only 
 one hand?” he growled, when the servant offered him 
 some mutton. 
 
 “Shall I cut it up for you, sir?” 
 
 “No, I won’t have it; I don’t want anything at all!” 
 said he, looking with a frown at his wife, who turned from 
 George to tell the servant to bring the plate to her, and 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 137 
 
 dutifully cut up the mutton, which her sulky husband, 
 without thanks, then condescended to eat. 
 
 Annie had put on a very pretty pale gray silk gown with 
 elbow-sleeves and square-cut bodice edged with dainty 
 lace, and a long spray of pink azalea fastened carelessly 
 on one side of the neck. She was delighted at the pleas- 
 ure they all— except her morose husband, who tried hard 
 not to laugh when his brothers did at any speech of hers 
 that amused them— evidently took in her society; and she 
 smiled and laughed and chattered and looked so charm- 
 ing that not one of the men could keep his eyes off her for 
 more than a few moments at a time. 
 
 “Have you seen anything of the Mainwarings, Annie?” 
 asked George, when dinner was nearly over. 
 
 “Oh, yes! I met Mrs. Main waring the other day with 
 a volume of ‘The Band of Hope Review ’—I don’t know 
 whether you have heard of it— under one arm. She said 
 she thought of coming to read to Harry, if he would like 
 it, to cheer him up.” 
 
 Something in Annie’s demure tone set them all laughing. 
 
 “ I said he would be delighted; but we didn’t think too 
 much excitement was good for him just at first. And she 
 asked if Sir George had any good books in his library , and 
 I said, ‘Oh, yes!’ and she said I ought to read some to 
 him. I said I thought I ought, and I came back and read 
 him the Sporting Dramatic Neivs all through.” 
 
 “Oh, Annie, she wouldn’t have you back in her school- 
 room now !” 
 
 “No, indeed she would not !” answered Annie promptly. 
 
 When she rose to leave the gentlemen, there was a little 
 anxiety in her manner as she glanced toward her husband. 
 He was sitting with his eyes fixed doggedly upon his plate, 
 his face was already rather flushed, and his hand was 
 round the stem of a glass of Burgundy. She knew how 
 little weight a word from her was likely to have now ; 
 but it was her duty to try, and she did try. As she passed 
 him, she put out her left hand, with its one ring — her wed- 
 ding-ring, which decorum now forced her to wear — lightly 
 on his shoulder, and, as he gave no sign, she bent down 
 and slipped the slim white fingers gently up to his neck. 
 He smelled the faint perfume of the azalea on her breast, 
 heard her quickened breathing as he still hesitated. 
 
 “ Do you remember?” she whispered softly. 
 
 He raised his eyes, sullenly still, to the little, pleading 
 face. She was irresistible at that moment, with her smil- 
 ing lips and her sparkling eyes, her head a little on one 
 side in entreaty. There came a flash from his eyes; her 
 womanly fascination had won from him what bis promise 
 
138 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 would have failed to get. He got up, and, leaning on her 
 slight shoulder, let her lead him out of the room. 
 
 Annie was so much pleased with this unexpected little 
 triumph that her bright humor infected him now that he 
 was alone with her; and, as she dragged the easiest chair 
 before the drawing-room, fire for him, she chattered on so 
 that he had no time or inclination for the complaints he 
 was going to make against his brother George’s brutal 
 indifference to his illness. He was much annoyed when, 
 in a very short time, they heard the dining-room door 
 open and the voices of the other three in the hall. 
 
 6 ‘Hang them all! They make so much noise. Annie, I 
 think I’ll go to bed; and I want you to come and read to 
 me.” 
 
 But George had heard the last words as he came in. 
 
 “No, no, Harry! Go to bed by all means, if you will; 
 but you mustn’t make a victim of Annie. You have had 
 my Lady Sunbeam all to yourself for weeks; you must 
 let her shed a few rays on the rest of us now.” 
 
 Before Harry could make an angry reply, Annie broke 
 in: 
 
 “Harry has no wish to deprive you of such a very 
 simple pleasure; I will shed my rays upon you, as you 
 poetically term it, by playing you the very few new pieces 
 I have learned since you last heard me, George. And, 
 Harry, you are feverish — you had better not stay up ; I 
 have nothing to play that you have not heard, and I will 
 come up and read you to sleep by the time you are ready 
 for me.” 
 
 She rang the bell without giving him time to answer; 
 and Harry, who was really too worn out to make much 
 resistance, grumblingly went off with the servant, who 
 lent a stout arm to his tottering master. 
 
 Annie went to the piano, and played one thing after an- 
 other, and sung a French song which they only half un- 
 derstood, but which sent them into fits of laughter, until 
 George, who was leaning on the instrument, grew more 
 interested in the talk he was having with her than in the 
 music; and, as her fingers, from idly playing, at last ceased 
 altogether and lay on the keys, he said : 
 
 “Come into the conservatory. You love flowers, and 
 there you will let me smoke, I know.” 
 
 Annie shook her head reluctantly. 
 
 “ I mustn’t. I’ve promised Harry to read to him. He 
 will be past being read to and do nothing but growl if I 
 delay any longer,” said she, with resignation, as she rose 
 slowly and shut the piano. 
 
 “ How you have managed to tame the bear, though!” 
 said George, admiringly, f ‘ Of course gratitude or courtesy 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 130 
 
 is out of the question with him; but I thought even sub- 
 mission was, until I saw him follow you out of the dining- 
 room to-night. But then an archangel couldn’t have re- 
 sisted you as you looked at that moment,” continued he, 
 in a low voice, bending down to look into her eyes. 44 It 
 was hard to see a look like that wasted upon such a clod.” 
 “ Do you think so?” said Annie, laughing lightly, as she 
 went up-stairs and he followed her. “ Why, that is only 
 the old story! It is the ‘ clods ’ of the earth who get the 
 benefit of all the beauty and grace and pleasant things in 
 the world.” 
 
 “ You have grown cynical, Annie. Come in here for a 
 few minutes and explain yourself.” 
 
 He led the way into the dimly-lighted picture-gallery, 
 where Annie and William had had their first game of bat- 
 tledoor and shuttlecock four and a half years before. She 
 sunk down upon the cushioned ottoman to which George 
 led her, and looked gravely at him as he seated himself 
 beside her. 
 
 “ It is very easy to explain,” said she. “ Do not all the 
 people who spend their lives in the practice of any art, 
 clever people generally, and capable of hard thinking as 
 well as hard living, waste their efforts for the careless en- 
 joyment of others who have not half their brains, or their 
 courage, or their capacity? The rich parvenu who doesn’t 
 know a Rubens from a Rembrandt, patronizes the rising 
 painter and delights afterward in the boast that he 4 made 
 that man, sir.’ The wise man writes for fools to read. 
 And the actress gives days of study to her share in a piece 
 which the dressmaker in the pit condemns as 4 very poor 
 stuff. ’ It is always the same. ” 
 
 44 You speak very bitterly.” 
 
 44 Yes. For you see I range myself on the side of the 
 hard-working, capable ones. Don’t you know how I have 
 spent these last four years?” 
 
 44 No, no; do tell me,” said George, with a shrewd guess 
 at her answer, bending lower over her in his interest. 
 
 44 1 have spent them on the stage.” 
 
 “The stage!” echoed another voice. 
 
 They both started and looked round. Behind them, 
 leaning against the wall, not far from the door, was Harry, 
 in his dressing-gown, pale, heavy-eyed, sullen. He looked 
 at his wife with fierce eyes and frowning brows. 
 
 44 So you are an actress! I don’t wonder you were 
 ashamed to tell me how you passed your time. ’ ’ 
 
 44 1 was not ashamed, Harry,” said Annie, calmly, rising 
 and going toward him. 4 4 If you think I ought to be, you 
 have only to say a word and you shall never be troubled 
 with me again.” 
 
140 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “ You are in a great hurry forme to say that word, and, 
 by Jove, for once I feel inclined to please you! An 
 actress! No wonder I find you ready to listen to soft 
 words from any man! No wonder the words from me 
 which used to set you blushing for pleasure can’t touch 
 you now ! You are just a thing for everybody to look at — 
 not a wife for me ! Go away ; I would rather fall than 
 that you should touch me!” 
 
 He was tottering, and his forehead was wet with weak- 
 ness and passion. He would not take George’s help, but 
 staggered along by the wall to the door. There the house- 
 keeper met him, and Annie, standing still in the middle of 
 the picture-gallery, heard him say: 
 
 “ Brandy, for Heaven’s sake, brandy, whether it is 
 poison to me or not!” 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 Annie turned with a piteous expression of face to George 
 when her angry husband had left them. 
 
 “What can one do with aman like that?” she said. “ It 
 is impossible to reason with him, impossible to understand 
 him. He is like an overgrown child.” 
 
 “I don’t- know about that,” answered George, quietly. 
 “ I think I can understand this last outbreak pretty 
 well.” 
 
 “ What do you mean?” 
 
 “ Why, when you left him, you were a little timid lily, 
 whose charm was quite lost upon a great senseless brute 
 like that,” said George, with sentiment; “now you have 
 come back a ” 
 
 “ A great flaunting dahlia, whose charm must be appar- 
 ent to the meanest observation, and particularly to a person 
 of my husband’s tastes!” finished Annie, looking up at 
 him very gravely. 
 
 His sentiment was dispelled; he was obliged to burst out 
 laughing. 
 
 “ You are too sharp for me. You know very well I did 
 not mean that. You are a charming woman who can hold 
 your own in any society; you have caused quite a flutter 
 among us poor rustics; and Harry, finding himself the 
 possessor of something everybody else admires, with dog- 
 in-the-manger instincts, wishes to keep all to himself the 
 treasure whose value he himself would nerver have dis- 
 covered and is quite unable to appreciate.” 
 
 “ You are too severe upon poor Harry. He has a lot of 
 good qualities— you know I always said so; only — unfort- 
 unately they are qualities which don’t harmonize very 
 well with mine.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 141 
 
 4< Nor with anybody else’s. It is unfortunate, certainly. 
 He would be charming on a desert island.” 
 
 “I really think he would be happier there,” said Annie, 
 with a sigh, “if he had a horse and some dogs. He is 
 kind to animals, and they seem to understand him. Good- 
 night, George; I must go to him now. And the chances 
 are even whether he will try to hit me if I go near him, 
 or insist on my remaining in the room till he goes to 
 sleep.” 
 
 She shook hands, and left the baronet gazing admiringly 
 at her little figure, as she disappeared swiftly and silently 
 down the corridor toward the room her husband occupied. 
 She tapped at the door; but, getting no answer and hear- 
 ing no sound, she opened it and went in. Harry was 
 lying on the bed in his dressing-gown, and her first thought 
 was that he was not sober. But when she opened the door 
 to Mrs. Stanley a minute after, and saw that that dig- 
 nified lady held a spirit -decanter in her hand, she whis- 
 pered : v 
 
 4 4 Take that away, please. He has gone to sleep, I 
 think.” 
 
 44 That is all right. I was as long as I could be, and I 
 brought it myself, in hopes that you would be here when 
 I came back.” 
 
 The housekeeper went away, and Annie, fearful he 
 might take cold, drew a rug softly over her sleeping hus- 
 band. The touch roused him; be turned over toward her, 
 and, just half opening his eyes, threw his right arm round 
 her neck as she was bending down, and instantly dozed 
 off again, tired out. The action moved Annie, and she 
 knelt down beside the bed, careful not to disturb him by 
 displacing the arm that held her in an unconscious caress 
 until his next movement, when she woke him up, told him 
 to go to bed, and left him before he had time to remember 
 his anger against her and spoil the effect of that half-un- 
 conscious embrace. 
 
 But the next morning he was in a gentle mood, and did 
 not allude to her distasteful career when she brought him 
 his breakfast. This good-humor lasted until he went 
 down-stairs, and, after looking in the various rooms, 
 found his wife in the library with William, having tracked 
 them by their voices and laughter. 
 
 William, with great tact, instantly assumed an appear- 
 ance of preternatural solemnity on his brother’s entrance. 
 
 “What is all this mystery? What are you doing in 
 here?” asked Harry, crossly. 
 
 44 1 am helping William with his studies,” said Annie. 
 
 Upon this h ej* promising pupil grew blue with suppressed 
 
m A VAGRANT WIFE, 
 
 laughter, and Harry’s manner got more and morb un- 
 pleasant. 
 
 “Oh, I should have thought you had had;enough of school- 
 room work! However, since you haven’t, and I’m not too 
 proud to take a lesson, you shall give me one, too,” and he 
 flung himself into a chair with an uncompromising surli- 
 ness which was not encouraging to a teacher. 
 
 Taking no further notice of him, Annie proceeded with 
 her dictation. 
 
 “ Lorsque Telemaque et ses compagnons — virgule ” 
 
 “ Oh, confound your French!” growled Harry. 
 
 And William burst into a roar of laughter; while Annie, 
 seeing that her amiable husband had started up with evil 
 intentions toward her pupil, made signs to the latter to 
 leave the room, which he did, exploding again as soon as 
 he got outside the door. 
 
 “ Why do you encourage that donkey to take up your 
 time?” asked Harry, when he had exhausted all the offen- 
 sive epithets at his command on his youngest brother. 
 
 “ I am very fond of William,” said Annie, quietly. “It 
 was I who first encouraged him to study; and now it is 
 a great pleasure to me to help him.” 
 
 “ A fine lot of study you get through, I have no doubt!. 
 You were studying very hard when I came in, weren’t 
 you?” 
 
 “Now look here, Harry; you are absurdly unreason- 
 able,” said Annie, wearily. “Of course William and I 
 don’t sulk through a long morning’s work, as if I were a 
 snuffy old professor of fifty who didn’t care a straw about 
 his pupil except as a mere learning-machine. I couldn’t 
 care for William more if he were really my brother. You 
 never used to complain when he and I were out in the 
 fields and woods together all day long. He was my con- 
 stant companion when I was very miserable and lonely; 
 and am I to snub and sit upon him, now that he has taken 
 to reading so that he may be more of a companion to me 
 than ever?” 
 
 “ What do you want with his companionship? I can’t 
 think what you can see in a great, clumsy gawk like that. 
 He isn’t even clever.” 
 
 “ He is good-tempered, and — he is fond of me.” 
 
 “Much you care about anybody’s being fond of you! 
 You are the coldest woman I ever saw, and all your pretty 
 — I mean all your affected little ways are just acting. Yes. 
 that is what they are — just acting!” repeated Harry, as if 
 struck by a happy idea. 
 
 “ Very well, Harry. Then why don’t you let me go and 
 act on the stage, where I shall get applauded instead of 
 worried about it?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 148 
 
 <l Because I don’t choose to let you go,” said he doggedly. 
 
 “ And I don’t choose to see myself slighted and treated as 
 if I were nobody at all, just for that great ignorant, ill- 
 mannered boy. And I won’t allow any more of these 
 humbugging lessons — do you hear?” 
 
 “I hear you certainly.” answered Annie softly, 
 
 “That means that you won’t obey me, I suppose?” She 
 did not reply. 
 
 “ Very well then; I sha’n’t say any more,” said Harry, 
 shaking with passion; “but, when I find him again grin- 
 ning at you over his copy-book and swaggering about with \ 
 his French, I shall just pitch his books and his tomfoolery 
 into the fire and punch his head for him.” 
 
 “That will be very wise,” remarked Annie gravely. 
 
 “ And, if you were only to treat in the same way every 
 other person who can talk to me on subjects that interest 
 me and who does not grumble at me from morning till 
 night, I am sure I should become a much better wife and 
 a much more entertaining companion for yourself.” She 
 had risen and walked toward the door. 
 
 “ Where are you going?” asked Harry sharply. 
 
 “ To meet Lilian at the station. You know she is com- 
 ing to-day, and Stephen with her.” 
 
 He let her go without further comment ; but, when she 
 came down stairs again, ready to start, she found him in 
 the hall playing with a hunting-crop. 
 
 “Isay, Annie, are you going to the library at Beck- 
 ham?” 
 
 “Yes.” 
 
 “Will you get some books for me?” 
 
 “ For you!” said his wife, in amazement. 
 
 “Yes, for me” — very irritably. 
 
 “ Oh, yes, certainly ! What books shall I get?” 
 
 “ Oh, anything you like!” — and, without looking at her, 
 he marched off into the billiard-room. 
 
 “ I hope there is nothing the matter with his head,” 
 thought Annie, anxiously, as she got into the carriage. 
 
 Annie went to the station to meet her sister-in-law, with- 
 out any of the nervousness she had once felt before an in- 
 terview with that imperious beauty. If Lilian should re- 
 sent the change in her position at the Grange, Annie was 
 quite ready to go, and was rather hoping that Mrs. Falcon- 
 er’s arrival might pave the way for her own departure. 
 She bought the Era on her entrance into the station, and, 
 having some minutes to wait before the train from Lon- 
 don was due, went into the waiting-room, cut the leaves 
 of the paper roughly with a pencil she happened to have 
 in her pocket, and glanced through the pages eagerly. 
 She found what she wanted— a notice of a morning per^ 
 
144 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 formance in which she knew that Aubrey Cooke was to 
 play a part ; and, with flushed cheeks and beating heart, 
 she read that he had made the chief success in the piece, 
 in a character so well played that the critic pronounced 
 him “ the coming comedian.” Annie knew that this sen- 
 tence was one she had heard before of other young actors 
 who never came to anything in particular. But her pleas- 
 ure in reading this testimony to his talent was none the 
 less great, and with trembling fingers, she almost involun- 
 tarily drew a shaky line with her pencil down that part 
 of the notice which referred to him. 
 
 She was looking brilliant when she met Lilian, who com- 
 plimented her on her appearance, and said she had heard 
 from her brothers that she would now have to subside 
 meekly into the second place, since Annie had grown into 
 such a charming woman. 
 
 “But you might have let me know you were on the 
 stage,” said Lilian, with good-humored reproach. “I find 
 now that I know several of the actors who were with you 
 at the Begency . And only think ! I went there one night 
 when you were playing in the piece, and never recognized 
 you.” 
 
 “ I recognized you, though.” 
 
 ‘Did you? Can you see people you know among the 
 audience when you are acting?” 
 
 “Oh, yes! And I saw Colonel Bichardson.” 
 
 “ Most people can see him when you are about,” broke 
 in Stephen, who had come from town with his cousin, but 
 had sat silent in the carriage until now. 
 
 This was a bolder speech than he would have ventured 
 to make in the old times to Lilian, Annie thought. She 
 noted that the cripple had grown much older-looking; his 
 face, which had once been handsome, was thin and wasted, 
 and he looked sullen and discontented. 
 
 Lilian took no notice of his remark, and asked Annie if 
 she had seen many of the people of the neighborhood since 
 she had been at the Grange. 
 
 “Yes, most of them have called, to my surprise, since 
 William let out to old Mrs. Knowles that I had been on 
 the stage. She and her niece made a tentative call, and I 
 suppose the rumor spread that I did not bite, so everybody 
 came and praised my wifely devotion, which I certainly 
 did not deserve.” 
 
 Lilian laughed. 
 
 “ Harry ill must be a great trial, though.” 
 
 “ He is rather; he has such strange freaks.” 
 
 “Husbands always have, dear. Only fancy— my hue* 
 band wanted to prevent my coming to the Grange!” 
 
 “ Beally? For what reason?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 145 
 
 44 Oh, he disapproves of my brothers, or some such non- 
 sense!” said Lilian lightly. 
 
 But Stephen raised his eyes to his cousin’s face with a 
 penetrating look which Annie noted and remembered. 
 
 Dinner that night was a banquet of rejoicing. The two 
 ladies were both, in different ways, among the most 
 charming women of the day. Lilian was very handsomely 
 dressed in dark red velvet, which showed off her fair, 
 queenly beauty well; Annie, in maize-colored silk, with 
 soft folds of Indian muslin about the throat, looked like a 
 little fairy. The style of each was so different from that 
 of the other that their attractions did not clash, and An- 
 nie’s quiet, simple manner of saying amusing things was 
 the best contrast possible to Lilian’s laughing imperti- 
 nences. 
 
 Lilian was very anxious to know at once all about her 
 sister-in-law’s stage- experiences, and was seized with a 
 strong desire to become an actress herself. 
 
 “ Don’t you find people off the stage very dull after the 
 nice, amusing people you meet in the theater?” she asked 
 at dinner. 
 
 “Oh, no! Some stage-people are dreadful bores, and 
 many are coarse and many commonplace. They are not 
 all alike, you know, any more than people off the stage.” 
 “ But all the actors I have ever met have been so bright 
 and amusing. I know two who were at the Begency, 
 where you acted— Mr. Gibson and Mr. Cooke.” 
 
 “Oh, yes; I heard them say they knew you!” 
 
 “Don’t you like them? Are they nice in the theater? 
 They are two of the best-bred men I have ever known.” 
 “They are very nice men, indeed, and very clever act- 
 ors; I like them both immensely.” 
 
 “And Mr. Gibson is so handsome, and does not seem to 
 know it. But he must, for I should think all the women 
 in the theater must be in love with him. Were you not a 
 little in love with him?” 
 
 “ In love with a beggarly cad of an actor?” shouted 
 Harry, scandalized. 
 
 “ You don’t know what you are talking about!” said his 
 sister, coolly. “ OE course your manners are not those of 
 Mr. Gibson ; they are those of his valet. Didn’t you think 
 him very handsome, Annie?” 
 
 “Yes, very. And he has such a sweet voice.” 
 
 Her husband’s voice, for the moment not at all sweet, 
 uttered a growling protest. 
 
 “ And Mr. Cooke? He is not handsome, but he is 
 charming. Don’t you like him? Oh, I know you must, 
 for I saw that you had marked his name in a critique in 
 your paper!” 
 
146 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 Annie blushed as she answered that he was very nice, 
 too, and very clever; she had an uneasy feeling that her 
 husband was glaring at her across the table and noting her 
 change of color. 
 
 During the few minutes which remained of the ladies’ 
 stay in the dining-room, Harry never took his eyes off his 
 wife’s face; and she was conscious of this, though she did 
 not once look at him. 
 
 In the drawing-room Lilian was quite affectionate. 
 
 “You were always a good little girl; but I had no idea 
 you would bloom into such a clever woman,” said she, 
 with her white hands on the shoulders of the smaller 
 woman. 
 
 “ How — clever?” asked Annie, laughing. 
 
 “Why, at keeping your own counsel! But you may 
 trust me. There is always some one nicer than one’s hus- 
 band, and when one’s husband is Harry! I think your 
 discretion does you great credit. As soon as I heard you 
 were on the stage, I tried to find out who it was that had 
 induced you to go on, or to remain on; and you had been 
 so very discreet that nobody could link your name with 
 any other. And it was not until I mentioned those two 
 names at dinner that I found you out. And nobody could 
 have seen you wince but me. I am very clear-sighted in 
 these matters.” 
 
 “Indeed!” said Annie, calmly. “And may I know 
 which of my fellow- actors I am dying for love of?” 
 
 “ I did not say that. I know your conduct is circum- 
 spection itself. But I know which of these two gentlemen 
 is— nicer than Harry.” 
 
 “Oh, you might put them both together and bracket 
 a good many more with them under that heading!” said 
 Annie. 
 
 “I dare say. But you need not look so ostentatiously 
 indifferent. I should think it must be impossible to know 
 Mr. Gibson well without admiring him.” 
 
 “Well, that is true, certainly,” assented Annie, not 
 giving the least sign of the relief she felt at hearing Lilian 
 utter the wrong name. 
 
 She did not in the least mind that her sister-in-law 
 should imagine her to have a preference for Mr. Gibson ; 
 but she would not for worlds have it suspected that she 
 could have the faintest warmth of feeling for — Mr. Cooke. 
 
 When the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. 
 Harry was not among them, and William said he had 
 gone up-stairs to bis room. A few minutes later a serv- 
 ant icame in to Anniie, asking if she would go to Mr. 
 Harold, who had sentt word to say that he was ill and 
 granted her particularly. She went at once, and judged, 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 14? 
 
 as soon as she entered his room, that his ailment con- 
 cerned his temper more than his health. 
 
 “You sent for me, Harry? What is the matter? Don’t 
 you feel well ?’ ' she asked kindly. 
 
 In answer, he suddenly produced the Era from the 
 side of his chair, and brought his fist down with a thump 
 upon the unfortunate pencil-mark by Aubrey Cooke’s 
 name. 
 
 “ Who is this man Cooke?” he asked savagely. 
 
 Annie glanced carelessly down at the paper, and said : 
 
 “ Mr. Aubrey Cooke? Oh, he is one of the actors whom 
 I knew at the Regency — one of the very actors Lilian was 
 speaking of at dinner!” 
 
 “ Yes, I know that very well; and you need not pretend 
 to be so mightily indifferent, because I know more than 
 that,” he said, with an affectation of penetration through 
 which Annie easily read anxiety and curiosity. 
 
 “Do you?” said she, smiling. “Then, if you know so 
 much you must know that this curious jealousy you have 
 been cultivating lately was never more out of place than 
 in the case of the men I have acted with. And, if you 
 don’t know as much as you pretend, ask Lilian.” 
 
 Harry looked at her searchingly for a few minutes, and 
 then dropped the paper, disarmed. 
 
 She was looking so pretty in the light evening dress, 
 with her graceful head crowned with the coils and curls of 
 her shining brown hair, that he would have liked to drop 
 his offended dignity and draw her into his arms and kiss 
 her. But the unconscious Annie had another blow to in- 
 flict. She held in her arms a pile of books, and, when his 
 face relaxed a little after her reassuring answer, she took 
 one up in her hand. 
 
 “ I have brought you some books from Beckham, as you 
 asked me to do v ” she said. “And you don’t know what 
 trouble I had in finding anything I thought you would 
 like. I turned over half the books on the shelves, I think. 
 Here is ‘Sponge’s Sporting Tour,’ and ‘ How I Became an 
 M. F. H.,’ and a book about horses, and ” 
 
 She handed him a volume with her eyes still bent upon 
 the others as she read their titles. But she looked up 
 startled, as he snatched it from her and flung it with all 
 his force against the opposite wall. 
 
 “Harry!” she exclaimed, amazed at the fury in his 
 face. “ What have I done now? It is impossible to please 
 you !” 
 
 “Yes, because you don’t care — you don’t try. I am 
 just an ignorant boor, to be fed and clothed, and smoothed 
 into good temper when I am growing dangerous, and to 
 be slighted and told lies to when I protest against such 
 
a Vagrant wife. 
 
 148 
 
 treatment. You see I know all about it, though I am such 
 a clod !” 
 
 She had walked to the other end of the room, picked up 
 the book without any show of annoyance, and was trying 
 to restore an unruffled appearance to the crumpled leaves. 
 This action exasperated him still more. 
 
 “There now — it doesn’t matter what I do, because it’s 
 only Harry! Very well then! There— and there— and 
 there — and there!” 
 
 At each repetition of the word he flung another of the 
 volumes she had incautiously placed within his reach, not 
 at his wife, but at the wall by which she was standing. 
 
 “Really, Harry, you ought to be in a lunatic asylum!” 
 said Annie, out of patience at last. 
 
 “ So I shall be very soon, if you go on treating me like a 
 child, when I love you like a man!” burst out Harry, pas- 
 sionately. 
 
 His wife looked up at him, from where she was standing 
 at the other side of the room, in astonishment. 
 
 “ Yes, yes — stare at me as much as you like; I do love 
 you, and I’m not the fool you think me, except in caring 
 for you! Do you think I don’t know that you look down 
 upon me, and that everybody thinks you thrown away 
 upon me? Why, I knew that in the old days when I first 
 married you; but then you just avoided me, and I didn’t 
 care. But now you come back, pretty and bright and 
 charming, not cold and shy as you used to do, you flutter 
 about me and nurse me and coax me into good humor, and 
 make me laugh and get me to do everything you wish; and 
 then, when I want to show you I love you for it, you shut 
 me off with a little laugh, just to show me that I am only 
 Harry, and whatever I say and whatever I do doesn’t 
 matter. I say it is cruel, wicked, and, however good and 
 clever you may be, you are treating me badly!” he ended, 
 his voice breaking down. 
 
 “ Harry!” was all his astonished wife could utter. 
 
 “I know I’m not a companion for you,” he went on, 
 “ but you don’t want me to be, you won’t understand that 
 I want to be. I asked you to get me some books : but I 
 wanted books that you liked, so that I might read them 
 and talk to you about them, like William and George. 
 And then you bring me a lot of sporting trash, as if I wasn’t 
 fit for anything but the stable!” 
 
 “Harry!” whispered his wife again, making a step 
 toward him. 
 
 He looked up at her eagerly, waiting for her to come to 
 him. But she stopped. 
 
 “ Well, are you afraid of me?” said he. 
 
 His tone was not inviting; but Annie understood him 
 
a vagrant wife . no 
 
 this time, knelt down by his chair, and let him put his arm 
 round her. 
 
 “ Annie, will you try to love me?” he asked, huskily. 
 
 “ Yes, Harry, I will try.” 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 Annie left her husband’s room that night, after his most 
 unexpected declaration of love and her own promise to try 
 to return it, in a state of bewilderment in which thought 
 was for a long time impossible. That his affection for her 
 was anything more than a passing caprice, the result 
 partly of jealousy of his brothers, and partly of pique at 
 her own indifference, she did not for a moment believe. 
 If her heart had been quite free, she might have been less 
 skeptical, or more clearly touched by this acknowledgment 
 of the strength of the influence she had gained over her 
 rough and hitherto careless young husband. But she knew 
 how deep lay the difference between his nature and her 
 own, and since the first weeks of her marriage she had 
 given up all hope of their ever harmonizing with each other 
 except in the most superficial manner. Through his pas- 
 sionate words she had seemed, in spite of herself, to hear 
 the ring of another voice, and she felt, with a thrill of 
 shame, that no words of the man she had sworn to love 
 could wake in her an emotion so strong as that she had felt 
 at the few faltering words in which Aubrey Cooke had con- 
 fessed that he loved her. 
 
 And Aubrey Cooke was out in the world working hard, 
 as she felt, to win position and money, to make himself a 
 name, to rise to the heights of the ambition she had en- 
 couraged ; and perhaps even yet, in spite of her discourag- 
 ing words to him, he was nursing the vain belief that she 
 would some day be his, and longing for the time when 
 they should wander out together again, and have more 
 long talks, in which the words of each seemed but to ex- 
 
 E ress the unuttered thought of the other; while Harry, 
 er husband, would remain an ignorant idler to the end 
 of his life, ill-tempered, arrogant, unsympathetic to her, 
 as if he had been an inhabitant of another world. And 
 this man she had promised to try to love, with the honest, 
 solemn intention of keeping her word to the best of her 
 power! But she confessed to herself, with a shudder at 
 the thought of the self-sacrifice she would have to make 
 if his caprice were to last and she were to have to put off 
 indefinitely her return to the stage, that she had an up- 
 hill task before her. 
 
 The next morning she met her husband in the expecta- 
 tion of finding him as ungracious as usual. But Harry 
 
T A~ VAGRANT WIFE 1< 
 
 156 T 
 
 had apparently been thinking out the position, fcorfod 
 to the conclusion that the effort must not be all on his 
 wife’s side. At any rate, he was gentle and considerate, 
 and asked her if she would drive him out, in a courteous 
 tone which seemed to admit the possibility of a refusal. 
 
 It was the first day that he had been out of doors since 
 his illness, and he was very good-tempered and happy, sit- 
 ting wrapped up in rugs by his wife’s side in Lady Braith- 
 waite’s pony-carriage; and, after that trial of it, the daily 
 drive became an institution. Annie found that the expla- 
 nation they had at the time of that little episode of the 
 sporting-books had had the satisfactory result of making 
 Harry more docile than ever; and when, in the country 
 lanes through which they drove for miles each day over 
 the frost-bound earth, she started him on some favorite 
 topic of his, such as the training of race-horses or the ad- 
 vantages of a straight saddle, she found that she could 
 continue her own train of thought almost undisturbed, by 
 the help of a nod of approval every now and then ; and 
 she found him quite an endurable companion. 
 
 But unfortunately Harry was not so stupid as he was 
 ignorant, and one day, when Annie had given a pleasant 
 smile of approbation of what he was saying without hav- 
 ing listened to it, he suddenly stopped short in the middle 
 of a sentence, and, looking round at him in surprise, his. 
 wife found that he was sulking. 
 
 “ Go on, Harry; that is very interesting,” said she in- 
 nocently. 
 
 “No, it isn’t; you don’t know what I was talking: 
 about,” he returned sullenly. 
 
 “Yes, I do, Harry. You were talking about— horses,”' 
 said she, with what she thought a safe guess. 
 
 But her husband looked blacker than ever. 
 
 “I wasn’t talking about horses, as it happens. It shows 
 how much you care what I say. I’m much obliged to you 
 for letting me see that I bore you. Stop! I’ll get out;” 
 and he tossed off his rugs. 
 
 “No, no, don’t, dear Harry! Let me drive you home. 
 It is only a little way ; but it is too far for you to walk 
 yet. I’m very, very sorry I was so inattentive; but the 
 fact is I— I have something on my mind that is troubling 
 me; and so ” 
 
 “Have you, Annie?” he asked anxiously. “What is 
 it?” Then, noticing the expression of his wife’s face, his 
 manner changed, and he cried roughly, “It is a lie! It 
 is an infernal excuse! Stop, I tell you, or I’ll jump out 
 without your stopping! Now I’ll be hanged if I let you 
 drive me out any more! You are just a little hypocrite, 
 pretending to listen and be so sweet, when all the tim* 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 151 
 
 you don’t care what I say if I talk myself hoarse. Go and 
 talk your learned jargon with George, and William, and — 
 the deuce, if you like! I’m going to Joe Green’s, the 
 blacksmith.” 
 
 She had stopped, seeing it was of no use to try to 
 argue with him in this mood, and that to disobey him 
 would only be to see him break his neck before her eyes. 
 And she drove home full of remorse, after watching him 
 vault over a gate to take a short cut to the village, and 
 making one more effort to stop him by a piteous cry of 
 “ Harry !” of which he took no notice. 
 
 To the blacksmith’s — where Susan Green lived ! This, 
 then, was the end of his revived affection for herself, that 
 the very first walk he took led him straight back to the 
 vulgar charms of the blacksmith’s daughter. 
 
 It was a bitter, unpleasant thought, even for a wife not 
 sufficiently fond of her husband to be jealous. It was a 
 humiliation which brought up in her mind the image of 
 the one man who thought her charms superior to those of 
 any other woman. She did not feel jealous, but insulted by 
 the rude speech of her husband, who, after she had used 
 every care, every charm at her command to fulfill her 
 duty to him in sickness and in convalescence, rewarded 
 her with a coarse taunt and an openly expressed intention 
 of leaving her for the society of a girl of low birth and 
 not unspotted name. 
 
 She drove home, and, as soon as she had taken off her 
 hat and mantle, went into the library, where, in spite of 
 Harry’s rough prohibition, she still continued to give 
 William lessons in French. Dusk was coming on; but it 
 was light enough for her to see the figure bending over a 
 book in a low chair near the window. She crossed the 
 room and put her hand on his shoulder. 
 
 “William, how wrong of you to try your eyes like 
 that.” 
 
 He looked up. It was not William, but Harry. 
 
 “ You, Harry?” murmured his wife, in astonishment. 
 
 “Yes, me — Harry. I may try my eyes as much as I 
 like, mayn’t I?” 
 
 She took the book gently from his hand. It was “ Sartor 
 Eesartus. ’ ’ 
 
 “ You have not been reading this?” she gasped. 
 
 “Yes, I have. I saw it lying on the table with your 
 book-marker in it, so I took it up to see what it was like ; 
 and I’ve read six pages, but I’ll be hanged if I can make 
 head or tail of it !” 
 
 “ Nor can I,” said Annie. 
 
 “Well, what do you read it for then?” 
 
 She hesitated. 
 
152 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “It was written by a great man, a ‘mighty thinker,’ 
 and I like to try to find out what he means. ’ ’ 
 
 “Well, I think it is a very dull amusement. Thomas 
 Carlyle” — looking at the title page. “ Mighty thinker, 
 you say. I’ve heard of a mighty hunter ” 
 
 “Oh, you are thinking of Nimrod! It’s not the same 
 person,” said Annie. 
 
 “ You are laughing at me ! Very well !” 
 
 “ Yes, I am,” said Annie, smiling, and putting her arms 
 affectionately round his neck. “But I think, if I didn’t 
 laugh, I should cry — I feel very much touched by finding 
 you— finding you here trying to read my dull books when 
 I was feeling very angry with you for running away from 
 me as you did.” 
 
 Harry rubbed his curly head against her responsively 
 without saying anything for a minute. Then he looked 
 up searchingly into" her face. 
 
 “ Annie, I want to ask you something. Just now Ste — 
 some one told me they had seen Colonel Richardson in 
 Beckham several times during the last few days, and had 
 seen you talking to him.” 
 
 “Well?” 
 
 “ Well !” — sharply. “ And why didn’t you say anything 
 about it?” 
 
 “ There was nothing to say. I met Colonel Richardson, 
 I spoke to him, and that was all. What is there strange 
 in that?” 
 
 “Oh, nothing, of course!” He paused for a moment 
 and looked away from her. Then he burst out, but as if 
 to himself: “ It was Colonel Richardson who came dang- 
 ling after you four years ago. You always liked him.” 
 
 “ Harry, don’t be so absurd as to be jealous of Colonel 
 Richardson! Indeed you have never had the slightest 
 cause to be so.” 
 
 “How can I be sure of that?” said he, turning upon her 
 suddenly. “ One thing I am certain of— that is, that, dur- 
 ing these four years that you have been away from me, 
 you have met somebody you liked better than me. I don’t 
 say it was unnatural— I don’t say I’m surprised; but I say 
 that I know I’m right, and I’ll find out who it is, as sure 
 as I’m your husband ! You say I’ve no need to be jealous 
 of any actor— and I don’t myself think you would lower 
 yourself as far as that ” 
 
 “You forget that I’m an actress,” said Annie, com- 
 posedly. 
 
 “Were an actress; but you’re not one now,” answered 
 he, hastily. “Well, if you never cared for any actor, why 
 not for Colonel Richardson? He is handsome, and knows 
 how to talk to you about the things you like.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 153 
 
 11 But I have told you already that I never cared for 
 Colonel Richardson; and your persistent jealousy is an 
 insult to me when I tell you it has no foundation. He 
 belongs to a type of man which has no attraction forme.” 
 
 “What type’s that?” 
 
 “He is an idler; and I have worked too long and too 
 hard myself not to despise idleness in a man.” 
 
 Harry gave a grunt of disapproval. 
 
 “I suppose you call me an idler.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t think you are much else,” said she, 
 smiling. 
 
 “It seems to me, Annie, you expect a precious deal too 
 much of a man,” he grumbled presently, in an injured 
 tone. “To please you he must slave like a nigger, whether 
 he has any need to work or not, and read himself blind 
 over the dullest trash that ever was printed, and never 
 talk about anything he himself likes, but chatter by the 
 yard about things that haven’t the least interest, and beam 
 all over with smiles when he is annoyed.” 
 
 Annie laughed. 
 
 “ I don’t think I ever expected all that of anybody, and 
 certainly not of you, Harry.” 
 
 And weary of this useless discussion, she left the room 
 as Stephen entered it. The friendship between her and the 
 cripple had never been great, and he was now rather 
 jealous of her position in the household, which had become 
 stronger than that of his adored Lilian, with whom, how- 
 ever, he had begun of late to have serious quarrels. 
 Harry had let slip the fact that it was Stephen who had 
 informed him of Colonel Richardson’s presence in Beck- 
 ham, which had so needlessly excited his jealousy. Annie 
 wondered what his object could have been. 
 
 When she left them together, Harry jumped up from 
 his chair and faced his cousin. 
 
 “ What do you come tormenting me for with your hum- 
 bugging stories about Annie and Richardson? She doesn’t 
 care a straw for the fellow!” 
 
 “Doesn’t she? Oh, that’s all right!” said Stephen, 
 meaningly. 
 
 “ No; she only spoke to him out of civility,” said Harry, 
 raising his voice, but looking anxiously at the other. 
 “Here — what do you mean with your confounded shrugs 
 and squirms? Look me straight in the face, and say out 
 what you mean?” 
 
 The cripple was trembling and his face paling, but not 
 with fear of his companion. He hesitated for one mo- 
 ment, then said, in a hurried low voice, as if the words 
 were wrenched from him against his will; 
 
 “Very well; don’t mind what I say. Of course I am 
 
154 1 
 
 'A VAGRANT WiFR; 
 
 warning you only for fun, for my own aindseifleni* First 
 go and tell her what nonsense I’ve been talking, and then 
 — then let her meet Colonel Richardson at the lower gate 
 at eleven to-night, and, take my word for it, you won’t 
 be troubled with your wife any more.” 
 
 “ Liar!” hissed out Harry. 
 
 “ Oh, it is only my fun, of course,” sneered the cripple. 
 
 Harry stood for a moment leaning heavily on the table. 
 His first instinct was to seize his cousin by the collar and 
 confront him with Annie ; but the next moment a terrible 
 fear that this was the truth that he was hearing seized 
 him, and a sudden desperate resolve stopped his hand and 
 restored him to an appearance of calmness. 
 
 The hideous story seemed to him in his excited state 
 only too likely. This would explain her anxiety to get 
 away, her comparative coldness toward himself, and would! 
 justify the suspicions he had, not of her purity, but of her 
 faith. 
 
 “I hate her, I hate her,” he said to himself, as he 
 dashed away from Stephen, out of the library, and flung 
 himself down upon a seat in the empty billiard room, with 
 his head in his hands. “ I thought I did, and now I know 
 it. The little, deceitful, heartless vixen ! I’ll just take 
 a leaf out of her own book, and see if I can’t be loving 
 while I mean all the time to make her suffer. You de- 
 spise me, do you, my lady? I’m a clod, am I? We’ll see 
 to-night if we can’t turn the tables for once. You thought 
 you could turn me round your little finger, I’ll warrant, 
 and laughed at me, and thought me a boor and a silly fool 
 to be fond of you. But you are mistaken, my fine lady ! 
 I hate you, I loathe you, and I’ll prove it to you to-night!” 
 
 But one thing in his programme it was beyond Harry’s 
 strength to carry out. He could not act; and, when he 
 met his wife just before dinner, and would fain have con- 
 cealed, under soft words and caressing manners, the pas- 
 sionate indignation which was raging in him, he was 
 obliged to turn away from her brusquely after the very 
 first words. She noticed his agitation ; but it was as im- 
 possible as it was unnecessary to fathom all her husband’s 
 caprices, and her own manner then and at dinner was ex- 
 actly the same as usual. Stephen watched him as he 
 glared at his wife ; and, when dinner was over, he fastened 
 himself on to Annie to prevent a conversation between 
 her husband and her. This was not difficult; for Harry,, 
 for the first time during his wife’s stay at the Grange, had! 
 disregarded all her entreating looks, and excited himself 
 so much with wine that she kept carefully out of his way 
 when the gentlemen came into the drawing-room. 
 
 Except for that incident and Harry’s consequent sullen- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 155 
 
 ness, the evening passed off as usual, until, at half-past ten, 
 Annie and Lilian retired for the night. Then Harry, in- 
 stead of joining his brothers in the billiard-room, sprung 
 up from the corner where he had been sulking and watch- 
 ing for the last hour, snatched up a hat in the hall, and, 
 without waiting to put on his overcoat, slipped out, with- 
 out being seen by any one, into the garden. It was a snowy 
 February night, and he shivered as, hot with wine and 
 mad excitement, he first stepped into the keen air; but he 
 strode down over the lawn toward the bottom of the gar- 
 den, reckless as to the effects of the cold and wet on his 
 not yet robust frame. He reached the lower gate; but, to 
 his intense relief, there was no one there, no sound to be 
 heard. He waited a few minutes, and a deep sense of joy, 
 followed by the determination to transfer his revenge on 
 to Stephen, who had played this trick upon him, had 
 risen m his breast, when he heard the faint sound of 
 wheels and hoofs over the soft snow, and saw through the 
 falling flakes a close carriage coming slowly up from the 
 direction of Beckham. It stopped at the gate. Harry 
 held his breath ; the carriage door opened, and a man in a 
 thick great- coat stepped down into the snow. It was Colo- 
 nel Richardson. 
 
 Harry, who, on the approach of the carriage, had crept 
 in among the leafless snow-covered trees and the tall ever- 
 greens of the shrubbery, uttered no sound ; but his right 
 ihand went swiftly to his coat-pocket and drew out a re- 
 volver, which he thrust into the breast of his coat without 
 again relaxing his hold of it. 
 
 Colonel Richardson walked up and down in the show in 
 front of the gate, stopping after every few steps to listen, 
 and to shake the thick flakes off his coat impatiently. He 
 never came very near to the motionless figure among the 
 trees, for there were a low wall and a thick growth of 
 laurel and rhododendron bushes between them. And the 
 spot Harry had chosen for his station was on the lower 
 side of the gate, while any one coming from the house 
 •would come down to the upper side, so that Colonel Rich- 
 ardson, peering anxiously in impatient expectation through 
 the branches, never once glanced in his direction. 
 
 When, in a low voice, he gave the coachman some di- 
 rection, and the carriage went on a little way, and then 
 turned slowly round, Harry recognized it as a hired car^ 
 riage from a livery stable in Beckham. His hand still 
 round his revolver, he was on the alert for the next move- 
 ment; but the carriage, having turned so that tfye horses’ 
 heads were toward Beckham, stopped again before the 
 gate. 
 
 Time went slpwly by for both men, the watcher and th§ 
 
166 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 watched; while the latter stamped the snow from his 
 boots, strode up and down, and showed ever-increasing 
 impatience, the former remained as still as ever at his 
 post among the laurels. He did not feel the keen wind, or 
 the falling snow, or the cold of the damp, white mass be- 
 neath his feet, which was striking into his frame and chill- 
 ing him to the bone. 
 
 For almost the first time in his life thought had got 
 hold of hftn, and was torturing him with sharp pangs 
 which deadened the sense of bodily discomfort within 
 him. His hatred of the man who stood there, unconscious 
 of his presence, and the deadly errand which brought 
 him, blazed as fiercely as ever ; but his anger against his 
 wife was dying away, and giving place to pity for the 
 beautiful little creature who had so rashly given her hap- 
 piness into his keeping four years and a half ago, to be 
 punished for her rashness by his brutal neglect and in- 
 difference. 
 
 “ Yet I meant to be kind to her. I did not want to be 
 cruel. Am I such a brute that I can’t help it? I have 
 tried to be gentle with her lately, and she likes me no bet- 
 ter. She comes back to tantalize me into loving her as I 
 never thought I could love any woman, and then runs 
 away with this blackguard, who would just throw her 
 
 over when Good heavens! No! Even he couldn’t 
 
 desert her!” 
 
 His lip quivered, and there came a choking feeling in his 
 throat. 
 
 “ Thank Heaven I’m in time to stop her! She’ll have to 
 stay with me now; but she will find a way of making it 
 more a punishment for me than for her, I expect. What 
 an ass I am to care about her— I mean, to have cared 
 about her! I’ll just show her the difference now. She 
 shall see if it wasn’t better to have a churlish husband for 
 a slave than for a master. She despised me, did she, and 
 thought me a fool for letting her do what she liked with 
 me? Yes, that is the way with women. Well, now it is 
 her turn to do what I like; and I sha’n’t be so soft about 
 
 it either. I’ll just Confound her, I’ve a good mind 
 
 to let her go on with him, and snap my fingers at her and 
 be rid of her ! Ay, and I would, too, only she is my wife, 
 worse luck, and I must do for my honor what I wouldn’t 
 do for her. No, that I wouldn’t! Oh, good Heaven, will 
 she never love me? I’m not good enough for her; but I’m 
 not such a cur as that fellow !” 
 
 As the minutes dragged on, a hope began to rise within 
 him that she was not coming, after all, while he could see, 
 to his joy, that the anxiety of the man he was watching 
 bad grown keener. Still they heard po sound, though 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 157 
 
 they listened intently, the one in hope, the other in dead' 
 liest fear. 
 
 At last Harry saw Colonel Richardson turn his head 
 quickly, as if his ear had caught some expected sound; 
 then he laid his hand upon the latch of the gate. Still 
 Harry heard nothing. 
 
 But a minute later, through the falling snow, he saw 
 above him, swiftly approaching down the soft, white 
 track of the pathway, a woman’s figure; and, with a 
 silent curse and a heart heavy within him, his eyes 
 turned quickly to the man who was stealing his treasure. 
 Colonel Richardson had raised the latch of the gate, opened 
 it, and stood inside, waiting. Harry ’s anger blazed up 
 with fresh intensity. 
 
 u I’ll shoot him like a dog !” thought he. 
 
 And he stepped out from the shrubbery on to the path- 
 way, drew out his revolver, and covered the other man 
 with it as steadily as he had ever aimed at a partridge. 
 Then he stood still, waiting for the other to turn and see 
 him. But Colonel Richardson’s attention was fixed on 
 the rapidly approaching figure. Harry would not look at 
 her. It was not until the two had met that his eyes, in 
 watching the man, fell upon the woman also. 
 
 “I could not get away before; the boys were all over 
 the house,” she was whispering, deprecatingly. 
 
 His hand with the revolver dropped to his side as he 
 sprung forward and in a few strides reached them and 
 dragged her away. 
 
 44 Lilian!” 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 At twenty minutes to twelve that night Annie was 
 roused from sleep by knocking at her door. 
 
 “What is it?” she cried, sleepily. 
 
 But the answer startled her into wakefulness. 
 
 “Annie, Annie, open the door, for Heaven’s sake!” 
 
 It was her husband’s voice, but hoarse, feeble, and 
 broken. 
 
 For one instant she paused. But there came another 
 faltering knock, and Harry’s voice again, more feebly 
 still, called: 
 
 44 Annie, Annie, let me in; I am dying!” 
 
 She flew to the door, unlocked and opened it; and 
 Harry, his coat wet with half-melted snow and covered 
 with blood, staggered forward into her arms. 
 
158 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “Let me stay here! Don’t send me away!” were 
 Harry’s first words, as his wife led him to a chair and 
 supported his head against her breast. 
 
 “Yes, yes, you shall stay. Oh, Harry, what have you 
 done? You are drenched to the skin and cold as ice! 
 Where are you hurt? Is it only here?” 
 
 She touched his forehead, from a cut in which the blood 
 was still flowing. 
 
 “ That is all— I think,” said he, drowsily. “ But I’m— 
 cold.” 
 
 He was shivering violently. She rang the bell for assist- 
 ance ; but it was too late to avert the consequences of that 
 night’s work, and before morning the fever was back upon 
 him. It was impossible to learn from him how it had hap- 
 pened. When his mind wandered, he talked disconnect- 
 edly of herself, sometimes tenderly, sometimes angrily 
 and jealously, but always of her. Annie sat up by him 
 all night, and in the morning, with softened tread and 
 pale, downcast, anxious face, Lilian crept in. He did not 
 know her — he did not know any one. 
 
 “Go and get some rest now, Annie; I will watch by 
 him,” she whispered. 
 
 “ Why, Lilian, you look as if you had sat up all night, 
 too! What is the matter with you?” 
 
 Lilian did not answer for a minute, but stood watching 
 the restless movements of her sick brother; and, when she 
 turned again to Annie, her proud gray eyes were full of 
 tears. * 
 
 “ I may as well tell you now, for you are sure to learn it 
 as soon as poor Harry comes back to his senses— if he ever 
 does.” 
 
 She paused, and the other listened curiously for her con- 
 fession, for a confession she felt surest was that she had to 
 hear. 
 
 She was right; for Lilian went on: 
 
 “ Annie, you must not despise the poor fellow any more. 
 He can act like a man if he can’t speak like a professor. If 
 it had not been for him, I should have run away last night 
 with — Colonel Richardson. 
 
 *‘Oh, Lilian!” 
 
 “ Don’t interrupt me,” went on the other hurriedly — 
 “ I may not feel inclined for confession again. I was to 
 meet him— Colonel Richardson — at the lower gate. Well, 
 Harry was there.” 
 
 “ But how was that?” 
 
A vagrant wife. 
 
 159 
 
 “ He thought it was you who were going off.” 
 
 “I!” 
 
 “ Yes. yes, he did. I know whose doing that was. 
 Stephen had guessed or found out something, and not 
 having the pluck to stop me himself, and not wanting a 
 general row, he got Harry to suppose it was you who were 
 going off with ” 
 
 “ But Harry would never have believed that I ” 
 
 “Why not?” said Lilian, in a hard tone. “Have you 
 returned his affection for you so very warmly as to make 
 it impossible for him to think that you cared for any one 
 but him? However, it is not for me to reproach you, es- 
 pecially on the score of want of wifely devotion. When 
 he found it was I, Harry tried to drag me away; but I 
 struggled to escape from him, and told him not to inter- 
 fere with me. He would not let me go, and I told him 
 
 You will be shocked, Annie, but I loved the man — I do 
 now— and I was desperate. I asked Harry how he could 
 be sure he was not too late. And he looked me straight 
 in the face very steadily, so that I felt awfully ashamed of 
 myself, and he said, ‘ I may not be in time to save your 
 character, but at least I will save your reputation.’ And 
 for a moment I stood quite still, hesitating, while he still 
 held my arm. He had a revolver in his other hand. Be- 
 fore I spoke again, Herbert— Colonel Bichardson sprung 
 forward, snatched the revolver from him, and struck him 
 in the face with it, while he tried to pull me away. But 
 Harry never let go, and that decided me. I told Herbert 
 he was a coward to strike a man hardly recovered from 
 illness, and that I would not go with him. Harry, poor 
 fellow, could not have kept me back then; I had to support 
 him; and I led him back here, and we slipped into the 
 house; and he begged me to bring him to your door, and 
 go to my room, and no one should know anything about it, 
 if I would promise never to try to go off again. 1 didn’t 
 promise — I hadn’t time; but I never will, all the same. 
 And, Annie, he is worth loving. Do try to love him back! 
 Oh, you would if you knew what it is to have a husband 
 who is a monument of all the virtues, but a monument in 
 stone!” 
 
 And the wayward woman, who, with all her faults, had 
 generous impulses, laid her beautiful head on the bed and 
 sobbed. 
 
 She insisted on sharing Annie’s duties as nurse; and, 
 when Harry, after being long in danger for his life, at last 
 flickered back toward convalescence, the first person he 
 recognized at his bedside was his sister. Her passionate 
 nature, which in many respects resembled his, had been 
 deeply moved by what he had done for her, and still more 
 
Or VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 160 ^ 
 
 by the Unexpectedly quiet and dignified way in which he 
 had done it. She had had time to see the depth of the so- 
 cial abyss into which her proposed flight would have 
 plunged her. Her long-standing preference for Herbert 
 Bichardson she had not subdued — she felt that she could 
 not subdue it ; but she had broken off even her correspond- 
 ence with him at Harry’s request. 
 
 Brother and sister drew near to each other, with far 
 deeper mutual affection than they had ever felt before, 
 during Harry’s slow return to health. They felt that they 
 had much in common, both ardent, passionate natures 
 being tied to colder ones, who could not or would not re- 
 spond to their warmth with the entire abandonment they 
 craved. There the likeness in their positions ended, how- 
 ever, for Lilian had never even tried to sound the depths 
 in the heart of her middle-aged husband, while every look, 
 every touch that Harry bestowed on his wife told wist- 
 fully of the longing he had felt to be master of her love as 
 he was already of her duty. 
 
 The gentleness and even the tenderness of her care of 
 him now would have satisfied any one less exacting. But 
 fondness had made the young fellow clear-sighted ; and he 
 knew, or thought he knew, that her heart could give more 
 than that, if he could only reach it. 
 
 Annie herself, who seemed in this matter to have ex- 
 changed wits with her husband, growing duller of percep- 
 tion as he grew brighter, fancied that his fondness for his 
 sister had grown stronger than his fondness for her, and, 
 after a moment’s pique, she felt glad of it, as it rendered 
 an avowal she had to make all the easier. 
 
 It was on the first day after he had again joined the 
 family circle that she found an opportunity of speaking to 
 him alone, and of telling him, under a promise of secrecy, 
 that George had told her he was in serious difficulties, and 
 feared that he would not be able to keep up the establish- 
 ment at the Grange much longer. Harry listened rather 
 indifferently. He had been so accustomed to hear of these 
 difficulties, not only since his brother had been the head 
 of the family, but also in his father’s lifetime, that, as it 
 had never been his business to find a way out of them, 
 they had altogether ceased to excite any emotion in him, 
 beyond a faint wonder why people could not keep these 
 matters to themselves, without worrying other people 
 about them, and an injured feeling that the head of the 
 family would want to cut down his allowance. 
 
 “ George is always in difficulties,” said he. 
 
 “ Ah, but it is serious this time! We really must think 
 about it.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 161 
 
 “Well, what does he want us to do? Sell matches or 
 enlist? There is nothing else for any of us.” 
 
 “Yes, there is, for one,” said Annie, cautiously, watch- 
 ing him. “Look here, Harry: I’ve had an engagement 
 offered me which will bring me in so much money that, if 
 I save, we might live upon it before long.” 
 
 “Who’s we?” 
 
 “You and I, of course.” 
 
 “ And do you think I would live upon your money?” 
 
 “I think you would be very unreasonable not to do 
 so, if I could make enough to keep us. I don’t believe 
 George will have enough for us all much longer, and 
 then ” 
 
 “Then it is I who should work, not you.” 
 
 “I think it is the one who has been used to it who 
 should work, and that, you know, is I,” she said, smil- 
 ing. 
 
 But Harry did not smile back. He moved restlessly on 
 his sofa. 
 
 “It is not like you to taunt me, Annie; yet — yet your 
 words sting somehow,” he said at last. 
 
 “ Oh, Harry, you know I did not mean that! Don’t you 
 see, Harry, *dear, you have been very ill, and won’t be 
 strong for a long time after this second attack ; while I 
 have done nothing but enjoy myself for more than three 
 months.” 
 
 “Yes, you have. You have been nursing me,” said he, 
 tenderly. 
 
 “Ah, but that wasn’t work; that was pleasure, except 
 when — when you were so very ill this last time!” rejoined 
 she gently. 4 4 And now I have had an offer to play a part 
 in London which would just suit me, and might make me a 
 name, and to have six guineas a week for it. And , if I don’t 
 take it, I may never have such a chance again !’ ’ she added, 
 with ill-concealed eagerness. 
 
 “I see,” said Harry, turning upon her sharply. “All 
 this time that I have been ill you have been plotting to get 
 away from me as fast as possible.” 
 
 “ I will tell you what I did. I saw that a piece was to be 
 played at the Parthenon — a translation of a French piece 
 — in which there was a part I longed to play ; so I wrote 
 for that part, mentioning all that I have done on the stage: 
 and it so happened that they were in a difficulty for an 
 actress for that very part, and I got the offer yesterday, and 
 must send an answer to-day. I would not have gone for 
 the world if you had not been safely through your illness, 
 and if Lilian had not been with you; but, Harry, dear 
 Harry, if you do really feel the least gratitude for my 
 coming back to take care of you, if you really feel for me 
 
162 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 one spark of the fondness I seem to see in your looks, let 
 me go! You are not ambitious as I am — you have not had 
 to toil and fret at the impossibility of getting on, as I 
 have; but, if you can even picture to yourself how terri- 
 ble it is to forego success when at last it seems to be com- 
 ing to you, you will let me go — you will let me go— you 
 will let me go!” 
 
 Her violent excitement had brought the tears to her 
 eyes. As she knelt beside the couch, her great, passionate 
 dark eyes fixed upon his in entreaty, the tears welled up 
 in his eyes too as he snatched her into his arms. 
 
 ‘ ‘ I can refuse you nothing. Heaven forgive you — you 
 will break my heart?” 
 
 A week later Annie’s trunks were packed for London. 
 On the last day before her departure from the Grange she 
 took a long ramble by herself through some of her favorite 
 fields and lanes, where a mild March was already bringing 
 forth the signs of spring. She had promised to be at the 
 old church at four, to undertake for the village organist a 
 commission of getting him some music in London. She 
 got there too soon, however; so, having fortunately pro- 
 vided herself with the key, she went in and jap the wind- 
 ing-stair to the top of the old square tower. She had a 
 letter to read which she had had unopened in her pocket 
 since the morning; and, when she got at last on to the 
 tower and had gazed for a few minutes upon the wide ex- 
 panse of country commanded by the hill on which the 
 church was built, had looked a little regretfully at the 
 budding trees and the river and the town of Beckham 
 beyond, an ugly, smoke-begrimed place indeed, but which 
 bore a deceptive beauty when seen from a distance on a. 
 sunny afternoon in a haze of its own smoke, she drew out 
 her letter, which was directed to “Miss Lang ton, ” and 
 tore open the envelope. 
 
 She knew whom it was from— a young actress who had 
 been with her at the last theater Annie had played at in 
 London, who had then played silent “guests,” and parts, 
 too small even for Annie, but who had since been pro- 
 moted to the latter’s place. Annie had written to this 
 girl, who knew nothing of her marriage or of her private* 
 life, asking her to send her the address of some cheap 
 lodgings which she had once recommended. The other 
 had not only complied, but had, with the good nature so 
 strikingly characteristic of members of the theatrical 
 profession, undertaken to see the landlady and make terms* 
 with her about them. This matter was now settled — the* 
 rooms taken ; so this letter could not be very important. 
 Bo Annie thought. But she had not read the first two 
 f iges before the color in her face deepened, and she read 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 163 
 
 on to the end with an intentness which only tidings of 
 deepest interest could have called forth. The passage 
 which had fixed her attention was the following: 
 
 “ I met Cooke, who was here at the Piccadilly when you 
 were, as I was walking along the Strand a day or two ago. 
 He is at the Regency now, and the papers have cracked 
 him up so in the part he is playing that I wonder he con- 
 descended to talk to poor little me. He asked how we 
 were getting on at the Piccadilly, and I mentioned that 
 you had been in the country, but were coming back to 
 London. He seemed very much interested in you, which 
 amused me, remembering as I did how much you always 
 disliked him, and how you used to mimic him for my 
 amusement in the dressing-room; however, I did not take 
 him down by telling him that. Do you remember how I 
 used to stick up for him when you said he was fast? 
 Well, you were right, for they say the way he is carrying 
 on with some woman who has been acting in the country 
 with him — West, I think her name is — is something dis- 
 graceful, considering that he is engaged or half engaged 
 to that little fair girl who made such a hit in ‘ Ophelia ’ 
 last year. He is trying to get this West into the Regency, 
 I believe.” 
 
 This was the passage which had arrested Annie’s atten- 
 tion, which she read through again and again with dry 
 eyes, but with a bitter feeling of disappointment and 
 shame. Then she let the letter drop from her fingers, and 
 leaning against the flag-staff which rose from the top of 
 the tower, she burst into heartfelt sobbing. She had 
 cheated herself into believing that it was nothing but her 
 ambition which impelled her in her eagerness to go to 
 London ; but now in the revulsion of feeling which sud- 
 denly made the thought of returning to town and her pro- 
 fession unutterably hateful to her, she saw with unmis- 
 takable clearness what the other and stronger motive had 
 been which had made her enforced idleness at the Grange 
 so hard to bear. She was still sobbing when she heard 
 sounds behind her, and, looking round, saw her husband’s 
 head as he came slowly to the top of the stairs. 
 
 “ What is the matter, Annie dear?” he asked anxiously. 
 
 “ Harry, what made you come up all those steps? It is 
 too tiring for you,” said she, bending her head awkwardly 
 to hide her tears. 
 
 “I saw you from the avenue, and I saw you were cry- 
 ing,” he answered, as he mounted the last step and rested 
 his hands on the low wall for support — he was not strong 
 enough for much exertion yet. k ‘ What were you crying 
 &bout, Annie? Not because you are goingaway, I know/’ 
 
164 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 She had turned away to wipe the tears from her face, 
 and, as she turned again toward him, she caught sight of 
 her letter lying on the ground between them. He saw 
 it at the same moment, and, although she had the presence 
 of mind to pick it up very composedly, he at once came to 
 the conclusion that in it lay the cause of her distress. 
 
 “Who is that letter from?” 
 
 “ From Miss Taylor, who has been writing to me about 
 the apartments I am going to have in town,” she said, as 
 she put it into the pocket of her mantle. 
 
 “Let me see it.” 
 
 She considered a minute while pretending to feel for it, 
 and made up her mind that it would be best to give it to 
 him, as there was nothing in it which was likely to have 
 any meaning for him. So she handed him the letter care- 
 lessly, and affected to be gazing admiringly on the land- 
 scape while he read it. But Harry got on to the right 
 track at once. 
 
 “This Cooke— is he the Aubrey Cook Lilian talks 
 about?” 
 
 “Yes; he was acting at the Piccadilly when I was 
 there.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ He is a man in the habit of making love to every 
 woman he meets?” 
 
 “ I don’t know, I am sure. I did not know him well, 
 and you see, as Miss Taylor says, I never liked him.” 
 
 There was a pause, but he was not satisfied. 
 
 “He must be a low, vicious, unprincipled fellow !” said 
 he suddenly, keeping his eyes fixed steadily on his wife. 
 
 Annie winced. 
 
 “ I suppose it is men like him who get the stage such a 
 bad name?” he went on. 
 
 Still she said nothing, but leaned over the low battle- 
 mented wall of the tower, and kept her eyes steadily fixed 
 on the smoke-hung town in the distance. 
 
 “ I hope there will be no such hounds in the theater you 
 are going to, Annie. If I thought you were going back to 
 a place contaminated by the presence of such an infamous 
 scoundrel, I would not let you go!” 
 
 Annie turned her head very quietly, 
 
 “ What has he done?” said she. 
 
 “Done! Haven’t you read that letter? Haven’t you 
 heard that he is engaged to one woman while he is hardly 
 ever away from another — one of the vilest of her sex? 
 Perhaps you think nothing of that?” 
 
 “Well, you see,” said Annie very slowly, looking full 
 into his angry face, “ I have known so many men do 
 worse things than that.” After a minute’s pause, which 
 her husband did pot attempt to fill, she went on, “I have 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 105 
 
 known married men who neglected, insulted, and even 
 struck their wives within the very first months of mar- 
 riage, who gave what little attention they had to spare for 
 anything so contemptible as a woman to the lowest of the 
 sex — men who crushed the beauty out of their young 
 wives by brutal carelessness and cruelty, and who thought 
 that years of abandonment, and almost every wrong a man 
 can do a woman, were amply atoned for by a burst of 
 capricious affection — affection so selfish that it never lost 
 an opportunity of wounding the object of it.” 
 
 Harry listened to this outburst without an interruption. 
 His head sunk and his chest heaved as she grew more ex- 
 cited; but when she had finished, he raised his blue eyes 
 to her face, and asked very quietly : 
 
 “How have I wounded you?” 
 
