Sir William Heath Returns To America.
"I cannot understand it, Miriam. It is the strangest thing in the world,
and I shall sail for America on the very next steamer."
It was Sir William Heath who spoke thus, and there was no mistaking the
decision in his voice.
He was sitting at the breakfast-table in the large, sunny dining-room at
Heathdale, while the open and empty mail-bag lay upon the table beside
him.
There were several letters scattered around his plate, but these were
unheeded, while the anxious, perplexed look on the baronet's fine face
told that he was deeply troubled about something.
Lady Linton sat opposite him, and she had been furtively watching him
during his examination of the bag. There were two very bright spots upon
her cheeks, which <i>might</i> have been caused by her morning drive to the
post-office; or they might have been produced by a guilty conscience and
anxiety regarding her brother's announcement.
"Then there is no letter for you this morning?" she remarked, trying to
appear unconcerned.
"No; and I am nearly wild with anxiety. I <i>must</i> go to Virgie at once,"
Sir William responded, moodily.
"I do not know how mamma will bear the thought of your going," Lady Linton
said, looking grave.
"It cannot harm her. Sir Herbert says she is doing very well, and I might
have gone last week but for the severe cold which she took. I must go,
Miriam. My wife is more to me than all the world, and this unaccountable
silence and suspense is unbearable. I am afraid something dreadful has
happened to her, for, just think, I have not heard one word from her since
she wrote me after the birth of our little one."
"Why don't you cable, then? I am going in town this morning, and I will
send a message for you, if you wish," craftily suggested his sister, who
felt very uncomfortable at the thought of his starting off so suddenly:
for he might meet his wife just at the very moment when success was about
to crown her plans.
She had heard from Mrs. Farnum only once since her <i>coup d'etat,</i> when she
had given an account of that last interview with the heart-broken wife.
The letter had been posted that same day, for the woman had not hoped that
Virgie would leave the house so quickly, even though she knew she was
going to be asked to do so; and as she knew her friend would be anxious to
learn the result of her last measure, and as a steamer was to sail the
next morning, she had written immediately.
"I suppose you might cable and get a reply before a steamer sails,"
murmured Sir William, thoughtfully. "It does not seem as if I could wait
even the time it would take for me to get to her."
"I suppose you <i>are</i> very anxious. It is natural that you should be,"
responded Lady Linton, as she broke an egg into her cup and busied herself
seasoning it, although she did not even taste it after it was prepared.
Excitement and anxiety had destroyed her appetite.
Two or three times every week, of late, there had been just such a scene
as this when the mail came in after the arrival of a steamer.
No letters came from Virgie. At least, <i>he</i> received none; for they were
all cunningly abstracted before the bag came into the house, and Sir
William did not dream that any one possessed a key to it save himself, and
so, of course was unsuspicious of any plot.
It was simply unaccountable to him, and he was, as he said, almost wild
from anxiety on account of his dear ones.
He could not touch his food this morning, his disappointment was so great,
and he nervously unfolded his paper and began to look for an announcement
of the sailing of some steamer.
"The Cephalonia will sail on Saturday," he remarked, at length. "This is
Wednesday. I shall leave on Friday for Liverpool. You can break the news
to my mother, and I am sure you will do very well without me until my
return. She must strive to be reasonable, for I cannot live like this
another week."
"Very well; I will do my best to keep her cheerful while you are gone,"
returned Lady Linton, trying to appear at ease, although she was quaking
in mortal fear lest all her plotting should come to naught.
She sometimes regretted having written that last letter and sent that
hundred pounds to Virgie. She began to fear that she might have
overreached herself by so doing, for, if her brother and his wife should
meet, Virgie would of course tell her husband everything, and he would at
once understand that his sister had been guilty of all the
mischief—intercepted letters, and all. She knew that he would never
forgive her; she would be ignominiously banished from Heathdale, and be
obliged to hide herself at Linton Grange, where she would lead a life of
poverty and seclusion; so it is not strange that she trembled at the
thought of Sir William sailing for America.
"Shall you return at once?" she asked, as they arose from the table.
