Our Novelettes. IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE?

Bruce Herald, Volume XXII, Issue 2263, 8 May 1891, Page 5

Our Novelettes. IS MARRIAGE A FAILURE?

1 What made no difference, 'papa dear ? '

' Th&tl had no money- to give you. .Didri't he jtell youP people , talked tibqat.me as a, rich maa, J Mary, .and you , • were, Qalled t.nheiress. "I'let'theni 'talk. It didn't "hart ''my, 'little firli" But I had to tell Harvey. ji t:e wasn't very prosperous himself, and Ddareßty he had thought-Tr-r But he iß) an, honourable paan — a good fallow — it .made no difference to Harvey.' jt> „ # ; ' But/papa, have I nothing, then— frothing! ? It doesn't mut'.ef, dear; 1 ddn't be vexqd dbout lfc Only—only I thought X was rich-i-I thought I should make him i rich., I talked of it — I would sp< nd money — I should have been different. I don't mind being poor, papa, only I should have been different with Harvey.' ; ' She waß silent, considering this new and melancholy light in which, she saw herself and her husbar.d. She had been thought an heirees, and she had filled the role naturally enough. Thinking that she t>ok Harvey a fortune, she had been astonished at, and a little contemptuous of, his carefulness in money- matters She had spent money lavishly at Branford, as she had been accustomed to spend it all her life. She had frettei ihat no carriage had been kept for her, the had felt aggrieved that the household was not on a more extravagant scale, she had despised those efforts towards watchfulness in domestic details which Harvey would have encouraged in her. And now it was his money which, she was spending, throwing away, wasting — the money for which he wrote weariedly ni^ht after night, burning the midnight oil. Looking back in diegust upon thii», Mary, his wife, had to admit to herself that she had Deen — matrimonially considered— not only a failure but a fraud. ' Things have gone badly with me of late years, Mary,' her fnther was saying, while these things were ruuninu through her mind t very badly. Your mother knows a little, but not all. I baven't talked about it ; I've loved peace, Mary. I hope che'll forgive me, when I'm gone, that she has been> so to say, in the dark. She has her own little portion — a couple of hundred a year cr ao ; she can manage, and it can't be helped. I've dove my best, only thing's went badly. But you, my dear — I'm more put out about you 5 1 should like to know you're safe, out of harm's way. I should like to see Harvey. 1 Within twenty-four hours Mr. Waters was dead ; that oft-repented phrase, ' I should like to sre Harvey, 1 had been his last conscious utterance.