 Annie was not quite prepared for this. She answered, 
 after a little hesitation : 
 
 “By insulting the profession to which I belong — which 
 has given me all the happiness I have known since my 
 marriage with you.” 
 
 “No, ’’said Harry, sharply. “By speaking candidly 
 about one of its members — that is how I have hurt you ; and 
 it was just to turn me off from abusing him that you broke 
 out with a catalogue of my faults, which Heaven knows I 
 don’t deny. I tell you again, I may be a brute and a boor 
 and anything else you like to make me out, but I’m not a 
 fool; and, when you tell me you dislike this Aubrey Cooke, 
 I tell you you are lying to me.” 
 
 Annie faced him again very quietly. 
 
 “I have not lied. I told you I disliked Aubrey Cooke 
 when I was at the Piccadilly. I tell you now that I have 
 loved him since then, and that now I hate him. Are you 
 satisfied?” 
 
 The passion in her words was convincing, but Harry was 
 not content. He kept his gaze fixed on the frank eyes of 
 his wife for a few moments, then looked away with a 
 heavy sigh, murmuring: 
 
 “Hate him! That’s no good. I’d rather you did not 
 care one way or the other. ’ ’ 
 
 Annie was touched. She had fully expected a violent 
 outbreak on her husband’s part when he should hear her 
 confession. She put her hand softly on his sleeve. 
 
 “Harry, you need not be frightened indeed; I shall 
 never care for him again.” 
 
 But Harry, without even trying to detain her hand, 
 shook his head. 
 
 “It is a very bad sign to hate a person,” said he. “I 
 never hated any person but you, and just see where it has 
 landed me. Wliat does it matter if you don’t care fop 
 
166 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 him, if you don’t care for me and won’t stay with mef 
 And as for the way you pitched in to me just now, do you 
 think I should let you go off if I didn’t feel I’d done you 
 wrong in the old time and wanted to make it up to you? 
 And if you won’t let me make it up to you by letting me 
 love you, I must do it by letting you go. It is true I have 
 run after — after other people, but, Annie, I was very young 
 — wasn’t I? — and I didn’t know, 1 didn’t understand the 
 charm of a woman like you then. How could I? I wasn’t 
 even a man myself, and you were afraid of me. But, 
 Annie, I do love you and appreciate you now more than 
 any actor who ever lived, and the thought of your going 
 to be stared at by every one who cares to pay to look at 
 you is awful — awful! And my darling, you are my wife, 
 you know, and if you won’t love me ever, I may as well 
 go and cut my throat, for I — I — I ” 
 
 He broke off, fairly sobbing. Annie’s heart was moved, 
 and she hung her arms round him with one touch of the 
 deeper tenderness of the woman he had longed to rouse. 
 
 “Harry, Harry, I’ll comb back, I’ll come back — at 
 Christmas; that is only nine months, and if you love me 
 still then, I will never go away from you again!” 
 
 He pressed her to his breast, and kissed her and blessed 
 her; and as the March afternoon began to wane they de- 
 scended the ruinous stone stairs of the old tower slowly to- 
 gether, she with her hands to his shoulders following him 
 step by step silently, but not unhappily. There was hope 
 in her husband’s heart, and it had affected her a little. 
 The mellow sounds of the organ were pealing through the 
 church where the r^ganist was practicing as, at the bot- 
 tom stair, Harry gave his wife a last passionate kiss before 
 they left the shadowy building for the outer air. 
 
 And the next day Annie started for London. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 The journey back to London was a very strange one to 
 Annie; she never saw the landscape through which the 
 train passed, she did not even remember the faces of her 
 fellow-passengers afterward. Her mind was filled with 
 fears for the future— for her own, for her husband’s, for 
 Lilian’s, for George’s, for that of all the family at the 
 Grange, and for Aubrey’s. She did hate him deeply, this 
 man who had cheated her into making her look upon him 
 as the most gentle, most courteous, brightest of compan- 
 ions and the most devoted of friends, when he was really 
 nothing but a volatile, unprincipled flirt, who made love 
 indifferently to her, or to a coarse woman like Miss West, 
 or to a little giddy creature like the girl to whom Miss Tay* 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 16 ^ 
 
 lor had said he was engaged. Perhaps Annie hardly 
 dwelt enough, in her blame of Aubrey, on the question 
 whether she herself had done right in concealing from him 
 the fact that she was married, and whether, even suppos- 
 ing she had been free, as he imagined her to be, he would 
 not have been justified in thinking no more of a lady who 
 had dismissed him and disappeared without a word, and 
 in transferring his attentions to women who would appre- 
 ciate them more highly. But with all her blame was 
 mingled sincere anxiety for him, and unselfish sorrow 
 that he should have fallen into bad hands. 
 
 As for her own husband, she felt more kindly toward 
 him now that she was away from the daily irritation of his 
 presence, from the fear of his trivial jealousy, of his impos- 
 sible demands. Their impossibility she could not question. 
 She felt that she could never return, with the ardor which 
 alone would content him, the passionate love she had in- 
 spired in a nature so different from her own, and, as it 
 seemed to her, so antagonistic to it. The most that she 
 could hope for was that, if his affection should indeed re- 
 main warm until next Christmas, when she had promised 
 to return to him, the nine months of hard work upon the 
 stage which she was about to commence would have 
 wearied her into the semblance of contentment with a life 
 so distasteful to her active mind as permanent idleness at 
 the Grange with her uncongenial husband would be. 
 
 She had caught an earlier and faster train from Beck- 
 ham than the one by which she had intended to travel, so 
 that she arrived in London and drove to the house where 
 Miss Taylor had taken apartments for her, two hours be- 
 fore the time at which the landlady expected her. The 
 consequence was that tne dirty servant who opened the 
 door led her up to a dingy and cheerless sitting-room on 
 the second floor, the grate of which was empty; and 
 Annie’s heart sunk with a feeling of unutterable wretched- 
 ness and desolation as she sat shivering, with her mantle 
 still round her, on the dusty little sofa, watching the dirty 
 servant as she knelt on the hearth-rug and tried, for a 
 long time in vain, to coax some spluttering, damp little 
 sticks and a handful of slaty coals into a fire. When it 
 was sufficiently ignited to smoke violently, she retired, satis- 
 fied, leaving Annie to cough and choke and shiver, and 
 wish herself back again at the Grange. 
 
 It was all her own fault that she was catching cold in an 
 uncomfortable lodging, instead of being well cared for in 
 the midst of her husband’s family. The gratification of 
 her ambition, which had brought her to. this cheerless 
 welcome, seemed an unsatisfactory sort of reward at this 
 moment for the sacrifice she had made alike of comfort 
 
168 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 and duty— for self-reproach for her own hardness had 
 been busy at Annie’s heart since she received her hus- 
 band’s farewell kiss that morning. 
 
 At last, after emitting gusts of black blinding smoke, 
 each one of which grew feebler than the last, the fire went 
 out altogether; and Annie was reduced by this time to too 
 spiritless a state to ring the bell and go through another 
 ordeal of smoke and servant. 
 
 “ I suppose they will come up at tea-time,” she thought, 
 as she went listlessly into the bedroom and began to un- 
 pack. 
 
 Dusk was coming on when she heard a knock at the 
 sitting-room door. 
 
 “Come in!” she called out from where she knelt by her 
 trunks. Then she heard no more, and began to think she 
 must have been mistaken, when the knock was repeated. 
 “ Come in!” she cried a second time; and then she heard 
 the door open, and a man’s tread in the next room. 
 
 She rose from her knees, went in to the sitting-room, 
 and found herself face to face with Aubrey Cooke, who 
 was standing in his usual stooping attitude, looking paler 
 and plainer than ever, with some parcels in his hands. 
 
 He was shy, nervous, and stood there without a word to 
 say for himself. But the sight of a familiar face in this 
 desolate, cheerless place had restored Annie in a moment 
 to life and animation. 
 
 “Mr. Cooke!” she cried, as she went forward and shook 
 hands with him. “How kind of you! How did you 
 know I was coming? I am so very glad to see you!” 
 
 Her face had recovered its light, her eyes were spark- 
 ling with their old brightness. Aubrey got back his self- 
 possession as he looked at her, and began slowly laying 
 down his parcels upon the table and taking more from his 
 pockets. 
 
 “ Miss Taylor told me you were coming, and my unfailing 
 instinct told me that, being a lady, you would have for- 
 gotten to have all the arrangements necessary for your 
 comfort made before your arrival. Now you shall see 
 whether I have forgotten how to do marketing. There is 
 the twopenny cottage, there is the superior souchong, and 
 there is the oleomargarine — th^ very best. And that is 
 for you.” 
 
 He gave her a little box, which she opened and found to 
 contain ferns and gardenias. She sat down and handled 
 them lovingly, with the simple pleasure of a child, and, 
 when she looked up, she found Aubrey raking out the 
 coals of the extinct fire with a poker. 
 
 “Never mind; leave it alone. It is out; and, if I ring 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 169 
 
 and make the girl light it again, she will only fill the room 
 with smoke. I am not very cold.” 
 
 Indeed for the moment she had forgotten that she was 
 cold ; but she shivered now and then. 
 
 “ But I am. Now you shall see what it is to have a uni- 
 versal genius about you. In ten minutes my art will pro- 
 duce from this gloomy heap of cinders ” 
 
 *“ A cloud of thick black smoke which will suffocate us 
 both. Don’t be silly, Aubrey; do leave it alone!” said 
 Annie, petulantly, condescending to struggle for the poker. 
 
 But he would not let it go; so she resigned herself to 
 watching while he broke up the little fragile box which 
 had held the flowers, took the paper off his other parcels, 
 and set to work earnestly to make a fire. 
 
 “ You will look just like a sweep when you have fin- 
 ished,” said Annie, with resignation. 
 
 “A little soap and water will remove all traces of the 
 deed.” 
 
 “Oh, of course, if you like to play at maid- of -all- work!” 
 said she, contemptuously. Her spirits were rising again 
 to the level of the old days when she and he were on tour 
 with the Comedy Company. 
 
 He rose superior to her scorn, for, after a little trouble 
 and one or two more gusts of smoke, the fire began to burn 
 up brightly. 
 
 “Now ring for a kettle, and let us make tea ourselves,” 
 said he. 
 
 She rang, the tea-things were brought up, and in a few 
 minutes Annie, refreshed and comforted, was listening to 
 his account of his movements since they last met. 
 
 “I have created two characters, invented a new soup, 
 written a book, cut it up myself in two papers, discovered 
 my ideal woman two or three times, had two bad colds and 
 one attack of neuralgia, lost fifteen pounds at cards, and 
 narrowly escaped being married.” 
 
 “ To one of the ideals?” 
 
 “Of course not. One never marries one’s ideal. No; 
 this was to be the loveliest of her sex. Happily a man 
 turned up at the last moment who had a prior claim to her 
 hand, and I was saved.” 
 
 “ Happy woman !” 
 
 “ I see you don’t look at the case from my point of view, 
 Miss Langton.” 
 
 “No; I take up the cause of my sex against you.” 
 
 “ That is unkind. She treated me very cruelly, I assure 
 you.” 
 
 “ For which and for your consequent deliverance from 
 the trammels of constancy you are very grateful.” 
 
no 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “Do you think I am inconstant, Miss Langton?” he 
 asked, with sudden gravity. 
 
 “ I am inclined to think so, certainly; but I look upon 
 it as a very fortunate provision of nature, ’ ’ said she, half 
 laughing nervously. 
 
 “ Then you are wrong. If I am inconstant it is by phi- 
 losophy, and not by disposition. You know, when people 
 have toothache very badly they sometimes hold things 
 that burn in their mouths, so that the small, sharp new 
 pain may make them forget for the moment the old dull 
 one.” 
 
 “ What a romantic simile!” 
 
 “So a man, when he has been badly treated by one 
 woman whom he did care for, tries to find consolation— 
 and does so find it very often — in flirtations with a dozen 
 other women who have no power to make his heart throb 
 faster, but who can make the time pass pleasantly 
 enough.” 
 
 “ I have heard that sort of excuse from inconstant 
 people before, and I think it a very clever one.” 
 
 “ And what excuse have you heard from the woman 
 who was the cause of the inconstancy?” 
 
 Annie’s cheeks flushed as she still looked steadily at the 
 fire. He was taking her to account for her treatment of 
 himself. After a few moments’ hesitation she answered, 
 in a light tone: 
 
 “You are talking too vaguely; put before me a clear 
 case of a woman having done wrong to a man, which 
 forced him to seek relief in inconstancy, and I will plead 
 her cause and confound you.” 
 
 “ Very well. Suppose that a man had admired and 
 shown his admiration of a woman who had rather re- 
 served manners to most people. Suppose that her reserve 
 with him had gradually given way, until she allowed him 
 to be her constant companion, treated him with at least 
 the show of complete confidence, exchanged opinions 
 freely with him on every subject, and allowed her ap- 
 parent preference for his society to be taken for granted.” 
 
 “Did she allow him to make love to her?” 
 
 “No, she did something more dangerous; she allowed 
 him to make love to every woman but her. He was too 
 much in earnest to flirt with her, and she must have 
 known it.” 
 
 “ I think that is an absurd conclusion to come to, that 
 the woman must have known he loved her because he 
 didn’ t tell her so. If women were to go by such a rule in 
 all cases ” 
 
 4 4 But listen. At Inst one day— or rather one November 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 171 
 
 hight — he did let her know in words that he loved her, and 
 she — she made him think that his words agitated her.” 
 
 “Perhaps they did — perhaps they agitated her disagree- 
 ably. They must have done so, if she was unprepared 
 for them as you have made out.” 
 
 “ But later on she gave him an unmistakable proof that 
 her liking and trust were as strong as ever. And then 
 again she avoided him ; and, when he insisted on an inter- 
 view and an explanation, she put him off by telling him 
 there was an obstacle between them, but still without tell- 
 ing what that obstacle was.” 
 
 “What did it matter what it was, as long as it was in- 
 surmountable? That was all that could concern him.” 
 
 “ He ought to have been told what it was, so that at 
 least he might not be left to think that it was merely an 
 excuse to get rid of a man of whom she had grown tired. 
 But she had another surprise in store for him ; she dis- 
 appeared without letting him know what had become of 
 her.” 
 
 “And he has spent his time ever since in a vain and 
 romantic pursuit of her?” 
 
 “ Oh, dear, no ! He went back to town, furnished a new 
 set of chambers, and has grown more particular about his 
 cooking.” 
 
 “ And you hold him up as an object of sympathy? He 
 is a man to whom an offer of sympathy would be an im- 
 pertinence.” 
 
 “He does not want sympathy, but justice; and, if he 
 cannot get that, he will have revenge— and melodramatic 
 revenge, of course, but small, spiteful, mean, and 
 modern!” 
 
 “ I don’t think such a threat would frighten her from 
 you.” 
 
 “ You are trying to pique me.” 
 
 “I! Oh, no! What interest can 1 have in the mat- 
 ter?” 
 
 “ Can you give me your assurance that you have none?” 
 
 The sudden intensity of his manner would have forced 
 some show of emotion from Annie if she not been on her 
 guard. 
 
 “ I take an interest in the affairs of any friend who has 
 shown me as much kindness as you have, Mr. Cooke,” 
 said she, gravely, and with a little stiffness. 
 
 Aubrey was silent for a few minutes. 
 
 “Thank you!” he said, dryly, after clearing his throat 
 two or three times. 
 
 Annie felt that the conversation had got to a difficult 
 point, and, to avoid the awkwardness of the pause which 
 followed, she rose. He rose too. 
 
a Vagrant wife. 
 
 11 % 
 
 “ I have intruded upon you too long, Miss Langton; you 
 must want rest and quiet after your long journey,” said 
 he, in a casual-visitor’s tone, which deceived Annie until 
 she saw by the fading daylight that he was as pale as 
 death, and that his lips were quivering. 
 
 “I cannot thank you enough for coming. I should 
 have been so very dull here all alone on the first evening 
 of my return, if it had not been for your charity,” said 
 she, with as much vivacity as she could put into her tone 
 and manner. 
 
 “ It was my duty, you are in my ‘ district.’ May I come 
 again?” She hesitated. 
 
 “Don’t be unkind. I’ve been very good, haven’t I?” 
 said he, softly. 
 
 “ I think you had better not come again, Mr. Cooke. It 
 is different in the country, you know ; but here, in town, 
 the least thing is noticed and talked about.” 
 
 “When do you play in ‘Nathalie ’?” 
 
 “I think in a fortnight or three weeks.” 
 
 “It will be longer than that. In the meantime, you 
 won’t be rehearsing every day, and on the off-days you 
 will be frightfully dull — or won’t you?” 
 
 She turned away irresolutely. 
 
 “ Lert me come sometimes, and I won’t abuse the permis- 
 sion;” and she let him go without a definite answer. 
 
 It was quite true that she would be dull and miserable 
 by herself ; she felt that as soon as she heard his footsteps 
 going down-stairs. She wanted to go to the door, call him 
 back, and tell him to come again soon ; she even crossed the 
 room to do so, but she turned back and sunk into a chair, 
 ashamed of the impulse, for she knew that there was 
 danger in his society. She felt that her indignation 
 against him had faded away, that his presence had soothed 
 her weary, excited mind as the presence of no other person 
 in the world could have done, and that, if she saw much 
 more of him, she would inevitably come to depend upon 
 his companionship as she had done when they were on 
 tour together. It had been harmless, pleasant intercourse 
 then; but Aubrey’s words on that November night had 
 changed all that; and Annie knew she ought to have sum- 
 moned courage to tell him that very afternoon what the 
 nature of the obstacle between them was. But it was so 
 much pleasanter and even easier to skate over the difficult 
 matter of her sudden disappearance, and to avoid the 
 “ scene ” which the tragedy-manner Aubrey had assumed 
 when they approached this subject had threatened. 
 
 “ I certainly did not encourage him to come,” said she 
 to herself, with a twinge of conscience. “Of course it 
 does not really matter whether he comes or not, except 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 in 
 
 that Harry would make a silly fuss if he knew that any- 
 body Who was at all young or nice came to see me. But 
 there is nothing really for him to be jealous about ; and, 
 after all, I cannot shut myself up quite like a nun just be- 
 cause my husband is ill-tempered.” 
 
 So, when Aubrey called two days afterward, and had 
 the sense not to make any allusion to his love-grievances, 
 she was very glad to see him, and flattered herself with 
 the thought that he understood that there was no further 
 question of a warmer sentiment than friendship between 
 them. In this belief she was justified, for Aubrey had 
 decided upon his line of conduct, and fell into the position 
 of brotherly old friend in the most natural manner in 
 the world. 
 
 After a few visits, during none of which did Aubrey re- 
 call, by word or look, his old love or its disappointment, 
 she fell into her former perfectly open and unreserved 
 manner with him, and felt unspeakably grateful to him 
 for the good sense which had restored the old frank com- 
 panionship between them. She grew happy again, attrib- 
 uted the change in her spirits to the prospect of her speedy 
 reappearance on the stage, and wondered how she could 
 have remained so long away from it. Under the influ- 
 ence of these brighter feelings she wrote an affectionate 
 letter to her husband, with a little compunction at not 
 having responded more warmly to his kindness when she 
 was at the Grange. 
 
 Two days later, as Aubrey was leaving her sitting-room, 
 where he had spent the greater part of the afternoon, 
 after bringing her some books from Mudie’s, he met the 
 servant coming up the stairs, followed by a tall, fair young 
 man. Annie’s voice had just called out, “I shall expect 
 you then!” and Aubrey had scarcely closed the door be- 
 hind him, when the servant reached the top stair. 
 
 He stood on one side to let them pass, but the fair young 
 man sent the servant down stairs by a few words spoken 
 in a low voice, and stood face to face with Aubrey just out- 
 side Miss Langton’s door. 
 
 “ These are Miss Langton’s apartments, I believe?” said 
 the stranger. 
 
 “ Yes, ” answered Aubrey, deciding, as he looked at the 
 angry face and impatient movements of the man in front 
 of him, that this was some bumpkin admirer of the clever 
 young actress, who looked upon him as a rival.” 
 
 “And you are one of Miss Langton’s friends, I sup- 
 pose?” 
 
 “I have the honor of being one of her oldest friends,” 
 said Aubrey, coolly. 
 
 A deep flush spread over the face of the other man, who 
 
i?4 A VAGRANT WlFF. 
 
 was evidently keeping himself in check by a strong effort 
 of self-control. 
 
 “ May I ask what your name is?” he asked, curtly. 
 
 “By what right do you ask such a question which can- 
 not concern you?” 
 
 “That is my affair; and you need not make such a mys- 
 tery about it, because I know who you are. Your name is* 
 Cooke — Aubrey Cooke!” 
 
 “ Well, what then?” 
 
 “ What then? Why, my name is Harold Braitliwaite !” 
 But this announcement produced none of the effect ho 
 evidently expected. The pale, ugly young man still re- 
 turned his look quite steadily, without expressing any 
 sort of emotion. 
 
 “I dare say it is,” said he, simply — “ why not?” 
 
 “Look here,” said thestranger, dropping his voice till it 
 became a growl of passion. “ I don’t want a scene here. 
 You had better go.” 
 
 But Aubrey stood his ground very calmly. 
 
 “ I am no more anxious for a scene than you are, I as- 
 sure you. But, as you are a complete stranger to me, and 
 can produce no authority for dismissing me, I must de- 
 cline to move until I have given you a little piece of advice. 
 Don’t venture to dismiss a lady’s friends without her au- 
 thority ” 
 
 “I don’t use her authority; I use my own.” 
 
 “ And you think that will be enough for me?” 
 
 “ I think it ought to be.” 
 
 “Do you know who the lady is you are speaking about 
 so confidently?” 
 
 “ Yes. You know her as Miss Langton, the actress.” 
 “And you?” 
 
 “ As Annie Braith waite — my wife!” 
 
 Aubrey stood the shock well, but not too well for the 
 other man to see that his announcement was a terrible 
 surprise. This conversation had been carried on in low 
 tones; but, as Harry raised his voice on his last words, 
 Annie, in the sitting-room, had recognized it; and she 
 opened the door and faced the two men, white and trem- 
 bling. 
 
 “ Harry!” said she, in a low voice. 
 
 “Is it true, then, that this man is your — husband?” 
 asked Aubrey. 
 
 “Yes,” answered she, hanging her head, and without 
 looking at him. 
 
 “I must apologize for my discourtesy,” said Aubrey, 
 still white and shaking, turning, without another look at 
 her, to Harry. “ I had always understood that Mr. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 17fc 
 
 Braithwaitte— was a short man;” and, raising his hat, h© 
 went down stairs. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 Annie stood with her husband at the top of the stairs 
 until she heard the street door shut upon Aubrey Cooke ; 
 then, recovering her self-command, she turned and said, 
 
 “ Won’t you come in?” and led the way into her sitting- 
 room. 
 
 Harry followed, and stood at first speechless with anger l 
 in the middle of the small room, while his wife moved rest- 
 lessly toward the fireplace. Then, beginning to perceive 
 that, for once, her self-possession was no greater than his 
 own, he found words. 
 
 “ So this is what your ‘ ambition,’ your ‘ love of work ’ 
 means!” 
 
 “ What do you mean?” 
 
 “ What do I mean? You know very well what I mean ! 
 Do you think I couldn’t see through the farce your 4 oldest 
 friend ’ played to shield you? Do you think I don’t know 
 that this was the first time he had ever heard of me? 
 When I told him my name, it was easy enough to see that 
 it meant nothing to him. Answer me this : did he or did 
 he not know you were married?” 
 
 He was working himself up to a white heat of passion, 
 and Annie feared for the consequences of any admission 
 she might make while he was in this mood. She tried to 
 delay explanation by going to him, taking his hand, and 
 attempting to draw him to a seat by the fire. 
 
 Dusk was coming on, and he could not clearly see her 
 face as she approached him with bent head, but he felt 
 that the hands into which she was trying to draw his 
 were cold and trembling. He would not move from 
 where he stood ; but, with a sudden, almost rough motion, 
 he raised her head and peered down into her averted eyes. 
 She shrunk from the unexpected ordeal, and tried to edge 
 away from him with an involuntary eagerness which in- 
 censed him still more against her. 
 
 “Is this all the answer you have to give me? You 
 can’t meet my eyes, you shrink away from my touch! 
 Is this the welcome a good wife gives to her husband? 
 Annie, answer me ! Did that man know you were mar- 
 ried?” 
 
 “ Harry, let me go ! You are hurting me ! I cannot an- 
 swer you anything until you let me go. See the mark you 
 have left upon my wrist ! How can you be so brutal?” 
 
 44 You are not going to put me off like that,” said Harry, 
 firmly, “I know how you women will wriggle out of a 
 
*76 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 subject you don’t like, if you can. I am sorry if I have 
 hurt you: you know very well I did not mean to do that; 
 but I will be answered. Now sit down and get quite quiet 
 and calm. I won’t hurt you, whatever you say; but you 
 must tell me the whole truth, because, if you tell me any 
 lies, I shall find them out and be very angry about it.” 
 
 His manner had grown calmer the moment he saw the 
 red mark his strong hand had made on his wife’s wrist, 
 and felt how utterly powerless in his grasp the little creat- 
 ure was. He placed her gently in the very chair she had 
 tried to induce him to take, and then stood before her, 
 towering above her, and without turning his eyes again 
 toward the chair in which she sat, gravely and doggedly 
 waiting. 
 
 Annie felt cowed. For the first time in their lives, the 
 husband stood in the position of the superior, and, as she 
 sat guiltily there, understanding clearly for the first time 
 that her husband had just right of complaint against her, 
 and that, moreover, he was using that right with con- 
 sideration and manliness, she gave a shy look upward, as 
 if to see what change this inversion of their old attitudes 
 toward each other had wrought in Harry’s handsome, 
 careless, boyish face. 
 
 It was too dark for her to see very clearly what little of 
 his profile was shown in that position ; she could only see 
 that he stood very still, that, if he felt impatience, he was 
 keeping it under strong control, and she began to feel 
 dimly that in the argument which was coming he would 
 meet her for the first time upon equal terms. As she still 
 sat, with her head raised, looking up anxiously at him, he 
 turned and his qyes met hers. 
 
 “ Are you ready now?” he asked, simply. 
 
 “ Ready for what?” said she, impatiently. 
 
 “ Ready to answer some questions I have to ask you.” 
 
 “ Of course I can answer any questions you please; but 
 I don’t see the necessity of all this fuss about the mat- 
 ter. Whatever you have to ask I could have answered a 
 longtime ago,” said Annie, indifferently. “But if you 
 like to play inquisitor and give yourself the airs of a judge, 
 why — it’s nothing to me!” 
 
 “ Can we have the gas lighted?” asked Harry. “ I can’t 
 see your face.” 
 
 She rose and lighted it herself, rather reluctantly. 
 She would have preferred that the interrogation she 
 would have to submit to should have been made in the 
 twilight. However, he was not in a mood to be argued 
 with, so she sat down again in the gas-light, with some 
 work in her hand. 
 
 “You don’t want that for a few minutes,” said her hus« 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 177 
 
 band, taking from her hands the stage-cap she was 
 making. V. T . want you to look at me.” 
 
 So she submitted again, with a shrug of the shoulders 
 and a little, contemptuous laugh, which was rather forced, 
 and raised her restless, dark eyes to his steady, blue ones, 
 with an affectation of indifference which did not even ir- 
 ritate him. 
 
 “Won’t you sit down? I can’t look at you without 
 cricking my neck while you stand towering above me 
 like that!” said she. 
 
 “Thank you. I don’t think I could sit down here 
 quietly with you until I was a little more sure than I am 
 of the footing on which T am here,” returned Harry; and, 
 for the first time, she noticed a nervous movement of his 
 left hand. 
 
 He stepped back from her a little, however, so that she 
 could see his face without inconvenience, and she noticed 
 that he looked thin, that he had lost his bright color, and 
 that the steady, set expression of his face made him look 
 much older than when she had left the Grange. 
 
 “I don’t understand you! Please let me know clearly 
 what cause of complaint you have against me that makes 
 you behave in such a strange manner to me,” said Annie 
 haughtily. 
 
 But she was not quite at ease ; this character of culprit 
 was new to her, and it did not sit so well upon her as the 
 equally unaccustomed character of judge seemed to sit 
 upon her husband. 
 
 “Who was that man I met outside your door just now?” 
 “Mr. Aubrey Cooke, a man who was acting at the Re- 
 gency Theater when I was there. You must have heard 
 me speak of him as one of my oldest friends upon the 
 stage.” 
 
 “One of your oldest friends? That is what he called 
 himself. But the servant told me he was a relative of 
 yours, who came to see you nearly every day.” 
 
 “ I am not answerable for the creations of a housemaid’s 
 fancy. Certainly neither Mr. Cooke nor I ever told her he 
 was a relative of mine.” 
 
 “ But he comes to see you nearly every day?” 
 
 “Not so often as that; but he comes very frequently. 
 Why should he not? I am at liberty to choose my own 
 friends, and he is one of the best I have.” 
 
 “ Then why did you not introduce him to me just now 
 when you came out of your room and found us both 
 there?” 
 
 “ I was too much taken by surprise ” 
 
 “ And terror — that is what your face showed.” 
 
 “I thought you had had some quarrel, you looked so 
 
178 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 angry; I did not know What to think; and the next 
 minute Mr. Cooke was gone.” 
 
 “It was the first time he had heard you were married, 
 was it not?” 
 
 Annie hesitated for one moment; then she said: 
 
 “He always knew me as Miss Langton, like the rest of 
 my theatrical friends. I don’t know whether he had 
 heard I was married ” 
 
 ‘That is a lie, Annie!” he burst out, with a suddenness 
 which made her start. “You silly woman, why don’t 
 you tell me the truth? For the truth I will have; and, if 
 I have to get it from anybody but you, it will be the worse 
 for you and for him too.” 
 
 Annie’s gaze sunk under the fierceness which blazed in 
 his eyes and recalled to her mind his old savagery at the 
 Grange. He lowered his voice again as he saw her shrink. 
 
 “Annie, don’t let me fancy you have anything to tell 
 me worse than I have thought,” said he, with a tremor in 
 his voice. “You need not be afraid of me; I will listen 
 calmly to whatever you have to say. I haven’t always 
 been a good husband to you, and I feel it quite as much as 
 you do. But I have been fond of you, and good to you 
 lately, and you might trust me a little, if only for the sake 
 of that. Now tell me! You do like this Mr. Cooke, don’t 
 you?” 
 
 “ Yes, of course I like him, or I should not let him come 
 and see me. ’ ’ 
 
 “And he likes you?” 
 
 “ If he did not, he would not take the trouble to come.” 
 
 “And if it had not been for my existence, I suppose ” 
 
 “ You have no right to suppose anything,” said Annie, 
 impatiently; “ there is nothing to suppose. You are the 
 only person who has ever found the slightest fault with 
 my conduct. There is no cause whatever for your trifling 
 jealousy, any more than there was at the Grange, where 
 you teased me to death with your absurd suspicions.” 
 
 “ But you treated my jealousy differently then. It was 
 trifling and tiresome, I dare say. But you just laughed it 
 off lightly then, while now you grow impatient and rest- 
 less under it.” 
 
 “You see I have been left in peace lately, and am not 
 consequently in such a high state of discipline as when I 
 was at the Grange. I should have been better prepared 
 if I had guessed that your jealousy would bring you up to 
 town.” 
 
 “ It was not my jealousy which brought me, Annie, but 
 something which I believe you care about just as little — 
 my love. I got a letter from you yesterday — you seem to 
 iiave forgotten all about it, or perhaps you wrote it just as 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE a 
 
 179 
 
 a blind — I don’t know— and you said iri it ydli often 
 thought of the Grange, and you supposed by this time I 
 could ride again as well as ever, and had nearly forgotten 
 all about such a trifling thing as a wife. I got the letter 
 at breakfast, and I said to myself, 4 The little jade is try- 
 ing to pique me ! Then she does care about whether I 
 forget her or not!’ And I made up my mind directly I’d 
 come and see you all unexpectedly, and see what you 
 would say. And I didn’t make too sure you would be 
 glad ; but, by Jove, I didn’t expect quite such a cool wel- 
 come as I got!” And Harry’s voice gave way just as ho 
 reached the last words, and he leaned his elbow on the 
 mantel-piece and dropped his head into his hand, with hi& 
 back to her. 
 
 Annie was touched, and she rose, with tears in her eyes, 
 and crept up to him, and took his other hand. But he 
 shook her off, and remained quite unsoftened by her tear- 
 ful eyes. 
 
 44 Don’t come and hang about me now, Annie, and speak 
 to me in your cooing voice, when I know you wish me a 
 hundred miles away, or I shall think your caresses were 
 never worth having,” said he, passionately. 44 And I 
 thought I could trust you ; I thought you were so good, so 
 pure! Even when I was jealous, I never thought you 
 would pass yourself off as an unmarried girl, just that 
 you might be made love to by other men — and when you 
 knew all the time how fond I was of you, Annie!” 
 
 44 Harry, Harry, do listen to me! I am not fond of any- 
 body else — I have not been made love to. Why won’t you 
 believe me? Look at yourself in the glass, and see if you 
 are not more likely to please a woman’s fancy than — than 
 Mr. Cooke— or anybody.” 
 
 He had turned to look wistfully and reproachfully down 
 at her, and she had seized the opportunity to fasten her- 
 self coaxingly on his arm, and to raise her other hand to 
 his face to try to turn it toward the glass over the man- 
 tel-piece. 
 
 Harry was not vain, and his own face had no particular 
 attraction for him; he gave a glance at the reflection of 
 the little white fingers which were holding his chin, and 
 then he took her hand gently from his face and looked at 
 her. 
 
 44 1 don’t set up for a beauty-man, and lots of the actors 
 you meet are handsomer than me, I dare say. But it is 
 more than I can understand how you could like an ugly, 
 washed-out, long-nosed, lank-haired hunchback like that 
 fellow I met outside! It is rather hard to be shunted for 
 a man who isn’t even straight!” 
 
 Annie winced under the speech ; but she said ; 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 180 
 
 “Then how can you be so absurd as to be jealous of a 
 man who stoops — you, who are as straight as an arrow?” 
 
 “Ah, my limbs are all right; it is my head you com- 
 plain of!” answered poor Harry, pitifully. “ I believe my 
 heart is all right, too, only that doesn’t seem to matter to 
 you clever women. I suppose that stooping fellow can 
 talk by the yard.” 
 
 “Mr. Cooke can ride and drive, too,” said Annie, 
 quietly. “Men who talk well can do other things, too, 
 very often.” 
 
 “He can stick on a Park hack, or drive a dog-cart a 
 couple of miles without coming to grief, I dare say,” re- 
 turned Harry, in a louder voice. “ But do you think he 
 could break in an animal that had thrown every groom in 
 the stable, or ride as straight as I can across country, or 
 train a racer?” 
 
 “ I don’t suppose he is as much at home in a stable as 
 you are, certainly,” said Annie, coldly, “or that any of 
 the actors I know are so well able to beat a groom at his 
 own work. I must do you so much justice.” 
 
 “ Thank you. It is very clever of you to snub me like 
 that; and I dare say you think, if I had any proper pride, 
 I ought to go away after you have so plainly let me know 
 how my vulgar stable-talk bores you. But I sha’n’t,” 
 continued Harry, doggedly. “ I was foolish to let you go 
 away from me, and I was foolish to come after you ; but, 
 now l am here, I mean to stop.” And he flung himself 
 down into a chair. 
 
 “You mean to stay here!” 
 
 “ Yes; and, when I go away, I mean to take you with 
 me.” 
 
 “ Oh, indeed! Against my will?” 
 
 ‘ 4 1 hope not — not if what you said to me a little while 
 ago is true, Annie;” and he leaned toward on his elbows, 
 with such wistful earnestness in his face and voice that 
 his wife was forced to listen. “You say you are not fond 
 of anybody else, you say nobody else has been making 
 love to you, and you tell me I’m so handsome that I need 
 not be afraid of anybody else. Well, if all that is true, and 
 I'm such a nice, good-looking fellow, and you are so anx- 
 ious to cling to my arms and caress me and introduce me 
 to your friends, why on earth, as soon as I turn up, do you 
 want to be rid of me again?” 
 
 “ I don’t want to be rid of you. But I am not going to 
 be treated like a child, as if I could not be trusted alone.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t think any woman can, when she has a 
 husband whose duty it is to look after her.” 
 
 “Oh, your opinion of a husband’s duty was not always 
 so high, I think!” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE, 
 
 181 
 
 u No, it wasn’t. But I am all the more bound to fulfill 
 it well now, when I have neglected it so long. Annie, 
 don't be hard. Why did you come to me when I had got 
 used to being without you, if you only meant to show me 
 what a brute I was, and then repulse me when I tried, for 
 your sake, to be something better? You don’t know how 
 you have hurt me this afternoon by showing me how sorry 
 you were to see me again; I don’t think I ever felt so 
 knocked over as when, after I had met that fellow and 
 knew who he was — for I’m not such a booby as you sup- 
 pose, and I knew you liked that ugly Maypole better than 
 me— you just said ‘Harry!’ without a smile or the least 
 sign of pleasure when you saw me. I felt as if you had 
 stuck a knife into me.” 
 
 He stopped for a few moments, his voice all husky. 
 
 “ And then see how good I’ve been to you! I’ve never 
 even said a harsh word to you, though I know many hus- 
 bands who would have said horrid things to their wives if 
 they had caught them like* that. But I swore to William 
 that I would be very gentle to you, even if you were not 
 glad to see me. I don’t know what made him guess you 
 wouldn’t be; but I'll just punch his head for being so 
 clever when I get back. And haven’t I kept my word? 
 If I had been so clever as these men you know, who can 
 do everything, I should have been sarcastic: and, instead 
 of that, I have let you be sarcastic, and I haven’t even 
 sworn at you ;” and Harry looked up at his wife pleadingly, 
 yet proudly, as if the force of conjugal affection and 
 manly self-restraint could no further go. 
 
 “ Harry, indeed I am glad to see you, and sorry you are 
 still so thin. I should have told you so long ago if you 
 had let me. But you made such a furious onslaught upon 
 me at once.” 
 
 “Very well then; we’ll let by-gones be by-gones, and 
 you shall come back with me, and we’ll be as happy as 
 crickets,” said he, affectionately, as he jumped up from 
 his chair and was on his knees beside her, with his arm 
 round her, in a minute. 
 
 “But, Harry, I can’t do that. I am under an engage- 
 ment now which I am bound to fulfill. And, remember, 
 we were not at all like happy crickets when we were at 
 the Grange together.” 
 
 “No, the Grange is a beastly old place, and nobody 
 could be happy there; I don’t wonder you got moped,” he 
 answered, hastily. “Now in town it is different. There 
 is so much to be done in London, such a lot to be seen, so 
 — so many books and — and picture-galleries and pretty 
 dresses and clever people.” 
 
 “But you don’t care for those things, Harry,” 
 
m A VA&RANT WIFE. 
 
 “ Yes, I do — at least, I shall when I’ve been with ybii & 
 
 little while. And I’ve quite taken to reading, and 
 
 Oh, I shall get on capitally!” 
 
 “ But what would you do without your dogs and your 
 
 horses, Harry?” 
 
 “Do you think I can’t get on without dogs and 
 horses,” said he impatiently. “I suppose you think I 
 can’t be happy unless I am loafing about a stable with 
 my inferiors— only you wouldn’t call them my inferiors!” 
 “How silly you are, Harry! When have I said any- 
 thing like that to you?” 
 
 “ You did only a few minutes ago.” 
 
 “ I did not mean it. I think it is a pity for you, who 
 are devoted to the life of a country gentleman, to give up 
 all your pleasures just to settle down to a life which 
 would not suit you. ’ ’ 
 
 “But it isn’t just for that, Annie; that is where you’re 
 wrong. If I cared for nothing but the country, I should 
 stay there. I can get on without horses, though I am fond 
 of riding and driving, as you know; and I can get on 
 without dogs, though I miss old Ponto every other min- 
 ute; but I can’t get on without you, Annie. I have tried, 
 but it is no good ; so, as you won’t come into the country 
 with me, I must come to town to you.” 
 
 Annie was silent, more puzzled by, than grateful for, 
 this devotion. Then she said, in a low voice: 
 
 “ I can’t accept such a sacrifice, Harry.” 
 
 “ Then will you come back to the Grange with me?” 
 
 “ I can’t do that I have accepted an engagement, and 
 I must go through with it.” 
 
 4 ‘ What makes you so much more particular about the 
 engagement which binds you to act so many times a week 
 for a certain manager than about the one you are under 
 to me, your husband?” 
 
 “ That is not fair. You allowed me to make this engage- 
 ment.” 
 
 “ Well, I don’t ask you to break it. All I ask is to let 
 me stay with you and take care of you.” 
 
 “But, Harry dear, you would be very uncomfortable 
 
 here. The rooms are so small and so shabby ” 
 
 “Well, come with me to the Bingham Hotel; they have 
 nice big rooms there, and we shall be very comfortable.” 
 
 “ But they are frightfully expensive!” 
 
 “Never mind that. George forked out this morning; he 
 had kept me very short for a long time, so he gave me a 
 check, and told me it was the last I should see of his 
 money — with a black look, to prevent the pleasure from 
 being too much for me. That is just like George, you 
 know.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 im 
 
 “ But perhaps he meant it; and, if so, you ought to be 
 careful.” 
 
 “So I will be careful, and you shall help me. I’ll give 
 it all to you to take care of as soon as I get it cashed. 
 Fifty pounds will last a long time.” 
 
 “ And before that is gone I shall be earning a better 
 salary than I ever had in my life!” said Annie. 
 
 4 4 But I sha’n’t live upon your money. Do you think I 
 would sponge upon my wife? I am not going to give you 
 a chance of despising me again.” 
 
 44 Then what will you do when the fifty pounds are 
 gone?” 
 
 44 Write to George for some more, of course.” 
 
 44 But supposing he could not or would not send you any 
 more?” 
 
 “Supposing the skies were to fall? Go and pack up 
 your trunks, my darling, and we’ll go off and have a new 
 honeymoon — only this time you shall have a kind hus- 
 band instead of a cross one !’ ’ 
 
 There was no resisting him in his imperiously loving 
 mood ; and Annie, scarcely yet understanding this new 
 situation of affairs, went, with the husband’s hands gently 
 pushing her, into the next room ; and while she was busily 
 filling her trunks, she heard him ring the bell, order the 
 week’s bill and pay it; then he burst into the room, threw 
 his arms round her, and gave her a huge hug as she was 
 closing the last box, and whispered : 
 
 44 This is tremendous fun — running away with one’s own 
 wife!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXII. 
 
 Annie felt a curious and altogether new sensation as she 
 submitted to be carried off to the hotel by her husband, 
 whom success in this small enterprise had restored to the 
 happiest and most affectionate of humors. It was the first 
 time since the early days of their marriage, when the 
 privilege had soon palled, that she had gone about with 
 him as a protector, and the pride and pleasure in the po- 
 sition which he ingenuously showed, surprised and 
 amused her. 
 
 They were, as he had predicted, very comfortable at the 
 hotel. With astonishing tact, Harry forebore to press his 
 grievances against his wife, and devoted himself to ban- 
 ishing the remembrance of the 44 clever man who could do 
 everything” by taking her to theaters and picture-galler- 
 ies, and to the park, and to expensive dinners at the best 
 restaurants, with an assiduity which could not fail to 
 touch her. Indeed Annie did not quite know what a happy 
 
184 
 
 -4 VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 passage in her life this was until after it was over. She 
 wished to be, and she thought she was, tormented a little 
 by self reproach caused by her bad treatment of Aubrey 
 Cooke ; but the feeling was not strong enough to outweigh 
 the delightful sense of repose she began to feel in the con- 
 sciousness that she was surrounded by a great love. Her 
 husband was so watchful, so affectionate, refrained so con- 
 sistently from exacting demands of demonstrative fond- 
 ness from her, that she had no time, no excuse for such a 
 sentiment as real regret. He insisted, against her will, 
 upon taking her to and from the theater to rehearsal, and 
 asked her, when she objected, whether she was ashamed 
 of him. 
 
 “ If you are, say I am an old servant of the family,” 
 said he, proudly. 
 
 But Annie silenced him imperiously ; and the confession 
 she made in the theater that she was married, and that 
 the handsome young fellow who brought her backward 
 and forward was her husband, while it brought down upon 
 her some accusations of coquetry, sent her up in popular 
 opinion as the possessor of such a tall, well-bred-looking 
 lord and master. 
 
 Life had gone on very smoothly in this way for nearly 
 a week, and it was the day before the opening night of 
 “Nathalie,” when Harry, finding himself at the end of 
 his ready money, thought of changing his check. 
 
 In the evening Annie noticed that he was rather preoc- 
 cupied during dinner, and when she asked whether he 
 had got some gloves he had promised her, he said he had 
 not been able to get them yet, but she should have them 
 on the morrow. 
 
 “Did you change the check, Harry? You said you 
 would give the money to me to take care of,” she sug- 
 gested, laughing. 
 
 “ No, I haven’t changed it. The fact is,” he continued, 
 seeing a look of perplexity on his wife’s face. “George 
 has overdrawn his account a good deal, and they won’t 
 cash such a big check until they have heard from him.” 
 
 “ But fifty pounds is not such a very large sum; and 
 your family has banked there for years and years, I know. 
 Doesn’t it seem rather strange, Harry, that they should 
 refuse when they know you so well?” 
 
 This was a rather unfortunate suggestion, as the char- 
 acter of the Braithwaite boys had not always stood high 
 in money matters; but Harry only said: 
 
 “ Oh, it will be all right, of course! I wrote to George 
 this afternoon, and I shall get an answer to-morrow or 
 Monday. Don’t you feel awfully nervous about to-morrow 
 night?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 185 
 
 “ Indeed I do. If it were not for the way you take me 
 about and divert my thoughts, I believe I should make 
 myself ill by the way I worry myself about it. I must 
 go now; rehearsal begins at seven, so I shall be wanted at 
 half-past.” 
 
 This was the night rehearsal, on the eve of the produc- 
 tion of the new piece. For a week the manager had not 
 slept, weighted with doubts about the success of a per- 
 formance which had cost him months of thought, care 
 and actual labor of body and mind. He was a popular 
 man, and the members of the company sympathized with 
 him, though their own lesser responsibility sat far more 
 lightly upon them, and the greenroom during the last re- 
 hearsals, when doubts far outweighed hopes regarding the 
 piece they were all at work upon, rang with laughter as 
 the foremost wits of the company made cruel jokes upon 
 the “ governor ” and his troubles. 
 
 The next morning, just as Annie was starting for the 
 last rehearsal of all, a telegram came for her husband. He 
 read it and thrust it into his pocket without any remark 
 and without any offer to show it to her. She was getting 
 used to quiet self-reliance on her husband’s part: but this 
 action surprised her. 
 
 “ From George?” she asked rather diffidently. 
 
 “Yes. Stephen is coming up this morning to see me, 
 with statements from George — not very cheerful ones, I 
 fancy. But don’t trouble your head about that, darling, 
 or you will be unfit for to-night. We shall pull through 
 right enough, never fear!” 
 
 “Why, I am not nearly so anxious as you are, Harry! 
 I shall get my salary next week— six guineas— and then, 
 if we only live a little more economically, we shall get on 
 splendidly.” 
 
 “Yes, yes; it will be all right. There is the hansom 
 outside. I must send you alone this morning, my darling, 
 for I must stay at home to see Stephen when he comes. 
 Good-bye— good luck to you, Annie.” 
 
 He put her carefully into the hansom, giving her hand 
 a tender lover- like little squeeze as he helped her in, and 
 went back into the hotel for his cigar-case, to pass away 
 the time with a cigar as he walked up and down outside, 
 waiting for his cousin. 
 
 When she returned from rehearsal, in a hansom by 
 Harry’s orders, she found Stephen waiting outside the 
 hotel to receive her. He was looking pale and anxious, 
 and she asked him hurriedly what was the matter. 
 
 “ Come in and I’ll tell you,” said he. 
 
 He led her into the coffee-room, which was empty. 
 
186 
 
 A PAGEANT WIPE. 
 
 “You have bad news, Stephen, I am sure! What is it? 
 Where is Harry?” 
 
 “ He told me to break it to you. He has quite given 
 way under it. You will try not to be very much shocked, 
 
 won’t you? It is about George. He ’ r 
 
 “Not dead?” whispered she, white to the lips. 
 
 “Oh, no; he is quite well! But he has smashed up.” 
 “Poor fellow!” said she sympathizingly, but much re- 
 lieved. “ Is he really quite ruined?” 
 
 “Yes, I am afraid so; he has been in difficulties for a 
 long time now, you know. The Grange will have to be 
 sold, of course ; but it and the land are so heavily mort- 
 gaged that that won’t relieve him much. He has expected 
 the crash for a long time, and Wilfred and I had some 
 notion of it too ; but Harry never dreamed of such a thing, 
 and it has knocked him over altogether.” 
 
 “ But why does he take it so much to heart? He will 
 be better off than anybody now I’ve got such a good en- 
 gagement.” 
 
 “ It seems he wanted to persuade you to give up acting 
 and go and live with him at the Grange; he told William 
 and me so just now.” 
 
 “William!” 
 
 “Yes: I brought him up with me, and he is with Harry 
 now, unless Harry has turned him out of the room ; for, 
 when your husband said you were growing fond of him, 
 William said that was nonsense, and I had a lot of trouble 
 in getting them to leave each other alone.” 
 
 “ But it is true, and it was very wrong of William to 
 contradict him. He has been very kind to me, and I am 
 quite glad that at last I can do something for him.” 
 
 “Frankly, Annie, I don’t think he’ll let you. He is 
 very obstinate, you know, when once he gets an idea into 
 his head ; and he has taken to thinking that it would be 
 beneath his dignity to live on your earnings. And really, 
 you know, I think he is right.” 
 
 “But how is he to live any other way?” 
 
 “I don’t know, I am sure; I think that is what is 
 bothering him, and the thought that he will have to leave 
 you.” 
 
 “ But he mustn’t do that.” 
 
 “ Then you had better go and tell him so; he has been 
 crying about that. He says, just as you were beginning 
 to like him, all liis work is undone again, and you will 
 call him a loafer.” 
 
 “I will go to him,” said Annie; and she left Stephen, 
 and went up-stairs to her sitting-room, where William 
 rushed at her directly she opened the door. 
 
 She saw that Harry was lying on the sofa, with his face 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 181 
 
 in the cushions ; but she could not get at him at once, for 
 “the child ” was dancing round her, glancing at Harry,, 
 and crossing his fingers with an expressive grimace, to 
 intimate that his brother was in a bad temper and had 
 better be left to the solitary enjoyment of it. 
 
 “He will only snap at you,” whispered he, as Annie 
 pushed past him gently and went toward the sofa; and 
 William, with his soft whistle, went out of the room. 
 
 She passed her fingers through her husband’s rough hair, 
 and turned his face gently toward her. She could see that 
 he had been crying, and, with a sudden great tenderness, 
 she drew his head on to her breast and kissed him without 
 a word. 
 
 It was only by a great effort that he kept back the tears 
 which came to his eyes again at this demonstration; and 
 Annie wondered how it was that he was so much over- 
 come. 
 
 “Don’t give way like this, Harry, I can’t understand 
 you,” said she reprovingly, as he sat by her side and drew 
 her toward him. 
 
 “It is very hard for poor old George, especially as he 
 has known so long that it was coming; but William is 
 provided for, as your uncle in Ireland is looking after 
 him, and Stephen has a little money of his own and Lilian 
 is all right, and you and I will have plenty of money next 
 week.” 
 
 But Harry bounced up from the sofa at this point saying 
 that it was luncheon- time, and she must be starving after 
 her long rehearsal; and ten minutes later they, with Will- 
 iam and Stephen, were sitting together at table, trying to 
 divert their thoughts from their gloomy prospects by talk- 
 ing of the piece Annie was to play in for the first time that 
 night. 
 
 As soon as luncheon was over, Harry insisted upon 
 making his wife lie down to get some rest before the ex- 
 citing duties of a “ first night” began. Sleep was out of 
 the question for her; she lay repeating the words of her 
 part, which she had known for weeks, in a fever of unnec- 
 essary anxiety, lest the words should slip from her mem- 
 ory at the last, or lest, in the excitement of the all-impor- 
 tant first performance, she should hurry her speeches 
 unduly — a fault to which she was prone. 
 
 Harry softly opened the door from time to time and 
 crept in, sometimes without her even hearing him. He 
 always found her engaged in the same way, softly going 
 over her lines to herself, and each time he retreated, look- 
 ing harassed, and rather disappointed. 
 
 They had dinner early, for she had to be at the theater 
 At half past seven. Harry went with her, and, as they 
 
188 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 drove along together in a hansom, he was very quiet and 
 silent, holding her hand in his, and speaking only in an- 
 swer to her. If she had not been so greatly preoccupied 
 by anticipations of the night’s performance and nervous- 
 ness about her own share in it, she must have noticed that 
 there was still something unaccounted for in the unusual 
 gravity, which was not sullenness, of her hushand’s man- 
 ner. As they drove up to the stage- door she noticed that 
 he was shaking like a girl. 
 
 “You are not well, Harry,” she said, anxiously. “What 
 is the matter with you?” 
 
 “ It is only about you,” said he, in a low voice. 
 
 “Oh, I shall be all right; through all my excitement I 
 feel sure of that! Why, you are more nervous for me 
 than I am for myself ! Look here, Harry — I am sure you 
 are not well; the shock you had this morning has been too 
 much for you. Don’t come for me to-night— indeed, there 
 is no need ; I will send for a cab and come back as safely 
 as possible.” 
 
 Rather to her surprise, he said quickly, as he helped her 
 out of the hansom : 
 
 “Yes, yes, that will be the best; I am not very well, I 
 think William shall bring you home.” 
 
 He had paid the fare, and they had reached the stage- 
 door together. Two of the actors were outside, and they 
 raised their hats and began speaking to Annie. Without 
 pausing in her talk, she gave her hand lightly to her hus- 
 band, as he stood there still, anxious to be with her as long 
 as he could. She felt again that his hand was trembling, 
 and she turned to him to say : 
 
 “ Don’t watch the piece, Harry; it will make me more 
 nervous than ever to know that you are sitting in front, in 
 a fever lest I should make some slip.” 
 
 “I’m all right; I must see you through it,” said he, 
 huskily ; and he snatched away his hand, and, wishing the 
 others, whom he knew, good-evening and success, went off 
 very quickly, almost, it seemed to Annie, as if he were 
 afraid of breaking down if he stayed. She went into the 
 theater very much affected by this proof of his attach- 
 ment to her, and, as she took from the box where they 
 had been lying the flowers he had brought from Covent 
 Garden that afternoon for her to wear that night, she 
 raised the heavy white roses and the sweet stephanotis to 
 her lips before she fastened them in the front of the 
 cream- white muslin dress in which she was first to appear. 
 
 The audien ces at the fashionable comedy theaters are 
 not, as a rule, demonstrative; but, when Annie came off 
 tbe stage, after her best scene that night, she knew that 
 she had macje a “hit.” It was the first distinct, note- 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 189 
 
 worthy success of her career, and her heart beat fast as 
 she thought that now she had her foot firmly upon the 
 ladder, and the future seemed to be clear before her. She 
 did not for a moment think she had got to the top ; she 
 knew quite well that struggles and some failures lay still 
 in her path; but that a good beginning toward a prosper- 
 ous artistic career had been made was a fact which set the 
 blood tingling in her veins and brought the fierce light of 
 hopeful ambition into her dark eyes, when, her share in 
 the work of the evening over, she exchanged the dress 
 she had worn on the stage for the one in which she had 
 come to the theater, and went down from her dress- 
 ing-room to the greenroom to wait for the end of the per- 
 formance and the final verdict of the first-night audience 
 upon the piece. 
 
 It was a favorable one; and Annie found her way to the 
 stage- door, on her way out, with congratulations ringing 
 in her ears and the knowledge that, as certainly as cer- 
 tainty is possible in theatrical matters, the long weeks of 
 anxious and tedious rehearsal were to be rewarded by a 
 calm and prosperous run of the new piece. 
 
 At the door she found William dancing about, having 
 been with difficulty restrained by the hall doorkeeper from 
 rushing through the door which led on to the stage. He 
 dragged her arm through his, and in high glee helped her 
 into the hansom, and, as he flung himself in afterward, 
 began at once: 
 
 “Oh, Annie, you were splendid, you were immense! I 
 didn’t think you could act like that. It wasn’t like act- 
 ing at all, I’m sure, the way you take that toffee! Oh, 
 well, it was just like life, just like the way you used to go 
 on with me at the Grange ! Poor, old Grange ! I wonder 
 if I shall ever see it again?” 
 
 “ I used to think of you sometimes at rehearsal, when I 
 came to that bit. Was Harry sitting with you?” 
 
 “Yes; he nearly went off his head. He kept saying, 
 4 Isn’t she perfect? Isn’t she lovely?’ And I had to keep 
 him from jumping up two or three times. I think if I 
 hadn’t he would have tried to climb on to the stage to 
 you.” 
 
 “ Dear old boy ! How nice of him ! I am so glad he was 
 pleased with me.” 
 
 “Well, I don’t see much merit in that. He couldn’t 
 help being proud of you when all the people about were 
 saying how good you were. If he had been a decent sort 
 of husband, he would have waited himself to take you 
 home, instead of telling me to do so and prancing off him- 
 self goodness knows where.” 
 
 “Didn’t he say where he was going?” 
 
190 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “ No; he knew better than to tell me, because I should 
 have just given him a bit of my mind about it; but I’ve 
 no doubt he’s gone off to supper with somebody or other,” 
 said William, with rigid disgust. 
 
 “ William, how dare you talk like that? Do you know 
 you are speaking about my husband?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes, of course I know! Why, Annie, you are not 
 really angry, are you?” 
 
 “ Yes, I am — very angry. When the poor fellow has 
 spent a miserable day, and made himself quite ill between 
 ;his nervousness for me and his grief over the shock he had 
 this morning, you take the first opportunity of abusing 
 'him to me, his wife. ’ ’ 
 
 “But, Annie, you haven’t grown fond of Harry, have 
 you?” said William, with pity and fear in his voice. 
 
 “Yes, I have — very fond. I couldn’t help it,” sobbed 
 Annie, apologetically. ‘ 4 He has been so kind to me 
 lately.” 
 
 “Poor girl!” said “the child,” with compassion. 
 “Never mind; you will soon get over it when he leaves 
 you alone again, and you are full of your success on the 
 stage, and people will crowd round you and compliment 
 you and tell you what a great actress you are, and ” 
 
 44 When he leaves me again? What do you mean?” 
 
 “ Why, he will, Annie— on some excuse or other, he 
 will. He will never stay quietly in London without any- 
 thing to ride. I know Harry.” 
 
 But she was too indignant to let him go on, and for the 
 rest of the drive she maintained a frigid attitude of 
 offended dignity toward her indiscreet brother-in-law; 
 and she repulsed him freezingly when he tried to kiss and 
 be friends. 
 
 On reaching the hotel, she ran quickly up stairs, anxious 
 to find her husband and prove to William that she had 
 not overestimated his devotion. But in neither room was 
 he to be found. On her dressing-room table, however, 
 she discovered a note directed to her in her husband’s 
 handwriting. She tore it open; but she was for some 
 minutes too much excited and frightened to read it. It 
 ran as follows : 
 
 “ My darling Annie,— I dont know whether you will 
 think I am doing something very wrong and cruel or 
 whether you wont care a straw. I am going away though 
 I love you with all my heart just as much as ever and it 
 hurts me awfully not to say goodby to you even but if I 
 did I know you would ask me to stay and I cant do that 
 and be a loafer and live on your money you would be 
 quite right to despise me if I did and say I was nothing 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 191 
 
 but an idler like I used to be. I am going to work. I 
 dont know quite what I am going to do but I cannot try 
 any what are called gentlemanly occupations because you 
 know I would be so bad at them but I will make some 
 money somehow and I wont steel it I promise you that but 
 you must not be too particular how I make it as long as it 
 is honestly — will you now. I have paid the bill and gone 
 to your old lodging and paid the rent for a week and the 
 gloves will be sent tonight and I leave you all the money 
 I can to go on with. I am going to see you act tonight 
 and I know you will be successfull becaus you are so 
 clever and so pretty and all the men will try to turn your 
 head but dont let them my darling Annie becaus all the 
 time I am working for you and mean to get rich for you — 
 and now you see I love you so and only go away becaus I 
 do. I think you will try not to like anybody else — but to 
 think how I can be nice to you and make you happy even 
 though I am not clever like some of the men you know. 
 I dont know exactly where I am going just at first — but if 
 you write to me and give your letters to Stephen I shall 
 get them and he will let you know how I get on. You 
 will not see me again yet because it would knock me over 
 just at first and I know you would not like what I am 
 going to do and you might talk me out of it. But I shall 
 see you very often you may be sure as long as- I have a 
 shilling to go in the gallery with 
 
 “Your ever loving husban 
 
 “Harry.” 
 
 She found a sovereign inside the letter and the hotel- 
 bill receipted. She did not cry, but went into the sitting- 
 room where William was waiting for her. 
 
 “Annie, you are ill! You are so white! You have 
 overexcited yourself. Sit down and let me get you some 
 brandy-and- water.” 
 
 “No, no, I am not ill. You were quite right, William; 
 Harry has left me already.” 
 
 The young fellow stood before her, shocked, silent. 
 
 “Never mind, Annie, you have your old brother, ” said 
 he, as soon as he could speak, in a soothing voice. “ Per- 
 haps, after all, it was best that he should go soon, be- 
 fore you had got used to him, and might have missed 
 him. Now I have an idea, Annie, that we might be 
 very happy if you and I were to take a cottage— now 
 we are poor, it won’t run to more than a cottage — 
 and you might keep house for me, as lots of sis- 
 ters do for their brothers; and of course I couldn’t be al- 
 ways at home because of my military duties very soon,” 
 said he, proudly, “but I could be ai ways running down 
 
m ' 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 there, even when I was away, and we should be so jolly 
 together.” 
 
 “My dear William; what are you thinking about? I 
 am not really your sister, you know, and such an arrange- 
 ment wouldn’t be thought proper.” 
 
 “ Annie, I am afraid — I begin to think— you are really 
 fond of Harry.” 
 
 “ Yes, William,” said poor Annie, while the tears rolled 
 down her cheeks, “ I am afraid— I begin to think — I am.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXin. 
 
 Annie woke the next morning with a dull, uncomfortable 
 sense of having received a great blow which quite counter- 
 balanced the ecstasy of her first stage-success. She rea- 
 soned with herself over this feeling, but could not argue it 
 away. She had indeed suffered two shocks yesterday — 
 the news of George’s ruin and the threatened sale of the 
 Grange in the morning, and the letter which announced 
 her husband’s departure at night. But the first was an 
 event which had long been impending, and George himself 
 could scarcely be more unhappy, now the crash had come, 
 than he had been during those long months when he had 
 felt that ruin was hanging over him; and, as for the last, 
 a week ago there had been no event she had so much 
 dreaded as the possible appearance of her husband in Lon- 
 don. It could not be that she was so weak-minded as to 
 have changed in a week from dreading her husband’s pres- 
 ence to desiring it. Certainly Harry had been most sur- 
 prisingly nice, good-tempered, and kind, quite different 
 from the bear he used to be at the Grange ; she had caught 
 herself turning to him for an opinion now and then, led 
 away by the authority he had somehow assumed in his 
 manner toward her; and his replies on such occasions had 
 shown less imbecility than her former contempt for his 
 ignorance had led her to expect. But then this state of 
 things could not have gone on much longer in any case; 
 such a very new phase as Harry’s angelic patience would 
 surely never have lasted more than another day or two, 
 and the reaction would probably have brought on a ter- 
 rible fit of savagery. 
 
 “Yet I wish he had stayed till then,” she thought, re- 
 gretfully. “ He did not seem to have grown tired of being 
 nice to me, and he was so very sweet while it lasted. I 
 don’t think I was ever happier than I was last week, in 
 spite of the fatigue and anxiety of rehearsals. I wonder 
 where he is? I dare say I should be very much disgusted 
 if I knew. After a week of no society but mine, I should 
 think he must be pining for some grooms or coachmen to 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 193 
 
 talk to. Very likely he is enioying himself in some stable 
 at this minute.” 
 
 But she little thought how shrewd a guess she had made. 
 
 In a wistful and restless state of mind she went back to 
 the apartments in which her husband had found her. 
 What few friends she had began to find her out in the 
 course of the next few days, and to call upon her and in- 
 sist upon her coming to see them and receive congratula- 
 tions upon her success in “Nathalie.” 
 
 This recognition of her talent was very pleasant; but it 
 just missed being the supreme joy she had expected it to 
 be; and, in searching for the reason of this slight disap- 
 pointment, it occurred to her that there was one person 
 who ought to have hastened forward with the rest of her 
 acquaintance to offer her the natural matter-of-course 
 homage of a few complimentary words upon the hit she 
 had made in the new piece. This person was Aubrey 
 Cooke. 
 
 She had not seen him since that unlucky meeting with 
 her husband; and, though, in the few bright busy days 
 she had passed with Harry, she had had little time for un- 
 pleasant reflections of any kind, she had by no means for- 
 gotten the friend whose visits and amusing talk had been 
 the one compensation for the dullness of her home-life in 
 .London before Harry’s inopportune appearance. 
 
 Why did he not come to see her again, and give her an 
 opportunity of explaining her silence concerning her 
 marriage? He had let fall no word, since the day of her 
 arrival in town, when she had laughed off his sentiment, 
 to let her think that it mattered to him whether she was 
 under any engagement or not. Was he irretrievably of- 
 fended? If he felt wounded by her want of confidence, 
 was it not her duty to seek him out herself and offer some 
 apology, rather than lose a friend by proud silence? 
 
 Annie felt so entirely heart- free that no further scruple 
 about Harry’s jealousy deterred her from taking such a 
 step. Since her husband disapproved of it, she would tell 
 Aubrey herself that she must not receive him so often; 
 and, now that her other friends and acquaintances were 
 flocking round her, she felt, that she was not so entirely 
 dependent upon him for companionship. So she wrote a 
 note to him, as she had often done before, asking him to 
 meet her at the “ Stores,” and help her with her shopping. 
 She did not expect an answer, for these little civilly en- 
 1 renting notes he always took as commands, and she knew 
 he would look upon it as an appointment. So, when she 
 arrived at the “ Stores” the next day, she was not at all 
 surprised, or in any way agitated to find him there wait- 
 ing for her. 
 
