“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. “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 “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. “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
unequal; 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 apparent.
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-command 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 unnecessarily. 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 excitement.
“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 affection could, since my foolish
marriage, only mean Harry’s. And I was foolish and cared for him too
little to ask myself 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 have been happy, Annie; but it
would have been thanks to your husband’s family, and not to him. You
see, Lilian 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 better, and he seemed never happy when
you were out of his sight, and you went on laughing and talking with
any of us rather than with him, and treated him like a cross, spoiled
child, to be given way 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 weathercock. 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 somehow Harry guessed that, and made me half-confess 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 without
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 kindness 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 without 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 winning 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 of 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 anxious 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, begging 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 haggard 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.”
“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 determination.
“I can’t give it you--I can’t indeed. I was afraid you would 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 living, you would look down upon
him.”
“Is it something so very disgraceful then?”
“Perhaps you might call it so; at least he thinks so.”
“Tell me what it is. Stephen, do tell me.”
“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, but not yet.”
“But what difference can waiting make? If it is disgraceful now, it
will always be disgraceful. But, if it is only that he has taken
to earning his living by some employment 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 supplications, 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.
“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 sympathy. 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 dislike 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.