Chapter VII., and Last. It was in September that Mary Cooke had left Brunford for Orawley Hall ; it was December now, and Crawlcy Hall was a thins of the past. The Hall and the heavilymortgaged estute of Mr. Waters had passed into other hands, and upon that loved home of her childhood and happy girlhood poor Mary had looked her last. She had looked her last on happinees too, she often thought despairingly. The days, so dull and dark and cold, brought only weariness and sadness and continual fret and worry as they passed. She longed each morning for the night, when she could be alone to indulge in her secret thoughts, when she could at last escape from her mother's anxieties, regrets, upbraidings, continually-paraded troubles, and stretch her tired limbs and close her aching eyes, and go from the carking cares of the present back into the happy past. Mrs. Waters did not bear her reverse of fortune with dignity; she suffered a good deal of course, and she did not suffer iv silence; she considered hers«lf to haTe been very hardly dealt with by fate aod her late husband, and she did not scruple to say so. Because Mary, tearfully or indignantly, defended her father, Mrs. Waters had lately grown into a habit of assuming an injured or a bitterly-aggrieved air towards her daughter. The two Indies ha' Uken up their abode in a pretty little house in a quiet seaside place about twenty miles from Crawley. In her childhood Mary had bepn accustomed to spend the hottest weeks of the summer in this place ; the house fortnod a portion of her mother's small property, and the plan of going there in the changed condition of things had suggested itself at once. I It was only a very small house, wedged in i among some much larger modern ones ou the I lately built parade ; it had one bow-windowed sitting-room, looking out on the sea, and in this Mary stood before breakfast one wintry desolate morning, waiting for her mother to come down. It had rained heavily in the night, and she had lain t.wake listening to the monotonous dreary patter upon the window-pane. Across the wet parade the sand was blown and sodden; far off the sea was fonly dimly visible through the hazy atmosphere— gray moaning sea, gray pitiless sky melting each into each. Mary watched a broken-kneed horse staggering up from the beach, dragging its heavy load o? shingle, encouraged in its exertions by kick.s from a feeble old man in charge. The plight of the miserable-looking animal went to Mary's heart, so easily melted now, grown so pitiful of suffering. As sne was turning away from the window the postman came up. Her heart almost stopped beating for the moment, then throbbed all the faster, at the sight of the man. Only a newspaper that morning ! He handed that into Mary at the open window. Each morning brought anew tbe disappointment, to which she bad not yet grown accustomed, of no letter from BranfnrdIt was not until Mrs. Waters had come down and they were seated at breakfast that, having poured put the tea, she glanced at the superfoription of this paper, and found it was addressed to herself in a hand ahe did not know— found that it was * Branford paper. She opened it hastily enough then, and saw a paragraph marked with a blue pencil. ' Mamma,' she said, in a startled voice— 'mamma, oh, John Cook is dead! Mr. John Cook, mamma— Harvey s uncle ! Oh, I'm sorry ! He was fond of Harvey— so foud of him! How dreadful! Let me see— what does it say ? Died, in Milan. In Milan, mamma-rwhy is that ? Why dtdn tbe die in Branford? It will vex Harvey horribly to think 'he wasn't near him. 'Immensely wealthy '—of course we'know that; ' charifablo disposition— loss to Branford.' That's all it says. , Fancy -his. being dead, mamma ! , ; • Whom has lie left his money to ? That ,8 the chief thing to consider npw, I suppose, Mrs Waters inquired.' ' "■' She was greatly impressed; she sat and lookdd across at- hex; daughter , with, ft great deal of speculation in her- large, prominent eyes. All sorts of possibilities were pjursing through her mind. ' " ITo Harvey— every penny of it, Mary 1 said, putting away tho ; paper. 'lean tell yuuthatb, mamma j Harvey was like a son to him.', Then after a pause* during which she had sat staring with wy^a out : .upon the far 6s' misty Bea; ; 'shb said 'musingly, •HarVey won't need to work so' hard uny longer; he used to lo^k &o J: t,ire.d out and,-rr and depressed O soraietime/j. ..When. rf one has only been happy and bright 'all one a life one doesn't pympathfee perhaps with thoße phases of feeling.' There she 1 stopped, bub to herself she eftid;M- understand; them now

In tbiir little hbusebold Mrs. Waf ka Was' quite useless; it was Mary who w.as Housekeeper* financier; ooofc j ever f day ' Her mother,, atnicl ''her 'other i lamentations, bewailed the necesßityv'that compelled one >of "theni ;! fc6 db thi*. .[She. was always predicting. that J Mary/e : hands would grow Jeßs fwhitejlihafiJier 56m- : p1exion would be .spoilt iOver. th,e kitchen fite; [ , >' ! htt,ti i dpee, it f matter, mamma (deat^o'v the; gir} said.,; WJiat eppdL^aa, mjicbmfll^ion or. ( my; ,whi,te ; r h l a,naß,eyer ; do^e-me ? 7/ j}i;qn3 f ,tljiß. (Irae 1 forth,, a^' r aj^y jate. jthoy; can^^BpQf.jJlo "service. ' Aiid I want to dp | ljhese .bnjngsrI want to learn. ,1 was so stupjd,, BCrphelp-. .less, 'such— sUch^ a mili-stbiie Jto, haiig^ rpund anybody's neck'l' ','.''' ' ' ',' For all along th'ere'had l)een a .hope in Mary's' BreaaK A plan had formed itself, in •her mind which aloue kept Ber from despair through all t>at dreary time. Tl ' l 'This is my education,' She said-' to I herself. 'All' the rost was nothing — wofße than nothing. It only made a fool of me. It was bo much more weight on Harvey, dragging him back. I will work with hand arid heart au,d brain., I will read, the things he oared for; I will think, I will try And then one day— roh, a long time hence ! — somehow I wjll say to him that I atill am not much — my capabilities being BO^small, but that I am better, and am very sorry and very weary ; and may I dome back ? ' It was this which had been in the background — kerping her strong and capable, while her mother fainted and was useless, holdfng her up and putting life into her through that dreary winter. Of a sudden, as she put on her hat and fur-lined- cloak to brave the elements in search of the. simple viands for the little household's, .dinner, the thought occurred to her that tbia hope was blighted now — that that secreily cherished plan w,aa destroyed. John Cook's death had done this for her. It was with a very lagging, tired step she descended the stairs. Is was a very pale, dispirited face that looked on Mrs Waters, £ititin^t)he. Branford paper in her hand, over the fire.