194 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 But she had been but very few minutes in his society 
 before she noticed that there was a change in his manner 
 toward her. She had been much relieved to see that, 
 when they first met, there was no offended dignity in his 
 manner, no coldness in his tone; but now she began to 
 perceive that there was even unnecessary tenderness in 
 his voice when he spoke to her, and that he drew her hand 
 through his arm with a gentle pressure which he had 
 never attempted before, and when he asked her to have 
 some strawberries, he called her “darling.” The next 
 moment he saw that he had gone too far, and turned off 
 his unlucky speech very cleverly ; but Annie felt fright- 
 ened, and, while he gave her" no further loophole for 
 offense, she was constrained in her manner and dismissed 
 him as soon as she could. 
 
 She knew what she had done, that the discovery of her 
 deceit about her marriage had changed Aubrey Cooke’s 
 estimate of her, and that he had received this last note, 
 written, as he must have found out, after the departure 
 of her husband, in a very different spirit from the frank 
 camaraderie with which he had responded to her former 
 appeals to him to come and help her with her marketing. 
 She knew that she had deserved this severe wound to her 
 self-respect, and she went home miserable and ashamed. 
 
 But this difficulty was not yet over. At the theater a 
 beautiful bouquet was brought to her with a note — a 
 lover-like note— from Aubrey. She tore up the note, and 
 gave the flowers to the dresser. But on the following 
 night she received another bouquet, another note; and 
 on the third night, this attention having been again 
 repeated, she got a little teased by one of her fellow-actors, 
 who knew Aubrey and had seen other bouquets of his 
 and other notes. 
 
 She went home mad with shame and anger, and wrote 
 Aubrey a curt note, asking him to call upon her; and 
 when the next day the time she had appointed came and 
 she heard his well-known tread upon the stairs, she felt 
 that her whole frame was shaking violently, and that she 
 would have hard work to receive him with calmness. 
 
 But he was experienced in flirtation as well as in love, 
 and he had far too much tact not to know that her sum- 
 mons had been dictated by some feeling which was not 
 affection. She was obliged to take the hand he held out 
 so humbly, and his deferential attitude somewhat dis- 
 armed her. 
 
 “ I got your note only just in time, Mrs. Braithwaite: I 
 was going down to Kirby Park to see some horses a friend 
 of mine has in training there.” 
 
 “ I am sorry if my note interfered with your day’s ar 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 195 
 
 rangements. You should have sent me a line to say you 
 were engaged.” 
 
 “ I am never engaged when you send for me. You must 
 know that by this time.” 
 
 Annie raised her head haughtily, while he continued : 
 
 “ It is more than eight months now since you told me I 
 was the only person in the world you could depend upon, 
 and I have never failed you yet.” 
 
 This allusion was embarrassing, and Annie could only 
 murmur : 
 
 44 You have always been very kind.” 
 
 44 And you have put my kindness to some hard tests, 
 haven’t you? You have snubbed me, you have confided in 
 me — at least you appeared to do so ; you have encouraged 
 me to love you ” 
 
 44 No, Mr. Cooke; I am quite innocent of any such inten- 
 tion.” 
 
 44 Then your innocence served you better than any co- 
 quetry could have done, Mrs. Braithwaite. Having inno- 
 cently encouraged me to love you, you innocently allowed 
 me to tell you so, with only such vague suggestions of 4 an 
 obstacle ’ as served to make me more anxious to win you. 
 When you mysteriously left the company, you had man- 
 aged to leave me not altogether without hope; when I 
 saw you again, here in town, you managed, without com- 
 promising yourself in any way, to make that hope stronger, 
 and it was only when I met the 4 obstacle ’ for the first 
 time outside your door that I was allowed to discover that 
 it had any real existence. If you had left me alone then,” 
 continued Aubrey, in a lower voice, his agitation betray- 
 ing itself, in spite of his efforts to repress it, in convulsive 
 movements of his features and his hands, “I might at 
 least have thought that you felt some shame at the way 
 in which you had treated me; but you wrote me a little 
 note just in the old way, as if the old relations between us 
 were possible. I knew your husband was away again; it 
 was easy for me to see by the way you met him that you 
 hated him. I took your summons, when I at last knew 
 the circumstances of your position, and of mine to you, as 
 any man would have taken it. You had deceived your 
 husband, you had deceived me; you were not the good, 
 true woman I had thought you. Still, if you wanted me 
 back, I cared enough about you still to come, but not on 
 the old terms. That was impossible. You were rather re- 
 served; I thought it a trick of coquetry, naturally enough. 
 I sent you flowers and notes, such as I have sent to othei* 
 women far less treacherous, but without any of your pre- 
 tensions to immaculate conduct. To my surprise, you as- 
 sume in return an attitude of the most rigid dignity and 
 
m 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 outraged propriety — you have sent for me to answer for 
 my offenses against you. With far more reason I might 
 summon you— if you were not a woman and therefore 
 above laws of justice and humanity — to account for yours 
 against me.” 
 
 Aubrey Cooke stood as erect as Harry himself could have 
 done as he spoke, with feeling and with fire, these words 
 to the woman before him. 
 
 She had indeed been innocent of the depth of the emo- 
 tions she had stirred in this man with the expressionless 
 face and hard voice. She had expected to have some diffi- 
 culty in arguing him into recognizing the fact that her con- 
 duct toward him had been dictated by the best possible 
 motives, and that any apparent injustice she had done him 
 was the result of circumstances ; but she had not imagined 
 for an instant that he would turn upon her with reproaches 
 so bitter and so well founded that she would be left with- 
 out a word in answer. Yet it was so; and Annie bent her 
 head for very shame as the torrent of his passionate words 
 passed over her, and she felt that she was without a de- 
 fense. 
 
 Then, seeing her so broken and crushed before him, she 
 who had always held herself so proudly, Aubrey relented 
 — for he loved her still — and, as he saw the tears falling 
 slowly from her downcast eyes on to her clasped hands, he 
 fell upon his knees beside her, and from the stern judge 
 became once more the humble suppliant. 
 
 “ Annie, Annie, never mind what I have said ! I did not 
 want to be harsh, only to let you know — what I ought to 
 have kept from you, I suppose.” 
 
 “You said I was wicked,” sobbed Annie, woman like, 
 seizing the advantage which his remorse at having caused 
 her tears gave her. 
 
 “ Yes, I know — I was in a passion— I didn't mean it, of 
 course, Annie. You didn’t tell me you were married— be- 
 cause you thought it would hurt me, and you hated him, 
 and wanted to forget his existence. Well, you were quite 
 right ; I could see at a glance that he was an ill-tempered 
 brute, and that you were afraid of him.” 
 
 “He is not ill-tempered,” flashed out Annie, with sud- 
 den fire. “ And all that I am afraid of is that he won’t 
 come back to me, that some one will tell him that I am 
 happy without him, and that he will console himself be- 
 fore I can let him know it is untrue.” 
 
 Aubrey was silent for some minutes. He detected in 
 this speech the ring of genuine feeling; and anger and con- 
 tempt for the woman before him, who seemed to him at 
 that moment the incarnation of ficldeuess and deceit, 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 197 
 
 overcame his love for her and raised him to his feet 
 again. 
 
 “ I have no doubt he will wake sooner or later to a sense 
 of what a precious thing he is neglecting in your love!” 
 said he, in a biting voice. 
 
 “Thank you,” returned Annie, brought to herself at 
 once by this taunt. “ I deserve every sneer you can cast 
 at me; but you cannot make me regret that I have at last 
 discovered the .worth of a man who has suffered more at 
 my hands than you have done without casting at me a 
 single taunt.” 
 
 “ I congratulate you. I feel— I feel quite happy in hav- 
 ing served as a foil to such a perfect creature. I won’t 
 take up any more of your time, Mrs. Braith waite,” said 
 he, rushing to the door and groping blindly for the han- 
 dle, having forgotten his hat in his excitement. 
 
 “Don’t go away like that!” said Annie, following him 
 and sobbing, meekly. “ I have behaved very, very badly; 
 it was all through my conceit in thinking I could not do 
 anything wrong just because I did not mean to. Will you 
 forgive me, Mr. Cooke?” 
 
 “No, I won’t — I can’t, Mrs. Braith waite !” 
 
 “ Do forgive me, Aubrey!” 
 
 He held out only one second longer, then took her little 
 hands and kissed them again and again. 
 
 “You are the only woman who has ever treated me 
 badly, and the only woman I shall ever care a straw about. 
 It is always like that, I believe. Good-bye, Annie. I shall 
 be married in a month, and dead in two, I expect. Good- 
 bye.” And he tore a little rosebud from the bouquet near 
 her throat, and was out of the room and out of the house 
 before she could answer. 
 
 Her faults were punishing her bitterly now. She threw 
 herself upon the sofa in an agony of remorse and wretch- 
 edness, feeling that she had behaved badly all round, 
 that she was abandoned by every one, and that she had 
 deserved every pang which could torment her. She had 
 trifled with Aubrey, despised her husband, and now they 
 both looked down upon her and treated her as she de- 
 served. 
 
 When the first excess of her grief and humiliation was 
 over, her thoughts all flowed into one channel, and the 
 question which absorbed her was, would Harry ever 
 come back to a wife for whom he must, in spite of his 
 patience with her through that week at the end of which 
 he had run away, entertain at heart so great a contempt? 
 She was herself surprised at the persistency with which 
 her thoughts returned to the husband whom she had so 
 chslihed and despised at the time when no self -reproach at 
 
198 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 the faults in her own conduct had risen to disturb the 
 placid superiority she felt over him. 
 
 She had begun to fret herself into a fever of anxiety at 
 the thought that she would never hear from him again, 
 when, on her return home from a walk one afternoon, she 
 was told by the servant that a lady and gentleman were 
 in her sitting room. 
 
 “ They did not come together, ma’am. The lady came 
 first, and presently the gentleman; and, when they heard 
 you were out, they both said they would wait for you. 
 So I showed them both up-stairs, ma’am.” 
 
 In the sitting-room Annie found Stephen, whom she 
 had rightly guessed to be one of the visitors, and Muriel 
 West, whom she certainly neither expected nor wished to 
 see. 
 
 This lady, whose coarseness had in the very first 
 days of their forced acquaintanceship on tour disgusted 
 Annie, had nevertheless shown the latter so much good- 
 natured kindness in many little ways, and notably when 
 the younger actress was ill with neuralgia, that it was im- 
 possible for her not to receive the unwelcome guest with 
 cordiality. 
 
 Miss West had dyed her hair a new color since their last 
 meeting, but the dye was wearing off; her face was thin 
 and ghastly, her gloves were in holes, her dress was more 
 haphazard than ever, and her whole appearance suggestive 
 of hard times and even of scanty fare. She greeted Annie 
 with her old loud geniality. 
 
 “ Ah, Miss Langton, you’re up, and I’m down! I hardly 
 dared to come and call upon such a howling swell as you 
 have become. You are not sorry to see an old friend 
 though, I see.” 
 
 “I am very sorry to see you looking so ill, though,” 
 said Annie, sincerely. “You used not to look like that in 
 the country. You want change of air.” 
 
 “No, no, my dear; you’re wrong there. No agtress 
 wants change of air when once she’s got to London. It’s 
 an engagement I want. I’ve been out for six weeks, and 
 see no prospect of being in again. I don’t know whether 
 you can help me ; but I’ve come to ask your advice on one 
 or two matters.” 
 
 “I will come in and see you presently, Annie,” said 
 Stephen, going toward the door. “I have nothing much 
 to say to you, and I came chiefly to see whether you had 
 any commissions for me.” 
 
 “ Yes, yes, I have! I have a letter for you to take, and 
 I want to see you most particularly. Come back and have 
 tea with me, will you?” 
 
 He promised to do so ; and Annie, wh.Q was dying t q 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 199 
 
 heat* all he had to tell her about her husband, was obliged 
 reluctantly to let him go, and to listen instead to the long 
 list of grievances and complaints against London man- 
 agers and things in general which Miss West proceeded to 
 entertain her with in language much stronger than was 
 necessary. 
 
 Annie had noticed upon her first entrance that Stephen 
 and Miss West were in animated converse, and that the 
 former seemed very much engrossed by his companion. 
 He now turned with eagerness to her again, and asked 
 whether he should have the pleasure of meeting her on his 
 return. But Annie did nob invite Miss West to stay to 
 tea. So he left, casting at the very last moment an ardent 
 and expressive glance at the object of his evident admira- 
 tion. 
 
 The two women had not been many minutes alone to- 
 gether before Annie discovered that the real object of her 
 visitor was to discover whether her more prosperous fel- 
 low-artist could oblige her with a loan. Annie had some 
 money to spare, and could not refuse, especially as she 
 felt that fate had been capricious in giving her a good en- 
 gagement and the chance she had pined for, while Miss 
 West, who she felt was really the greater actress of the 
 two, was out of work and restlessly longing for an oppor- 
 tunity of distinction, as she herself had so long been. 
 
 Miss West had not been gone more than a few minutes 
 when Stephen returned, and Annie asked anxiously for 
 news of Harry, which his cousin seemed chary of impart- 
 ing to her. 
 
 “Can’t you tell me where he is and how he is, Stephen?” 
 she asked impatiently. 
 
 “I can’t tell you where he is, because he is traveling 
 about, and I don’t know myself where he is at this mo- 
 ment. But he is quite well, and I haven’t seen him in such 
 good spirits for a long time.” 
 
 “Oh,” said Annie, her face falling involuntarily. “I 
 / am very glad to hear that ! Does he— I suppose he doesn’t 
 speak of coming to town?” 
 
 “Oh, dear, no! You know Harry hates town; he is 
 not like the same man now he has got back into the coun- 
 try again, and to ” 
 
 Here Stephen pulled himself up short and Annie said 
 quietly, with tightened lips: 
 
 “ Go on, Stephen. Harry is happier now he has got back 
 to— what?” 
 
 u Oh, I ‘only meant the country air and the country peo- 
 ple ! You know he is a regular rustic, and Londoners don’t 
 suit him.” 
 
200 
 
 A VAGRANT WIPE. 
 
 Annie gulped down the tears this unlucky speech 
 brought to her eyes, and said, with forced cheerfulness: 
 
 “ Yes, he is, of course, much happier in the country.” 
 
 “Of course,” admitted Stephen, guardedly. “He has 
 sent you this letter.” 
 
 She tore it open. It was only a short note, very affec- 
 tionate, but with no definite word concerning his own 
 movements. A sudden impulse of angry pride seized her, 
 and shame at the long letter she had prepared in exchange 
 for this brief, hurriedly-written note. She took up the 
 letter she was about to send, and, excusing herself to 
 Stephen, went into the next room, tore it into shreds, 
 and, hastily writing a note as short and as vague as her 
 husband’s own, returned and gave that as her answer. 
 
 They were not long over tea, as Stephen seemed anx- 
 ious to get away, and Annie herself was late for the thea- 
 ter. When he had gone, she dressed very quickly, and 
 followed him out of the house in a few minutes. At the 
 end of the second street she had to pass through, she saw 
 Stephen and Miss West standing in earnest conversation. 
 She had to pass them; but they were too much absorbed 
 in what they were saying to notice her approach. 
 
 When she was near to them, she heard Stephen say 
 bitterly : 
 
 “ Of course you like Harry better than me, because he’s 
 such a tall, straight, handsome fellow !” 
 
 4 4 Handsome is that handsome does. I like him because 
 he likes me. You tell him so, give him my love, and say 
 he’ll see me before very long if he’s a good boy and Miss 
 West, with a laugh and a roguish glance, hurried away; 
 and Stephen, without turning round to see Annie, fol- 
 lowed slowly in the same direction. 
 
 Annie walked on steadily, with the hot tears burning in 
 her eyes. 
 
 This was what Harry’s desertion meant ; and this coarse 
 woman, whom she bad just been assisting, was the en- 
 chantress who held his heart for the time. 
 
 “ What an idiot I was to imagine for a moment that he 
 was capable of lasting affection, and for his wife! I will 
 never think about him again !” 
 
 But she thought about him all the way to the theater, 
 and cried herself to sleep over her dislike of him and her 
 contempt for him. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV. 
 
 The nightly duty Annie had to perform at the theater 
 was all that saved her from a serious illness, as the result 
 of the acute misery she suffered for some time after the 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 201 
 
 eventful day on which the discovery of her husband’s 
 faithlessness had succeeded to Aubrey’s reproaches. How 
 wise she now felt herself to have been in mistrusting the 
 professions of affection which Harry had made on his re- 
 covery, in the hope of inducing her to remain at the Grange 
 until his passing fancy for her society was quite worn out! 
 If she had yielded to his entreaties, she would have lost 
 the chance she had had in “ Nathalie,” and would have been 
 now entirely at the mercy of her careless husband, who 
 had taken the first pretext he could find for freeing him- 
 self from the restraint of her society, and, under the pre- 
 tense of working for her, returning to more congenial 
 companionship— perhaps to that of Susan Green, the 
 blacksmith’s daughter. And he had been so lost to all 
 sense of decency as to use the same messenger to her and 
 to Muriel West. 
 
 Annie was wiser now than she had been when she first 
 came to London alone, after the few miserable months of 
 wedded life which had ended in such a terrible fiasco at the 
 Grange. Then she had given way to grieving in secret 
 over the wreck of her life; but now, with the philosophy 
 which comes of a riper knowledge of the world, she hid 
 away her regrets as well as she could, and threw herself 
 into the life around her, which presented many attractions 
 to the rising young actress. 
 
 All her efforts to find out any of the members of her hus- 
 band’s family were unavailing. She could not leave town, 
 or she would have returned to Beckham, to see if any of 
 them were haunting the old place yet. She heard from 
 William; but he was in Ireland, and had heard nothing 
 certain about the movements of the rest. She wanted to 
 know how George had borne the crash, and what had 
 become of Wilfred, and whether the shock had sobered 
 him. But she was forced to wait until Stephen, who had 
 given her no address that she could write to, should again 
 call and fulfill his promise of keeping her informed at least 
 concerning her husband’s health. 
 
 She had begun to wonder whether he had forgotten all 
 about it, or whether Harry had forbidden him to hold any 
 further communication with her, when Stephen made his 
 appearance in her sitting-room one afternoon, looking very 
 haggard and unhappy. 
 
 “ How ill you are looking, Stephen! You have not been 
 taking proper care of yourself. Has Lady Braithwaite 
 seen you lately, or Lilian?” 
 
 “Lilian wouldn’t care if she did,” he answered, sullenly. 
 
 “ All she cares for is herself and her own comfort ; and, 
 when that is secured, all the rest of the world may get on 
 as it can.” 
 
202 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 From which speech, and still more from the way in 
 which it was delivered, Annie came to the conclusion that 
 the lame man’s infatuation for his cousin was at an end. 
 His release did not seem to have made him any the hap- 
 pier, however, and it was evident from his appearance that 
 he was in a deplorable state of ill-health. 
 
 “You have brought me news of Harry?” she asked, 
 presently, when she had made him rest on the sofa and 
 brought him a cup of tea. 
 
 “Yes: but there is not much to tell. He is getting on, 
 but he has not written this time.” 
 
 “Not written! Why is that? He might surely have 
 sent me a few lines by you, if he did not choose to write 
 by the post. I have been expecting to hear from him every 
 day for at least a week. Stephen,” she went on earnestly, 
 drawing her chair nearer to the sofa, and speaking with 
 all the soft persuasion she could put into her voice, “ there 
 must be some reason for this — some reason that you know 
 and can tell me if you choose. Do let me know what it 
 means, Stephen. You would not keep anything from me 
 that I ought to know, would you? I am sure you could 
 not be so cruel. He is ill, and you don’t like to tell me 
 so.” 
 
 “No; he is quite well— upon my honor he is! It is only 
 that he is not getting on so fast as he wishes to, and he is 
 too despondent just now to write.” 
 
 “ But how does he live? I am sure he has no money, 
 and he is used, poor fellow, to having it for the asking.” 
 
 “No, indeed— it took a good deal of asking, and of a 
 very pressing kind, to get money out of George lately. 
 But it is always difficult for a man with no capital to get 
 on.” 
 
 “ Look here, Stephen. I have some money that I have 
 saved ; you must take it. If Harry won’t have it when he 
 hears it is mine, you must tell him it is his share of the 
 proceeds of the sale at the Grange. Poor old Grange ! I 
 read about the sale the other day. I can’t think what has 
 changed Harry so much ; he used not to be overproud in 
 money matters, and now he is as tiresome as possible the 
 other way. Tell him any story you like, so that you make 
 him take it.” 
 
 “ I sha’n’t be able to, Annie. He is a great deal sharper 
 than you think, and he would guess who sent it directly.” 
 
 “ You must say nothing about it for a few days, as he 
 will know you have just seen me. But in about a week 
 you can spring it upon him suddenly, and he will be off 
 his guard by that time and believe you. Now don’t raise 
 any more objections, for you must take it; and I can spare 
 it quite well I know you are a man of property,” said 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 m 
 
 she, laughing— for Stephen had a little money of his own — 
 “ and would be offended if I offered to lend you money; 
 but, if you ever should want ‘ a little check,’ you must re- 
 member that I, too, am a person of property now— at least, 
 as long as my engagement lasts; and I have just signed 
 for another two years at a higher salary.” 
 
 And, before he went away, she put into his hands a lit- 
 tle packet containing ten pounds, which he took reluc- 
 tantly, bound by a solemn promise not to let Harry know 
 whom it came from. She sent a little note to her husband, 
 too, begging him to write to her, telling him all about the 
 renewal of her engagement, cheering him by all the en- 
 couraging words she could think of, entreating him not to 
 despond if he were not immediately successful in the work, 
 whatever it might be, which he had taken up, and saying 
 all that a wife could think of to a better husband than 
 Harry. She refrained from sneers or sarcasm, for she 
 had made up her mind to take her husband as he was, to 
 do her duty as his wife as well as he would let her; and 
 she tried to throw all her thoughts and all her hopes into 
 her own career, so that she might escape from the re- 
 grets which would arise in moments of depression at the 
 thought that no home happiness would ever be possible 
 for her. 
 
 That week, during which Harry had devoted himself to 
 proving that happiness was possible for them together, 
 had left deeper results than he guessed ; he had paid her 
 back in her own coin for tantalizing him during his con- 
 valescence by a kindness which was not meant to be more 
 than a temporary effort. It was not for some time that 
 the thought flashed into her mind that this had been a 
 deliberately planned revenge on his part for her obstinate 
 refusal to stay at the Grange with him. Such a refinement 
 of vengeance did not seem in keeping with Harry’s char- 
 acter; yet it seemed scarcely more improbable than the 
 wild inconsistency of loving her devotedly one week and 
 being perfectly happy without her the next. 
 
 She tried to solve the problem by acute questionings of 
 Stephen when she saw him next; but he was more cautious 
 and reticent than ever, seemed uneasy under the fire of 
 her inquiries, and she soon saw that a continuance of 
 them would only result in his having recourse to false- 
 hood in reply. So she had to content herself with learn- 
 ing that Harry had taken the money ; but she understood 
 from what his cousin said that he was in want of more, 
 and with ready generosity she sent him all the rest of her 
 savings. 
 
 “Are you sure you can spare all this?” asked Stephen, 
 
mi A Vagrant wive. 
 
 uneasily, as he stood hesitatingly with the money in his 
 hand. 
 
 ‘ 4 Quite, quite sure. You need not look so downcast about 
 taking it,” said she, laughing. “ You are to tell Harry I 
 have plenty, and whenever he wants more you have only 
 to come to me.” 
 
 “ Tell Harry?” 
 
 u Oh, doesn’t he know it is from me?” 
 
 “ No, no; I did not dare to tell him! You told me not 
 to. He would not have taken it.” 
 
 “ You are quite right. I had forgotten. Well, say that 
 George has some more for him, and will give it to him when 
 he wants it. Or stay ! couldn’t you say it comes from Lady 
 Braith waite?” asked Annie, brightly, more pleased than 
 she knew to find that her husband was still too proud to 
 accept money from her hands. 
 
 “He would not believe that. My aunt has only just 
 enough to live upon.” 
 
 “ Lilian?” 
 
 “ Lilian is abroad. I don’t know whether she has heard 
 anything about it yet.” 
 
 “ Well, say what you like, as long as you make him take 
 it.” 
 
 “ And you are quite sure the want of it will not incon- 
 venience you?” 
 
 “You are as sensitive for Harry as he is for himself. 
 Look at the luxury lam surrounded by, ’’and Annie pointed 
 gay ly to the bouquets and fruit on the table. “Doesn’t 
 all this speak for itself? The money, you understand, 
 comes from somebody else ; but you may take him this 
 from me;” and with nervous, trembling fingers she pulled 
 out from their companions a spray of jasmine and a crim- 
 son azalea, fastened them together, and put them into his 
 hands as he left the room. 
 
 “I am afraid that poor fellow is going to die,” she 
 thought, as she listened to his slow footsteps and the thud 
 of his crutch upon the stairs; “I never saw him look so 
 ill as he did to-day. I wonder where he lives? He cannot 
 be in want — I know he has money enough to keep him, 
 and Harry even, with the money I send him, would have 
 enough for them both. Poor fellow !” 
 
 She and Stephen had never been very good friends— in- 
 deed at the Grange he had disliked her, and she had never 
 felt for him any warmer sentiment than pity, mingled 
 with contempt for the slavish nature of his devotion to 
 Lilian. His unselfish worship of the cold, proud girl had 
 its nobler side, she knew ; but she could not forgive the 
 meanness of the actions to which he would stoop for his 
 cousin’s sake. But, now that Lilian had cast him aside 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 206 
 
 like an old glove, and he appeared before Annie broken in 
 health and forlorn, the tears came into her eyes as she 
 thought of his wasted life, and she would have done any- 
 thing in the world to smooth his rough lot for him by her 
 sympathy or her care. But he shrunk from both, and left 
 her each time dejected but stubborn, with the shy reserve 
 which characterized his attitude toward most people even 
 more marked than usual in his conversations with her. 
 
 She was feeling rather heart-sick at her inability to do 
 anything for the members of her husband’s family, from 
 most of whom she had received great kindness, when one 
 day she saw Sir George getting out of a hansom in Picca- 
 dilly. He was looking careworn and harassed, Annie 
 thought; but he seemed glad to see her; and, when she 
 begged him to come to luncheon the next day he said he 
 should be delighted, but she must be prepared to find him 
 more of a bore than ever. 
 
 “Well, if you bore me, I shall take the privilege 
 of an old acquaintance and go to sleep,” said she, laugh- 
 ing. 
 
 The next day he appeared punctually in her sitting- 
 room, and she was even more struck than she had been 
 on the previous day by the deep lines in his handsome 
 face and the cloud which seemed to hang over him. 
 She exerted herself as she had never done before to be 
 lively and amusing; she had prepared the daintiest of 
 luncheons, and before it was over she had the satisfac- 
 tion of hearing him laugh like a man without a care. 
 Not a particle of this delicate welcome was lost upon the 
 keen man of the world, and, when luncheon was over, he 
 said: 
 
 “ That is the first meal I have laughed over for more 
 than two months— since you left the Grange, in fact.” 
 
 “ Is it?” said Annie, carelessly, as she refilled his glass. 
 
 “Yes; and I suppose you know that as well as I do. 
 You have the ars celare artern , like the accomplished 
 actress you are off as well as on the stage; but I know 
 you inveigled me here to-day with the base intention 
 that your wit and your wine should get into my head, 
 and make me forget for a little while my cares and my 
 difficulties.” 
 
 “And, if wit and wine never fulfilled a worse mission 
 than that, they would not be so ill spoken of,” said Annie, 
 gently. 
 
 “ Well said! Why did you leave us, Annie? You were 
 the good genius of the Grange, and 1 am almost ready to 
 think that, if you had never left it, we should all be there 
 still.” 
 
206 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 “That’s right. Put all the blame upon a defenseless 
 woman.” 
 
 “ I am glad you were not there at the end ; it was a mis- 
 erable time.” 
 
 He was so deeply serious that Annie grew serious too. 
 
 “Do you think I would have gone if I had known 
 what was coming? Oh, George, you cannot think so ill 
 of me !” 
 
 “ It is better for you that you did go then ; you could not 
 have prevented the crash. I had known it must come from 
 the time my father died. It has been nothing but wave 
 after wave of difficulty, and getting through or over them 
 somehow ever since. I suppose it would have been better 
 to give up long ago ; but we were so hedged in on every 
 side that~the ruin was bound to be complete when it did 
 come, and you are just the sort of woman to understand 
 the feeling which forces one, with or against one’s will, to 
 fight it out to the end, and stave off the fall into a broken- 
 down swell as long as possible.” 
 
 “George, George, how can you use such an absurd 
 term? You, with your pluck, your patience!” 
 
 “I’ve used them all up, Annie, in the one tussle.” 
 
 “ Then you must let them grow again, and go in for an- 
 other tussle. You are young, and have courage and en- 
 ergy. If I were you, I would never rest until I had bought 
 back the Grange.” 
 
 “ I don t believe you would!” said George, admiringly, 
 as he watched the proud flashing of her eyes and the vary- 
 ing expression of her face. “ But I am not like that. I 
 could fight on doggedly for something which was being 
 dragged away from me; but I haven’t it in me to begin a 
 battle on my own account.” 
 
 “Then what do you mean to do?” 
 
 “I shall get some appointment where I can grow gray 
 with respectability; my people -can manage that, and they 
 will. It is a scandal for a baronet to starve, you know. 
 Why, you silly child, you are crying! Thank Heaven, 
 Annie! I didn’t think you were so fond of me.” 
 
 “I’m not fond of you— I’m disgusted with you!” said 
 Annie, fiercely, stiffening herself rigidly as he leaned to- 
 ward her. “ Why, do you know that even Harry shows 
 more spirit than that?” 
 
 “ What makes you say 4 even Harry?’ ” asked Sir George, 
 quietly. “ I could have told you long ago that Harry had 
 pluck and spirit enough for six, in spite of his impossible 
 manners and boorish conversation. If anybody buys back 
 the Grange, it will be he.” 
 
 Annie listened with her cheeks tingling. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 207 
 
 “ When did you first begin to think all that of him?” she 
 asked, in a low voice. 
 
 “I knew, when we were lads together, that there was 
 something in him; but I own I lost sight of the fact while 
 he led his loose, lazy life at the Grange after you had left 
 him. But, when you left the Grange this last time — more 
 than two months ago— he let me see his best side again one 
 night when we were talking about you.” 
 
 “ About me?” whispered Annie, breathlessly. 
 
 “Yes; he told me he loved you with all his soul, and 
 he meant to win you back to him if he had to wait ten 
 years. And I believe him.” 
 
 “ George,” said she, in a low, uncertain voice, raising 
 her eyes to his, after a pause, “he has done it already. 
 But— but he won’t give me a chance of telling him so. He 
 won’t let me know where he is, and— and indeed he doesn’t 
 care for me as much as you think; for, if he did, he 
 couldn’t make appointments with— with other women,” 
 sobbed she, with her head in her hands. 
 
 “ Are you sure that he does, Annie?” asked her brother- 
 in-law, earnestly. 
 
 “Quite sure. I— I overheard it,” quavered she. 
 
 “Don’t be so certain about it yet, my poor child! If 
 ever a man was in solemn earnest, Harry was when he 
 spoke to me about you, and he is far too pig-headed to 
 change like that in a few weeks. He swore to me that 
 you were the only woman in the world for him, and he 
 should never look at another again. Trust me, don’t make 
 up your mind that he is faithless to you yet. ' His keeping 
 away from you means something more than that, or I’m 
 much mistaken in him.” 
 
 Annie allowed herself to be somewhat comforted by 
 these words, and she promised George, who of course man- 
 aged to allow himself as many — if not more— of the small 
 comforts of life as he had done before his ruin, to accom- 
 pany him to Ascot in ten days’ time, to play good angel to 
 him and raise his spirits. 
 
 But in the meantime she had another visit from Stephen, 
 who looked more haggard than ever; and, as he hinted to 
 her that Harry was again in want of money, and as some 
 dressmaking expenses had used up all she had in hand 
 until she received her next weekly salary, she fastened up 
 a bracelet, her best pair of ear-rings, and a diamond 
 brooch which George had given her into a little packet, 
 which she put into Stephen’s hands, saying: 
 
 “ I have been spending a lot of money upon myself this 
 week, so I can’t spare any just now. There are a few 
 trinkets here which I never wear, and I can spare them 
 
208 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 better than money. Would you mind selling them for me 
 and giving the money to Harry?” 
 
 ‘ V Your jewelry ! No, I can’t take that I” said Stephen, 
 thrusting the packet hastily back and opening the door. 
 
 u Nonsense! You must— I insist! There is not a thing 
 I care for among them,” said Annie; and with gentle force 
 she made him take them, pitying the poor fellow as she 
 did so for his reluctance to let her part with her trinkets. 
 
 A few days after that was Cup-day at Ascot ; and George, 
 true to his promise, came in a hansom to take her to the 
 station; for they were going down by train. It was a 
 most beautiful day, Annie enjoyed herself with an um 
 clouded delight which infected her companion, and it took 
 all his loyalty and a little of her tact to prevent his making 
 love to her again. She was too wise to suggest economy 
 to him when he took her, as a matter of course, on to the 
 grand stand and spent his money with rather more reck- 
 lessness than in the old days, when he had a large estab- 
 lishment to keep up, and clamorous young brothers’ allow- 
 ances to pay. Men in difficulties always had plenty of 
 ready money, she knew, and were much lighter* hearted 
 companions than men who went on ploddingly paying 
 their debt3 as they arose. 
 
 George left her for a few minutes, sitting, her face all 
 smiles and sunshine, with his race-glass in her hand, ex- 
 amining the carriages which lined the course. He had 
 gone into the ring, and had promised to be back in time 
 for the next race. He returned to find her leaning back, 
 white and shivering, with the luster gone from her eyes, 
 and her arms hanging limply at her sides. A lady — a 
 stranger — was supporting her head. 
 
 “Good heavens, Annie, are you ill?” he cried, in great 
 agitation. 
 
 “She is going to faint, I am afraid,” said the lady with 
 her. 
 
 “No, no, I shall not faint; I am well already !” said 
 Annie, rousing herself by a great effort. “Thank you 
 very much for your kindness. I am afraid I frightened 
 you. George, take me to have a glass of wine, please.” 
 
 He led her, supported by his arm, to the refreshment- 
 room, and in a few minutes she had controlled herself 
 sufficiently to be able to tell him the reason of her sudden 
 illness. 
 
 “ I saw the woman I told you about, to whom Harry 
 sends messages, on a drag on the course ; and I saw Harry 
 ride up and speak to her.” 
 
 George muttered a savage imprecation between his teeth. 
 Annie continued : 
 
 “I want you to take me down there among the carriages, 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 209 
 
 to be quite sure it is she. Do take me, George ! If you 
 won’t, I must go alone.” 
 
 “ I will take you, if you wish it; but. my child, you had 
 better not go. If you were to see them together again, it 
 would break your heart.” 
 
 “Oh, no; my heart is not so tender as that, George!” 
 said she, wearily. “Let us make haste.” 
 
 She was afraid of her strength giving way again if there 
 was any more delay. So he took her down, across the 
 course, and in and out among the carriages until they came 
 in sight of the one she was in search of. Harry was 
 no longer beside the drag; but there sat Muriel, her com- 
 plexion carefully made up, and dressed with more extrava- 
 gance than good taste ; and in her ears were the ear-rings 
 and at her throat was the brooch which Annie had sent to 
 Harry to help him out of his difficulties a week before. 
 
 She turned away quickly, and whispered to George, 
 clinging to him like a child, and with a little tremor in her 
 voice : 
 
 “ Now let us go away — let us go away— as fast — as we 
 can— straight back home!” 
 
 She bore up bravely all the way to the station and during 
 the journey in the train ; but when they were driving along 
 together in a hansom, she said suddenly : 
 
 “ Talk about the races, George, please.” 
 
 But he could not, for there was a lump in his throat, and 
 all he could say, as a lift to the conversation, was: 
 
 “Curse him!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 “Don’t go to the theater to-night, Annie! Send a note 
 to say you are not well,” suggested George, when they 
 reached the house where his sister-in-law was living. 4 4 You 
 are not fit to act to-night; they must get somebody else,” 
 he added, with the charming simplicity of the “outsider” 
 in theatrical matters, who does not know how loath the 
 rising actress is to give her 44 understudy ” a chance of 
 proving that she herself is not indispensable to the success 
 of the piece. 
 
 “I must go, George; and it will be the best thing 
 for me,” said she, with a grateful look at his anxious 
 face. 44 Come and see me to-morrow; I want to talk to 
 you.” 
 
 He left her unwillingly, and that night he took a stall 
 at the theater where she was acting that he might be at 
 hand in case she broke down. But there was no need of 
 such a fear for the trained actress; her performance that 
 night was, to a close observer, somewhat fitful and un- 
 
210 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFfi. 
 
 equal ; but she gave no other sign of the shock she had 
 sustained that day — in fact, the excitement caused by 
 it prevented her physical weariness from being so appar- 
 ent. 
 
 The next morning* however, when George called, he 
 found her sad and subdued, in spite of the efforts she made 
 to seem as cheerful as usual. When she referred to the 
 previous day, she did so quite calmly ; but his self-com- 
 mand about the matter was not so great as hers, and he 
 broke out in a few minutes and swore that he would find 
 Harry out and upbraid him for his infamous conduct to 
 the most perfect woman in the world. 
 
 “ I am not that, George; and Harry knows it — that is 
 the worst of it ! If you were to tell him you and I had 
 both recognized my jewels on another woman, he would 
 tell you that it was only to be even with me for having 
 preferred to his the society of another man.” 
 
 George looked at her in astonishment, for she spoke with 
 bitter self-reproach and kept her eyes away from his. 
 
 “My dear Annie, you are reproaching yourself very un- 
 necessarily. When Harry himself behaved to you like a 
 coal-heaver, even he could scarcely be surprised that you 
 preferred any society to his.” 
 
 “ Not any society— I did not mean that.” 
 
 “ No, but that of men of his own rank, but not quite of 
 his manners,” said George, drawing his chair a little nearer 
 to hers. 
 
 “ I did not mean that either. As long as I preferred any 
 society to his, it didn’t matter. So I thought myself safe ; 
 it seemed quite natural to dislike and fear Harry when he 
 neglected me and snubbed me, and bullied and at last struck 
 me. I felt that, if I stayed with him any longer, his very 
 presence would poison me,” said she with rising excite- 
 ment. 
 
 “ No wonder! You were quite right to leave him, and, 
 if you had been wise, you would never have come back to 
 the brute.” 
 
 “Do you think so? Now I think I was quite wrong. 
 Even if I could not have loved him, it would have been 
 safer to stay with him, safer for him and for me.” 
 
 “ Safer for you!” 
 
 “Yes, yes. I thought I was so strong, so hard, that I 
 could do without affection altogether— especially as affec- 
 tion could, since my foolish marriage, only mean Harry’s. 
 And I was foolish and cared for him too little to ask my- 
 self whether he could do without it as well.” 
 
 “He had shown that he didn’t deserve yours, at all 
 events. If you had stayed at the Grange, I think you might 
 Jiave been happy, Annie; but it would have been thanks 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 m 
 
 to your husband’s family, and not to him. You see, Lil- 
 ian was just going to be married, and. my mother would 
 soon have warmed to you when her other daughter was 
 gone; and, if Harry had not changed his tone, I would 
 have packed him off somewhere, and then you would have 
 been surrounded by nothing but worshipers. And, if you 
 had liked the Grange better in those circumstances, my 
 dear child, I don’t think any one could have blamed 
 you.” 
 
 “I think they would, though. You see, my fault all 
 through my married life has been that I looked upon my 
 husband as a contemptible tyrant to be given way to or 
 avoided as the case might be, never as a reasonable being 
 whose opinions and feelings were to be considered for their 
 own sake.” 
 
 “But you see he has proved that they are not worth 
 considering. I own to you that, when he was getting bet- 
 ter, and he seemed never happy when you were out of his 
 sight, and you went on laughing and t Iking with any of 
 us rather than with him, and treated him like a cross, 
 spoiled child, to be given w#y to and coaxed, while he 
 seemed always longing and trying to be something more 
 to you— it did seem to me sometimes that it was rather 
 rough on Harry ; but now I see you were quite right, and 
 it was a good thing you did not get fond of such a weather- 
 cock. And then, when he rushed up to town red-hot to 
 see you, and found you all dull and solitary ” 
 
 “ But he didn’t find me dull and solitary — that is what 
 made him angry,” said Annie, blushing. “ He found an 
 actor here whom — whom I had grown fond of when I was 
 on tour. It was partly that I might forget him that I 
 went to nurse Harry when he was ill,” she said, hurriedly. 
 “ He used to come and see me here after I left the Grange 
 this last time. I told him I could never marry him ; but 
 — but I did not tell him I was married already ; and some- 
 how Harry guessed that, and made me half-con fess it ; and 
 then, instead of bullying me and reproaching me now that 
 he really had something to complain of, he took me to 
 the Bingham Hotel, and was so sweet and kind to me that 
 I— I really think, if he had stayed with me, I should have 
 grown very fond of him. So you see, George, I am not a 
 martyr, and, if he has treated me badly, it is no more 
 than I deserve.” 
 
 She spoke in a very sad, quiet voice, with all the bright 
 ring gone out of it ; and George thought, as he watched 
 her eyes fixed steadily before her, and her lips quivering a 
 little in spite of herself, that, if her truant husband could 
 see her now, he would realize how foolish he had been to 
 expect that he could neglect such a pretty little wife with- 
 
&12 A VAGRANT WINS. 
 
 out some more discriminating person’s trying to console 
 her. 
 
 “ Well, now you must forget all about a brute who could 
 take away your jewelry to give to another woman. And 
 of course, it would not be right to see any more of the 
 other man — the actor. But I will come and see you as 
 often as you like, and take you out, and have tea with you 
 and luncheon with you whenever you feel dull; I will 
 come and live nearer this way — that will be the best plan 
 —and then you can send for me whenever you want me,” 
 said George, benevolently. 
 
 “ Thank you, George; I am very glad you are in town,” 
 said she, smiling; “ but I won’t trespass upon your kind- 
 ness so much as that. I am afraid Harry isn’t worth the 
 determination ; but I am not going to give him a loophole 
 for complaint of me again.” 
 
 “But he couldn’t be jealous of me,” said George, with 
 eager surprise. “You can’t bury yourself alive for the 
 sake of a man who is deceiving you, who writes to say he 
 is getting on badly ” — Annie had told him that, but with- 
 out saying anything about the money she had sent — “ and 
 whom you see a week after on horseback on a race-course 
 enjoying himself as if he were rich. It isn’t as if I were 
 one of your handsome actors ” 
 
 “ You are too modest, George. You are handsomer than 
 any actor I know.” 
 
 “Handsomer than ” 
 
 “ Oh, yes; he is quite ugly ! That was the hardest blow 
 of all to Harry,” said she, laughing. “But, handsome 
 or ugly, Harry shall never have the least reason to be 
 jealous again.” 
 
 “Are you so sure of yourself?” asked George softly. 
 “You know,” he continued diffidently, “you thought you 
 were quite cold and safe before.” 
 
 “ I have a safeguard now,” said she in a low voice. “ In 
 spite of all that he has done— and you have not heard the 
 worst — I love Harry; his forbearance to me when I was 
 in the wrong seems to have subdued me; and nothing in 
 this world now, not even brilliant success on the stage, 
 has so much charm for me as the hope of some day win- 
 ning him back to me.” 
 
 “ I hope you will, Annie — I hope you will. You deserve 
 the greatest happiness the world can give, and Harry 
 would be a fool not to snatch at what many a man will 
 envy him for.” 
 
 Annie did not want him to grow sentimental, and she 
 soon turned the conversation to other matters. 
 
 She had a firm friend now in her eldest brother-in-law, 
 whom she knew how to manage, and to whom, in this time 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 oi his ruin and consequent troubles, she did infinite service 
 by her sympathy and encouragement. She could not, even 
 if she had wished to do so, prevent his coming to see her 
 constantly; for, though a man accustomed to depend upon 
 himself in a struggle, he could find no consolation, now 
 that the struggle was over, so great as his sister-in-law’s 
 sweet voice and kind eyes. 
 
 She had dropped much out of her circle of acquaintances 
 since the blow she had received at Ascot; life had lost 
 some of its zest for her, and she had grown restlessly anx- 
 ious for news of her husband. She received letters from 
 him now and then, short, affectionate, ill-spelled, but 
 vague, requesting her to send her answers under cover to 
 Stephen at a club he mentioned. She wrote answers in 
 which, as he never mentioned his prospects or hers, or the 
 money she had sent him, she never referred to them either. 
 She also wrote to Stephen himself at the address given, beg- 
 ging him to come and see her ; but to this she got no answer, 
 until one afternoon she met him in the Strand and insisted 
 on his returning home with her. He was looking as hag- 
 gard as ever, and seemed more uneasy in her presence than 
 he had been before. 
 
 “Why haven’t you been here for so long, Stephen, when 
 you knew how anxious I should be? And what have you 
 to say to me from Harry about what I sent him? I should 
 have thought I deserved a message of acknowledgment ; 
 but he does not even mention, in his very short notes, the 
 help I have so often given him.” 
 
 “ He is ashamed to do so, Annie. But he is grateful to 
 you all the same. He often talks to me about the sacrifices 
 you must have made, and he thinks of them a great deal, 
 I am sure.” 
 
 4 ‘ But that is not enough. He ought to speak to me about 
 them, and, if he is too shy to do so by letter, I must hear 
 him express his gratitude in person. Where is he living, 
 Stephen? I must have his address,” said Annie, with de- 
 termination. 
 
 “ I can’t give it you — I can’t indeed. I was afraid you 
 w r ould want to know it, and he has forbidden me to give it 
 you ; that is why I have kept away from you. ” 
 
 “And what reason have you both to give for this very 
 singular refusal ? What is Harry doing that he is ashamed 
 to be seen by his own wife?” 
 
 “ He is not ashamed exactly ; but he knows how proud 
 you are, and he thinks, if you knew how he earns his liv- 
 ing, you would look down upon him.” 
 
 “Is it something so very disgraceful then?” 
 
 * ■ u Perhaps you might call it so ; at least he thinks so.” 
 
 “Tell me what it is. Stephen, do tell me.” 
 
*14 
 
 a Vagrant wif& 
 
 u I can’t. I swore to him I wouldn’t.” 
 
 “Then am I never to know? Doesn’t he want ever to 
 see me again?” 
 
 “ Some day, bub not yet.” 
 
 “ But what uiffereuce can waiting make? If it is dis- 
 graceful now, it will always be disgraceful. But, if it is 
 only that he has taken to earning his living by some em- 
 ployment not generally filled by gentlemen, why, I shall 
 only respect him the more for sacrificing his pride ! That 
 is true indeed.” 
 
 But all her arguments and entreaties did not move 
 Stephen, who seemed very much agitated by her supplica- 
 tions, but doggedly refused to yield to them. 
 
 That night she wrote a letter to her husband, sending it 
 as usual to Stephen to be forwarded. 
 
 “ My dear Harry, — After waiting impatiently for more 
 tidings of you than your scanty notes convey, I caught 
 Stephen to-day, much against his will, and hoped to get 
 him to give me your address, that I might come and see 
 you. But nothing would induce him to tell me where you 
 are or what you are doing, and he says you have strictly 
 forbidden him to do so. I now appeal to you to put an end 
 to the anxiety I am in about you, and to let me come and 
 see you, if you will not come and see me. Stephen seems 
 to think that you are afraid that the way you are earning 
 your living will shock me; but indeed I think, if I were to 
 see you with a black face after sweeping a chimney, or 
 driving a donkey-cart full of vegetables, you would not 
 complain of the coldness of the welcome I would give you. 
 Please, please write to me, not one of those little hurried 
 scrawls saying nothing, but a letter just to tell me when I 
 am to see you again. I don’t think you would be jealous 
 of anybody I see now, except perhaps of dear old George, 
 whom I see nearly every day, and whom I should like 
 much better if only he would do something, like you. I 
 know you hate writing; but you would find time for this 
 if only you knew how anxious I am to be sure you are 
 well. Your loving wife, 
 
 “ Annie.” 
 
 She posted this letter under cover to Stephen ; but she 
 waited three weeks without getting any answer. 
 
 At the end of that time she was surprised by a visit 
 from Lilian, who had just returned with her husband from 
 abroad, having been traveling some months for her health, 
 which had broken down. She was much touched by her 
 sister-in-law’s kindness to George, who had dined with Mr. 
 Falconer and herself the night before, and had represented 
 Annie as the guardian angel of the family. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 215 
 
 “Wilfred has come up to town, and he was with us too,” 
 said Lilian. “ And he talks of you just as well, and wants 
 to come and see you, but he doesn’t dare. You are a good 
 little thing, Annie, to keep so staid now when every one 
 is talking about you, and when Harry has treated you so 
 badly.” 
 
 “ Who told you that?” said Annie, sharply. 
 
 “ George. But never mind; you mustn’t be angry with 
 him or with me. What has become of Mr. Cooke?” she 
 asked, in a low voice. 
 
 “Mr. Cooke! Oh, he is married, I believe; at least I 
 am sure he is!” she answered, in an indifferent tone, but 
 blushing. 
 
 “ Married? Oh, well, I am glad of that!” 
 
 “There is no need on my account,” said Annie, 
 haughtily. 
 
 “ No, no— of course not, child. Still I am glad.” 
 
 “ People say they get on very badly. And now he is ill, 
 I hear.” 
 
 The tears were starting to Annie’s eyes; and Lilian, 
 whom ill health had softened, began to cry too for sympa- 
 thy. Annie fought down her emotion. 
 
 “ Have you heard from any of the others— William or 
 Stephen?” she asked, to turn the conversation. 
 
 “Stephen came to see me this morning. He is in 
 wretched health, and seems to have an unaccountable dis- 
 like to talking about you. I told him to come and see me 
 this afternoon, and I expect he is waiting for me now. 
 I shall send Wilfred to see you to-morrow. Good-bye, 
 you good child. I don't know what to wish for you.” 
 
 And Lilian, whose movements were slow and languid, 
 and whose beautiful face had grown thin with illness, 
 kissed her sister-in-law affectionately and left her. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 Annie did not sleep that night. Thoughts of poor Au- 
 brey and the wreck the clever young man had made of his 
 life, and remorse at her own share in bringing it about, oc- 
 cupied part of the weary, wakeful night, and brought some 
 tears to her eyes. But her mind went back again and 
 again to the husband who had deserted her, whose address 
 was in the hands of Muriel West, and whom she upbraided 
 one moment and prayed for the next. For the sentiment 
 planted by his own forbearance and tenderness had struck 
 deep root during these months of suspense which had fol- 
 lowed, in spite of the shortness of his letters and the long 
 periods of silence between, in spite of his ingratitude in not 
 acknowledging the sacrifices she had made to help him, in 
 
216 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 spite of her doubts of his fidelity, in spite of the indiffer- 
 ence his never once coming to see her had seemed to prove. 
 
 The fact was that Annie had at last found something to 
 respect in her husband. During that week which dwelt so 
 continually in her memory, he had taken his rightful 
 place as her superior, owing to the discovery which had 
 forced her to appear before him as a culprit. She hoped 
 and even prayed that the reason he had given for leaving 
 her — viz., his determination to work for himself and her, 
 rather than live on her money — might prove to be the true 
 one, so that he might deserve the place he had insensibly 
 won in her heart. Yet how to reconcile the love which had 
 prompted this determination with his acquaintance with 
 Muriel West, his giving to this woman the jewelry she had 
 deprived herself of to help him out of his difficulties, with 
 the fact that it was to Muriel she had been referred for his 
 address, and with his acceptance, without a word of ac- 
 knowledgment, of her money? In spite of all, she would 
 fain have cleared him of these charges, and, failing that, 
 she was ready to take the greater share of the blame of 
 his misconduct on her shoulders, and to forgive him the 
 rest, if he would but ask for forgiveness. All the excuses 
 which she had refused to make for the headstrong bride- 
 groom of twenty, when she, the bride of eighteen, shut up 
 her heart against her rough, boyish husband, now appealed 
 to her with irresistible force. He was so young; he had 
 been so badly brought up; his family had been “wild ” 
 for generations ; he had meant to treat her kindly, and his 
 marriage with her had been the result of a generous im- 
 pulse; he had given up drinking since his illness, for her 
 sake; while she had run away from him, treated with 
 coldness his first protestations of love on his recovery, re- 
 fused to stay with him, concealed her marriage from oth- 
 ers. Was it surprising that he should bestow his warm 
 affections elsewhere, when she had shown herself so in- 
 different to every proof of his love? 
 
 One determination she came to, as the result of a sleep- 
 less night of agitation and reflection— she would find out 
 where Harry was, without the delay of another day, and 
 come to some explanation with him. But how was she 
 to do this? She could not descend to ask his address of 
 Muriel, and the only other person she knew who could 
 give her the information she wanted was Stephen Lawler, 
 who had proved himself almost inaccessible to her. He 
 had not replied to her last letter, asking for news of 
 Harry; so that now her only plan was to hunt him out and 
 insist upon his telling her where her husband was. 
 Whether she would be successful in this by fair means was 
 doubtful, as Stephen, with all his servile docility to any 
 
A VAGRANT wife. 
 
 217 
 
 One to whom he was attached, was as doggedly obstinate 
 by nature as the rest of his family, and could take refuge 
 in stolid silence when driven into a corner. However, she 
 must try. 
 
 The next day she drove to the club to which she ad- 
 dressed her letters to him and her husband, but heard that 
 he was not there. She was not ingenuous enough to be 
 satisfied with this answer; and, after going away and re- 
 turning several times with unwearying persistency to a 
 spot down a side street from which she could watch the 
 entrance to the club, she at length saw the cripple de- 
 scend the steps very slowly, and walk away with the aid 
 of his crutches. She followed him. His infirmity made 
 it easy for her to keep him in sight without going near 
 enough for him to notice her. He left the crowded fash- 
 ionable streets, and made his way at length to a narrow, 
 quiet street in a dirty, unattractive neighborhood, where 
 unkempt children played and screamed in the gutters in 
 front of dingy houses where apartments were let, pre- 
 sumably cheap and uninviting. At the door of one of 
 these he stopped, and taking no notice of a few howls from 
 the ragged boys at his crutches, took out his key and 
 went in. 
 
 Struck with wonder at such a choice of residence by the 
 fastidious cripple, and with pity at the forlorn existence 
 it implied, Annie hesitated about pressing her inquiries 
 that day. But her anxiety to hear about her husband 
 overbore all scruples, and, after allowing a short interval 
 between his arrival and hers, she knocked at the door. A 
 little girl opened it, and, upon being asked if Mr. Lawler 
 lived here, nodded her head backward in the direction of 
 the staircase, with the brief direction, “Third floor, right 
 up top;” and, as she made no attempt at the ceremony of 
 announcement, Annie only asked which was the door of 
 the sitting-room, and, on being told “ You go right straight 
 into it soon as yer get up,” she showed herself up without 
 further delay. When she reached the third floor, she 
 found the door of the little sitting-room half open, and, 
 after knocking twice and getting no answer, she went 
 in. 
 
 It was a meagerly furnished room, not much better than 
 a garret, bearing evidences of Stephen’s occupation of it 
 in its extreme tidiness — for he was always neat and orderly 
 in his surroundings. The only thing which looked out of 
 its place was a flat hamper, which stood with the lid open 
 on one of the chairs. Annie stood for a few minutes in 
 the middle of the room without hearing any sound ; then, 
 attracted by the scent of flowers and by the sight of the 
 ferns and leaves which evidently covered them, she glanced 
 
m 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 again at the hamper, crossed the room, and saw, laid on 
 the leaves, a visiting-card with her husband’s name and 
 address upon it — “ Mr. Harold Braith waite, Kirby Park” 
 —and penciled underneath the name, in his handwriting,, 
 were the words — 44 With love to my darling!” 
 
 With a throb of mad hope she seized the lid and looked 
 outside for the direction. Then she stood looking at that, 
 as still and almost as white as stone, for the hamper was 
 directed in a different handwriting to “Miss Muriel West, 
 Victoria Street. ” She was still standing by it when a little 
 moan she uttered unconsciously brought Stephen from the 
 next room. He started, and grew in an instant as white 
 as she when he saw her. 
 
 “Stephen, I did not mean to frighten you. What I 
 came to ask you I have found out already— here;” and she 
 glanced at her husband’s card. 
 
 But the cripple began to tremble from head to foot, and 
 to stammer out that it was the wrong address, that Harry 
 was no longer there, that no letter sent there would reach 
 him. 
 
 44 Tell me his right address then,” said Annie, recovering 
 her calmness. “ It is of no use to try to keep it from me 
 any longer, for I will find him out, and I will stand face 
 to face with him before another week is over !” 
 
 “But you must not, Annie,” declared the cripple, his 
 forehead damp with agitation. “ He will not see you; he 
 will threaten you, abuse you. If you attempt to force 
 yourself upon him against his will, I will not answer for 
 the consequences.” 
 
 “ I can face the consequences,” said Annie, quietly. “ I 
 can suffer anything but being cheated, and deceived, and 
 tricked, as I have been by both of you. I shall find out 
 where Kirby Park is, and go there without delay.” 
 
 “ You will not see him there. He was there; but he is 
 gone, and they cannot tell you where.” 
 
 ‘‘Very well. Then I shall find out where he is from 
 Muriel West.” 
 
 4< Go to her then — go to her; ask her, if you can stoop so 
 low, where the flowers come from that deck her rooms — 
 that lie in her hair. And, when you are satisfied, find out 
 your husband, if your pride does not hold you back, and 
 enjoy the welcome he will give you.” 
 
 In the midst of her own distress Annie feared for the 
 effect of the strong excitement under which he was labor- 
 ing upon the fragile frame of the cripple, and, without any 
 further answer to his taunts, or any more reproaches for 
 his double-dealing, she wished him good bye very gravely, 
 and, taking the card from among the leaves before he could 
 Stop her, she left the room as he was struggling to reach 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 210 
 
 the door to prevent her exit. It seemed a horrible thing 
 to leave him alone, cripple that he was, in a state of such 
 litter bodily prostration as this scene had reduced him to; 
 but she knew that he would accept no help from her hands, 
 and she went down the narrow dark stairs sadly and 
 slowly, listening as she went, lest she should hear him 
 fall. But she heard no sound from the room up stairs, 
 and, as she left the house and walked toward home, her 
 thoughts turned from the miserable instrument of her hus- 
 band’s treachery to Harry himself, with all her newly 
 awakened love changed to a passionate wish for vengeance 
 upon him for this cruel deceit. 
 
 Kirby Park —Kirby Park! That was where she would 
 go— where, in spite of Stephen’s worthless protestations, 
 she believed that she should find her husband and be able 
 to confront him, and sting him with the sharp taunts which 
 rose to her lips now, which should make him writhe and 
 start and feel shame, however callous he had become. 
 Her passive hatred he had felt before, and had been able 
 to afford to treat with indifference ; she would see whether 
 the active hatred into which his shameless neglect and in- 
 gratitude had turned her wistful affection would not make 
 him feel some of the pangs he had caused her. Annie 
 felt changed by that day’s discovery into a wicked 
 woman, with no feelings of pity or pardon possible, who 
 would stop at nothing in the madness of her misery. She 
 sacrificed even her womanly dignity, in her wish to make 
 the husband who had despised her love feel an added pang 
 at the sight of her. She would not simply go down, hunt 
 him out, and confound him ; she would let him think it was 
 the worthless woman he loved who was coming to see him, 
 so that disappointment might be added to his annoyance at 
 meeting his wife. 
 
 It was Friday, and she could not leave town until Sun- 
 day, her only free day. As soon as she reached home, she 
 collected some parts she had played on tour, lent her by 
 Muriel, and copied in that lady’s handwriting. 
 
 These Annie placed before her until she had mastered 
 every detail of the slanting scrawl, and then she wrote the 
 following note on a half sheet of paper, in an imitation of 
 Miss West’s writing: 
 
 “Dear Harry, — I will come down and see you on Sun- 
 day by the 2.30 train from Waterloo. Send somebody to 
 meet me. Your Darling.” 
 
 Annie had consulted a railway time-table and found a 
 suitable train. She posted this letter, and on the following 
 Sunday started for Kirby Park, in a fever at the audacity 
 pf her enterprise, 
 
220 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 She had had time, since sending off the note to her hus* 
 band, to be the prey of regrets at her hasty action, to ask 
 herself whether she was justified in giving him the shock 
 she had prepared for him, whether it would not have been 
 better, as it would certainly have been more dignified, to 
 take no notice of the discovery she had made, save in a 
 cold letter declining to hold any further communication 
 with him, or challenging him to give some explanation of 
 his conduct. She was beginning to fear too some outbreak 
 of her husband’s passionate temper when he discovered 
 the trick she had played upon him. Then conjecture as to 
 what her husband was doing at Kirby Park— he had the 
 name on his cards as if it belonged to him— and excite- 
 ment at the thought that she was about at last to solve 
 the mystery of his occupation added to the wild con- 
 fusion in her mind. She had heard of Kirby Park, but 
 she could not remember when or how, and the most ex- 
 travagant guesses occurred to her as to the position 
 she would find her husband occupying. And through 
 all her passionate anger, her wish for revenge, her won- 
 der, and her sorrow there was deep down in her heart a 
 fierce eagerness to see him again, to hear his voice, to feel 
 the touch of his hand, even if it were not held out in wel- 
 come. 
 
 Part of her curiosity regarding her husband’s occupa- 
 tion was satisfied before she reached Kirby. Two gen- 
 tlemen had got into the same carriage with her at Water- 
 loo, and her attention was caught by the words “Kirby 
 Park ” in their talk; and, when her thoughts had wan- 
 dered off again to the subjects which were absorbing her, 
 she was suddenly recalled to the presence of her two com- 
 panions by a reference to “young Braithwaite” by one of 
 them. 
 
 “You need not have the least apprehension on that 
 score,” said the other. “ He has a sort of genius for the 
 management of horses, and has lived more in the stable 
 than in the house ever since he was about two. I would 
 trust him, on any matter connected with them, before any 
 man I know, young or old.” 
 
 “He is a gentleman by birth, isn’t he?” asked the 
 younger man. 
 
 “ Yes. Haven’t you heard of the pranks of Sir George 
 Braithwaite, one of the typical hare-brained scamps of a 
 generation ago? This lad is his son; his eldest brother, the 
 present Sir George, had to sell the estate a few months ago, 
 and it was then young Harold came to me, reminded me I 
 was his godfather, and said, if I didn’t give him some work 
 to do, he would bang himself on the gate-post as he went 
 put. So I usked him what he could do, and he said he could 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 m 
 
 ride. I told him I had no doubt of that; but he was a long 
 way too heavy for a jockey. 4 Well, make me coachman, 
 groom— anything,’ said he; 4 and, when once you get me 
 into a stable, you’ll soon see I know more about my work 
 than anybody there. You needn’t say who I am, and 
 they’ll never find out I’m a gentleman,’ he ended, rather 
 bitterly. Well, I couldn’t do that of course; but I got the 
 lad to stay with me, for I was rather interested by his ob- 
 stinacy, and thought I would find out what he could do. I 
 soon found he could sit anything, break in anything, and 
 could give points to most horsy men on any matter of 
 training or going. So I made up my mind to give him a 
 trial, and I set him up at Kirby Park and put some of my 
 racers under his care. And of course two or three more 
 have followed my example ; and now the lad has his hands 
 full, and has got a fair chance.” 
 
 4 4 It is a great responsibility for such a young man. He 
 ought to be very grateful to you ” 
 
 44 Well, I hope I may have reason to be grateful to him. 
 My only fear was as to whether he would stick to it. He 
 was very wild a year or two ago, I’ve heard ; but he seems 
 steady enough now, as far as I can find out. I think I’ve 
 got the right man in the right place, and that he feels in 
 his element, and will settle down all right. We shall 
 see.” 
 
 With breathless interest Annie had listened to all this. 
 This, then, was the occupation which her husband had 
 found, and of which, according to Stephen, he was ashamed 
 for her to hear! He had become a trainer. But Annie 
 felt intoxicated with pride at the thought that her husband 
 had shown a special capacity which proved him to be much 
 more than the lazy, incompetent idler she used to consider 
 him, that he had shown talent and had found a field for 
 it, that, if he had taken her money without acknowledg- 
 ment, he had at least not lived upon it in idle dependence. 
 But this discovery only made the thought of his infidelity 
 more bitter; in the very moment when she found that he 
 possessed all the qualities which might have earned her 
 respect as well as her devotion, she was hastening to a 
 meeting which would fill him with disappointment and 
 anger, and bring down upon herself his execration instead 
 of his welcome. 
 
 She felt afraid of him. Already she was hesitating 
 whether she should go back without seeing him, asking 
 herself whether she could contrive to miss him at the sta- 
 tion, when the slackening of the train’s speed and the ex- 
 clamation of one of the gentlemen, 44 Here we are!” told 
 her that the end of her journey was reached. 
 
 44 Hallo, there’s Harry himself!” said the elder gentle- 
 
222 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 man, looking out of the window. “Why, how many 
 more of us does he expect? He has brought the dog-cart 
 as well as the phaeton. Nice turn-out, that!” he added ad- 
 miringly. “Here he is! Well, how are you, Harry?” he 
 called out, as he turned the handle of the door and stepped 
 down on to the platform. 
 
 Annie sprung to her feet at the other end of the car 
 riage and looked out eagerly. There stood Harry, in a 
 light overcoat, his face rather flushed and his blue eyes 
 sparkling, looking, she thought, handsomer than she had 
 ever seen him. He shook hands with the two gentlemen, 
 and then he caught sight of her. She was watching him 
 intently ; but he was better schooled than in the old days, 
 and no one could have detected disappointment in the 
 flash which passed over his face on seeing her. She came 
 to the carriage door, and, as he helped her out, he said, in 
 a matter-of-fact tone, as if he had expected her: 
 
 “So you all came down in the same carriage, Lord 
 Lytham?” — turning to the elder gentleman. “Allow me 
 to introduce you to my wife.” 
 
 She was then introduced to the younger man, Captain 
 King, who begged to be allowed to drive her in the dog- 
 cart, and the other two drove in the mail-phaeton, in 
 which Harry himself had come to the station. 
 
 Kirby Park was only three quarters of a mile off. The 
 house was a large, heavy-looking building, which would 
 have been ugly but for the trees about it. The park in 
 which it stood was an extremely beautiful one, and, as the 
 dog-cart followed the other carriage up the winding road 
 through it, Annie’s thoughts were for a few moments di- 
 verted by the loveliness of the scene around her from the 
 doubts and fears which were agitating her. 
 
 When they reached the house her husband was stand- 
 ing on the steps to help her to alight. As they all went in, 
 he said : 
 
 “ You would like to rest while we go down to the stable, 
 Annie. Mrs. Clewer will take care of you until we come 
 back.” 
 
