Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWICE TRIED.

Waikato Times, Volume 2611, Issue 2611, 6 April 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWICE TRIED.

BY ANNIE S. SWAN, Author of " Aldersyde," " " Across Her l'ath/'" bundersd Hearts, &c,, &c.

CHAPTER XXVl.—Continued. Isabel left for Scotland that night and next day Joan wont to have a chat with Mrs. Harrington, who was delighted to see her again looking so much like her old self. " I think I must try and make out my call for Lady Finch now," said Joan, when they had talked of their more iivmediate interests. " I am quite ashamed having heen so lon fr in returning her kind visit of sympathy. Could you go with me this afternoon !" " I shall he delighted, and Lucy ■will be charmed to see you. She bas often wished to see more of you." " Perhaps we may have opportunities of meeting more frequently

now. I shall have so little to occupy me," said Joan, with a sigh. " Oh, Mabel, the house seemed very empty when I entered it yesterday. "It was hardly wise, I thought, to comc home so suddenly," said Mabel. "However, Mr. Angus will be here to-day or to-morrow, and then all will be right."

"I am anxious about him. Kitty tells me he has not been so well.

Did you notice anything amiss !"_ " We have seen almost nothing of him. He has lived like a recluse during your absence. But Ido think he would be tho better for a change. You must have a trip together soon." " Wo will see," answered Joan, with a slight smile. " Well, I shall go and get on my bonnet. Shall we walk across the park ? The day is so lovely." «' By all means," returned Mabel. So within an hour they set out in tho pleasant sunshine of that sweet May day to walk tho distance to Lady Finch's residence in Boards-man-square. Lady Pinch was at home, and very warm was the wclcome she accorded her sister and her friend. Mrs. Angus was much struck by the contrast the two sisters presented. There was not even one point of resemblance between them. Lady Finch was a tall, aristocratic-looking •woman, with a pale clear-cut face, and large, lustrous, rather melancholy dark eyes. Her manner was the perfection of ease and grace, and there was a repose about her which seemed to indicate that she had occupied a more dignified position than her sister. Although so different in every way, Joan could see that they were very warmly attached to each other. , ««I am so sorry you will not see •the children, unless, indeed, you can | ■stay and have tea with me," said j Lady Finch, after a few sympathetic remarks to her visitor. They have gone to spend the day at Hamton Court with their governess. It ibas been a promise that they should go whenever we returned to town. Alice had heard some of her Bournemouth girl-friends talking of it. They went up the river and will probably return by train, unless they ti're quickly and leave early." " Your children have been well since they came to England, Lady yincli 3" said Joan, enquiiingly. ,l Very well, indeed. Their governess and I have not acclimatised so well. I have been rather anxious about her, and I have boon only in indifferent health myself, letuined Lady Finch. "X have had some new

photographs of the children taken at Elliot and Fry's Mabel," she added to her sister. " I must let you sec the proofs. They are very good.' She opened the davenport and took out the photographs, passing them in order to Mrs. Angus, whose eyes filled at the sight of the sweet, chubby faces, remembering her own empty, childless home. Before the day was done she would have reason to bless God that it was childless now.

" And this is Amy, Mabel," said Lady Finch handing a fourth portrait to her sister. Isn't she a pretty creature 1 It was with the utmost difficulty I persuaded her to sit the day we went with the children." "She is, indeed," said Mabel, warmly. "Poor thing, she looks little more than a child.', " She is little more,', said Lady Finch. " Her health is failing. I think she feels the effects of her terrible sufferings more now even than she did at first. If we should lose her I know not what we shall do. This is my children's governess Mrs. Angus, and my very dear friend." Joan laid down the photographs of the children, and took the other in her hand. At the first glance she

gave a sudden start, and then fixed her eyes upon that sweet, innocent baby face with a stony stare. It was the same, yet not the same, but beyond a doubt the face of Amy Burnett. Fortunately, the ladies were not particularly observant of her at the time, or they must have seen something amiss. " She was made a widow under very distressing circumstances," said Lady Finch." Possibly you may remember the loss of the Sidonia in the spring of '76." "Yes, I remember," said Joan, quietly, still looking fixedly at the photograph in her hand but seeing none of it.

" She was the sole survivor. After the ship want down she was cast on some rocks near the shore, and, after fearful sufferings, was observed by some French fishermen, who succeeded in rescuing her. She was taken to the hospital, and my husband, hearing the story, interested himself about her, and took me to see her. She told usher story, and sad enough it was, too. She was an orphan, without kindred or friends, and had only been married a few weeks to her husband, who, was, of course, among the victims of the collision."