'Mary, come in a, minute,' her mother called. 'Did you see, my dear, that John Cook died on the thirteenth ? More than a week ago, you know. I wonder Harvey did not write to tell you of it.' Mary 'a pale face {flushed under her black hat. • ' Harvey write!' she said. ' Mammn, you never expected Harvey to write before —you never mentioned it. Why should Harvey write? ' , Mrs. Waters paused a minute, her fiugers bpa'ing a tattoo on the paper. She looked aidewiys out of the window rather than at her daughter as she spoke. ' I think it is time that jou wrote to him, Mary.' ' I, mamma ? '— trerublinsr, gazing in astonishment at her mother. 'lean never write to Harvey now.' ' Why not ? You mu?t do what is reasonable. Harvey is a rich man now, I suppose. He is in * position to make jou thoroughly mmfnrtablf. Things havo quite ohanged. Tais is no home for you now that your husband is a man of wealth. Money alters people — he is very likely much improved, and, if nor, a fat sorrow is better than a lean oae. Ours is a very lean sorrow here. I wish you to write to him and express your willingness to return. If you prefer it, I will write.' ' Mamma, you shall not ! ' ' Shall not, Mary ! Is that the way to speak ? Because I am poor and alone, because those who should have loved and protected and provided for mo have, brought me to this pass, is my daughter to adopt that tone? Who has been your best friend and chief adviser through life r" ' Who took, your part against your husband aod prevented your being trampled under bis feet? Who had the courage to fight your battle alone and single-handed, and to drasj you away from a terrible position ? Who came between you and your husband ' 1 You did, mamma,' Mary interrupted, very pale, but quite firm and bold ; ' and what you did then I will abide by now. I will not write to my husband — you shall not.' Then she turned, anJ, pulling her cloak around her, walked to the door. As her hand wa 1 * on the lock, she turned round for an instant a^nin, and. with quivering' lips and tears in her eyes, she gave one fierce stamp of her little foot. 'Do you not see that now he is rich I c»n never wiite to him ? ' she cried ; pnd then she pulled the door to behind her an 1 walked blindly along.

On the same day, as the short afternoon waned towards dusk, Mrs. Water?, sitting alone in that low bow-windowed room she so hated and despised, comparing its proportions continually with the lost grandeurs of Crawley Hall, was startled by the ringing of the hall-door bell.

' It is the stupid milkman,' she said irritably to herself. 'Heis an hour earlier than usual, and Mary is out, and that disreputable little maid at whose mercy we live has gone to chango her dress; and he must go away with his milk or keep on ringing.'

That she herself could, however low she had fallen, condescend to answer her own door-bell had not at present occurred to Mrs. Waters.

