A JEALOUS WIFE.

Auckland Star, Volume XXXVI, Issue 78, 1 April 1905, Page 14

A JEALOUS WIFE.

By NORA VYNXE (Author of ''The Blind Artist's Pictures."' etc). The conversation fell dead when Mrs Trudon entered the drawing-room. Tlie silence was almost visible; Mrs Trudon for half a second seemed to be. looking a,t. it, recognising it. and shrinking from it in acute pain—not with sudden shock, not in surprise, that was the most pathetic part of the incident, but rather with an intensification of habitual pain. They were talking of Dick again, her heart cried out, and in the last word my the sting, bnt she was the lirst to dispell the painful silence. '"I had to wait twenty-five minutes at Clapham Junction, and I lost my way twice coming here,'' she said gaily. "1 shall want a veiy great deal of tea, after that, Mairaie." She kissed her hostess with a laugh on her lips, and sat down deliberately in a very comfortable chair. "You shall have it fresh and hot," said her hostess, with a cordiality that almost seemed like gratitude. "I rang for fresh tea- a moment ago." "You must have had a prophetic inspiration." said Mrs Trudon, "to order it exactly in time for my arrival, und sec, here it is!" as the servant entered. "What were you talking about when 1 tame in, Maimie?"' Mrs Ballanger wai? equal to the occasion. "As a matter of fa«t, Alice, we were talking about you." she sakj. A whimsical memory came into Alice's mind of the statement of a certain magistrate, who. in trying a- ease had remarked that after the expression of "As a matter of fact." he invariably expected a deliberate, falsehood. "Well, confess," she said, "confess the worst: iv any case I shall have to forgive, you. because I shall want a second civp of tea—-very likely a third —after all my wanderings and sufferings." "I was saying," said Maimie Ballanger, "well—it was horrid of mc, Alice, and not true a bit, but I was saying that you don't very often come to see your friends nt Balham now you live at Campdcn Hill." All in the room -were intimate and old acquaintances; all but one simply gazed iv admiration at Mrs Ballanger's cleverness. She had given a reason quite bad enough to justify the sudden silence, and yet pardonable. They did not recognise that if cleverness made the excuse, it was something beyond and above, cleverness that appeared to accept it with just enough reproach to convey reality. "Oh, Maimie, when yon know how careful.of myself I have to be just novr." "1 was a brute," cried Maimie, "aad. I deserved to have you come just at

the moment and make mc feel a fiend."