" Why were the circumstances of her rescue not reported at the time V asked Joan, a little coldly, but quietly as before. •' She was so long unable to give the slightest account of herself that I suppose public interest in the loss of the Sidonia had expired or been absorbed in some new calamity, and as the poor lady had no friends it could not matter," answered Lady Finch. " When she was able we had her removed to our house, and she remained with us ever since. She is highly accomplished, and has been invaluable to me in many ways. I could not part with her now." " You did not mention her name, I think," rricl Joan Angus, in a low

strange voice, " Amy--Amy Burnett. Mrs Burnett, of course, we call her now. Pardon me, are you quite well, Mrs Angus 1" ■' Yes, thank you, but this face reminds me of one I knew long ago," said Joan, with difficulty. " Some dear friend Y' asked Lady Finch, sympathetically. " Yes ; at least she was lost to us," said Joan, recovering herself by a superhuman effort, and speaking more naturally. " Mrs Burnett has been fortunate in meeting with such a generous benefactress as yourself, Lady Finch." " The good fortune lias been mutual," laughed Lady Finch. " I have never regretted the step we took. Are you going already 1 Dear me ! do stay a little longer. You look very pale, Mrs Angus. Let me order a glass of wine. " No, thank you; Ido not drink wine," said Joan, smiling bravely, for she must not betray herself yet —not at least until she had faced this terrible possibility—or rather certainty—alone. Although her limbs were trembling, she dared hot suggest to Mrs Harrington that they should drive home, lest she should suspect something amiss. So they recrossed the Park together, Joan trying her best to respond to her friend's comments on the fashionable crowd now thronging the How and the Promenade, When they reached Oxford-street Joan paused, and said abruptly— " I have a little to do in Fleetstreet, so I may as well go when I am out. You won't mind going home alone 1" " Not at all; but be sure and drive home. Remember you cannot stand much fatigue yet. You look quite pale and fagged already." " Oh, lam all right. I shall see you soon," said Joan, hurriedly, and, nodding to her friend, she turned away in the opposite direction. At the first cab stand she hired a conveyance, and gave the order to drive to the Inner Temple. She felt that she must know the worst—ay, ;he very worst without delay. She had had some business transactions with the barrister whose chambers she now sought, and he greeted her with cordial deference, for her name was one held in honour now, even in the high places of the earth. "Mrs Angus, good afternoon!"

he said, courteously. " What can I clo for you V' '• Only answer me a few questions, Mr Woodhouse," responded his client, with a wan, fleeting smile. "I am interested in a casej Will you permit me to state it briefly to you, and ask your opinion upon it i" The lawyer bowed. He would only be too pleased to listen and advise. " A friend of mine married a gentleman who was a widower, his first wife having been drowned at sea," she said, hurriedly. " Suppose that, after a lapse of a year or two, it should transpire that the first wife was still alive, having been saved from the wreck, what would be the position of the second wife 1" " She would have no position whatsoever, Mrs Angus," responded the barrister, promptly ; " nor any legal claim upon the gentleman so long as his first wife survives." " Then the marriage would be null and void?' "Completely so. It would be a most unfortunate position for any lady, but the law would be quite powerless to render her any help, or even to give redress," Mrs Angus rose to her feet and drew down her veil. The lawyer I perceived that she was much agitated, but had not the remotest suspicion of the truth. " May I express the hope that the case to which you have referred does not apply to any near relative or friend, or affect you nearly," said Mr Woodhouse, with courteous solicitude. " Thank you. It does affect me very nearly. I may have to see you again about it," she said, quietly. " Good afternoon." She returned his bow, walked with steady, unfaltering step down the long, wide stair, across the dim, silent Temple courts, and out into the noisy street. With clear distinctness she gave her address in Oadoganplace, and was rapidly driven home. Home, did 1 say ? What home, what interests, what ties of love or kinship upon the face of the earth had Joan Angus now 1

CHAPTER XXVII.—Dark Hours. Kitty was unable to understand what was the matter with her mistres. She had watched her wallc up the street with Mrs Harrington that afternoon, and thought she had never seen her look so well. After an absence of little more than two hours she returned in a cab, looking like a person who had been seized by a fatal illness. The face, of which something of a girlish bloom had been restored in the sunny South, was once more pallid and worn, but the anguish j written so plainly upon it was what caused Kitty the keenest distress. " Oh, ma'am, my dear lady, what has happened to you V' she exexclaimed, when she opened the door. " You look as if you had seen a ghost." "So I have, Ivitty ; so I have," returned Mrs Apgus, almost in a whisper. " Put a tire in my dres-sing-room, my girl, and let me lie down there. When did you say the girls were to come home 1 ?" " To-morrow, ma'am," replied Kitty, taking her mistress's fortvionnaia and sunshade from her

trembling hands, and offering her strong, willing arm to assist her up

stairs. "I am glad it is not to-night. We will be alone and quiet to-

gether in the house," responded Mrs Angus, wearily. " Get me something warm to drink. I feel as if it was winter instead of May."