But it irritated her very much that the milkman should keep his place thero, and ring so long without results. She had her writing-case before her, and was composing a letter which required some thought, and which it w*» absolutely npcesaary to have Written and posted before Mary should come home.' Whenever the door-bell rang, she started, the one in her own room as an additional incitive f'o Charlo.tte up-itairs to hurry with her toilette. That independent little maiden apparently took the hint at last. Mrs. Waters heard her muttering vengefully to herself as she ran down-atairs capluss, and fastening the i last button o£ her dressj angrily to throw open tho hall door. , . ' , It was not; tlie milkman after all. Mrß. Waters heard a voice at whose tones, with a gasp and a cry and a hand'upon her heart, she dropped the pen from her fingers and fell back into her chair. Charlotte, suddenly grown respectful in tone, and feeling apologetically for her cap, had admitted ' a straDge gentleman of vary distinguished mien, it appeared to her unBccustomed eyes, clothed in black. Now, pushing open" the door of the sitting-room, Bhe ushered this same-stranger, unannounced into the ppesencei pf : he^ .mistress. , „-, Bach lqoked at the face of the other for/an instant without apeecb, each finding traced of change, troutye, and grief there. JJn.,MrB Waters case these bad been borne in' a spirit wliioh/lhad. 'left its mark on her altered features— a spirit "of useless bitter repining and discontent. Since Hareey Qookhad seen his , redoubtable mqther-inrlaw lastT^proad-and.eelf-wiHed and. intolerant of qd' position—; muoh havoc had been worked in ' her, 1 handsome face atid form; - '■ ' "■

He too had suffered, and been hard 1 and I bitter and proud. With all the passion of his heart he had hated thjs wpojan bafon» h^m-j ,— be had .meant to bite her to ihe end ; but' 'tye was 'better than his -resolve. He looked at her in her' v widowfs 'Cap— 'the! one© fanitlivr face so strange and unfamiliar in the little [crampai rooji —^nd r silently: held put- his 1 band. , ..'■;.. , ; ' ! .^Thereupon Mrs. / Waters, Btill holding it, laid- her ; head upon her writing-case ; and burst intd bitter noisy weeping. /■

Li Harvey sol tened/s till morb. He laid his

other" hand' Eoothingly upon her heayingJ Bhbulder;' j!WV; '■'■' ''' : ","'' : ' . i 1

'I am so torry! '• he;said. .'I hayg. been 'abroad. 1 ■! read of his ddoth in an Englißb ipap'ef ;i but that) Was all; I knew nothing more. I went : dtfwn to' ; Crawley yesterday— r ihey ; gaveina your addrtßS.' u'jl have, nothing ; he left me nothing,' Mrs •Waters sobbed. o ' I Have only a few paltay ip^unda-Qf my own. Mary has had to work like a common eervarit. I do, not. know thit ; we cßneven kcepthis, roof over our heads for lone-' • -„'..., ". • ■ ■ i He drew bis band away as she hystericaljy made., this exaggerated t statement, and m doing so' dJßl6dged the. piece of paper cjn which she had begun to write. Stooping to" pick it up, he saw his own name written there.

• You were going to write to me,' he said quickly — ' why ? ' •To tell you what you ought to know — tbat Mary is ill. 5 ' 111 ! ' Mary would have been from that instant a happy woman if sbe could have heard the tone :'n wbioh he said it. ' What is the matter with her ? '

' She is killing herself, that is all ! ' Mrs. Waters said, sobbing still, but rtsignedly. She raiaed herself from, the table and lajy back in her chair. ' She is a shadow of he,r old self — thin and pale as a ghost. No wonder— she cries through half the night ; I hear her. lam not like yto sleep with my troubles on my mind ! To-day not one morsel of "food have I seen cross her lips. She wishes to die, I suppose, and leave me quite alone. Not long can she live, I am convinced, like this.'

1 Ani you didn't send forme! Why was I not told ? '

' I was just writing to tell you ; but against Mary's wish — without her knowledge — she forbade me. She has become very selfwilled and unmanageable. I asked her to write herself ; bub she refused. This very day she declared that she would rather di« than write to you.' • And the doctor— what does he say about her?' 'The doctor!' Mrs. Waters said, wiih bitter contempt of her poverty. 'How do you suppose we could afford a doctor? ' 1 Wh^re is my wife ? ' Harvey asked, hoarsely. He hud walked to the door and looked back with m serable bardly-restrained impatience upon the woman by the fire. Since she had brought them to this — her, who was his heart's beet love, and himself, for whom life was empty, losing her — why did she not take him at once to his wife's bedside that they might be together sfc least there?

