SNELGROVE'S MARRIAGE.

Hawke's Bay Herald, Volume 14, Issue 1159, 7 June 1870, Page 4

SNELGROVE'S MARRIAGE.

- IN EIGHT r CHAPTERS!-— CONCLUSION. ; 1 .-'....-. (Erom .Chambers' Journal.") One morning,- Mr. Snelgrove found at his office aWaiting a>' letter, urgently entreat- • ing him t'o-proceed afc once to Liverpool. Ifc appeared : that his uncle, -Mr. Joshua Snelgroye, the head of the House of Snelgrove*/; and the leading representative of the family ? s ; businopS' in various parts of the globe, : had- been seized with paralysis, and was in a precarious state. Such a. summons it was of course very necessary -to : obey forthwith. Mr. Snelgrove determined that he .would at once pack, his portmanteau, and journey to Liverpool by the mid-day train. If possible,* he would have avoided first calling at his house 'in'the Regent's Park ; but he felt; he could hardly present himself afc his uncle ? s : residence— for the Snelgroves lived after a stately fashion in the north, as became the dignity of their position in the mercantile world — without his dress clothes; and it so -happened that. those garments of his had been left at. his villa residence". Ifc wa,s unfortunate, because he foresaw the* probability, -almost the certainty, of a*■ scene -" occurring with ]_hr wife on the subject of his departure — or generally in reference to the very bad terms now subsisting between them. Howeveri there was no help for ifc. He hurried from the City in a cab. Entering his "-ho Use, he saw nothing of his wife. He'cbtocludedi with some glee, that she was froni home ;^ he made no inquiry of the servant. He was bent upon availing himselfof the opportunity to pack up his clothes' and the few things necessary for his journey, and to retreat quietly. He proceeded to his "dressing-room, and was busy with the straps of his portmanteau when she entered. ; She wore '•_ shawl huddled round, her ; seemed, indeed to be in a feeble state of health. She had been strangely pale until she perceived her husband ; then an angry feverish flush burned in her cheeks ; her hands moved tremulously, andtbere was a quavering in her voice when she spoke. "You 1 herej" She spoke angrily, yet with hardly her wonted vehemence. " I'm going away directly." " 1 thought! I should have died in the night," she said. " I was obliged to send for Dr. Joyce, I've been so bad. Much ydU'd have; cared, though, ifl had died." He Blight have seen that she looked wretchedly ill, but he hardly glanced at her. Indeed it had come to this with him BOWj'that he was 'quite heedless how she looked. '•*' Where are you going ? " she demanded. ' " Out of town." ■'-< Where to?" " That's my business." ' "You mean, to say you won't tell me ? " She laid her hand upon his arm ; he shook himself free, not violently, however. ~ : "-I mean to say it doesn't concern you. I wouldn't go if Lcouid avoid it ; but I can't; It's, a matter of importance — but it's nothing to you.'; "James ! " ' There was something pitiful in her tone; ib was subdued, plaintive, and there were tears in her eyes for a moment. (If he had but seen them — if he had but looked towards her — listened to her ! Surely 'fie -might have softened; some remnant of tenderness latent in his breast Would have quickened, and he might have thought of her again as he once had thought; of her. But, no doubt, the gulf between them was now very wide — needed a very liberal measure of forgiveness to bridge over or close it. And his own misdeeds sundered them as well as hers. Besides, he was much occupied with his packing. '-"'Toil won't tell me where you're goingP" " Why should I?■ What is it to you ? I shan't be absent more than, a day or two, I daresay." "Am. I hot your Wife, James ?" He was tempted afc once to ■ say " No," and apprise her of her real position; but it was inanifesfc the time was ill suited for an explanation, or the discussion — the "scene"- — which would' inevitably follow ifc. To escape as quickly a3 possible was then his prime object; so he did not answer 1 her question. "'- She stood for a moment or two silent, irresolute-; twisting her hands together as though she were in some sort wrestling with' herself. She looked more pained than angry ;' yet there was an air of effort about her. "And I may nofc go with you?" She said this rather pleadingly than reproachfully. , " You ? No ; certainly not," he an-, swered bluntly. He met her look just then, and started a little. He was surprised, perhaps, afc the expression of her face : — sorry., it might be, that he had replied to her with so little consideration ibr her feelings. Still, consideration as to ' each other's feelings had been at an end • hetween them for some time now. Again she seemed to be struggling with " herself— tb subdue the promptings of her temper — to repress