"Will the master be home today, do you think 1" asked Kitty, when they reached the dressing-room, and her deft fingers were busy unfastening bonnet-strings and mantle. "I cannot tell," said Mrs Angus, with a low moan. " Oh, Kitty, my girl, pray for your poor master and mistress. They have need of it." Kitty, more distressed and mystified than ever, made 110 reply, but made haste to put a match to the fire, and to arrange the pillows of the couch for her mistress's aching

head. Mrs Angus took off her walking dress, threw on a loose morning robe, unfastened the coils of her magnificent hair, and wearily sank on the couch. Every atom of physical strength seemed to have deserted her j she felt weak as the veriest infant. Kitty ran for a cup of tea, which she feverishly drank, and, refusing anything more substantial, asked that she might not be disturbed.

« If anyone calls, Kitty, say I am too indisposed to appear. I cannot see even Mrs Harrington should she

come in." " Very well, ma'am, I will attend to it," responded Kitty, and she stole away rather disconsolately down stairs, wondering what new and terrible trouble had fallen upon the house.

Unable to move, Joan Angus lay with her dazed head buried among the cushions, trying, even as her husband had done before her, to think out this thing which had been revealed to her. I dare not try to describe, or attempt to analyse, her state of mind. The terrible truth involved many painful complications for her, but for a time only one fact was present to her mind—that she and her husband must part at once, and for ever. Remember how long j and how truly she had loved him, reflect on the years of her happy wifehood, on the undying and

sacred memories which bound her to him in a tie which she had hoped only death would break, and imagine something of the agony which rent her soul. She lay perfectly still while the first waves of the tempest broke over her, but the clenched hand, the pain-drawn brows, the ashen lips told their pitiful tale. After a time the other aspects of the matter began to crowd in upon her, and she realised in a flash that her life was ruined. Henceforth she must be a homeless, nameless waif, drifting alone and uncared for on the sea of life. And she had been so happy, so favoured among women, so honoured among her fellow-beings. Had she grown proud and hard of heart, she wondered, that so awful a punishment should be meted out to her ? Then she thought of her little child, and a wave of healing swept across lier. For the first} time, I believe, Joan Angus really thanked God in her heart that 1 He had taken the child to Himself. The mystery of that hard dealing was in a moment made plain, for had the child lived what name or place could he have had among his fellow-men 1 At length the over-driven brain, weighted by its heavy burden of thought, {pressed upon the eyelids | until merciful slumber came. It was the sleep of utter exhaustion, mental and physical; so heavy and dreamless that when Kitty stole into the room late at night the tired head did not even stir upon the pi.low. The faithful girl, with tears in her eyes, softly drew a rug over the prostrate figure and stole away again, to wonder anew what the trouble could be which in a few hours time had wrought so dire a change She waited until she thought her master had ample time to come from the station, should he have arrived by the evening train from uhe North, and then, after another look at her still slumbering mistress, she retired t® rest. About four o'clock she heard her mistress stirring, and at once sprang up and ran down to light the kitchen fire, so that she might have soon her much-needed breakfast.

The early sunshine was streaming in at the window when Mrs Angus awoke, and, rising slowly, she dragged her feeble limbs across the room, and drew up the blind. Oh,

how fair the sweet summer morning, how bright the sunshine, how green the leafy trees in the gardens, how loud and glad the singing of the happy birds ! What a mockery it all seemed ! For the first time in her life Joan Angus closed her eyes to shut out what had ever given her the keenest delight. Bhe walked back to the couch, sat down, and, folding her arms across her breast, stared in a vague, dazed way before her- A new day had begun—the day on which, probably, Robert would come back. With what words would she greet him—in what words tell him of the blight which

had fallen upon them? Would it not be better far, she asked herself, to go away before he came, leaving an explanation behind ?• Would they not thus be spared needless agony 1 Prudence said it would be the wiser way, but heart whispered no. She must see him once more. She must creep into his arms and lay her head a moment on his breast; she must hear a word of love to carry with her into the desolation of the future. They must look into each other s eyes once more, reading there true, abiding love—ay, for the last time. Not one gleam of hope was cast upon the darkness —it was a vast, intolerable, rayless despair, encoir.passing her like the blackness of eternal night. The weary day wore on. Only once did Joan Angus quit her dress-ing-room, and it was to wander vaguely and aimlessly through the house, perhaps to take farewell of all that had been associated with her lost happiness. It tried her strength, for when she again returned to her own room she was "lad to lie down again to rest her trombling limbs, though there was no rest for the throbbing brain. In the afternoon the other two maids returned to their duties looking forward to brighter days, only to find that some new and heartbreakI ing cloud had fallen on the house. Towards evening a strange, deep peace seemed to come upon Joan Angus, a preparation, as it were, for the keener ordeal she had yet to endure. She was resolved to be calm, to spare Robert the sight of the anguish which she could carry with her into the dim shades of the desolate future ; she would do her utmost to soften the blow for him. The day wore on, the sun sunk slowly to his rest 'mid a blaze of golden light, and the sweet summer dusk stole softly, tenderly, over the mighty city. The stars were trembling in the cloudless sky when Robert Angus, with show and heavy step, came up the quiet street to his own door. He had thought himself strong to tell Joan the truth, but now, when the ordeal was so near, he shrank from it with a great shrinking. He pictured the radiant face paling at the cruel words ; lie pictured the light slowly fading out of the sweet, serious eyes ; he saw the beautiful, sensitive mouth quiver with pain ; ay, lie saw it all. There were no lights in the front windows. Dining-room, drawing-room, and study alike seemed to be in darkness. What did it mean? Kitty answered his knock, and he wondered why the girl looked so anxious and pale.