"Just as soon as I can possibly arrange to do so; and, Miriam, I want no
pains spared to make the home-coming of my wife an agreeable one."
"You shall be obeyed," Lady Linton replied, with downcast eyes and a
heavily throbbing heart; "but of course you will let me know when to
expect you."
"Certainly; and the suite of rooms over the library are to be put in order
for Virgie."
"Very well; I will speak to the housekeeper about it."
"You will mention, too, for <i>whom</i> they are being prepared," Sir William
said, glancing sharply at his sister. "It must be known at once that I
have a wife and child. I have made a great mistake in allowing you to
persuade me to keep silence upon the subject so long."
"But it was for mamma's sake, you know; while she was so ill it was better
not to have it talked about," apologized Lady Linton; but she mentally
resolved that she should be in no hurry to tell the secret, even if he had
ordered her to do so, at least until she was sure her brother would find
his wife.
Something might prevent his bringing Virgie home, and in that case a
scandal would be avoided if she kept silence. She would wait, at least,
until he notified her of the date of his return.
"It was a mistake, I tell you," Sir William repeated, with a clouded
brow. "It has been a mark of disloyalty to my wife which I will tolerate
no longer. So please do as I request."
Lady Linton bowed.
"Shall I cable for you?" she asked, after a moment of silence. "I shall be
in London most of the day, and perhaps I may be able to get a reply to
bring you on my return."
"No, thanks; I, too, shall go in town to-day, to engage my passage, and I
will attend to the matter myself," Sir William replied, and the heart of
the schemer sank within her.
She had intended to cable to Mrs. Farnum, and, if Virgie was still at the
hotel, authorize her to use any strategy to get her away before her
brother should arrive, and then send her a dispatch to suit the emergency.
But, if he cabled himself, and received an answer from his wife, she had
the very worst to fear for herself.
They went up to London on the same train, and Lady Linton suffered agonies
during that ride, and all day long, while she was shopping, her suspense
was terrible to her.
But when she entered the station, late in the afternoon, to return to
Heathdale, she was both startled and relieved to find her brother already
there, and pacing back and forth outside the waiting-room in great
excitement.
"Have you news, William?" she faltered, her heart beating almost to
suffocation.
"Yes," he answered, in a strained unnatural tone. "Here, read this!" and
he thrust a cablegram into her trembling hands.
She had hardly strength to unfold the paper, but her pulses bounded with
exultation as she read:
New York, Aug. 10, 18—.
"To Sir William Heath, London:
"Lady Heath left the —— House on the 2d instant. Do not know her
address.
Eldred Edlbridge."
Mr. Eldridge, as we know, was the proprietor of the hotel where Virgie
had been boarding during her husband's absence, and we can imagine
something of his consternation when he received Sir William's cable
dispatch inquiring for his wife, and realized, all too late, the enormity
of the insult he had offered to that lady.
Lady Linton, however, had hard work to conceal her joy over the contents
of the message.
Virgie had been gone for more than a week, leaving no clew to her
whereabouts, which was evidence enough that she believed the very worst of
her husband, imagined herself a dishonored and deserted woman, and had
doubtless buried herself in some remote corner where no one would be
likely to discover her.
Lady Linton's plot had worked thus far beyond her most sanguine
expectations and she accepted her success as an omen of good for the
future.
But she hid all this under a mask of well-assumed surprise.
"What can it mean? Why should she leave the hotel where you left her?" she
inquired of her brother.
"Oh, I do not know. There is something wrong—very mysterious—about it.
Oh, why is there not a steamer ready to sail this instant? I believe I
shall go mad with this delay!" cried the baronet, in an agony of fear and
suspense.
But he had to wait until Saturday in spite of his suffering though he had
not even gone from Heathdale two hours when Lady Linton received a letter
bearing the United States postmark.
Of course it was from Mrs. Farnum, who gave a detailed account of all that
had transpired regarding Virgie's sudden departure, and assuring her that
no one in the hotel suspected her agency in the matter, or had any idea
that she knew anything regarding the girl previous to her coming there.
They did not even know that she was from England; she confided that fact
to Virgie alone, simply to further her schemes regarding her.