words and acts which she khew it would be better not to utter or do. Again she laid her hand upon his arm. /'Praybe quiet," he said petulantly. "I'm in a hurry. I'm going to Liverpoor if you must know, on business ; but ' it's nothing' to you. I've really no time to discuss the thing with you. I shall -have finished in a minute, if j'ou'll only' leave me in peace. What is the use of. • going on like this, Eliza ? No use at all ; you know ifc isn't. For Heaven's sake be quiet, and let me alone. . ' If he thought, by naming Liverpool as his place of destination, to pacify her, he was mistaken. She didn't believe him, ""for one thing; for another, the concession '* was made too- angrily and insultingly. _ his wrath,' as it were, set her's aflame. .' iShe lost command of herself ; her passion " mastered her. She poured forth one of . her old tirades : she- denounced anew his cruelty, his treachery, his baseness. She forbade him to quit the house ; she de- .'. cla'red that whither he went she would follow, though.it was to the end of the world ; and defied him to do his worst. "' She snatched from his hands the clothes 'he was packing, flung some -about the room, rent others in pieces before his eyes. She would -teach him, she said, to illtreat his wife.' Finally she sat down on the .portmanteau, and dared him, at his peril, to lay hands upon her, and thrust her ,_. from it and displace her. His face- was white with rage and shame. Time -pressed ; ifc was useless, he 'saw, to continue the contest. He had now to think of escaping even with the los_ of his baggage. He quitted the house ; she followed him, pausing for ia few moments to make some additions to her dress. He drove in a cab to the Great -Northern -Railway ; she chased him in another 'vehicle. He was delayed by a ! little -crowd of travellers afc the bookingoffice;' he was just securing his ticket _ 'when he ; perceived her approaching him. -'- 'He hurried on to the platform — dodged j ;-- round; the book-stall — made his way into ; one of the ; waiting-rooms. He had evaded "y;her. ; ■__ rom^ ; his' hiding-place he caught a ; ''-glimpse bf her running in a wild disheveled state^^ a mad woman, as it seerhed "to him— up and down beside the carriages; searching, inquiring, arresting . guards, and porters, and policemen ; questioning them, and, by dint of promises o

reward, as ifc seemed, enlisting them in her service. He waited a moment, to assure himself that she was fully occupied, then stole from the station, and ran swiftly towards the New Road. Presently, he hailed a cab, and was driven to Euston Square. Ho proceeded to Liverpool by the London and North-Western Railway. He was too mortified to feel any triumph ; indeed, ifc was nofc possible to derive satisfaction from the issue, however successful; of such a conflict. Bufc he was now very determined to put an end to the situation out of which the conflict had arisen. Ifc was quite clear that such a state of things could not be permitted to continue; lie must acfc now, it was very certain. The truth must be told— his wife must be informed that she was not really his wife; and they must live apart for the future. He would deal generously with her : he was prepared to settle a handsome annuity upon her — she should want for nothing. She might, if she so chose, continue to occupy the Regent Park Villa ; only, thenceforward, they must not meet ; their union was at an end for ever. That was certain. So ho determined — travelling to Liverpool in the train. j Arrived, he found his journey vain in this respect : Mr. Joshua Snelgrove had breathed his lasfc afc an early hour thafc ! morning. The head of the great House of Snelgrove was no more. He had died at an advanced age, and, ifc was understood, possessed of enormous wealth. James Snelgrove was cordially received by his relatives in the north — the greetings interchanged being, of course, of a sombre and subdued kind, as became the occasion. Still, he was made really welcome after his journey, and much thanked for the promptness with which he had undertaken it, notwithstanding its futility. Ifc was regarded as a compliment to the departed, albeit one he could not now, of course, appreciate. The Snelgroves of the north, although they carried on their business in the heart of Liverpool, yefc lived on the Cheshire side of the Mersey, in a grand white house, surrounded by park-like grounds — quite what auctioneers call " a gentleman's residence, replete with every comfort and luxury " — for they were people of unquestionable dignity and position. Joshua Snelgrove had leffc many sons and daughters, and had provided abundantly for them all. James was struck with the good looks and graceful bearing of his cousins, the daughters of the House of Snelgrove ; for the possession of