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 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 recovery, 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 himself from
the restraint of her society, and, under the pretense 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 husband’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.”
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 happier, 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 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 remember 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 little packet
containing ten pounds, which he took reluctantly, 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 encouraging
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
regrets 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 convalescence 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 character; 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
falsehood in reply. So she had to content herself with learning 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, uneasily, as he
stood hesitatingly with the money in his hand.
“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?”
“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 Braithwaite?” 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 inconvenience you?”
“You are as sensitive for Harry as he is for himself. Look at the
luxury I am surrounded by,” and Annie pointed gayly 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 crimson 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--indeed 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 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 anything 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 Piccadilly. 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, laughing.
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 satisfaction 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 artem_, 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 I am almost ready to think that, if you had never left
it, we should all be there still.”
“That’s right. Put all the blame upon a defenseless woman.”
“I am glad you were not there at the end; it was a miserable 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 another tussle. You
are young, and have courage and energy. 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 varying 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 toward her. “Why, do you know
that even Harry shows more spirit than that?”
“What makes you say ‘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.
“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 managed to allow himself as many--if not
more--of the small comforts of life as he had done before his ruin, to
accompany 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 better than money. Would you mind selling them
for me and giving the money to Harry?”
“Your jewelry! No, I can’t take that!” said Stephen, thrusting the
packet hastily back and opening the door.
“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 unclouded 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 recklessness than in the old days, when he had a large
establishment to keep up, and clamorous young brothers’ allowances
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 debts as they arose.
George left her for a few minutes, sitting, her face all smiles and
sunshine, with his race-glass in her hand, examining 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, 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
complexion carefully made up, and dressed with more extravagance 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!”