CHAPTER XXVI.
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.”
“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.