The abandoned farm, and Connie's mistake

by Mary Jane Holmes

He could not wait, after his interview with Hal, but had taken the first train for New York, reaching the city too late to see Connie that night. But at the earliest possible hour in the morning he had found her, and was kissing her again and again, and telling her it was all right, and she lay passive in his arms, and did not ask for an explanation. He said it was all right, and she knew it was, and could wait until he was ready to explain. He omitted the revolver part, but told the story much as Hal had told it, while Connie listened with surprise and vexation at her own credulity in believing that the rite was valid.

“I was very foolish, almost imbecile,” she said, “or I should have known better. But I was utterly ignorant of law or marriage contracts, and he was so persuasive, and I believed he knew everything. I never received his letter; if I had, it would have saved me much pain; but perhaps I might not have gone to the farmhouse, and you——” she added, nestling closer to him, while he rained kisses upon her upturned face.

No words of betrothal passed between them. She knew she was his, and he knew he was hers, and the day passed rapidly, with nothing to mar their happiness except the knowing that Kenneth must go back to his patients, whom he had left too long.

“I shall come again soon and many times, and in September you will be my wife,” he said at parting, and with this thought to cheer him he took the night train for Millville, where he was sorely needed.

Harry was very ill. His constitution, which was never very strong, had been undermined by dissipation, of which Kitty suspected nothing. She knew of absences from her of two or three days on business, he said, and that these absences were always followed by terrible headaches and a painful state of nervousness. Added to these sprees, and they were nothing less, were his financial troubles. He had counted on Kitty’s money and lost it, and had very little of his own left. He loved luxury and must have it at any cost. His house and furniture were mortgaged for all they were worth, and he had no means of paying the three thousand dollars to Jones, unless some speculations in New York turned out favorably. He had sent Kitty on in advance, while he stayed to try his luck again. He tried it and lost, and was a totally ruined man when he came at last to his handsome villa, knowing that payment would be required in the autumn from Jones, at least, if from no one else. He dreaded him the most, for failure to pay him meant trouble for his uncle, who had endorsed his note. This haunted him constantly, and it was more than the baby’s colic which had kept him awake the night of Kenneth’s return. He had not slept for three nights, and his encounter with Kenneth had added to his nervousness, which finally culminated in a violent chill, which came on a few hours after Kenneth left him. In great alarm, Kitty summoned the doctor, who prescribed some remedies, and said, as he gave directions for their use:

“I am going to New York to-night and shall not be here to-morrow.”

“Oh, Dr. Ken,” Kitty exclaimed. “What if he should shake again and you gone? Must you go?”

“Yes, he must,” Harry answered for him. “I am all right. He is going to see Connie. Give her my respects,—yes, my love, if Kitty don’t mind. Good-by, old chap. Almost a pity you didn’t take aim.”

This he said too low for Kitty to hear, and these were the last really rational words Kenneth ever heard him speak. He did shake many times while Kenneth was gone, and the chills were followed by a raging fever, which was delirium when Kenneth returned. They had sent for Dr. Catherin, and all which the skill of the two doctors could do was done, but nothing checked the fever, which was scorching Harry’s life-blood and taking compound interest for all his excesses. Sometimes he was perfectly quiet, but oftener he talked of things poor Kitty could not understand, and Kenneth only in part. Sometimes it was of Monte Carlo, where he had played heavily and lost, and again of places he had visited in Paris and London, of which he did not wish Kitty or his aunt to know. Then it was of the Alps and the bowlder and the prayer she said, and which he could not say, and the letter she did not get, but which he certainly wrote, and of the revolver which he seemed to think was always aimed at his heart.

“I tell you it is there,” he would say, when Kenneth tried to disabuse his mind of the idea. “Pondy is holding it, and by and by he’ll pull the trigger, and presto, we two will be enjoying ourshelves immenshely.”