Vexed; or, The Wife's Sister/Chapter 5

AS the train came to a standstill at the Warburton station, Miss Darcy, looking out of the window, was rather alarmed to see her brother-in-law alone to meet her.

Kitty, on some slight pretext, had excused herself from the drive.

"How is Kitty?" were Albreda's first words as she alighted from the train.

"I don't quite know," was the hesitating answer; "I can't quite make her out. It is a great relief to me that you have come to look after her."

Albreda, with her quick penetration, was a little startled by the tone in which this was said. She could not help looking at him rather sharply.

"Do you mean she is ill, Graham?"

"I hope not, but she seems rather depressed."

​He did not seem to wish to continue the conversation, but remarked upon the country, and pointed out any objects of interest that were passed in the long drive.

Albreda answered mechanically; she was full of anxiety for her sister, and was not satisfied with the way Graham had spoken of her. Were they quite happy? Was he considerate and careful of her? It was odd that he did not mention her again, and the vague suspicion shaped itself into almost a tangible fear by the time they had reached the house. Kitty was not at the outer gate to meet them, but as they drove up she appeared at the door.

Albreda did not wait for the steps to be fitted on to the phaeton; she was out in a moment, and had taken her into her arms. In the joy of meeting her again and the happy rush of sisterly love, she did not at first notice the forced response.

"Well, Kitty, I've brought you your nurse, you see," said Graham, hoping to find her more cheerful.

"It's very good of you to come, Breda," she said, without looking at her husband.

"Good of me! Why, Kitty, you are growing quite polite."

"I mean I hardly thought you could have left papa."

​There was something different about Kitty; Albreda could not hide it from herself. She spoke in a strained way, which was quite foreign to her. She was either ill or troubled, and the thought was agony to the sister.

"What a pretty home you have, Kitty!" she said, as they took the usual evening turn round the garden after dinner. Graham had left them to water some plants.

"Yes, it is very sweet," Kitty answered.

"I think you and Graham ought to be perfectly happy here."

"Well, I suppose we are."

She was holding her sister's arm, but presently withdrew her hand and walked with her arms crossed in front of her. Her answers were short, and she did not seem inclined for conversation, so they walked on in silence for some time. It was difficult to recognize her pliable features wearing such a look of determination.

"Are you feeling better than you were when Graham wrote, dear?" Albreda asked at length.

"I have not been ill at all."

"There is something wrong, darling; tell me what it is."

Albreda put her arm right round the slight form, in the old motherly way. Kitty was on the point of tears.

"I will go in now," she said, hurriedly.

​"Don't go just yet, Kitty; I want to talk to you."

"Not now, Breda. Let me go; I am tired." The tears were coming fast. "Don't come with me; I would rather be alone."

Albreda walked slowly round the garden to meet her brother-in-law. She felt distressed and uneasy, and was puzzling over the possible cause of Kitty's strange conduct. As far as she could see, the fault did not lie with Graham, who was as tender and thoughtful for her as Edward Foley had represented him to be. She longed to talk it over with him, but felt a delicacy about beginning the subject.

He met her, swinging his watering-pot as he came.

"Has Kitty gone in?" he asked, disappointed to find her alone.

"Yes; she felt tired."

"She saw me coming, I suppose."

He had put down his can, and was standing with his hands on his sides, looking on the ground.

"Albreda," he said, looking up suddenly, "be a true sister to us—find out what is wrong with her. A few days longer of this misery will kill her, and me too, I think. If I don't please her in any way, for goodness' sake find out for me; she won't say a word to me." He stopped, ​and the wretched look on his face instantly disappeared; Kitty was coming up the path.

He hardly knew whether to meet her, and stood irresolute for a minute.

She did not wait for him, but ran and put her arm in his. The action was so refreshing—so like herself again, that Graham took hold of the little hand that lay on his sleeve and kissed it passionately.

She had been crying again—the same bright spot burnt on her cheek—but the kind tears had done their work and soothed the pain at her heart.

"I've come to tell you not to love me, Graham. I'm a wicked, undeserving wretch."

"Is that what you came for? Then you might have spared yourself the trouble, Kitty."

"How good and forgiving you are, Gray!" She leant her head against his shoulder.

"I've got nothing to forgive, darling; I am the culprit, a great clumsy, lumbering fellow displeasing you, and not even able to guess how."

