Rensselaer Republican, Volume 19, Number 19, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 13 January 1887 — HER FALSE, WICKED PRIDE. [ARTICLE]

HER FALSE, WICKED PRIDE.

BY ETHEL STEVENSON.

“Milly, who were you driving with in the Bow yesterday?” I do not reply, “What’s the matter, dear? You are blushing like anything!”,—- u v .- y. - I bite my lips savagely. My husband ‘rises, and comes over to, my chair. “Milly. dear,” he says, “you are afraid to tel) me!” “I’m not!” I cry, indignantly, though I know very well his words are true. “Then why don't you tell me at once?” “Because I don’t choose!” “Then I must tell yon. I met Depworth yesterday, and he asked me did I not object to your driving with " “What business has he to interfere?” I interrupt. “He did not interfere,” says my husband, quietly; “he merely cautioned me that Mrs. Fleet was not a nice companion for you. She is in one of the fastest sets in London. She is not a nice woman. You hear me, Milly?” Yes, I do hear him, and am at this very moment making up my mind to speak to Mrs. Fleet the next time 1 meet her.

“Now, darlimr, kiss me,” my husband says, kindly; but instead, I hurry from the room, and slam the door behind me. ♦ * ♦ * ♦ * *• ♦ I’do pot see my husband again that day until about 7 o’clock. I have refused to come down to lunch, and have remained all day in my bed-room, reading—or rather pretending to read. Seven o’clock strikes, and startles me; and at the same moment the gong sounds. Why on earth has not Parker come to dress me? Then I remember vaguely having given her leave to go out. It is too late to dress now; but I am tired of myself—tired of sitting up here alone, so I go down as I am, to find that Douglas has brought home a couple of friends to dinner. I dart a look of anger at him as I make some lame apolosy for my costume. His friends .are two rather good-looking young barristers. At dinner I talk and laugh incessantly, studiously avoiding, however, exchanging a word with my husband. He does not say much,'but sits silent and abstracted at the foot of the table. He is annoyed more than he. .cares to show at my behavior, and in this to-nightT take a wicked delight; so I talk on. and presently manage to get up some joke on Mr. DepWorth. My husband’s brow is darkening; and in 'another moment I have both bis guests in a roar of laughter at something I say about his clerical friend. (Mr. Depworth is a clergyman.) “But you ought to have seen him one Sunday morning," I say, keeping up their amusement. “lie writes his sermons with a lead pencil, and as he turns the leaves over, his fingers always get perfectly black after a while. Well, that Sunday I thought I should have died of laughter. It was one of those dreadful hot days, you know, and he drew his hand across his forehead, and left five dirty finger-marks on ——” “Milly,” thunders my husband, for the first time his anger getting the better of him, “I will not sit and hear you making iun of Depworth! He is a good man and I won’t have it!” The two young men exchange glances. I am very angry, but I only laugh, and after .a.few.ffi.oments rise from-the table. .

As I leave the room, I catch my hus-ban-d’seye. It is full of yearning. Already he has repented his hasty words to me—my well-deserved repropf. I leave the room laughing; but as I ascend the wide stone staircase, my eyes fill with scalding, remorseful tears. I think that if Douglas were here now, I -would acknowledge my fault and implore his forgiveness. lam near repentance now. But a few moments and the feeling passes. Angry, revengeful thoughts fill my mind. I remember that my husband has scolded me before his friends, and that I hate him! It is in this frame of mind that I go up to my boudoir, and lying down on a couch, try to rest. I close my eyes, but it is scarcely surprising that I Can not sleep. Douglas is coming up stairs. He enters the room; and, treading on tip-toe for fear of waking me, crosses the room, leans over me, and kisses me. A yearning comes over me to put my arms round his neck, and ask his forgiveness; but whilst I am wavering he departs, leaving me, as he thinks, asleep. When he is gone I go to bed. - I do not know how long after it is; but at all events I am not awake when he comes up. When I open my eyes in the morning, with that unpleasant feeling that something has happened, which invariably comes to the drowsy brain after anything disagreeable has happened the day before, I miss him, and, on inquiry, learn from my maid that he went out early. Breakfast is ready, and the tea getting cold. Shall I wait, for him? No; I decide not, so I sit down to my solidary breakfast, feeling very much inclined to cry. I have almost finished when the door opens and Douglas enters. “I went to Covent Garden," he says, apologetically, “to get these flowers for your hair to-night.” “I am not going to the ball to-night," I return ungraciously. - "Not going?" “No.”

