“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.”
She posted this letter under cover to Stephen; but she waited three weeks without getting any answer.