Rogues and Vagabonds

by George R. Sims

Gertie stared after the carriage in astonishment, as it was whirled up to the house-door; but the young woman never moved.

‘I’m afraid the gentleman’s offended with you for talking to me,’ she said. ‘Will you kindly give this to Mrs. Heritage presently, without the gentleman seeing?’

Gertie, bewildered by the whole scene, took the note mechanically that the woman handed to her, and slipped it into her pocket. Then, fearing that the squire would be angry if she stayed talking, she called to Lion, who had remained with her, and was sniffing suspiciously at the intruder, and ran up the broad gravel path to the hall, while the woman, with a brief ‘Thank you,’ walked away in the direction of the village.

Inside the house poor Gertie soon found that things were ‘uncomfortable.’ The squire had suddenly gone off into one of his fits, and was storming and raging in his study. Gertie ran in to see what was the matter, and found Ruth vainly endeavouring to calm her husband and make him listen to reason.

The sight of Gertie aggravated him. She was a little spy—she was this, she was that. She was always talking to a parcel of tramps, and letting them learn everybody’s business. What did this strange woman want with Ruth? He wouldn’t have a stranger admitted to the place. How often was he to say so? They were all in league against him—that was what it was.

Poor Ruth sat and listened patiently. She was used to her husband’s paroxysms of temper and suspicion now. After the first great shock that had come upon her, she had set herself a task, and determined to bear all patiently. She had gathered from her husband’s ravings only that he accused himself of terrible crimes. At first she had believed that he was really guilty, but gradually she had persuaded herself that it was merely the remembrance of his earlier surroundings appearing to a disordered mind. The doctor had told her that men in her husband’s peculiar mental condition often accused themselves of terrible things, and that she was to take no notice of his words. It was but a phase of his disease.

Some strong and sudden excitement had caused a temporary derangement, that was all. Rest and quiet were all he needed. The rest and quiet he had, and Ruth in time had the satisfaction of seeing him grow more reasonable, and at last, so far as his mental condition was concerned, all fear was removed.

But his bodily health became worse and worse, and his nerves were always in a highly wrought condition. He could not bear the least noise, and the most trifling circumstance would fling him into an ungovernable rage. He was suspicious of everybody and of everything—of the servants, of Gertie, and of his wife.

Ruth had long thought seriously of getting him away to try a complete change of scene, and on this very morning that they had gone for their first drive she had been urging him to try a three months’ tour on the Continent.

He had jumped at the idea, and the thought of the change had seemed to put new life into him. He had been almost cheerful and amiable all through the drive, and it was not till they neared home that he fell into a brown study, and the old dull, worried look came upon his face.