"It isn't that, Graham; you have done nothing. It was only a wicked spirit in me; but it's gone now. Dear old Breda," she said, giving her sister, for the first time, a really warm kiss, "can you forgive me, too, for being so horrid?"

There was no need to ask the question of ​either of them, and so it was all right, and the days passed as peacefully as before, and no one referred to the past sad time; only Graham still wondered and puzzled over the cause.

To Kitty he was bright and full of fun as ever; but alone, or with Albreda, the one question came again and again, and he could only answer it in one way. He felt sure that she had had a return of the pain which had before so alarmed him; and yet, when pressed to tell him, she always avoided a direct answer. She did not notice any change in him, but he continually watched her, anxiously consulting her sister if he saw any signs of languor.

"I wish you would eat more," he said to Kitty at breakfast one morning.

He had noticed her pretending to be busy with her plate, and in reality taking little.

"I don't seem to want it, dear," she said. "I suppose it's the spring weather."

"Do, for my sake," he urged.

"Very well, you tyrannical man; I suppose you must be obeyed." She smiled at him, but he was not satisfied. It was a forced smile.

"I shall stay at home this afternoon," he said. "I think a walk in the fields would do you good, and everything is just in perfection now."

A month had passed since Miss Darcy's ​arrival. To Kitty Heathcote it was outwardly a month of no particular importance. Indeed, Albreda secretly wondered to see her settling down to such a quiet, uneventful life. And yet, in reality, it had been a time of inward conflict so stern and momentous that all after-months would be affected by it. She had struggled with that terrible demon Jealousy.

Baffled at first by her better judgment and positive faith in her husband, the demon had returned again and again, and when all reasonings were unavailing she had still one unfailing resource. Alone in her room, confessing her helplessness and the power of the strong one armed, she committed her cause to the Stronger than he, and then came down calm and fortified. But, strange to say, with the knowledge of such protection always at hand, she oftener ventured her own poor strength against the enemy.

All this suffering served to deepen and steady her character, and as that changed so did her face. Already, in one short month, there were pensive lines that had never been there before, and an altered look in her eyes. Graham had been startled on this very morning by that look. He could not say what it was, but it frightened him.

"We'll take a nice ramble in the fields," he said again.

"I hardly think I shall be up to it to-day, ​dear," returned Kitty; "but there is no reason why you and Breda should not go."

Albreda, on hearing her name, looked up from a letter which she was reading. She had considerable difficulty in collecting her thoughts sufficiently to return an answer. "Do come with us, Kitty," she said.

"Well, I will start with you at any rate, and if I am tired I can turn back."

When Graham was going off to his morning occupations, he found that Kitty had stolen quietly out through the conservatory door, and was waiting to walk with him as far as the gate.

"Why do you look at me so?" she said, avoiding his eyes.

"Partly because I love you so, dear one, and partly because I'm a little anxious sometimes, Kitty."

"Do I look different, Gray?" she asked.

She lifted up her face and let him look at her. Yes, she did look different; not less sweet—prettier than ever, he thought—but paler. Again, however, it was her eyes that struck him as changed. They were grey eyes, usually full of life and fun, but had never boasted the depth that belonged to Albreda's. But now they seemed to have darkened and deepened. In reality, the bright distended pupils were the result of the constant fluctuation of feeling that ​Kitty had passed through, and the severe nervous strain consequent upon it.

"I wonder what you would do without me, Graham?"

He had not answered her last question, but was still looking at her intently.

"What do you mean, Kitty?"

She saw the pain in his face and would not say what she had intended, so she went on—"The days seem so long while you are away. Must you go this morning?"

He was sorely tempted to yield, but there was much on the farm that wanted his direction, so he could only promise to stay at home in the afternoon.

"You have Breda to keep you company while I am out; you never used to be dull with her."

"I sometimes think I would rather be quite alone, Graham."

"No, Kitty; it would be very bad for you."

She watched him down the road as far as the turning, and waved to him whenever he looked round, and then slowly made her way back to the house.

Albreda, as usual, had undertaken the task of housekeeper. Not that she loved it—what woman does?—but it was, perhaps, less burden to her than to her sister.

It certainly seemed peculiarly light and plea​sant on this particular morning, for she went about it with the consciousness that there was something to look forward to afterwards. In fact, she had another letter in her pocket—not unread this time, but a letter that had borne the test of reading and still satisfied her. Edward Foley hoped that he was not to be disappointed of seeing her before he left England, and, if agreeable to Miss Darcy, intended to run down and pay the Heathcotes a short visit.