That is all. we say to each other; but as I leave the room he calls me back. “Well?” I ask. “Won’t you stop while I eat my breakfast?" He speaks half wistfully, half disappointedly. I linger at the door. My better nature urges me to humble my pride. I know that by a few short words I might be as happy as I was before this quarrel arose. I hesitate, approach him by a few inches; th'en my mood changes, and I say, coldly: “I am very busy. I am afraid I cannot stay. ” 1 “Very well,” he says, sighing heavily; “but before you go take this paper” (handing me a copy of a society journal). “There is a paragraph in it which will interest yon.” There is something in his tone as be

present state of my feelings, irritates me. So I say. coldly: “Thank you; I don't care to see it.” I leave the room; but directly I hear him go out I return stealthily and fetch it. I open it and begin to read, and have glanced through two or three paragraphs, when I come to this (the context is about some fancy ball): . “Mrs. Fleet was there, of course. She appeared as Venus. Her dress excited a fair amount of remark, beine something in the style of the ‘Madame Favart’ Venus a white satin body, cut square—very square —and Lpced down the back; no sleeves; white satin petticoat, very short. Mr. Fleet did not attend. He—” So this was the sort of woman I wanted to make my friend! My husband is right; but again my false, wicked pride makes me think if Mrs. Fleet were to come to call on me now I should ask her to lunch. I won’t say the first word. Jf he chooses to ask me to make friends again, perhaps I might; but humble myself I will not! With these bad, rebellious thoughts in my mind I go about my housekeeping; but nothing goes right. I am cross; cook is cross. I scold; cook is pert. I give her notice. After this achievement I betake myself to the drawing-room, and begin to work some crewels, I am working a flower, but thinking of something verv different. I am thinking how disagreeable everybody is—everybody but me—and how infinitely—- “ Surely something looks wrong! What on earth—oh!” —■— '.7 •’ ) And then follows a naughty little word I have often heard the boys use at home. I have done a rose blue! I take up my work, and, dashing it to the floor, trample it under foot; and then suddenly, and quite unexpectedly even to myself, I burst into tears, and realize, for the first time, that since yesterday morning I have been perfectly miserable. I begin to wish my husband would come in and see me; perhaps he would pity me. I am finding out that I cannot live without his love.

The hours pass on. No Douglas. He does not come to dinner. Is it any wonder? Have I made his home pleasant to him to-dav and yesterday? This is the first time lie has ever failed to come to dinner. Perhaps he will begin to spend his evenings out —at music-halls or theaters. But this thought is too dreadful; Ido not think he would do that. Oh, if only he would come home! How cross I was to him at breakfast, and he so kind! All that evening I sit alone in the draw-ing-room, doing nothing, only thinking—thinking miserable thoughts. Nine o’clock!