"And all the while I" was wandering bj- myself in draughty streets on my way to you — or waiting at Gla.pham Junction." . '.',''. "And that in it-self is enough to kill any woman, not to speak of you just now. Have a glass of wine, Alice, that will do you more good than tea-mo, dear- you must have got chilled through and through waiting at the station." "I will, I think. It will feel so disreputable to sandwich a glass of wine between two cups of tea that it will be about the same thing as being 'smart.' I've always longed all my quiet wellbehaved life here to go to those, dinners that were, so smart that they besran witl". it slltte ot melon and stopped hthWats that T tbouatlt we shoniu he, asked 1 ] '.: InXllGflfllllllll to dinntTs of th._-T, sort." ■ Inwardly something Stlipjtl jfj hPT" ul'JllU said to her: "Why did you not think before o»f sayijjj- I>ic-k--> name aloud, and then you cOllld liaVC (JOllO WitltOUt ilie Wine? It has quite pulled you together.; say it utrairl Dic-k. Dick. Dick."' It was like the throbbincr of the pulses in her head, only it hurt .=o. Why in the world should it hurt so much now— j she had surely known the truth for | "Oh, drink it now I've brought it." ; So she drank the wine, talked.gaily I with the little group of old friends and • school-fellows for quite as long a time as j any one who had to change at Clapham j Junction could be expected to stay at j Hal ham, and then took a laughing farewell and started for the station. "Poor girl," said one or two of the other visitors in chorus. "Maiifaie, you did splendidly." "All the same," said Mrs Ballanger. "I think she ought to know, you know." "Then why didn't you tell*herr' ask- | ed one among the group bluntly. ; "I couldn't. Miss Daly," h aid Mrs Sal- : langcr; "it was quite impossible." '"Poor Alice, she has had a disapI pointing maj-riage," a sharp-nosed, overj dressed woman said complacently. j "First to think that she was marrying j a rich man '" "Mr Trudon wasn't a rich man," said I Miss Daly. j "Well, lie was the heir of a rich old woman, and he had a big allowance from her. and they took it for granted thai be would be a rich man. It must have, been hard when tbe old aunt died to feel rea.! want of money."' "Not. so hard as to tind herself deserted for a vulgar woman like that ,Mr= Mascot," said another. ""But yon say thai, she does not know anything about Mrs Mascot." said Miss Daly. The others turned to her impatiently. How could an old maid, such as Miss Daly, understand the affairs of married worora of three or four years' experience '.' "Of course, a married woman would know if she is neglected or not, though she may not know for whom or to wliat extent," said Mrs Ballanger patronisingly. Miss Daly felt properly snubbed, and got up to go. Her way home led past th< station. What if that poor wife who had been so easily deceived by her friends were still on the platform. Perhaps if the poor girl knew the truth things might improve. Perhaps a husband who might hare been faithful was drifting into unfaith for want of a Word—left helpless to a temptation, through the pride of the woman who bad promised to be his helpmate, just u-s long ago—well not so long a<j-:>. just now it seemed no more than yestcrdav—a lover had failed because a girl had been 100 proud to show that she eared. Little Miss Daly ran up the steps into the station. Mrs Trudon, with white set face, paced up and down the platform. She did not see tbe thin little figure that approached her till it was within a step or two. Instantly—mechanically— a smile covered the paleness of the despairing wife's face. "Why. Miss Daly, I did not know that you went by train, or I should have waited for you." "I. don't: 1 came to speak to you," said Miss Daly. "They did not tell you the truth just now. that was not what they had been saying " "Oh. it did very well," Alice said lightly. "Maimic never was quite a female George Washington, you kuow. One must take her as one finds her.'' "Don't you want to know the truth?" cried Miss Daly. "I don't want anything very much just now except my train," said Alice. "Ah, it's signaJled!" "They were talking about your hus- , band." said Miss Daly, firmly, "and though I make an enemy" of you, I'll tell you. If you don't know"what ia going on you should know, and if you do —OhTniy dear, do something—make an effort. If a man is leaving Ids home and walking blindfold into bell, has his wife no duty to him? Does no blame rest with her if she is too proud to hold out a hand lo stop him?" "You dear thing! but you are talkinononsense, yon know, absolute rubbish! Mrs Mascot is a client of my husband's." "Ah, then you do know* who it is!" cried Miss Daly. "My dear, be brave: fight her, my dear; she is old, vulgar, not"—Miss Daly hesitated and blushed "not altogether respectable, and you are young, pretty, a lady, and soon you will be the mother of hi.s child. You really onght not to have come out to-day, you know, but since you are out. finish. Gome to my house—rest there: We will watch for your husband, aud when he passes to go to that v.-oman's house, well waylay him, bring him in. and you shall talk to him—hold out a band "did I say—why, I would cling to him hand and foot—fling my arms round his neck lay hold on his very soul and honour sooiier than see him go over tbe precipice." The little woman bad laid hold on Alice's hands. She drew them away firmly. "Let mc go, Miss Daly, you don't know." ■* . ■" "Yes. I know now. just because I did not know oner*. What's pride worth when a man like Dick is in question? I know what he was because he was always so nice to mc. One judges a man by how ho behaves* to the woman he isn't in love with, not by how he behaves to the one he is. Dick's a-rood fellow— the bjst fellow in the world." "He is. so don't misjudge him. dear Miss Daly, you are making" mc miss my tr-un," and wiih a smile on her face xMice held out a fairly steady hand in farewell and mounted to the railway carriage. She was not alone in the compartment. There must be nothing in her •face or bearing to betray her. It was j quite possible that among the people ; there, might be someone who knew her ■ by sight. So she retained the smile on j hsr fsce by force and sat stiff and upj right in the middle of the seat. "I know no more now than I've known this long while," she tried to say in her heart. But it was not so. She did know ; more—for now she knew that she knew;