So ran the letter; but, short though it was, she wanted nothing more. The month spent with her sister had not been uneventful to Albreda; but again it was on a hidden, inward stage that the story of life was being played. With that certainty that had taken possession of her so strongly before, she had not once doubted that a crisis was at hand, and had gradually been preparing herself for it.

Her first impulse was to tell Kitty. In the old days at home they had never hidden any such interests from one another; but as she emerged out of the precincts of the red baize door, she was wondering whether her sister would be quite inclined for the communication.

Albreda would not admit that there was anything like an estrangement between them now, and yet she felt that the old perfect confidence of the past was wanting. It sometimes seemed ​to her almost as if Kitty tried to be loving; but she accounted for it as Graham had done, and feared with him that she was suffering, and would not confess it. Now, as she came into the morning-room, Kitty was lying on the sofa.

"Shall I read you some of my book, Breda?" she said. "I feel too tired to do anything else, and if you are working, perhaps you would like it."

What an extraordinary book for Kitty to choose! At home she had always scorned philosophy, and could not tolerate Albreda's dull books. Now she was reading "The Mystery of Pain."

"What makes you choose that book, Kitty?" said Albreda, drawing up to the sofa, and caressingly smoothing back her sister's hair. She was yearning over her, and longing to find out her secret, so that she might be some comfort.

"Oh, I don't know, Breda; it seems congenial, somehow."

"It oughtn't to be congenial, dear, unless you are suffering in any way."

Kitty did not answer, but kept her eyes fixed on her book; but presently she laid it down, not wishing her sister to notice how her hand trembled. She was wondering whether it could be possible that Albreda suspected what was troubling her. It was so unlike her to leave any important questions undiscussed.

​She and Graham had often had great political talks in the days when he came as a visitor to their home, and Kitty had pretended to be jealous when Woman's Suffrage or the Franchise Bill took up too much of their attention, and left her out in the cold.

Now it almost seemed as if they must have come to some arrangement not to mention the passing of this Bill before her, and her poor foolish little heart could only conjecture that they were both in favour of it. It was true that Albreda did carefully avoid the subject. She felt it an awkward question to discuss with her brother-in-law, and as Kitty never read the papers, imagined that she had not even yet heard of it, or, if she had, was in no way interested.

The touch of Albreda's soft hands on her forehead had revived a spark of the old undoubting love, and Kitty was trying to summon courage to brave a question that might lead Albreda to speak about the Bill. At last she said with a great effort, "You seem to be giving up your politics; I have hardly heard a discussion since you came."

"Indeed, I am more interested just now, I think, than ever before."

Kitty was hardly prepared for this answer, though she had half dreaded it.

​"Why are you so interested?" There was a sort of gasp in her voice which made Albreda look at her; but she hid it by pretending to cough.

"Well, there is so much that concerns women especially going on just now, and you know I always get worked up if I feel that our sex is being wronged in any way."

What did that mean? Kitty wondered—it sounded comforting. She put her hand up and moved Albreda's hand so that it covered her eyes, and stopped the throbbing behind them. "Have they been passing any unjust Bill lately that makes you angry?"

"Yes, iniquitous." It was said in the short, decisive way that was Miss Darcy's characteristic tone when roused to a sense of injustice.

The quick tears rushed to Kitty's eyes and forced their way drop by drop between Albreda's fingers.

"Kitty, child, what are you crying for?" she said, drawing the little head close to her.

"You must let me cry a little. I am not unhappy." She looked up smiling through her tears.

After that they spent a happy morning together. Kitty put down "The Mystery of Pain" and substituted for it a book of more cheerful, though hardly less serious, tone. At one time she would have kept it rather for ​Sunday reading, but now all was changed. Trouble was beginning to teach her the realities of religion, and she could not confine the study of it to one day in the week.

When Kitty left off reading, they fell into quite one of their old confidential talks, and Albreda would not selfishly interrupt it by telling her news.

As Graham turned his face homewards, after a good honest morning's work, he felt impatient of the distance that lay between the outlying farm and his pretty home. Striding along through the fields, he looked as earnest about covering the ground in the shortest possible time, as he was about everything else.