"Ah, sir, I am so glad you have come back," she said, quickly, " I thought you never would come. This has been such a long, terrible da y-" • 11 T " Why ! Your mistress is well, 1 hope. Why is the house in darkness ? What has happened !" he asked, quickly. "Mrs Angus is not well, sir. She has been very ill since yesterday. I think she has had some bad news or something. It is a terrible trouble, any way," said Kitty, anxious to prepare her master for the change in his wife. " Where is she ?" he asked briefly. "In her dressing-room, sir. _ I think she expected you about nine to-night. Robert Angus did not hear the latter part of the girl's sentence, being already half way upstairs. The door of the dressing-room was a little ajar, and a broad line of light shed by the glowing fire was oast upon the crimson carpet on the landing. It's velvet pile deadened his footfall, and he reached the door without disturbing the inmate of the room. He saw the recumbent figure, the dark hair lying loosely over the white dress-ing-gown, but he could not see the face ! He entered the room, closed

the door, and his wife sprang up. "My darling !my darling ! Has the blow fallen already ? Am I spared the pain from which, God help me, I have shrunk too long 1" he cried, hoarsely, and gathered her in his arms as if he would never let

her go again. For a minute or so she lay still in his arms with her white face drooped upon his breast, so still that he was afraid. " Speak to me, Joan. My wife, my darling!" he said, almost wildly, " Let me see your face. Wliat is it has happened to you 1 Have you found out what has made the past few weeks one prolonged agony to me V'

"Kiss me, Robert, only once," she said, in a low, still voice, and raised her colourless lips to his. He kissed her not once, but again and yet again, calling her by every endearing name, until at length she drew herself very gently aivay. " Let me go now," she said, very quietly. " Tell me what you were talking about 1 ? What blow do you refer to 1 "Do you know that Amy Burnett, your former wife, is still alive ?" " Yes, I know. How and when, my poor darling, di d you discover it f he asked, controlling himself by a mighty effort, " Yesterday at Lady Finch's. You knew she was there ? How long have you known it?" she asked, in low, clear, passionless

tones. o "Since the day Eric died," he t answered, almost as one might have f' to a judge. f " That is three months ago. Why r, was was I kept in ignorance so c long?' * "Joan ! —wife ! Don't look at me j_ with those eyes!" he exclaimed Y hoarsely. " Oh, my darling, if you i only knew how I had been tempted i and tried. I could not have told | you then. It would have killed c you." t "I—l thought you loved me," 1 she said, unsteadily, but swayed a j little where she stood, but when he would have put an arm about her she waved him back. " You have < allowed me for three months to occupy a false position," she continued, I and her clear eyes looked bright and fearless into his. " What have I done to be so treated ? Did you not know me well enough to feel sure that any certainty, however terrible, would be preferable to that V' "Do not be so hard upon me, Joan. Let me plead my case with you. I have been weak, erring, unjust|to you if you will, but it was because I loved you. Look at me, and tell me if you think I have not suffered " " How long would you have continued to deceive me had I not discovered the truth for myself ?" she interrupted. "Bo more merciful, Joan!" fell hoarsely from Robert Angus' lips. " Believe me when I swear to you that I was on my way to tell you the whole truth. My father knows, so will his wife by this time. Do not let me plead in vain for forgiveness. Oh, my wife! my wife !" " Go —away —for a little, please, if you love me, Robert," she said, with great difficulty ; " just a little while, please. I must be alone. I cannot bear it." Her look was so imploring, so ! intense, that he dared not demur or 1 disobey. When she was once more ' alone, a great dimness came before ' Joan Angus' eyes, and she sank on ! her knees before the couch. The > final blow had come, the idol she 1 had set up for herself to worship 2 was shattered to atoms at her feet. f The husband she had adored and i reverenced, as a king among his t fellows, a man upright and honour- >, able above any she had ever met, s was only common clay. She bowed her head upon her i, clasped hands, and one voiceless o prayer ascended from her breaking ,t heart —" Let me die!" t ( To be continued.)