TOO CONFIDING. "YES, IT IS MY HUSBAND."
"I never judge from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by
the civilest gentleman I ever met with."
--Lord Byron.
The bright sunlight played coyly through the half-closed shutter, and
fell across the table, brightening up the dusty old books, slates, and
every other article which helped to make up the furnishing of the
private office of Fanchon, Litchfield & Co.
"The note falls due to-morrow at the bank, for the three hundred you
accommodated me with; but no matter, that will be all right; you go and
transact the business abroad for the firm, and I will attend to lifting
your note."
Mr. Litchfield looks steadily at the young man sitting opposite, and
says quietly, "I shall be thankful, yes, more than thankful, when it is
lifted, for never again will I put my name on any man's paper. However,
some one will have to go, and I had better be the one."
Cyrel Fanchon laughed lightly. "Every business firm is obliged to run on
paper; why feel worried that ours should do the same?"
The little alarm clock on the shelf struck two. Mr. Litchfield pushes
back his chair.
"It will be nearly three weeks before I can return, so you can write me
if anything new arises," he says, taking his hat from the peg.
Cyrel Fanchon takes a slip of paper from the desk, writes a few lines to
a leading daily paper, and slips it in his coat pocket. If Edward
Litchfield could have seen those few words, so hastily written, he would
not have gone home to prepare for his journey on the morrow with so much
freedom from coming care. The next day found Mr. Litchfield still in his
office, a paper in his hand, his face like ashes. Before him is a notice
from the Bank, to lift a note, bearing his signature, for thirty
thousand dollars--money he had never had. Where was Fanchon? He would of
course explain the meaning of this strange business. To be sure he never
thought to notice the amount when he hastily signed his name to the
note, for he had no glasses with him at the time, but trusted to
Fanchon's honesty when he said three hundred. Of course it would be all
right, but his sister's warning words come back to him with double
distinctness, that does not help to relieve his feelings. Adeline could
always discern further than he. If he had only heeded her words this
trouble would not have to be faced. But Fanchon was nowhere to be found;
he told some one he intended going away for a few days. What was to be
done? He dared not stay; he could, but would not, borrow money, to repay
those with whom he had never had any dealings. He would leave the
country, his home and family, of whom he was so fond. The drops of agony
stood deep on his face. Cyril Fanchon had deceived his old friend, the
man who had put him in the position he held to-day, and in return had
ruined him. Yes, he would go to-night, and to-morrow the city would ring
with the news of the sudden departure of him, whom all respected and
trusted. Oh, it was bitter to think of, but more bitter to remain. "Ah,
Estelle, Estelle, thank Heaven you are not here to-day to share my
disgrace." Edward Litchfield bowed his head and wept bitter tears of
self-reproach. He went, and no one knew but Aunt Adeline, and the blow
almost broke her heart.
* * * * *
The boat had just come in; the passengers crossing the ferry hurried
ashore. A girl, lonely and tired looking, came slowly, feebly up the
floats. She was neatly dressed, and had a look of refinement, that
prevented the men lounging along the railing from passing the usual
slang remarks so common to their idle profession. Well may she look
tired and weary, for many a mile has she travelled over land and sea.
"Can you tell me where I can get a night's lodging?" she asked of a neat
old woman who kept a tidy little grocery store at the corner. The woman
was kind hearted; she pitied the girl's desolate look, and kept her for
the night. The old woman questioned her with motherly solicitude. Was
she married? "Yes, there was the ring on her finger." "Was she a widow?"
"No," the girl said; "she was searching for her husband." The woman saw
her go the next day, with a lunch and a blessing. All day she walked up
one street, down another, looking keenly at each passer by, but always
with the same hopeful look. Toward nightfall, when she was again seeking
a place to lay her weary head, a mist, almost rain, began to fall. She
turned her lagging steps up a street lined by beautiful, costly houses.
One especially caught her fancy. The windows were open, lights streamed
out on the dreary wet road. She crept up and looked in. She saw a room
with everything lovely and costly; a lady sat at the table, two pretty
children at her side.
"Here comes papa to kiss us good night, mamma," the eldest girl cried.
A gentleman came in, and hastily kissing the children, turned to the
lady.
"My dear wife, what nonsense; no one could be looking in the window; you
are whimsical. A woman's face! what next will you see?" Then he goes out
smiling and down the road. He sees not the strange, wild figure flying
after him, nor hears the faint voice calling his name.
"Cyril! Cyril Fanchon! Ah me! Husband! speak to me, your wife--your
Jantie!"
The wind sweeps down the street in chilly gusts; the woman wraps her
jacket around her; she stumbles on, on, blindly. A railing, enclosing a
dark, grim building, comes in sight and looms up in the darkness; she
struggles with the weakness that overtakes her; she falls, but she is
conscious, only unable to move. All her weary journey has ended here; to
find the man she believes to be her husband, with a wife and family. She
loves him too well to expose his crime; for the gentle looking wife's
sake she will give him up; she will lie here and die, and he will never
know of the sacrifice she made. Ah yes, she has only her poor old
mother, and by now she no doubt would think her better off if she were
dead. Then a deadly faintness takes possession of her; she must be
dying; then all is blank. A policeman, passing, does not notice the
figure lying almost at his very feet. He buttons his waterproof coat up
tighter and shivers, as he thinks of his comfortable home, and pities
all who are so unfortunate as himself, to be out in the cold.