Kitty's eyes were the magnet that drew him on—that look in them had haunted him ever since the morning. As he walked he felt conscious of his great natural strength, and with the swing of his strong arms came that almost God-like sense of power to minister to the weak.

"I can save her, and I will," he said to himself, and as he said it the power seemed to grow. He felt like a giant as he came straight up the garden walk and through the French window into the room where they were sitting. Kitty felt it as she looked at him. "I needn't ask how you are, dear," he said, for she met him ​cheerfully. "You are never going to feel weak again, Kitty." It sounded almost like a command. A strange feeling had taken possession of him. He felt that he could insist upon it.

For the moment Kitty had a kind of superstitious belief in his words. "If I get as strong as you, we shall be having dreadful fights," she said, laughing.

Albreda had left them alone.

"I am not humbugging, Kitty; I mean what I say; let it strengthen you." He looked grave, and went on slowly, "God helping me, I will never give you cause again for a single troubled thought. Use my strength, dear, and never try to bear anything apart from me. Do you know, Kitty, I feel like a dozen men to-day; I think something is coming to us."

She looked a little frightened. "What do you mean, Gray?"

"I don't know, only that this feeling cannot be for nothing. I think it is to strengthen you."

"It does strengthen me; I shall never forget what you have said." She had been drooping a little lately, but now she held herself up as if bracing her nerves for an encounter. "I have felt very shaky the last few weeks, Graham, and have sometimes wondered whether it was real illness, or only my tiresome thoughts and fears."

​He looked questioning.

"No, they are not worth telling," she went on. "I am going to be strong now, and never think about them again." Then she drew a deep sigh. "If I could only, be sure that it had gone for ever, I should get quite well."

"Don't talk in riddles, Kitty. What do you wish had gone for ever?"

"That pain, Graham."

"It has gone for ever. It was only a little want of strength, and you are better now."

She believed what he said. It was impossible not to believe him when he spoke so positively, and looked so powerful.

They had planned a good walk for the afternoon; and in case it should be too far for Kitty, her little carriage with the roan cob was to meet them on their return.

"I should like to find my match to-day," said Graham, as they turned out of a blind lane into a field. "I long to fight somebody."

"I'm very glad I am not your match, then," returned his wife, laughing.

"What makes you so pugnacious?" asked Albreda.

"I don't think I am pugnacious exactly, but I feel something like Samson to-day. I believe I could carry the gates of Gaza."

"I think you are in a very dangerous mood, ​Gray. You'll be pulling down the pillars of the house, and burying us all and yourself too."

She said it playfully, but somehow to Graham the words sounded prophetic. He walked on in silence. It had brought back the painful thoughts of the morning, and he wondered if he would ever be the unconscious cause of suffering to her? He knew he had been, though how was still a mystery. But he shook off the momentary gloom.

"Foley was the only man that could meet my fists on equal terms," he said, clenching his big right hand. "By-the-bye, Albreda, I heard from him the other day, that he is off to Ceylon in a month or so."

"Yes, I heard that he was going," she answered.

She wanted a flower that she had almost overlooked a little behind them, and dropped back to gather it. Strange that she should take the trouble over a common clover-head, and not a very red one either.

"I hope Edward will look us up before he goes," continued Graham.

It was provoking of them to stop for her.

She felt that Graham had noticed the colour that would come. She plainly saw him take a second stealthy glance at her, and feared that her secret was out.

​They had only gone a quarter of a mile, but Kitty was beginning to walk wearily.

"Shall we rest a little now? I am not quite your equal yet, Graham," she said, throwing herself into the long grass, reckless of the destruction of her husband's crops. "Oh, it is nice, so cool and soft; I don't think I shall ever get up again."

"Why, Kitty, you are soon tired." He looked anxiously at her.

"This soft air makes one tired," she answered. "I will wait here till I am quite rested, and then go home at my leisure. You go on with Breda for the walk. I shall be all right; it's delightfully comfortable."

"You shall certainly not go home alone, dear," said Graham.

At that moment one of the farm-labourers passed them, so a message was sent for Kitty's carriage to come round by the lane to fetch her home. By the time it had arrived at the gate of the field she was feeling much revived, so they left her to drive back, and continued their walk.