she could no longer hope against hope. : She knew that everyone else knew. ' That Dick did not care if they knew, since he carried on the liason in a popu- < lous suburb where she was well-known, iand he was known at least by sight to her friends. And Dick's child* was coming to a heart-broken mother and a father who "would have ho welcome for it. Cling to him!— Plead with mc? Had clinging and pleading ever yet held a man when love was gone. No. let her keep her pride, it was all that she had left. And then suddenly the amazing pitifulness swept over her like a flood. It was as if she stood apart from llfTfiClf and saw the whole story. fJSSIiTII Xbe- young tired drud-rc with honiC" lllade ('lollies and rOUgKened rmjerer-ends, deserted for a, well-to-do raid.dle-a£:etl demi-moudaine, A ffiW months after their marriage X>ielc*s Aunt had died suddenly, just as she was about to settle a fortune on her HGphew. rather than let him inherit in duo course, and when lier affairs eante to be looked to no trace of her fortune could be found. Suspicion jjoiated at her trusted man of business, who had had a long interview with her on the morning preceding the night of her death, and had gone home, buying a revolver on his way, and been found shot through the heart in his study next morning. No inquiries threw any light on what had become of old Miss Trudons money. Probably it had disappeared long since, and she kept pacified by regular payment of supposed interest, until the time came when she wished to make settlements on her nephew—but in any case it was gone, and Dick Trudon and his wife lost their prospects and their allowance, and fell from poverty lo struggles. It was bard for both of them —Dick did his'best, but a lawyer cannot advertise for business like i\ tradesman, and iudced it was less likely to come his way now when be was poor and needed il, than when he was well-to-do. but in these eases the brunt of the battle is always borne by the woman. Alice had to make the same appearance on a bare third of the means—be. her own cook, dressmaker and parlourmaid, without ceasing to be the social success that had made other men so envious of Trudon's good fortune. It takes a certain amount of cleverness to cook a dinner; it takes an equal amount to be a bright and sparkling hostess. When a woman does the two for long it kills her. Alice had done it for a year and now a child was coming, and her husband was ceasing to love her. For months she had watched the thing grow. She remembered the first time Dick had gone out after dinner to sec a client. She had been pleased. The thing had happened again and again. She had still been pleasant. Then she had found out it was always the same client, and that the , client was a lady. She had been silent. How long the time seemed between the first torturing doubt, and the later torturing certainty. But she could still be silent. Suddenly she remembered bow there had been tears running down Miss Daly's we.ather-bea-t.en little, face. The memory came nearer to making hei break down (ban all her own misery. But. she mils I not break down, for at any rate Dick would lie at home , this evening. There should be no , scene. If Dick had done her this horrible wrong she would die. but she would noi complain. She reached home and her first care ! was dinner. All was as it, should be. Mediocrity can stay by the lire and cook a dinner, genius ciui make such i arrangements that dinner left to itself will be in a perfect state at a given , time. The cheap soup, the 1/9 frozen Russian fowl, were just as they should be. and in ten minutes she was in the, drawing-room in a pretty demi-toilette! and with a bright face, and even the roughness of her finger-ends disguised i with a little violet powder. There was a id amorous knock at the door and a telegram was put into her; hand. "Dining with a client: may be late.— Dick." ' So she had not been hopeless after all till this minute. There had been enough henrt left to die now in agonising pain. Had that poor old maid who had cried known for certain where her husband would be to-night, when she had refused to heed her? Why did we pity old maids? They weve wiser than wives, and happier. She was in the ball, a warm cloak ] thrown over her frock, the little cheap maid who washed and broke, the dishes and cleaned the boots staring at her and inquiring if she should serve the dinner. "No. put it away till to-morrow. Cook yourself an egg and a slice of bacon for supper. Your master wishes mc to meet him in town and dine there." The hall door shut behind hen There was an interval that for Ihe rest of her life was blank to her. and then she stood on the lawn of a bouse in the. suburbs and saw straight in through level-drawn Venetian blinds to a cosy, well-lighted room, where a man and a woman stood. The man, young, athletic, silent, with a face that would excuse the trust of any woman: tbe woman older, handsome, painted, and sending forth a shower of vehement words. The man had tho grace lo look ashamed. There was no comfort in that; but she hated to see him look ashamed. He spoke. The painted woman answered. He spoke again, and what he said pleased hei-. She answered in a few wor,ds, and hearing her joy, gratitude, admiration, tenderness, all showed in one splendid flash in the man's face. With a cry of delight that sounded even through the closed window, the man sprang across the intervening space and clasped the painted woman in his arms. Neither heard the. low cry ontside nor the dull thud as a crouching figure swayed and fell among the laurel bushes. Dic-k Trudon was even later than his telegram had suggested when he slipped ' his latchkey silently into the hall door. His idea was. to creep silently upstairs to avoid waking his wife. But the moment the door opened he knew that something unusual was going on. The little maid was sitting on the stairs watching for him. She came forward breathless with red eyes. j "You're to go into the study and wait 'there. The doctor wiil let you know." "My wife!" It was a breathless, hurried exclamation. The girl answered it between her sobs. "She cam* ho*me between nine and ten, -sir, awfully ill, and saying the was go-