 A very staid, elderly woman, the model of a trustworthy 
 housekeeper, stepped forward and led Annie up-stairs to 
 take off her mantle. 
 
 “Whose room is this?” asked Annie, as she was shown 
 into a large front room with a beautiful view of the park 
 and the landscape beyond. 
 
 “Mr. Braith waite’s, ma’am.” 
 
 Annie trembled as she entered. She could not think yet, 
 could not understand what this calm welcome foreboded. 
 As his hand had touched hers in helping her from the dog- 
 cart it had pot held hers quite steadily ; but Annie had not 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 22 S 
 
 been able to see his face, had not known what emotion 
 caused his fingers to close for an instant so convulsively 
 on her own. What did he mean to do? What would he 
 say when at last the time came, as come it must, for speak- 
 ing to her alone? 
 
 Mrs. Clewer took her to the drawing-room— a cold, bare 
 room which looked as if it were little lived in ; and, when 
 the gentlemen came in, and tea was presently brought, she 
 played hostess very gracefully, doing her best to make her 
 husband proud of her by charm of speech and manner. 
 Whatever effect she might have upon her husband, who 
 spoke little to her and never once looked into her face, 
 she enchained her guests, who regretted sincerely that 
 they could not stay to dinner, and delayed their departure 
 until they were in danger of missing their train. When 
 at last they left, and Harry accompanied them to the park 
 gates, she retreated to the deserted drawing-room, threw 
 open the window for air, and leaned against it, shaking 
 from head to foot with excitement and fear. Then, after 
 what seemed a long time, during which she thought with 
 horror that he had gone away to escape her, she heard his 
 tread in the hall. 
 
 “ Oh, heavens, what will he say to me?” thought she. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 Annie heard her husband open the door, but she did not 
 turn round; then she heard his footsteps advance to the 
 middle of the room and stop. She still stood leaning 
 against the open French window, seeing nothing before 
 her, and waiting for him to speak to learn what tone he 
 was going to assume toward her. At last she heard him 
 clear his throat, as if to attract her attention ; but she took 
 no notice. She fancied he must be working himself up to 
 a proper pitch of indignation, and she tried to school her- 
 self to show a bold front when at last his wrath should 
 burst out. Her case was the stronger by far, and, al- 
 though that fact did not give her all the consolation it 
 should have done at that moment, yet it would stand her 
 in good stead when the conflict had really begun. Never- 
 theless, she would have given worlds for the sang-froid 
 with which she had entered upon any contest with him in 
 the old days when his opinion upon any subject was a 
 matter of indifference to her, and when his outbursts of 
 unreasonable anger had excited in her nothing but con- 
 tempt and disgust. 
 
 He cleared his throat again, and again she took no notice. 
 At last he spoke : 
 
m 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 “Annie, aren’t you going to speak to me?” he asked, in 
 the gentlest, most entreating of voices. 
 
 She turned round in surprise. He stood there before 
 her, this big, handsome young fellow who could tame the 
 most fiery of horses with a hand and a will of iron, shy, 
 nervous, irresolute, looking down with wistful submission 
 on the small, slight woman at the window. 
 
 “ Haven’t you a word for me after all these weeks?” said 
 he, as she was silent. “I can’t help being horsy, so wasn’t 
 it better to turn my horsiness to some account? I forgave 
 you for not answering my letters; but, now you’ve come to 
 see me of your own accord, I think you might have a kiss 
 for me.” 
 
 Annie looked, listened, in utter bewilderment. Letters! 
 Kisses! What was he talking about? Was this Harry, 
 with the loving, pleading eyes and the gently reproachful 
 tone, the ungrateful, faithless husband she had come to 
 upbraid? Was this some artful plan to avert her accusa- 
 tions by being first with trifling charges against herself? 
 Still in perplexity, but thawing in spite of herself under 
 his affectionate words, she moved mechanically toward 
 him. But the want of spontaneity in the action roused 
 his passionate temper, and he stepped back from her, his 
 face all flushed with wounded pride and affection. 
 
 “ Don’t make a martyr of yourself, pray,” said he. “ I 
 don’t want a little, cold duty-peck because I’m your hus- 
 band. If you can’t kiss me because you love me don’t kiss 
 me at all.” 
 
 She was in his arms, clinging to him, her upturned face 
 aglow with passionate love, almost before he had spoken 
 the last words of his hasty outburst. Muriel West, money, 
 jewelry, unanswered letters— all were forgotten, thrust 
 aside as matters to be explained hereafter or shelved as 
 things of no account. Whomsoever he might have loved 
 in the past he loved her now; whatever he might have 
 done he was holding her in his arms now ; and he might 
 condescend to prove his innocence of every charge she 
 might bring against him, or he might treat them with con- 
 temptuous silence— he was her husband, she loved him, he 
 loved her — what else could matter at that moment? 
 
 It was not until they were sitting side by side on the 
 sofa in the twilight that some words of his roused in her 
 the remembrance of the grievances with which she had 
 come armed. 
 
 “ Why didn’t you come before, my darling? I have been 
 longing for a sight of you ; and the only glimpses I got of 
 you were on the stage.” 
 
 But why was that? Why didn’t you come and see me, 
 ersend for me?” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 225 
 
 11 How could I, when you were so disgusted with me?” 
 Annie’s face fell. A cloud had come over this new hap- 
 piness already. He had himself reminded her of his own 
 delinquencies, which she had been ready enough, in the 
 first flush of this joy in her husband’s society, to believe 
 untrue. 
 
 “ I think,” said she, drawing her hand out of his in- 
 stinctively, “ that I had reason to be.” 
 
 “ But I don’t think you had any,” said he earnestly. “ I 
 know you will be able to prove you were right, because 
 you are so much cleverer than me that what you say always 
 sounds right, even when I can’t help thinking you’re 
 really wrong after all.” 
 
 “Well, prove that I had no reason to be annoyed, and 
 disgusted— if you can.” 
 
 “Don’t speak so coldly to me then, and I will tell you 
 what I think ; but I can’t if you turn away your head so 
 stiffly and speak just as if I were the old Harry that you 
 used to hate.” 
 
 “ I’m not sure that I don’t hate you till I have heard what 
 you have to say for yourself.” 
 
 “Yes, you are,” said Harry, twining her arm about 
 his neck with confidence. “You needn’t think I’m so 
 simple as not to know the difference between Annie who 
 is sweet out of duty, and Annie who is sweet out of pleas- 
 ure.” 
 
 “ Go on with your explanations.” 
 
 “Well, you were disgusted with me, and thought I was 
 degrading myself. ” 
 
 “Stephen told you that!” 
 
 “ Yes, and that you thought it nearly as bad as being a 
 groom, and declared I should give it up in a month and 
 idle about again, and that it would take you a longtime to 
 get used to having a trainer for a husband.” 
 
 “ Stephen — told you — that?” 
 
 “Yes, of course; he was bound to tell me all you said!” 
 “ All — I— said?” 
 
 “Yes, yes! Ah, you’re sorry now, aren’t you, my dar- 
 ling? You see you wanted me to work, and there is noth- 
 ing else I’m fit for, unless I had gone for a soldier or sailor. 
 And you see I’m not a bit horsier than I was before. You 
 needn’t even know I’m a trainer unless you like. I had all 
 the whips taken out of the hall to-day, and I hid my spurs 
 and top boots and things that were lying about my room, 
 so that you shouldn’t be reminded more of it than I could 
 help. And see — I’ve taken out my horse-shoe pin ; and I’ve 
 
 shut up the dogs in the stable, and Annie, Annie, what 
 
 are you crying for?” 
 
 “ I— -I don’t know in the least ! Go on !” 
 
226 
 
 A VAGRANT WIF&. 
 
 “Well, you see it did seem rather rough on a fellow, 
 when I was doing my best, and not drinking— and working 
 hard, so that I might have you with me — when you hardly 
 ever wrote, and only answered about one out of three of 
 my letters. I know they weren’t spelled properly ; but, if 
 you knew how I hate writing and what a trouble even a 
 short note is to me — I never seem to be able to say what I 
 mean in a letter, somehow, while your letters are just like 
 talking — I think, if you knew how I hate it, you would 
 answer more often than you do.” 
 
 Annie raised her eyes, with a startled expression, to his 
 face. 
 
 “I don’t understand,” said she, slowly. “I answered 
 all your notes— they were very few — and I wrote you a 
 long letter, begging you to let me come and see you; did 
 you get that? In it I told you I should be proud of the 
 work you were doing, whatever it was. Did you get that 
 letter, Harry?” 
 
 He was startled in his turn, and sat looking at her for a 
 few moments in bewilderment. Suddenly Annie sprung 
 up, trembling. 
 
 “Harry, ” said she, in a low voice, “tell me quick — did 
 you get the letter?” 
 
 “No.” 
 
 “ Did you— did you ever receive anything sent to you by 
 me?” 
 
 “ Oh, yes; I got three or four letters!” 
 
 “ Nothing else?” she asked, breathlessly. 
 
 “Yes; once you sent me some red.-and- white flowers. 
 I’ve got them in my pocket-book.” 
 
 “But — but ; Harry — think well, dear, dear Harry, please 
 —didn’t you receive anything else from me?” 
 
 “ Anything else? No, I think not; I am sure not, for I 
 should never forget anything you had sent me, Annie.” 
 
 “ You never received, for instance ” 
 
 “ Well, what? What is the matter, Annie? What did 
 you think I received?” 
 
 “ You never had — money or — jewelry?” 
 
 “From you, Annie? No, certainly not!” 
 
 She sunk at his feet and put her head on his knees in a 
 passion of tears. 
 
 “ Thank Heaven ! Oh, Harry, I am so happy ! And yet 
 something frightens me,” she sobbed ; while he looked 
 down at her, utterly puzzled and astonished. 
 
 “ What do you mean, Annie? What money — what jew- 
 elry ?” 
 
 “ Nothing — nothing ! I— I don’t know what I am talking 
 about.” 
 
 “ But I must know. Now, darling, tell me.” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 227 
 
 “Will you listen quietly, then, and not be angry with 
 me — or with any one?” 
 
 “ I will promise to listen quietly, and not to be angry 
 with you. That is all.” 
 
 Annie hesitated . She could not but know now on whom 
 the blame of this miserable misunderstanding between her- 
 self and her husband lay. No explanation of Stephen’s 
 infamous conduct to both of them occurred to her yet; 
 but, even in the midst of her indignation against him, the 
 pity she felt for the forlorn, weakly cripple urged her to 
 shield him from the consequences of the terrible anger 
 she already saw gathering in Harry’s blue eyes. 
 
 “ I don’t think I ought to tell you anything,” she said, 
 gently, “until I have found out whether there is not some 
 explanation to be given of the matter. You are looking 
 angry already. Don’t let us spoil this beautiful, happy 
 evening by unkind and harsh thoughts about anybody, 
 Harry. Won’t you wait ” 
 
 “No, I won’t wait!” interrupted he, very sternly. 
 “Don’t shrink away, Annie; I love you for your sweet 
 forgiveness ; it is right for a woman to be ready to for- 
 give. But there is something else for me to do. Now tell 
 me all about it.” 
 
 “ Not while you are in this mood, Harry. I will tell 
 you when you have promised to let it pass without a word 
 of reproach, except just what you may say to me.” 
 
 “You will tell me now, and without my making any 
 promise, my darling,” said he very softly, drawing her up 
 from her knees to a seat by his side. 
 
 Annie had never before felt her will unable to carry out 
 her purposes. She struggled with herself now as she sat 
 in the firm but gentle clasp of her husband’s arm, and saw 
 his head bent in a listening attitude toward hers. Then, 
 feeling at last the irresistible force of a resolution stronger 
 than her own, she submitted— submitted in the most win- 
 ning way in the world, placing her little hands on either 
 side of his neck, and looking up at him with her sweetest, 
 softest expression of face to' coax away his anger. 
 
 “ Then I must trust to your generosity, Harry. And, if 
 you don’t behave generously and forgivingly about it, I 
 shall think you are not glad to have me again, for happi- 
 ness ought always to make people’s hearts softer. 
 
 He kissed her without answering in words; and she 
 went on: 
 
 “ When Stephen first came to me with a letter from you, 
 looking very ill, very miserable — I thought he was going 
 to die — he made me very jealous and hurt me by telling 
 me how much happier you were now you were away from 
 town and among country people again. He did not know 
 
228 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 how fond I had grown of you, and that I was silly enough 
 not to like to hear how well you were getting on without 
 me. Were you as happy as he said, Harry?” 
 
 “ I was happy just then, because Lord Lytham was be- 
 ginning to show confidence in me, and I saw my way to 
 earning money and being with you again. But, if he said 
 I didn’t miss you, he told lies.” 
 
 “ He did not say that; and he had not the least idea how 
 much it mattered to me. But I was angry with you for 
 sending me such a short letter, and I thought you were 
 enjoying yourself, and very likely didn’t care; so I tore up 
 the long, loving letter I had written, and sent you a short 
 one saying nothing, like yours.” 
 
 “ Oh, you little spiteful creature! I wrote that note four 
 times before I got one fit to send you; I was so afraid you 
 would be offended if I told you what I was going to do. 
 I thought I would wait until I had got on, and then come 
 to you and show you that I could be just as fond of you 
 as if I had never been in a stable in my life. And, at any 
 rate, I thought, if I succeeded, you would think it was 
 better than idling.” 
 
 “ Better than idling! Oh, Harry, it is better than any- 
 thing for you to be successful and happy and— and fond 
 of me!” Alter a pause, she continued, “When he came 
 the second time, he said you were not getting on as fast as 
 you wished.” 
 
 “That was true; I was in low spirits about it. Well?” 
 
 “ Then he said it was very hard for a man without money 
 to get on. He said that himself, not that you had said it. 
 And I was afraid you were perhaps in serious difficulty 
 for want of money, and I begged him to take some that I 
 had put away and didn’t wan’t.” 
 
 “ And he took it?” 
 
 “ Wait. He refused for a long time, and said you would 
 not think of accepting my money, so at last I pushed it 
 into his hand, and told him not to say it came from me. 
 He was very reluctant to the last; I expect he was afraid 
 to give it you and afraid to give it back to me.” 
 
 “Was that the only time he took your money?” 
 
 “ No; I gave him some two or three times— not much, of 
 course — and it made no difference to me, for it was money 
 I had put aside. ” 
 
 “ And what was that you said about jewelry? Come, 
 Annie, you mustn’t keep back anything! It isn’t fair to 
 tell only half.” 
 
 “ It is only that once, when I was short of ready money, 
 and anxious, in spite of poor Stephen’s entreaties, to send 
 you some, I gave him a pair of ear-rings and two other 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 229 
 
 little trinkets I never wore, and asked him to sell them for 
 me.” 
 
 Harry started up restlessly from the sofa and began 
 marching up and down ; then he stopped short in front of 
 her. 
 
 “Why didn’t you write to me when you got no acknowl- 
 edgment?” 
 
 “ I didn’t like to. I thought Stephen had kept from you 
 the fact that the money came from me.” 
 
 “ And you thought I was such a booby as not to have 
 guessed, and such a bear as not to have thanked you? 
 Annie, that is impossible ! You are hiding something from 
 me still.” 
 
 But Annie did not answer or look at him. Her eyes were 
 fixed in front of her, as a new light broke in upon her be- 
 wildered mind. 
 
 “ Harry,” said she at length, raising her glittering eyes 
 to his with an expression which was almost fear, 4 4 those 
 flowers— you sent — by Stephen — a few days ago ” 
 
 “Oh, did you get those then? He did not condescend 
 to ” 
 
 “ Were they for me?” she asked, in a low voice. 
 
 “For you! Of course they were for you; who else 
 should they be for?” said Harry, irritably, his excitement 
 getting the better of him. 
 
 “ Not for— not for — Muriel West!” She murmured the 
 name so low that she had to repeat it. 
 
 “ Muriel West? No. Who on earth is Muriel West?” 
 
 “ You don’t know !” she cried joyfully. «“ But, Harry, I 
 saw you talking to her on ^ coach at Ascot. ’ ’ 
 
 “ Do you mean an actress named West? Why, Annie, 
 how jealous you are ! I scarcely spoke to her, and shouldn’t 
 have done so at all if Stephen hadn’t been with her. A 
 fellow I know took me to supper once at her house a long 
 time ago — it was the very night of my accident— and I 
 have never seen her since, except that day at Ascot.” 
 
 “ Then how was it that she was wearing my ornaments?” 
 asked Annie, quickly ; and, as she spoke, the truth flashed 
 upon them both. 
 
 “The little mean scoundrel!” growled Harry, clinching 
 his fists. “The little crooked, lying rascal! He shall 
 suffer for this clever trick. Then he got all he could out 
 of both of us, and kept us apart by his lies ! Of course 
 you never said it was a disgraceful thing for me to turp 
 trainer?” 
 
 “ I never knew you were a trainer until this afternoon, 
 when I heard those two gentlemen talking about you in 
 the carriage as I came down. He refused to give me your 
 address, saying you had forbidden him to do so, and J 
 
230 
 
 A VA GRANT WIFE . 
 
 found it out only by this card.” She took from her purse 
 the card she had found in the hamper, and continued, 4 4 1 
 went to see Stephen last Friday, determined to find out 
 where you were. I saw a hamper of flowers with the lid 
 open, and inside I found this card. T looked outside, and 
 found that the direction was to 4 Miss Muriel West.’ ” 
 “The direction had been changed; I directed it to you,, 
 and gave it to that wretched little hunchback for you. 
 And, Annie, do you mean to say that, when you saw 
 your ornaments on that woman, you thought that I had 
 given them to her?” he asked, looking at her almost with 
 horror. 
 
 “ What else could I think, Harry?” 
 
 “And you never wrote to reproach me?” 
 
 “ I could not write about such a thing — it was too dread- 
 ful ! I thought I would accuse you of it face to face. But 
 don’t talk about it, Harry, please— I can’t bear to think 
 of it now ; it was wicked of me ever to think it could be 
 true.” 
 
 “And you came down here to-day still believing it! 
 And you could kiss a man you believed capable of such an 
 infamous thing!” 
 
 “No, no, Harry; don’t look at me like that! The mo- 
 ment you spoke to me alone in this room I felt it could not 
 be true ; because, you see, I was sure you loved me, and 
 that cleared it all away.” 
 
 And her husband drew her again into his arms, with a 
 mist before his own eyes. 
 
 Dusk had fallen, and they were still sitting there, when 
 they were roused from a silence of perfect happiness by 
 the prosaic sound of the dinner-bell. Harry had great diffi- 
 culty in keeping his boyish high spirits under proper con- 
 trolduring dinner, and, when it was over, he said: 
 
 “ Let us go out of doors, Annie; there isn’t room enough 
 for my happiness in a stuffy house.” 
 
 So he put on her hat and mantle very carefully andTvery 
 clumsily, and they went out into the park. 
 
 “ Take me to see the horses, Harry. Here’s your cigar- 
 case; I saw it up stairs, so I brought it down.” 
 
 “I may smoke then?” 
 
 “ Yes, of course. You are going the wrong way. Isn’t 
 that the way to the stables?” 
 
 “Yes; but I’m not going to take you there; you only 
 ask to go to please me.” 
 
 “ On my word of honor, I ask to go to please myself; 
 and, if you don’t like to take me, I shall go over them with 
 one of the stablemen, while you are sulking over your 
 cigar by yourself. Now are you coming?” 
 f3o they went through the stables together, Harry 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 SBl 
 
 was quick to note the genuine ring in the interest, for what 
 concerned him concerned her too now ; and they walked 
 all round the park together, and he said : 
 
 “Do you think you could ever live happily with me here, 
 Annie?” 
 
 “ And give up the stage?” 
 
 “ Well, act only now and then. You might take an en- 
 gagement for three months or more, but not give yourself 
 up to it altogether. I know you are too clever to just 
 settle down to keeping house for a dull, ignorant hus- 
 band.” 
 
 “ You're not dull and ignorant, Harry.” 
 
 “Well, not so ignorant as I was,” said he, with myste- 
 rious complacency. 4 ‘ Do you think that would be too great 
 a sacrifice, Annie?” * 
 
 “ No, indeed. I couldn’t throw my whole heart into my 
 acting now if I thought I was neglecting you.” 
 
 “ And you will come and see me every Sunday, and stay 
 till Monday evening now, won’t you? I mustn’t ask more 
 than that yet, I suppose.” 
 
 And she consented readily enough. And then came the 
 crowning triumph of the day to Harry. He led his wife 
 into the library, the volumes of which had luckily been 
 collected long before his occupation of Kirby Hall, and 
 said, turning proudly to her : 
 
 “ You never thought I should get fond of books, Annie. 
 Well, I have, and I like this room better than any in the 
 house.” 
 
 There were three photographs of her on the mantel-piece, 
 there was a liqueur-case on a side-table, and the room was 
 strongly perfumed with tobacco. Annie’s eyes twinkled, 
 but she only laughed contentedly. 
 
 “And now you shall hear me read aloud,” said he. 
 
 So he put her into an arm-chair, and sat on a footstool 
 at her feet, and read her a couple of pages of the Nine- 
 teenth Century. It was a very poor performance indeed, 
 hesitating, badly emphasized, with the long words slurred 
 over. He was not at his best, for he had Annie’s fingers 
 in one hand and his cigar in his mouth. 
 
 “You read beautifully now, Harry !” said she, when he 
 looked up for approval; and the clever, well-informed 
 woman really thought so. 
 
 “ It only shows what perseverance will do,” said Harry, 
 gravely. “ I’ve read that piece aloud to myself twenty ok 
 thirty times.” 
 

 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 Annie passed the night at Kirby Park ; and, when she 
 and Harry were sitting at breakfast the next morning, lie 
 told her he should come and see her act that night. 
 
 “ Then will you come up to town with me?” she asked 
 eagerly. 
 
 Her husband hesitated. 
 
 “I don’t know whether I can, Annie. I have some 
 things to see to down here before I start, and something 
 to do in town when I get up there, so that I cannot be at 
 your rooms till about four.” 
 
 Her face clouded. 
 
 “ Something to do in town! ’ she echoed, watching him 
 narrowly, and noting the expression into which his face 
 had set during the last few minutes. “Is it— to see some 
 one, Harry?” she asked timidly. 
 
 “ Yes, a business appointment.” 
 
 “ Oh, Harry, it is to see Stephen, I know ! What are you 
 going to do? What are you going to say? You look as if 
 you would kill him !” 
 
 “ Don’t be afraid. How could I condescend to touch the 
 little misshapen wretch, who has not as much strength in 
 his whole body as I have in one finger? But I am going to 
 see him, and to-day.” 
 
 She saw that it was impossible to alter her husband’s 
 resolutions, so she desisted from her persuasions ; but there 
 was a terrible fear at her heart which she could not shake 
 off. She knew the violence of her husband’s temper, and 
 feared it all the more under this new aspect of repression. 
 She made up her mind to go to Stephen and warn him of 
 Harry’s coming, and to beg him not to exasperate her bus 
 band further by any attempt at concealment and false ex- 
 cuses, but to make a frank confession, such as would, she 
 felt sure, be more likely than anything else to avert 
 Harry’s anger. Once resolved on this course, she let the 
 conversation turn to indifferent subjects, and it was not 
 until breakfast was nearly over that she pretended to re- 
 member an appointment with her dressmaker which would 
 make it necessary for her to go up to town before lunch- 
 eon. She did it too naturally to excite in her husband 
 any suspicions of her good faith, and he went to the sta- 
 tion with her, and parted with her very reluctantly, al- 
 though he expected to be with her again in a few hours. 
 
 Annie herself felt something more than reluctance; she 
 was seized with a foreboding of evil. 
 
 “Ah, Harry,” she said, laying a trembling hand upon 
 his arm, “ I wish I were not married to you !” 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 233 
 
 “ Why?” asked he, startled. 
 
 “ Because then perhaps you might do what you did long 
 ago, fling all considerations of business and duty to tho 
 winds and jump into the train with me.” 
 
 “Do you think my love was better worth having then 
 than now?’ ’lie asked softly. 
 
 “ N-o, perhaps not. Still I wish the wife had as much 
 influence as the girl had.” 
 
 If the train had been in the station, she in it, and he at 
 the door, these words would have carried him off. As it 
 was, standing on the platform beside her, Harry was 
 seized with a great trembling, and, walking away from 
 her a few steps, he came back and said to her, low and re- 
 proachfully : 
 
 “ That is the first time you have ever tempted me to 
 what was not right, Annie. If the train had been here, 
 your words would have made me jump in, and, for the 
 first time since I have had work to do, I should have neg- 
 lected it— and through you. I have a lot to see to at the 
 stables this morning, and an appointment to keep with 
 Captain King before I go up to- town. But I can’t resist 
 you ; so, if you love me, Annie, and if you care for what 
 people think of me and say of me, don’t ask me again, my 
 darling, for I can’t say 4 No ’ to you.” 
 
 The young wife, self-possessed and independent as she 
 usually was, hung her head. These words of his, inspir- 
 ing in her a strong feeling of respect, did much to restore 
 her confidence in his self-command when dealing with his 
 treacherous cousin. As she took the rebuke silently, 
 Harry began to be alarmed at the effect he had produced. 
 
 “ You are not angry with me, are you, darling? You 
 look as if I had been scolding you, as if we had changed 
 places. ” 
 
 “Changed places, Harry!” cried she, looking up in as- 
 tonishment. 
 
 She had already forgotten the long period during which 
 she had looked upon her husband as a tiresome, unreason- 
 able child. 
 
 “ Yes, when I was getting well at the Grange you didn’t 
 always treat me with proper respect, I fancy,” said he, 
 flushing, but looking down into her eyes rather mischiev- 
 ously. 
 
 “ Oh, ah — then you were ill!” she said, blushing too. 
 
 The last words she said to her husband as the train went 
 off were: 
 
 “Remember you are not to be with me later than four. 
 Promise.” 
 
 “All right; I promise.” 
 
234 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 And, trying to look as if her mind was at ease, Annit 
 gave him a last smiling “ Good bye,” as the train started. 
 
 On arriving in town, she drove straight to the house 
 where Stephen lodged, and, finding that he was out, she 
 sat down in the sitting-room to wait for him. Long ere 
 this an explanation of the cripple’s cruel and deceitful con- 
 duct had occurred to her, and it seemed more and more 
 probable to her, as she satin the shabby sitting-room, with 
 its low, weather-stained ceiling and ill-papered walls. Evi- 
 dently the money wjiich he had kept back from her he 
 had not spent upon himself; it must have gone where her 
 jewelry had gone, and Harry’s flowers — to Muriel West. 
 Annie knew well to what depths of meanness he would de- 
 scend in his devotion to a woman, for she remembered 
 with what dogged and disinterested fidelity he had ful- 
 filled every command, every wish of his cousin Lilian in 
 the old days at the Grange, before her marriage with Mr. 
 Falconer. In spite of her contempt for a man who could 
 stoop to such acts, Annie was touched by the cripple’s hap- 
 less attachment, and a great pity filled her heart as she 
 heard the slow thud, thud of his crutch upon the staircase. 
 Her compassion deepened when the door opened and 
 Stephen stood before her, wild-eyed and pale with a pallor 
 which was like that of death. She sat quite still for an in- 
 stant, unable to speak, unable to express what she felt at 
 the dreadful change in his appearance. 
 
 But when she rose very softly and held out a hand to 
 him, she discovered, to her horror, that he still stared 
 blankly in front of him, making no sign. He did not see 
 her. 
 
 “Stephen,” said she, in a low voice. 
 
 He started, and for the first time knew that he was not 
 alone. 
 
 “ Annie!” he said apathetically. “ It is you, is it?” 
 
 With mechanical courtesy, he moved forward feebly 
 and offered her a chair; but she took his hand and led 
 him very gently to the hard little sofa, and made him 
 sit down beside her there. She thought the feeling which 
 had evidently overmastered him must be remorse for 
 his conduct toward her and her husband, and she tried 
 to think of the sweetest words she could to soothe his dis- 
 tress. 
 
 “ It makes me very unhappy to see how deeply you are 
 suffering,” said she. “ If I had known you would feel it 
 so much, I would have come before.” 
 
 He played idly with his crutch, not in the least moved 
 by her words. 
 
 “ It would have made no difference,” said he, in $ dqll, 
 
 cold tone. 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 235 
 
 11 Oh, but I think it would ! I would not have let you 
 think so much about it !” 
 
 “How could you help that?” said he, turning upon her 
 his lusterless eyes. “ I tell you I was not rich enough, and 
 she would have thrown me over just the same!” 
 
 Annie started. He was thinking no more of the wrong 
 he had done her than if it had been a deed of a hundred 
 years back. But she was not angry. Her pity rose higher 
 than ever for this unhappy man, who had sacrificed all, 
 even to his honesty, for the sake of a woman who did not 
 care a straw for him now that she had got from him all he 
 had to give. 
 
 “Stephen, I am so very, very sorry for you,” said she, 
 in a quivering voice. 
 
 “Are you?” said he, waking for an instant into some- 
 thing more like life. “ And yet — you have no reason to 
 be.” 
 
 A feeling of shame seemed for the first time to come over 
 him as he realized whose sympathy it was that was offered 
 him ; and he drew his hand away from hers. 
 
 “ Every one has reason to be sorry for any one else who 
 is unhappy,” said she. “ And when you see that even I 
 can feel sympathy with you, you will see that you have 
 friends who are worth living for yet.” 
 
 “ Not I, not I,” murmured he, in a broken voice. “ There 
 is nothing left for me. She had promised to marry me — 
 she is not a lady by birth, you know, and I could have 
 made her one by position. I would have worked for her 
 — I have worked for her— I have done more. But I used 
 up all I had too fast — she saw I had no more ; she said, if 
 she married me, we should starve. And she looked at me 
 quite coldly with her beautiful eyes, and said she was not 
 well-educated enough to marry a gentleman— a gentleman ! 
 I, a poor cripple ! It was that — it is always that ! There 
 is no happiness, no love for me ; nothing but pity— wretched, 
 miserable, scornful pity, that stings me more than taunts, 
 more than hatred. She pitied me, I dare say, and laughed 
 at me, and let me go ;” and he broke down into incoherent 
 words and sobbing. 
 
 Annie tried bright words of encouragement, asked him 
 if he thought nothing of her friendship, of that of the 
 rest of his family ; but she spoke to deaf ears. When at 
 length she rose to go, he gave her his hand and said, but 
 still coldly : 
 
 “ Thank you. I shall be glad presently that you came. 
 It was good of you to come — generous— and I thank you. 
 If I had a long life before me, I would try to do you some 
 service ; but I am played out now, and there is not much 
 of my life left to run. Good-bye, Annie.” 
 
236 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 She could not stay. His last words were almost a Com- 
 mand to go. She had not mentioned her husband’s name. 
 She thought that, in the state of mind in which she was 
 leaving the cripple, the dread of an angry visitor might 
 make him desperate ; and she knew very well that, when 
 Harry saw the miserable condition to which his sensitive 
 cousin was reduced, he was no more likely to be unmerci- 
 ful than she had been. 
 
 But she could not shake off a foreboding that the meeting 
 between the cousins would be productive of evil, and she 
 reached home anxious and thoughtful. 
 
 Her misgivings were not without foundation. 
 
 Within an hour of her departure from Stephen’s lodg- 
 ing, Harry drove up in a hansom and was directed, as 
 his wife had been, to the little room on the top floor. He 
 entered with a very stern face and firm tread ; but the 
 sight of the cripple, lying half on the sofa, half on a chair, 
 in a state of utter prostration of body and mind, made him 
 pause. The other looked up at him without fear, without 
 feeling of any kind. 
 
 4 4 Do you know me?” asked Harry, abruptly. 
 
 “Yes; what do you want here?” 
 
 “ I want an explanation. If you do not feel fit to give it 
 to me now, I will come again. But I must have it, and 
 the less delay the better.” 
 
 “ Ask your wife, then. She has a better head than you, 
 and understands without so much talking. Go to her for 
 your explanations, and leave me in peace.” 
 
 “ Not yet. I want some reason for your stopping my let- 
 ters to her and her letters to me, for taking the presents 
 we intrusted to your care to be given to each other, and for 
 giving her money, my flowers, and even her jewelry to a 
 greedy, extravagant, worthless woman whom you couldn’t 
 satisfy if you had gold mines to give her. That is what I 
 want you to answer.” 
 
 The cripple had raised himself, his eyes glittering with 
 fury, and he sat frowning maliciously at his cousin until 
 the latter had finished his speech. 
 
 “ Then I won’t answer you, except to say this; you are 
 very good now, and look upon extravagance and waste as 
 very wicked things. But you haven’t been a saint so very 
 long that you can have forgotten that you yourself were 
 as greedy and worthless as any one I knew once, and that 
 you forged your father’s name to supply your own ex- 
 travagance, which, it seems to me, is worse than to stoop 
 to meanness for the sake of a woman you love and for 
 whom you would die.” 
 
 The last words he spoke in a low voice, looking straight 
 in front of him with his glittering, feverish eyes ; and his 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE. 287 
 
 hand moved restlessly toward his coat- pocket as he fin- 
 ished speaking. 
 
 “Look here!” said Harry, in a softer voice. “I don’t 
 want to be hard on you. I know I’ve done as bad things 
 myself, if not worse; and, if I’m a saint now, it’s the first 
 I’ve heard of it. But, if you’re so fond of this woman as 
 you say, I wonder how you could have the heart to play 
 Blich confoundedly nasty tricks with the love of another 
 man, and to such an angel as Annie, who had always been 
 kind to you too?” 
 
 “Your love? Your love was nothing to mine !” Stephen 
 burst out, contemptuously. “ A woman may have a place 
 in your heart; but your dogs and your horses fill the rest 
 of it. You are handsome, straight; if one woman will not 
 smile on you, another will; while I, who love sweet eyes 
 and fair faces with a passion you cannot dream of, can 
 only buy kindness from a woman by the ceaseless labor of 
 ministering to all her wants, all her caprices; and then, 
 when at last the time comes when I can give no more, I 
 am cast aside and forgotten for— for one of your sort, with 
 a pair of blue eyes that say nothing, and a head that can’t 
 put two ideas together. ” 
 
 The passionate bitterness of this speech moved Harry. 
 
 “It— it is rough on a fellow,” he murmured, in a low, 
 gruff voice. 
 
 But the pity in his tone woke the wretched man before 
 him to frenzy. 
 
 “ You can spare me your pity,” said he, fiercely. “All 
 our lives through you have got easily what I might work 
 myself to death for, and never get, after all. You always 
 got enjoyment, admiration, love; and, now you have 
 sobered down, you get respect, success, money. If you 
 had been in my place, Muriel would never have thrown 
 you over. She had seen you only once, at a supper- party, 
 months ago, at Beckham. Yet, when I met her in Lon- 
 don, she remembered your stupid, red face, and sent you 
 messages which I took care not to give you. But I will be 
 even with you at last ; the remedy I prepared for my own 
 wrongs will do as well for yours.” 
 
 And Stephen drew out from his breast, where his hand 
 had been hidden for some minutes, a revolver, and, aim- 
 ing before the other had time to realize his intention, fired 
 it at his cousin. 
 
 * * * * * * * 
 
 Four o’clock came, and still Annie waited for her hus- 
 band. He had promised so seriously, so many times, not 
 to be later than that hour that her impatience grew quickly 
 into anxiety as the time passed and still he did not appear. 
 At half past four, just as she was deciding that she could 
 

 A VAGRANT WIFE. 
 
 wait no longer, that she must go to Stephen’s lodging arid 
 find out what had detained him, she heard a knock at the 
 door, which, however, she recognized, to her bitter disap- 
 pointment, not as Harry’s but George’s. He had brought 
 William to see her, that young soldier having just ar- 
 rived in town, and being mad to have a glimpse of his old 
 play-fellow, and tell her how well he was getting on in his 
 profession. 
 
 Poor Annie could give but a mechanical show of interest 
 to the young fellow’s eager outpourings, and at last she 
 broke down. 
 
 “William, I cannot listen now,” she said, with tears in 
 her eyes. “ You know it is not for lack of interest; 
 
 but George,” she cried suddenly, turning to her elder 
 
 brother-in-law, “ Harry has gone to see Stephen, angrier 
 than I ever saw him before. I can’t tell you why now. 
 But Harry and I are reconciled. It seems you knew all 
 about his being at Kirby Park. You might have told me! 
 And he promised to be with me at four o’clock,” she went 
 on, growing more and more excited and incoherent. 
 “ You see it is a quarter to five, and he is not here! He 
 was very angry ; and I am afraid something has happened. 
 I must go and see !” 
 
 There was no restraining her. In ten minutes they were 
 all three on the way to Stephen’s lodging. As they ap- 
 proached the house, George caught sight of something 
 from the cab-window which made him turn suddenly to 
 his sister-in law and advise her to return while he went in 
 and spoke to Harry. 
 
 She saw the alarm in his eyes, and, steadying herself to 
 speak calmly, she refused. So the cab stopped; and then 
 Annie saw that there was a rough crowd outside the house 
 and a policeman keeping the people away from the door. 
 George sprung out ; but she followed so closely behind him 
 that she caught the policeman’s answer to his low-voiced 
 question : 
 
 “ What is the matter?” 
 
 “Man shot, I believe, sir.” 
 
 Annie kept quite still, quite calm, while George induced 
 the policeman to let them pass in; and, as soon as the door 
 was opened, she slipped past her brother-in-law, who had 
 not known she was so close, and flew first up the stairs, 
 swiftly and silently as a bird. 
 
 “ He has broken his word to me,” she thought in agony, 
 
 “ He has scattered all our happiness; and now Oh, 
 
 where is he? I dare not go in! Perhaps already they 
 have led him away to— prison. Oh, Harry, Harry !” 
 
 She was standing outside the door of the sitting room, 
 which was shut. She seemed to hear a noise of low voices : 
 
A VAGRANT *WIFE t 
 
 289 
 
 but she was not sure that it was not the singing in her 
 own ears. At last, with cold, weak fingers, she turned the 
 handle and went in. 
 
 The only figure in the room was that of the cripple, lying 
 motionless on the sofa. 
 
 Brought thus abruptly into what she believed to be the 
 presence of a dead man, Annie tottered to the table for 
 support, her face white and damp with horror ; but Stephen 
 turned, raised his head and confronted her; and she gave 
 a low cry of relief when she saw that he was alive. 
 
 “Then Harry has not hurt you?” she whispered falter- i 
 ingly. 
 
 “ No,” said the cripple, 44 it was not he. You will never 
 forgive me, Annie ; you will hate me. I shot him !” 
 
 Annie did not cry this time, did not even start; she stood 
 tapping with her fingers upon the table, struck suddenly 
 into utter numbness. She did not feel his trembling hands 
 clinging to her mantle as he fell at her feet and implored 
 her to speak to him, to scold him, and not to stand before 
 him as if his words had killed her. She did not hear the 
 door of the bedroom open or feel the touch of a stranger’s 
 hand. But the new-comer was a doctor; and, when she 
 woke presently from the sort of stupor which had seized 
 her, he said, quietly : 
 
 “Now, Mrs. Braithwaite, if you will remain calm, you 
 shall see your husband.” 
 
 “ I am calm,” she said, simply. 
 
 She could not have cried, or moaned, or lamented her 
 fate, if her life had depended upon her showing some emo- 
 tion. 
 
 So he led her into the next room ; and there, not dead, 
 but sitting in a faded chintz armchair, with his left arm 
 bound up, was Harry. It was then that her calmness gave 
 way. She was not very demonstrative indeed over the 
 passion of joy which lit up and transfigured her whole 
 face ; but she fell upon her knees by the side of his chair, 
 shaking from head to feet. 
 
 “ I thought — you were — killed !” whispered she. 
 
 “ Why, my poor darling, who told you so?” he asked, 
 tenderly. 
 
 “I shall never forgive Stephen!” she hissed, clinching 
 her teeth. 
 
 4 4 Yes, you will, Annie. He is to be pitied, not I— only we 
 musn’t tell him that. He hasn’t even hurt me much — the 
 arm is not broken ; the only danger possible to me through 
 it was loss of blood ; and, if I keep quiet, I shall be all right 
 again in no time. Is that George’s voice I hear in thq 
 next room?” 
 
 44 Yes; he came with me and William,” 
 
240 
 
 r A VA&RANT WIFE . 
 
 “I must get William to come down with me to Kirby 
 Park for a day or two till I can ride again. He’ll be very 
 glad to come and I to have him. If I had to stay indoors 
 alone, I think I should throw myself off the roof.” 
 
 “ Oh, Harry, won’t you have me?” Annie asked, in piti- 
 ful entreaty. 
 
 “ Why, how can I, my darling? 1 know you won’t 
 break your engagement at the theater.” 
 
 “No; but I’ll go down to Kirby Park every night after 
 the performance, and come back each evening in time to 
 dress for the theater.” 
 
 “ But won’t that tire you too much, Annie? It is more 
 than an hour’s journey by train,” he said; but his eyes 
 flashed at the proposal. 
 
 “Why,” said Annie, shyly, laughing a little, “I wanted 
 to do so all the time. I thought of it yesterday ; but then 
 I decided to wait until you asked me; and, after all,” she 
 added, with mock petulance. “I’ve had to ask myself.” 
 
 So that night, after the performance, Annie, escorted by 
 George, who had made what excuses he could for not hav- 
 ing revealed to her that he had heard of Harry’s residence 
 at Kirby Park, drove to Waterloo, where she found Will- 
 iam and her husband. The three went down to Kirby 
 Park together by the last train, very tired, especially 
 Annie, but very happy. 
 
 The next day she and William had a walk together, 
 while Harry was holding a business interview in the li- 
 brary ; but William found that it was not quite like the 
 old time at the Grange. 
 
 “ Hasn’t it improved Harry to have something to do?” 
 said the young wife proudly. 
 
 “Oh, he’s well enough!” said William, without enthu- 
 siasm. “But there’s a sad falling off in you, Annie. 
 You’re quite spoiled for a sister-in-law. Why, now, when 
 anything amuses you, you look first at Harry!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 More than six years have passed since the night when 
 Annie returned with her husband to Kirby Park, and there 
 are Braith waites once more at Garstone Grange. For 
 Harry, with a wise and loving wife at his side to comfort 
 him in failure, encourage him in effort, and rejoice with 
 him in success, has worked on in the career best suited to 
 him and prospered, while she too, has striven successfully 
 4n her profession until the time has come on which the 
 hopes of both have for years been fixed, and they have 
 bought back the old home of Harry’s boyhood, where alsg 
 
A VAGRANT WIFE . 241 
 
 so many of the stormy events of their early wedded life 
 took place. 
 
 It is Christmas time, their first Christmas since their 
 return to the Grange ; and Annie and her husband are ex- 
 pecting some welcome guests to celebrate this event and 
 Annie’s final renunciation of her ambition for that entire 
 devotion to home and husband which has now become her 
 chief delight. For Annie has left the stage, with its strug- 
 gles, its failures, and its triumphs, forever, not without 
 some regrets at bidding farewell to old friends, old usages, 
 and a life which had had many pleasures for her; but with 
 new happiness in the thought that she can now devote 
 herself more entirely than before to the husband and chil- 
 dren in whom all her affection is centered. For in the long, 
 dim picture-gallery where Harry saw the demure little 
 governess playing battledoor and shuttlecock years ago 
 two fair-haired boys are laughing and shouting at play. 
 Their father is rather disappointed that they have his own 
 blue eyes and curly, fair hair, and he is in great anxiety 
 lest they should grow up like him in mind, instead of being 
 “ clever” like their mother; but Annie is troubled with no 
 such fears, and is quite contented with her boys as they 
 are. 
 
 Two more Braith waites lie in the family vault in Gar- 
 stone Churchyard. The first to go to his rest was Stephen, 
 who lived but very few months after that miserable scene 
 in which he shot his cousin in his desperate wretchedness. 
 Those months were the most peaceful of his unhappy life, 
 for he passed them at Kirby Park, to which Annie had 
 herself gently persuaded him to come. She never wearied 
 in her patient devotion to him, in her attention to his 
 wants, in her bright endeavors to amuse and please him. 
 Harry seconded her efforts with gentleness which was 
 touching in the big, strong man ; and the cripple’s feelings 
 were too strong and his penetration too keen for him not 
 to appreciate rightly every kind act and tone in the people 
 about him. 
 
 Wilfred lies in the vault too; he was killed by a fall 
 from his horse in the hunting-field in the winter following 
 the sale of the Grange, and they buried him beside his 
 father and cousin. 
 
 A better fate is in store for the youngest brother, Will- 
 iam. “The child” is now Captain Braith waite, and his 
 letters to Garstone are full of references to the loveliest girl 
 that ever was seen and mysterious hints that he has a sur- 
 
 E rise in store for them— from which and a certain inco- 
 erency of style in his letters Annie does not need much 
 penetration to decide that he is going to be married. 
 
 Sir George passes most of the year in chambers in town, 
 
242 
 
 A VAGRANT WIFE . 
 
 and has never found the courage to begin a new battle 
 with fate; he is still unmarried, and there seems every 
 probability that the title will pass in course of time to 
 Harry and his eldest son. 
 
 He and William are now at the Grange to spend Christ- 
 mas with Harry and his wife; they are all expecting two 
 other guests, for whom the warmest welcome of all has 
 been prepared. Lady Braithwaite, growing old now, and 
 reconciled to her daughter-in law at last, is about to return 
 to the home where her wedded life was passed, never t > 
 leave it again until the time comes for her too to sleep 
 peacefully by her husband’s side in Garstone Churchyard ; 
 and Lilian is coming with her to spend a week at the old 
 home. 
 
 The winter sun is setting when Annie, on the alert for the 
 sound of wheels, starts up from her seat in the morning- 
 room and goes out on to the doorstep with William and 
 George to receive Lady Braithwaite and her daughter, 
 whom Harry had gone to meet at Beckham Station. 
 Harry, who jumps out of the carriage first, gives way to 
 his elder brother, and it is on Sir George’s arm that the 
 stately old lady leans as she steps down from the carriage 
 and meets her daughter-in-law. Lilian follows. She is 
 thin and pale, and looks much older than Annie, who has 
 recovered almost all the beauty of the shy little governess 
 of eighteen who first attracted the attention of the wild 
 Grange boys more than ten years ago. Lilian’s love of 
 excitement and pleasure has told upon her health ; she is 
 not exactly an unhappy woman or an unloving wife ; but 
 her passionate nature has found something wanting in life, 
 and in the eagerness of a vain search for it she has grown 
 old before her time. 
 
 When they are all together in the drawing-room after 
 dinner, and the little boys, having begun to make them- 
 selves obnoxious by playing at ball over their grand- 
 mother’s head, have been kissed and sent to bed, the talk 
 turns to town and what is going on there. 
 
 “ Oh, Annie, have you heard of the success of your old 
 friend Aubrey Cooke?” asks Lilian. “ I went to see him 
 in this new piece in which they say he is so good, and I 
 never felt myself so entirely carried away by any acting 
 before. Everybody says he will be the greatest actor of 
 the day.” 
 
 “Ah, I thought I was going to be the greatest actress 
 once!” Annie says, rather slowly. 
 
 “ Then he has fulfilled his ambition, and you have given 
 up yours unfulfilled. Don’t you regret it just a little? 
 .Come— be candid !” 
 
 Lilian speaks in a low voice, meant only for her sister- 
 
> A VAGRANT WIFE. 243 
 
 in-law’s ear. Annie hesitates, looking down at the fire with 
 an expression which it is not easy to read. 
 
 She is startled by finding her husband’s hand laid quietly 
 on her shoulder. He has overheard these last words of 
 Lilian’s, notices his wife’s reluctance to answer, and leaves 
 his seat to speak to her. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Are you sorry you are not the wife of a great actor in- 
 stead of a plain country gentleman, Annie?” 
 
 “ No, not in the least; I never thought of such a thing.” 
 “ Then why are you looking so thoughtful?” 
 
 “Any news of people one has known well and lost sight 
 of sets one thinking.”” 
 
 “ I could give you some more news of him but that I am 
 afraid it would make you sad.” 
 
 “ Never mind ; I should like to hear it. Go on.” 
 
 “ His home-life is a very unhappy one. They say he ill- 
 treats his wife; I know they are never seen together. 
 George told me all about it yesterday ; but I did not tell 
 you, because I knew it would pain you. However, it is 
 something for him to have satisfied his ambition, and you 
 see he has done that.” 
 
 “ While I have let mine go ” 
 
 “Just to settle down into a mere quiet wife and mother. 
 Is that what you are thinking? Do you regret it, Annie?” 
 She turns her soft, dark eyes, bright in the glow of the 
 firelight, toward him, with her head raised proudly. 
 
 “ No, no: I have never regretted it— I never shall. My 
 ambition was very strong, but I did not throw it away ; I 
 kept it and clung to it until it was swallowed up in some- 
 thing stronger still; and I think you can guess what that 
 is.” 
 
 Talk and laughter are going on brightly round them 
 among the members of the reunited family gathered round 
 the glowing fire. Harry does not answer his wife in 
 words ; but the firm pressure of his hand as it clasps hers 
 unseen by the rest tells her that he understands that the 
 passion which had absorbed all others in the brilliant act- 
 ress and the true-hearted woman is her love for him. 
 
 [THE END.] 
 
DAISY DARRELL 
 
 By LAURA G FORD 
 
 Copyrighted by NORMAN L. MUNRO, 1885. 
 
 CHAPTER I. 
 
 “some day the tables will turn.” 
 
 Pinelands, the country residence of Colonel James Fitz- 
 gerald, was ablaze with light without and within. 
 
 Gleaming chandeliers hung from the ceiling of the 
 stately halls and parlors; and gleaming lanterns hung 
 from the branches of the great, somber pines on the lawn. 
 
 It was a fete given in honor of the twenty-first birthday 
 of Miss Geraldine Fitzgerald, the sole daughter of the 
 house, and the acknowledged beauty of the country for 
 miles and miles around Pinelands. 
 
 Her father, a widower, who was still a handsome and 
 comparatively young man, being on the sunny side of 
 forty -five, was exceedingly proud of her, as he was also of 
 his only other child, a son of fifteen years of age, who an- 
 swered to the name of Harry. 
 
 It was early in the evening, and the guests had not be- 
 gun yet to arrive, and Miss Fitzgerald’s toilet was not 
 quite completed. 
 
 She was seated before a large mirror in her room, and 
 her lustrous black eyes often turned to catch the pleasing 
 reflection of herself, while her glistening black hair was 
 being arranged by a girl who was in many respects the 
 opposite of herself. This girl was in age about sixteen 
 years. 
 
 Her name was Daisy Darrell . 
 
 She was small and plump, and comical dimples came 
 into her round cheeks as she puckered her lips. She was 
 blue-eyed, and flaxen-haired, and she, too, was exquisitely 
 beautiful. 
 
 But the blue eyes had a steely glitter in them, and the 
 
Daisy darreld 
 
 delicate sea-shell complexion was dashed with red, and her 
 arched brows were drawn in a way suggestive of anger. 
 
 The slender fingers trembled also, as if with the power 
 of some inward tumult, which caused them to be some- 
 what ungentle in their touch, perhaps, on the long, black 
 hair, for Miss Fitzgerald suddenly Knotted her face and 
 spoke sharply : 
 
 “ Be more careful, Daisy. You tug at my hair as if you 
 were twisting a rope.” 
 
 The color deepened on Daisy Darrell’s face, and she 
 caught her under lip in an ill-natured grimace between her 
 small white teeth, but she uttered not a word in response. 
 Yet her hands ceased their nervous haste, and she com- 
 pleted the arrangement of the beauty’s hair without calling 
 forth any further reproof. 
 
 She also deftly laced on the white satin dress, which so 
 perfectly fitted the faultless figure, and then fastened the 
 scarlet blossoms in the jet-black hair and at the graceful 
 throat, and then she folded her arms and stood aside with 
 childish disdain. Geraldine Fitzgerald, gleaming in satin, 
 and glittering in diamonds, surveyed herself in the mirror. 
 
 She was intensely vain, as was evinced by the proud 
 consciousness of her look, and by a question she put to 
 Daisy Darrell. 
 
 “ Did you ever see me look more beautiful than I do to- 
 night, Daisy Darrell ?” 
 
 “You would be a very ugly woman if that costume did 
 not make you look handsome,” the girl retorted sharply. 
 “Dress is everything — even 1 would be presentable if I 
 was fixed up in that style !” 
 
 There was an unmistakable ring of discontent and .of 
 envy in her voice, which Miss Fitzgerald must havo 
 noticed, for she said contemptuously, turning herself be- 
 fore the mirror, and shaking out the folds of her snowy 
 robe: 
 
 “ I expect you will always have to depend on your im- 
 agination as to how you will look in a costume like this, 
 as it isn’t at all probable that you will ever appear in such 
 an one. Poor people don’t usually appear in such dresses, 
 even when their rich relations are generous enough to give 
 them a home and provide for them, as my father does for 
 you. And you are by no means as grateful as you should 
 be for the favor.” 
 
 The last sentence was spoken in a tone of great dignity 
 and severity, and having uttered it, Miss Geraldine Fitz- 
 gerald caught up her fan and lace handkerchief from the 
 marble slab of the dresser, and hurried out of the room- 
 hearing the roll of carriage wheels on the drive outside^ 
 announcing the arrival of the first guests. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 3 
 
 Left alone, Daisy Darrell flung herself into a chair and 
 burst into a passion of tears, muttering spitefully between 
 her sobs, like a vexed child : 
 
 4k Not as grateful as I should be for the favor, ain’t I? 
 No— I am not grateful — not the least bit in the world — for 
 the privilege of being your servant* Geraldine Fitzgerald ; 
 of coming at your call, and going at your beck ! It is very 
 generous, forsooth, in your father to give food and shelter 
 to his sister’s orphan child — and to shut his eyes to the 
 fact that she never appears in the parlor, is never presented 
 to his daughter’s guests as her kinswoman and equal in 
 blood! No; I am not grateful for that favor, Geraldine 
 Fitzgerald. In fact, I am very ungrateful for such at- 
 tentions as I receive in this house, as you may find some 
 day, my haughty cousin ! Some day the tables will turn!” 
 
 She uttered the prophecy with clinched hands and teeth, 
 and through a paroxysm of tears. 
 
 Daisy Darrell was not bad at heart— she was not even 
 unamiable, but at that moment all the evil of her nature 
 had come to the surface, for she was a young girl, and 
 there was a ball in the house, the gayety of which she was 
 permitted only to see and to hear from a distance, but by 
 no means to enter into. 
 
 The first strains of music floated up to her, and she 
 sprung to her feet. 
 
 ‘ 4 Oh, when my day does come ! when the tables do turn P 
 she aspirated. 
 
 And then she dried her eyes on her white muslin sleeve, 
 and went from the room and from the house. 
 
 She stole to an open window and halted under a pine 
 tree whose solemn branches drooped protectingly over 
 her. 
 
 Standing there, obscured by trailing vines, Daisy Darrell 
 peered in through the lace curtains on the ball. 
 
 It was a brilliant scene over which the chandelier poured 
 a flood of golden light. There were gleaming silks and 
 glittering jewels ; there were bright faces and sparkling 
 eyes ; there were strains of seductive music, and there was 
 the fall of glancing feet keeping time to it as the dancers 
 floated and wheeled gracefully to and fro. 
 
 Daisy Darrell’s lips parted and her breath came flutter' 
 ingly through them. Unconsciously her own feet moved 
 on the dew-damp grass, keeping time to the music. 
 
 A couple — by far the most graceful of all that graceful 
 throng — floated near to the window in the bewildering 
 waltz, and they caught and held the eyes of Daisy Darrell. 
 
 They were Geraldine Fitzgerald and a tall, handsome 
 young gentleman — and Geraldine was looking up into his 
 eyes, and he was looking down into her§ ? 
 
4 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 “I wonder who he is ?” Daisy muttered, the light dying 
 out of her face, and the look of discontent which it had 
 worn when she first stole to the spot coming into it again 
 — “I suppose it is Clifford Bancroft, the wealthy New 
 Yorker she met at Long Branch last month, and whom 
 shelias been raving about ever since.” 
 
 She said nothing more, but the look of discontent no 
 more left her face as she stood there, and her feet no longer 
 kept time to the seductive music. 
 
 Her bright blue eyes watched those two as they floated 
 about in the mazes of the waltz, and she noticed with grow- 
 ing bitterness, which had an unacknowledged touch of 
 envy in it, that the dreamy black eyes of the young man 
 looked always tenderly down into the lustrous orbs of his 
 beautiful partner. 
 
 “She has everything,” Daisy Darrell said, muttering 
 the words through her small teeth — “ pleasure, and money 
 and love, and I have nothing — nothing! I don’t even 
 have the life of a petted spaniel ! No— I don’t !” 
 
 Whereupon, overcome by the immensity of her own 
 desolation, the orphan dropped down on the ground, and 
 hiding her face m the dew- wet grass she began to sob 
 bitterly. 
 
 There were merry voices and merry laughter floating 
 constantly through the open windows, but she heard them 
 in a meaningless way ; heard them as she did the sound of 
 the wind in the pine branches overhead, without paying 
 any heed to them. So she was not aware that a step was 
 approaching her ; she did not notice the odor of the fra- 
 grant cigar that the owner of the step was smoking, and 
 she started up with a smothered exclamation as the coming 
 feet unconsciously brushed against her. A young gentle- 
 man, quite as much surprised at the encounter as herself 
 evidently, suddenly halted beside her, looking down at her 
 in the uncertain light with startled black eyes. 
 
 “I beg your pardon,” he said confusedly, his gentle 
 manly self-possession being completely put to flight by the 
 astonishment at her unsuspected presence, “ I had no idea 
 of meeting a young lady out here.” 
 
 “ I have no idea that youjdid,” the young lady responded, 
 in a half-defiant, half -amused tone, “so it was a waste 
 of breath to say so.” 
 
 She had arisen with a leap to her feet, and stood before 
 him looking up into his face with her saucy blue eyes, on 
 the lashes of which two drops of the copious tear-fall she 
 had been indulging in still hung, sparkling, as he could see 
 by the light of the lantern swinging from the tree bough 
 above her, like fine diamonds. “And I certainly had no 
 
DAISY DARRELL* 5 
 
 expectation of meeting a young gentleman out here,” she 
 added. 
 
 He smiled slightly, showing a row of strong white teeth 
 under his heavy mustache, and dropping his cigar to lift 
 the tall silk hat from his curling black; hair, he said : 
 
 4 4 Permit me to introduce myself. I am Clifford Ban- 
 croft — a sort of a make-believe lawyer who boasts a pre- 
 tentious sign, and an unpretentious practice in the city of 
 New York. Will you honor me by mentioning your own 
 name ?” 
 
 44 NO, I won’t,” she responded, doggedly, knitting her 
 low, white brow petulantly. 44 1 am much less pretentious 
 than your practice, however humble it may be, and it 
 isn’t any use to tell you my name — for it isn’t likely that 
 you will ever hear it again from the lips of any one else.” 
 
 There was, as he noticed, a great deal of bitterness in 
 her fresh, girlish voice, and he looked steadily down into 
 her uplifted face, with a world of curiosity in his hand- 
 some eyes. 
 
 44 If you will not tell me your name, you will at least let 
 me conduct you into the parlor, won’t you?” he said; 44 the 
 music is again beginning.” 
 
 In the radiance coming through the window near which 
 they were standing, and from the Chinese lanterns swing- 
 ing over her head, Daisy Darrell directed his eyes by a gest- 
 ure of her hand to the crumpled and grass-stained muslin 
 dress. 
 
 44 This is an elegant costume to appear in Miss Fitzger- 
 ald’s parlor, isn’t it?” she said, with a little, harsh laugh. 
 44 But for all its untidiness, it would be considered less out 
 of place in that aristocratic crowd than I would. Why, 
 your ears and mine would be boxed for the impertinence.” 
 
 Still gazing curiously down into her piquant face with 
 its flush of anger and defiance, he asked : 
 
 44 Tell me something of yourself, please. Tell me where 
 you live?” 
 
 44 If to live means to have any pleasure,” she responded, 
 a hint of tears coming into her voice and into her eyes 
 also, as he could easily discover, 44 then I don’t live any- 
 where. I am just a little nobody, that’s all.” 
 
 At that instant a white and an exceedingly delicate 
 hand, sparkling with diamonds, drew aside the lace cur- 
 tain, and Miss Fitzgerald’s beautiful head appeared be- 
 tween the folds. 
 
 Daisy Darrell shrank into the shadow, and then with 
 fleet steps disappeared around the house without being 
 seen by her cousin. 
 
 44 Do you prefer solitude to our sweet society, Mr. Ban- 
 
6 
 
 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 croft,” Geraldine exclaimed, seeing the young gentleman 
 standing there alone. 
 
 He turned with a smile and stepped into the room 
 through the low window. 
 
 “Don’t charge me with possessing such bad taste,” he 
 said, and added, with a curiously intent look coming into 
 his dreamy eyes: 
 
 “Yet it is in moments of solitude that the greatest dis- 
 coveries are made. Who knows but that I came upon 
 something out there to-night that will make or mar my in- 
 dividual fortune — if it doesn’t turn the world upside down !” 
 
 Before Geraldine could reply, a sharp shriek pierced the 
 night outside, and echoed in the dancing-hall, ringing out 
 shrilly above the swelling music, and seeming to paralyze 
 the merry-makers with sudden dismay ! 
 
 The cry had evidently come from a woman — and a 
 woman in dire affright or distress— and as the music crashed 
 into silence, many of the crowd hurried out into the lawn 
 to ascertain the cause of that startling disturbance. 
 
 Foremost among those were Clifford Bancroft and Geral- 
 dine Fitzgerald, who went simply because he did. But he 
 was urged forward by deep anxiety, for he could not help as- 
 sociating the shriek with the pretty, flaxen-haired young 
 girl he had found lying and weeping so passionately under 
 the pine tree, so short a time before, the young girl who 
 had taken so strong a hold on his fancy. 
 
 CHAPTER II. 
 
 “angel or devil?” 
 
 When Daisy Darrell flitted so swiftly out of Clifford 
 Bancroft’s sight, she ran into the deep shadows of the pine 
 trees, with no aim in view except to be alone. 
 
 “ I will pout myself into a good humor,” she said to her- 
 self, as she sank down on a rustic bench under a great tree ; 
 “ I am awfully mad now.” 
 
 But suddenly she sprung up with that sharp shriek which 
 had reached the ears of the merry-makers in the dancing- 
 hall. 
 
 As Daisy had thrown herself petulantly on the seat, a 
 great, fiery serpent had suddenly fallen from the branches 
 overhead, and had shone, writhing and hissing, three feet 
 from her face. 
 
 It hung suspended queerly in the air. 
 
 She started up, and began to run fleetly toward the 
 house, when a ringing peal of boyish laughter fell on her 
 ears, and the voice of her wild cousin, Harry Fitzgerald, 
 called her name. 
 
 Instantly a conviction of the truth flashed over her, that 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 7 
 
 she had been the victim of one of his ingenious pranks, 
 and she immediately paused and stood looking curiously 
 but disdainfully at the fiery serpent, which by this time 
 was lying prone on the grass a few yards away. 
 
 “ Whom do you suppose you frightened, Master Harry?” 
 she called out, contemptuously; and an impudent voice 
 from the tree above responded : 
 
 “ I frightened you — I scared you nearly to death ! Why, 
 you yelled like a panther, and just because you saw some 
 bits of ‘fox-fire’ strung together on wire. You’re a brave 
 girl, you are !” he added, derisively. 
 
 She was about to retort indignantly, but the sound of 
 other voices fell on her ears. 
 
 Some of the dancers, attracted by her wild outcry, had 
 evidently sallied out to search for the cause. 
 
 She sprung forward, and picking up the mock serpent, 
 she ran away with it, and hid in the hollow trunk of a 
 great, gnarled catalpa-tree, from which place of retreat 
 she heard the wondering comments of those who were 
 searching over the grounds. 
 
 “ It was nothing but the baying of some small dog,” she 
 heard a masculine voice assert, 44 and in the noise of the 
 music and dancing it was sufficiently indistinct to resem- 
 ble a human voice. Let us go hack to the house. 4 On 
 with the dance; let joy be unconfined.’ ” 
 
 There was a general assent to the explanation, and also 
 to the proposition, as Daisy was glad to discover, for she 
 could not venture from her uncomfortable position in the 
 tree-trunk without being detected, and subjected to un- 
 pleasant questioning, as long as they wandered over the 
 grounds. 
 
 She peered cautiously out of her hiding-place to see if 
 the coast was clear. 
 
 The crowd were returning to the house in twos and 
 threes, but she saw, with chagrin, that one couple had 
 resolved not to follow their example. 
 
 In the very faint light she saw them seat themselves on 
 the rustic bench from which she had been terrified a short 
 time before. 
 
 “I hope they’ll catch the sneezes before they’ve been 
 there five minutes, and leave, for both my feet are going 
 to sleep here. Ugh !” she muttered to herself. 
 
 But the damp night-air did not seem to have any bad 
 effect upon them, for they sat there talking together for 
 at least fifteen minutes, and poor Daisy’s aching limbs 
 were growing numb. 
 
 44 I’ll scare them away!” she said desperately to herself; 
 Whereupon, without taking time to reconsider her resolve, 
 
8 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 she sent the fiery serpent flying through the air toward 
 them. 
 
 It fell around the neck of the lady, who was Miss Ger- 
 aldine Fitzgerald, and she rent the air with such a succes- 
 sion of piercing shrieks, that Daisy was stricken with dis- 
 may on hearing them, and she sprung from the tree and ran 
 away as fast as her numb feet would permit. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft, who was the gentleman ih company 
 with Miss Fitzgerald, snatched the mock serpent from her 
 neck and held it up before her, saying, soothingly : 
 
 “It is only a piece of decayed, phosphorescent wood; 
 see, it cannot hurt you. But it was cruel to throw it on 
 you. Wait here an instant.” 
 
 Without heeding her expostulations against being left 
 alone, or possibly without hearing them, he started in 
 pursuit of the culprit, whom he had detected rushing away 
 from the catalpa tree. 
 
 In a minute he caught a glimpse of her white garments 
 in the darkness, and with a few swift strides he had come 
 up with her, and his grasp was on her arm. 
 
 “ I have caught youl” he exclaimed. 
 
 “ I think you’ll be apt to let me go again,” she responded 
 defiantly, “unless you are willing to stand here all night 
 and catch your death of cold. For I won’t be taken alive 
 before Miss Fitzgerald to be scolded by her. I have had 
 enough of that already.” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft stooped down and peered into her face 
 in the uncertain light. 
 
 “It is you?” he said. “Who are you, you little fire- 
 brand?” 
 