There was never any lack of interesting conversation between the brother and sister-in-law. Graham thought her quite the most pleasant companion for a walk, next to his wife. Both having decided opinions of their own, they had capital fights when they differed in politics, and ​both recognized the advantage of getting at the opinion of a representative of the opposite sex. They had several old discussions to finish off to-day, and when that was done Graham asked Albreda her opinion of the Deceased Wife's Sister Bill.

"I object to it strongly," was her answer. She would have preferred his giving his opinion first.

"I am glad to hear you say that, Albreda. To my mind it is a direct blow at England's morality. I only wish I had stood for Parliament, as I might have done; they shouldn't have passed it so easily."

"Have you gone much into the subject?"

"Yes, I have studied it thoroughly, and I must say I never saw a case more miserably defended. The law is to be altered to suit those who have already broken it. Hallo! look at this rascally heifer; she has broken through the hedge to get to this long grass."

Graham left Albreda, and pursued the trespassing animal. Stick in hand he drove her back through the opening, and filled it up as best he could.

"I must get Brown to put some hurdles across this to-morrow," he said.

"If you were Mr. Broadhurst you would make a gate for her, so that having once trespassed ​she might do it with greater ease next time," said Albreda, laughing.

"But as I do not belong to that law-despising section of society, I prefer giving her a good whack to teach her better; and that's what I should like to do with these political hedge-breakers."

"Talking of hedge-breakers," said Albreda, "reminds me of a sermon I once heard from the text 'Whoso breaketh a hedge, a serpent shall bite him.' This hedge was planted by God; woe to those who have broken it."

They walked on silently for a time. Albreda was thinking of her letter; it seemed a good opportunity to tell her brother-in-law of Edward Foley's proposed visit.

"I discussed this subject last with Mr. Foley," she said, as a beginning.

"Did you? I heard that you had met since the wedding. And how do you like my friend?"

This was an awkward question to answer, so she turned it off by saying, "Well, we were not at all of one mind on this subject; but we didn't quarrel."

"I wish you knew him better, Albreda; he's a grand fellow," said Graham, warming to the occasion. "I think I shall ask him to pay us a visit before he goes to Ceylon."

"Well, to tell the truth, Graham, I heard from ​him this morning, proposing to come if convenient to you."

"Of course, I shall be delighted. Excuse me, Breda, but are you great friends? I am your brother, you know, so you mustn't keep secrets."

They had reached the garden, and stopped under a tree near the house. He was quite excited over the mere thought.

"Well, yes, we are friends, but nothing more, mind."

"All right, I see, nothing more—at present. Have you told Kitty?"

"No."

"Then I'll tell her when we get in, and she shall write and invite him at once."

Albreda could see the joy in his face. He was like a boy, and laughed to himself as he walked along, but refrained from saying anything more, except, "I shall have some one to fight after all—the only man that I dare to hit as hard as I can."

As they neared the door, the thought of Kitty came over them both.

"Do tell me what you really think of her health, Albreda?" said Graham, suddenly becoming grave.

"I am puzzled myself. She has always been delicate, but I never knew her change so suddenly as she does now."

​They were entering the conservatory door, but Graham stopped and said, dropping his voice, "Do you know, I sometimes think I ought not to have married her. She doesn't always seem happy, and I cannot help thinking she frets after the old home-life."

"You must not think that," Albreda answered, quickly.

The idea had crossed her own mind more than once, and had made her watch Kitty closely, but she could not, and would not, believe it. It pained her to hear the thought put into words.

"I have had a feeling to-day," said Graham, "as if this were coming to an end. She was so much brighter this morning, it was disappointing to see her knocked down again by a short walk."

They were in the conservatory now; but Graham, having so far confided his troubles to Albreda, was longing to unburden his heart thoroughly. She had a quiet sympathizing way of listening, which had often drawn out the confidences of her friends, and he knew that her love for Kitty was second only to his own. So he asked if she would walk round the garden, and they went out again.

When Kitty had stepped into her little carriage at the field gate, and had taken the reins of her willing cob, she watched the two across ​the paddocks without any feeling of jealousy. Graham's strong words of the morning were still filling her with joy, and she was almost laughing at her fears. She felt so refreshed, too, by the little rest, that she was half sorry she had not gone on with them.