If it had not been for iny odious pride, I should be dressed now for Lady Inglestone’s ball. How happy I might have been! Presently I hear the hall-door open and slam. It is my husband coming in’ to dress. My heart throbs loudly as I hear him coming up the stairs. I am crying again. As he passes the door I give a great sob. I hear him pause for a moment, but only for a moment; he passes on. I rush to the door. “Douglas!” I cry, piteously. “Douglas!” If he hears me, he does not answer, and with a great, hoarse cry, I sink upon the floor in an agony of grief. Half an hour passes, and then he descends, and leaves the house. He is gone. “Oh, I did think he would come in before he went!” I -wail, with a great tearless spb. “Oh, Douglas, Douglas!” I cannot cry now. I can only sit still, with a fierce grief gnawing at my heart. So I stay on, watching and waiting. Twelve o’clock, One, two! I hear them all strike. lam the only one up in the house. The servants have gone to bed hours ago. I rise and pace the room, and as I do so, I catch sight of my face in the mirror over the mantelpiece. I almost start, it is so white and haggard. It frightens me. My eyes look wild and strange, and gleam in their tearless brightness with a curious light. I am frightened, the house is so silent. The cld’ck, as though taking advantage of the stillness, ticks its loudest. I find myself counting the moments as they pass, marked by its loud longue. the fire is dying out. The embers, one by one, assume a dead, dull red, and ever and anon fall lower in the grate, with a noise which seems to make every nerve in mybodystart outinaffright.— I am tired, worn out now with sheer inability to weep, and begin to nod my head lower and lower, when, suddenly, 3 o’clock strikes, and brings the dews of terror once more out upon my forehead. Douglas will be home soon. Oh, the thought is joyful! I have never longed for him as 1 long now. I fancy I can see him dancing. At this moment I might be happy, and with him, but for Hush! What is that? One of the windows is being steadily, stealthily shaken! I start up, wild with alarm. Yes; some one is trying to get in. I do not scream; something prevents me. lam sick with terror, yet I glide quietly from the room into the passage, and there, in the clear, white moonlight, I distinctly see the dark outline of the figure of a man opening the window from outside. . For a moment my fear gets the better of me. I cannot see, feel, or think. lam perfectly dazed. Suddenly a thought comes to me. The words seem whispered in my ear. He is in my power! . I rush forward, and, with all my strength, give him a push. I see him reel, clutch convulsively at the woodwork of the window, and fall, pro?elled by my murderous hand. As he falls, catch a glimpse of his face. Oh, Heaven, it is my husband! , « • * « ♦ ♦ ♦ ♦ I stand still as I am, unable to realize anything. There is a mist before my eyes, a dull throbbing in my ears; but my mind is a blank. • The cold night air blows in, and makes the hairon my forehead flutter wildly in the draught, but I scarcely feel it; lam dazed. I try to think, but cannot. Days—weeks —years seemdo pass as I stand, feeling, thinking, knowing nothing. All the time I mutter aimlessly to myself, “I have killed him!—l have killed him!” but the words to me mean nothing. And so the long minutes come and go. I have not stirred a muscle; my hand—the hand which gave that murdering push—is still extended. lam leaning forward, as I did then. My eyes are fixed on space, vacancy, with a deathlike stare. “I have killed him!" - I speak the words but do not hear them. “I have killed him!” And then suddenly I realize what I say. My voice becomes a wild, despairing shriek. Then follows explaining thought—thought not expressed even to myself; but it has dawned upon me that my husband has forgotten his latch key, and has climbed up by the pear tree, and I have killed him—l have, killed him! Oh, am I, too, dying? My arms relax and fall to my side; I reel, and seem to fall into an abyss of bottomless blackness.

“Milly! Milly, darling, speak to me! Oh, can she be dead? Milly, speak to me! Milly!” ; My hnsband’s voice! I open my eyes slowly, and gaze bewilderedly into his great, tender, frightened eyes—eyes now full of inexpressible thankfulness. “Douglas!—oh, Douglas!" " Yes, darling; I am hen-!” “But—but aren’t you dead?" And I shudder convulsively. “No;" and a half smile broke upon his handsome face. “What put that into your head? I only came in just now, and found you lying here. Oh, darling,” he adds, “when I believed for a moment that you were dead, 1 thought I should go shad!” “And didn't you forget your latch-key, and climb through the window, and—and didn’t I push you down? Oh, Douglas, has it only been an awful dream? Are yon really here?" “Yes, darling; only a dream,” Only a dream. I put my arms around hie neck, and kiss him as I have never kissed him before. It seems too good to be true, to have him here in my arms, when I thought to see a shattered But that is tod awful, and I burst into tears. “Forgive me, Douglas! I have been so miserable! I am so sorry!” “So have I, Milly! Kiss me!*’ And so we make it up. We kiss again with tears. Then I tell him of these two wretched days—how unhappy I have been, then of tny dream. Only a dream! Is it possible that the life-time of agony I passed through as I stood in the calm, cold moonlight, gazing out into vacancy, awful, palpable vacancy, should, after all, have been but a dream?