for the sergeant and his bride. Penny's conscience had been at first
greatly troubled by her sacrilegious marriage before a registrar, on
account of the inevitable haste with which it had to be carried through.
She bitterly deplored her weakness for many a long day, even after she
had done all that was possible to atone for her sin by a sincere
Confession. Her husband could not be expected to realize as she did the
gravity of her offense against religion; but he sympathized with her
distress, and did all that lay in his power, by unceasing care and
devotion, to comfort her. By degrees his lavish affection tended to
deaden for the time the keenness of her remorse.
Their happiness was increased by the birth of a little daughter. The
child was the idol of her father, and Penny's life was brightened by the
joys of motherhood, in spite of the persistent refusal of Stephen Dale to
hold any communication with her or allow his wife to do so.
But all too soon that happiness was to be rudely shattered, and that in a
way entirely unforeseen.
Like many another family on the strength of the regiment, the Spences,
for lack of accommodation in barracks, were lodged in apartments in the
city. One dreary winter evening, when little Annie was about a year old,
Penny sat at her knitting by the fireside, the baby in her cot close by,
fast asleep. Spence had been taking part in a concert, and was later
than usual in coming in, for it was past ten o'clock. In the silence
Penny heard the sound of footsteps ascending the stairs outside; they
halted at her door, and there was a gentle rapping. She rose and opened
the door in response.
On the landing without stood a woman, whom she had never before seen--a
shabby-looking woman, dressed in soiled and worn garments, which had once
been bright and stylish. Her appearance, apart from her dress, was far
from attractive; her lean face had dull red blotches upon it, her eyes
looked wild and shining, and her gray hair straggled out from her tawdry
bonnet. It scarcely needed the evidence of a strong smell of spirits to
prove that she had been taking drink.
Penny instinctively shrank back from the threshold, but still held the
door in her hand. The woman made no attempt to enter. Fixing her too
bright eyes upon Penny's face with a scrutinizing glance, she said in a
raucous whisper:
"I was told that Sergeant Spence was likely to be here; but it seems I've
come to the wrong rooms."
Penny was silent for a moment, dreading she knew not what.
"Sergeant Spence may be here any moment," she answered, rousing herself.
She was praying that he might come quickly.
"Oh, indeed! So he may be here any moment," said the woman in louder
tones. "I suppose my fine fellow is courting you now," she went on,
staring boldly into Penny's frightened face. "Well, I've no fault to
find with his taste. He used to have an eye for a pretty face, and
you're a good-looking girl, though you're but a little one."
"What do you want with Sergeant Spence?" asked Penny, as her courage
began to return. Why should she fear this coarse, black-eyed woman. She
could have nothing in common with Arthur. But why should she seek him
thus openly in his own dwelling? Her fears began to return.
The strange visitor advanced across the threshold; Penny retreated before
her. The color deepened in her already florid face as the woman cried
fiercely:
"What do I want with him? I mean to force him to take me back to my
rightful place, that's what I want with him!"
Her voice, raised angrily, awoke the child, who gave a shrill cry of
fright. The woman stared at the cot in astonishment. Penny stooped and
lifted the little one, and faced the stranger once more as she pressed
the child to her bosom.
"Is that your baby?" the woman almost whispered, as she caught the gleam
of Penny's wedding ring. Then she cried wrathfully:
"What! Has he dared to marry you? Oh, the treacherous villain! Surely
you're not Arthur Spence's wife!"
In spite of the fear that fell upon her, Penny grew at once strangely
calm. This must be some disreputable relative of her husband's--though
she had thought him alone in the world. He was an orphan. This could
not be Arthur's mother! He could have nothing in common with a woman so
low as this! It was some bold, bad creature trying to frighten her.
Thus spoke her trembling heart, but her voice was quiet and restrained as
she said in reply:
"I do not see how it affects you that Arthur Spence is my husband, and
this is our child."
The simple dignity with which she spoke and her apparent calmness seemed
to soften the woman and still her anger somewhat. Drawing nearer, she
laid her hand with something of gentleness upon Penny's arm, and tears
started to her eyes as she exclaimed:
"My dear, the man's a scoundrel! You are no wife of his. He married me
when he was a stripling of eighteen, and he cast me off in less than a
year. He ruined me, and now he's ruined you--poor dear!"
"It's false, it's false!" cried Penny with fierce eyes and glowing color.
"You certainly know nothing of my husband. You'll never turn me against
him with your wicked lies! He's good and true--I'm sure of it, say what
you like!"
"I only wish you were right, my dear," replied the other, evidently
softened by Penny's unshaken fidelity. "But God knows I'm speaking the
truth; for here is the proof."
She drew from her pocket a folded paper and held it open before Penny's
eyes.
It was a marriage certificate. It described Arthur Spence as wedded to
Clara Millar, and the date was twelve years ago. The shock, though
intense, was merely momentary. So strong was Penny's trust in her
husband that not even this manifest evidence, as it seemed, could shake
it. Another man might bear the same name--Arthur might have some
disreputable cousin or other relative. She would believe nothing against
the uprightness of her Arthur.
"I do not believe," she said firmly, looking steadfastly at the other
woman, "that my husband could wrong any woman."