As Albreda had remarked, she did change suddenly. One minute almost prostrate; the next, she imagined herself capable of anything. She sat up now with her dainty shoulders set square, like the skilful little whip she professed to be. Fond of driving, she was in her element spinning along between the thick green hedges. The fact of going at such a rate, with no trouble beside the steady guiding of her well-trained pony, gave her a sense of vigour which she did not really possess, and when Ruby had turned in at the gate and brought her up to the door in his usual showy fashion, it was after all feeble and trembling that she crossed the hall and went up to her boudoir to rest before taking off her outdoor things. Her weakness surprised and frightened her, as there had been nothing to occasion it, and before she had comforted herself with the thought that it was only mental and would pass off.

"Am I really ill?" she asked herself, now getting up and studying her face in the glass. She saw why Graham had looked so earnestly ​at her in the morning, and was startled by the look in her own eyes. She did not seem to know them quite, and there was an unusual feeling about her altogether.

Why at that moment did the name of that cruel Bill come back and force itself upon her? She did not want to think about it, and tried to put it away, but with it came that pain which she was too weak to endure.

She went to the piano, opened it, and sang anything—the first thing she could think of—sang on whatever came to her, till her own voice touched her and made her weep, and then she was a little easier. Then she seated herself at the window, leaned her arms on the sill and laid her head down.

There was a sweet scent of seringa in the air, but it somehow made her sad. Two young dogs were playing on the lawn, chasing each other, or stopping suddenly and then darting off like wild things. They were her great pets, and she used to love to watch them frolicking, but now it wearied her to see them. Half an hour ago she had felt all life brightness, but her spirits seemed suddenly to have left her.

It was a white, altered face that Kitty lifted when at last she heard voices, and saw Graham and Albreda walking up the path. Her husband was talking loud and rather excitedly, swinging ​his stick, and every now and then throwing it up to catch it again. He laughed as he talked. She was not in a mood to make excuses or to judge fairly of anything just then, and it seemed to her unfeeling that he should be so gay while she was suffering.

She did not try to listen, but they had just come within earshot when she heard Albreda say, "Well, yes, we are friends, but nothing more, mind;" and at the same minute they came to a standstill. Could she believe her cars? "Nothing more than friends!" What did Albreda mean? Had he asked her to be anything more? She would not believe it for an instant, though the words had startled her. Surely, she thought, she could not have heard aright; but when her husband answered, loud and laughing, "All right, I see, nothing more—at present," it was all over with her. A great sob of agony burst from her. It was all true, then. Graham was deceiving her.

She did not move away, but turned her head not to look at them, and so lying could not hear what they said. And then they came and stood under her window, and she did look again, and this time Graham nearly caught sight of her; for he looked up and then lowered his voice to say, "I sometimes think I ought not to have married her."

​She did not wait to hear more. Her misery was complete. If she had felt stronger, it would have turned to hatred of Albreda, but now she lay on the floor prostrate and overwhelmed. Graham was waiting for her death, then, and was sorry he had married her.

When her husband came in, a quarter of an hour afterwards, and made his way straight to the little room, expecting to find her there, he found instead, on her work-table, a small folded note. "For Graham" was written on the outside.

He took it up in surprise. Surely she could not have gone out again. He was rather nervous as he turned it over, and found it sealed at the back.

With all his boasted strength—for he had come in with the same sense of power about him still—Graham held the note for a minute before he had courage to look at it. Then he broke the seal, and deliberately unfolded it. The very fact of longing and yet fearing to know the contents made him hold back his impatience. Then he read—

"Dear Graham,

"I didn't try to listen, but I overheard you and Albreda talking in the garden. I know all now, so don't try to hide it any more. We were so happy, Graham, before this wicked Bill ​was passed; but it can never be the same again. I don't want to blame you, dear, but just to tell you that I shan't be long in your way. You never meant me to know, and you would have been kind to me to the end, but the end is nearer than we thought. I would rather not see you to-day.

"Your Wretched Little Wife."

Graham had longed to meet his match on this day, and he had met it—met it in the shape of a little scribbled pencil note from his wife, which made the Samson reel where he stood.

For the first minute he could not understand it, and was only clearly sensible that something was terribly wrong. "This wicked Bill!" What could she mean? She had never mentioned any Bill! Then it flashed upon him like lightning, when he came again to the words, "I shan't be long in your way."

The moment he had grasped its meaning, he was at the door of their room. It was locked. "Let me in, Kitty!" he cried aloud, careless of being overheard. "Let me in, I say; I must break through if you don't."

