A vagrant wife

by Florence Warden

“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.

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!”