 “I may be, as you say, a little fire-brand. Miss Ger- 
 aldine Fitzgerald calls me ‘ a devil ’ when she’s in a bad 
 humor. So you had better not keep company with me,” 
 she responded, saucily. 
 
 So saying, she wrenched her arm from his detaining 
 grasp, and now that the young blood had begun to course 
 with its usual freedom through her limbs, she ran away 
 with the swiftness of a lap-wing, and he stood staring at 
 the spot from which she had disappeared. 
 
 “ Angel or devil, she is the most interesting, the most be- 
 wildering little vision that ever flitted before me,” he mut- 
 tered. 
 
 And then he returned to Miss Fitzgerald, who still re- 
 mained where he had left her. 
 
 “ Your shrieks are again bringing the crowd from the 
 ball-room,” he said to her, offering her his arm. “ Let us 
 return and satisfy their curiosity by exhibiting the cause of 
 the terror/’ 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 9 
 
 He glanced with a smile at the serpent now hanging 
 limply on his left arm. 
 
 “Did you find out the villain who frightened me so?” she 
 asked, angrily, and he answered positively, and with a 
 singular emphasis : 
 
 “No; I did not — but I won’t leave Pinelands until I do!” 
 
 Miss Fitzgerald looked into his face with a smile. 
 
 “ It is a matter of no importance,” she said — not dream- 
 ing of what the future would develop. 
 
 That night there were two persons whose slumbers were 
 haunted by a face that had never flitted through their 
 dreams before. 
 
 Those two were Clifford Bancroft and Daisy Darrell, and 
 each dreamed of the other. 
 
 But Geraldine Fitzgerald saw in her sleep only the same 
 dark eyes that had looked through her own, into the very 
 center of her heart a few weeks before 4 4 on the beach at Long 
 Branch.” In her sleep she was thrilled by the echo, as it 
 were, of the same low, rich voice whose tender utterances 
 had trembled on her ear there. 
 
 No vows had ever been breathed between them, yet she 
 felt that he was hers, and she was his. 
 
 No thought that his love was not firmly fixed upon her, 
 came to disturb her. 
 
 She rested secure in the devotion which she believed she 
 had detected in his eyes and in his voice that night when 
 they had met again after a month’s separation. 
 
 “His father and mine were like brothers in their college 
 days,” she whispered to herself that night as she laid her 
 regal head on her pillow— “so it is the most natural thing 
 in the world that we, their children, should love each 
 other.” 
 
 And with a happy thrill at her heart she fell asleep to 
 dream all night long the most blissful things of Clifford 
 Bancroft. But the young lawyer all night long on his part 
 saw visions of flaxen hair, and tear-wet blue eyes, and 
 heard, or seemed to hear, a fresh, girlish voice uttering all 
 manner of defiant things, but never once did Geraldine 
 Fitzgerald, with her regal beauty, cross his mental vision. 
 Yet only the day before, he would have sworn that the 
 world held no woman who could stir his heart as she did ! 
 
 All night long Daisy Darrell in her dreams was wander- 
 ing under the whispering pine trees with the tender black 
 eyes of the handsome New Yorker upon her, and with his 
 low, rich voice speaking to her and telling her wonderful 
 things. 
 
 The summer morning crept into her little room and 
 awoke her— bringing the real to her, and putting the ideal 
 to flight r 
 
10 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 An ugly feeling took possession of her. A feeling of 
 bitterness and envy it was, such as she had experienced 
 the night before when looking in upon the waltzers. 
 
 It was by no means a natural condition of mind with 
 Miss Darrell, and even while indulging it she was ashamed 
 of it. But for all that, she did not try to banish it ; she 
 rather hugged it to her heart, and felt a sort of grim satis- 
 faction in knowing that she resented in her own mind the 
 indignities which she felt she was subjected to in that 
 house. 
 
 “I am nothing more than an upper servant,” she mut- 
 tered, snapping her eyes angrily, and tearing at her short, 
 curly hair, which she was arranging before the little mir- 
 ror — “ I ought to have told Mr. Bancroft that when he was 
 so anxious to find out who I was last night. If I ever see 
 him again — and of course I shall, as he is so much in love 
 with Miss Fitzgerald ” — here her voice, which had been 
 growing lighter, suddenly hardened — u I will tell him, if he 
 inquires who I am, that ! am only a servant here.” 
 
 She was in the habit of performing one service in the 
 morning which she would have done with infinite pleasure, 
 if it had not been exacted of her as a duty by her cousin, 
 and that was to gather and arrange the flowers in the par- 
 lors while the dew was still on them. She had a dainty 
 way of arranging them which Miss Fitzgerald liked, so 
 she had said to her: 
 
 “ I shall expect you to fix the flowers in the parlors every 
 morning; it is not much to expect of you, surely— con- 
 sidering ” 
 
 What the last word meant she did not say, but Daisy 
 understood her to allude to the favors she received there as 
 a poor dependent on her uncle’s bounty, and so it was with 
 something of the ill-grace of an irksome duty that she 
 culled and blended the rare, sweet flowers, rather than the 
 exquisite pleasure it would otherwise have been. 
 
 The morning after the ball, with scissors in hand, she 
 repaired as usual to the garden, and with her skirts caught 
 up on her arm so as to protect them from the dew, she was 
 busily employed in filling a large basket with flowers, 
 when the sound of a footstep behind her caused her to 
 glance hurriedly around. As she did so she let her skirts 
 fall over her pretty feet and ankles, and her face grew 
 crimson with mortification at the predicament in which 
 she had been found. 
 
 There, standing less than a yard from her, looking down 
 with an amused twinkle in his black eyes, was Clifford 
 Bancroft. 
 
 “ Good morning,” he said, lifting his hat and smiling, 
 ■‘you are an early bird,” 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 11 
 
 She was still flushed and embarrassed with a memory of 
 the little slippers and the several inches of pink stockings 
 which had been presented to his view in her efforts to pro- 
 tect her white skirts from the contaminating dew, but 
 nevertheless a roguish twinkle came into her eyes as she 
 responded saucily, “ The early bird catches the worm, you 
 know.” 
 
 The uncomplimentary allusion was pointed at himself in 
 a pretty, impertinent way that fairly riddled his heart, 
 which last night those same bright eyes had greatly dis- 
 turbed. 
 
 “ I am a worm that will not struggle against the captiv- 
 ity,” he said, drawing a step nearer to her, and looking 
 down into her uplifted face, which the gold of the morn- 
 ing sun brightened ; “ I surrender to the bird.” 
 
 There was so much of earnestness underlying the light 
 words that she turned her face away, ana bent over a 
 rosebush with the blush deepening on her cheeks, and the 
 golden lashes drooping quiveringly over her blue eyes. 
 
 “Last night you wouldn’t tell me your name,” he said, 
 watching her little hands as they twisted a rose from the 
 stem; “won’t you tell me this morning ?” 
 
 She turned her head, and glanced saucily up at him. 
 
 “What good will it do you to know my name?” she 
 asked. 
 
 “ I know it must be a pretty one,” he answered; “and 
 you shall not take a rose from that bush until you tell 
 me,” and he interposed his arm between her hands and 
 the blossoms, laughing triumphantly as she shrank away 
 from his near presence. 
 
 “ If I cared to keep it a secret, I wouldn’t tell you,” she 
 said, defiantly ; ‘ ‘ but I had as lief you should know it as 
 not. My name is Daisy Darrell.” 
 
 “Daisy Darrell,” he repeated. “It is a pretty name, 
 just as I knew it must be. Are you a visitor here?” 
 
 He was still bending over with his arm mechanically 
 stretched between herself and the laden rosebush, thus 
 guarding its blushing treasures from her rifling hands as 
 he put the question, but he sprung to an erect position 
 with ludicrous suddenness as she answered, with her blue 
 eyes looking steadily into his face: 
 
 “ I am a servant at Pinelands !” 
 
 If she had announced herself as being a disguised vam- 
 pire he could not have appeared more surprised and 
 shocked. 
 
 After that involuntary movement which had brought 
 him to an erect position before her, he stood very still for 
 nearly a minute, looking down into the defiant little face 
 
n DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 uplifted to his, as if he had been stricken dumb by astonish- 
 ment. 
 
 Whatever he might have said after the first shock of 
 surprise had worn off, can never be known, for just as he 
 unclosed his lips to speak, his name was called by his 
 father, a fine-looking old gentleman, who approached him, 
 with his arm linked in that of their host, Colonel Fitz- 
 gerald. 
 
 With her basket now full of dew sparkling flowers in one 
 hand, and her scissors in the other, Daisy turned and 
 walked hurriedly away, and Clifford, still feeling strangely 
 bewildered, joined the two old gentlemen in their prom- 
 enade. 
 
 The elder Bancroft linked his disengaged arm into that 
 of his son, and as the three moved abreast down the wide 
 shell walk, he said : 
 
 41 1 have been helping you out, my boy, in something that 
 I know is very near your heart. I have been negotiating 
 with my old friend here for a very great honor — for a very 
 precious gift. I ha ve been telling him about the confession 
 you made to me touching the state of your heart yesterday 
 morning, and he gives his full consent for you to woo and 
 win his daughter if you can.” 
 
 With his brain whirling, and his heart standing still, Clif- 
 ford heard those words. 
 
 In a bewildered way, he realized that Colonel Fitzgerald 
 had come around to his side, and his fatherly hand was on 
 his shoulder, and his fatherly voice was in his ear, saying : 
 
 “I pledge you my word, Clifford, that there is no man in 
 the world to whom I would as willingly give my daughter, 
 and I wish you success in your suit with her!” 
 
 He heard those words dumbly, and at the same time he 
 seemed to be hearing a sentence his own father had ut- 
 tered : 
 
 “ I have been telling him about the confession you made 
 to me touching the state of your heart yesterday morn- 
 ing.” 
 
 In a numb, drear way, the thought drifted through his 
 mind : 
 
 “Yesterday morning is not this morning. Yesterday 
 morning is dead and buried, never to be resurrected. This 
 morning is pulsing with life, is filled with new thoughts — 
 new purposes.” 
 
 He dimly realized that if Geraldine Fitzgerald was the 
 queen of yesterday, Daisy Darrell was the queen of 
 to-day. And Daisy Darrell, by her own confession, was 
 only a servant in Pinelands ! 
 
 But with these convictions over him, he smiled into the 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 18 
 
 faces of the oia gentlemen, and tacitly agreed to their plan 
 by saying only : 
 
 “You do me honor far above my deserts. ’ 
 
 And yet, even while saying that, his eyes were glancing 
 furtively about in search of the little white-robed figure 
 that had flitted away from him with a basket of dew-wet 
 flowers in one hand and a pair of scissors in the other. 
 
 CHAPTER III. 
 
 I SHALL BE SURE TO MEET YOU !” 
 
 While the three gentlemen were walking together in 
 the garden, talking upon indifferent topics — for out of deli- 
 cacy the proposed alliance, which the old men at least 
 seemed to be much pleased with, was not discussed at 
 length — the breakfast-bell sounded, and they turned their 
 steps to the house and entered the dining-room. 
 
 There they found Geraldine awaiting them, tall and 
 graceful and statuesque-looking in her flowing white 
 morning dress, and a conscious flush mounted both to her 
 face ana to Clifford’s as they bowed to each other. 
 
 What a beautiful woman she was, he thought, as she 
 took her place behind the coffee-urn; and how grandly she 
 Would grace the head of any man’s table! 
 
 A moment before entering the dining-room there had 
 been a sort of forlorn feeling over him ; but it had given 
 place to one of intense gratification now. 
 
 He would be very proud to exhibit such a woman as his 
 wife to his bachelor friends in New York. 
 
 “By Jove, how they will envy me!” he said to himself, 
 and he inwardly laughed at the absurd infatuation for the 
 pretty flaxen-haired “servant” girl that had come over 
 him in the moonlight and lamplight last night, and among 
 the flowers this morning. How ridiculous he had been! 
 
 As the near kinswoman of the owners of the house, Daisy 
 Darrell had, of course, a place at the table with them 
 whenever she chose to avail herself of it. But this morn- 
 ing she did not choose to take advantage of her privilege 
 in that respect. She did not appear at the table, and there 
 was no audible comment on her absence. 
 
 “ He believes I am really a hired servant,” she said to 
 herself with a little laugh, “and just for the fun of the 
 thing I won’t undeceive him. And, after all, I am not 
 much else.” 
 
 The smile that had dimpled her face died away, and the 
 bitter, resentful look came in its place, and she burst into 
 tears; and sinking down under the window of her own 
 little room, before which she had been standing, she cried 
 
14 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 out as she had done often and often before through the 
 last dozen hours : 
 
 “ I haven’t even the life of a petted spaniel! I wish I 
 were dead!” 
 
 What had come over her to make her feel so utterly mis- 
 erable? Usually her fits of despondency were very short- 
 lived. But ever since last night, ever since Geraldine 
 Fitzgerald’s handsome lover had appeared before her in 
 the uncertain light under the pine trees, and had looked 
 down at her with such a curious, pitying look in his 
 dreamy black eyes, there had been a sense of desolation 
 over her that was terrible. 
 
 She soon dried her eyes, however, for her tears were 
 usually like April showers which the irrepressible sunshine 
 chased away, and she arose from the floor, on which she 
 had been crouching, and went down into the now deserted 
 dining-room, and partook of a hearty breakfast in solitary 
 state. 
 
 Afterward she went away from the house, and wandered 
 out on the lawn where the tall pine-trees interlaced their 
 somber arms, causing a fairy web of sunlight and shadow 
 to fall over her as she walked slowly about under them. 
 
 She soon discovered that she was not the only person 
 who was indulging in a morning ramble out there in the 
 scented grounds. 
 
 Through the interstices of the drooping branches she 
 caught sight of a white dress, and leaning forward and 
 peering through the openings in the needle-like foliage, she 
 satisfied herself that the white dress adorned the majestic 
 figure of Geraldine, and that she was leaning on the arm of 
 Clifford Bancroft, whose handsome head was bent low as 
 he talked earnestly to her. 
 
 A spasm of pain shot through the heart of Daisy Darrell, 
 and she turned with a swift movement and hid herself from 
 the sight of them behind the trunk of a tree. 
 
 There was a rustic seat under it made of twisted grape- 
 vines, and she threw herself on it, with the heavy shadow 
 cast by the gloomy pine branches over her. 
 
 But there was a far deeper shadow within her, as it were 
 the ominous gathering of the storm that was to desolate 
 her life in the terrible after-time ! 
 
 “ She has everything, and I have nothing !” she muttered, 
 with her little white teeth set defiantly, “ and she is not 
 worthy of it, for she is hateful and cruel.” 
 
 It did not occur to her to question the source from whence 
 flowed the great bitterness that had come into her heart. 
 She was an impetuous, fiery little creature, apt to be pow- 
 erfully swayed for the time by any impulse, either for 
 good or evil, that came over her, but happily yielding to 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 15 
 
 the dark influence only for the briefest period, as the 
 good, which was much the strongest in her nature, was 
 quick to assert itself again. 
 
 But this morning it failed to do so, and for more than 
 an hour she sat there under the somber tree, thinking all 
 kinds of bitter, resentful things against Providence for its 
 deeds in general, but especially for having given the heart 
 of Clifford Bancroft to Geraldine Fitzgerald ! 
 
 She had seen Clifford Bancroft but twice, and yet she 
 had fallen madly in love with him. It was the first love 
 that had ever come into her life, and it had brought with 
 it jealousy and misery. 
 
 While she was sitting there nursing her wretchedness in 
 the shadow of the pine-tree, the man to whom she had 
 given her whole heart so impulsively was whispering 
 vows of eternal fidelity to Geraldine Fitzgerald, and urg- 
 ing her to name an early day for the solemnization of the 
 marriage-rite which should give her wholly to him. And 
 she was listening with downcast eyes, and with her heart 
 thrilling rapturously ; for she, too, from the depths of her 
 soul, loved the handsome young lawyer, and never dreamed 
 that the devotion he so passionately declared for her was 
 not the genuine article, but an excellent counterfeit which 
 had deceived even himself. 
 
 When he parted with her at the steps of the broad ve- 
 randa, and strolled away to smoke a cigar, and to dream of 
 her, she had given her promise to marry him in the “mild 
 September, ” now little more than three months off. 
 
 As he wandered about under the trees, he came suddenly 
 on the figure of Daisy Darrell, who was weeping passion- 
 ately, with her bright head bowed in her hands. 
 
 At the sight of her he halted, and his heart began to 
 throb tumultuously. 
 
 She had not seen him, and without being conscious of 
 what he was doing even, he yielded to an impulse that 
 came over him, and went up to her, and laid his unsteady 
 hand on her curly hair, saying softly : 
 
 “Daisy !” 
 
 She started, and lifted toward him her flushed and tear- 
 wet face, which, with the bright drops standing on it, re- 
 minded him— he was given to poetic fancies— of a rose 
 dipped in dew. 
 
 She was as impulsive as himself — for be it remembered 
 that both of them were young, and singularly impressible 
 — and she cried out, waving him away with her hand : 
 
 ‘ ‘ Go back to your darling Geraldine ! Why do you 
 trouble me ? What do you care whether J live or die?” 
 
 She was beautiful — she was weeping — her blue eyes were 
 booking up at him through a mist of tears — and he, as has 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 16 
 
 been said, was young and impulsive— and at her passionate, 
 reproachful words, his very heart seemed to be wrenched 
 from his bosom. 
 
 He lost all memory of his troth-plight to Geraldine Fitz- 
 gerald— he lost all memory of, all care for, the social dis- 
 tinction which, he believed, separated him from this sin- 
 gularly fascinating young girl; and he dropped down on 
 the seat by her side, and threw his arm around her, and 
 drew her bright head down on his breast, whispering, pas- 
 sionately : 
 
 “ 4 What do I care whether you live or die !’ I care more 
 for you than for anything else on earth !” 
 
 In saying that, he spoke the honest convictions of his 
 soul, and he spoke the truth. He gave no thought to the 
 future— to the disastrous consequences that might follow 
 that love. Neither did she. 
 
 With the ardor of youth they gave themselves up to the 
 blissful consciousness that they loved each other. Neither 
 of them looked beyond that. 
 
 “ I shall leave Pinelands to-morrow morning to attend to 
 some important business,” he said; “but I cannot bear to 
 go away feeling that you are not securely bound to me. I 
 love you so that I feel as if something would swoop down 
 from the very skies to take you from me. I will form 
 some plan for our future. Meet me here at ten o’clock to- 
 night, and I will tell you the conclusion I shall have 
 come to.” 
 
 And Daisy answered : 
 
 “I shall be sure to meet you!” 
 
 By that time the sun had passed into a cloud, and the 
 shadow was deeper over her than it had been when she first 
 sank on that seat two hours before ; but she was uncon- 
 scious of it, and she was unconscious of the deeper shadow 
 she was drawing over her life when she gave that promise. 
 
 So they parted to meet again at ten that night. Clifford 
 knew now, and it afforded him exquisite delight, that Daisy 
 Darrell was not, as he had believed, a servant at Pinelands, 
 but was instead the near kinswoman of the aristocratic 
 owner of the place, and the possessor, on her mother’s side 
 at least, of as pure blood as that which coursed in his own 
 veins. 
 
 He felt sorely tempted a dozen times during the day to 
 tell Geraldine that he had been mistaken in regard to his 
 sentiment for her, that it was unbounded admiration 
 rather than love he felt for her. But, somehow, he was 
 not brave enough, or ungallant enough, whichever the feel- 
 ing of restraint might be, to do so. The very thought 
 made a coward of him. 
 
 And so in an embarrassed way he continued to play the 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 17 
 
 part of a lover during the hours he was with her, and he 
 saw that she accepted the homage as genuine, and her lov- 
 ing trust brought a sense of guilt to him that was painful. 
 
 “ I am going for a long ride,” he said, early in the after- 
 noon. “I know you will be very grateful to me if I tear 
 myself away long enough to allow you to take your usual 
 afternoon nap. Bo I will oblige you, even at the sacrifice 
 of my own wishes.” 
 
 Geraldine’s beautiful face wore an expression of regret 
 that flatly contradicted his assertion, but he pretended not 
 to see it, and so he ordered a horse to be saddled, and rode 
 gayly away, throwing a kiss to her as he cantered off 
 through the avenue ot trees, turning in his saddle to look 
 back at her as she leaned from, the parlor window gazing 
 after him. 
 
 “She doesn’t really care for me,” he said to himself, by 
 way of salving his conscience. But he knew he spoke 
 falsely to his own soul, and that she did care for him as 
 much as woman ever cared for man before ! 
 
 When he met Daisy Darrell that night and looked into 
 her eyes in the dim light of the gathering stars, he whis- 
 pered in her ear : 
 
 “I have arranged for our future, my darling. I have 
 settled on a plan by which ‘you will be wholly mine, and I 
 will be wholly yours 
 
 Then he muttered hurriedly, explaining that plan, and 
 Daisy listened blushing and trembling, and silently con- 
 senting to what he proposed. 
 
 She made only one remark, and that was : 
 
 “ What will Geraldine think?” 
 
 “Whatever she pleases,” Clifford Bancroft answered, 
 drawing the little flaxen head to rest on his breast. 
 *' Henceforth and forever, I shall care only for what you 
 may think !” 
 
 And Daisy believed him, and was willing to follow in 
 the path he had marked out for her. 
 
 Poor, deluded little Daisy ! 
 
 CHAPTER IY. 
 
 “you will soon find out how VERY UNWORTHY I AM OP 
 YOU !” 
 
 The next morning Clifford Bancroft, in company with 
 his father, left Pinelands. 
 
 Geraldine Fitzgerald’s hand lingered willingly in his 
 clasp when he bade her good-bye. 
 
 They were standing together in the parlor, with the 
 fragrant morning breezes floating in to them, laden with 
 
18 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 the perfume of a thousand flowers that were abloom in 
 the grounds. 
 
 The birds were singing merrily in the pine-trees, and all 
 nature seemed to be rejoicing. 
 
 But Geraldine Fitzgerald's heart was very heavy within 
 her. She was parting with the only man she had ever 
 loved, A strange foreboding of evil was over her, and 
 she could not shake it off. 
 
 “You will always be true and faithful to me, won’t you, 
 Clifford?” she asked with a throb in her mellow voice. 
 
 He turned his head away, and a dash of red came into 
 his face, but he answered steadily : 
 
 “ Of course I will;” then he added, always keeping his 
 eyes averted from hers, “ but you will soon find out how 
 very unworthy I am of you, and you will be glad to be rid 
 of me, maybe.” 
 
 u Never,” she responded, and her whole heart was in her 
 voice ;“no matter how unworthy you may be, I will always 
 love you. Nothing can divide us except your infidelity to 
 me, and if I should discover that, I think, indeed I know, 
 that I should hate you as fervently as I now love you.” 
 
 He said not one word in reply to that ; he did not know 
 what answer to make, so he only dropped her hand and 
 turned away. 
 
 There were two pairs of eyes that watched him as he 
 passed from sight, and two pairs of lips muttered of him, 
 and singularly enough, both uttered the same words: 
 
 “ He loves me!” 
 
 Those two watchers were Geraldine Fitzgerald and 
 Daisy Darrell, and how lonely the great house at Pinelands 
 seemed to them with the void caused by the man each 
 loved with all the strength of her nature so painfully ap- 
 parent. 
 
 There was also in the eyes of these two girls a feverish 
 luster indicative of the mental excitement under which 
 they labored. 
 
 The great event which stirred the monotony of the tedi- 
 ous days that followed Clifford’s departure, was the 
 arrival each evening of the mail. 
 
 With restrained eagerness, but with undisguised interest, 
 Geraldine Fitzgerald watched her. father’s movements day 
 after day, as he slowly shuffled the letters in his hands, 
 reading the superscription of each with exasperating slow- 
 ness to himself before appropriating it as his own, or pass- 
 ing it to the proper owner. But the days passed on, until 
 one week had elapsed since Clifford Bancroft’s departure 
 from Pinelands, and no letter came to Geraldine. 
 
 Daisy Darrell had no correspondents, so the sudden and 
 vivid interest which she also took in the contents Qf the 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 16 
 
 mail-bag, would have astonished her uncle and cousin if 
 they had noticed it— or had even detected the tremor in her 
 voice when she asked day after day, with averted face, and 
 assumed carelessness: 
 
 4 ‘Of course, there is no letter for me, uncle?” or some- 
 thing to that effect; and Colonel Fitzgerald would reply in 
 his low, and naturally sullen tones : 
 
 “No — nothing for you.” 
 
 Neither he nor his daughter noticed the look of bitter dis- 
 appointment that would come into Daisy’s pretty face, nor 
 how the white lids would droop over her blue eyes in order 
 to hide the tears that would spring into them, while she 
 would turn and leave the room, to weep herself almost 
 blind in her own little chamber. 
 
 ‘ ‘ Of course, he has forgotten me l” she would sob. ‘ ‘ How 
 could he care for a little cast-off like me? He was only sorry 
 for me, and that’s why he told me that he loved me — and 
 that I should hear from him very soon. What a fool I was 
 to believe he was in earnest !” 
 
 “Hope deferred maketh the heart sick,” it is said. It 
 also made Daisy Darrell very restless. 
 
 She could not endure the monotony of the house, and 
 she began to take long walks over the hills and by the 
 brook-side, usually returning in the twilight. 
 
 One day — it was the seventh after Clifford Bancroft’s de- 
 parture- she seemed to be feverishly excited. Her cheeks 
 glowed and her eyes sparkled. 
 
 Her whole manner seemed to have undergone a change. 
 
 The angry disdain which was so often in her blue eyes 
 when she turned them on her cousin Geraldine, feeling her- 
 self ill-used by her, was entirely gone, and in its place was 
 a deprecating look, as if she was mutely begging pardon 
 for something. 
 
 Instead of going silently to her own room, as was her 
 custom, that night she went into the library, where her 
 uncle sat reading. 
 
 She approached him, and put her hand timidly on the 
 back of his chair. 
 
 He turned his head, and looked up at her with evident 
 surprise. 
 
 “Well, Daisy, can I do anything for you?” he asked, 
 kindly. 
 
 Tears sprung into her blue eyes, and she winked them 
 out on her cheeks. 
 
 “ I want to say, uncle,” she said, tremulously, “ that if I 
 have seemed ungrateful to you for the kindness you have 
 shown me since mother died, and left me without home or 
 friends a year ago, that I am sorry for it. I want to say 
 that if I have not been happy here, it may have been 
 
20 
 
 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 partly my own fault. And, uncle, I want to kiss you good- 
 night.” 
 
 Colonel Fitzgerald was surprised at this unusual manifes- 
 tation of gentleness and affection from his hoydenish 
 niece; but he lifted his face to receive the kiss she asked 
 permission to give, saying: 
 
 “I have tried to do my duty, and perhaps, more than 
 my duty, by you, Daisy. Your mother, as you know, de- 
 liberately separated herself from her family when she mar- 
 ried a man so far beneath her as your father was. But 
 when she died, and left you in abject poverty, I forgave 
 everything and took you to my home. I have a large 
 heart,” he went on, placing his hand in an ostentatious way 
 over it — “and it leads me into all manner of impetuous 
 things. And I took you into my house, as you know, to be 
 the associate of my refined daughter, when your father’s 
 profligacy and lack of pride had left you without those ac- 
 complishments which might, had you possessed them, have 
 made me proud to exhibit you to my friends as my niece. 
 But I don’t regret what I have done for you, my dear, and 
 am glad to know that you appreciate it. And now, good- 
 night, my dear, good-night.” 
 
 “ Good-night,” Daisy responded, and left the room. 
 
 The softened expression which her face had worn when 
 she entered that chamber, was gone wholly from it when 
 she went out again, and a hard defiant look had come in its 
 place. 
 
 “ I was a fool to care what either of them might think,” 
 she muttered between her teeth. “ It is little they ’ll care 
 what becomes of me, except where it touches them. Uncle 
 could have influenced me, but nowit is too late.” 
 
 That night Daisy Darrell disappeared from Pinelands. 
 
 With whom, or where, she had flown was a mystery to 
 which she had left no clew. 
 
 Guileless as a child, and as ignorant of the ways of the 
 wicked world, she had cut loose from the only home she 
 knew, and set herself adrift ! 
 
 CHAPTER V. 
 
 “DAISY DARRELL HAS GONE AWAY.” 
 
 What had become of Daisy Darrell ? Let us go back 
 and see. 
 
 The day before the night of her disappearance she had 
 arisen, as she had done for several mornings, terribly de- 
 pressed with the idea that Clifford Bancroft bad only been 
 trifling with her in the soft things he had whispered in 
 her ears, and that he had forgotten her— cast her aside, as 
 if she were a toy he had wearied of. 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 21 
 
 She had walked out into the orchard. 
 
 It was a sweet morning — the birds sang in the cool 
 shadows of the apple trees; the wind stirred musically in 
 the branches ; and Daisy’s April-like spirit caught, as it were, 
 the sunlight and melody, and rapidly grew elastic. 
 
 “ See here, Daisy,” clear and ringing came to her, drop- 
 ping through the branches of the tallest of the apple-trees, 
 the voice of her boy cousin, Harry Fitzgerald. “Here’s 
 the cunningest little nest up here you ever saw, and it’s 
 got two of the queerest-looking little birds in it 1 I believe 
 they are young humming-birds !” 
 
 4 ‘ A humming-bird’s nest, Harry!” Daisy exclaimed, all 
 her really heart-felt anxiety about Clifford Bancroft for- 
 gotten in the excitement of the moment. “ Don’t put your 
 hand in it, because if you do, the old bird will never go 
 back to it again. I’ll come up and peep into it, though.” 
 
 So saving, she threw off her bonnet, and divested her 
 small feet of their little slippers, and then she nimbly 
 climbed the trunk of the tree, and swung herself from 
 limb to limb, with the free grace and ease of a boy poacher. 
 
 While she was hidden up there in the branches, among 
 the thick leaves, a boy who had been for an hour or more 
 skulking about the grounds of Pinelands, and peering 
 about as if he were on the watch for some one, crept from 
 behind a neighboring tree, and swiftly dropped a folded 
 paper into the crown of the bonnet she had left on the 
 grass, and rapidly disappeared in the green foliage again. 
 
 When Daisy came down from the tree, dragging Harry 
 along with her, she picked up her bonnet and thrust it on 
 without noticing its unsuspected contents. 
 
 It was only when she removed it again in her own room, 
 and the folded paper fell to the floor, that she became 
 aware of the fact that some one had been tampering with 
 her head-gear while she had been inspecting the bird’s 
 nest. 
 
 With her blue eyes wide with wonder she unfolded the 
 note and read the words : 
 
 “ My Darling,— I will come for you to-night. Be ready 
 to go with me. Your lover always, 
 
 “Clifford Bancroft.” 
 
 Daisy read this over with flaming cheeks and palpitating 
 heart, and when she had fully taken in its meaning, she 
 clapped her hands in childish glee, exclaiming : 
 
 “He hasn’t forgotten me at all ! He's coming to-night 
 to take me away from this hateful old place ! I am sorry 
 to leave Harry, bless his bad old heart! But I am awful 
 glad to get away from my lady Geraldine, Won’t the 
 
22 
 
 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 open her black eyes when she finds out I have run away 
 with her sweetheart, though !” 
 
 So, in a tremor of joyous excitement, she placed her few 
 trifling treasures in a bundle of necessary clothing, and 
 waited in a bewildered, restless state for the night to 
 come. 
 
 With the impetuosity of a thoughtless child she made 
 her mind up to take this dangerous leap in the dark ; to 
 trust her life, her happiness in the hands of Clifford Ban- 
 croft. 
 
 Geraldine had looked in vain for a letter, and on that 
 seventh day she said to herself, with her arched brows 
 drawn together in a black line across her forehead : 
 
 “ If I don’t hear from him to-morrow, I will write and 
 ask an explanation.” 
 
 She could not sleep that night — for the first time she be- 
 gan to distrust Clifford Bancroft, or, rather, she began to 
 distrust the power of her hold on him. 
 
 With her lips compressed, and with a dark cloud on her 
 face, she stood at her window looking out upon the night. 
 
 The sky was as clear as crystal, and the moon, full and 
 round, shone on it like a silver plate, its light making every 
 object on which it fell below distinctly visible. 
 
 Her vacant gaze was suddenly changed to one of 
 interest. 
 
 On the long grass of the lawn, under the shadowy trees, 
 she saw a carriage, drawn slowly by a pair of light-step- 
 ping horses, halt, without the breath of a sound coming to 
 her from the intervening distance. She saw the carriage 
 door open, and a man descended from it and made his way 
 under the shadowy trees toward the house. 
 
 In that tall form and graceful but cautious step, Miss 
 Fitzgerald thought she detected something so strangely 
 familiar that it set her heart to beating stormily, and she 
 felt constrained to hold it down by pressing her hand 
 heavily over it, while she watched the tall figure, leaning 
 from her window, but keeping herself hidden from his 
 wandering glance, should it chance to stray that way, in 
 the folds of the curtain. 
 
 She saw him halt under a window at the furthest corner 
 of the house, and, stooping over, he picked up a handful of 
 sand from the walk, which he tossed lightly against the 
 glass, and stood and waited awhile. 
 
 Miss Fitzgerald saw him repeat this operation, after an 
 intermission of five minutes, and then she saw the window 
 raised, and Daisy Darrell’s head appeared, and she heard 
 her startled call : 
 
 “ Who’s there?” 
 
 She saw the map lift his hat, so that his face, although 
 
Daisy darrell . . 
 
 28 
 
 in the shadow for her, was fully revealed to Daisy, while 
 at the same time, he made a cautioning motion of his 
 hand. 
 
 Then he went still deeper into the shadow of the house, 
 for he went close up to the window, and Daisy leaned out 
 toward him, and they held a whispered conference for a 
 few minutes, after which she disappeared into her room, 
 while he stood and waited, although restlessly, in the deep 
 shadow. 
 
 In less than five minutes, a little figure, bonneted and 
 shawled, and carrying a bundle as if fixed for traveling, 
 joined him, and the two walked hurriedly toward the car- 
 riage in waiting, and entered it, and were driven rapidly 
 away. 
 
 Geraldine stood staring at the spot where they had dis- 
 appeared, like one in a bewildered dream, for at least five 
 minutes. Then she started, shaking herself as if she had 
 but just awakened from sleep, and going hurriedly along 
 the hall to her father’s room, she knocked on the door, and 
 soon Colonel Fitzgerald, blinking the mists of slumber 
 from his eyes, appeared before her, asking anxiously : 
 
 “ What’s the matte:’?” 
 
 She answered quietly enough : 
 
 “ Daisy Darrell has gone away with some man in a car- 
 riage, and I believe the man was— Clifford Bancroft !” 
 
 CHAPTER VI. 
 
 “I MUST KNOW THE WORST AT ONCE!” 
 
 At that announcement of his niece’s flight in company 
 with the man who was his daughter’s affianced husband, 
 and made by that wronged daughter in such a calm, even 
 voice, James Fitzgerald stared aghast for a moment or so, 
 and then he exclaimed : 
 
 “ Daisy gone with Clifford Bancroft! Why, Geraldine, 
 what do you mean? Surely you have been dreaming!” 
 “No. I have not been asleep,” the girl answered, speak- 
 ing in that same cold, quiet tone, but with a hard, unnatural 
 ring very perceptible in it. “I have not been in bed to- 
 night, and as I stood at my window, I saw a carriage drive 
 onto the lawn, and I saw a man get out of it and go to 
 Daisy’s window, and I saw her a few minutes afterward 
 drive away with him, I believe the man was Clifford 
 Bancroft !” 
 
 Again the old gentleman stared aghast, and ejaculated : 
 
 ‘ 4 Impossible ! Why should Daisy go away at this time of 
 night with Clifford Bancroft?” 
 
 As the lamplight streaming through the open door of his 
 room fell on his daughter’s face, he noticed that she was 
 
U DAISY DARHELL. 
 
 deathly pale, and that her large dark eyes gleamed like 
 fire. 
 
 “Surely, surely your are mistaken, my child,” he said, 
 tenderness mingling with the amazement that was still in 
 his voice. “Wait until I throw on my dressing-gown, and 
 we’ll go to Daisy’s room, and see what is really the matter. 
 I dare say we will find her in bed and asleep. ” 
 
 Geraldine said never a word. She stepped aside and 
 leaned against the wall, with her hands clasped tightly 
 together on her breast, and with her breath coming in short, 
 fluttering gasps through her parted lips. 
 
 Her father, carrying a lighted lamp in his hand, and 
 arrayed in a long crimson-dressing gown, joined her in a 
 few seconds, and preceded her on his way to Daisy’s room, 
 at every step uttering some incredulous word, to which 
 she made no response. 
 
 The old gentleman halted at the room of his niece, and 
 knocked sharply on the door. 
 
 No answer coming to the summons, he repeated it twice, 
 and then he unceremoniously turned the knob and entered, 
 and directed the light of the lamp toward the bed. 
 
 It was unoccupied. So was the room, save for his pres- 
 ence and that of his daughter, who had halted just inside 
 the threshold, and stood with her hand still tightly clasped 
 on her breast, and with her face colorless, and her eyes 
 gleaming. 
 
 “She is certainly not here,” Colonel Fitzgerald said, 
 sharply. 
 
 “I told you that before you came to search for her,” 
 Geraldine said, her words still unnaturally calm and cold 
 and hard. “ I saw her go away in a carriage in company 
 with ” 
 
 She did not finish the sentence, but closed her lips over 
 it, while her eyes wandered around the room in search of 
 some note, or token of explanation. But no such thing 
 had been left. 
 
 “Whoever the man was, I am satisfied in my own mind 
 that it was not Clifford Bancroft,” Colonel Fitzgerald said, 
 throwing his gray head proudly, defiantly back. “ He is a 
 gentleman, and if he were not ne would not dare to do such 
 a thing — he would not dare to put such an insult upon me, to 
 say nothing of yourself. I have no idea who the man was 
 —I didn’t know, indeed, that she had any especial gentle- 
 man acquaintance, but I would stake my life that it was 
 not Clifford Bancroft !” 
 
 Geraldine moistened her lips with her tongue before she 
 responded, always speaking in that unnatural tone: 
 
 “I am not positively sure that the person was he, but I 
 think I recognized his general appearance as being his.” 
 
DAISY DARRELL. $5 
 
 She did not call his name ; she seemed to shrink from 
 doing so ; but her father understood her to refer to her 
 affianced lover, and as he turned away from the little 
 chamber, with his face drawn with perplexity, he said, 
 with that proud assertiveness, born oi conceit and vanity 
 at his high social position : 
 
 “Clifford Bancroft would not have dared to abscond 
 with any other woman so long as he was the betrothed 
 husband of my daughter?” 
 
 As he went down the stairs, followed by Geraldine, he 
 added : 
 
 “I can do nothing to-night, but to-morrow I will look 
 into the matter, and I ventnre to say that I will sift it to 
 the bottom by the time the night falls again.” 
 
 At the foot of the stairway they separated, she turning 
 into her own room, and he into his. 
 
 Geraldine went to her window and stood looking out 
 upon the leaden night. 
 
 One thought only was in her mind, and it kept repeating 
 itself over and over, taking the form of a question which 
 after a time became maddening in its persistency : 
 
 “Was the man Clifford Bancroft? Was the man Clifford 
 Bancroft?” 
 
 Over and over again, until more than an hour had passed, 
 that question was in her mind, excluding all curiosity in 
 regard to Daisy Darrell, for whose sake, if her suspicions 
 proved true, he had forsaken her, Geraldine Fitzgerald. 
 
 It was only after the first benumbing surprise had worn 
 off, that she took in other features of the situation. Then, 
 one by one, and in startling, lightning-like flashes, the de- 
 tails of the possible wrong and insult to her broke into her 
 mind. 
 
 If the man was Clifford Bancroft, there could have been 
 no cause for his elopement with Daisy Darrell, except an in- 
 fatuation for the girl. 
 
 He had never seen Daisy Darrell except during his late 
 sojourn at Pinelands; therefore while he had been paying 
 court to the heiress of the house, and suing for her hand, 
 he had been looking with eyes of favor, and of course 
 whispering words of love surreptitiously to the humble but 
 pretty dependent of the house, and the love he had pro- 
 fessed for Geraldine was but a mockery and a shameless 
 deceit. 
 
 Miss Fitzgerald was very proud, and she was crushed 
 with the humiliation that such a state of affairs brought 
 to her. But that was nothing compared to the deeper feel- 
 ing which was like the bitterness of death in her heart. 
 
 When she had given her promise to marry Clifford in 
 September, she knew that she could only bestow on him 
 
96 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 the added gift of her hand, for her heart was already hi&— 
 his wholly — his only— his irrevocably. 
 
 She sank down on her knees by the window, and stared 
 out with dry eyes on the leaden night, which was slowly 
 passing down to the courts of the dawn, and the old ques- 
 tion had come to din itself into her mind again : 
 
 4 ‘Was the man Clifford Bancroft? Was the man Clif- 
 ford Bancroft ?” 
 
 “I must find out, or the suspense will kill me !” she mut 
 tered, rising with a shiver as the cold, damp breath of the 
 gray morning swept over her. “I can’t wait on father’s 
 slow movements, or on the developments of time. I must 
 know the worst at once; I must be satisfied. I will start 
 for New York this morning.” 
 
 With this resolve, which required action, the numbness 
 seemed to pass from her, and a fever of excitement came in 
 its place. 
 
 She arose to her feet, and in the dim light of the early 
 day she began to pack her trunks ; and when she met her 
 father hours afterward at the breakfast table, she was ar- 
 rayed in her traveling garments and she said to him, utter- 
 ing the falsehood unblushingly : 
 
 “ Father, I was almost suffocated last night by my old 
 heart trouble, and it frightened me so that I concluded 
 that I would go to Aunt Margaret’s and put myself under 
 Doctor Leverman’s care again.” 
 
 “You suffered with your heart again, did you ?” the old 
 gentleman said, looking anxiously and keenly across the 
 table at her, and seeing unmistakable traces of suffering 
 on her beautiful face. “ I was hopeful that you were en- 
 tirely relieved of those troublesome attacks. Go to your 
 Aunt Margaret’s, of course, and put yourself right into 
 the hands of Doctor Leverman. I will go with you. I had 
 intended to institute inquiries in the neighborhood to-day 
 after Daisy Darrell ; but your welfare is of more impor- 
 tance to me than that of a girl who could so far forget the 
 lineage from which she sprung as to elope in the night as 
 she did. But it’s the Darrell blood.” 
 
 He dropped his knife and fork and frowned, and tugged 
 at his long beard, while he added: 
 
 “ I am glad for you to go to New York, as you seemed 
 last night to suspect Clifford Bancroft to have been the ab 
 ductor, and I want you to have the evidence of your own 
 eyes in contradiction.” 
 
 Geraldine made no audible response to this, but sipped 
 her coffee in a nervous way, while a faint color stained her 
 face and a feverish light shone in her eyes. 
 
 Only to herself she said : 
 
 “ I, too, want the evidence of my own eyes.” 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 2? 
 
 She was fighting then, as she had done all night long, 
 against the conviction that the man she had seen walk 
 away with his arm around her cousin’s graceful form in 
 the shadow of the previous night was her own idolized be- 
 trothed husband. She clung to the uncertainty, and 
 sought to strengthen it with all the power of her nature. 
 
 She might live tortured with cruel doubt, she thought, 
 but the absolute certainty of his perfidy toward her would 
 either kill or craze her, for that she could not endure ! 
 
 “ I will trust him until I know that he scorned me for 
 Daisy Darrell, and then ” 
 
 She did not finish the sentence even to herself, and she 
 took her father’s arm, and with a firm, proud step she 
 entered the carriage which was to convey them to the 
 depot. 
 
 So the first step on the journey was taken— the first 
 movement in an investigation which was destined to reveal 
 the strength and the weakness of human nature, to roll the 
 stone from hidden springs in the soul, to test the sort of 
 material of which three persons were made. 
 
 Those three were Daisy Darrell, Geraldine Fitzgerald, 
 and Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 CHAPTER VII. 
 
 “nothing but death shall part thee and me!” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft, with Daisy at his side in the car- 
 riage on the night of her elopement with him, gave orders 
 to the driver, to make all possible haste to the village of 
 Dunbar. 
 
 “We will be married, my darling, in time to take the 
 early train east,” he said tenderly to Daisy. “ It will be a 
 secret marriage, of course, because I don’t want to run in 
 the face of my father’s wishes. But after a little time, 
 when I have prepared him to see you, and he knows the 
 step has been irrevocably taken, I shall be so proud to 
 present you to him as a daughter, and I am sure he will 
 welcome you as such, and in time he and my mother, and 
 my sister Mag, will be as fond of you almost — not quite 
 though, for nobody could be that — as I am.” 
 
 “I don’t care whether they are fond of me or not,” Daisy- 
 said, in her willful, defiant way, “ so that you are. I dornt 
 care who hates me so long as you love me. And you will 
 always do that, won’t you?” 
 
 A deep, thrilling earnestness came into her fresh young 
 voice, as she put the question to him, and he answered, 
 drawing her closer to him, and looking down into her cyeg 
 in the uncertain light: 
 
28 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 44 I will be true to you, forever and ever, as God bears 
 me T 
 
 After a long drive they entered the sleeping village, and 
 Clifford gave orders to the driver to halt before a little cot- 
 tage showing darkly among its clustering vines in the light 
 of the breaking day. 
 
 “Wait here, darling, until I go in and arouse the Rev- 
 erend Mr. Crawford,” Clifford said, descending from the 
 vehicle, and going through the yard-gate to the house, 
 where he rang the bell loudly. 
 
 A minute afterward a gleam of light appeared through 
 the transom over the door, and there was the sound of a 
 footstep on the carpeted hall. 
 
 Then the key turned in the lock, and an elderly man 
 
 E eered out, lifting the lamp above his head so as to shade 
 is eyes from the glare. 
 
 His dark, bright eyes looked keenly into the face of his 
 untimely visitor, and then glanced beyond him at the car- 
 riage showing shadow-like at the gate. 
 
 4 ‘ Are you the Reverend Mr. Crawford ?” Clifford asked, 
 with a sense of embarrassment stealing over him, and with 
 a very perceptible thrill in his voice which the good man 
 had, perhaps, heard before in similar cases, and had there- 
 fore come to interpret, for a smile that was singularly 
 winning came into his pale, refined face as he responded : 
 
 “ I am, sir. Will you walk in, and let me know how the 
 good Lord has kindly put it in my power to serve you?” 
 Clifford Bancroft bared and bowed his head, and followed 
 the preacher into his little sitting-room — with a feeling of 
 humiliation over him, awakened by a swift, and uninten- 
 tional contrasting of himself with this just man. 
 
 “ Mr. Crawford,” he said, halting just inside the door of 
 the cozy room, and standing with his hat in his hand, and 
 with his eyes downcast and his face flushed, “ I came to 
 say that I have called on you to-night to perform a mar- 
 riage ceremony. Will you oblige me ?” 
 
 Mr. Crawford reached out his slender hand, and placed 
 it kindly on the young man’s shoulder — having deposited 
 the lamp on a table : 
 
 “I am a servant of God,” he said, his face lighting up, 
 and beaming with the inward peace that consciousness 
 awakened. “ Whatever he wills me to do that I do, cheer- 
 fully, gladly. I trust it is His will that this marriage may 
 be performed, and that I may perform it.” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft thought he detected a subtle admoni- 
 tion in these words of simple faith, and his face flushed a 
 trifle deeper as he said : 
 
 “ It shall be a marriage on which Heaven shall smile, if 
 I can influence it by my good resolutions,” 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 29 
 
 The left hand of the preacher pressed more kindly on his 
 shoulder, and his right hand clasped that of the young 
 man, as he said, always with his face beaming with in- 
 ward peace : 
 
 “God bless you, my son. He always smiles on good 
 resolutions, and strengthens you to carry them out. As 
 He shall give me power, I will perform the marriage cere- 
 mony you speak of to-night.” 
 
 Somehow, with the sound of this man’s voice in his ears, 
 and his touch on his hand, Clifford Bancroft felt himself 
 spiritually uplifted, as it were. 
 
 He began to thrill with noble impulses, and to be very' 
 strong in the resolve to be true and faithful to Daisy Dar- 
 rell so long as life should be spared to them ; to leave her 
 no room, so far as his truth to her was concerned, to regret 
 the step that he had induced her to take that night. 
 
 “ The marriage must be secret only to save father’s feel- 
 ings, and ” he bit his lip, leaving the sentence unfin- 
 
 ished. He could not mention the name of Geraldine Fitz- 
 gerald even to himself, for he could not help feeling that 
 however honorable his conduct might be toward Daisy, it 
 was not so to Geraldine. 
 
 “ It will all come out right,” he muttered uneasily. “ But 
 it would be an awkward thing to confess the matter now, 
 and so a secret marriage is better for all parties concerned. 
 When the proper time comes I will make it public, and 
 then there will be general rejoicing, of course.” 
 
 Thus he soothed his own disturbed conscience, which in 
 a vague way, perhaps, hinted of the after-time of darkness 
 which should follow that night’s work. 
 
 But he went willfully forward, and Daisy Darrell blindly 
 followed where he led. 
 
 There was a marriage that night, or rather that morn- 
 ing, in Mr. Crawford’s little parlor, to which there were no 
 witnesses save the three officiating parties, and Mr. Craw 
 ford’s gentle, dove-eyed wife — a marriage which made 
 Daisy Darrell Mrs. Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 “My wife, we will be true to each other. You shalf 
 never, as God hears me, regret the step you have taken if 
 my love and truth to you can prevent it,” the young hus- 
 band said, drawing the pretty little head down on his 
 shoulder, as they were being driven away to the railroad 
 station to catch the early train eastward bound. 
 
 At that moment, when all his being thrilled with the 
 earnestness of his vow, there came no inward conscious- 
 ness, no prescience of the future to warn him that he had 
 spoken falsely; that in the oath he had taken, and had 
 called on God to witness, he had perjured himself! 
 
 “ 4 Whom God hath joined together, let no man put 
 
DAISY DARRELL, 
 
 asunder!’” he repeated, folding his arms more closely 
 around her, and looking down into her trusting blue eyes 
 with a world of love in his own. “That is an unnecessary 
 injunction, as far as we are concerned, my darling, for 
 nothing but death shall part thee and me!” 
 
 CHAPTER VIII. 
 
 “i SHALL NEVER HAVE RESPECT FOR MYSELF AGAIN I” 
 
 “Well, Gerry,” Colonel Fitzgerald said to his daughter 
 on the evening of his arrival in New York, “your suspi- 
 cion in regard to Clifford Bancroft was wholly at fault, as 
 I supposed at the first. I have just seen his father, and he 
 assures me that his son has been for the last few days in 
 Washington city, lobbying in Congress in order to get a 
 bill through the House in which my old friend, Henry 
 Bancroft, is very much interested. He tells me that he 
 had a note from him this morning, in which he states that 
 he will be at home this evening.” 
 
 He was standing in his daughter’s room, stroking his 
 long white beard complacently, and he smacked his lips 
 over the words in a most self-satisfied manner, which 
 seemed to say : 
 
 “ I told you so, and I am never mistaken in any convict 
 tion I may entertain.” 
 
 Geraldine said nothing, but the color swept into her face, 
 which had been very pale, and a glad look came into her 
 dusky eyes. 
 
 Ah, she had been so miserable, so miserable ! What a 
 blessed assurance those words of her father’s were ! What 
 a weight they lifted from her heart! 
 
 When she was left alone, she glanced up at the clock 
 which was ticking away on the mantel, and she fell to 
 counting off on her fingers the hours that would probably 
 elapse before she could look again into those dark, dreamy 
 eyes which held for her the very light of her life. 
 
 “ He will come to me this evening,” she whisper 3d to her- 
 self, surveying her grand beauty in the large mirror before 
 which she had taken her stand. “As soon as he learns 
 from his father that I am in New York, he will come to 
 me ; and I never will doubt him again — never, never. I 
 would not live over the last four days for all the gold and 
 diamonds in the world !” 
 
 With great care she arrayed herself that evening in her 
 most becoming attire — and she exulted in her beauty as 
 she had never done before ; and, for once in her life, not 
 solely because it was hers, but because he loved it. 
 
 But the evening darkened, and the hours trailed away 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 81 
 
 deep into the night, and the flowers faded in her hair and 
 on her breast, and he did not come. 
 
 Sick with disappointment, and also bitterly resentful 
 toward him, she tossed all night long on her sleepless pil- 
 low, with her nerves painfully athrill, and with a weight 
 of wretchedness pressing on her heart and brain. 
 
 Perhaps he had not returned to the city, or, if he had, 
 perhaps his father had neglected to inform him of her pres- 
 ence in New York ; old people were so forgetful— about the 
 affairs of young people especially, she thought. 
 
 She would write a note and send it to him, and hint to 
 him that she would be glad to see him any time that day, 
 for she would not leave the house, but would await his 
 coming. 
 
 Only a hint to that effect would be necessary, she told 
 herself; so she wrote the note, and dispatched it to his 
 office early after breakfast. 
 
 To that note, in due course of time, she received an an- 
 swer, which ran : 
 
 “I will be happy to call on you this afternoon at five 
 o’clock. I have an explanation to make to you. 
 
 “Clifford Bancroft.” 
 
 “He has doubtless heard of my vile suspicions against 
 him,” she said, with a proud smile curling her haughty 
 mouth, “and he is a little indignant, that is why he writes 
 so curtly.” 
 
 It was half-past five o’clock when his card was brought 
 to her, and when she entered the curtained parlor where he 
 waited for her in a soft twilight she had never appeared so 
 superbly beautiful to him. 
 
 He was a worshiper of beauty, and the rare loveliness of 
 the face uplifted to him while she extended her arms, gleam- 
 ing like ivory from the filmy lace of her black sleeves, and 
 twined them impulsively about his neck, dazzled him. 
 
 “ I am so glad, so glad you have come,” she murmured 
 tremulously. “I have been so miserable; I have had such 
 horrible doubts of your truth. But they are all gone now, 
 Clifford ; it was insanity in me to^have cherished them for 
 an instant, and they will never come again.” 
 
 At that moment Clifford Bancroft would have been glad 
 to have died in order to be rid of the sense of shame that 
 rushed over him. 
 
 But mingled with that sense of shame was another feel- 
 ing— a feeling that thrilled him with exultation. 
 
 This woman — this queen of beauty and grace— loved him 
 —loved him with all the strength of her nature. 
 
 He was young, he was a worshiper of beauty, he was 
 singularly impressible and impulsive. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 32 
 
 With that rare face uplifted to his, with that low voicie 
 uttering that tender confession in his ears,, the resolve he 
 had made to tell her honestly that he had been mistaken in 
 his own heart when he had vowed that he loved her be- 
 yond all others, melted into nothingness. 
 
 The words were formed in his mind, but his tongue re- 
 fused to utter them. 
 
 He turned faint at the thought of the violent blow he 
 would deal her — shattering her great love, her towering 
 pride in one cruel stroke — and he instantly abandoned the 
 idea of doing so, at least at that interview. 
 
 But the consciousness rushed over him that it was wrong 
 — wrong to stand there with those loving arms trustingly 
 folded around his neck, seeing that he was the husband of 
 another woman, and had no right, therefore, to listen to 
 those tender whispers. 
 
 So, with the color fled from his tace, he disengaged 
 himself in a moment — for all this thought had come in 
 lightning-like flashes through his mind— from her embrace, 
 and seated himself beside her on the sofa, murmuring some 
 inarticulate words. 
 
 He knew well the course that honor demanded he should 
 follow toward her, and yet he was too much of a coward 
 to take it. 
 
 If she had been less blinded by love and joy at her re- 
 stored confidence in him, she would have noticed his 
 shame-faced look and his inward unrest, and would have 
 felt the revival of her sleeping suspicions. But she was 
 blinded, and she did not notice. 
 
 The dim light in the curtained room deepened into the 
 dusk of nature’s twilight, while they sat there side by side, 
 speaking little, and indulging in those long pauses which 
 come between the words or trusting lovers. 
 
 Not once was Daisy Darrell’s name mentioned between 
 them, and Geraldine had forgotten her very existence. 
 But in her childlike innocence she was constantly present 
 in the mind of Clifford Bancroft, seeming to be, as with an 
 audible voice, accusing him of treachery to her and of du- 
 plicity to Geraldine Fitzgerald. 
 
 The position he was in was torturing. He felt as if he 
 should go mad. 
 
 “ I wish I had never gone to Pinelands!” he exclaimed, 
 breaking a pause which had fallen between them with sud- 
 den vehemence. ‘ * It has ruined me. I shall never have 
 respect for myself again !” 
 
 Geraldine lifted her head and stared at him in a dazed 
 way. 
 
 44 What do you mean ?” she asked, her voice low, but 
 hard and strained. ‘‘I demand to know why you wish 
 
daisy darrell. as 
 
 you had never gone to Pinelands, and how it has ruined 
 you ?” 
 
 In the dim light her dark eyes seemed to burn his with 
 the intensity of their gaze, and he turned his head away 
 and said tremulously : 
 
 “ I cannot tell you now. I am not brave enough to do it, 
 but my meaning hinges on the fact that I am not worthy 
 of you. I am a weak fool— a poltroon whom it is a great 
 pity you ever met.” 
 
 She regarded his outburst as only a bit of self-deprecia- 
 tion, and as such she resented it. 
 
 “You are infinitely too good for me,” she said, nestling 
 near to him so that her head was touching his shoulder. 
 “I am not worthy of you because I doubted you. But 
 those doubts taught me how much I loved you. Ah, Clif- 
 ford, I should die if anything took you from me. Be true 
 to me Clifford, and I will be true to you. No other love 
 shall ever come into my life. You shall be my all in all 
 now and forever.” 
 
 Oh, that he might die then and there and be rid of the 
 shame that was over him ! Oh, that he had but the cour- 
 age to speak the truth, even though it should slay her 
 with its bitterness and humiliation ! 
 
 But he had not the courage, and so he went away hear- 
 ing her whispered pleading : 
 
 “You will spend every spare moment you have with 
 me, won’t you, Clifford?” 
 
 “ The next time I see you,” he said, moistening his lips 
 with his tongue, and speaking in a slow, numb way, “I 
 will make a revelation to you which will surprise you very 
 much, and will turn your love for me— if it is real love — 
 into hatred. I have made my mind up to that.” 
 
 “ You can make no revelation to me that will make me 
 hate you,” she said, shaking her regal head solemnly, “ so 
 long as you love me. And you do love me, don’t you?” 
 
 For his life Clifford Bancroft could not have answered 
 anything but “ Yes.” 
 
 And with that falsehood on his lips, left her to turn his 
 steps toward the little cottage where he had hidden his 
 bride of three days. 
 
 CHAPTER IX. 
 
 “he is sorry he married me!” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft walked along the thronged streets 
 feeling as thoroughly nervous and uncomfortable as ever 
 man might. 
 
 He was terribly out of humor with himself, and he 
 was consequently out of humor with everything else# 
 
u 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 “I am a fool!” he muttered between his teeth -/‘an im* 
 pulsive, headstrong fool?” 
 
 He was thinking of that daybreak marriage he had 
 rushed so headlong into, and yet, it had only been four 
 days ago ! 
 
 Had he already begun to weary of the pretty little toy 
 he had taken to himself that morning to “Keep and to hold 
 until death should them part?” 
 
 He stepped into a restaurant and called for a cup of 
 strong coffee, for he felt the need of a stimulant. - 
 
 Then he walked on again, passing out into a suburb of 
 the city, with the softness of the falling night around him, 
 and the glittering stars above him. 
 
 His movements were nervous, and with a slender rattan 
 cane he switched off the heads of such hardy weeds as dared 
 to lift themselves beside him, so near the sooty, sandy city ; 
 and there was something suggestive of great discontent in 
 his manner of doing it. 
 
 “What a splendid woman she is!” he muttered after 
 awhile, giving expression to his thoughts. “It is no wonder 
 that father and mother and Mag wanted her as an orna- 
 ment in our home. They will never be satisfied with 
 Daisy, of course, by contrast with her. I don’t know how 
 I shall ever muster courage to tell them.” 
 
 He frowned more darkly, and switched the weeds more 
 ruthlessly, until he turned into a gate leading into a small 
 yard, in the midst of which a tiny cottage stood, embow- 
 ered in clustering vines, and presenting a picturesque ap- 
 pearance in the radiance of the silvery night. 
 
 He halted inside the gate and uttered an impatient ejacu- 
 lation as a graceful little figure came dashing around the 
 house, shouting to a small shaggy dog that was pursuing 
 her, barking shrilly, and presenting the appearance, in 
 the mellow light, of a ball of wool. 
 
 The graceful little figure belonged to Daisy, who was 
 flushed and panting with the violence of her exercise, and 
 whose muslin dress was torn and soiled. 
 
 She uttered a scream of delight as she caught sight of 
 Clifford, and ran up to him and threw her arms around his 
 neck— a feat which required her to rise on the tips of her 
 little slippers— exclaiming : 
 
 “ I am so glad you’ve come ! Gip and I got tired waiting 
 for you, so we’ve been racing in order to pass off the time. 
 And would you believe that I can beat him !” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft bent and kissed the pretty face, with 
 all the discontent gone from his own. 
 
 “My little darling!” he said, feeling great compunctions 
 of conscience for the disloyalty which he had so recently 
 been guilty of toward her, and mentally resolving that it 
 
DA IS r DARRELL. 85 
 
 should never happen again. 4 4 My little darling, I could 
 not come any earlier ; I was detained by — business. ” 
 
 His face flushed crimson, and he turned his head away 
 from her when he said that, remembering the nature of 
 that business, and with whom it had been connected. 
 
 He drew her hand through his arm and walked with her 
 to the house, and seated himself beside her on the small 
 portico under the trailing vines. 
 
 44 I want to talk to you<” he said. “ I want to tell you 
 something.” 
 
 44 You speak so solemnly,” she said, shrugging her plump 
 shoulders, and making a pretty grimace, “ that I’m afraid 
 to hear it. I am afraid you are going to tell me something 
 dreadful.” 
 
 Looking seriously down into her face, with his black 
 brows drawn discontentedly together, he said : 
 
 “I want you to try to be less hoidenish, and more lady- 
 like, Daisy. My mother and sister are very fastidious, and 
 I would not dare to present such an unrefined person to 
 them as a daughter and sister.” 
 
 He had spoken with thoughtless bluntness, without con- 
 sidering the effect it might have on his sensitive young 
 wife, and he was shocked when she drew herself from him 
 and burst into tears, crying passionately : 
 
 44 You are ashamed of me. That’s why you married me 
 secretly, and you are sorry for doing it already !” 
 
 He denied the charge, of course, and with her head pil- 
 lowed on his breast, he soothed her with tender assurances 
 of his devotion. But the cloud of doubt and suspicion 
 which was destined to widen and darken until it broke in 
 a desolating tempest over her life, at that hour made its 
 appearance on her sky. Thenceforth the cold shadow of 
 distrust lay between her and him, a hideous specter which 
 she could not exorcise, struggle against it as she might and 
 did. 
 
 Keenly alive to the slightest hint of coldness, as the 
 weeks flew by she noticed that there was a surely widen- 
 ing chasm between herself and her husband. 
 
 He came in late at night often, and at such times he was 
 irritable and fault-finding, and was apt to criticise Daisy’s 
 hoidenish manners with cutting severity. 
 
 44 He is sorry he married me— he would be glad to be free 
 from me 1” she sobbed passionately to herself. 4 4 He leaves 
 me here alone day after day, and nobody with me but 
 Bridget. He never takes me anywhere with him, and of 
 course, it is because he is ashamed of me ! He knows that 
 I never attended an opera in my life, and I begged him to 
 take me to-night to see 4 Norma,’ and he wouldn’t do it. 
 
86 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 He said he had an engagement ! I think he always has en< 
 gagements to keep him from giving me any of his time P 
 While she was crying and muttering angrily to herself, 
 Bridget, the Irish servant, entered the room, and seeing he* 
 pretty little mistress in tears, she exclaimed : 
 
 “ Is it ony thing has gone wrong wid ye, hinny?” 
 
 “I want to go to the opera to-night, Bridget, and Mr. 
 Bancroft won’t take me !” Daisy responded, chokingly. 
 
 4 4 Is it that that ails ye?” the good-naturedigirljresponded 
 patting her mistress’ short, flaxen curls. “The villain ol 
 the wurld he is, not to take ye. But sure ye can go onv- 
 how; the two of us will sthale a march on him, and we r ll 
 jist shlip off and go to the opery by ourselves.” 
 
 “Good!” Daisy exclaimed, clapping her hands, while her 
 flushed face beamed with anticipated pleasure. “ We will 
 hire a hack, and you and I will go together, Bridget, and 
 Clifford need never know anything about it.” 
 
 So it was that Daisy Bancroft, as if driven by a cruel 
 destiny, appeared at the opera that night. 
 
 What a flutter of excitement she was in; and how brill- 
 iant the light was in the hall, and how beautiful the ladies 
 looked, in their silks and laces and jewels, and how hand- 
 some the gentlemen appeared in their evening costumes ; 
 what a fluttering of many-colored fans there was, stirring 
 the scented atmosphere like wings of brilliant birds ! 
 
 That scene in all its grandeur remained always with Daisy, 
 as if it were seared upon her memory with a red-hot iron. 
 
 She was sitting on the edge of one of the aisles, and just be- 
 fore the curtain was to rise a gentleman and lady swept 
 past her on their way to a private box, and an old man in 
 front of her whispered audibly to the young girl beside him : 
 “ That lady is the beautiful Miss Fitzgerald, of Kentucky. 
 She and the gentleman with her are to be married in Sep- 
 tember.” 
 
 Hearing that, Daisy turned her eyes with a start on the 
 couple who were just entering the box. 
 
 As she did so, she sprung to her feet, uttering a smothered 
 cry. 
 
 In the gentleman who was to be married to the beautiful 
 Miss Fitzgerald in September, she had recognized her own 
 lawfully, if secretly, wedded husband — Clifford Bancroft ! 
 
 Was she dying? She was growing cold and blind, and 
 the room seemed to be reeling about in a mad dance, in 
 which she held only the sight , of those two — those two 
 who were to be married in September! 
 
 She made no effort to control herself ; she had no thought, 
 no care for herself, yet the momentary darkness passed 
 away, and she had not lost consciousness even for an in- 
 jstant. 
 
Daisy darrell. 
 
 S7 
 
 She was deathly pale, and she was trembling iolently. 
 
 “ I am ill — I must go home/’ she whispered to Bridget. 
 
 “ I shall faint if I stay here; take me out into the air.” 
 