unlimited wealth by a family for some generations does as much, perhaps, in the way of refining and cultivating it, especially in regard to its female membors, as noble lineage aud blue blood. A century of wealth may be backed against much ancestry in this regard, particularly if the last representative of a noble stock is left unfortified by fortune. There is virtue, no doubt, in the cry of " noblesse oblige," but money can provide the influences which render life refined by surrounding it with delicacies, and shielding it from contact with the gross and tho humiliating ; whereas the burden of poverty must ultimately constrain the noblest-born of shoulders to stoap, and the fight for life leave its scars upon, and coarsen as with campaign hardships, the manners of the most eminently descended. James Snelgrove contrasted mentally the method of life of liis northern relatives with the economy of his own existence in Loudon. He thought with a shudder of the scene he had goue through in tho morning— of the so-called wife he had with such difficulty escaped from. What if his elegaDfc cousins were to learn of his exploits in that respect! How little they really knew him ! How they would chango towards him if the story of his marriage were revealed to them! how they would, and with what justice, despise him ! The lies he had told to explain his want of luggage ! He had said that in his hurry his portmanteau had been left; behind at Euston Square, or, by some mistake, removed from the train at Crewe Junction. How ashamed they would feel oi' him ! How could he ever have looked to their recognising Eliza Hobbs, aud admitting her to the family circle ! He must havo been mad — stark mad — when he ventured upon thafc preposterous angling expedition to Barbel-le-Minnows, and married the barmaid of the Jolly Anglers. Thus, thinking, beforo the post went out, he wrote to Mrs. Snelgrove. He informed her briefly, yet clearly, and not uukindly, as he thought — apart from the main unkindness of writing afc all-— of the flaw which had annulled their union. •He concluded with a promise that although ou this accouut, and by reason of [-their habitual disagreement, they must certainly live apart for the future, still he would take care that everything reasonable should be done for her comfort and welfare, &c. He couldn't sleep that night — not merely because he was occupying a strange bed ; but his mind was in a cruelly disturbed condition. He tried, ovor and over again, to persuade himself that he had only done what every other sensible man would do under like conditions ; still he felt — remorse. He couldn't bufc think of what his feelings had once been for Eliza Hobbs ; surely he had loved her — surely for a term they had been happy together. No doubt their marriage was a mistake, and had brought much misery upon them both. But was she only to blame ? Was she to bear the whole burden of shame and suffering that must ensue from their separation P Was it fair? Was ifc honest? Was his conduct worthy of him ? Might he nofc have shewn towards hor more forbearance aud consideration ? Had ho not widened the breach — encouraged the difference between them — infuriated her j — and aggravated her in many ways ? Of what could he accuse her? . According to her lights, she had striven to bo a good wife to him, and to make his home happy and comfortable. Was she in fault thafc her views in this respect were those of the station from which he had taken her ? Well, there was her temper, no doubt. But was it not his doing that he failed to ascertain the nature of her temper before ho had asked her to become his wife ? As he pondered and questioned himself, he felt more tenderly towards her. Something of his old love for her stirred again in his heart. After all, what were his cousins ofthe north, and the elegance and state in which they lived, to him, James Snelgrove, of Feuchurch Street ? llc saw them but rarely, afc long intervals. Why should they and their prepossessions and views como between him and the woman who was in the sight of Heaven, if not precisely by the laws of his country, his wife, and withhold him from doing his duty as au honest man ? Finally, it seemed to him that ho would willingly have surrendered all ho possessed if he could bufc have recalled the letter then being whirled Londonwards by tho mail train from the north. He slept at lasfc, worn out with fatigue. It was late when he rose. He found upon the breakfast-table a telegram, in the official . envelope of the j Electric Telegraph Company. The SnclI groves were business peojilo, accustomed ! to such communications : they wero nofc ' surprised that a telegraphic message should have arrived for James Snelgrove ; they j concluded it bad reference to affairs in 1 j_.ne_.urc_, Street.

