LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XX, Issue 1626, 7 May 1879, Page 3

LITERATURE.

MY HUSBAND’S SECOND WIFE.

My husband came tenderly to my side. ‘Are you going out this evening, love ?’

‘Of course I am ’

I looked down complacently at my dress of pink crape, dew - dropped over with crystal, and the ti ails of pink azaleas that caught uu it folds hero and there. A diamond bracelet encircled one round white arm, and a little cross b'azcd fitfully at my throat —1 had never locked better, and I felt a sort of girlish pride as my eye met the fairy reflection in the mirror

‘ ome, 'erald, make haste I Why you haven’t begun to dress yet! ’ Where were my wifely nstincts, that I did not see the haggard downcast lo;ik in his features —the fevered light in his eye ? ‘ I can’t go to-night, Madeline ; I am not well enough. ’ ‘ You are never well enough, Gerald, to oblige me. lam tired of being put off with such excuses.’ He made no answer, but dropped his head in his hands on the table before him.

‘ Oh, come, Gerald,’ I urged petulantly; ‘it is qo awkward for me to go alone alwayo I ’ . , . He shook his head listlessly. * I thought perhaps you would be willing to remain at home with me, Madeline/ ‘ Men are selfish/ I said plaintively ; ‘and lam all dressed. Claudia took half for my hair. I dare say you’ll be a great deal quieter without me —that is if you are determined not to go/ No answer again. ‘ Well, if you choose to be sullen, I can’t he'p it/ I said lightly, as I turned and went out of the room, adjusting my bouquetholder, the tuberoses and heliotr >pe seeming to distill incense at every motion Was I heartless and crnel 7 Had I ceased to love my husband ? From the bottom of my heart I believed that I loved him truly and tenderly as ever wife loved a husband ; but I had been so petted and spoiled all my brief, selfish life, that the better instincts were, so to speak, entombed alive.

I went to the party and had my fill of adulation and homage, as usual The hours seemed te glide away, shod with roses, and winged with music and perfume ; and it was not until wearied with the dancing, I sought a momentary refuge in the half-lighted tearoom, that I heard words awakening me, as it were from a dream. • Gerald Glen !’

I could not well be mistaken in the name; it was scarcely commonplace »nough for that. They were talkini?, —two or three businesslike looking gentleman, in the had without; and I could catch, now and then, a fugitive word or phrase. ‘Fine enterprising young fellow!’ ‘Great pity 1’ ‘ Totally ruined—, so Bees and McMorken say!’ ‘ Reckless extravagance of his wife!

All these vague fragments I heard ; and then some one asked : “ What is he going to do now?’

‘ What can he do, poor fellow? I am sorry; but he should have counted his income and his expenses better ’

‘Or his wife should. Oh, these women ; they are at the bottom of all man’s troubles.’

And they laughed. Oh, how could they ? I had yet to learn how ea'-y it is, in this world to bear other people’s troubles, I rose hurriedly, my heart beating tumultuously beneath the pink azaleas, and went back to the l;ght“d saloon —Mr Albany Moore was waiting to claim my hand for the next dance.

‘ Are you ill, Mrs Glen ? How pale you look ?’

‘ I—l am not very well. I wish you would have my carriage called for me, Mr Moore. ’

For now I fait that home was the proper place for me. Hurried by some unaccountable impulse, I sprang out the moment the carriage wheels touched the curbstone, and rushed uu to ray husband’s room. The door was locked, but I could see a light shining faintly through the threshold. I knocked wildly and persistently. ‘ Gerald, dear Gerald ! for heaven’s sake let me in!’

Something fell upon the marble hearthstone within, making a metallic click, and my husband opened the door a little way. I had never seen him look so pale before, or so rigid, yet so determined. ‘ Who are you ?’ he demanded wildly. ‘ Why cannot you leave me in peace ?” ‘lt is I, Gerald—your Madeline—your ow n little wife.’

And I caught from his hand the pistol he was trying to conceal in his breast—its mate lay on the hearth under the mantle—and flung it out of the window. ‘Gerald, would you have left me ?’ ‘ I would have escaped !’ he cried, still half-delirious, to a’l appearances. ‘Debt, disgrace, misery—her reproaches! I would have escaped them all!’ His head fell, like that of a weary child on ray shoulder. I drew him gently to a sofa, and soothed him with a thousand murmured words, a thousand mute caresses; for had it not been my fault ? And through all the long weeks of fear that followed, I nursed him with unwavering care and devotion, I had but one thought, —one desire —to redeem myself in his estimation —to prove to him that I was something more and higher than a mere butterfly of fashion, I had hitherto shown myself. W ell, the March winds had howled themselves away into their mountain fastness ; the brilliant April raindrops were dried on bough and spray! and now the apple blossoms were tossing their fragrant billows of pinky bloom in the deep blue air of later May. Where are we now !

It is a picturesque little villa, not far out Pittsburgh, furnished very like a magnificent baby house, Gerald sat in a cushioned easy chair in the garden, just where he could glance thr ugh the open window at me working busily with my needle. ‘ What an industrious fairy it is,, he said, smiling sadly. ‘ Well, you see, I like It. It Is a great deal better thau those sonatas on the piano.’ ‘Who would have thought you would make so notable a housekeeper ?’ I laughed gleefully; I had all a child’s delight in being prais* d. ‘ Are you going to Mrs Delaney’s croquet party ?’ be asked. * No i what do I care for croquet parties ; I’m going to finish your shirts, and you’ll read aloud to me.’

‘ Madeline, I want you to answer me one question.’ ‘ What is it ?’ ‘What have you done with your diamonds ?’

‘I sold the long ago. They paid several heavy bills, besides settling half a year’s rent here.”

‘ But Madeline, you were so proud of your diamonds.’ ‘ I was once ; but now they would be the bitterest reproach my eyes could meet. Oh, Gerald, had I been less vain and thoughtless, and extravagant— ’ I checked myself and a robin, singing in the per.'umcd blossoms of an apple tree, took up the dropped current of sound. ‘That's right, little red breast,’said my hu°band, half jokingly; ‘talk her down. She has forgotten that; our past is dead and gone, and that wo have fumed over a new page in the book of existence. Madeline, do you k ow how 1 feel, sometimes, when I sit and look at you V

, N o. ’ ‘Wed, I feel like a widower that has married again.’ My heart gave me one little superstitious jump. ‘ I ike a widower who has married again, Gerald ? ’

‘ Yes ; I can remember my fint wife—a brilliant thoughtless child, without any idea beyond the gratification of present whims — a spoiled plaything. Well, that little Madeline has vanished away into the past, somewhere ; she has gone away to return to mo no more, and in her stead, 1 behold my

second wife — a thoughtful tender whose watchful love surrounds rne like an atmosphere, and whoss character grows more noble, and developes itself into new depths and beauty every day.’ I was kneeling at hia side, now, with my cheek upon hia arm, and my eyes looking into hie.

* A,nd which do yon love best, Gerald — the first or second wife?’ ‘I now th'nk the trials an 1 vicissitudes through which wo have passed are welcome, indeed, since they have brought me their harvest fruit, the priceless treasure of my second wife.’ That was what Gerald answered rne—the sweetest words that ever fell upon my ear.