 The warm-hearted Irish girl instantly threw her strong 
 arm around the slender waist of her mistress, feeling her 
 swaying in her clasp as if she were about to fall at every 
 step, and thus supported her to the carriage, in which they 
 were driven rapidly back to the little vine-wreathed cot- 
 tage where the happiest days of poor little Daisy’s life had 
 been spent, but where now the night of terrible despair 
 had fallen in impenetrable blackness over her. 
 
 “Sure, I’ll stay wid ye, hinny,” Bridget said, as Daisy 
 threw herself across the bed in her own room. 
 
 “No, no; there is nothing of any consequence the mat- 
 ter ” her mistress responded, with her arm across her eyes, 
 and speaking in a slow, numb way: “Leave me alone; I 
 would rather be alone.” 
 
 The girl lingered for a few minutes, and as Daisy lay as if 
 she were going to sleep, she finally stole from the room. 
 
 How long the desolate young wife lay there staring her 
 misery dumbly in the face she herself never knew, for she 
 took no count of time. She only knew that a great light 
 had seemed to be suddenly snuffed out, leaving her in utter 
 darkness. 
 
 She was naturally so light of heart that this great sorrow 
 acted upon her as it does on all such natures — it utterly 
 crushed her. 
 
 In the mental storm raging within her, which was all 
 the more oppressive for being voiceless, a hundred words 
 and incidents connected with her husband in the past few 
 weeks came to her like lightning flashes, throwing light 
 upon what had been mysterious, and revealing hidden 
 mainsprings. 
 
 She understood it all now— his absences from her, his 
 moodiness when with her. 
 
 “ Geraldine was his first love; he never really cared for 
 me,” she said, drearily, to herself. “He is sorry he mar- 
 ried me — he would be "glad to be rid of me.” 
 
 When she said that, she arose slowly and stiffly from 
 her bed, and went across the room and threw open a win- 
 dow, and kneeling down beside it, she stared, wide-eyed, 
 out upon the black night. 
 
 She heard the lonesome throbbings of the heart of the 
 great city, which was subdued in sleep, but is never wholly 
 silent, and it seemed to be beating a funeral march in com- 
 pany with her own heart. 
 
 There was one desire strong within her — that was, to re- 
 lieve Clifford Bancroft of the burden she felt she had be- 
 
38 DAISY DARRELL, 
 
 come to him ; and after awhile that desire culminated in a 
 wild purpose. 
 
 She arose suddenly, and drawing the light scarf which 
 she had worn to the opera close around her shoulders, she 
 stepped through the open window, and wandered away 
 aimlessly through the black night. 
 
 CHAPTER X. 
 
 “IT IS LITTLE I CAN DO FOR YOU!” 
 
 It was in that darkest, dreariest hour of all the twenty- 
 four — the hour immediately preceding the dawn — that 
 Daisy wandered away from the roof which had sheltered 
 her during the brief weeks of her married life. 
 
 Where should she go? 
 
 In the feverish state of her mind she could form no 
 plan. 
 
 She seemed to be incapable of any thought save that 
 Clifford was tired of her. That he would rejoice to be rid 
 of her, that he might be free to woo and win his first love, 
 Geraldine Fitzgerald. 
 
 As to the legality of that proceeding on his part, no 
 thought entered her mind. She only felt sick at heart- 
 sick with misery and disappointment. 
 
 She was only impelled by one impulse in her flight, and 
 that was to get out of New York, to leave the horrible city 
 as far behind as possible. 
 
 So she mechanically followed the road leading out of the 
 suburbs into the country. 
 
 It was a way she had never traversed before, and the 
 darkness through which she wandered was so intense that 
 she could not even see the cottages that lined it upon either 
 side as she walked on in a straight direction. 
 
 After awhile the dim gray of the dawn began to struggle 
 through the darkness. 
 
 Where was she? How far from the little vine-wreathed 
 cottage she had left forever ? 
 
 Suddenly this wonder stole into Daisy’s benumbed mind, 
 and stirred for the first time since she had seen her hus- 
 band and Geraldine at the opera the mental torpor which 
 seemed to be over her. 
 
 In the faint but momentarily increasing light, she stood 
 still, and glanced about. 
 
 She had walked long and rapidly, but she was still in the 
 suburbs of the great city she had flown from, and which 
 she felt an almost insane desire to lose sight of— as one 
 does of any spot where some great calamity has befallen 
 them. 
 
 The scent of its smoke and the faint sounds of its re- 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 89 
 
 awakening life, came to her on the sluggish morning air, 
 and it sickened her. 
 
 44 It is a fitting home for a person as false as he is!” she 
 muttered, giving involuntary utterance to the first unkind 
 thought of her husband which had come to her. 
 
 At that moment, as she turned to pursue her way, she 
 caught sight of an object on the side of the road. 
 
 Burdened with a sense of misery and bitter wrong, Daisy 
 passed by, noticing, in an unthinking way, that the object 
 was a woman — a beggar, probably. 
 
 44 I’m a beggar myself.” 
 
 Daisy muttered that assertion to herself in a hard, bitter 
 tone, but it brought to her a sudden consciousness of her 
 really destitute condition. 
 
 She was homeless — she was penniless 1 
 
 She had nowhere to lay her head, save on the grass and 
 stones of the wayside. 
 
 She turned and went back to where the woman was sit- 
 ting in a collapsed position, with her face hidden on her 
 knees. 
 
 Her clothing was so worn that it hung in tatters on her 
 meager frame ; and she shivered as if she were cold. 
 
 Daisy was too heart-sick— too much overburdened with 
 her own trouble, to feel any pity for the sorrows of others. 
 But she entertained a fellow-feeling for the woman. 
 
 Was not she herself poor, desolate, and an outcast? 
 
 44 What is the matter ?” she asked, looking down on the 
 crouching figure. 
 
 The woman lifted her bare head with its tangle of flaxen 
 hair, and turned a haggard face toward the questioner. 
 
 Her face, with its bright, hollow eyes, indicated by its 
 mingled expression of misery and degradation and de- 
 fiance, what manner of life hers had been, and yesterday 
 morning Daisy would have shrunk from the pollution of 
 her near presence. 
 
 But not this morning— she saw in her only a woman, 
 poor, shelterless, friendless, and a chord of sympathy went 
 out of her heart to her. 
 
 44 What’s the matter ?” the woman said repeating Daisy’s 
 question, and shivering so that her teeth chattered behind 
 her bloodless lips — 4 4 1 am cold, and I’ll soon be colder.” 
 
 She hugged her knees with her emaciated arms, and 
 dropped her face down on them again, with a shiver run- 
 ning over her at every breath. 
 
 44 1 am as poor as you are, and it’s little I can do for you,” 
 Daisy said bitterly. 
 
 But she unwrapped the blue shawl from her head and 
 shoulders, and bending oyer the woman she gently forced 
 
40 
 
 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 her to raise herself so that she could knot it Securely 
 around her poor shivering figure. 
 
 Having done that, she went on her aimless way, glancing 
 back only once, and then she saw that the woman had 
 arisen and was tottering off; her wavering sleps were 
 turned toward the great sheet of water growing rosy now 
 with the wine-flush of the rising sun. 
 
 It was the last glimpse Daisy ever caught of her, and she 
 certainly had no suspicion of the important part in her own 
 affairs which that wreck of womanhood was destined to 
 play. 
 
 Those two desolate ones went on their separate ways— 
 one toward the shining water, and the other toward the 
 forest whose tall tree-tops formed a dark line against the 
 distant horizon. 
 
 Daisy made her way toward that line. There was an 
 undefined idea in her mind that she would feel safer in the 
 heart of that forest ; and it did not appear to be very far 
 in the distance. 
 
 But her eyes had deceived her, for the sun had climbed 
 into the middle of the sky and her feet were wretchedly 
 tired before she reached it. 
 
 Her head was aching with a dull, heavy pain, and every- 
 thing seemed to be swimming before her eyes. 
 
 Suddenly the trees which she had drawn so near to 
 peemed to enter into a mad dance, accompanied by the 
 most discordant strains, that seemed to be clashing against 
 her brain, and then thick darkness settled over it all, and 
 she lay in a dead faint on the road. 
 
 Utter oblivion had fallen over her; a blessed uncon- 
 sciousness of her desolation and misery. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft, with his dreamy eyes gazing tenderly 
 down into the beaming orbs of Geraldine Fitzgerald, 
 might whisper vows of love to her there in the very pres- 
 ence of his wronged wife, but it would bring no flush of 
 indignation into those marble cheeks ; no gleam of anger 
 into those closed eyes. 
 
 Lying there on the road, with the sun beaming on her 
 upturned face, and with the wandering breeze stirring the 
 rings of her hair, Geraldine Fitzgerald and Clifford Ban- 
 croft— and love and sorrow— all were to Daisy as if they 
 had never been. 
 
 Happy it would be for her, perhaps, if she should never 
 awaken to consciousness of tnem again. Happy for her, 
 perhaps, if she could lie in that death-like state for all time. 
 
 While poor Daisy had been making her way forward, 
 lured by the dark line of the distant forest, the miserable 
 outcast around whom she had knotted her shawl 4 was totter- 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 41 
 
 in g on in a different direction, but also lured by an object 
 lying in the distance. 
 
 That object was the shining water. 
 
 On she went, slowly but surely, lessening the distance 
 between herself and the inviting flood. 
 
 After awhile her reeling steps brought her to the margin, 
 and with her feet touched by the waves that crawled out 
 with drowsy, soothing murmurs, she halted an instant, 
 and her lips moved with some inaudible words— perhaps 
 with a prayer. 
 
 Then she reached her arms imploringly out, and threw 
 herself into the water. 
 
 There was a plashing and then a gurgling sound, and the 
 flood closed over the poor form which was wrapped in 
 Daisy’s shawl, and on which was embroidered the word 
 “Daisy,” 
 
 CHAPTER XI. 
 
 “I FOUND HER LYING ON THE ROADSIDE!” 
 
 Like a broken lily Daisy lay there on the edge of the 
 forest with the branches of an oak tree drooping pityingly 
 over her, and with the wandering breeze tenderly kissing 
 her upturned face, and with the sunlight dropping a cross 
 of gold through the shadow of the tree on her breast. 
 
 Less than ten minutes after she had fallen there, and 
 that merciful oblivion had come to her, a light spring 
 wagon, drawn by a gentle white horse, rolled briskly down 
 the turnpike road. 
 
 The driver of the horse, and the only occupant of the 
 wagon, was a fair-complexioned countryman, who had 
 soft blue eyes, and pale gold hair and mustache, 
 
 “ Why, Dan, what’s that?” 
 
 As he addressed this query in a tone of astonishment to 
 the gentle horse, he drew rein with his eyes fixed in a 
 wide, wondering stare on the prostrate form of Daisy. 
 
 He sprung out of the vehicle, and with hasty steps went 
 to her, and halted beside her, and looked down at her, with 
 a world of pity breaking into his soft eyes. 
 
 “ Is she dead, I wonder?” 
 
 Muttering that in an unsteady voice, he dropped down 
 on his knee beside her and bent over her, placing his hand 
 reverently on her forehead, and then on her heart. 
 
 “She has only fainted, I think,” he muttered. “ Thank 
 God!” 
 
 Then he cast a bewildered glance around. There was no 
 one in sight— the last house he had passed on the road was 
 more than a mile distant. 
 
4$ 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 There was a troubled look on his honest face, but it 
 cleared away with a sudden brightening as he muttered : 
 
 “I’ll take her home to mother. It’s the best thing I can 
 do. Mother ’ll bring her around all right — poor little 
 thing !” 
 
 The last words were muttered into Daisy’s deafened ear 
 as he lifted her gently in his arms and deposited her ten- 
 derly in the bottom of the covered wagon — with his coat 
 folded under her head for a pillow. 
 
 Many a time, . during the half-mile drive which followed, 
 his soft eyes turned pitying glances on the graceful figure 
 lying so still in its beauty— so touching in its utter uncon- 
 sciousness and helplessness. Many a time after such 
 glances he drew his sleeve across his eyes and muttered : 
 
 “ Poor thing — poor thing!” 
 
 When the wagon at last turned into a large gate, and 
 slowly made its way among tall trees to an old-fashioned 
 farm-house, a heavy weight seemed to be lifted from the 
 young man’s mind, and as he drew up before the door, he 
 called out in a cheerful voice : 
 
 “ Mother, mother! Come here, mother!” 
 
 “Keep your patience, I’m coming!” was responded by a 
 clear, feminine voice, and an instant after an old woman, 
 with shrewd black eyes that glittered with much of the 
 fire of youth, appeared in the doorway. 
 
 “John Goldman, will you please to inform me, what in 
 the name of Old Nick you’re taking out of that wagon!” 
 she exclaimed, with her small hands uplifted on either 
 side of her withered face. 
 
 “I don’t know who she is, mother; I found her lying on 
 the roadside, and I put her in the wagon and brought her 
 home to you,” John responded, advancing to the house, 
 holding poor Daisy in his arms as if she were a very limp, 
 as well as a very large, doll. 
 
 “The mischief you did!” the old lady responded in a 
 voice exceedingly gruff and threatening, but stepping aside 
 in order to allow her son to pass into the house with his 
 burden. “And will you please to inform me how you 
 dared to bring such a peck of trouble home to me?” 
 
 “I dared to do it because I knew what a good, warm 
 heart my old mother has, and that she would do all that a 
 mother could for the poor, half-dead little thing. So I 
 brought her home to you — and now where must I take 
 her?” 
 
 Talking thus confidently John was following in the wake 
 of his mother down the wide, old-fashioned hall. 
 
 “Take her into my room,” the old lady said, always 
 speaking gruffly, but with that peculiar gruffness which is 
 po readily detected as counterfeit. “ It’s more homelike^ 
 
DAIS F DARHPjLL. 43 
 
 to me — and I suppose I shall have to be with her and nurse 
 her.” 
 
 “ I know you, mother. You think it will be more home- 
 like for her when she opens her eyes— if she ever does— 
 poor little thing!” John responded, tenderly placing Daisy 
 on the cool white bed, and then drawing his sleeve across 
 his eyes to wipe away the mist which had arisen in them 
 as he looked down on the pretty, pale face, which was so 
 childlike in its age and expression. 
 
 41 There’s no time to be crying over her, and ‘poor little 
 thing ’-ing her,” Mrs. Goldman exclaimed with that coun- 
 terfeit sharpness. u You’d a precious sight better be try- 
 ing to put some life into her — if she isn’t clear dead. Hand 
 me the camphor, and then go down into the cellar and 
 bring me a bottle of wine.” 
 
 John turned with great- alacrity to do her bidding, and 
 in a few minutes they had the satisfaction of seeing their 
 exertions to restore Daisy to consciousness rewarded with 
 success. 
 
 After awhile her lips parted with a fluttering breath, her 
 eyelids quivered, and John with instinctive delicacy shrank 
 out of the range of her vision should she unclose her eyes. 
 
 “It would seem more homelike, maybe, to see mother’s 
 face than mine,” he said to himself. 
 
 So it was on the shriveled but still attractive face of 
 Mrs. Goldman that the eyes of the desolate young wife 
 rested, when, with returning consciousness, the gold- 
 fringed lids were lifted from them. 
 
 u Where am I ?” Daisy asked, looking wonderingly into 
 the face of the old woman, and feeling strangely bewil- 
 dered. 
 
 “You are among friends, and where you will be taken 
 care of,” Mrs. Goldman responded, a little brusquely, it is 
 true, but not harshly, and her hand was gentle in its touch 
 on the short, flaxen curls. ‘ 4 Don’t ask any questions 
 now, for I won’t answer any, but shut your eyes and go to 
 sleep if you can.” 
 
 Daisy felt very weak, very apathetic. She had neither 
 strength nor energy to resist that commanding power, 
 even if she had been more averse to obey. So, without 
 uttering another word, she closed her eyes again like a 
 tired child, and like a tired child she drifted out into a deep, 
 refreshing sleep. 
 
 Mrs. Goldman, seeing her charge thus soundly slumber- 
 ing, closed the windows so as to shut out the garish day, 
 and stole softly from the room. 
 
 In the hall she encountered John, who was pacing rest- 
 lessly but noiselessly up and down on the bright carpet 
 covering the floor. 
 
U DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 As the old lady appeared he asked in an eager but sub- 
 dued voice : 
 
 “ How is she, mother?” 
 
 “She’s asleep now. I think she wiil soon be all right,” 
 the eld lady responded. “ She had only fainted. I wonder 
 who she is, and to whom she belongs?” she added, mus- 
 ingly. 
 
 A warm color came into John’s honest face, and a warm 
 light into his blue eyes. 
 
 “I don’t know who she is nor to whom she belongs,” 
 he said softly, running his fingers through his short hair 
 until it stood on end, and looking straight into the old 
 lady’s face. “But I do know one thing, and that is — 
 that — that — I wish she belonged to us, mother. She 
 might be my sister, you know.” 
 
 John had grown painfully embarrassed, and he floun- 
 dered in his speech. 
 
 “You’re a simpleton, John Goldman!” his mother re- 
 torted, bluntly. “You’ve fallen in love with her — that’s 
 what’s the matter — and I’d like for you to inform me what 
 you know about her ! She may be, and very likely she is, 
 one of the very worst baggages in New York. I wouldn’t 
 turn a sick dog out of my house ; but when she gets well, 
 she’ll have to post off, as sure as you’re a foot high, John 
 Goldman !” 
 
 “You’re not the woman to judge anybody unheard, 
 mother,” John said, placing his arm around the still pretty 
 shoulders of his mother. “Wait until you hear what she 
 has to say, poor little thing !” 
 
 “I think I’ve made my mind up about her,” the old 
 lady said, compressing her lips. “ As sure as you live, 
 there’s something wrong about that girl, John Goldman!” 
 
 Mrs. Goldman, having emphatically made that declara- 
 tion, went away in the direction of the kitchen, and her 
 son went down to the spring, which gurgled musically in 
 the cool shadow of the ravine near by, to bring a bucket 
 of fresh water. 
 
 “ I want some fresh water in the house when she wakes,” 
 John muttered to himself; and he fell to speculating about 
 that sleeping girl who had so unexpectedly fallen under 
 his roof, and into his hands, as it were. 
 
 In his own mind he indignantly repudiated his mother’s 
 avowal that “there was something wrong about her.” 
 
 “ I would be willing to stake my life on it that she is as 
 good as gold,” he said to himeelf, dreamily dipping up the 
 clear, cool water. “When she wakes she will explain the 
 mystery that seems to hang over her, even to mother’s 
 entire satisfaction, I believe.” 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 45 
 
 But in that expectation John Goldman was destined to 
 be wofully disappointed. 
 
 For when Daisy awoke, it was with the delirium of 
 brain-fever over her, and the thread by which she clung 
 to life was of the slenderest, and threatened from hour to 
 hour to break, and let her fall into the grave which seemed 
 to be yawning to receive her. 
 
 And John Goldman assisted his mother in watching 
 over her, with such deep solicitude, such strained anxiety, 
 that it actually wore the rich color from his face, and left 
 dark shadows under his eyes as the days, each fraught with 
 more danger to her life than the previous one, dragged 
 slowly by, and the thread holding her over the grave 
 grew more and more slender. 
 
 CHAPTER XII. 
 
 “do you know where your wife is?” 
 
 When Bridget Conner, Daisy’s faithful and attached 
 maid, discovered the absence of her mistress when she 
 went to her room to call her to breakfast, she was sur- 
 prised, but not alarmed. 
 
 “ Sure the cr’ature’s gone out for a walk ; and its through 
 the winder she got, too,” she added, laughing, as she leaned 
 out through the casement and saw the print of the little 
 feet in the soft sod below. “ I’ll kape the breakfast nice 
 and warrum for her, for sure it’s hungry she’ll be, the 
 darlint.” 
 
 But the delicate viands which her loving care kept warm 
 and moist were destined to spoil at last, for the day wore 
 on, and the night fell, and Daisy did not return. 
 
 4 ‘ Sure, but I wish the masther would come, or that I’d 
 know where to look fur ’im,” Bridget said to herself, lean- 
 ing over the gate, and staring up and down the lamp- 
 lighted street. 
 
 She had grown uneasy at her mistress’ prolonged absence, 
 and every moment added to her feverish unrest. 
 
 “Arrah wisha— why don’t they come, one or other of 
 ’em? Sure it’s crazy I’ll go wid de worry!” she muttered, 
 frowning and shrugging her shoulders uneasily. “I can’t 
 rist here, so I’ll go up the street and see can’t I find him or 
 her.” 
 
 So saying, she opened the gate and passed out, and went 
 hurriedly along the pavement, staring anxiously about. 
 
 The streets were thronged with people intent on business 
 or pleasure, but neither Daisy nor Clifford was among 
 them, and Bridget went on and on, up one square ana 
 around another, looking eagerly into every face she met, 
 but seeing neither of those she sought. 
 
46 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 At last, as she was going over a crossing, she nailed to 
 allow a carriage to pass. It was an open carriage, silver- 
 mounted and crimson cushioned — with a liveried driver 
 and footman in attendance, and drawn by a pair of highly 
 mettled horses. 
 
 But it was not the elegance of the turnout which elicited 
 the sudden cry of delight that broke from the lips of 
 Bridget Conner. 
 
 A gentleman and lady were occupying the vehicle, and 
 in the gentleman she recognized her master, Clifford Ban- 
 croft. 
 
 He did not notice her, for he was talking to the richly 
 dressed lady beside him, and in an instant the carriage 
 had dashed past Bridget, leaving her staring after it in a 
 dazed way. 
 
 But it was only for a moment that she stood thus staring 
 forlornly, and then she started away, running and shout- 
 ing after the carriage with all her might. But the mettled 
 horses distanced her in a few minutes — and it was lost to her 
 eight in a sudden turning. 
 
 “Oh, wurra, wurra! Whatever will I do?” Bridget ex- 
 claimed, tears of vexation and perplexity beginning to 
 course down her flushed cheeks. 
 
 “ What’s the matter, woman?” 
 
 It was a policeman who asked the question, having 
 caught her exclamation. 
 
 “ It’s the gentleman in the carriage that turned the cor- 
 ner a bit ago that I wanted to spake to,” Bridget said, 
 dashing the drops impetuously from her eyes. “I live 
 wid his wife, and she’s gone since last night, and I don’t 
 know where she is, and I want to ax him does he know, 
 but I don’t know where to find him!” 
 
 “ What’s his name?” the policeman inquired. 
 
 “It’s Clifford Bancroft,” the woman answered, “and I 
 don’t know where to find ’im. He was in that carriage 
 wid a lady — but she wasn’t his wife— and I couldn’t make 
 him hear me, and I don’t know where he’s gone to.” 
 
 Her trouble seemed to be a matter of small consequence 
 to the policeman, who had been so much accustomed to 
 deal with murders and burglaries. So he turned without 
 another word, and started to pass on, but Bridget detained 
 him with her hand on his arm. 
 
 “ Can’t ye tell me how I’ll find him?” she asked. 
 
 “Go to his place of business and inquire for him,” the 
 guardian of the peace said. “If you don’t know where 
 that is, look in a ‘directory,’ and you’ll find out. You’ll 
 find one there.” 
 
 He pointed into the office of a large business house be- 
 fore which they were standing, and made as if he would 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 4t 
 
 t o off, but still Bridget’s detaining hand on his arm held 
 im, 
 
 “ Coom and go wid me/’ she said imperatively. 44 Sure 
 I don’t know narthing about the 4 therectory.’ ” 
 
 The policeman offered no objection. He turned stoically, 
 and went to the office with her. 
 
 He went up to the 44 directory,” which was lying on the 
 office -counter, and turned the leaves. 
 
 44 What business is he in ?” he asked, and Bridget stand- 
 ing anxiously beside him answered : 
 
 44 1 think he’s a liar.” 
 
 44 Lawyer, you mean,” the man said, rapidly turning the 
 pages, and in a minute he read : 
 
 44 J. S. Sc Clifford Bancroft, No. 764 Court Place.” 
 
 44 No. 764 Court Place,” Bridget repeated. 44 1 know 
 where it is. I’ve a sisther that has a son livin’ on that 
 sthrate. I’ll go there and lave worred at Mr. Bancroft’s 
 office, if he ain’t there, that his wife’s gone, and I don’t 
 know where she’s gone to.” 
 
 With which emphatically spoken resolve, she hurried 
 out of the hotel, and started swiftly up the brilliantly 
 lighted street. 
 
 Her course led past the opera-house where she had gone 
 the night before with Daisy. 
 
 There were a number of carriages drawn up in front of it, 
 and among them, Bridget caught sight of one which re- 
 minded her of that in which she had seen Clifford Ban- 
 croft. 
 
 She made he 1 ' way through the crowd of vehicles to that 
 particular one. 
 
 44 Whose carriage is this?” she inquired of the driver, 
 who was indolently reclining on his high perch, and who 
 regarded her superciliously as he answered : 
 
 44 Judge Bancroft’s.” 
 
 44 And where’s the gentleman gone to ?” Bridget asked. 
 
 44 He’s gone wherever it suits him,” the man answered 
 impudently. 44 And I don’t know as it’s any of your busi- 
 ness to know.” 
 
 The woman’s Irish temper flashed up in an instant. 
 
 41 Hould a civil tongue in yer head, ye dirty spalpeen!” 
 she exclaimed, brandishing her fist menacingly. 44 1 asked 
 ye a civil question, and it’s a civil answer 1 want. Mr. 
 Bancroft’s wife’s gone, and I don’t know where she is, and 
 I want to tell him.” 
 
 44 You’re on the wrong scent, then, old lady,” the driver 
 said, again speaking insolently. “For Mr. Clifford Ban- 
 croft hasn’t got a wife. But if he has good luck he’ll have 
 one in four weeks’ time. I brought him and the lady he’s 
 going to marry to the opera here to-night.” 
 
48 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 “You’ve tould one lie, but you’ve followed it with the 
 truth I want to get at,” Bridget responded, curtly. “ I 
 know he's got a wife, or he had one last night, poor, dear 
 little cr’athur! Wherever can she be to-night, I wonder?” 
 
 Muttering that, she turned away and hid herself in an 
 obscure corner to wait until the opera should be over, and 
 to watch for Clifford Bancroft in the crowd that would 
 stream out from it. 
 
 It seemed to her a long, long time before the noise of 
 tramping feet and of many blended voices warned her that 
 the evening's entertainment was over. 
 
 She was terrified lest she should miss seeing him in the 
 surging multitude, 
 
 “ I’ll watch for him to get into the carriage,” she mut- 
 tered, whereupon she turned her determined eyes on the 
 silver mounted, crimson-lined vehicle which she had 
 learned belonged to Judge Bancroft. 
 
 After a minute or so she saw it move up to the side- 
 walk, and saw the footman descend from his perch and 
 throw open the door. 
 
 Then she pressed breathlessly through the crowd. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft was just in the act of helping the 
 elegantly attired lady — who was Miss Geraldine Fitzger- 
 ald — into the carriage, when Bridget grasped his arm, 
 exclaiming volubly : 
 
 4 4 Do you know where your wife is? She’s gone, and I 
 can’t find her!” 
 
 In the light of the street lamp, she saw a vivid color 
 break into Clifford Bancroft’s swarthy face, and a startled 
 look came into the great black eyes of Miss Fitzgerald, who 
 was just in the act of stepping into the carriage, but who 
 halted as if she had been paralyzed with astonishment. 
 
 CHAPTER Xm. 
 
 “ IT IS A DEAD BODY THEY ARE TAKING TO THE MORGUE !” 
 
 Covered with confusion, Clifford Bancroft stood for on 
 instant staring dumbly into the excited countenance ot’ 
 Bridget Conner, then he shut his lips together and pushed 
 her aside, and turned with his usual deferential manner to 
 Geraldine. 
 
 “ Let me assist you into the carriage,” he said, touching 
 her arm, and she mechanically stepped into the vehicle, 
 and he sprung in, and seated himself beside her, giving 
 orders to the driver to take them to the young lady’s 
 aunt’s, where she was still visiting. 
 
 As they rolled away, Bridget stood staring after them 
 with her lips puckered comically. 
 
 Sure, it’s on a fool’s errand I’ve been, for he knows all 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 4* 
 
 about where she is, or he wouldn’t take it so aisy-like. But 
 what right has a married man like him to he shparkin’ 
 around with a pretty young woman, an’ his own true wife 
 not in sight? Sure, if he was my husband I’d t’ach him 
 betther!” 
 
 Bridget’s indignant soliloquy was brought to an end by 
 finding herself penned in by the crowding vehicles, and 
 she made her way to the pavement, and on to the little 
 vine- wreathed cottage again, from which the pretty little 
 mistress had so suddenly and mysteriously disappeared . 
 
 In the meantime the carriage containing Clifford Ban- 
 croft and Miss Fitzgerald was rolling rapidly on to the 
 palatial residence of Mrs. Margaret Fitzgerald, Geraldine’s 
 widowed aunt. 
 
 Geraldine’s glittering eyes were fixed on the flushed face 
 of Clifford Bancroft, and her voice was sharply imperative 
 as she asked : 
 
 “ What did she mean by saying your wife was gone?” 
 
 The light from the carriage lamps fell full on his face as 
 he turned it toward her and answered, with an undertone 
 of angry impatience in his voice : 
 
 4 4 You certainly know that the woman mistook me for 
 some one else, don’t you? You certainly know that I have 
 no wife.” 
 
 As he uttered the falsehood his cheeks flushed with 
 shame, and he turned his head away with a sense of his 
 dishonor bitter upon him. 
 
 Geraldine drew a long breath of relief. The suspicion of 
 him having been Daisy Darrell’s abductor, which she had 
 abandoned weeks ago, had come back to her with re- 
 doubled keenness at Bridget’s words. 
 
 His assertion set it to rest again, and a quivering smile 
 came to her lips as she said : 
 
 “ The woman’s words about your wife reminded me of 
 something I had suspected you of the week after you left 
 Pinelands.” 
 
 He turned a quick, nervous glance upon her, and then 
 looked away again without speaking, while she went on: 
 
 14 It has been on my mind to tell you of it several timee, 
 but I felt that it would be an insult to you, so I kept si- 
 lence on the subject ; but I will tell you now. Do you re- 
 member seeing a young girl at Pinelands— a blue-eyed, 
 light-haired, pretty blonde, named Daisy Darrell ?” 
 
 This time he did not glance toward her, but kept his 
 face still in the shadow, as he responded in a nervous way : 
 
 44 I saw you at Pinelands. Do you expect me to remem- 
 ber any one else very distinctly ?” 
 
 At that moment he wished, as he had done many, many 
 times before, that he never had seen Daisy Darrell, whose 
 
60 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 blonde beauty and childish ways had bewitched him into 
 committing the folly of that secret marriage, thereby 
 binding to his life a little ignoramus— so he called her to 
 himself— whom he was afraid to present to his haughty 
 family as his wife. 
 
 Miss Fitzgerald tossed her handsome head, and uttered 
 a low, pleased laugh. Then she proceeded to tell him all 
 she knew of Daisy’s disappearance, and of the striking 
 likeness her abductor bore to himself as she saw him in 
 the uncertain moonlight. 
 
 Always keeping his face turned from her in the shadow, 
 he listened. It was an effort for him to utter a word, but 
 as she paused in the narration, he forced himself to ask : 
 
 “ Did you ever hear what became of the girl?” 
 
 “ No,” Geraldine answered indifferently. 44 As she was 
 father’s niece he felt compelled to institute inquiry for her, 
 but he failed to discover a single clew to her whereabouts, 
 and at last he gave up the search. Blood will tell,” she 
 went on, uplifting her regal head proudly, 44 and it did so 
 in Daisy Darrell’s case. Her father was a trifling, low- 
 born man, whom my aunt eloped with and marriea when 
 she was a very young girl, and, of course, her family cast 
 her off. But when she died, my father took her daughter 
 —who was, fortunately, her only child— and gave her a 
 home, and tried to be a father to her ; but we soon found 
 we couldn’t make a lady of her— the material was lacking. 
 And the end of it was she eloped with some one who was, 
 I suppose, one of her low associates before she came 
 to Pinelands, and we’ve heard nothing from her since, and 
 never want to again.” 
 
 Miss Fitzgerald dismissed the subject with a wave of her 
 white hand. 
 
 It was not a very warm night, and the air was cool as it 
 blew against them, but there were great drops of perspira- 
 tion beading Clifford Bancroft’s forehead; and the blood, 
 as it coursed madly through his veins, seemed to be burn- 
 ing with fever. 
 
 A realization of the wretched predicament in which his 
 mad act in marrying Daisy Darrell had placed him, had 
 come to him. 
 
 He had never had courage enough to break, on any pre- 
 text, the engagement existing between himself and Miss 
 Fitzgerald. He had put off the evil moment from day to 
 day, trusting that some providential help would come to 
 him in the matter. But the last of July had come, mid he 
 was still pledged to marry Geraldine Fitzgerald in Sep- 
 tember ! 
 
 And he was already the husband of another woman! 
 
 That conversation gave him an opening to tell the truth, 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 51 
 
 but after her contemptuous expressions touching Daisy 
 Darrell and her abductor, he could not summon tne reso- 
 lution to do it. 
 
 So, while he was in this miserable state of torture, the 
 carriage halted before Mrs. Margaret Fitzgerald’s door, 
 and the opportunity was lost. 
 
 “ I will see you to-morrow,” Geraldine said, as her hand 
 lingered in his at parting. 
 
 41 Yes, to-morrow,” he answered; and as he walked hur- 
 riedly down the street, he muttered: 44 To-morrow I will 
 tell her.” 
 
 As he went on down the street a crowd of people passed 
 him; and he noticed in the midst four men bearing a litter, 
 on which something, evidently a human form, was lying, 
 covered with a coarse black pall. 
 
 44 It is a dead body that they are taking to the Morgue,” 
 he thought, and something prompted him to ask of one of 
 the men : 44 What have you there?” 
 
 44 A drowned woman,” the man answered ; and the crowd 
 passed on bearing that pitiful burden to the Morgue. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft pursued his own way, which led him 
 after awhile to the little vine-wreathed cottage. 
 
 In the perplexity that was over him, he had not specu- 
 lated on the possible cause of Daisy’s disappearance. Yet 
 it was on account of the information Bridget Conner had 
 given him, that he was at the cottage to which he had con- 
 ducted her as a bride a few weeks before. He had no 
 doubt but that he would find her in the house, and that 
 she would give him her usual childish welcome, and he 
 was disappointed when only Bridget appeared before him. 
 
 44 Has Daisy returned ?” he asked. 
 
 44 Not a shtep has her blessed foot put on this floor since 
 last night,” Bridget responded, shaking her head vigor- 
 ously. 44 Ye know, av coorse, where she is, don’t ye ?” she 
 added. 
 
 He did not know, and he realized that fact with a terri- 
 ble shock. 
 
 It was midnight ! Where could she be ; she so young, 
 and a stranger in the great city of New York, at midnight ? 
 
 He sank down on a chair, with his tortured brain seem- 
 ing to be whirling, and drew his hand tremulously across 
 his forehead. 
 
 He began to question the Irishwoman as to the move- 
 ments of her mistress on the evening of her disappearance; 
 and Bridget told him everything that had transpired so far 
 as she knew of it. 
 
 She told of the visit she and Daisy had made at the 
 opera, and of her mistress’ sudden sickness, and departure 
 from the place. She did not mention having noticed Clif- 
 
62 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 ford Bancroft and Miss Fitzgerald because she had not no- 
 ticed them. But he remembered it as she talked, and a 
 guilty consciousness of what had caused that sudden faint- 
 ness of Daisy’s came to him. 
 
 “ She was jealous of Geraldine,” he thought; “and she 
 ran away, she is such a reckless little thing.” 
 
 That word “ reckless,” as it came into his mind, sent a 
 shock through him ; and at that instant the memory of 
 the crowd he bad met on the street, and of the awful 
 thing covered with the black pall which they were bearing 
 to the Morgue, rushed over him. 
 
 The color went out of his face and the warmth from his 
 heart. 
 
 He arose from his chair and began pacing rapidly up 
 and down the room; and Bridget stood with her arms 
 akimbo and stared at him, until he seemed suddenly to 
 become aware of her presence, and bade her sharply to 
 leave him alone, that he would look Daisy up in the morn- 
 ing. 
 
 He did not believe that the still figure he had seen out- 
 lined on that litter was Daisy’s ; but it haunted him — pos- 
 sibly because she had disappeared, and the stillness of 
 death brooded over the house her bird -like voice had made 
 so gay — and the form on that litter belonged to a dead 
 woman. 
 
 Through the dark hours that followed a feverish unrest 
 possessed him, a bitter sense of guilt overburdened him. 
 
 Very tenderly he thought of his child-wife; he forgot 
 her hoidenish ways which had so shocked his refined 
 taste. He remembered the fault he had found with her, 
 the stern effort he had made to soften those childish ways, 
 and he was sorry for it. He would be so glad to tell her 
 so. He would search for her until he found her ; and when 
 he did, he would take her home — home to his father’s 
 house — and he would acknowledge her as his wife before 
 the world. 
 
 Not a thought of Geraldine Fitzgerald crossed his mind. 
 
 In the gray of the early morning, he left the cottage and 
 started out in search of Daisy. 
 
 Where should he go ! What mode should he employ 
 to find her ? Should he put a detective on the track ? 
 Should he put an advertisement in the papers ? 
 
 In this state of indecision, he halted in the street and 
 glanced helplessly around. 
 
 He had forgotten at last that awful burthen that had 
 been borne past him last night, but it was recalled to his 
 memory by a sight of the Morgue, which was just beyond 
 him, - 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 53 
 
 “It is nonsense!” he muttered, “but I will put that mat- 
 ter to rest, for I will see the drowned body.” 
 
 He turned his steps toward the Morgue, and entered it. 
 
 “ I wish to see the body of the drowned woman who was 
 brought here last night,” he said to the attendant. 
 
 “It was found lodged between two boats,” the man an- 
 swered, speaking in that cold, careless tone which associa- 
 tion with misery is apt to engender. “And I doubt if her 
 own mother could identify her.” 
 
 He drew the pall from a body lying on the marble slab, 
 and Clifford Bancroft sickened at the sight of the face, 
 bruised beyond all recognition, and at the flaxen hair tan- 
 gled with weeds. 
 
 He only glanced toward it, and then he turned his head 
 away, and took a step to retire. 
 
 “You might learn what you want to know from her 
 clothing,” the attendant said. “The shawl has a name 
 marked on it.” 
 
 He stooped over the body and spread the corner marked 
 with the embroidered letters, out on his hand as he spoke. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft read that name : 
 
 “Daisy.” 
 
 He glanced at the bruised face, at the flaxen hair, and 
 then he wavered back and forth as if he would fall, 
 while wave after wave of darkness swept between him 
 and that still thing which had been once a beautiful 
 blonde girl. 
 
 Even at that moment, in his dazed condition, the con- 
 sciousness came to him that the marriage he had regret- 
 ted so bitterly was broken — that he was free to marry 
 Geraldine Fitzgerald when he pleased. 
 
 But it was a conviction that seemed to suffocate him, 
 for he gasped for breath, and thick darkness gathered 
 over him. He wavered to and fro, and then he fell in- 
 sensible at the foot of the slab on which lay the dead 
 body that he believed to be that of his injured young 
 wife! 
 
 CHAPTER XIV. 
 
 “I WOULD PREFER PERDITION WITH YOU TO PARADISE WITH 
 ANY ONE ELSE!” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft recovered consciousness almost im- 
 mediately. It had been only a shock — a sudden and mo- 
 mentary giving way of his nerves — which had caused him 
 to fall blindly at the foot of the slab whereon lay that poor 
 waif who had been drawn out of the water. 
 
 In an instant the darkness had passed from him, and he 
 staggered to his feet: 
 
54 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 “She is a friend of mine,” he said mutteringly to the 
 staring attendant, making a motion of his hand toward 
 the body which had once belonged to a young and beauti- 
 ful woman, but never glancing toward it. “I will attend 
 to the interment.” 
 
 Then he went out, and walked in an uncertain way down 
 the street with the golden arrows of the rising sun falling 
 on him and revealing the ghastly whiteness of his face. 
 
 Not a gleam of color came into it any more for hours and 
 hours afterward. He seemed to be utterly dazed, and he 
 moved in the mechanical manner of a somnambulist. 
 
 In this dazed state he made his way to the establishment 
 of an undertaker, and arranged with him for the burial of 
 the drowned woman that afternoon. 
 
 Having done that, he went away to the little vine- 
 wreathed cottage where he had been accustomed to see 
 the bright face of his child-wife, with its blue eyes and 
 roguish dimples uplifted to give him a welcoming kiss. 
 
 He shivered as he contrasted that winning face with the 
 one swollen and bruised beyond recognition, now lying on 
 the slab at the Morgue. 
 
 The noontide sun bathed the little cottage in a flood of 
 gold, but how still and desolate it seemed with that bright 
 young life gone out of it forever! 
 
 Bridget met him at the door. 
 
 “Where is Miss Daisy?” she inquired eagerly. 
 
 He lifted his hand and motioned with it. 
 
 “ She is there,” he said drearily. “There in the Morgue 
 — dead— drowned 1” 
 
 The woman uttered a sharp cry and burst into a passion 
 of tears, covering her face with her apron. 
 
 He said nothing more to her, but passed on, shutting 
 himself up in the small, daintily furnished room where he 
 had spent so many hours with Daisy. 
 
 When Bridget knocked on the door a few minutes after- 
 ward to inquire, with floods of tears rolling over her plump 
 cheeks, of the death of her beloved young mistress, he told 
 her in a dull, dreary way, all he knew, or thought he 
 knew, about her fate.. Then he informed her that her 
 services would be required no longer there, for the cottage 
 would be closed. 
 
 He shut and locked the door again, and he came out of 
 the room no more until the hour he had arranged for the 
 burial of the drowned woman had arrived. 
 
 Mechanically he made his way to the Morgue. The 
 handsome coffin he had ordered was being placed in the 
 hearse when he arrived. He turned his eyes away from it 
 with a shiver, and entered the close carriage which was 
 waiting for him, and was driven slowly to the cemetery. 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 58 
 
 He stood as the only mourner at the grave and saw the 
 coffin lowered into the earth. 
 
 “ Dust to dust. Ashes to ashes.” 
 
 With those words, so solemnly proclaimingthe frailty of 
 our mortal covering, echoing drearily in his ears, he turned 
 away from the little grave and was driven back to the city. 
 
 There was a great void in his heart, and life seemed to 
 be but a mockery— a thing scarce worth a struggle to main- 
 tain— yet it was his, and he must go on through it as best 
 he could. 
 
 His mind had been wholly occupied by Daisy, but the 
 sonorous tones of a city clock sounding from a steeple 
 above him as he passed along the street brought to him 
 a swift reminder of Geraldine Fitzgerald. 
 
 As he mechanically counted the strokes, he recollected 
 that he had made an engagement with her the evening 
 before, to visit her at that hour. 
 
 In his apathetic state there was no resistance, and no 
 desire of resistance, in him. He was like a leaf which 
 obeys the will of the wind. 
 
 So, reminded by the clock of that engagement, he turned 
 his steps in the direction of Mrs. Margaret Fitzgerald’s. 
 
 When he was ushered into the parlor, he found Geral- 
 dine awaiting him with a shadow on her beautiful face, 
 which instantly cleared away at his appearance. 
 
 4 4 You are more than half an hour late,” she said, looking 
 reproachfully up into his face. 
 
 She noticed then that he was very pale, and that his 
 black eyes were dull and heavy. 
 
 “You are not well,” she exclamed anxiously, with her 
 white hand stealing into his. 
 
 He tossed his curling hair back from his forehead in a 
 listless way, and drew his fingers tremblingly through it. 
 
 “No; I am not quite well,” he said, and his usually rich 
 voice was so hollow that it startled her. 
 
 She drew him down to a seat beside herself on a sofa. 
 
 “You have scarcely seemed like yourself, Clifford, for 
 weeks,” she said tenderly. “I have been anxious about 
 you. Ah, I love you so, that whatever troubles you must 
 trouble me, too.” 
 
 He looked down into her face with a hint of pity strug- 
 gling through the dullness of his eyes. 
 
 “ I am not worthy of any woman’s love,” he said, drear- 
 ily. “ I am not worth a single pang that love would cost. 
 Better it would be for any woman that she should die, 
 than that she should trust her heart and her happiness to 
 mel” 
 
 What a world of self-reproach ! What a strong hint of 
 warning there was in his voice when he said that ; but it 
 
§6 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 only seemed to melt her into greater tenderness for him. 
 Her white arm stole softly around his neck, and her beau- 
 tiful head drooped low on his shoulder. 
 
 There was such a clinging to him ; such an abandonment 
 of her entire life to him in the motion, that it required not 
 the assertion of her lips to convince him of her love for 
 him, and her trust in him. 
 
 “ I would prefer perdition with you, to paradise with any 
 one else,” she said. 
 
 At that instant he remembered so vividly the other arms 
 that had clung to him; the little flaxen head that had 
 rested on his shoulder ; the bird-like voice that had uttered 
 vows of love and trust to him, that he seemed to himself 
 treacherous to her memory in listening to the protestations 
 of this rival whose charms he believed had driven that 
 child-wife of his to suicide ; and he drew Geraldine’s arms 
 from his neck, feeling as if their embrace were suffocating 
 him. 
 
 He remembered, with a miserable sense of his own weak- 
 ness, that all the time he had been the husband of one 
 woman, he was the plighted lover of another, and that he 
 had, with despicable cowardice, deferred from day to day 
 to declare to Geraldine that an obstacle had come between 
 him and her, and that he could not fulfill his promise to 
 marry her. It was the goading consciousness of that im- 
 perative duty which had drawn a cloud between himself 
 and Daisy. 
 
 He believed that the necessity for making that embar- 
 rassing confession was no longer with him, that he was 
 legally free to marry Geraldine ; but the idea was horrible 
 to him. 
 
 An impulse came over him to deal fairly and candidly 
 by her, to tell her that he did not love her, that he could 
 not marry her. But again his cowardice came over him ; 
 he shut his lips without uttering the confession. 
 
 “What does it matter?” he muttered to himself, as he 
 went away from the house with the darkness falling over 
 him. “What does it matter what becomes of me, now 
 that Daisy is dead and gone? Geraldine loves me, why 
 should I not marry her? It would be a sort of retribution 
 to Daisy, I think, to bind my life to a woman whom I know 
 I do not love.” 
 
 It never occurred to him to look beyond that sacrifice at 
 the altar to the long train of events that might follow 
 it. He thought nothing of the lifelong companionship with 
 that woman whom he did not love. He thought not of the 
 mask it would force him to wear, and of the hourly dam 
 ger there would be of dropping that mask, and of the ter- 
 rible discord that would come from it. 
 
daisy daerell. 
 
 He only remembered that “ Daisy was dead and gone ;’ 1 
 he only thought that it “ did not matter what became of 
 him.” 
 
 So in a reckless mood he awaited the day when the 
 Sacrifice should be made, when he should bind his life, 
 through the marriage vow, to Geraldine Fitzgerald. 
 
 CHAPTER XV. 
 
 “ IF THERE IS ANY REASON WHY AN HONEST MAN SHOULD 
 NOT TAKE YOU AS HIS WIFE!” 
 
 Three weeks had passed since John Goldman had lifted 
 Daisy from the roadside, and had borne her to his mother’s 
 house; and three weeks, lacking two days, had passed 
 since the form of the drowned woman had been laid in its 
 last resting-place in the quiet cemetery. 
 
 Poor wreck of womanhood! Who she had been, or 
 what she had been, it matters not here ; her very name 
 had perished from the earth. 
 
 For two weeks a slender shaft of marble, infinitely 
 whiter, mayhap, than her life had been, had gleamed over 
 her grave, erected by Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 It bore no inscription save the simple word cut in a 
 wreath of carved snow-drops : 
 
 “Daisy.” 
 
 For three weeks the death angel had hovered over the 
 home of the Widow Goldman, threatening, from hour to 
 hour, to cut the thread of Daisy Bancroft’s life; but, mer- 
 cifully or unmercifully, as time was destined to prove, the 
 shears refused to sever the frail cord. 
 
 Little by little Daisy came back to consciousness. 
 
 In her delirium she had prattled of her childhood al- 
 ways, but strangely enough she did not mention Pine- 
 lands, nor any member of the family there. 
 
 And never once did the name of Clifford Bancroft fall 
 from her lips. 
 
 During that time of helplessness Mrs. Goldman was the 
 most attentive of nurses. Not a day passed in which, in a 
 brusque way, she had not uttered some invective against 
 her son for “ picking up sick women on the highway and 
 thrusting them on her to nurse,” but John understood her, 
 and he would smile in her wrinkled face, and say : 
 
 “I didn’t dare to do anything else, mother. You 
 wouldn’t have owned me as your son if I had not brought 
 the poor, pretty little thing here.” 
 
 “The mischief I wouldn’t!” the old lady responded 
 gruffly. “I nurse her because I want her to get well 
 enough to go back to her mother, if she has one.” 
 
58 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 Her voice softened as she said that, and she smoothed 
 the pillow on which the flaxen head rested with a mother’s 
 tender touch. 
 
 John Goldman looked wistfully into the pale face lying 
 there for a minute, and then he turned his mild gray eyes 
 on his mother. 
 
 “She may not have any mother or any home of her 
 own, and if she hasn’t I believe you would be willing for 
 me to share mine with her.” 
 
 He twined his arm around his mother’s waist and drew 
 her close to him as he said that. 
 
 A look of indecision for an instant came into the old 
 lady’s bright and still comely face, and then she drew her 
 self with a jerk from her son’s encircling arm. 
 
 11 I don't want to hear any foolishness about this girl, 
 John Goldman,” she said menacingly. “Asa fellow-being 
 in trouble, I am willing to take care of her as long as she 
 needs care, but no longer. As soon as she is able to budge 
 out of this house, I mean for her to go. What do you 
 know about her ? Sho may be, for aught you know to the 
 contrary, the vilest little wretch in New York. So don't 
 let me hear any nonsense from you about her!” 
 
 It was one of the few occasions when her unkind words 
 were thoroughly earnest words, and John knew it, and 
 held his peace, but for all that the settled conviction which 
 had come to him in regard to their beautiful invalid was 
 not shaken. 
 
 That conviction was that she was pure and good, and 
 that she had come to be necessary to his happiness. 
 
 From the moment he had seen her lying like a broken 
 lily on the roadside, and had lifted her in his strong arms, 
 he had loved her. 
 
 “If she will stay, I will not let her go,” he said to him- 
 self as he walked out toward the stables a few minutes 
 afterward in the mellow glow of the September sunset. 
 “ As soon as she is well enough she will explain everything 
 to mother, and mother— bless her kind old heart, will be 
 reconciled.” 
 
 With a warm thrill at his heart John told himself this; 
 never once suspecting how impassable was the barrier 
 which lay between himself and the young stranger on 
 whose purity he would have staked his life. 
 
 His words to his mother that evening had thrown a flood 
 of light into his mother’s mind, and she was startled by the 
 discovery that her great-hearted, unromantic boy had fallen 
 in love with the beautiful waif an untimely fortune had 
 thrown under her roof, 
 
 “ She is young, and she has a strong constitution, and 
 she will soon rally,” the old lady muttered to herself, 
 
DAISY DARRELL, 59 
 
 “and just as soon as she is well enough to leave, I will 
 send her away, the troublesome young baggage I” 
 
 In the stillness and loneliness of that same night, Daisy 
 awoke to consciousness — to a full and bitter memory of the 
 incidents which had led to her flight from the vine- 
 wreathed cottage, and from the protection of the husband 
 who had shown himself so tired of her, so treacherous to 
 her. 
 
 Where she was she did not know— but the room was not 
 unfamiliar to her as she stared at its appointments in the 
 dim light of the night-lamp. Consciousness had returned 
 so slowly to her, like the gradual brightening of the dawn, 
 that she had, in an unthinking way, become accustomed to 
 her surroundings by the time that bitter wave of memory 
 swept over her. 
 
 She stirred uneasily, and a sobbing moan broke from 
 her. 
 
 In an instant, Mrs. Goldman, who was sleeping on a 
 lounge beside the bed, was awake, and was bending over 
 her. 
 
 “Do you want anything?” she asked. 
 
 Daisy gazed wistfully up at her. 
 
 That face, with its classical features and bright black 
 eyes, did not seem new to her— she had become accustomed 
 to it, as she had to the room. 
 
 She reached up her trembling hand and placed it on the 
 old lady’s shoulder. 
 
 “ You have been kind to me,” she said in a weak, broken 
 voice. “But who are you, and how did I come here?” 
 
 “ My son found you fainting on the roadside and brought 
 you here three weeks ago. Now don’t talk any more, but 
 go to sleep,” Mrs. Goldman responded peremptorily but not 
 unkindly. 
 
 Daisy was too weak to contend, even if she had been in- 
 clined to do so, so she closed her eyes wearily, and in a 
 few minutes dozed off again. 
 
 John brought her delicate breakfast to her the next 
 morning, with his honest face aglow with delight at the 
 report his mother had given him of their patient’s improved 
 condition. 
 
 Daisy looked at him as he placed the waiter on a table 
 beside the bed, and a rush of tears — the first she had shed 
 since that terrible revelation at the opera — came into her 
 blue eyes. 
 
 She lifted her arms and extended both her hands to him, 
 crying out brokenly, like a wounded child : 
 
 “ I am so glad you have come. I know you; you have 
 been with me all the time. You are my friend, aren’t 
 you?” 
 
60 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 John Goldman clasped the pleading little hands in his, 
 and said soothingly, while a mist gathered in his own eyes: 
 
 “ Yes, I am your friend. I will be your friend as long 
 as I live. I will never forsake you— never I” 
 
 He was startled at the effect his words had on her, for 
 she burst into a passion of tears, crying out vehemently : 
 
 “Yes. you wilt forsake me ! J3e?forsook me, and I trusted 
 him so r 
 
 Poor John was terrified, and being overcome, as most 
 good men are, at the sight of a woman’s tears, he was con- 
 strained to do the wisest thing possible under the circum- 
 stances — he remained silent, holding her fluttering little 
 hands in his until her paroxysm of grief had subsided. 
 
 Then he urged her to eat, and had the satisfaction of 
 seeing her partake of a few mouthfuls. 
 
 After that her recovery was gradual, and it was two 
 weeks before she was able to sit up and to walk about the 
 house. 
 
 During those weeks Mrs. Goldman gave vent to her cu- 
 riosity, and questioned her closely about herself. 
 
 “Please don’t ask me to tell you how I happen to be so 
 friendless,” Daisy said pleadingly. “ My name is Daisy; 
 call me that, it is the one my mother gave me, and the 
 only one I claim. I am alone in the world. I haven’t a 
 friend.” 
 
 John Goldman, standing outside the window, heard that 
 pathetic assertion, and he shook his head and muttered: 
 
 “You have got one friend, at least, and you’ll never have 
 less while John Goldman lives.” 
 
 That night he had a long conversation with his mother, 
 and what he told her angered and troubled the old lady- 
 more than anything he had ever said in his whole life be- 
 fore had done. 
 
 It was, that he loved Daisy, and be she who or what she 
 was, he would marry her if she would have him. 
 
 He was gentle but firm in his maintenance of that resolve 
 —and his mother found herself unable to shake it. 
 
 “ I will speak very plainly to the young baggage,” the 
 old lady muttered angrily, when John had gone to his own 
 room leaving her alone in hers. 
 
 It was not late — and with the burden on her mind she 
 could not sleep — so she went to the little chamber where 
 Daisy was lying wakeful and restless on her bed. 
 
 “ I have come to tell you something,” Mrs. Goldman said 
 in her blunt way, seating herself on the side of the bed. 
 “ My son has fallen headlong in love with you, & and says 
 he intends to marry you— and as I don’t know anything 
 about you, and you won’t tell anything about yourself, I 
 come to beg you as a mother, and as a friend who was kind 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 61 
 
 to you in a time of need — not to repay that kindness by im- 
 posing on the weakness of my son. If you have not been 
 ♦vhat you ought to have been— if there is any reason why 
 an honest man should not take you as his wife, I come to 
 ask you that you will go away and not let John know 
 where you are gone— for I believe he is so much infatuated 
 with you that he would follow you to perdition.” 
 
 Daisy’s eyes were wide with horror. 
 
 She remembered that she was a wedded wife — that, 
 under the circumstances, John Goldman’s pure love was a 
 thing unholy for her. 
 
 ‘‘Oh, no, no; he must not think of such a thing I” she 
 cried, shrinking and trembling. “ I will go away some- 
 where — I don’t know where.” 
 
 It never occurred to Mrs. Goldman that she would put 
 her resolve into execution that night, and she was con- 
 science-stricken and remorseful the next morning when 
 she discovered that, in her still enfeebled bodily condition, 
 Daisy had stolen away in the darkness, leaving no clew as 
 to the direction in which she had departed. 
 
 “ God help the poor child!” Mrs. Goldman muttered; 
 “ she will die by the wayside I” 
 
 CHAPTER XVI. 
 
 “ I WILL GO BACK TO CLIFFORD!” 
 
 When Mrs. Goldman left Daisy’s room that night, after 
 having made that appeal to her, it was nearly midnight. 
 
 For a long time Daisy lay, with her arm thrown over her 
 eyes, thinking. 
 
 The revelation made by Mrs. Goldman of the state of her 
 son’s heart had been a surprise, a shock to her, for she had 
 never suspected it. But as she lay there, unconsciously 
 reviewing the days she had passed under the same roof with 
 John Goldman, she wondered at her own blindness. She 
 knew now that his great heart had shone in his eyes 
 whenever he had bent them upon her. 
 
 “ It is because I think so much of Clifford that I have no 
 room in my mind for any one else, ” she muttered. 
 
 Then she forgot John Goldman, and began to think with 
 absorbing intensity of Clifford Bancroft. She went over 
 in memory every hour of her acquaintance with him. She 
 recalled to mind every tender word, every soft glance he* 
 had bestowed upon her. 
 
 Her heart thrilled and melted with the power of those 
 dear, remembered days until, for the time, every drop of 
 bitterness toward him was gone. 
 
 She pictured him now — and oh, how sweet it was to 
 
62 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 dream so— as being true to her, as being bowed with grief 
 at her loss, as searching for her far and wide. 
 
 For the first time since she had left the little vine- 
 wreathed cottage, she reproached herself for having done 
 so. 
 
 She began to make excuses for him ; she began to com- 
 fort herself, and to strengthen her faith in him by feeding 
 her mind on pleasant possibilities. 
 
 “Our marriage was secret, no one knew of it, so he 
 could not well have avoided paying some attention to Ger- 
 aldine, he knew her so well, and, of course, she expected 
 it from him. Then the report of their going to be married 
 was nothing but gossip. I was a little fool to pay any at- 
 tention to it. And, in consequence of a piece of sheer non- 
 sense, I have almost killed myself, and brought a world 
 of trouble on Clifford.” 
 
 Clifford was not the only one she had brought trouble 
 on, and she remembered it at that instant with an addi- 
 tional pang of self-reproach. 
 
 She knew that she had brought the sorrow of a hopeless 
 love on great-hearted John Goldman. 
 
 “ He will get over it, and forget me when I am gone,” 
 she said to herself. “I will go away, and he shall lose all 
 trace of me — all reminder of me. I will go back to Clifford, 
 and tell him how sorry I am for having believed what the 
 man said at the opera about his going to marry Geraldine, 
 and for running away in consequence, and giving him all 
 the trouble I have.” 
 
 She had arisen, and was making her toilet with trem- 
 bling, eager hands, and her whole being was thrilled with 
 an ecstasy of renewed hope and faith brought on by the 
 sudden revulsion of sentiment toward her husband. 
 
 She donned the pretty shawl and hat which had been 
 among the useful articles Mrs. Goldman had furnished in 
 the wardrobe, which, in the kindness of her heart, she had 
 bestowed on the poverty-stricken girl ; and then she went 
 to the window and drew back the curtains, and looked out 
 on the night. 
 
 The stars were disappearing from the sk}^, and were 
 dim, like eyes filmy with sleep, and the trees in the yard 
 stood in the faint light like indistinct shadows; and over 
 everything the gloom was momentarily deepening. 
 
 But the prospect did not dismay Daisy ; it did not deter 
 her even for an instant from climbing through the window 
 and speeding away as fast as her small feet would carry 
 her. 
 
 She took the road which she knew led to the great city. 
 It was the goal of her journey, and she looked forward to 
 entering it with the wildest delight. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 63 
 
 She was of such a highly emotional nature that her sud- 
 denly recovered faith in her husband was as strong as her 
 distrust of him had been before. 
 
 An idea was with her that she would find him in the 
 little vine-wreathed cottage waiting and watching for her 
 to come back to him, and she longed for wings that she 
 might fly over the space separating her from him. 
 
 She went on and on; the stars, one by one, dropped 
 asleep on the sky, and the gloom of the rayless hour pre- 
 ceding the dawn fell over her. 
 
 The wind blew against her, cold and damp and dis- 
 couraging, but no ominous feature of nature could at that 
 moment dim the luster of her hope, the brightness of her 
 anticipations. 
 
 Like a swiftly moving shadow among shadows, she made 
 her way steadily forward, and after awhile a hint of gray 
 came into the darkness through which she wandered — there 
 was a little thrill, a little flutter ;in the silence, as if the 
 world stirred in its sleep ; and the gray grew grayer, and 
 an early bird suddenly began to sing in a tree under which 
 Daisy was passing, and seemed to wake Nature with a 
 flood of joyous melody. 
 
 On and on— eager and light of heart, with glad antici- 
 pations, Daisy went, feeling no sense of fatigue— keeping 
 no count of the miles over which her little feet passed. 
 
 The gray of the day took a hint of crimson. Nature was 
 blushing at the coming of her radiant god — the sun; and 
 the pure, crisp morning air was tainted with the foul 
 breath of the great city, through the suburbs of which 
 Daisy was now moving rapidly. 
 
 In the excitement that was over her, her feet seemed 
 scarcely to touch the ground, for she was drawing every 
 moment nearer and nearer to the little vine-wreathed 
 cottage. 
 
 She came in sight of it at last and she uttered a glad 
 cry as its gables and chimneys were uplifted in the distance 
 before her in the morning sunlight. 
 
 She quickened her steps so that she ran over the space 
 intervening between her and it. 
 
 With eager hands she pulled open the little gate and ran 
 up the gravel walk to the door. 
 
 She turned the knob, but the door was locked, and she 
 tremulously sounded a loud peal on the bell. 
 
 A moment after the door was opened by some one who 
 was passing through the hall — but it was not Clifford— it 
 was not even Bridget, and a sickening sensation of disap- 
 pointment swept through poor Daisy as she looked info 
 the face of this strange woman. 
 
64 
 
 daisy Darrell. 
 
 “I want to see Mr. Bancroft— Mr. Clifford Bancroft , 11 
 she said, clutching her hands together. 
 
 The woman had a hard, shrewish face, and a hard, 
 shrewish voice. 
 
 “ There is no one of that name living here,” she said. 
 
 “But he did live here— he and Bridget Conner, too,” 
 Daisy said, pleadingly. ‘ ‘ Can’t you tell me where they have 
 gone.” 
 
 “No, I cannot!” the woman said, curtly. “I never 
 heard of either of them before.” 
 
 She shut the door as she spoke, and Daisy leaned faint 
 and trembling against it. All her strength was gone, and 
 in the bitterness of her disappointment she felt as if she 
 would die. 
 
 She sank down on the step and waited for a minute or 
 two to recover her self-possession. 
 
 She was only terribly disappointed in not finding Clif- 
 ford there to welcome her, as the father did the returned 
 prodigal of old, but her renewed faith in him was not de- 
 stroyed. 
 
 She would look for him in the city, she thought, and she 
 arose and went away down the gravel walk again. But 
 how heavy now seemed her feet, which had been so light 
 when she bounded over that same way only a few minutes 
 before ; she could scarcely drag them along. 
 
 And how weary she was ; it seemed to her that she must 
 sink with exhaustion at every step. She would stop and 
 rest somewhere, if she could only find some quiet, retired 
 place. 
 
 She halted and looked around. She was in front of a 
 church, and the doors and windows were open, as if it were 
 being aired. 
 
 “ I will see if I can’t rest in there,” she thought, and she 
 stole in, her small feet falling noiselessly on the rich, thick 
 carpet. 
 
 There was only one person in the church, and he did not 
 notice her. He was busily engaged in adorning the altar 
 with devices made of cut flowers. 
 
 Daisy shrunk into a corner behind the door and lay 
 down. 
 
 “ There is to be a wedding she thought, listlessly notic- 
 ing a monogram of tuberoses over the altar. The letters 
 were B 4 F. 
 
 Oh, Sow tired, how weak she was ! She could not keep 
 her eyes open. The man and the flowers as she stared at 
 them seemed to be skipping about from place to place— 
 sometimes disappearing, and then popping into sight again. 
 But after a few minutes they disappeared for good, and 
 she was asleep. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 6? 
 
 She dreamed of Clifford, and he seemed to be praying on 
 Come fine, sweet musical instrument for her an sd 1 * that 
 thrilled her with its melody. 
 
 She woke with a start as the music ceased. 
 
 Where was she? For a moment she could not collect her 
 thoughts, and in her hidden corner she stared at the 
 crowd of elegantly dressed people who had come into the 
 edifice since she had fallen asleep there behind the door. 
 
 Ah, she remembered now; she had dropped into the 
 church to rest, and a man was adorning it for a wedding. 
 
 The marriage was taking place at this very moment. 
 
 “ If any one knows why these two should not be joined 
 together let him now speak or forever after hold his 
 peace.” 
 
 Those words, or words to that effect, she heard, and in 
 the brief pause the clergyman made after uttering them, 
 she glanced at the two to whom those words referred— the 
 two who were being joined together in the holy bonds of 
 wedlock. 
 
 As she did so, she seemed to be turned into stone. 
 
 In those two she recognized Geraldine Fitzgerald and 
 Clifford Bancroft ! 
 
 CHAPTER XVII. 
 
 “i WILL LIVE FOR VENGEANCE!” 
 
 Seeing who the high contracting parties taking that 
 solemn vow at the altar were, Daisy tried to rise to her 
 feet, to utter a loud protest against the foul wrong that 
 was being perpetrated against her and against that other 
 woman. But the sudden shock had paralyzed her limbs 
 and had deadened her voice, so that the words she would 
 have uttered died in a low, hoarse gurgle in her throat. 
 
 In the shadow of the obscure corner in which she was 
 hidden, but which commanded a plain view of the altar, 
 she remained in the position to which she had sprung, and 
 which was a kneeling one, and stared, wide-eyed and dumb, 
 at the couple whom in a minute’s time she heard the 
 clergyman pronounce “ man and wife.” 
 
 “Whom God hath joined together, let no man put 
 asunder !” 
 