Then he quieted himself to listen. There was a slight murmur as of some one talking very low. He could not catch the words, but it was Kitty's voice; then the answer—

​"Did you say I am to unlock it, ma'am?" and the maid, opening the door, passed out.

Graham was by his wife's side as soon as it closed after her, kneeling down by the couch on which she was lying.

"My darling!" He put his arms all round her, wanting her to feel his protecting strength, but instead his head went down on her breast, and he sobbed like a child. He longed to feel the little hand fondling and smoothing his hair; but she did not move. "It's all a mistake, Kitty!" he cried, as soon as he could command his voice. He had lifted his head, and was looking eagerly into her face. The calm, quiet answer of her eyes terrified him. Was it that she didn't believe him, or that she didn't care? "Do you hear me, dearest? You mistook what we were saying. We never thought of such a thing. Don't look so, Kitty; say something."

"I can't believe you, Graham." There was no passion in her voice, he only wished there had been. "Will you leave me, dear?" she went on, closing her eyes and putting her hand to her head. He stood up baffled before her.

"I can't leave you like this, Kitty; you must listen to me. You think Albreda and I care for one another; it's not true, except as brother and sister. If she ever marries any one, it will be Edward Foley."

​Kitty opened her eyes and looked at him, but did not speak.

He was encouraged by the look, and went on. "She was telling me about him in the garden, and that he wants to come and see her here; but that at present they are not more than friends."

That seemed partly to explain to Kitty what she had heard, but she was too prostrate to show much sign of excitement, except a growing interest in her eyes.

"Then why did you say that you sometimes think you ought not to have married me?"

She raised herself slightly now on her arm, but fell back again.

"Did I? Oh, I remember now. I was telling Breda that I was afraid that you often pined for your home life again."

"Was it only that, Graham?"

"Of course it was, Kitty; what else could you imagine? Will you never understand that I love you and you only, and that the thought of life without you is impossible?"

She sat up now with a great effort, and took his hand to draw him back to her.

"Then I have been mistaken all the time," she said, hardly able to believe that all her fears were groundless.

"Entirely mistaken. Can you doubt me, ​Kitty?" he asked, appealingly. She couldn't doubt him when he met her look with his earnest, truthful eyes.

When, half an hour afterwards, Graham went into the drawing-room, he found Albreda not unprepared for the news he brought her. She had been there ever since they returned from the walk, having taken in her wild flowers to arrange. She had smiled to herself as, on looking them over, she came upon that very colourless clover-head, and while weeding it out with several others, also picked unintentionally, her thoughts were busy with the conversation she had had with her brother-in-law.

His fears for Kitty, which she had really felt unable to relieve, had filled her with apprehension, and she was thinking of advising him to call in a doctor.

As she was just turning the matter over in her mind, half fearing the effect upon Kitty if she saw that they thought seriously of her health, Mrs. Peckham's voice, raised so as to carry on a conversation from her kitchen to Susan in the pantry, startled her and made her stop, jug in hand, to listen. The young mistress had given strict orders that the red baize door was never to be left open; but Susan, who was fond of saving herself trouble, continually transgressed the command.

​Albreda's first impulse was to ring and reprimand her, but as she stepped across to the bell, cook's voice arrested her.

"Mark my words, Susan, mistress ain't long for this world."

"What makes you say that, cook?" came in a shrill voice from the pantry.

"Just because I'm as sure of it as if I'd been told," was the answer. "It's my belief they're killin' her by inches with their Deceased Wife's Bills, and them that's ready to step into her shoes before she's well out of them herself."

"Wood told me she was lookin' very ill when she came in from her drive," continued Susan.

"Ill?—and well she might look ill, poor thing! with the housekeepin' and everything took from her, as if she'd no right in her own house. It's all I can do to keep a civil tongue in my head when Miss Darcy comes down of a morning."

Albreda stood as if paralyzed while this conversation went on. She had of late noticed a surliness in Mrs. Peckham's manner which was now explained. "Could it possibly be," she wondered, "that there was any truth in what she said, and that Kitty was really jealous, and had mistaken Graham's brotherly, unconstrained manner towards her?"

It was a suggestion too terrible to be left in ​uncertainty for another minute. She determined at once to go to Kitty and find out the truth; but, as she was leaving the room, Graham's voice calling at his wife's door for admission had stopped her, and at that moment the maid ran downstairs.

Much as Albreda longed to hear Wood's report, which would certainly be demanded by the other servants, she deliberately closed the baize door and went back to her flowers, to wait till Graham should come down.

