CHAPTER XXIX.
More than six years have passed since the night when Annie returned with her husband to Kirby Park, and there are Braithwaites once more at Garstone Grange. For Harry, with a wise and loving wife at his side to comfort him in failure, encourage him in effort, and rejoice with him in success, has worked on in the career best suited to him and prospered, while she too, has striven successfully in her profession until the time has come on which the hopes of both have for years been fixed, and they have bought back the old home of Harry’s boyhood, where also so many of the stormy events of their early wedded life took place.
It is Christmas-time, their first Christmas since their return to the Grange; and Annie and her husband are expecting some welcome guests to celebrate this event and Annie’s final renunciation of her ambition for that entire devotion to home and husband which has now become her chief delight. For Annie has left the stage, with its struggles, its failures, and its triumphs, forever, not without some regrets at bidding farewell to old friends, old usages, and a life which had had many pleasures for her; but with new happiness in the thought that she can now devote herself more entirely than before to the husband and children in whom all her affection is centered. For in the long, dim picture-gallery where Harry saw the demure little governess playing battledoor and shuttlecock years ago two fair-haired boys are laughing and shouting at play. Their father is rather disappointed that they have his own blue eyes and curly, fair hair, and he is in great anxiety lest they should grow up like him in mind, instead of being “clever” like their mother; but Annie is troubled with no such fears, and is quite contented with her boys as they are.
Two more Braithwaites lie in the family vault in Garstone Churchyard. The first to go to his rest was Stephen, who lived but very few months after that miserable scene in which he shot his cousin in his desperate wretchedness. Those months were the most peaceful of his unhappy life, for he passed them at Kirby Park, to which Annie had herself gently persuaded him to come. She never wearied in her patient devotion to him, in her attention to his wants, in her bright endeavors to amuse and please him. Harry seconded her efforts with gentleness which was touching in the big, strong man; and the cripple’s feelings were too strong and his penetration too keen for him not to appreciate rightly every kind act and tone in the people about him.
Wilfred lies in the vault too; he was killed by a fall from his horse in the hunting-field in the winter following the sale of the Grange, and they buried him beside his father and cousin.
A better fate is in store for the youngest brother, William. “The child” is now Captain Braithwaite, and his letters to Garstone are full of references to the loveliest girl that ever was seen and mysterious hints that he has a surprise in store for them—from which and a certain incoherency of style in his letters Annie does not need much penetration to decide that he is going to be married.
Sir George passes most of the year in chambers in town, and has never found the courage to begin a new battle with fate; he is still unmarried, and there seems every probability that the title will pass in course of time to Harry and his eldest son.
He and William are now at the Grange to spend Christmas with Harry and his wife; they are all expecting two other guests, for whom the warmest welcome of all has been prepared. Lady Braithwaite, growing old now, and reconciled to her daughter-in-law at last, is about to return to the home where her wedded life was passed, never to leave it again until the time comes for her too to sleep peacefully by her husband’s side in Garstone Churchyard; and Lilian is coming with her to spend a week at the old home.
The winter sun is setting when Annie, on the alert for the sound of wheels, starts up from her seat in the morning-room and goes out on to the doorstep with William and George to receive Lady Braithwaite and her daughter, whom Harry had gone to meet at Beckham Station. Harry, who jumps out of the carriage first, gives way to his elder brother, and it is on Sir George’s arm that the stately old lady leans as she steps down from the carriage and meets her daughter-in-law. Lilian follows. She is thin and pale, and looks much older than Annie, who has recovered almost all the beauty of the shy little governess of eighteen who first attracted the attention of the wild Grange boys more than ten years ago. Lilian’s love of excitement and pleasure has told upon her health; she is not exactly an unhappy woman or an unloving wife; but her passionate nature has found something wanting in life, and in the eagerness of a vain search for it she has grown old before her time.
When they are all together in the drawing-room after dinner, and the little boys, having begun to make themselves obnoxious by playing at ball over their grandmother’s head, have been kissed and sent to bed, the talk turns to town and what is going on there.
“Oh, Annie, have you heard of the success of your old friend Aubrey Cooke?” asks Lilian. “I went to see him in this new piece in which they say he is so good, and I never felt myself so entirely carried away by any acting before. Everybody says he will be the greatest actor of the day.”
“Ah, I thought I was going to be the greatest actress once!” Annie says, rather slowly.
“Then he has fulfilled his ambition, and you have given up yours unfulfilled. Don’t you regret it just a little? Come—be candid!”
Lilian speaks in a low voice, meant only for her sister-in-law’s ear. Annie hesitates, looking down at the fire with an expression which it is not easy to read.
She is startled by finding her husband’s hand laid quietly on her shoulder. He has overheard these last words of Lilian’s, notices his wife’s reluctance to answer, and leaves his seat to speak to her.
“Are you sorry you are not the wife of a great actor instead of a plain country gentleman, Annie?”
“No, not in the least; I never thought of such a thing.”
“Then why are you looking so thoughtful?”
“Any news of people one has known well and lost sight of sets one thinking.”
“I could give you some more news of him but that I am afraid it would make you sad.”
“Never mind; I should like to hear it. Go on.”
“His home-life is a very unhappy one. They say he ill-treats his wife; I know they are never seen together. George told me all about it yesterday; but I did not tell you, because I knew it would pain you. However, it is something for him to have satisfied his ambition, and you see he has done that.”
“While I have let mine go——”
“Just to settle down into a mere quiet wife and mother. Is that what you are thinking? Do you regret it, Annie?”
She turns her soft, dark eyes, bright in the glow of the firelight, toward him, with her head raised proudly.
“No, no: I have never regretted it—I never shall. My ambition was very strong, but I did not throw it away; I kept it and clung to it until it was swallowed up in something stronger still; and I think you can guess what that is.”
Talk and laughter are going on brightly round them among the members of the reunited family gathered round the glowing fire. Harry does not answer his wife in words; but the firm pressure of his hand as it clasps hers unseen by the rest tells her that he understands that the passion which had absorbed all others in the brilliant actress and the true-hearted woman is her love for him.
[THE END.]
Transcriber’s notesObvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised. All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.
Transcriber’s notes
Obvious typographical errors have been silently corrected. Variations in hyphenation and accents have been standardised. All other spelling and punctuation remains unchanged.