 As those words of solemn import came to her, she drew 
 a long, shivering breath, and whispered, but in a voice as 
 low as the hum of a butterfly’s wings : 
 
 “Not God! not God!” 
 
 When they came down the flower-scented aisle, with the 
 bride blushing but radiant, and the bridegroom strangely 
 pale and stern-looking, an insane impulse came over her to 
 rush to them and tear them apart, proclaiming him her 
 
$6 
 
 t>AISY DARRELL 
 
 own lawfully wedded husband ; but still that 
 
 paralysis held her limbs and deadened her voice. ‘So, al 
 unsuspicious of the presence of that terrible witness, they 
 passed slowly down the aisle to the strains of the Wedding 
 March, and disappeared from her sight through the open 
 doorway. 
 
 The crowd followed in their wake, and in a few minutes 
 she only remained in the shadow of the flower-wreathed, 
 flower-scented church, where the gilded cross at the altar, 
 gleaming in spots as the light fell on it, stared at her, and 
 the gilded inscription proclaimed to her, “Thou shalt not 
 glory save in the cross.” 
 
 The sexton came in to close the church, and seeing her 
 there kneeling behind the door, and staring forlornly, he 
 grasped her shoulder and shook her, saying gruffly : 
 
 “ Get out of here ! What are you doing here ?” 
 
 As if his rough touch had set her stagnant blood into 
 motion and had relaxed her strained muscles, she arose 
 staggeringly to her feet, and went out of the church where 
 such a terrible revelation had come to her, and passed 
 slowly down the street. 
 
 Her thinking faculties, however, seemed still to remain 
 paralyzed. Her mind was incapable of receiving any idea. 
 She was filled only with the picture of that marriage scene,, 
 the very slightest feature of which seemed to be seared as; 
 it were with a red-hot iron on her memory. 
 
 She met and passed people by on the street as if they 
 were shadows. They were nothing to her — in all the 
 universe of God there was nothing to interest her now ex- 
 cept that marriage rite in the flower- wreathed, flower- 
 scented church. 
 
 How long she walked she did not know— she did not 
 know, either, that she was in need of food, for she had 
 eaten nothing since the night before— but a sudden faint- 
 ness came over her — she grew blind; she reeled, and would 
 have fallen but that a strong arm was thrown around her, 
 and her head rested on a broad breast until the momentary 
 darkness passed away. 
 
 “Are you ill?” 
 
 The question was asked in a strong, anxious voice, and 
 Daisy tried to answer it, but she could not ; it seemed to 
 her that she should never be able to speak again . 
 
 She looked helplessly up into the face of the man, and 
 as she did so, she instinctively tried to withdraw herself 
 from his arms, but she was not strong enough to stand un- 
 supported. 
 
 His face was repulsive to her, and yet it was not an un- 
 kind face; it was only a dissipated, reckless-looking one. 
 
 “ Let me take you into my house here; you are just in 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 6 ? 
 
 front of it,” he said, 4 4 and I will give you a glass of wine. 
 It will refresh you.” 
 
 He threw his arms around her, and lifted her as if she 
 had been a very light child and so bore her into the house 
 before which they had been standing, placed her on a sofa, 
 -and then went for a glass of wine which he brought from 
 <a neighboring sideboard. 
 
 “Drink this,” he said commandingly, but very kindly, 
 ^and she mechanically obeyed him. 
 
 Then, without taking any further notice of him or his 
 surroundings, she lay back on the sofa and closed her eyes 
 as if she were going to sleep. 
 
 But she was not, she was only going to think. 
 
 The wine, with its invigorating influence, had broken the 
 lethargic spell which was over her. 
 
 In the course of that day her whole nature had under- 
 gone a revolution. 
 
 She was no longer a loving, guileless child. She was a 
 woman, wronged, insulted, and direfully revengeful ! 
 
 Yes, she would be revenged upon Clifford Bancroft. If 
 life was spared her, he should suffer pang for pang what 
 he had made her suffer. 
 
 “ Henceforth,” she said, “ I will live for vengeance, and 
 vengeance only !” 
 
 There was no one in the room with her, but in the ad- 
 joining apartment there seemed to be quite a party — and a 
 very noisy party, too ; for boisterous laughter came from 
 the lips of both men and women, and loud words not un- 
 mixed with oaths— and they, too, were often in the silvery 
 accents of a woman’s voice. Through all came the clink 
 of glasses, and the popping of corks drawn from bottles. 
 
 Daisy heard all this unthinkingly, uncaringly. 
 
 What was it to her what any one should do, saving only 
 Clifford Bancroft, and Geraldine Fitzgerald, whom she had 
 heard the robed clergyman pronounce his wife. 
 
 After awhile some one opened the door of communication 
 between the room she occupied and that other noisy apart- 
 ment, and entered and closed and locked it after him again, 
 and came up and seated himself on the sofa beside her. 
 
 He had been drinking, for thr3 fume of wine was on his 
 breath, and its sparkle m his eyes as he turned his face 
 upon her. 
 
 He reached out and took her hand, but she drew it from 
 him, with the delicacy of her nature asserting itself so plainly 
 in the movement that he could not but notice it, but he 
 was too much intoxicated to heed it. 
 
 “ Don’t shrink from me, sweetheart,” he said with tender 
 reproach. “This place is Devenant’s Dance House, and 
 X am Devenant, There are a score of other young ladies 
 
68 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 here, but none of them interest me. I am going to keep 
 you for my queen.” 
 
 He bent over as if to kiss her, but she sprung to her 
 feet. 
 
 4 ‘Show me the way out of this house 1” she cried out, her 
 eyes and cheeks glowing with righteous wrath. “You are 
 a coward to insult a girl as weak and friendless and poor 
 as I am !” 
 
 Her face quivered and she broke into a passion of tears, 
 hiding her eyes on her arm, and sobbing convulsively. 
 
 Dan Devenant had been all his life wild and reckless, but 
 he was not wholly bad at heart; there were generous im- 
 pulses in his nature which vibrated strongly when they 
 were skillfully touched. 
 
 They were touched now by Daisy’s words and tears. 
 Like all men of his class he respected a pure woman 
 beyond everything else on earth, and the sight of this 
 beautiful, helpless girl, trembling and weeping there before 
 him, sobered him. 
 
 He drew back a step further from her. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon,” he said, humbly. “ I was a little 
 in wine, or I would not have spoken so. Of course, you 
 may go away, for this is no place for such as you, but let 
 me give you something to eat first. I will bring it to you 
 here myself, and you need not be afraid that you will meet 
 with any further rudeness under this roof.” 
 
 With the intuition natural to women and children where 
 human nature is concerned, Daisy felt that she could 
 indeed trust him. So she thanked him, and dried her ey es, 
 and sank back on the sofa and waited for the meal which 
 she knew she so much needed. 
 
 There came suddenly over her a memory of her helpless- 
 ness, of her destitution. 
 
 While she waited and worked for the vengeance she was 
 determined to accomplish, she must live — and in order to 
 live she must have food, and in order to have food she 
 must work. 
 
 But what could she do and who would employ her? 
 
 These convictions, like lightning flashes, had swept 
 through her mind. 
 
 There was a morning paper lying on the marble slab of a 
 table within reach of her hand. 
 
 It suggested an idea to her. 
 
 She would look over the column of “ Wants.” Perhaps 
 there was advertised a situation that she could fill. 
 
 Her eyes ran down the list, and were attracted by this : 
 
 “ Companion wanted. Apply at 247 Gray Street.” 
 
 Why she selected that particular one from a number of 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 6d 
 
 others she did not know ; perhaps she was guided by that 
 peculiar destiny which is said to preside over the lives of 
 men. 
 
 Certain it is, that after she had eaten the delightful re- 
 
 E ast Dan Devenant served for her with his own hands, and 
 ad thanked him for it, she asked him to direct her to 
 Gray Street; and when he had done so, she bade him good- 
 bye, and set out in the way he had indicated, resolved to 
 offer herself as companion to somebody — she had no idea 
 and no care who it might be — “ at No. 247*” 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII. 
 
 “ ‘NO. 247 GRAY STREET I’ ” 
 
 It was a long, long journey, or so it seemed to Daisy’s 
 tired feet, and she had no money to hire a conveyance. 
 So she walked on, inquiring her way from square to square. 
 
 She turned into Gray Street at last, and she set herself 
 to find No. 247. 
 
 She had taken no note of time ; but many hours, which 
 seemed to her like an eternity almost, had passed since she 
 had looked on that unholy marriage-rite which bound her 
 own husband to another woman. 
 
 She thought of that scene all the time ; even when she 
 was mechanically reading the numbers of the houses she 
 passed she thought of it. 
 
 “245 ” — “247.’’ 
 
 She had found it at last — No. 247 — and she halted and 
 stared at it in the glow of the dying day, for the gold of 
 the sunset was fading into th e gray or the twilight. 
 
 What a gloomy -looking old place it was — this number 
 247 ! It was an ancient landmark, and it seemed queerly 
 out of place among its fashionable neighbors, whose modern 
 architecture made the quaint, weather-beaten, time-stained 
 house appear lonely and desolate, like something which had 
 outlived its generation. 
 
 It was very large and built of brick ; and it had been 
 painted a vivid green a great many years ago, but it was 
 almost black now, and the mold clung to its base, and the 
 cobwebs drooped from its eaves. The windows were high 
 and small, and the doors were narrow and shrunken. 
 
 Daisy was too thoroughly miserable to be depressed by 
 any exterior influences of time or place, or the somberness 
 of 247 would have struck upon her. 
 
 As it was she pulled open the heavy gate and passed up 
 the gravel- walk, which was bordered on either side by a 
 thorny hedge, and sounded a decided summons on the old* 
 fashioned brass knocker. 
 
 The door was opened after a minute by a young woman 
 
DAISY BARBELL. 
 
 90 
 
 who would have been exceedingly beautiful but for the 
 vacant expression of her richly-tinted face. More properly 
 speaking, perhaps, her expression of countenance was less 
 vacant than it was bewildered. 
 
 “ I have called because of an advertisement I saw in the 
 paper,” Daisy said, feeling no interest in the young woman, 
 nor in her beauty. ‘ ‘ An advertisement for a companion 
 wanted at this house — No. 247 G-ray Street.” 
 
 The woman’s dark, Oriental eyes stared perplexedly, and 
 a pucker came between her slender, arched brows. 
 
 She said nothing, and Daisy, after waiting for a full 
 minute, repeated the question impatiently, putting it in 
 more explicit words: 
 
 “I wish to see the person who advertised for a com- 
 panion at this house. Can I see her?” 
 
 “ Her?” the woman ejaculated, and then added in broken 
 sentences, stopping to catch her breath between the words: 
 “ There ain’t nobody living here but jest only Dr. Burnie. 
 The lady and gentleman who are going to live here haven’t 
 come yet, and won’t be here for two weeks.” 
 
 The woman was stupid, and Daisy stepped into the door- 
 way and said irritably : 
 
 “ Ask Dr. Burnie if he will see me — I may be able to find 
 out from him what I want to know.” 
 
 The woman turned sluggishly, leaving her standing there 
 in the doorway, while she went down the long hall, and 
 after knocking on a door at the furthest end, disappeared 
 through it. 
 
 A few minutes afterward she reappeared, and going to 
 the front door where Daisy was still standing, bade tier 
 follow to Dr. Burnie’s room. So, one leading and the other 
 following, they passed down the long, old-fashioned hall, 
 with its frescoed walls speaking of the taste of a bygone 
 age, and entered a large room at its end. 
 
 The curtains were drawn over the windows, thereby 
 intensifying in the apartment the effects of the twilight 
 which was gathering outside. It was a handsomely fur- 
 nished room, but it was unmistakably the domicile of a 
 gentleman, for the odor of fine tobacco pervaded it strongly. 
 There were a great number of books scattered about on 
 elegantly carved shelves, and marble-topped tables. 
 
 On a sofa lounge near the old-fashioned fireplace, a 
 gentleman was lying, puffing soft clouds of smoke from a 
 pipe of some queer, Oriental make. 
 
 He was an old man, short and square and bald ; and his 
 eyes, which were dark and rather prominent, were round 
 and staring, like one who strives to look through darkness. 
 As Daisy entered he extended his small hand in greeting 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 71 
 
 to her, but with that inaccuracy of direction peculiar to 
 the blind. 
 
 She went forward and placed her own in it, and his fin- 
 gers closed around hers with a soft, lingering pressure. 
 
 “Your hand indicates to me that you are young/' he 
 said with a smile, and in a low, measured voice. “But 
 my eyes don’t assist me in my judgment, for I am blind. 
 Lucretia; are you there, Lucretia?^ 
 
 Still retaining Daisy's hand in his gentle clasp, he put 
 the question, and the bewildered-looking young woman 
 who had halted at the door made answer: 
 
 “Yes, sir, I’m here.” 
 
 “ Then bring a chair for the lady, and place it here be- 
 fore me,” he said, and as the young woman did so, he 
 released Daisy’s hand, who immediately took possession 
 of the proffered seat. 
 
 Dr. Burnie leaned his head against the back of the sofa 
 on which he was sitting, and closed his eyes, and said : 
 
 “Lucretia tells me that you came in answer to my adver- 
 tisement for a companion.” 
 
 “Yes, sir,” Daisy answered. “I saw it in the paper, and 
 came to see about it, as I must do something ; but I had 
 expected to see a lady here.” 
 
 He smiled, and shook his head in a mournful way. 
 
 “A lady would not be such a helpless person as a blind 
 man is,” he said. “Men, with all their boasted wisdom, 
 have fewer mental resources for self-entertainment, I think, 
 than women. Women have ingenuity enough to employ 
 themselves pleasantly in some way, even if the elysium of 
 vision is denied them. But a man is helpless under these 
 circumstances, and must have somebody to see for him, or 
 he would go melancholy mad.” 
 
 Daisy said nothing- -his affliction did not touch her; his 
 words made no impression on her. She was too thoroughly 
 absorbed in herself, and in her own towering adversities, 
 to give a sentimental thought to the calamities of another. 
 
 “I have had a great many applications for the place, ” 
 Dr. Burnie went on, smiling and toying with the stem of 
 his now extinguished pipe, “ but none of them came up to 
 my requirements in a companion. First of all, I want a 
 good reader.” 
 
 He extended his hand to a table near by, and picked up 
 the first book he chanced to touch, and offered it to her. 
 
 “ I don’t know what volume this is,” he said, “ but read 
 to me from it: anything you please.” 
 
 It was the poems of Lord Byron, and Daisy opened it at 
 random and began to read. 
 
 The poem chanced to be that passionate appeal, begin* 
 
 Ping: 
 
72 
 
 Daisy darrell. 
 
 44 Fare thee well.” 
 
 She read it with the memory of Clifford Bancroft’s bro 
 ken faith and desertion strong upon her, forgetting Dr. 
 Burnie, forgetting everything else as she read, and when 
 she ended, and her trembling voice throbbed into silence* 
 the old man drew a long breath. 
 
 “Well done !” he said. 44 Your voice is clear and sweet; 
 your articulation pure, and you seem to enter with thor- 
 ough zest into the feeling of the poet. I have heard no 
 reading so pleasing to me in the three years of my blind- 
 ness.” 
 
 Daisy said nothing, and, after a brief silence, he asked : 
 
 44 Do you understand any other language but English?” 
 
 4 4 No, sir,” she answered. 44 1 don’t understand the En- 
 glish language even. I have a very limited education.” 
 
 “That is a pity,” he responded, with a shadow coming 
 over his face. “But you have time enough yet for im- 
 proving your mind, I judge that you are very young. 
 You won’t mind telling an old man like me your age, will 
 you?” he added, with a smile. 
 
 “ I will be seventeen my next birthday,” Daisy said. 
 
 “Ah, you are nothing but a child,” the old man re- 
 sponded. 44 You have much to learn, and much time, from 
 the course of nature, to learn it in. What is your name, 
 and where is your home?” 
 
 4 4 My name is Daisy,” she answered, speaking drearily. 
 “ I don’t claim any name but that— the one my mother 
 gave me — and I have no home, and no friends. That is 
 why I came here to apply for the position of companion. 
 I must earn my own living.” 
 
 With his eyes closed, Dr. Burnie seemed to be pon- 
 dering. 
 
 44 1 think the blind have quicker intuitions than persons 
 who see,” he said, after a while. 44 1 seem to have a subtle 
 way of knowing when anything beautiful or pure is near 
 me, and I feel that I can trust you. A gentleman who un- 
 derstands some of the Oriental languages comes and reads 
 to me every Friday evening. So I shall be satisfied with 
 your interpretations of gems of English literature. Until 
 a month ago, when she died, my sister, a single lady, lived 
 with me, and I have been miserably lonely since she left 
 me. Lucretia his sad tone lightened, and he smiled as 
 he mentioned the name — “was my sister’s maid, and is a 
 most excellent creature, but she scarcely possesses that 
 witchery which would charm a blind man into forgetful 
 ness of his misfortune So, if you will stay with me I will 
 pay you a salary of forty dollars per month, and will try 
 not to be very troublesome to you. Now that you have 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 73 
 
 seen me, do you v think you could undertake such a 
 charge?” 
 
 “Yes, sir, I shall be very glad to stay,” Daisy answered. 
 
 “It will be a lonely home for you for two weeks. When 
 will you come?” he broke off to ask, as if suddenly re- 
 minded. 
 
 “As I told you, I have no home,” Daisy said, “and I 
 will stay now, if you will let me.” 
 
 ‘ ‘ Certainly, certainly, ” he responded heartily. ‘ 4 Lucretia 
 will show you to your room, but before you go, I will 
 finish what I began to say. For two weeks you will be 
 lonely here, I am afraid, but at the expiration of that time 
 my nephew and his wife will live with me. They were 
 married this morning, and have gone on a bridal tour.” 
 
 “ Married this morning!” 
 
 Daisy’s heart gave a great throb. The words seemed to 
 be a mention or the couple she had seen go through the 
 mockery of a marriage that morning. 
 
 “What is your nephew’s name?” she asked impulsively. 
 And she seemed to be turned into stone again as she had 
 seemed to be in the church in the morning as he answered : 
 
 “Clifford Bancroft, and he married Miss Geraldine Fitz- 
 gerald, a beauty from Kentucky.” 
 
 The room seemed to be reeling, and the twilight gloom 
 within it seemed suddenly to be blackened into a rayless 
 night. Then it passed away again, and she saw the old doc- 
 tor there before her, 4 - and heard him say, as one hears 
 things in a dream : 
 
 “ Lucretia, show Miss Daisy to her room.” 
 
 Then she arose, and followed the young woman, with a 
 feeling of numbness over her, into a cozy little room up- 
 stairs. 
 
 “I will light the lamp,” Lucretia said, while Daisy flung 
 herself into a chair. 
 
 When the lamp was lighted and the woman had gone 
 out leaving Daisy alone, she arose and threw herself across 
 the bed, and for a long time she lay motionless with her 
 arm over her eyes. 
 
 The numbness had left her, and her mind was clear and 
 active now, and she had been planning her future course. 
 The chief result of that cogitation she muttered to herself 
 just as Lucretia appeared to invite her down to supper. 
 
 “ Come what will — happen what may — I will remain here 
 until Clifford Bancroft comes !” 
 
 It was a determination born of the recklessness of des- 
 peration, and she shut her teeth down over the words in a 
 manner indicative of a set purpose. 
 
M 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX. 
 
 “HE IS NOT HERS, BUT MINE!’ 1 
 
 Daisy was not the same girl who had roamed over the 
 hills of Pinelands so short a time before with her cousin 
 Harry. 
 
 Always willful and impetuous ; always quick of temper 
 and sharp of tongue, she had still shown a readiness to for- 
 give even the most aggravating things. Her evil moods 
 had always been transient; her wrath like an April storm, 
 and her light-heartedness asserted itself and she was again 
 as bright and cheerful as the song of a spring bird. 
 
 But now she was changed, and the change was terribly 
 for the worse. 
 
 Since she had been turned into stone, as it were, by the 
 sight of that unholy marriage, she had been mentally 
 metamorphosed. 
 
 As she tossed on her bed that first night of her stay 
 under Dr. Burnie’s roof, it seemed to her that her brain 
 was on fire with constantly brooding over that marriage. 
 
 In the face of his treachery toward her, what was her 
 feeling toward Clifford Bancroft? 
 
 Did she still love him? 
 
 She did not put the question to herself, and she could not 
 have answered it if she had ; and yet he filled every nook 
 and cranny, as it were, in her mind. 
 
 She was conscious of only one feeling, and that was of 
 intense bitterness toward him, and also toward her rival, 
 whom she had that morning heard proclaimed his wife, 
 
 “ Oh, for vengeance, vengeance upon them both!” 
 
 That was the only aspiration she uttered to herself 
 through all the lagging hours of that night. 
 
 But how should she accomplish that vengeance? 
 
 She asked herself that, and she answered by saying to 
 herself that she would proclaim him as her own lawfully 
 wedded husband ! 
 
 She would brand him before the world as a bigamist, and 
 she would crush Geraldine into the very dust of shame by 
 revealing the terrible truth to her that she was no wife— 
 that in the eyes of the world she was little better than the 
 painted Magdalens from whose touch she gathered the very 
 hem of her garments in disdain. 
 
 A wild exultation born of her state of semi-madness came 
 over her, and she exclaimed to hersrif, with her eyes glit- 
 tering in the light of the breaking dawn : 
 
 4 • He is not hers, but mine ! Mine as fast as the law cap 
 bind him, and I will prove it I” 
 
DAISY DARRELL, 75 
 
 As she said that she caught her breath with a sudden 
 reminder. 
 
 How could she prove it? What testimony had she to 
 bring forward in support of that assertion? What wit- 
 nesses could she call on to declare that the secret marriage 
 between herself and Clifford Bancroft had actually taken 
 place? 
 
 A certificate of that marriage had never been in her 
 possession, and she held not one thread of proof to sub- 
 stantiate her words. 
 
 She must obtain proof. She would write to the village of 
 Dunbar, to the Reverend Mr. Crawford, for a certificate of 
 that marriage rite which he could not possibly have for- 
 gotten performing. 
 
 She had no writing materials, and she was in a fever of 
 impatience to see Dr. Burnie and to beg some from him. 
 
 But in the course of three hours the letter was written, 
 and she placed it in the mail box with her own hand. 
 
 When that letter left her hand, her feverish unrest 
 seemed to go with it. She grew strangely quiet, and Dr. 
 Burnie found his companion a sort of automaton — seeming 
 to have no will of her own, but still thoroughly obedient to 
 his. 
 
 She read to him whatsoever he selected; she filled his 
 pipe, and she struck the match for him to light it ; she 
 stood at the window often for hours and described the 
 scenes and the people on the street outside, and in a few days 
 she became essential to his comfort. 
 
 He often spoke of his nephew, Clifford Bancroft, the son 
 of his only surviving sister, and he never wearied in des- 
 canting on the brightness of his mind, and the purity of his 
 character ; and Daisy would listen with strained intentness, 
 and with shut teeth. 
 
 Daisy had changed in mind, but a most remarkable 
 physical change had taken place in her since John Gold- 
 man had lifted her, like a broken lily, from the roadside. 
 
 She looked at least ten years older. 
 
 Her face had lost its roundness and dimples since Clifford 
 Bancroft in their little cottage had last looked down into 
 those roguish blue eyes. 
 
 They were not roguish eyes now, but thoughtful and 
 shadowy, with dark rings under them. 
 
 Daisy herself scarcely realized the change that had 
 come over her; it had been so gradual, and her mind had 
 been so occupied with other things. 
 
 She looked forward to the coming of Clifford Bancroft 
 and his bride with an intense interest that had in it some- 
 thing of horror. 
 
76 
 
 daisy Darrell 
 
 She counted off every hour as it passed as shortening by 
 So much the time of their coming. 
 
 Like one under a baleful spell she watched the days go 
 by, bringing nearer and nearer the hour in which she ex- 
 pected to look upon his face, and to confound him with his 
 treachery. 
 
 But in that last expectation fortune seemed to be against 
 her, for the Reverend Mr. Crawford had not answered her 
 letter, and while she waited for it, time seemed to glide by 
 with startling rapidity. 
 
 The day came on which Clifford Bancroft and his wife 
 were expected to arrive, yet no answer had come to her let- 
 ter to the Reverend Mr. Crawford. 
 
 The couple had been accompanied on their tour by Judge 
 Bancroft and his wife and daughter— Clifford’s haughty 
 “Sister Mag;” and they were all expected to take tea at 
 Dr. Burnie’s that evening. 
 
 And what a grand supper it was to be ! The best caterer 
 in the city had been employed to superintend it, and 
 ordered to spare no expense in making it a banquet fit for 
 the guests the wealthy old bachelor, Dr. Burnie, delighted 
 to honor. 
 
 “ You must do the honors of the house, Daisy,” the old 
 man said that afternoon, with his hand on the arm of his 
 companion. “ I want to show them that if I have got a 
 bachelor establishment it will compare favorably with the 
 home of the best among the Benedicts.” 
 
 “I will do my best,” she responded in a low, strained 
 tone. 
 
 That afternoon she met, for the first time, Professor 
 Quinn, the scholarly friend of Dr. Burnie, who was accus- 
 tomed to read to him, from some volume written in a for- 
 eign tongue, at least one evening in each week. 
 
 When Dr. Burnie introduced them to each other, Daisy 
 noticed that Professor Quinn cast a keen glance at her 
 through his spectacles, and there was something unac- 
 countably unpleasant in the close and curious inspection 
 she underwent from those bright eyes. 
 
 There was in those same eyes a look of startled recogni- 
 tion — a suggestion of their having met before. 
 
 He did not mention it, however, if any such idea occur- 
 red to him. 
 
 He only bowed coldly and stiffly, and turned his atten- 
 tion to the book he had selected to read that afternoon. 
 
 Wrapped in a tumult of feeling, Daisy thought and cared 
 nothing for him. She bowed to him, and went to her own 
 room. 
 
 As she passed the open door of the dining-room she 
 glanced in. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 77 
 
 The table was already spread for the evening meal ; the 
 chandelier was gleaming over glittering silver and glisten- 
 ing china, and over salvers of cake and baskets of tropical 
 fruit. 
 
 Daisy had no toilet to make. The black dress, which 
 had been Mrs. Goldman’s, and which that kind-hearted old 
 lady had presented to her, was the only one she had there, 
 so there was no choice with her but to wear it. 
 
 Dr. Burnie had voluntarily paid her, three days before, 
 a month’s salary, and she baa invested it in clothing ; but 
 neither of the two dark woolen dresses she had bought 
 was made yet, so she could only freshen her toilet with a 
 snowy collar and cuffs. 
 
 In a strangely automatic way she made these changes. 
 
 Then she went to her window 2 which commanded a view 
 of the street, and stood gazing intently out. 
 
 She was watching for the coming of Clifford Bancroft 
 and his bride. 
 
 But the twilight deepened into night and the bridal party 
 came in the darkness, so that Daisy saw them only as 
 shadows coming through the gate. 
 
 “ Was she dying ?” 
 
 That idea drifted vaguely through her mind, because 
 there was such a queer, dead feeling about her heart. 
 
 Five minutes afterward Lucretia came to the door. 
 
 “ Miss Daisy, Dr. Burnie says please to come down and 
 let him introduce you to his company,’’ she said, in her 
 broken, breathless way. 
 
 Daisy slowly arose, and went down, as she had been 
 bidden. 
 
 CHAPTER XX. 
 
 “SHE TALKS AS IF SHE IS DEMENTED!” 
 
 Daisy’s face was as colorless as marble as she went slowly 
 down the broad stairs, yet every nerve in her was athrill 
 with excitement. 
 
 At the foot of the stairway a mulatto man, who was Dr, 
 Burnie’s special attendant, met her. 
 
 “The doctor is in the library,” he said, and Daisy, un- 
 derstanding from the information that the old gentleman 
 wished to see her there, turned her steps in that direction, 
 and entered the library. 
 
 Dr. Burnie was seated in an easy chair, with his eyes 
 closed as usual, and with a disturbed look on his face, and 
 Professor Quinn was standing on the hearth a few feet from 
 him. 
 
 Catching the sound of his companion’s light footsteps as 
 
78 
 
 DAISY DARRELL , . 
 
 she entered the room, the old gentleman turned his face 
 toward her, and said : 
 
 ‘‘Come here, Daisy, and take a seat beside me. I have 
 something to say to you, a piece of news to tell you that I 
 hope — I most sincerely hope— you will prove is not true.” 
 
 Daisy had expected to see Clifford Bancroft and Geral- 
 dine there, and a sort of blank feeling came to her when 
 she missed them. 
 
 She scarcely comprehended Dr. Burnie’s words, and cer- 
 tainly they would have made, in the state of her mind, no 
 impression on her, if the idea had not instantly flashed 
 through her mind that the “ news ” he referred to was her 
 previous connection with Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 She thought he had heard of that secret marriage, and 
 was about to demand the truth of her, and she was pre- 
 pared to tell it unflinchingly. 
 
 She went forward and seated herself in the chair he had 
 indicated for her to take beside him. 
 
 “Professor Quinn tells me, my child— he is an old and 
 tried friend of mine, and very jealous where my welfare 
 and interest are concerned — that he saw you at a very dis- 
 reputable place,” the old gentleman said kindly, and Pro- 
 fessor Quinn looking down sharply at her through his 
 spectacles, took up the theme, and said in a low, emphatic 
 voice: 
 
 “Yes, I am sure I am not mistaken, for your face made 
 such an impression on me at the time that I never forgot 
 it. About two weeks ago, I saw you in Dan Devenant’s 
 dance -house. I was passing along the street on my way 
 to the restaurant where I usually take lunch, when I 
 glanced in through an open window of that abominable 
 establishment, and I saw you lying on a sofa, and Dan 
 Devenant was sitting beside you, bending over you. When 
 I returned from the restaurant, after eating my lunch, I 
 saw you coming out of the dance-house. When I met you 
 here this afternoon I instantly recognized you as the pale- 
 faced young woman I had seen in that disreputable place, 
 and I felt it my duty to warn my old friend here, who, in 
 his peculiar infirmity, is easily imposed on.” 
 
 Daisy heard and comprehended his charge, but in con- 
 sideration of that feverish anticipation of soon meeting 
 and confounding Clifford Bancroft, it was as nothing to 
 her. 
 
 “ Dan Devenant’s dance-house!” She remembered, when 
 he mentioned it, that the bold, but seemingly kind-hearted 
 man who had taken charge of her that miserable morning, 
 had spoken those same words to her. Yes — she had been 
 at Dan Devenant’s, And so the silence she maintained 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 7* 
 
 after Professor Quinn had ceased speaking seemed to de- 
 clare. 
 
 “Daisy/ 1 Dr. Burnie said, speaking earnestly; “the 
 charge Professor Quinn brings against you is no light thing. 
 A respectable man, even with all the superior privileges 
 accorded to a man, would not dare be seen at Dan Deve- 
 nant’s. It is notorious as one of the worst places in New 
 York. 1 hope the professor is mistaken, and it was not 
 you he saw there. 11 
 
 For several minutes an old lady arrayed in heavy black 
 silk, and with a tiny cap of white lace and lavender rib- 
 bons adorning her gray curls, had been standing in the 
 doorway listening to the conversation. She came forward 
 and stood with her hand on the doctor’s chair. 
 
 “ It is highly important that you should discover the truth 
 in regard to the fact, brother. An unprincipled woman 
 should not be sheltered for an hour under your roof. And 
 in consideration of the fact that Professor Quinn usually 
 or I may say, always, knows what he is talking about, I 
 advise that you pay the young woman whatever salary 
 may be due her and send her away. It is a charge which, 
 of course, she will deny.” 
 
 She was a very haughty -looking old woman, and she 
 gave her head a haughty toss as she ended. 
 
 Looking up into that proud face, Daisy felt flashes of al- 
 ternate heat and cold passing over her ; and there was a 
 choking sensation in her throat. 
 
 She noted the resemblance that face wore to Clifford 
 Bancroft’s, and she knew that she was in the presence of 
 his haughty mother, to whom he had been afraid to pre- 
 sent her, with her hoydenish ways, as his wife, and her 
 daughter. 
 
 They were waiting for her to speak, and she made several 
 efforts to do so, but her heart seemed to be fluttering in 
 her throat, and she kept a guilty silence. 
 
 u I think I see how it is, brother,” Mrs. Bancroft went on 
 in that frigid way of hers. “And I reiterate my former 
 suggestion. I hardly think the young woman is a fit com- 
 
 E anion for my son’s wife, who is now an inmate of your 
 ome.” 
 
 At that announcement, as if pent-up waters had been 
 suddenly set free, the hot blood ^ith a leap and rush surged 
 through Daisy’s veins. 
 
 “Where is your son’s wife ?” she said hoarsely, her voice 
 vibrating. 
 
 The old lady answered haughtily, but yet with the civil- 
 ity of a refined person : 
 
 “She is in her room, ill with heart -trouble.” Here she 
 turned her eyes and her remarks to Dr. Burnie— “C1|L 
 
80 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 ford is with her uncle, and he bade me say that he might 
 not be able to join you as early as he would like, perhaps 
 not before supper.” 
 
 Daisy was trembling with fiery wrath now. 
 
 At that moment, if she had been given the power, she 
 would have slain Geraldine where she lay panting and 
 moaning with her hand in the clasp of the man whom she 
 believed to be her husband. 
 
 Daisy arose to her feet, and drew a long, quivering 
 breath. 
 
 “ Greater humiliation may come on the woman who has 
 gone through a marriage ceremony with your son two 
 weeks ago, than the presence of a woman who was once 
 taken in a state of unconsciousness into Dan Devenant’s 
 dance-house can bring upon her. It would be a blessed 
 thing for her, and a blessed thing for the man who mar 
 ried her, if that woman was permitted to appear before 
 her only as a person who had been seen in a disreputable 
 house! You may take my word for it, that she will see 
 that woman in another ana a more blighting character. ” 
 
 So saying, and trembling violently, she went from the 
 room, and Mrs. Bancroft and the professor stared after 
 her, while Dr. Burnie said in a bewildered, troubled way: 
 
 “Why, what ails her? She talks as if she is de- 
 mented.” 
 
 “ Possibly she is,” his sister said, frigidly. “You know 
 nothing about how these waifs you pick up from the street 
 may develop.” 
 
 “I am afraid that it will be best for me to follow your 
 advice, sister,” Dr. Burnie said, with a sigh. “But she 
 has been a great comfort to me, and I shall give her up with 
 much regret. Her words were incoherent and inexplicable 
 to me. and seemed to indicate aberration of mina which 
 may have been caused momentarily, perhaps, by finding 
 herself suspected and discharged from here, and she may 
 have nowhere to go, poor girl. I wish you would open 
 my secretary there, sister, and take forty dollars — a 
 month’s wages for her— from the money -drawer, and take 
 it to her. I don’t wish her to leave to-night, however.” 
 
 Mrs. Bancroft did as she was bidden, and folding the 
 money in an envelope she sent it up to Daisy’s room by the 
 hand of the doctor’s trusty valet. 
 
 In the meantime, Daisy was pacing up and down the 
 floor of her room like a caged lioness. 
 
 She was chafing under a bitter conviction that had come 
 to her. 
 
 If Clifford Bancroft denied that secret marriage, as of 
 course he would if she should charge it on him, what proof 
 epuld she bring to substantiate her words? 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 81 
 
 Although the haunting memory of the wrong which had 
 been done her seemed like a lash goading her into mad 
 ness, she saw that her vengeance for that wrong must yet 
 be delayed. 
 
 She would walk to Dunbar if need be, and get the testi- 
 mony of the Reverend Mr. Crawford. 
 
 The mulatto man knocked on her door, and handed in 
 the envelope containing the money. 
 
 There would be no necessity for her to walk to Dunbar. 
 There was now no necessity for such delay, and she was 
 burning to proclaim herself, and to claim her rights as the 
 onlylawful wife of Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 Hurriedly she packed 4 her slender wardrobe into a 
 bundle, and went down-stairs. 
 
 The lights shone over the great city like myriads of 
 stars. 
 
 The full moon hung like a silver plate over the old house 
 she was leaving. 
 
 She passed along the winding carriage road under the 
 ancient trees. 
 
 At a sudden bend in the road she started back, and her 
 breath seemed to have been snatched from her. 
 
 There, face to face in the wan moonlight, she met her 
 treacherous husband, Clifford Bancroft! 
 
 CHAPTER XXI. 
 
 “IT WOULD BE WELL IF I WERE A GHOST!” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft was as much shocked by the sud- 
 den sight of Daisy there in the moonlight as she was by 
 his unexpected appearance. 
 
 He, too, started back, and a quick, sharp exclamation 
 broke from him. 
 
 “My God ! Who— what are you?” 
 
 Daisy staggered back against a tree, and stood staring 
 at him with her face showing white and rigid as the feat- 
 ures of the dead. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft made an effort to recover himself. 
 
 He bent forward and peered into [her face in the wan 
 light. 
 
 That face he saw looked years older than the rosy, dim- 
 pled one it so closely resembled in its general outlines. 
 
 Just as this woman looked with her set and colorless 
 features, he fancied at the moment that Daisy might 
 have looked when she ceased to struggle for life under the 
 cruel water, and yielded the victory to Death. 
 
 He shivered as that swift conviction came to! him, but 
 after that moment’s close scrutiny, he lifted himself and 
 said in an unsteady, unnatural voice: 
 
83 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 “ I beg your pardon, but you so closely resembled a— a 
 —some one I knew once, that I was startled as if I had seen 
 a ghost.” 
 
 In the ghastliness of her face, it was as horrible to see 
 her teeth clash together as if she had indeed been a 
 wraith. 
 
 Through those set teeth she said in a tone hoarse with 
 intensity : 
 
 “ It would be well if I were a ghost, Clifford Bancroft I 
 It would be be better for you to kill me now, and so make 
 a ghost of me, than to let me live on for the revenge I am 
 sure to takel” 
 
 She lifted her clinched hand in the moonlight as if she 
 were registering an oath, and her eyes blazed like those of 
 a maniac. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft did not suspect her identity. He be- 
 lieved that Daisy was dead, and that he had himself seen 
 the clods thrown and packed over her coffin. An instant’s 
 consideration had convinced him that her resemblance to 
 his hoidenish, bright eyed child- wife was nothing more 
 than a chance likeness. 
 
 Her wild words and wilder manner convinced him that 
 she was a maniac. 
 
 What should he do with her? Should he give her in 
 charge of a policeman, so that a watch might be kept over 
 her to prevent her doing damage to herself or any one 
 else? 
 
 He turned his head and looked eagerly up and down the 
 street beyond the iron fence of the yard. 
 
 She saw that he really had failed to identify her; and 
 the expression of his face, as he looked so eagerly up and 
 down the street, led her to suspect the truth— that he con- 
 sidered her a suspicious character, or an insane person, 
 who should not be allowed to go scot free at that dark 
 hour. 
 
 The quick, sharp rustle of her garments caused him to 
 look around again to the spot where she had been stand- 
 ing, but she was no longer there, and he saw her flitting 
 away through the trees with the swiftness of a lapwing. 
 
 “Poor thing,” he muttered. “Let her go where she 
 will. Fortune will take care of her, I hope. Daisy would 
 have looked like her if she had been ten years older, and 
 insane. Dear little Daisy ! Dead, and so young !” 
 
 He drew his hand across his eyes, and he walked away 
 in the gloomy shadows of the trees — a bridegroom, but 
 yet the most miserable man in the great city of New 
 York. 
 
 He glanced up and saw the light glowing from the wim 
 dow of the room where Geraldine lay. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 *^She is a beautiful, grand-looking woman,” he muttered, 
 “and in time I will learn to love her, when I have forgot- 
 ten to be remorseful about Daisy.” 
 
 While Clifford Bancroft was muttering that to himself, 
 Daisy was making her way over the lamp-lighted streets, 
 to a railroad depot, guided at every turn by the direction 
 of some accommodating policeman of whom she made in- 
 quiry. 
 
 Two days afterward, and in the gray of the October 
 twilight, she entered the village of Dunbar. 
 
 There was the spire of the little church pointing upward 
 in the misty light as it had done that hour when, as a 
 bride, she had dreamily noticed it. She recognized it, and 
 she knew that the parsonage of Reverend Mr. Crawford 
 was immediately opposite the entrance of the church. 
 
 So she made her way in that direction, and soon she was 
 knocking on the door of the little cottage. 
 
 How well she remembered that vine-covered house, al- 
 though she had looked on it in such a bewildering, but 
 sweet, flutter of excitement ! 
 
 So vividly every feature of that former scene came to 
 her that it seemed impossible for anything pertaining to 
 that quiet home to change, and she was surprised when a 
 man who was not Mr. Crawford, but who yet wore a de- 
 cidedly clerical appearance, opened the door to her. 
 
 “ I want to see Mr. Crawford,” Daisy said eagerly. 
 
 “ Mr. Crawford is not here,” the gentleman answered in 
 a slow, deliberate way. He has gone as a missionary to 
 the East Indies. He sailed five weeks ago yesterday.” 
 
 Gone to the East Indies ! 
 
 A sickening sense of disappointment swept over poor 
 Daisy ; it seemed that fate was conspiring against her. 
 
 “Give me his address, please,” she said, with her lip 
 beginning to quiver. 
 
 “ I am very sorry that I cannot do so,” Mr. Crawford’s 
 successor said kindly. “I am not at all acquainted with 
 him, but I understand that he never corresponds with any 
 one. He is a very zealous worker in the Master’s cause, 
 and travels from place to place, and from country to 
 country sometimes, as a self-appointed missionary, doing 
 all the good he can.” 
 
 “Thank you,” Daisy said, and she turned away, feeling 
 bitterly resentful toward the Providence which had so 
 baffled her. 
 
 The reverend gentleman called after her: 
 
 “ Won’t you come into the house? My wife will be glad 
 to entertain you.” 
 
 Daisy glanced back, and shook her head, and went away. 
 
 The twilight was deepening into night, and through the 
 
84 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 gloom she saw the red and green lights of a steamboat a)> 
 proaching the landing of the village. 
 
 An impulse seized her to take passage on that boat, and 
 to go wherever it should take her; so she accordingly made 
 her way to the landing and entered the steamer. 
 
 It proved to be a packet bound for Cincinnati, and she 
 paid for her passage to that place. 
 
 It was a beautiful evening, and the October breeze float- 
 ing up the river was delightfully invigorating, and Daisy 
 passed most of her time on the guards of the boat. 
 
 There were very few passengers on board, and in the 
 troubled state of her mind Daisy took no notice of them, 
 and they paid no attention to her. 
 
 They were nearing Cincinnati, and plainly visible on the 
 sky was the cloud of soot and smoke that always blots the 
 blue above a great city. 
 
 Leaning on the railing of the guards, Daisy stood staring 
 moodily at the black, sulphurous columns going upward, 
 when she was startled by the sound of a fall, simultaneously 
 with which came a sharp cry of pain. 
 
 She turned to see an old woman lying prostrate on the 
 floor a few feet away from her with her leg twisted 
 dangerously. 
 
 She had slipped on a banana peal which some one had 
 carelessly thrown there. 
 
 Daisy ran to her and knelt beside her, and endeavored to 
 raise her, but the old woman shrieked with the additional 
 pain caused by the movement. 
 
 4 ‘Oh! Oh! I shall die! My leg is broken! Do some- 
 thing for me !” she cried. 
 
 Several others came up by this time, and the unfortunate 
 woman was borne to her state-room, and Daisy, moved by 
 an impulse of kindness, which happily weakened the 
 memory of her own suffering and wrongs, accompanied 
 her, ana set herself to work to relieve as far as possible the 
 agony occasioned by the injured limb. 
 
 It was not broken, as the old lady had declared, but the 
 ankle was badly sprained, and was dreadfully swollen and 
 feverish. 
 
 Daisy was naturally a good nurse, and she had gentle 
 and magnetic hands, and under her soothing touches and 
 judicious ministrations the sufferer experienced a grateful 
 sense of relief. 
 
 They were entering port, when the old lady asked, with 
 her restless black eyes fixed on Daisy’s face : 
 
 “ Do you live in Cincinnati?” 
 
 “ No,” she answered, speaking in ahard, defiant way ; “ I 
 have no home, I am going to Cincinnati in search of em- 
 ployment.” 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 85 
 
 A pondering look came into the shrewd black eyes up- 
 lifted to hers. 
 
 Just then a knock came on the door and the chamber- 
 maid looked in. 
 
 “ We’ve landed,” she said laconically. 
 
 Daisy arose from the bedside on which she had been 
 sitting, and held her hand out to her charge. 
 
 “I must bid you good-bye,” she said. 
 
 The old woman grasped her hand and clung to it, while 
 she looked up into the fair face bending over her, with a 
 hesitating but wistful look in her shrewd eyes. 
 
 “I am very poor, very,” she said emphatically, “but I 
 live alone, and I will be compelled to have some one stay 
 with me until I am able to get about myself ; and as you 
 haven’t anywhere to stay in Cincinnati, you might come 
 along with me. I can give you a bed free, and you can 
 help along toward getting provisions yourself, maybe.” 
 
 She put the interrogatory in a tone of great anxiety, and 
 Daisy answered : 
 
 “I had as well be with you, and better, perhaps, than 
 with anybody else, until I get some kind of employment. 
 So I will go with you.” 
 
 Thus it was settled, and Daisy went to the poor little 
 shanty which was the home of her new acquaintance, and 
 which was certainly comfortless enough to justify the old 
 woman’s assertion that she “was very poor.” 
 
 It was an old, crumbling brick cottage containing three 
 rooms, which were in a most forlorn condition from the 
 inroads of time and decay. There was scarcely a comfort 
 to be found in one of them. A rickety bedstead, badly 
 furnished with bedding, a few broken chairs, an unsteady 
 table, a cracked cooking-stove, and an old-fashioned cor- 
 ner cupboard, comprised the appointments of the place, 
 and were in keeping with the old house. 
 
 In her loneliness and desolation, Daisy’s heart went out 
 in a sort of fierce sympathy — if such an expression may be 
 allowed or understood — to this old woman, whom, in her 
 poverty and helplessness, chance or fate, whichever ruled 
 the hour, had thrown in her way. 
 
 She slept on the bare floor that night, and early the next 
 morning while Miss Priscilla Haines, the name of her pro- 
 tegee, was still sleeping — she went out into the city, and 
 with an unsparing hand she purchased from her own 
 slender resources some necessary articles of food and pro- 
 visions, which the old lady seemed keenly to appreciate, 
 but she seemed greatly disturbed at the money they had 
 cost, and spoke much of it. 
 
 “You don’t know, maybe, what it is,” she said, “to be 
 without money. Money is a great friend, my dear, and 
 
86 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 hold on to it as strongly as you can. I never had any ta 
 hold on to,” she said, with great emphasis, as if movea by 
 a strange desire to impress that fact on Daisy’s mind. “I 
 am very poor — very poor indeed.” 
 
 She harped so much on this one subject, that Daisy came 
 to think that the old woman’s mind was weakening with 
 her body, and so was unusually patient and gentle with 
 her. 
 
 Miss Priscilla had never left her bed to sit up for any 
 length of time since Daisy had been with her. She was 
 very old, and, perhaps, she was unable to rally from the 
 shock of that painful fall. Certain it was that she was 
 gradually passing away, and Daisy saw it, and resolved to 
 remain until the last with the poor creature who had not 
 a known relative on earth. So she stayed with her, and 
 worked hard and patiently for her. 
 
 She had still some of the money which Dr. Burnie had 
 paid her, and she had been fortunate enough to secure 
 sewing from a house furnishing ready-made wardrobes. 
 So the old woman’s last days were passed in more comfort 
 than she had known for many and many a year. 
 
 Miss Priscilla Haines had been the only child of a mill- 
 ionaire, so tradition stated ; and how she had run through 
 with the immense fortune he had bequeathed her at his 
 death no one could tell. The fact only was patent to the 
 public that from her palatial home on Walnut Hills she had 
 come to live and die, after a gradual descent, in that 
 tumble-down cottage in the alley. 
 
 For over fourteen months Daisy had been with her, min- 
 istering unmurmuringly to her wants, when her release 
 came, and Miss Priscilla’s also, for she died, and Daisy’s 
 last cent went to defray the expenses of her burial. 
 
 Never in her short but eventful life had the poor girl felt 
 lonelier than when she turned away from the humble 
 grave which hid the only person to whose happiness she 
 had come to be essential, and went back to the little cot- 
 tage. 
 
 How desolate it was with the gray of the twilight falling 
 over it, and its shadows gathering in it ! 
 
 With a choking sob, Daisy threw herself on the bed and 
 clasped in her arms the pillow on which the head of her 
 old friend had lain. 
 
 Her hand touched a folded paper that was under the 
 sheet, and she arose and lighted the lamp and examined it. 
 
 She saw a few lines addressed to herself, written in the 
 tremulous but clear characters of Miss Priscilla Haines. 
 
 She read, with staring eyes: 
 
 “ My dear Daisy,— In consideration of your kindness tQ 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 8? 
 
 me, I bequeath what you may find under the flat rock in 
 the left chimney corner. Priscilla Haines.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXn. 
 
 U I AM NO LONGER HELPLESS, BUT POWERFUL!” 
 
 When the first surprise occasioned by that singular 
 communication had worn off, Daisy thought that she un- 
 derstood how it had been written. 
 
 “It is only one of the poor old woman’s vagaries,” she 
 said, huskily, “but I will keep it in memory of her, as it 
 is the only scrap of her writing I have ever seen, and it 
 shows that she knew I wanted to make her comfortable.” 
 
 With a reverential touch she refolded the paper and 
 placed it in her bosom, and then she blew out the light, 
 and lay down again on the bed with the darkness growing 
 deeper over her, and seeming to symbol the future that 
 stretched in its unreadable mystery before her. 
 
 The recent presence of Death, which has always a pow- 
 erful influence for good or for evil on every sensitive na- 
 ture, had touched and softened her in every respect save 
 in that intense bitterness toward Clifford Bancroft for the 
 foul wrong he had done, and which she had never for a 
 moment forgotten. 
 
 He had trifled with her love ; he had violated her trust ; 
 he had blighted her life ; he had heartlessly cast all mem- 
 ory of her from him, and had married another woman. 
 He had given to another woman the honored place at his 
 side which was by right hers and hers only ! 
 
 For this, she would bring destruction down upon him, 
 and upon the woman he had so honored ! 
 
 She told herself that as she lay there on the bed with 
 that keen sense of desolation over her. 
 
 But in her state of miserable poverty and friendlessness 
 how far he seemed to be removed from her in his wealth 
 and pride ! 
 
 Money would compass anything. Oh, if she only had 
 money ! 
 
 It was the cant of Miss Priscilla, and it reminded her of 
 her. 
 
 “ Her mind ran so much on her poverty that I suppose 
 she fancied that she had a large fortune somewhere, and it 
 was in that freak that she wrote to me about finding some- 
 thing under the flat rock in the corner of the chimney,” 
 Daisy muttered sadly. 
 
 She dismissed the subject from her thoughts — or rather 
 it was superseded by that unvarying idea of the wrong 
 that more than a year ago had been done her, and of the 
 retribution which she meant, if possible, should follow it. 
 
DAISY DARRELL 
 
 But when she fell into a broken sleep after awhile, she 
 dreamed of that tremulously written communication, and 
 that the object hidden under the rock was the certificate of 
 her marriage with Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 She awoke with a start. Day was breaking, and its first 
 dim light was in the room, lending to each object a ghostly 
 and gloom-inspiring appearance. 
 
 Oh, what a miserable thing it was to awaken to a sense of 
 existence ! Daisy thought— to feel the burden of life upon 
 you so heavy— so heavy ! 
 
 In her dream she had seen the proof of her marriage so 
 distinctly lying under the flat rock that the awakening to 
 the mockery of the vision seemed the very perfection of 
 cruelty. 
 
 The feverish tide was beginning to flow again through the 
 veins and arteries of the great city, and the sound thereof 
 crept to Daisy’s ears through the sluggish alley. 
 
 It meant business — it meant bread, and she had neither. 
 
 For a day or two before Miss Priscilla’s|death she had been 
 idle ; no work had been given out by the house for which 
 she was employed to sew, and the burial expenses of her 
 friend had drained her little purse of its last cent. She 
 must go out this morning and find work, she told herself, 
 or she would starve. 
 
 She arose and bathed her haggard face, and then she 
 went to the little corner cupboard and ate for her break- 
 fast the few scraps of bread it contained. 
 
 It was very early yet. As she drew aside the muslin cur- 
 tain she had looped over the sunken window, she saw that 
 the gray of the dawn was not veined by a gleam of the ris- 
 ing sun. The house for which she sewed was not open 
 yet, and would not be for at least a half hour; so she must 
 wait. 
 
 She was restless, and she employed herself by making 
 the room tidy. That was a small job, and it was soon ac- 
 complished, and as she paused at the window, folding her 
 hands on her breast, a sudden idea occurred to her. 
 
 She would go out and raise that rock and see what there 
 really was under it. 
 
 It was a very old house, and the chimney was built 
 against the outside wall after the old-fashioned mode of 
 architecture, so there were deep corners on either side of it. 
 
 Daisy had never noticed the rock, but she found it, as 
 the note stated, in the left-hand corner. Only its surface 
 was visible, for it was imbedded deep in the soil. It was 
 flat, and would have measured about two feet either way 
 across the top. 
 
 It was no small job to move it; evidently it had not been 
 disturbed for years; but Daisy grew interested in the 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 89 
 
 effort ; the resistance it offered stimulated her to renewed 
 exertion. 
 
 She went back into the house, and brought an old iron 
 shovel to her assistance. 
 
 With that implement she dug the soil from around it, 
 and she saw that the rock was only about five inches in 
 thickness, and that with the stout shovel she could easily 
 pry it up. 
 
 She accordingly brought all her strength to bear upon it, 
 and in less than a minute it was lying with its moldy 
 under side upward beside the moldy oed in which it had 
 been. 
 
 Daisy, panting and perspiring, looked curiously down on 
 that bed, and saw only a few earth-worms burrowing 
 from sight, and caught the musty smell of the mildewed 
 ground. 
 
 She was not disappointed ; she had really expected noth- 
 ing else, and the experiment had been made only to kill 
 time. 
 
 With no object whatever in view, she lifted the shovel 
 and struck it heavily into the wet ground her labor had 
 exposed. 
 
 It went down for about two inches, and then it struck 
 against something on which it rested. 
 
 44 It is another rock,” Daisy muttered to herself. 
 
 But she set to work, ana diligently scooped the soil 
 from it. 
 
 Was it indeed another rock? 
 
 She knelt down and with her hand she brushed away 
 the clinging earth. 
 
 No, it was not stone, it was some dark metal, and her 
 heart began to palpitate with excitement. 
 
 What was it? She could not unearth it with her fingers. 
 
 She brought the shovel to her assistance again, and in 
 five minutes’ time the object was exposed. 
 
 It was a leaden box about one foot and a half square, 
 and it was so heavy that she could not move it from its 
 place. 
 
 She was entirely secluded from sight ; a blank wall shut’ 
 in the small yard on either side, so only the rising sun 
 looked upon her as she knelt there tugging at the buried 
 box. 
 
 She could pry it out with the iron shovel, as she had 
 done the stone that covered it ; in the frenzy of excitement 
 which had come over her when she found that there really 
 was something hidden “under the flat rock in the left 
 chimney corner,” she had forgotten that mode of working. 
 
 She recollected it now, and she brought the lever to bea* 
 
90 
 
 DAISY DAHRELU 
 
 upon the box and in a minute it was lying wet and moldy 
 on the upper ground. 
 
 She could not lift it ; she found that it was the weight of 
 the box, rather than its having been wedged in the hole, 
 which prevented her moving it with her natural power 
 before. It was in its heaviness like a great lump of solid 
 lead. 
 
 But she could convey it into the house by rolling it over 
 and over, and that she did. 
 
 The house for which she had been employed, and which 
 she had resolved to visit that morning in order to procure 
 more work, had been open for an hour, but in her excite- 
 ment at finding the box she had forgotten her proposed 
 errand. 
 
 “ How should she open it?” she asked herself, kneeling 
 beside it, and picking at it with her fingers, which were 
 all too weak to break that rusty lock. 
 
 The trouble she had passed through had not killed her 
 natural characteristics — one of the chief of which was 
 a desire to inquire into whatever mystified her. 
 
 So, for the time, utterly forgetful of everything else, she 
 was wild with curiosity to see the contents of that strong- 
 box. 
 
 She looked around the room for some implement to assist 
 her, and her eyes lighted on a flint rock which Miss Pris- 
 cilla had used in years gone by to light her fires, by strik- 
 ing sparks from it with a bit of steel. 
 
 Daisy seized on it, and began to pound the rusty lock. 
 
 At the third stroke, the bolt was broken, and the lid flew 
 back. 
 
 What she saw then actually took away her breath to look 
 upon. 
 
 There, glittering in the morning light that fell upon 
 them were coins of gold, filling the box to the very top ! 
 
 There were dollars that amounted to hundreds of thou- 
 sands in number, and yet Priscilla Haines, while the right- 
 ful and conscious possessor of them all, had lived and died 
 in poverty the most abject! 
 
 The girl who had inherited them was so dazed by her 
 great good luck, that for fully five minutes she could only 
 sit there on the bare floor and stare at her treasure trove 
 with wide eyes and dropped jaw. 
 
 The realization came suddenly to her, and she sprung to 
 her feet, tossing her arms upward with wild exultation, 
 exclaiming in a voice hoarse and tremulous: 
 
 “lam no longer helpless, but powerful — powerful— as 
 Clifford Bancroft will find out!” 
 
DAISY DARRELL • 
 
 *1 
 
 CHAPTER XXIII. 
 
 u i advise you to keep an eye on your husband when 
 
 HE COMES!’’ 
 
 Christmas had come, setting the children wild with the 
 advent of Santa Claus, more abundantly and richly en- 
 dowed than usual, in the city of New York. 
 
 But the older people, at least as many of them as com- 
 prised the creme de la creme of society, were wild over the 
 advent of some one else. 
 
 That person was called the “ Beautiful Mystery,” because 
 so little was known about her. 
 
 She had appeared in the city a few weeks before, and by 
 the rare perfection of her face and figure, as well as by the 
 boundless wealth in which she seemed to float, she almost 
 immediately became, in vulgar parlance, “the rage,” and 
 was sought out and courted by the very haughtiest people 
 in the city. 
 
 She was known as Madame Astrsea, and none questioned 
 the genuineness of the classic cognomen. 
 
 The “ Goddess of Justice,” her name implied, and her 
 face declared her the goddess of beauty. 
 
 No one would have recognized in this Madame Astraea, 
 robed in velvet and glittering in diamonds, Daisy Darrell, 
 the hoyden who with her cousin Harry had tramped over 
 the hills and vales and climbed the trees at Pinelands less 
 than two years before. 
 
 Yet Madame Astraea and Daisy Darrell were one and 
 the same person; or rather, Madame Astraea had been 
 Daisy Darrell, for the metamorphosis which had changed 
 the trusting girl into the revengeful woman had left not a 
 vestige of her old nature seemingly, and had changed the 
 mobile features into a semblance of beautifully chiseled 
 marble. 
 
 She had changed her flaxen hair into snow-white, and 
 instead of the short curls she had worn as Daisy Darrell, 
 a glistening coil rested like a coronet on her shapely 
 head. 
 
 Instead of the fresh, dimpled girl of sixteen who had 
 rashly eloped with Clifford Bancroft from Pinelands, she 
 looked like a woman of at least twenty -six. 
 
 She had some five weeks before appeared in New York 
 “from the Old World,” somebody surmised, and “so- 
 ciety ” took up the assertion, and declared that she had 
 come from the Old World, and that she was the widow of 
 a young English soldier who had died of a fever in the East; 
 Indies. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 This story had its origin, as all such stories have, in a 
 supposition that gradually grew into a positive assertion, 
 and no one thought to question its truth. 
 
 Her home was spoken of as a palace, and it was cer- 
 tainly one of the grandest in New York. 
 
 The house was a marvel of architecture, which had been 
 offered for sale on the demise of its former owner, and 
 Madame Astreea had purchased it through an attorney, 
 and had proceeded to furnish it in a style of magnificence 
 wonderful even for that city of wealth and vanity. 
 
 As we have said, Madame Astrsea was “the rage,” and 
 she had calls and invitations from the bon ton without 
 number. 
 
 But none of those attentions had come from Clifford Ban- 
 croft, or his wife, for they were somewhere in the south of 
 France, whither they had gone for the benefit of Geraldine’s 
 health. 
 
 The newspapers, in their “society notes,” had announced 
 that they were on their way home, and it was expected 
 by their friends that they would reach New York in time 
 to attend the grand New-Year ball which would be the 
 event of the winter. 
 
 It was, indeed, a grand affair— that ball. All the elite 
 of the great city were there decked in their grandest attire. 
 
 The vast parlors of a merchant prince were ablaze with 
 light that fell like a mist of gold from glittering chandeliers 
 On the brilliant assemblage, and music, bewildering in its 
 ebb and flow, kept time to their dancing feet. 
 
 It was really Madame Astreea’s first appearance at a ball, 
 and her arrival was eagerly watched for, because she was 
 as yet a novelty— a sensation of which they had not tired. 
 
 “ Her toilets are superb,” a gushing belle remarked en- 
 thusiastically to Geraldine, who had really arrived in time 
 for the ball, and who, in company with her husband, had 
 appeared there an hour before. “And then she is so per- 
 fectly beautiful ! The gentlemen all rave about her, and 
 fall in love with her — both married and single. I advise 
 you to keep an eye on your husband when she comes.” 
 
 The young girl spoke laughingly, but no responsive smile 
 came to Geraldine’s proud lips. 
 
 She turned her regal head, with its coils of jet black hair, 
 toward a crowd in the center of which Clifford was stand- 
 ing and was clearly visible because of his superior height. 
 
 They were friends of S ? his who had gathered around him 
 in order to welcome him back to his home, and who tarried 
 only a few minutes and then passed on to others. 
 
 While Geraldine’s eye was on him, she saw him separate 
 from these friends, and move carelessly away to a deep 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 93 
 
 window where, half hidden by the lace curtains, he stood 
 and glanced listlessly over the crowd. 
 
 As she looked at him, a shadow fell over Geraldine’s face 
 that marred its beauty — a shadow that had often been 
 there during the sixteen months of her wedded life. 
 
 Her husband was by far the handsomest man in the 
 room, and she was proud of him, but he was always cold 
 and gloomy. 
 
 Nothing seemed to charm, nor even to interest him, and 
 loving him with all the strength of her nature as she did, 
 it made her unhappy. 
 
 She had become vaguely suspicious. Something was be- 
 tween him and her which held them apart, but which she 
 could not understand, and could not tear away. 
 
 She had never spoken to him of it but once, and that was 
 amid the spicy breezes and rich blooms of the south of 
 France, and then he had answered wearily, putting her 
 clinging arms gently from around his neck : 
 
 “lam not demonstrative, Geraldine — that is all.” 
 
 But it was not all, and in her heart of hearts she felt it. 
 
 Yet from that hour she proudly held her peace, and that 
 vague something which held them apart grew day by day. 
 
 About the last arrival at the ball was Madame Astreea. 
 
 She came in company with her legal adviser, an old 
 gentleman who knew vastly more about her possessions 
 than he did about herself. In fact, he knew nothing more 
 about her than did any one else who met her in New York. 
 
 He accompanied her to the door of the dressing-room, 
 and left her there to be divested of her ermine and velvet 
 wrapping. 
 
 She started involuntarily as she caught sight of the 
 woman in attendance there, who came forward to assist 
 her. 
 
 That woman was Bridget Conner. 
 
 “ Bridget will recognize me! If she does not, then no 
 one else can,” Daisy whispered tremulously under her 
 breath. 
 
 The faithful hands of the Irishwoman, which had so 
 often touched her in affection, and the honest eyes which 
 had looked so often into hers, were on her now. 
 
 There was a keen scrutinizing look in the eyes, but there 
 was no recognition. 
 
 How Daisy longed to throw her arms around that stout 
 figure, and feel the throbbings of that true heart against 
 her own ! 
 
 But she restrained herself ; she even gazed fearlessly into 
 the “ eyes of Irish blue,” and asked, as a perfect test of her 
 state of incognito : 
 
 Will you look closely at me, please, and see if my hair 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 94 
 
 is disarranged, or my face smutted with the dust and soot 
 that are always flying about the streets?” 
 
 Bridget did as she was requested, and shook her head 
 with a little smothered sigh. 
 
 “ Sure, ye’re all right, and as putty as a blessed angel.” 
 “ Thank you,” Daisy said, ana then she asked carelessly: 
 “ Did you ever see any one who resembled me?” 
 
 Again Bridget shook her head and sighed : 
 
 “No; I never knew any one like ye, but ye make me 
 think of a poor, sweet creature that’s gone l” 
 
 Daisy turned to descend to the parlors. 
 
 “ I am safe ; he will not recognize me,” she muttered. 
 
 The light words of the young girl, “ I advise you to 
 keep an eye on your husband when she comes,” worried 
 Geraldine. 
 
 Already an instinctive jealousy toward this fascinating 
 Madame Astraea, whom neither she nor her husband, to 
 her knowledge, had ever seen, sprung up in her heart. 
 
 Geraldine was herself a beautiful and an attractive 
 woman, and she and the young girl were not left alone to- 
 gether more than five minutes before they were joined by 
 two military dignitaries. 
 
 “Ah, madam, I am fortunate in finding you disen- 
 gaged, ” one of them said, bending stiffly to oner his arm 
 to the lady. “Will you honor me by taking a promenade 
 with me?” 
 
 Geraldine placed her hand on his arm and they saun- 
 tered off together. 
 
 “This Madame Astraea,” Geraldine said, speaking ab- 
 ruptly, “tell me, is she so very beautiful — so very fascinat- 
 ing ?” 
 
 Colonel Devere bent his shaggy head reverentially. 
 “Until your arrival, madam, she was the most beautiful 
 — the most fascinating woman in New York.” 
 
 At that moment, Madame Astraea, leaning on the arm 
 of her white-haired attorney, entered the room, and was 
 instantly surrounded by a bevy of persons, prominent 
 .among whom were, of course, the host and hostess. 
 
 Geraldine caught but a momentary glimpse of a woman 
 with snowy hair, arrayed in a robe of dark blue velvet, 
 which swept in a long train from a petticoat of old gold 
 satin elaborately embroidered in roses and birds of para- 
 dise, and diamonds glittered in her hair and on her neck 
 and arms. 
 
 In a half minute the figure so richly attired was hidden 
 from Geraldine’s sight, and no suspicion flashed through 
 her mind that this “beautiful mystery” — this petted and 
 toasted idol of society— was her hoydenish cousin Daisy. 
 
