TOO CONFIDING. "YES, IT IS MY HUSBAND."
"I never judge from manners, for I once had my pocket picked by the civilest gentleman I ever met with."
—Lord Byron.
The bright sunlight played coyly through the half-closed shutter, and fell across the table, brightening up the dusty old books, slates, and every other article which helped to make up the furnishing of the private office of Fanchon, Litchfield & Co.
"The note falls due to-morrow at the bank, for the three hundred you accommodated me with; but no matter, that will be all right; you go and transact the business abroad for the firm, and I will attend to lifting your note."
Mr. Litchfield looks steadily at the young man sitting opposite, and says quietly, "I shall be thankful, yes, more than thankful, when it is lifted, for never again will I put my name on any man's paper. However, some one will have to go, and I had better be the one."
Cyrel Fanchon laughed lightly. "Every business firm is obliged to run on paper; why feel worried that ours should do the same?"
The little alarm clock on the shelf struck two. Mr. Litchfield pushes back his chair.
"It will be nearly three weeks before I can return, so you can write me if anything new arises," he says, taking his hat from the peg.
Cyrel Fanchon takes a slip of paper from the desk, writes a few lines to a leading daily paper, and slips it in his coat pocket. If Edward Litchfield could have seen those few words, so hastily written, he would not have gone home to prepare for his journey on the morrow with so much freedom from coming care. The next day found Mr. Litchfield still in his office, a paper in his hand, his face like ashes. Before him is a notice from the Bank, to lift a note, bearing his signature, for thirty thousand dollars—money he had never had. Where was Fanchon? He would of course explain the meaning of this strange business. To be sure he never thought to notice the amount when he hastily signed his name to the note, for he had no glasses with him at the time, but trusted to Fanchon's honesty when he said three hundred. Of course it would be all right, but his sister's warning words come back to him with double distinctness, that does not help to relieve his feelings. Adeline could always discern further than he. If he had only heeded her words this trouble would not have to be faced. But Fanchon was nowhere to be found; he told some one he intended going away for a few days. What was to be done? He dared not stay; he could, but would not, borrow money, to repay those with whom he had never had any dealings. He would leave the country, his home and family, of whom he was so fond. The drops of agony stood deep on his face. Cyril Fanchon had deceived his old friend, the man who had put him in the position he held to-day, and in return had ruined him. Yes, he would go to-night, and to-morrow the city would ring with the news of the sudden departure of him, whom all respected and trusted. Oh, it was bitter to think of, but more bitter to remain. "Ah, Estelle, Estelle, thank Heaven you are not here to-day to share my disgrace." Edward Litchfield bowed his head and wept bitter tears of self-reproach. He went, and no one knew but Aunt Adeline, and the blow almost broke her heart.
The boat had just come in; the passengers crossing the ferry hurried ashore. A girl, lonely and tired looking, came slowly, feebly up the floats. She was neatly dressed, and had a look of refinement, that prevented the men lounging along the railing from passing the usual slang remarks so common to their idle profession. Well may she look tired and weary, for many a mile has she travelled over land and sea.
"Can you tell me where I can get a night's lodging?" she asked of a neat old woman who kept a tidy little grocery store at the corner. The woman was kind hearted; she pitied the girl's desolate look, and kept her for the night. The old woman questioned her with motherly solicitude. Was she married? "Yes, there was the ring on her finger." "Was she a widow?" "No," the girl said; "she was searching for her husband." The woman saw her go the next day, with a lunch and a blessing. All day she walked up one street, down another, looking keenly at each passer by, but always with the same hopeful look. Toward nightfall, when she was again seeking a place to lay her weary head, a mist, almost rain, began to fall. She turned her lagging steps up a street lined by beautiful, costly houses. One especially caught her fancy. The windows were open, lights streamed out on the dreary wet road. She crept up and looked in. She saw a room with everything lovely and costly; a lady sat at the table, two pretty children at her side.
"Here comes papa to kiss us good night, mamma," the eldest girl cried.
A gentleman came in, and hastily kissing the children, turned to the lady.
"My dear wife, what nonsense; no one could be looking in the window; you are whimsical. A woman's face! what next will you see?" Then he goes out smiling and down the road. He sees not the strange, wild figure flying after him, nor hears the faint voice calling his name.
"Cyril! Cyril Fanchon! Ah me! Husband! speak to me, your wife—your Jantie!"
The wind sweeps down the street in chilly gusts; the woman wraps her jacket around her; she stumbles on, on, blindly. A railing, enclosing a dark, grim building, comes in sight and looms up in the darkness; she struggles with the weakness that overtakes her; she falls, but she is conscious, only unable to move. All her weary journey has ended here; to find the man she believes to be her husband, with a wife and family. She loves him too well to expose his crime; for the gentle looking wife's sake she will give him up; she will lie here and die, and he will never know of the sacrifice she made. Ah yes, she has only her poor old mother, and by now she no doubt would think her better off if she were dead. Then a deadly faintness takes possession of her; she must be dying; then all is blank. A policeman, passing, does not notice the figure lying almost at his very feet. He buttons his waterproof coat up tighter and shivers, as he thinks of his comfortable home, and pities all who are so unfortunate as himself, to be out in the cold.