Lady Linton uttered a sigh of relief over this letter. Her brother would
not find his wife in New York, and his journey would be all in vain, she
told herself, and yet she would not feel at ease until she had him safely
at home again.
Sir William thought the voyage across the Atlantic would never end, and
yet it was a very quick and prosperous passage. When the steamer touched
her pier in New York he was the first of all the eager passengers to
spring ashore, and rushing for a carriage, without even stopping to attend
to his baggage, he gave orders to be driven directly to the hotel where he
had left Virgie.
Mr. Eldridge quaked visibly and grew deadly pale when Sir William suddenly
presented himself in his office and demanded of him the reason of his wife
leaving his house.
The polite hotel-keeper's blandness all failed him for once, and, with
much stammering and confusion, with many apologies and excuses, he
confessed that there had arisen a rumor—how he could not say—to the
effect that the lady was not Mrs. Heath at all, that her supposed husband
was an English nobleman who had deceived her; that his patrons had
insisted upon her leaving, or they would; and thus, after a hint from him
as to how matters stood, she had quietly gone away.
Sir William was furious at this, and the landlord was actually frightened
at the tempest his story had aroused.
"And you allowed such a malicious slander to drive a delicate and
unprotected woman and her child homeless into the street?" cried the
baronet, with sublime scorn.
"Ah, sir, I was helpless. The honor of my house must be sustained, and
there was so much evidence to make the story appear true," said the man
deprecatingly.
"Evidence! What do you mean?" demanded the angry husband.
"You had registered as 'Mr. Heath and lady.' I learned that you were an
English baronet."
"Yes, but what of that? I simply wished to escape being conspicuous, and I
had a right to register as I chose."
"Then there was a story that you had taken another wife in England,
shortly after leaving America."
"And were you idiot enough to believe such a contemptible slander, when
<i>I</i> brought her here and established her as my honored wife? Did I ever
treat her with anything but reverence and respect?" thundered Sir William,
growing more and more indignant.
"No, sir," confessed the unhappy proprietor, as he drew a paper from his
desk; "but when you read a notice that I have here you may not wonder so
much at the credulity of people; besides, there were no letters coming
from you to the lady."
"No letters!" cried the baronet, in a startled tone.
"No, sir, although madam wrote to you with every steamer, and seemed sad
and depressed to get nothing in return."
The baronet was astounded.
It all looked as if there was some treachery at work to ruin their
happiness; but Sir William racked his brain in vain to solve the riddle.
He had received no letters from his wife; she had had none from him; and,
with that dreadful scandal and rumor to crush her, to say nothing of
having been driven from the shelter with which he had provided her, what
must she not have suffered?
"Will you read this notice, sir?" Mr. Eldridge asked, pushing the paper
nearer to the baronet, and desiring to intrench himself behind as many
bulwarks as possible.
Sir William bent forward and read it, and he did not wonder then, that
Virgie had felt herself the most wronged of women.
He knew that it had been intended as the announcement of his cousin's
marriage with Margaret Stanhope, but a grave mistake had been made in
prefixing the young man's name with a title, thus making it appear that it
was the baronet who had been married.
Virgie did not know that he had a relative by the same name, so, of
course, taking everything else into consideration, she must have believed
that he had been false to all honor, to his manhood, and to her.
He groaned aloud.
"Oh, what must she have thought of me!" he cried, in despair. Then,
turning to the proprietor of the hotel, he asked, "Where did you get this
paper?"
It was the Hampshire County <i>Journal</i>, and he wondered how it could have
got to New York to accomplish so much mischief.
"I cannot say, sir. I found it in my office here among other papers,
and—and you must confess that such a notice as that was sufficient to
stagger me when I read it."
"Yes," Sir William admitted, white to his lips, "and yet it was heartless
to send her away. It was my cousin—a gentleman bearing the same name—who
was married; but some one made a mistake and added my title. Did <i>she</i>
see that notice?"
"She appeared to know about it, sir."
"It seems as if an enemy had done this to ruin our happiness; but who?"
groaned the miserable husband.