DAISY DARRELL* 
 
 Colonel Devere, as he walked on with her, remarked, 
 uttering the truth unconsciously : 
 
 “That is your rival.” 
 
 Saying that, he passed along the wide parlors, and it was 
 a half hour before Geraldine again caught a sight of her 
 husband. 
 
 She met him walking arm-in-arm with a gentleman, and 
 as the two couples approached each other, the gentleman 
 who was with Clifford remarked, laughingly : 
 
 “ Your husband was desperate at your absence, madam, 
 and I proposed the best substitute that I could think of for 
 your charming society, that of Madame Astraea. I am 
 taking him now to introduce him to her.” 
 
 So smilingly they passed on toward the “beautiful 
 mystery.” 
 
 CHAPTER XXIY. 
 
 “PERHAPS I REMIND YOU OF SOME ONE YOU HAVE KNOWN!” 
 
 Daisy was standing in the center of a coterie of ad- 
 mirers, showing like a queen in the magnificence of her 
 attire. 
 
 In a glance which she cast beyond her entertainers, she 
 saw two gentlemen approaching her. 
 
 One of them was Clirford Bancroft. 
 
 At the sight of him a shock, something like that pro- 
 duced by a galvanic battery, went through her. 
 
 For an instant a dark flush stained her face, and then it 
 receded, leaving her of an unearthly whiteness. The 
 pupils of her eyes dilated until only a slender rim of blue 
 was visible around them, and they glittered like stars. 
 
 “ Madame Astraea, permit me to present my friend, Mr. 
 Clifford Bancroft, of this city.” 
 
 The words had been pronounced by Clifford’s companion, 
 and Madame Astraea turned her face toward them as if 
 just apprised of their proximity. 
 
 She raised her eyes and fixed them full on the dreamy 
 black orbs which she remembered sc well, and she saw, or 
 fancied she saw, a startled look break for a moment into 
 them as they gazed down into her upturned face. 
 
 It was only a momentary expression, however, and then 
 it died away, and his handsome head was bent low before 
 her for an instant, and then his voice — that low, courteous 
 voice she remembered so well — spoke to her, saying : 
 
 ‘ ‘ May I have the honor of this waltz with Madame As- 
 traea ?” 
 
 “No,” she answered, and her tone, although perfectly 
 calm, had an unnatural sound, “ I do not intend to dance 
 to-mght.” 
 
96 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 Her eyes, still dark and glittering, and looking black in 
 the gaslight, had never been removed from his, and he 
 gazed into them with a strange thrill at his heart. 
 
 Yet he had seen in them no reminder of the saucy blue 
 eyes of his child wife, Daisy. 
 
 A powerful magnetism seemed to attract him to this 
 woman. He felt himself drawn to her as by an invisible 
 cord. 
 
 He forgot the presence of the coterie of admirers he had 
 disturbed. He bent his head and spoke to her: 
 
 “Will you not promenade with me ?” 
 
 Unhesitatingly she placed her hand on his arm, and with 
 a bow and a smile of adieu to the party she was leaving 
 she walked away with him. 
 
 There was a singular feeling over Daisy. She seemed to 
 herself to have lost her individuality. She felt as if she 
 were a sort of stranger to herself, because she did not un- 
 derstand the feeling that was over her. 
 
 What, at that moment, was the sentiment she enter- 
 tained toward this man who had been the one love of her 
 life? 
 
 She could not have told, had the question been put to her. 
 She only knew that every pulse was athrill within her. 
 
 They spoke not a word. They passed down the brill- 
 iantly lighted parlors ; they threaded the crowd in silence, 
 unconscious of the attention they attracted, as a rarely 
 handsome couple. 
 
 They were not conscious, either, of that silence, which 
 neither of them had any desire to break. 
 
 The v entered the conservatory, which was lighted by col- 
 ored lamps, and sweet with the breath of myriads of 
 flowers. 
 
 They seated themselves on a rustic bench beside the 
 fountain, where a marble Hebe, gracefully poised, poured 
 a ceaseless stream of water from a marble cup, making a 
 drowsy music. 
 
 Madame Astraea looked at the lily bending over the pool, 
 and sprinkled with the crystal drops, as with diamonds— 
 and Clifford Bancroft looked at her. 
 
 “We have met, I know, for the first time to-night,” he 
 said, speaking softly, “yet it seems to me that I have 
 known you for a long, long time.” 
 
 She turned and looked full into his face in the tender 
 light, and her eyes, with their distended pupils, looked 
 dark and starry. 
 
 “Perhaps I remind you of some one you have known,” 
 she said, speaking abruptly, while a dash of red stained the 
 marble whiteness of her face. 
 
 He shook his head slowly. 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 9 ? 
 
 41 At the first moment I saw you, you really did bring to 
 my mind a memory of some one else. But the likeness be- 
 tween you and that person, is the likeness which exists be- 
 tween a star and a glow-worm.” 
 
 A feeling of fiery indignation rose up in her heart against 
 him for uttering that comparison. 
 
 Daisy Darrell was dead, and Madame Astrsea had arisen 
 like a phoenix from her ashes. 
 
 But she resented the insult which had been offered to her 
 better self, and she spoke bitterly : 
 
 44 The glow-worm, humble though it may have been, was 
 instinct with feeling — the star is not.” 
 
 He looked keenly down into the glowing face. 
 
 She did remind him of Daisy, surely— perhaps that 
 was why she seemed to come to him from the past, he 
 thought. Yet, how different from his guileless, hoydenish 
 child-wife, this proud and transcendently beautiful woman 
 was! 
 
 It was herself that interested him— not the faint likeness 
 she bore to Daisy. It was herself, and not the memory she 
 awakened, that seemed to be drawing his very heart out of 
 his bosom. 
 
 44 You do yourself injustice,” he said, with something of 
 vehemence, “when you compare yourself to a star in its 
 soullessness. It is only in its unapproachable beauty that 
 you are like it. I believe you are capable of the strongest, 
 deepest feeling. If you loved, I believe it would be for all 
 time and with a constantly growing intensity.” 
 
 The feverish eyes were lifted to his as she responded in a 
 strange, repressed tone : 
 
 44 1 might love as you say, until that love was slighted- 
 and then it would turn into hate. You know that some 
 poet has written that 4 Hell has no fury like a woman 
 scorned. ’ And if you have ever scorned one — or ever do — 
 you may find out the truth of that assertion.” 
 
 There was a subtle menace in her words and toiies that 
 struck a chill through him. 
 
 It seemed to him that she had thrown down the gantlet 
 of defiance to him — and a swift, unaccountable presenti- 
 ment came to him that between him and her there would 
 be war — relentless war — until one should conquer the 
 other. 
 
 Since he had first looked into the face of this 44 beautiful 
 mystery,” no thought of Geraldine had entered his mind; 
 but at this moment he was strongly reminded of her, for 
 she came into the conservatory, leaning on the arm of their 
 host. 
 
 There was a sullen fire in her eyes, and a sullen look on 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 her face, as she spoke to Clifford, without casting a glance 
 toward his companion. 
 
 “Mr. Bancroft, I have been searching for you every- 
 where. It is time for us to make our adieus and retire. 
 You have forgotten that I am still somewhat of an in- 
 valid.” 
 
 There was a world of resentment in her voice and man- 
 ner as she said that, turning away to go out of the green- 
 house. 
 
 “Don’t let me detain you. Go with— your wife,” Ma- 
 dame Astraea said, rising. 
 
 He winced at the tone of her voice ; there was so much 
 contempt in it, that it seemed to burn him. 
 
 Yet why should she look with disdain on Geraldine, 
 who, next to herself, was the most beautiful woman at the 
 ball? he asked himself. But he felt no anger toward her 
 for the disparagement of his wife. He only felt how hard 
 it was to tear himself away from this fascinating stranger; 
 he only felt that he must see her again, and that very 
 soon. 
 
 “ May I call on you at your own home to-morrow even- 
 ing?” he asked, as they walked out of the conservatory 
 together. 
 
 “Yes,” she responded. “ I shall be at home to you and 
 you only.” 
 
 To herself she added: “ The charm works. ‘The wife* 
 is evidently jealous and quick to take alarm. She has 
 taken alarm, I think, and she will be hurt. So will he, or 
 my name was never Daisy Darrell. ‘The mills of the 
 gods grind slowly, but they grind exceeding small.’ ” 
 
 Even while those ominous ideas were running through 
 her mind, she was smiling up into Clifford Bancroft’s face, 
 who was looking down into her eyes with his whole soul 
 shining in his own. 
 
 “Until to-morrow evening, then, good-bye,” he said, 
 bending so low over her that Geraldine, who saw him at 
 the moment, set her teeth together, and clinched her hands 
 in the first spasm of that jealousy which was destined to 
 bring about great results in the bitter after-time. 
 
 “I’ll watch you, Madame Astraea,” she whispered to 
 herself. “ I’ll tear the mystery from you! You can’t de- 
 ceive me l” 
 
 CHAPTER XXV. 
 
 “I DO NOT FEAR HER 1” 
 
 The day following the New Year's ball was bitterly cold. 
 The wind rushed up the streets, whistling keenly through 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 99 
 
 the falling sleet, and smiting with an ague-fit the pedestri- 
 ans who were not strongly fortified against its power. 
 
 The most shivering of these pedestrians was John Gold- 
 man, who never could stand the cold, as he frequently 
 declared. Great, warm-hearted fellow that he was, it was 
 no wonder he found something exceedingly antagonistic 
 to the cold weather in his nature. 
 
 So he shivered as he plodded along the street, and Daisy, 
 standing at the window of her palatial home, saw him. 
 
 Over the marble whiteness which her face had worn for 
 so many months broke a bright flush. 
 
 She turned and spoke hurriedly to a young girl who was 
 sitting and sewing in the room, and said : 
 
 “Miss Woodruff, will you do me the favor to call that 
 man in the fur cap who has just passed, and tell him I 
 want to see him? his name is John Goldman.” 
 
 The young seamstress was on her feet in an instant, and 
 had darted from the room. 
 
 Five minutes afterward she reappeared, and John Gold- 
 man, cap in hand, and looking very much puzzled, fol- 
 lowed her into the room. 
 
 Daisy was still standing by the window, and the dark, 
 damask curtain, which she had drawn down before his 
 entrance, threw a deeper shadow of the gloomy day over 
 her face. 
 
 Without stirring from her position, she spoke to him, 
 and her voice was low, and slightly unsteady: 
 
 “ Your name is John Goldman, is it not?” she asked. 
 
 “Yes, ma’am,” John answered, gazing earnestly into 
 her face, with a troubled look coming into his own, be- 
 cause of the painful memory she awakened of his lost 
 friend, Daisy. 
 
 But no suspicion of her identity crossed his mind— for 
 what possible connection, save that made by a chance re- 
 semblance, could there be between the wealthy and courted 
 Madame Astrsea, and the poor, friendless waif he had 
 picked up on the roadside a year and a half before? he 
 thought with a sigh. 
 
 She came out from the shadow of the window where 
 she had been standing, and extended her hand, glittering 
 with jewels, to him in greeting, and as he touched it 
 timidly, she said, motioning him to a seat opposite the one 
 she herself took: 
 
 “You are wondering what I want with you, Mr. Gold- 
 man. Well, I will tell you. I once knew a poor, unfort- 
 unate girl whom you befriended in a time of terrible need. 
 You picked her up where she had fallen from exhaustion 
 on the roadside, and took her to your own homo, where 
 
100 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 you and your mother cared for her— until she was able to 
 care for herself.” 
 
 John could contain himself no longer. He sprung up 
 ftrom his seat and went and bent over Madame Astrsea, 
 asking eagerly : 
 
 “ You mean Daisy. Where is she?” 
 
 Madame Astrsea shook her head, and the lids drooped 
 over her eyes, in which the red firelight had been showing 
 a sort of mist. 
 
 “She is dead,” she said, and her voice was chillingly 
 hard. “The young person whom you knew is no more. 
 But she was warm-hearted and grateful for your kindness, 
 and I promised her, that if ever it came into my power to 
 do you a favor, I would do it in her name, and would beg 
 you to accept it for her sake.” 
 
 John had returned to his seat, and his head was bent and 
 the shine of the fire fell on two tears that rolled slowly 
 down his cheeks, and dropped from the ends of his tawny 
 mustache. 
 
 He was not looking at Madame Astreea, and she was not 
 looking at him; and as he kept silence she continued 
 speaking: 
 
 “Is your mother still alive, Mr. Goldman?” 
 
 “ Yes, ma’am,” John answered, lifting his hand to brush 
 the mist from his eyes with the back of it. “ Mother is in 
 good health, and strong for an old lady. ” 
 
 “Daisy was under the impression that the place you 
 lived at when she was with you was not yours, I think.” 
 
 “No, ma’am,” John answered, with tne simple dignity 
 which marked his every word and act. “We are poor 
 people, we never owned a foot of ground in our lives, and 
 my father before me never did, but we never owed a debt; 
 we have managed, mother and I, to scuffle along and live 
 and keep clear of debt.” 
 
 He made the assertion with proud humility, and Madame 
 Astrsea listened to him with respectful interest. When he 
 ended she said : 
 
 ‘ ‘ I sent for you to make a proposition to you, and remem- 
 ber, whether you accept or reject it, that you owe me no 
 obligation, no thanks. I am acting only for Daisy, the poor 
 unfortunate whom you and your mother befriended, and 
 who is no more. I have purchased a farm on the Hudson, 
 where I expect to spend a few weeks during the summer, 
 but which I do not propose to take any control over. The 
 farm is well stocked; the house completely furnished. If 
 you and your mother will take charge of that farm, I will 
 ask you no rent, and whatever the profits of the place may 
 be, they shall be wholly, unquestioningly yours and your 
 mother’s. It is only a few hours’ travel down the river : it 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 101 
 
 is called Silver View. You can go and see it if you like, 
 any day, and if you are willing to accept the proposition, 
 which is made wholly for Daisy’s sake, remember, I shall 
 be very glad. No, no, don’t thank me, please, I am only 
 paying a debt for Daisy.” 
 
 In his astonishment and gratitude he had arisen to his 
 feet, and was uttering some incoherent acknowledgments 
 of her kindness, when she waved him away, and turning 
 to the seamstress, who had resumed her sewing, she said : 
 
 “Miss Woodruff, go down to the conservatory with Mr. 
 Goldman, please, and gather a basket of flowers for his 
 mother. Daisy said she was fond of them.” 
 
 The young girl arose, and John, fully understanding 
 that he was dismissed by his beautiful and mysterious 
 patroness, bowed awkwardly, and followed his conductress 
 into the conservatory. 
 
 He spent a very pleasant half hour there among the 
 flowers, in company with Maggie Woodruff, whose spirits 
 were generally as high as the color of her hair — which was 
 a vivid red— and whose wit was as bright and piercing as 
 her blue eyes. 
 
 She was so prettily saucy, yet withal so gentle and sen- 
 sible and kind of heart, that somehow or other John felt 
 happier than he had done for many and many a day, and 
 realized that life was very sweet, even though he might 
 not be permitted to share it with Daisy. 
 
 While he was watching MaggieWoodruff’splump fingers 
 arranging the flowers in the basket for his mother, Madame 
 Astreea, in her own beautiful room, was arraying herself 
 for the evening. 
 
 How exquisitely fair she was in the ruby-colored velvet 
 which so perfectly fitted her faultless figure, and with her 
 garnet jewels flashing like drops of blood in the gas- 
 light! 
 
 As she stood alone, surveying herself in the mirror, a 
 look that was not pleasant to see, and which marred its 
 wonderful loveliness, came into her face. 
 
 “I am determined that he shall feel, pang for pang, all 
 the suffering he has caused me !” she muttered between her 
 pearly teeth, thinking of Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 Three hours afterward she was at the opera — at the very 
 same house in which sho had first been led to suspect his 
 duplicity. 
 
 She was in her private box, and Clifford Bancroft was 
 with her. 
 
 She and he were the cynosure of many eyes, but he, at 
 least, had eyes only for her. 
 
 The spell of her power over him was deepening moment 
 by moment, and he was her slave. 
 
102 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 As for her, her eyes were sparkling, and her cheeks were 
 flushed with the consciousness of her victory. 
 
 She seemed to have eyes and ears for him only ; so she 
 did not see, any more than he did, that his wife, from a 
 box in a different part of the hall, was watching them 
 feverishly. 
 
 He had no idea that Geraldine intended to attend the 
 opera that night, or he might not, even in the reckless 
 mood that was over him, have felt quite as much at his 
 ease as he did. 
 
 On leaving her three hours before, he had told her that 
 an engagement which he could not break, called him away, 
 and he had left her without explaining the nature of that 
 engagement. 
 
 After he left, some lady friends had dropped in to see 
 her on their way to the opera, and had prevailed on her to 
 accompany them. So she had gone without dreaming 
 that she should see her husband there, and the sight of 
 him in company with the “Beautiful Mystery” was such 
 a shock to her as only a madly jealous woman can under- 
 stand. 
 
 “There is your husband with the fascinating Madame 
 Astrsea,” giddy Bessie Vale whispered to her, nodding her 
 pretty head toward the box where the two were sitting. 
 “ I cautioned you at the ball last night to take care how 
 you trusted him in the circle of her power. She is a siren, 
 and no mistake.” 
 
 Geraldine only tossed her proud head disdainfully, and 
 smiled. 
 
 “ I do not fear her!” she said. 
 
 But in her heart she knew that she had spoken falsely, 
 and that she did fear her— and that she hated her also, 
 with a burning hate. 
 
 To herself she said: 
 
 “ If she comes between him and me, they shall both repent 
 it J As surely as she does it, I will do something des- 
 perate !” 
 
 What that “ something” would be she never intimated 
 even to herself. She only felt that she was capable of 
 carrying out the vow she made to herself there, and re- 
 peated again, hours afterward in her own room : 
 
 “ If she comes between him and me they shall both re- 
 gret it, even if I bring destruction down on my own head 
 m taking vengeance on them !” 
 
 Between Geraldine and Clifford the name of Madame 
 Astrsea was never mentioned, but she was constantly and 
 torturingly present in the mind of each. 
 
 Clifford made no struggle against her power, no effort to 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 103 
 
 free himself from the fatal charm of her beauty. Reck- 
 lessly he gave himself up to it, and lived only for her. 
 
 The unbroken silence which Geraldine maintained on the 
 subject might have been likened to the deceiving white 
 heat of iron, or to the ominous calm that precedes a tem- 
 pest; for the maddening jealousy within her was gathering 
 power day by day. 
 
 Madame Astraea was to Clifford Bancroft a sort of brill- 
 iant star, beautiful, glittering— but far, so far beyond his 
 reach. 
 
 When he would have declared the love that was con- 
 suming his life, as it were, one glance of her blue eyes was 
 sufficient to arrest the torrent of words on his tongue. 
 
 He, too, was madlv jealous. She was an idol with men. 
 A score of the most brilliant “ catches ” in New York vied 
 for the possession of her hand, and would have groveled in 
 the dust at her dainty feet for but one smile from those red 
 lips. And the smile came, but it was for all — no one in 
 particular could have been pronounced the favorite with 
 her. 
 
 All this drove Clifford Bancroft wild with iealousy, and 
 rage. It was even to himself an unaccountable feeling, but 
 he entertained a strong sense of proprietorship in her. 
 
 The queer and most inexplicable idea that she belonged 
 to him grew stronger and stronger with him every day. 
 He no longer, even vaguely, associated her with Daisy — he 
 never thought of comparing her with any one. She was 
 peerless. 
 
 Of Daisy, his prettv, hoydenish child wife, he never 
 thought at all during those feverish days. 
 
 What Madame Astraea thought of him he did not know; 
 he only knew that she held him silent when he would have 
 spoken of his passion— quelled the rising torrent of words 
 by a quick glance of her blue eyes which he could no more 
 refuse to obey than he could have stifled that love in his 
 heart. He had become a subject of gossip because of his 
 blind worship of the fascinating widow, and these mali- 
 cious remarks were constantly reaching the ears of Geral- 
 dine, and were making a fury of her. 
 
 One morning Clifford Bancroft called as usual at the 
 home of Madame Astraea, and was told that she had left 
 an hour before for Silver View, her country residence 
 on the Hudson, and that she had been escorted by Colonel 
 Devere. 
 
 In an instant his unreasoning rage and jealousy flamed 
 up. 
 
 What right had she to put herself under the protection of 
 Colonel Devere? 
 
 It was that singular feeling of proprietorship in her 
 
104 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 which caused the sense of personal injury the knowledge 
 of her departure with the military beau awoke within 
 him. 
 
 He must see her; he must come to an understanding 
 with her. He would go to Silver View; he would speak 
 and she should listen ! 
 
 He and Geraldine still lived with his uncle, Hr. Burnie, 
 and there had never been any outspoken division between 
 them; only that silently widening gulf separated them, 
 and they never mentioned it to each other. 
 
 The evening of the day on which Madame Astraea had 
 gone to Silver View — and which was early in April— he 
 said to, Geraldine, encountering her in the hall of their 
 home: 
 
 “ I am going away for a few days on a fishing excursion. 
 Good-bye.” 
 
 He passed on out of the house, and took passage on a 
 steamer for Silver View— or rather for the village of Riv- 
 erton, which was in its immediate vicinity. 
 
 Bad news seems to travel on the wind, it makes such 
 haste to reach the ears that it falls heaviest on. So in less 
 than twenty-four hours Geraldine knew that Clifford had 
 gone to Madame Astrsea. 
 
 Her face grew very white when she heard it, and she 
 clutched her heart as if she were smothering, and she 
 gasped for breath ; and her maid, who had given her the 
 information, brought her a glass of water, being thor- 
 oughly frightened at the effect her gossip had on her 
 mistress. 
 
 “Mary,” Geraldine said sternly, while her great dusky 
 eyes glowed like live coals, “make preparations to go to 
 Riverton with me this evening. I will follow my husband, 
 and before morning he and his lady-love will learn that 1 
 won’t submit tamely any longer to insult and injury 1” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI. 
 
 “she deserved no pity from ME I” 
 
 Fate or Chance, whichever it may be, seems often to 
 combine with some wicked human force to bring about an 
 evil result. 
 
 It appeared to do so in the case of Geraldine, who, mad 
 with jealousy, and feeling herself disregarded and her 
 rights trampled upon by her husband and his enchantress, 
 had gone to Riverton with some dire purpose in her mind. 
 It was near sunset when she arrived there, and she took up 
 her abode at the village hotel. 
 
 Had her husband engaged board at the same house? she 
 wondered. 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 105 
 
 She sent for the clerk, and inquired of him: 
 
 44 Is there a gentleman by the name of Bancroft stopping 
 here 
 
 The man nodded. 
 
 4 4 He engaged a room here yesterday evening, but he 
 spends most of his time at Silver View. He seems to be a 
 particular friend of Madame Astraea’s, who lives there.’” 
 
 44 That is all I wished to know,” Geraldine said curtly, 
 and the clerk nodded to her and retired. 
 
 But in one respect he had misled his lodger, for Clifford 
 Bancroft was not at that hour in company with Madame 
 Astraea. 
 
 He was, instead, five miles distant from her on a fishing 
 excursion with Colonel Devere. 
 
 It is true that Madame Astraea was to have been in the 
 party, but she excused herself from joining them at noon 
 on the pleja of a severe headache, and much against the 
 will of Clifford Bancroft, at least, the gentlemen departed 
 without her. 
 
 With a feeling of unrest over her which forbade her re- 
 maining in the house, Geraldine wandered alone on the 
 margin of the river. 
 
 Like a great ball of fire, the sun was sliding down the 
 sky, and the passing wind struck damply on her face, as if 
 its wings were moist with the rising storm which was al- 
 ready blotting the redness from the sky. 
 
 Low mutterings of thunder came now and then to her 
 ears, as she wandered on and on beside the leaden-hued 
 river. 
 
 Suddenly the ominous silence was broken by the clatter 
 of a horse’s feet, and in another instant the animal ap- 
 peared in sight, bearing a graceful and beautiful rider. 
 
 At the same moment a startling peal of thunder broke 
 from the sky, and a flash of zigzag lightning that looked 
 like a fiery serpent seemed suddenly to dart from the sky, 
 and played between Geraldine and the horse, which was 
 very near her. 
 
 It was so vivid that both she and the animal were fright- 
 ened by it. 
 
 Geraldine flung up her arms, uttered a sharp shriek, and 
 the mettled horse reared and plunged. 
 
 With wide eyes, she saw him spring to one side of the 
 road, and then — 
 
 She saw him tumble over the embankment, and both 
 he and his rider fell into the water ten feet below. 
 
 At that moment she recognized the rider. 
 
 It was her rival, Madame Astrsea ! 
 
 Her first impulse had been to fly to the village for help 
 to succor the unfortunate lady from death, if possible. 
 
106 
 
 DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 But that had been before she recognized the imperiled 
 person ; when she did so, the impulse of humanity left her. 
 
 For one horrible minute she stood on the embankment, 
 looking down on the beautiful form that was struggling 
 with the plunging steed in the water. 
 
 “ What pity for her— she has murdered my happiness!” 
 she muttered with stiff, colorless lips. 
 
 Then she turned and ran back to the hotel, with the 
 thunder roaring, and the lightning flashing over her, and 
 with the rain, which began to fall in a deluge, pelting her 
 unmercifully. 
 
 White and trembling she went up to her room, where 
 Mary, her maid, exchanged her dripping garments for dry 
 ones. 
 
 The girl attributed her disturbed condition wholly to the 
 excitement and terror of being caught in the dreadful 
 storm that was fairly bombarding the house, and her mis- 
 tress did not undeceive her. 
 
 “Bring me a cup of strong coffee,” Geraldine com- 
 manded her, as she threw herself, white and shivering still, 
 on the bed. “ And then leave me alone — I am not well.” 
 
 The maid did as she was bidden, and then left Geraldine 
 alone, with the stormy darkness deepening around her. 
 
 A great horror was over her — she constantly saw before 
 her that steed and its rider plunging over the embank- 
 ment into the river. She constantly saw the graceful 
 figure, and the white, terrified face of that unfortunate 
 rider struggling in the water. 
 
 And she felt as if she were a murderess ! 
 
 She knew that her own involuntary gesture and shriek 
 had added to the madness of the animal, and had partly 
 caused him to take that fatal plunge ! 
 
 And she had made no effort to undo the mischief she had 
 helped to bring about ! 
 
 She had left her rival to die ! 
 
 Notwithstanding the great horror that was over her, 
 there was also a feeling of fierce exultation that vengeance 
 had overtaken the woman who had come between her and 
 her husband, and had taken his heart from her! 
 
 “ She deserved no pity from me !” she muttered over and 
 over again through that long, tempestuous night. “ ‘ An 
 eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth.’ It is Bible law !” 
 
 So she sought to salve her conscience with that stern 
 Mosaic creed ; but for all that remorse was at work within 
 her, and when the day came it found her looking like the 
 pallid ghost of herself. 
 
 She could not bear to remain there, and so she left in 
 the early morning, taking the first steamer that touched 
 at the village landing for New York City. 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 107 
 
 But by the time she arrived there, she was ill almost 
 unto death, and in that condition she was taken to her 
 home, and a messenger was dispatched for her husband, 
 who was known to be at Riverton. 
 
 Clifford Bancroft was almost as colorless as his wife. 
 He seemed unfeeling, too, inasmuch as he did not manifest 
 any anxiety touching Geraldine’s condition. 
 
 “He never did love her, poor lady,” Mary, the maid, 
 declared to her betrothed, the coachman, dashing the 
 angry tears from her eyes. ‘ ‘ It’s my opinion that it’s just 
 his neglect of her that is killing her, poor creature.” 
 
 The girl had spoken truly. Clifford Bancroft did not love, 
 and never had loved, Geraldine, and he was vexed rather 
 than sympathetic at the illness, because he was tortured 
 with anxiety at the mysterious disappearance of Madame 
 Astrsea two days before, and he would much rather have 
 lingered in the neighborhood of Silver View, and waited 
 for news of her fate, than to be watching beside the 
 sick-bed of the woman who called him her husband. 
 
 The physician in attendance on Geraldine had said to 
 him: 
 
 “ She has disease of the heart. Be careful to guard her 
 against any sudden shock — as it might prove instantly 
 fatal.” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft tried hard to do his duty by her— that 
 is, so far as remaining near her was concerned — for he had 
 not left her side unnecessarily a moment since his arrival 
 early that morning, and now the shadows of the night 
 were falling darkly. 
 
 Mary came in and lighted the gas, and when she had 
 done so, she handed a card to Clifford, saying : 
 
 “I told the gentleman of Miss Geraldine’s illness, and 
 that you were staying with her, but he says he is bound to 
 see you on important business. He is waiting for you in 
 the library.” 
 
 Clifford glanced at the card, and as he did so his face 
 grew deathly pale with a presentiment of coming trouble. 
 
 The name traced boldly on it was: “Reverend George 
 Crawford.” 
 
 He crumpled the ominous bit of pasteboard in his hand, 
 and without uttering a word he went from the room, and 
 descended the old-fashioned stairway and entered the 
 library. 
 
 A slender, stoop-shouldered man dressed in black, arose 
 and turned his dark, bright eyes penetratingly on Clifford’s 
 face, and, as it was fully revealed by the gas-light, the 
 young man saw the same countenance, with its look of in** 
 ward peace, which had shone upon him and Daisy in the 
 
106 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 gray of that dawn when they had been pronounced man 
 and wife. 
 
 “My son,” Mr. Crawford said, shaking hands kindly 
 with him, “ I came to you because of a letter I received 
 just before my departure for the United States. It was 
 written on the twenty-fourth of September, one year ago, 
 and was almost twelve months in reaching me. It was 
 written by Daisy Darrell, the woman to whom God permit- 
 ted me to unite you in marriage on the tenth of June a 
 year ago, and who was alive at the time of your second 
 marriage, because her letter to me was written on the very 
 day of that marriage, and after it had taken place. My 
 son, a great wrong has been done — a wrong against God— 
 against your lawful wife and against the laws of the land. 
 This letter charges against you the crime of bigamy. It 
 was written by the hand of your true wife, who was Miss 
 Daisy Darrell, and who, if she is yet living, is still your 
 true wife !” 
 
 “But she is not alive. She was dead before my last 
 marriage. I, myself, saw her buried !” Clifford exclaimed, 
 sinking down on a chair and staring amazedly. 
 
 Mr. Crawford placed the letter in his hand. 
 
 “ You are familiar with her handwriting, I presume,” he 
 said. “Examine that and see if it is genuine.” 
 
 Clifford looked down at the open paper, and great drops 
 broke out on his face. “Yes, it is surely hers,” he gasped. 
 “ My God, what a tangle!” 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII. 
 
 “if she is alive, she is your wife!” 
 
 Staring down in a dazed way at the paper, Clifford Ban- 
 croft mechanically read the accusing lines written in the 
 clear, round, school-girl-like hand, which he would have 
 sworn was that of his child- wife Daisy. 
 
 This is how the lines ran: 
 
 “ New York City, September 24, 18^. 
 
 “ Reverend George Crawford: 
 
 “Dear Sir, — You remember, do you not, having mar- 
 ried a couple — by name Clifford Bancroft and Daisy Dar- 
 rell— at about half- past four o’clock on the morning of the 
 tenth of June, in this year? It was a secret marriage, and 
 Clifford Bancroft has taken advantage of my helplessness 
 because of having no proof, and has married another wom- 
 an this day. With my own eyes I saw him married to 
 my cousin, Geraldine Fitzgerald, and I had no power to 
 prevent it, because I had no proof that he was already 
 married to me. I write to you for that proof. Send me 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 109 
 
 at No. 4 B Street, if you please, a certificate of my mar* 
 
 riage, that I may claim my rights. 
 
 “Respectfully, 
 
 “Daisy Darrell Bancroft.” 
 
 Mr. Crawford had taken a seat, and he waited until 
 Clifford read the letter, with his bright eyes fixed on the 
 young man’s beaded face. 
 
 4 4 1 did not answer that commun ication, ” he said , 4 4 because 
 I was just on the eve of returning home, and I determined 
 to attend to the matter the very first thing on arriving in 
 New York. I did go immediately to the address mentioned 
 there, which I found was a disreputable place kept by 
 one Dan Devenant; who seemed, however, to be a good* 
 hearted person, and he told me that he had found the 
 young woman exhausted and fainting with hunger on the 
 street one day, and had taken her into his house, and had 
 cared, respectfully, for her until she recovered sufficiently 
 to leave. That she had asked permission to have a letter 
 addressed to that place, and had, from time to time, sent 
 messengers to him to inquire if any letter had come for 
 her: but that none had ever come. He had lost sight of 
 her, he said, but he recollected that she had asked him to 
 direct her to Gray Street, and that he had done so when 
 he parted with her the only time he ever saw her. So, 
 having lost trace of her, I come to you, and demand in 
 the name of the Master I serve, that if you have injured 
 that poor girl, you shall make whatever reparation lies in 
 your power.” 
 
 He had spoken kindly, but with undeniable earnestness, 
 and with his long forefinger warningly uplifted, and Clif- 
 ford Bancroft saw him as one sees a vision. 
 
 The paper fell from his unsteady fingers to the floor, and 
 he raised his hand and drew it across his clammy fore- 
 head. 
 
 What did it all mean? Had there been some terrible 
 mistake when that drowned body had been taken from the 
 Morgue and buried as 44 Daisy?” 
 
 Dan Devenant told Mr. Crawford that she had gone to 
 Gray Street. 
 
 To Gray Street ! That very house in which they were 
 sitting was on Gray Street, No. 2471 
 
 A startling memory rushed over him. 
 
 He recollected the woman he had met in the lane on the 
 night of his arrival there with Geraldine, the woman who 
 had startled him so much by her resemblance to Daisy that 
 he almost believed it had been Daisy’s ghost. 
 
 The hoarse words she had spoken came back to him : 
 
 “It would be well if I were a ghost, Clifford Bancroft! 
 
no 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 It would be better for you to kill me now, and so make a 
 ghost of me, than to let me live on for the revenge I am 
 sure to take I” 
 
 He had taken her for an escaped lunatic at the time, but 
 he knew better now. 
 
 It was Daisy, alive, and mad with the consciousness of 
 injury 1 
 
 All these ideas had rushed through his mind with the 
 swiftness and vividness of lightning. 
 
 44 1 believed her to be dead— I did— before God,” he said 
 so earnestly that Mr. Crawford was convinced of his sin- 
 cerity, and pitied him from the very bottom of his gentle 
 heart. 
 
 44 1 can find no trace of her,” he said, 4 4 and she may be 
 dead, but that fact must be ascertained. If she is alive, 
 she is your wife, and any other woman believing herself 
 to be such is laboring under a cruel mistake.” 
 
 Clifford shrank as if a blow had been dealt him. 
 
 44 It is terrible!” he muttered, drawing his breath shiver- 
 ingly through his teeth, remembering Geraldine’s towering 
 pride, and the horrible fall that knowledge would bring 
 to it. 
 
 44 Yes, something must be done,” he said. 44 1 have un- 
 wittingly wronged two women instead of one. I can only 
 make reparation to one.” 
 
 He shivered convulsively, realizing that if Daisy were 
 alive Geraldine had better, oh, far better, be dead ! 
 
 Mr. Crawford clasped one of Clifford’s cold hands in his, 
 and placed the other kindly on his shoulder. 
 
 4 4 My son, I believe that you have not willingly and wilh 
 fully wronged any one. Put the whole troublesome mat- 
 ter m the hands of God; keep up a brave heart, resolving 
 to do your duty when you see it, and the tangled skein 
 will be straightened for you.” 
 
 He pressed the young man’s hand, and as he parted 
 from him, he said : 
 
 44 Do your duty.” 
 
 Clifford answered sternly : 
 
 44 1 will!” 
 
 At that moment, he would have been glad to feel that it 
 was his duty to take his own life, and so put an end to the 
 whole dreadful worry. 
 
 But no idea of that kind crossed his mind, and he would 
 not have tolerated it an instant if it had, for he was young 
 and life was very sweet to him. 
 
 He could not meet Geraldine yet — he shivered at the 
 thought of seeing her — knowing what he did, and how that 
 knowledge must bow her proud head with shame. No, he 
 could not see her ; so, when he parted with Mr. Crawford 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 Ill 
 
 he went out in the yard, and wandered about under the 
 trees that lifted their aged forms like giants in the April 
 moonlight. 
 
 In her weak, nervous state Geraldine could not endure 
 his absence. She wanted him constantly with her ; the 
 more insecure she felt her hold on his heart to be, the more 
 she clung to him. 
 
 44 Mary, has that visitor gone?” she asked feverishly. 
 
 “I don’t know, Miss Geraldine,” the girl responded 
 soothingly. 44 1 will go and see.” 
 
 44 Do, the invalid said, “ and send Mr. Bancroft to me.” 
 
 Mary found the library deserted, and as she glanced 
 around the room, her eye caught sight of the letter Clifford 
 had dropped on the floor— the letter Daisy had written to 
 Mr. Crawford. 
 
 Mary’s education had been sadly neglected. She could 
 not read writing, therefore all manuscripts that fell under 
 her notice had a strong fascination for her, so she picked 
 the letter up from the floor, and after turning it about in 
 her hands, she muttered : 
 
 “ I’ll jest take it up to Miss Geraldine. It will satisfy 
 her, and keep her quiet, may be, until Mr. Bancroft comes 
 in.” 
 
 With that muttered determination she went out of the 
 library and ascended to the room of her mistress. 
 
 “The gentleman is gone, and Mr. Bancroft has just 
 stepped out somewhere,” she said glibly, “but here’s a let- 
 ter I found lying on the floor, ana I thought may be you 
 would like to read it.” 
 
 Geraldine took it with a petulent exclamation, and 
 began to read it. 
 
 Cliff ord Bancroft, wandering about under the trees, heard 
 a loud shriek proceeding evidently from Geraldine’s room, 
 under the open window of which he chanced to be passing. 
 
 He rushed into the house, mounted the stairs, and 
 entered the room, to find Geraldine lying white ’and still 
 on the bed, with the fatal letter in her dead hand. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII. 
 
 “GO AFTER CLIFFORD BANCROFT! BRING HIM HERE!” 
 
 Maggie Woodruff, Madame Astraea’s seamstress, was 
 Dan Devenant’s half-sister, and this is how she happened 
 to have a place in the house of the 44 Beautiful Mystery.” 
 
 Shortly after she had become domiciled in her palatial 
 residence in New York, Madame Astraeawas driving down 
 B Street, and Dan Devenant was standing before the door 
 of his decidedly disreputable abode. 
 
 Much to the astonishment of her liveried driver, M&- 
 
112 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 dame Astrsea pulled the check-string and beckoned to Dan 
 Devenant to come to her; which he did, looking quite aa 
 much puzzled as did her attendants. 
 
 He had no recollection of ever having looked on that 
 exquisite face before, and he was surprised at the question 
 she addressed to him : 
 
 “ I had a friend once, sir, whom you obliged ; and for her 
 sake — you have no recollection of her, I know, and it 
 would be useless to mention her name— but for her sake I 
 am willing to do you a favor if I can. I am rich, and 1 
 want some good, virtuous young girl for a seamstress and 
 companion, and if you have any relative whom you would 
 like to see in that position, and who would suit me, I 
 would employ her, because you once did a service which I 
 need not, and will not, mention, to a friend of mine.” 
 
 Dan Devenant was a man of business, and he grasped at 
 the idea and immediately mentioned the name of his half- 
 sister, Maggie Woodruff, whom he assured Madame Astrsea 
 was a good country girl, who knew nothing of the evils of 
 city life, and whom he would be glad to have kept in such 
 ignorance, but who could not, considering her straitened 
 circumstances, afford to refuse a good position, when it 
 was offered her, to make her own living. 
 
 So Maggie was sent for, and gave great satisfaction to 
 her beautiful patroness. 
 
 It was she who had told Madame Astrsea of Silver View 
 — a country seat which was for sale, and which was sit- 
 uated only a few miles from the little cottage on the banks 
 of the Hudson Eiver where Maggie lived with her widowed 
 mother, at such times as she was not ‘‘living out” for 
 wages. 
 
 Early in April Madame Astrsea went up to Silver 
 View with the avowed purpose of spending several weeks 
 with Mrs, Goldman and her son John, who had gladly ac- 
 cepted Madame Astrsea’s generous offer made to John in 
 January. 
 
 Maggie had asked and obtained permission to visit her 
 mother, whose cottage was only a few miles distant, and 
 who was confined to the house by an attack of rheuma- 
 tism. 
 
 There were times when Dan Devenant— who to an other- 
 wise black character, coupled an exceeding kindness of 
 heart, and a tender regard for his pious mother and his 
 innocent half-sister — would weary of his life of reckless- 
 ness, and would go up to the quiet little home on the 
 bank of the Hudson, and for a few days would bask in the 
 pure atmosphere of that humble home - and he was always 
 sure of a cordial welcome. 
 
 On the morning of the day on which Madame Astrsea’s 
 
DAISY DARRELL . 
 
 119 
 
 horse had been so frightened by the storm and by Geraldine 
 as to plunge over the embankment with his beautiful mis- 
 tress, Dan had appeared unexpectedly at the Woodruff 
 cottage and had passed a sweet, quiet day— a day of 
 blessed relaxation to him — with his mother and Maggie, 
 
 All day long it had been intensely warm, and late in the 
 evening Dan had unmoored Maggie’s little boat, and had 
 gone rowing over the still river. 
 
 He saw that a storm was coming, but he did not fear it; 
 there was nothing on earth that Dan Devenant did fear, so 
 he paid no attention to it, but kept rowing idly up the 
 river until the thunder roared, and the lightning flashed 
 ominously ovei him. 
 
 The placid river was ruffled by the rising wind and the 
 current bore the light boat in which he was seated irre- 
 sistibly along, as though it had been a straw. 
 
 Dan Devenant, who had from his very boyhood set him- 
 self in defiance against whatever opposed him, rather 
 enjoyed this war of wind and water, although he was 
 rocked between the two in his little boat as if he had been 
 in a cradle, and the clouds poured their floods fiercely down 
 upon him. 
 
 He rested carelessly on his oars, and was driven down 
 the current, and as he glanced over the disturbed water, 
 he caught sight of a drowned horse that was being whirled 
 by the eddies and beaten by the waves that b\ oke upon the 
 rock against which it had lodged. 
 
 A dead horse was not worth a second glance, and would 
 not have gotten it from Dan Devenant’s bold eyjs had it not 
 been that something attached to the corpse of the quadru- 
 ped attracted him. 
 
 He caught up his oars and he bent to them, and he proved 
 that he needed, but the will to defy the strength of the cur- 
 rent. 
 
 With the muscles standing out on his arms and the 
 drops on his face, he turned the course of his boat, and it 
 swam like a storm-bird toward the drowned animal. 
 
 Dan Devenant understood the situation at a glance. A 
 horse and his rider had been plunged into the water, but 
 they had not been separated. 
 
 The rider’s foot had been caught in the stirrup, and so 
 they had floated down the stream together, the lady and 
 her dead steed— for the horse was dead— his neck had 
 somehow been broken in the fall. 
 
 Was his mistress also a corpse? She seemed to be, for 
 as Dan released her foot from the stirrup and drew her 
 into his boat, she lay where he placed her, white and still 
 and cold, with her dripping garments clinging to her 
 
114 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 graceful figure, and with the rain beating pitilessly down 
 upon her. 
 
 44 If she is dead it is a pity, a great pity, for I never saw 
 but one woman who was as beautiful,” Dan Devenant 
 muttered. 
 
 Something in the words of his soliloquy assisted his 
 memory, evidently, for he suddenly bent over and peered 
 into the exquisite face, and he exclaimed, with sharp pain 
 in his voice : 
 
 44 By Jove, it is her-— it is Madame Astraea!” 
 
 Then, more sturdily if possible than before, he bent to 
 the oars, and through flaming lightning, flooding rain, and 
 and seething water he made his way homeward. 
 
 44 Oh, my son, is that a drowned woman?” his mother 
 exclaimed, as he burst into the room where she and Maggie 
 were sitting and waiting for Dan to return to partake of 
 the supper which was smoking on the hearth of the old- 
 fashioned fireplace. 
 
 44 1 am afraid so, mother,” Dan responded, gently plac- 
 ing his dripping burden on the carpet before the blazing 
 log fire which had been kindled for the purpose of prepar- 
 ing supper. 
 
 Maggie bent over the prostrate figure, and then started 
 back, uttering a distressed cry : 
 
 44 Oh, it’s Madame Astraea I How on earth did it hap- 
 pen?” 
 
 44 Her foot was caught in the stirrup of her saddle, and 
 her horse was dead, Dan responded, busying himself 
 about the unconscious figure. 44 If there is any life left in 
 her let us try to restore her,” he added, impatiently, and 
 Maggie and his mother throwing off the spell of horror 
 that bound them, set to work to coax into a blaze the spark 
 of life which might yet be unextinguished. 
 
 But was there a spark, however feeble, still burning there 
 in that white, cold body, that more nearly resembled a 
 beautiful statue than a human being ? 
 
 It seemed only 4 4 hoping against hope ” to encourage such 
 a belief, but still they did encourage it. 
 
 It seemed monstrous to give her up to death — she so 
 young — so beautiful — so good, for at that moment they ex- 
 aggerated her goodness, and they deified her, being dead. 
 
 For hours they worked with her ; they strove to drag 
 back and imprison in its fair casket again the soul that 
 seemed already to have crossed that mystical boundary 
 which can never be recrossed. 
 
 And all the time the tnundor roared, the lightning 
 flashed over the little house, and the rain beat and beat 
 upon it. 
 
 It would be daring Providence, indeed, to venture out 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 115 
 
 now upon the water which they heard roaring and plung- 
 ing outside, especially in such a craft as that of Maggie 
 Woodruff’s, and there was no other mode of reaching a 
 physician. 
 
 So they were compelled to trust to their own skill, and 
 after awhile the result of their efforts manifested itself. 
 
 “ Her lips moved ! Her lips moved! I saw it distinct- 
 ly!” Maggie suddenly exclaimed, grasping her brother’s 
 arm, and Dan could have shouted when he saw that she 
 had spoken truly, and that the feeble spark of life was 
 kindling into a flame. 
 
 They watched beside her all that stormy night, and when 
 the morning came the blood was coursing riotously 
 through her veins, and her mind ran riot also— for, for 
 some reason, either because of the shock she had received, 
 or from some other cause, she was delirious. 
 
 In the excitement that was over him when he landed the 
 night before, Dan had forgotten to secure the boat, and. 
 as the water had risen between the widow’s cottage ana 
 Riverton, it was impossible for him to go for a physician 
 until the flood subsided sufficiently to permit him to walk, 
 which would be at least thirty-six hours. So there was no 
 alternative but to trust to their own skill in caring for the 
 guest. 
 
 Her delirium took to them an inexplicable form. She 
 was constantly pleading with some one — whose name she 
 never mentioned— not to forsake her. And often she 
 would turn to Din Devenant and cry out piteously: 
 “ Bring him to me ! Bring him to me !” 
 
 “I wish I knew whom she means,” Dan said, shaking his 
 black hair, “ and I would bring him to her, if he is to be 
 found, as soon as the water falls enough for me to go for 
 the doctor.” 
 
 “That will be by to-morrow morning at latest,” Maggie 
 said, “ and by that time I will find out, if I can, whom it is 
 she wants to see.” 
 
 That night she did find out. She had artfully coaxed 
 the delirious woman to tell her the name of the person she 
 wanted to see, and in the gray dawn of the next day she 
 said to her brother as he was about to set out to Riverton 
 for the physician: “Dan, send Dr. Kronly down, and then 
 you go on after Mr. Clifford Bancroft. Bring him here ! 
 It is he whom Madame Astraea, wants to see,” 
 
 Dan Devenant’s eyes opened wide with surprise, but he 
 nodded his head with its straggling locks of black hair 
 and said emphatically: “If it is Clifford Bancroft she 
 wants to see, he shall come here if I have to drag him.” 
 
 “You won’t have to do that; he’ll be wiliing to come,” 
 Maggie responded, with a knowing dip of her bright head. 
 
116 
 
 daisy Darrell. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX. 
 
 U THE MESSAGE IS FROM MADAME ASTRiEA — SHE WANTS TO 
 SEE YOU 1” 
 
 44 I ought to have sent a note by Dan to Mrs. Goldman,” 
 Maggie ruminated with a bright flush on her round face 
 after her brother’s departure. 4 4 They will be very uneasy, 
 for I have no idea that they suspect what has become of 
 Madame Astrsea. As soon as the doctor comes, I’ll go to 
 Riverton and borrow Tom Wayts’ boat and row up to Sil- 
 ver View myself and tell them!” 
 
 The resolve set her heart to fluttering in a way that 
 would have been inexplicable if no one was living at Silver 
 View but old Mrs. Goldman. Yet it were not hard to com* 
 prehend when the presence of Mrs. Goldman’s son John 
 was taken into account. 
 
 Maggie and John had been thrown a good deal together 
 through the agency of Madame Astrsea, but neither of 
 them suspected, any design on the part of that lady to 
 interest them in each other, and had never acknowledged, 
 even to their own secret souls, that such a state of affairs 
 had come to exist between them. 
 
 Yet such a state of affairs had come to exist between 
 them, and Madame Astrsea knew it and exulted in it. It 
 was a consummation she had most devoutly wished for. 
 
 So Maggie, with a delicious thrill at the heart, set out on 
 her self-imposed mission. 
 
 She borrowed the boat from Tom Wayts, and seated in 
 it, she was skimming lightly up the river, when she met 
 John Goldman pulling his own boat down stream. 
 
 His honest face brightened at the sight of her, and he 
 called to her to attract her attention, for he really believed 
 she had not seen him — she was about to pass him by as if 
 she had not. 
 
 She blushed more rosily than ever, and nodded and 
 smiled to him when he called her attention, and with a 
 few strokes of his oar he brought his boat alongside of 
 hers. 
 
 44 1 was just going to see you,” John said, and Maggie 
 laughed and retorted saucily : 
 
 44 And I was just going to see you— so we are both of the 
 same mind, it seems.” 
 
 “Well, then, Maggie,” John said softly, reaching out 
 his hand to grasp ihe side of her boat, 4 4 let us go in the 
 same boat— mine is the strongest — so come you into mine— 
 and we’ll take the other in tow.” 
 
 There was nothing in his words to blush at, but Maggie 
 
£>AiSY DARRELt. 
 
 117 
 
 did blush — perhaps at his tone of voice, or, perhaps, at the 
 allegorical meaning she might have detected ; but never 
 theless, she arose readily, and sprung lightly into his 
 stronger boat, and as they went side by side down the 
 river, she told him of what had befallen Madame Astraea, 
 and found that he and his mother had indeed been very 
 uneasy because of her mysterious disappearance. 
 
 “ She’s a grand woman, Maggie,” John said, with his blue 
 eyes glistening. “Just think of all that she has done for 
 mother and me, only because I was not brute enough to 
 leave a poor girl lying on the roadside where she had fallen 
 in a faint. Madame Astrsea, for all she is so grand and 
 Daisy was so humble, always reminds me of her, and that’s 
 why I feel such a sort of reverence for her, I think. I never 
 told you about it, Maggie, but I loved poor little Daisy— 
 she was the only woman I ever loved except you.” 
 
 There — it was out — and he had not meant to tell it — and 
 he was blushing redly over it, and so was Maggie. 
 
 “Suppose we go in the same boat through life, dear," 
 John said, stealing his arm around her waist — and Maggie 
 said nothing, but he took her silence for consent, and he 
 drew her head down on his breast and kissed her. And he 
 did not care to have her tell him that she agreed to his 
 proposition, and that she would go in the same boat with 
 him through life, for he felt confident that she would do 
 it — and rhht here let us remark that he was not dis- 
 appointed in the expectation— for she did. 
 
 While John and Maggie were making this important ar- 
 rangement for their future lives, Dan Devenant, having 
 sent the physician down to to his mother’s cottage, was on 
 his way to find Clifford Bancroft. 
 
 He knew that he lived at number 247 Gray Street, and 
 he made his way there. 
 
 He passed up the long avenue, and lifted his hand to ring 
 the bell, but he did not do it, for he noticed that pendants 
 of black crape were streaming from the knob. 
 
 Dan Devenant stood irresolutely on the steps. He shrank 
 from intruding into what he discovered by that gloomy 
 sign at the door was a house of mourning. 
 
 He was about to turn away, when the door opened, and 
 a servant appeared. 
 
 It was Mary, and her eves were red with weeping. 
 
 “ I wanted to see Mr. Clifford Bancroft,” Dan said, “ but 
 I didn’t know of that” — he nodded toward the crape — 
 “ and I won’t go in. I’ll see him some other time.” 
 
 “ The funeral will take place at eleven o’clock to-morrow 
 morning,” Marv said, “and after that he may see you, 
 maybe, if your business is important.” 
 
118 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 u It is rather important,” Dan said, turning to go away , 
 44 and I’ll call to-morrow afternoon.” 
 
 Clifford remained shut up in his own room until after 
 the funeral. 
 
 Instead of the grief which bereaved ones feel at such 
 times, there was with him a feeling of quiet. 
 
 It seemed to him that he was born to bring ill luck, and 
 sorrow, and death to the women who loved him. 
 
 44 It is my fault— I have been such a weak man — such a 
 coward ! I ought to have dealt openly with Daisy— openly 
 with Geraldine, and then this terrible tangle— this awful 
 ending— would never have come ! I am done with conceal- 
 ments — done with acting a part henceforth and forever! 
 Oh ! if I had only been manly enough to have pursued 
 that course when I first went to Pinelands, what a world 
 of misery might have been saved me — and them !” 
 
 Worse than the bitterest grief could have been was the 
 keen remorse that was with him during those first hours of 
 his bereavement. 
 
 The funeral was over, and he had gone back, and shut 
 himself up in his room again— refusing all refreshments, 
 and denying himself to all sympathetic visitors. 
 
 But there was one caller who insisted on seeing him. 
 
 u Tell him that I bring him a message from a person 
 who is very ill,” Dan Devenant said, planting himself 
 firmly in the doorway. 
 
 Mary went up-stairs with his message, and very soon 
 returned. 
 
 44 Mr. Bancroft says you may come to his room. Follow 
 me.” 
 
 So she conducted the persistent visitor into the presence 
 of the widower. 
 
 Clifford was standing on the hearth in his darkened 
 chamber with his arm resting on the mantle when Dan 
 appeared, and he looked curiously at him. 
 
 He did not invite him to be seated. He merely said 
 curtly : 
 
 44 You have a message for me, I understand, sir. What 
 is it, and who sends itV” 
 
 4 4 The message is from Madame Astrsea,” Dan said, 
 coolly; 44 she wants to see you— she was very ill when I 
 left her yesterday morning, and she may be dead by this 
 time.” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft’s face grew deathly pale, and he turned 
 it aside, so that it was hidden from Dan’s keen eyes. He 
 did not speak for fully a minute. He was ashamed that at 
 that hour the possibility of any woman’s death save that 
 of Geraldine could stir his soul with pain. 
 
DAISY DARRELL. lid 
 
 He hated himself for the pang that the announcement 
 Bent through his heart. 
 
 What was it to him whether Madame Astraea were living 
 or dead at that moment? 
 
 What was the life or death of any woman to him now, 
 save only the woman he had legally made his wife— Daisy 
 Darrell? 
 
 If Madame Astraea had sent for him, he would go to her— 
 he could not refuse to do that- -and if he found her alive he 
 would meet her as a brother. He would deal fairly and 
 candidly by her. He would tell her all. 
 
 The resolution gave him courage to look Dan Devenant 
 in the face, while he said, speaking wearily : 
 
 “ Of course, if she is ill, and has sent for me, I must go 
 to her. I will find her at Silver View, I suppose.” 
 
 “No,” Dan answered. “I left her at my mother’s cot- 
 tage, nearly five miles from Silver View, and if she is alive 
 when we arrive, we will be apt to find her there.” 
 
 Then he briefly told the circumstances leading to her 
 being at the cottage of the Widow Woodruff, and when he 
 ended they went away together., and in the gloaming four 
 hours afterward Clifford Bancroft stood in the little house, 
 and in the presence of Madame Astraea, who had fully re- 
 covered her consciousness, and who looked wonderingly at 
 him as he entered the tidy room in which only the twilight 
 threw a soft radiance. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX. 
 
 “no, no— not good-bye!” 
 
 The shock she had undergone had left Madame Astraea 
 very weak, but with that exception no bad effects of it 
 were remaining with her when Clifford Bancroft entered 
 the room where she was lying on a lounge, with Maggie 
 sitting beside her in the twilight. 
 
 As her brother and Clifford appeared unannounced in 
 the room, Maggie arose and offered the visitor her chair 
 beside Madame Astraea, which he took without a word. 
 
 He looked on the beautiful face lying there on the pillow 
 before him as one looks on the face of the beloved dead. 
 
 She was the one woman he loved with an absorbing love, 
 and he felt that in yielding to the passion he committed a 
 sin against her, against himself, and against Daisy Darrell, 
 who, if she were living — and he felt that she was— was the 
 only woman on earth who had a right to his love. 
 
 “Why did you come here, Mr. Bancroft?” Madame 
 Astraea asked, seeing that he did not speak. 
 
 She put the question in the cold, even tones with which 
 
DAlSlr DARRELli 
 
 m 
 
 she was accustomed to address him, and his face flushed 
 with embarrassment as he answered : 
 
 “ I came at your requests— you sent for me. Did you not 
 tell me that she sent for me?” he asked, turning his face 
 toward Dan Devenant, who had lingered in the room. 
 
 Dan answered respectfully, addressing his words to the 
 lady, who was looking sternly at him: 
 
 “ I went for him, madame, because you called inces 
 santly for him,” he said, edging near to the door, and pass 
 ing out of it as soon as he had made the assertion. 
 
 With an instinctive idea that the explanation between 
 those two might be of a confidential nature, Maggie, too, 
 had left the room, and they were alone together, 
 
 “If I called for you, I was delirious,” Madame Astraea 
 said, turning her face away from him. “Dan Devenant 
 might have had common sense enough to know that there 
 was no meaning in my words, and he should not have 
 gone for you. Why should I have sent for you?” she went 
 on passionately, in her bodily weakness losing control of 
 her words, as it were. “What are you to me, or what 
 am I to you?” 
 
 Clifford Bancroft bowed his head on his hands, and a 
 sort of smothered groan broke from him. 
 
 “ Whatever you are to me, I am glad that I am nothing 
 to you,” he said impulsively, “because I seem fated to 
 bring misfortune on every woman who cares for me ! The 
 two who loved and trusted me found only misery in that 
 love — to both it brought despair, and to one, at least, 
 death I” 
 
 He spoke bitterly, with his head bowed, and his forehead 
 hidden in his hana. 
 
 Madame Astraea had sprung up to a sitting posture. 
 The shadows of the twilight were deep in the room, so he 
 could not have seen, even if he had been looking at her, 
 which he was not, how deathly white her face was. 
 
 4 ‘ One of the two met death, you say,” she spoke hoarsely, 
 after a brief silence; “which was it?” 
 
 He answered, with a world'of self -accusation, of self-re- 
 proach, in his bitter tones : 
 
 “ This morning I buried Geraldine, the woman you have 
 known as my wife. The shock brought on by the knowl- 
 edge that she was not legally my wife, killed her. It took 
 her life like a sword-thrust through her heart, and I feel, 
 God help me, that I was her murderer! Yet when I mar^ 
 ried her, I meant her no harm, poor girl, and I was honest 
 in what I did. I knew that she loved me, and I thought I 
 would marry her; I thought I was free to do it. God 
 knows, I could never have done her the terrible wrong 
 she thought I did. If I had dreamed there had been any 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 121 
 
 mistake about Daisy’s death, I would have allowed myself 
 to have been burned at a stake before I would have brought 
 shame on her, and crime on myself, by marrying her.” 
 
 He was speaking in a rambling, incoherent way, and he 
 did not seem to be addressing his remarks to Madame As- 
 trsea. He appeared to have forgotten her presence, and 
 the wildness of his words and manner led her to believe 
 that his reason was wandering. 
 
 With wide eyes and parted lips she stared at his bowed 
 face in the deepening gloom, with a chaos of ideas in her 
 mind. 
 
 Impulsively, she reached out her hand and placed it 
 heavily on Ins shoulder. 
 
 “What do you mean about Daisy’s being dead ?” she 
 asked quiveringly. “If you are in your right mind, tell 
 me what you meant by saying that you thought you were 
 free to marry Geraldine Fitzgerald, when you certainly 
 knew that you had already a living wife.” 
 
 Her vehement words brought him to himself, as it were ; 
 her knowledge of his affairs surprised him. 
 
 What did she know about his former marriage? 
 
 He did not give utterance to these thoughts. She might 
 explain or not, as she felt inclined. As for him he would 
 deal candidly and openly with her. He was resolved that 
 it should be the last interview they would ever hold on 
 earth. 
 
 Neither Maggie, nor her mother, nor Dan came into the 
 room to bring a light. Only the radiance of the rising 
 moon stole in to them through the open window, and it cast 
 a ^ale glow on the disturbed face of Clifford Bancroft as he 
 
 4 4 1 have been twice married. It was your likeness to 
 my first wife which attracted me toward you in the begin- 
 ning, I think. But I was a moth that approached too near 
 a dangerous flame when I hovered near you. You know 
 how it ended. I fell madly in love with you — wickedly in 
 love with you ; I being bound by every tie of honor to 
 Geraldine.” 
 
 “I deny it!” Madame Astrsea exclaimed, starting to her 
 feet in the excitement of the moment, and quivering from 
 head to foot. 44 You were bound by every tie of honor to 
 Daisy Darrell !” 
 
 He reached up and caught her arm. 44 Sit down,” he 
 commanded, 4 4 and let me tell you of Daisy Darrell. I 
 don’t know how much you may know about her, for I did 
 not dream that you had ever heard the mention of her 
 name even. 
 
 4 4 When I first saw her, I was in love with her cousin, 
 Geraldine Fitzgerald, or fancied that I was, for I know 
 
m 
 
 DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 now that I never really loved but one woman on earth— 
 and she was neither Geraldine Fitzgerald, nor Daisy Dar- 
 rell — although at different times I fancied myself madly 
 in love with each. 
 
 “I was young and impulsive, and while the spell of 
 Daisy Darrell’s power was over me, I persuadtd her into 
 a secret marriage with me, and then, coward that I was, 
 I was afraid to present her to my family as my wife, sim- 
 ply because her ways were uncultured, So, weak fool 
 that I was, I kept the marriage a profound secret, and all 
 the time I was engaged to Geraldine Fitzgerald, and al- 
 though I did not love her — not half as well as I did Daisy, 
 I, like the coward that I was, postponed breaking the en- 
 gagement with her from day to day until, I suppose, some 
 hint of the state of affairs reached the ears or Daisy, and 
 in the disgust and hatred of me it inspired, she ran away 
 from me. I was shocked and grieved when I found her 
 gone, and I sought earnestly for her, and if I had found 
 her, I intended by my devotion to make amends for my 
 former neglect, I intended to proclaim her to the world 
 as my wife. 
 
 “I thought I had found her at last — found her dead in 
 the Morgue, where her drowned body had been taken 
 from the river. The features of the dead woman were 
 swollen beyond recognition, but she was wrapped in 
 Daisy’s shawl, in one corner of which was her name, which 
 I haa seen my wife embroider with her own little hands. 
 
 “ I asked no further proof. I buried her as my wife, 
 and then, as Geraldine loved me so, and I could not call 
 Daisy back to life, as I would gladly, oh, how gladly ! have 
 done, I married Geraldine.” 
 
 The moonlight streaming clear and bright into his face 
 showed the troubled look that was in it, and Madame 
 Astrsea turned her head and looked away through the 
 window on the silvery night. 
 
 “I found out,” he went on, wearily, “ from a letter 
 Daisy had written to the clergyman who married us, that 
 a terrible mistake had been made in the identity of the 
 drowned woman ; that Daisy was alive at the time of my 
 marriage with Geraldine. 
 
 i 4 That letter fell accidently into Geraldine’s hands, 
 and— she had heart trouble — the shock killed her, poor 
 woman I” 
 
 A break came into his voice, and he arose. 
 
 u It is the last time we shall ever meet,” he said, extend- 
 ing both his hands to her, and speaking very huskily. “ It 
 is best that it should be so — it is best for my sake, and for 
 Daisy’s, that our parting should be final. I am going to 
 search for her, far and wide, and if she is living, I will de' 
 
DAISY DARRELL. 
 
 198 
 
 vote my life to her, and will try to love her, if she will for- 
 give me the sorrow I have brought on her in the past. 
 Good-bye.” 
 
 That last word died in a gurgle in his throat. 
 
 “No, no— not good-bye !” Madame Astrsea exclaimed, im- 
 pulsively throwing her arms around his neck. “Oh, 
 Clifford, don’t you know me? Don’t you know your wild, 
 silly little wife — Daisy? I have been more wicked than 
 you were, Clifford. You were deceived when you married 
 Geraldine, and it was no sin — but I sinned when I allowed 
 you to go on in the error — I should have undeceived you, 
 instead of using the wealth that came unexpectedly to me, 
 to wreak vengeance on you. I tried to win your love— but 
 not from a good motive — it was that I might wring your 
 heart with the scorn I meant to have given you. But 
 I loved you all the time. Clifford, and if you will forgive 
 and take me back to your heart, I will continue trying to 
 make you love me l” 
 
 When Heaven opens for Clifford Bancroft he will scarcely 
 be happier than he was at that moment when he realized 
 that the woman he loved with all his soul was his own 
 wedded wife— Daisy Darrell ! 
 
 Clifford Bancroft went to Europe, and so did Madame 
 Astrsea, but “the world,” or so much of it as composed 
 their circle of associates, never knew that they went to- 
 gether, When they returned in the course of the year as 
 man and wife, it was asserted that they had been married 
 at the home of one of the bride’s English uncles, and no 
 one questioned the truth of the statement. 
 
 That same year New York congratulated itself on the 
 loss of a nuisance. Dan Devenant’s dance house was 
 closed, and Dan ioined the church, and, wonderful to re- 
 late, married Bridget Conner, and retired to the country 
 and devoted himself to domestic and agricultural pursuits. 
 
 His home was a beautiful cottage situated in a broad 
 sweep of fertile ground, where he resided with his mother 
 and wife, and at Silver View, the adjoining piantation, John 
 Goldman lived with his mother, and his wife, who had 
 been Maggie Woodruff. 
 
 These estates were the absolute property of Dan Deve- 
 nant and John Goldman, and were the gift of Mrs. Clifford 
 Bancroft, whom they had known only as Madame Astreea, 
 
 But in each deed occurred this sentence: 
 
 “ For kindness done to Daisy Darrell.” 
 
 [the end.] 
 
. 
 
 
\^> \