At last she heard his step on the stairs. She could see by his face as he entered that he knew it all, so she saved him the pain of explanation.

"I have had a sad time with poor Kitty," he said, without looking at her, "but I hope it's all over now."

"Is it possible, then, Graham, that she has been mistaking us all this time?"

"How do you know?" he asked, looking up nervously.

He was very indignant as Albreda told him of the conversation she had overheard.

"Ignorant fools! how dare they?" he said, angrily.

"I feel myself more to blame," said Albreda, sitting down with her elbows on the table and covering her face with both hands.

​She felt quite overwhelmed as she fully realized the position. Here she had been arguing against this Bill and denouncing it, and all the time was quite ignorant of the misery that it was causing in her very presence, and of which she had been the unconscious instrument. She could not look up, though she heard Graham saying kindly, "Don't blame yourself, Albreda. I ought to have known if any one."

She did blame herself, though, and very bitter tears were falling as she thought of all the needless pain to which Kitty had been subjected.

At last she managed to speak. "Is she quite at rest about it now, Graham?"

"Quite; I left her writing the note to Ned Foley."

"Did you?"

It seemed to Albreda a matter of only secondary interest just now. She was recalling the increasingly delicate look that Kitty had worn of late, and it frightened her to think of the effect of such a prolonged torture upon so sensitive a frame.

"I think if Kitty does not soon get stronger, it would be wise to have advice about her," she said.

"I had thought of it myself," said Graham; "but now that the trouble is gone, I am confident that we shall see a great change."

​He spoke cheerfully, but the mere suggestion of a doctor had alarmed him.

Before long Albreda slipped out of the room and upstairs to her sister, and presently the two appeared together.

The joy and excitement of finding all her fears groundless, and feeling that her husband and sister were restored to her, made it impossible for Kitty to stay in her room.

That artificial strength which belongs to a nervous temperament, and which any sudden rush of feeling would call forth and draw upon to its utmost, had come to her rescue, and rallied her sufficiently to allow her to run downstairs before Albreda; and now as they came into the room together, any one who had not known them might have imagined her the stronger of the two. But it was a poor substitute for real, vital energy, and only lasted for a short time, leaving her more prostrate than before.

Graham arranged an easy chair for her by the open window, as he hoped the cool evening air would revive her.

"I don't think you had better have Mr. Foley here now, dear," Albreda said, seeing the written note in Kitty's hand.

She had told her quite openly all her interest in him.

​"Oh yes; indeed, he must come," was the answer. "It would be quite a disappointment to me not to see him again."

"Are you quite sure you feel strong enough?" Graham asked. He was fanning her with a large hand-screen of peacock's feathers.

"I should like nothing better, Gray, if you will believe me."

So at Kitty's request he went across the garden and put the letter in the box, which was in their own wall.

How strange that we dare entrust our fate to those little square gummed paper missives. We slip one into the slit in the red pillar-box, and it refuses for a second to go down; we could take it back, and our whole future would be different, but we persist in our purpose, and it disappears, and then we know that the inevitable consequences must follow. Perhaps we hesitate before turning from that pillar-box. Peter Bell's primrose to him would never be more than just a yellow primrose, but our pillar-box is something more to us than merely the red pillar-box of yesterday. It is a red altar, on which is daily sacrificed the happiness of thousands; or it is the shrine, on which, perhaps, we have laid our own freedom. It is the dumb depository of secrets. In its bosom throb the restless passions of the world. It is full of ​guilty knowledge, as of high hopes and noble deeds. Crowding one upon another come the good and evil; the tender word of compassion, the bitter retort, or angry, cruel threat. Sometimes it is choked and smothered with the rush of contrary feelings, so that all lie jumbled together—the good and the bad cramping each other, and neither yielding. But then come times of penitence—confessions, outpourings of an overburdened heart. The pillar-box is free to start afresh. Will it pursue the same course as before, open alike to good and evil?

Poor box, you are not responsible, but we are, both for filling you and ourselves too! This was Albreda's soliloquy, while she watched her brother-in-law crossing the garden. She had an odd delight in breathing her own life into inanimate objects.

"Your letter is safely posted, Kitty," said Graham, as he reseated himself by them. "What did you say to Ned?"

"I told him to come as soon as ever he could, and that we should all be glad to see him again."