ing to die—and I ran for the doctor and he came and sent for a nurse—and please, r sir, I'm afraid there ain't no hope." He moved towards the stairs, the little girl staved him. "They said *it would kill her if you went up sudden; that's why I waited here-" He stood silent. Good God! This I thing —so commonplace —that happens to almost all women —happens as a matter of course—a theme for laughter, jokes—congratulations. How horrible it was really when one knew. He stood leaning against the bannisters. Tlie clock struck more than once, hilt he. was imt mi JjtjWf JMHte on the landing. *.! , M o *"ls it ovorV M t_--_3 "Yo-s. I can do no -more. X-tie ctuld may live with m!' ■■■My -nrif c! " '-you see her. It can do no harm now, but I warn you it is serious." The two men were face to face. It was as if the man's heart and soul had , rnsh.d already to his w-ife, but a stern will stayed his mere bodily presence half-way. "Will it lessen her chance if J see her now ?"* "No, no, nothing can do that, so, who j knows it may not do good, and even if not, her last few minutes- " , Trudon waited for no more; he was in the room. The white face on the pillow looked dead already. At bis, presence something waked in it. but not love or welcome—only pain. "I am dying, Dick.'' "No " There was such quiet determined force : in tbe one word that the nurse, busy with the child at tho further end of the ! room, raised her head and listened; ! after all, there might still be something for her to do. i "No," and a strong tender arm had' raised her head and a strong tender grasp taken the weak hand, where the wedding-ring was slipping over the thin fingers. j "No: you've been dying all this time, dear, of poverty and struggle and anxiety, and I've seen it. though I've said nothing till I could do something. But you won't die now" it's done and the good time come.*' lt was not pain now, but an overmastering desire to know what he would say that brought life back to her face. He was looking at her with a calm cheerfulness that nothing on earth could have broken down because instinct told him that it was the one thing to help her. "I'd disappointed you once by telling you that 1 was going to give you a pleasand life, and you bore it like a heroine, but 1 saw what courage was costing you, and I threw my whole soul into finding what Fleming had done with Aunt Mary's money. I found he'd been privately married for years, and had settled money on his wife, and I got to know her and played at being a detective. I thought her an accomplice. I got lier confidence. She told mc that she was sure that her late husband had money at the time of his death, and employed mc to look for it. She was a vulgar, good-heart-ed, estimable, impossible woman, and at last I grew ashamed and told her what I suspected about Aunt Mary's money, and tnat gave her the clue. My name had meant nothing to her. because all my aunt's fortune was still invested in the trade name of her late husband. We got on the track, and we've found it." "And then?" The nurse knew that tbe question was not asked in the voice of a dying woman, and slipping the baby into the cradle, went downstairs to order beef-tea aud tell the doctor. Dick Trudon heard the change in the voice too, and went on with the story that had caused it. unconscious that he was speaking his own defence. * "Why. then. X was more ashamed of myself than I hope. I'll ever be again. It seemed that my aunt gave him directionsjto sell: he sold under the name that we j did not know—the poor old lady was very sensitive. about the way her late husband made his money. So he took home the money because it was too late to bank it, buying a revolver on the way because he was nervous about having so much in the house. We got so far as this last night. To-day his wife—his widow, I mean—smashed all the furniture in the study till she found the money, and then telegraphed for mc, and all but flung it at""me. "That's where my shame came in. I was wild with delight at finding the fortune, and all she thought of was that finding it proved that her husband had died by accident—an honest man, and ) that the verdict of suicide under a cloud j could be contradicted publicly. ! "Of course you kissed her?" It was a verdict of acquittal. He did not know that, but he knew that tho faint suggestion of humour in the voice meant returning life. "Kissed her! I took her in my arms, false haii- and shaky h's and all. I hugged her. and we sat up half the night going into papers to see how much of the ■ money she found was hers. Some of it is, I'm glad to say. You're glad, too, I know. 1 say, there are some good old ; souls in the world, aren't there?" A humorous memory of tears running down a dear wizened little face ran in tbe wife's mind. It was strange to think just now how delightful it would be to ' tell her tbe truth, but she had said that Dick was a good fellow all the while. '"You're quite right, Dick," she mur- ! mured, "I shall get well." "Of course you will: you won't desert mc; how could we have borne things all the while if we hadn't known that neither of us would fail the other." Tbe wife smiled silently in his face, ; knowing then that the one thing that could atone for her doubt of him was silence. Though the longing to confess tore at her heart Dirk must be left his faith in her. he must never know that bers in him had failed. Her punishment, must ■ be to bear her own knowledge ill silence. ■ He must not know that he had told her of anything more than the good news of prospcri t*>. 1 The nurse came back: her instinc;: had led her to the chicken broth, which only needed heating. Then there wa-s tbe baby to look at and kiss, and then quiet sleep, with a happy husband close at hand, and after that, health, love and perfect confidence. Rut the doctor was perplexed. "Queerest recovery I've ever had," he said. "It couldn't have been the mere presence of her husband: that was a matter of course, tbe servant said they had dined together that evening. First she , was mysteriously going to die without any particular reason, then she changed her mind without a scrap more reason. , There's no accounting for women."