Annie did not sleep that night. Thoughts of poor Aubrey and the wreck
the clever young man had made of his life, and remorse at her own share
in bringing it about, occupied 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 followed,
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 spite of her doubts of his
fidelity, in spite of the indifference 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 acknowledgment, 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 bridegroom 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 impulse; 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, refused to stay with him,
concealed her marriage from others. Was it surprising that he should
bestow his warm affections elsewhere, when she had shown herself so
indifferent to every proof of his love?
One determination she came to, as the result of a sleepless 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 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 addressed 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 returning 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 descend 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 fashionable 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, presumably 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 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 Braithwaite, Kirby Park”--and
penciled underneath the name, in his handwriting, were the words--“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.
“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.”
“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 laboring 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 the door
to prevent her exit. It seemed a horrible thing to leave him alone,
cripple that he was, in a state of such utter 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 husband’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 ingratitude 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 Sunday, 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 Sunday 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 of her enterprise.
She had had time, since sending off the note to her husband, 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 excitement at the thought that she
was about at last to solve the mystery of his occupation added to the
wild confusion in her mind. She had heard of Kirby Park, but she could
not remember when or how, and the most extravagant 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 wonder, 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 welcome.
Part of her curiosity regarding her husband’s occupation was satisfied
before she reached Kirby. Two gentlemen had got into the same carriage
with her at Waterloo, and her attention was caught by the words “Kirby
Park” in their talk; and, when her thoughts had wandered off again to
the subjects which were absorbing her, she was suddenly recalled to the
presence of her two companions 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 hang himself on the gate-post as he went out. So I asked him
what he could do, and he said he could ride. I told him I had no doubt
of that; but he was a long way too heavy for a jockey. ‘Well, make me
coachman, groom--anything,’ said he; ‘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
obstinacy, 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.”
“It is a great responsibility for such a young man. He ought to be very
grateful to you----”
“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 acknowledgment, 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 station, when the slackening of the train’s speed
and the exclamation of one of the gentlemen, “Here we are!” told her
that the end of her journey was reached.
“Hallo, there’s Harry himself!” said the elder gentleman, 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
admiringly. “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 carriage 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 diverted 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 standing 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. Braithwaite’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 not held hers quite
steadily; but Annie had not 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 speaking 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.