'She ia out,' Mrs Water's answered, wiping her eyee. ' Out ? ' — puzzled but infinitely rel'eved. * But you said she wn* ill ? ' ' f siirl su ; it i< or c of the many pom's on wliich Mary find Ido not o^ree. I say that she is ill ; she says she is not ill ; and she ooes out by the hour together, to wander goodress knows where, on such a Hny as this.' Harvey Cooke glanced at the window. Dusk had come on quickly j soon it would be quite dark ! it had begun to rain since he had come in — he knew, because the wind dashed some drops against t'ia pxne as he looked. Taking up hi-* hat, he passed quickly into iho little hull.

'1 1 is so that she has taken care of my wife ; ' he said bitterly between his teeth.

In the hall Cha r lotte waited to open the door.

'Have you nny idea in which direction Mrs Cooke is likely to have walked ? ' he asked hor. ' I atn Mr. Cooke.'

' She's on the beach, Mr Oooke,' Charlotte said. She supposed that, he had told her his name because be wished her to use it, and she did so with enthcuiasm. ' I Bden Mrs Cooke from the top window, goin' along toward the" jetty way, Mr Cooke. It's wonderful lonesome along the beach at this hour ! '

It was lonesome. The rain beat against Harvey's face as he went across the sand and shingle to the smooth hard beach, and then it bent upon that cheek nearest to the sullen moaning sea. He walked beneath the black archos of the jetty, looking eagerly into the darkness a* lie got beyond it for the figure ho knew. The rain fell faster, stinging his cheeks ; the black cloud whence it came hung over the landscape like a pall. He thought of the golden-haired girl ho had known so long ago in her petted sheltered life — of the love and care which had been bestowed on her; and she was ill and alone and unhappy in Buch a desolation as this !

' Mary — my wife ! May Heaven forgive me and forgive us all ! ' he said, speaking the words aloud to the moaning sea and the black sky, peering eagerly, anxiously forward as he ran.

He could see nothing ahead of him ; but presently, higher up on the shingle, he heard the sound of light footsteps and made out a slight, black-robed form going in an oblique direction from the sea to the parade.

< Mary — stop ! ' he cilled ; but his voice, dulled by the wind and the roar of the sea, fell indistinctly upon her ear. She had b^en frightened by the loneliness and swift-falling Harkness ; the hailiog voice frigh f ened her still more. She increased her pace without turning her head, and, hearing footstpps coming in her direction in pursuit, ignominiously took to her heels and ran. The otb<°r, running figure gained upon her, callin" to h«T again to stop. Is was like a nightmare to Mary. Panting, breathless, sha ran, her tired feet flying over the shingle and heavy loose sand. Never, never, however wretched she might be, would she come down to the beach ar dusk again ! Thank Heaven ! She was upon the firm ground of the para Jo. Five minutes sill from horne — but soms dim lamps had been lighted here, shining upon the wet deserted road ; people near at hand would hear her if she screamed. He— this dread pursuer — was beside her in the same instant (hat she gained the road-, kie hand touched her cloak. ' Mary ! ' he said. The scream that she had been trying to repress until ah* reached the neighbourhood of the houses burst from her then. Whether she did not recognise his voice, or, reojgnishu it, was startled injo the cry and into the^ terrified bound with which she sprang across the ro^d, she oould not afterwards tell. She turned with her back against the stone wall that separated the Victoria Hotel froua ths parade, and, leaning against it, confronted him. The light from the window of the hotel and frotn the gas-lamp above her head fell upon her face. Q-haslly pile it was— j drawn, altered for the moment out of all like- j ness to the girlish soft smooth loveliness of 'the face he remembered. 1 He stooped and looked at her, and felt his ■heart sin<c with drea<i as he looked. He took her bauds— ice-cold ; the eye* that stared into nis were glossy in their terror. What her mother had saii was terribly c >nfirmed— she was ill ;> she might be dying before him, • so ghastly did she look. With hardly a moment's pause, while he thought these things he drew har away from the wall and led her, lea ing ogainat him, to jone of ihe bow-windows whose pleasant light streamed outiupon! their pith.' The window, opening to the ground, was unfwtenedi Harvey /pushed it bock; laid his wife upon a so a, and rang the bell. ': . (To be continued.)