CHAPTER XXV.
“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.”
“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.