A week later Annie’s trunks were packed for London. On the last day before her departure from the Grange she took a long ramble by herself through some of her favorite fields and lanes, where a mild March was already bringing forth the signs of spring. She had promised to be at the old church at four, to undertake for the village organist a commission of getting him some music in London. She got there too soon, however; so, having fortunately provided herself with the key, she went in and up the winding-stair to the top of the old square tower. She had a letter to read which she had had unopened in her pocket since the morning; and, when she got at last on to the tower and had gazed for a few minutes upon the wide expanse of country commanded by the hill on which the church was built, had looked a little regretfully at the budding trees and the river and the town of Beckham beyond, an ugly, smoke-begrimed place indeed, but which bore a deceptive beauty when seen from a distance on a sunny afternoon in a haze of its own smoke, she drew out her letter, which was directed to “Miss Langton,” and tore open the envelope.
She knew whom it was from—a young actress who had been with her at the last theater Annie had played at in London, who had then played silent “guests,” and parts too small even for Annie, but who had since been promoted to the latter’s place. Annie had written to this girl, who knew nothing of her marriage or of her private life, asking her to send her the address of some cheap lodgings which she had once recommended. The other had not only complied, but had, with the good nature so strikingly characteristic of members of the theatrical profession, undertaken to see the landlady and make terms with her about them. This matter was now settled—the rooms taken; so this letter could not be very important. So Annie thought. But she had not read the first two pages before the color in her face deepened, and she read on to the end with an intentness which only tidings of deepest interest could have called forth. The passage which had fixed her attention was the following:
“I met Cooke, who was here at the Piccadilly when you were, as I was walking along the Strand a day or two ago. He is at the Regency now, and the papers have cracked him up so in the part he is playing that I wonder he condescended to talk to poor little me. He asked how we were getting on at the Piccadilly, and I mentioned that you had been in the country, but were coming back to London. He seemed very much interested in you, which amused me, remembering as I did how much you always disliked him, and how you used to mimic him for my amusement in the dressing-room; however, I did not take him down by telling him that. Do you remember how I used to stick up for him when you said he was fast? Well, you were right, for they say the way he is carrying on with some woman who has been acting in the country with him—West, I think her name is—is something disgraceful, considering that he is engaged or half engaged to that little fair girl who made such a hit in ‘Ophelia’ last year. He is trying to get this West into the Regency, I believe.”
This was the passage which had arrested Annie’s attention, which she read through again and again with dry eyes, but with a bitter feeling of disappointment and shame. Then she let the letter drop from her fingers, and leaning against the flag-staff which rose from the top of the tower, she burst into heartfelt sobbing. She had cheated herself into believing that it was nothing but her ambition which impelled her in her eagerness to go to London; but now in the revulsion of feeling which suddenly made the thought of returning to town and her profession unutterably hateful to her, she saw with unmistakable clearness what the other and stronger motive had been which had made her enforced idleness at the Grange so hard to bear. She was still sobbing when she heard sounds behind her, and, looking round, saw her husband’s head as he came slowly to the top of the stairs.
“What is the matter, Annie dear?” he asked anxiously.
“Harry, what made you come up all those steps? It is too tiring for you,” said she, bending her head awkwardly to hide her tears.
“I saw you from the avenue, and I saw you were crying,” he answered, as he mounted the last step and rested his hands on the low wall for support—he was not strong enough for much exertion yet. “What were you crying about, Annie? Not because you are going away, I know.”
She had turned away to wipe the tears from her face, and, as she turned again toward him, she caught sight of her letter lying on the ground between them. He saw it at the same moment, and, although she had the presence of mind to pick it up very composedly, he at once came to the conclusion that in it lay the cause of her distress.
“Who is that letter from?”
“From Miss Taylor, who has been writing to me about the apartments I am going to have in town,” she said, as she put it into the pocket of her mantle.