It was sent to James Suelgrove from George Joyce, M.R.C.S., in the neighborhood of the Regent's Park villa, and was briefly worded : '* Come back. "Wife very ill. Dead child born this morning. Little hope of recovery." From the time stated upon the telegram, it was clear that the message had been despatched some hours before Mr. Snelgrove';? letter to his wife, posted overnight, could possibly have been received by her. Ifc was deemed by his cousins nothing extraordinary that James Snelgroveshoulcl desire to return forthwith to London. They had been long schooled to think that business was business, and must be attended to. Besides, his presence was needless, until the funeral, six days later. He promised to return in time to take part in the obsequies of the late Joshua Snelgrove. At the door of his house, James Snelgrovc encountered Mr. Joyce the medical practitioner; his looks were grave, and he shook his head solemnly. " I wish you'd been at hand," he said. "Hot thafc you could have been of any use : everything possible has been done for our poor patient. Still, it's always a satisfaction to parties afterwards to think that they were at hand." " She's" and Mr. Snelgrove stopped. " Gradually sinking, I'm grieved to say, not a doubt of it— and delirious. I've been up with her all night. I'm only going home now for a few minutes, just to shift my clothes ; I shall be back directly. Quite a hopeless case, I fear." "And— the letter I wrote last night?" this was breathlessly asked. " I didn't hear of any letter," the doctor said indifferently. " But I'll be with you again iv a fow minutes." Mr. Suelgrove entered the house. He found the servant crying. " She's asleep just now, poor thing — worn out, quite." Had any letter come ? he asked. She didn't know — she wasn't sure. Stay ; she thought one had come. If so, it had been carried up-stairs into her mistress's room, as usual. Had she received it ? had she read ifc ? he asked himself. Why, ifc would kill her outright iv her present state I How bitterly he repented having written it ! " How is she now, Mary ?" Yefc he could hardly force himself to attend to the servant's reply, he felt so giddy and bewildered. " She ain'fc spoken a sensible word sinco she came home yesterday morning, and went off in a dead-faiut. She was lightheaded after thafc. I went for Dr. Joyce, for I saw what was going to happen. She was quite raving most part of the night, poor soul. And to think that the dear little child — a boy, it was, sir, born just on the stroke of three this morning — to think that it should never have drawn breath ! It's enough to break any one's heart. And she'd so set her heart upon its being a boy !" He went upstairs, trembling in all his limbs. He found his wife terribly el a iged, with a deathly look upon her face, asleep, breathing slowly and faintly, as though the task of life were almost beyond her strength. Was this pale shadow of a woman his Eliza, from whom he had escaped under such painful circumstances but a few hours before? He should not have known her ! That a little time should have made so great a difference ! In an agony of alarm, ho glanced round the room, examined tlie top of the drawers, the dressing-table, the mantel-piece — he could see no letter. Then he sat down beside her bed, to await her wakening, or the return of the doctor. Heaven! how slowly the minutes seemed to pass. Did ever man feci so wretched as he felt then ? He sat leaning forward, hiding his faco in his hands, utterly miserable. Presently he started ; she had moved, was awake, looking afc him with strangely frightened troubled eyes. Then a curious smile of tender recognition quivered upon her gray parched lips. No word was spoken. He was bending over her. She raised herself partially, with his aid, and rested her head upon his shoulder, thou buried her face in his breast. Once more there was love, and love only, between man and wife. She was sensible again, and knew him. He took her hand in his, shivering as he did so, for he heard the crackling of paper, and perceived presently that she held the letter he had despatched from Liverpool the night before. " Thank God !" he murmured. The seal of tho letter was unbroken. Amid all the a-j.ony of the moment, he was nearly fainting with joy afc this discovery. "It's all over!" the doctor said solemnly, when he entered the room a little later. Sho had died in her husband's arms, loved and forgiven, forgiving and loving him ; knowing nothing of his cruelty — of the accident which had made him, in truth, not her husband, according to the strict letter of the law. What cause he had to bo thankful thafc, afc any rate, remorse on that score was spared him ! His sorrow, his penitence, was extreme and genuine. He began to feel now thafc the poor dead woman — with all her faults, and it has been fully shown that she had many — was yet dear to him. Ho began to feel that he would give much — very much — if she could bufc live again ; if tho events of the last few weeks, described in these pages, had never really been. For a time, ifc seemed to him as if his happiness, aud his every hope of happiness, had gone from him, absolutely, for evor. 110 might have sung with the poet, but that ho knew nothing of the lines : — And I think in tlie lives of most women aud men, There's a moment when all would go smooth and even, If only the dead could find out when To como bau'c and bo forgiven. He still lives ; still prosperous and busy, bufc sobered, saddened, and improved by this grave episode in his career.

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