"I declare to you before God," cried the stranger excitedly, "that
Sergeant Arthur Spence, whom you call your husband, married me on the day
set down here!" And she rapped with one hand on the paper she held in
the other. "But I have a stronger proof. Read that!"
She had taken an envelope from her pocket as she spoke, and drawing from
it a paper she held it before Penny.
With shaking hands the poor little wife took it. It was a letter--the
handwriting familiar to her. She turned to the signature; it was her
husband's own.
"Read it through," persisted the woman. "See whether I am telling the
truth or lies."
Penny's knees were shaking under her. She sank into a chair, and
clasping her baby more closely to her breast she read the letter. It was
dated a few days before she and Arthur were married.
"Dear Clara," it ran. "This is the last time I shall write to you.
Unless you stick to the agreement we made, I shall stop sending you
money. Do not try to meet me, and do not mention again our unhappy
marriage--even to me--or I shall shake you off entirely. So use your
common-sense, and keep quiet. You will find that I shall do something
desperate if you keep on annoying me as you have done lately. I tell you
plainly: I will never see you again."
What a moment of agony for the poor stricken wife! There could no longer
he room for doubt. She had indeed been fooled and deceived! Her innate
courage rose and sustained her under the weight of the trial. She would
leave that house--now, once and for all--before her betrayer could
return! Never, never would she look upon his smiling, treacherous face
again!
Animated with fresh strength, she rose and hastily began her
preparations. She fetched the baby's warm wraps from the inner room and
began to dress the child. The other woman looked on in silence--dazed
for the moment by Penny's brisk movements. At last she found a voice.
"What are you doing?" she cried. "Surely you will not take the child out
to-night!"
Penny made no answer, but fetched her own outdoor clothes and dressed
hastily.
"Where are you going, on such a night?" cried the other excitedly.
"Anywhere," answered Penny, her lips white and her eyes flashing.
"Anywhere out of reach of that man."
"No, no!" the woman expostulated. "Wait till morning! I'll see him then
and settle everything."
"What can you settle that can make me stay?" asked Penny, in bitter
wrath. "Do you think that I would spend another night under this roof?
Wait here and see him, if you wish--you have the right to be here, not I!
He will never see me again."
She ran back into her bedroom for the little purse. In it were a few
pounds she had saved up to buy the man an easy chair for his coming
birthday. How often she had pictured his pleasure when he would be able
to lean back comfortably in it on the opposite side of the fireplace and
smoke his evening pipe, his handsome face beaming love and admiration.
The vision filled her with fresh loathing. She scarcely bade the other
woman good-night, but clasping her babe hurried from the room. Swiftly
down the stairs she ran, heedless of the cries of the woman she had left
behind, and out into the wind and rain of the dreary street--fit emblem,
in its forlorn wretchedness, of the future which loomed hopeless before
her.
* * * * * *
Two things added to the poignancy of Penny's unavailing grief in after
years: the innocence of Arthur Spence of any deception (except silence
regarding his past), and the fact that she never knew this until he had
given his life in his country's service. It was then too late to reap
comfort in her supreme sorrow from the knowledge of his uprightness both
to herself and to the wretched woman who had caused her unreflecting
flight on that fatal night.
For many months she had been hidden from all her former acquaintances in
the Convent of Mercy, whose Superior she had long been intimate with.
There she had nursed her baby through an illness which at last proved
fatal. Grief at the loss of her little one, added to her already heavy
burden of trouble, had told upon her own health, and for weeks she had
needed to be nursed herself. After her recovery, as she shrank from
returning home, the good Sisters obtained for her the post of nurse with
our family.
Two years later Stephen Dale died suddenly. Penny had written to him and
to her mother more than once, but got no answer; the intimation of her
father's death was the first communication she had received since leaving
home. Later on a letter was forwarded to her, which had been found among
her father's papers. It was from Spence, and was dated the day following
her flight. In an agony of mind the man had searched for her everywhere,
and failing to discover any trace of her whereabouts, had written to her
under cover to her father. He, poor man, could not send it--even had he
been willing--having no idea of her address.
The letter was a pitiful appeal to Penny to return, and contained a full
explanation of his conduct. The marriage with the woman Millar--never a
happy one--had proved invalid, owing to the survival of her former
husband to a later date. This, however, only became known to Spence
after the woman's intemperate habits had told upon her brain, and landed
her in an asylum. She had really believed that her husband--a worthless
fellow--had died on the day stated. It was characteristic of the
chivalrous nature of the man that Spence shrank from telling her, after
her recovery, of the error; content to send her an annual allowance on
condition that they should remain apart--as they had agreed to do long
before. Although the woman had no legal claim upon him, he had continued
this allowance even after his marriage with Penny, hoping to secure by
this means freedom from molestation.
It was natural that Penny, knowing all the circumstances, should desire
to communicate with her husband and become reconciled. My dear old
father, to whom she had confided her trouble, at once inquired through
the War Office as to where Arthur Spence was then stationed. The answer
told of his death in action three months earlier.
Penny--poor soul!--when giving me these details many years later, utterly
broke down, as she accused herself of having wronged--however
unwittingly--by her suspicions the brave and upright man whose loss she
still keenly deplored, and whose soul (I make no doubt) she will never
omit to recommend to God in her daily prayers as long as life is granted
to her.