LITERATURE.

Globe, Volume XXIII, Issue 2237, 29 April 1881, Page 3

LITERATURE.

A WIFE’S ORDEAL. ( Concluded.) Tho thought was torture. All his past tenderness came over her, and with it a strong tide of yearning love swept through her being. She longed for him to return, that she might ask him to forgive her and take her back to his heart. She would be content now with just the crumbs of his love, only that he might not be totally indifferent. If there was blame on his side she never thought of it in her abject selfreproach, The words of a married friend to whom she bad confided her sweet dreams of bliss in the days of courtship, came to her suddenly in the light of a new experience.

‘ You will find that as a husband he will not always be so lover-like. He is a strong, good man, but it is not in masculine nature to bo always demonstrative. He has to battle with the world —it Is for you to see that the altar fires of love are kept bright, so that he, amid the turmoil of life, may always know where to turn for happiness. Many a man has become estranged from his wife because there were others to greet him with brighter smiles than hers.’ The words had seemed meaningless then campared with now, as she turned them over in her mind. She saw that she had not been a true wife. She had sought her own selffishly, and not striven to adapt herself to her husband’s life, or to grow in oneness with his nature.

The day wore on, and with many resolves for the future, she awaited his home coming. But tho hour passed and he did not appear. .She grew uneasy. Had something hap ponßd to him, or had he literally fulfilled his words In the morning and gone his own Way? The evening and the night passed. She never closed her eyes, but spent the long night in a stats of mind bordering on insanity. Tho next morning she bathed her face and made a careful toilet. She might have callers, and no one must suspect the skeleton in her closet, though she hoped she should be left in peace. But near noon two gosaippy neighbors made their appearance. ‘ Why, Mrs Hastings, you are not looking well; have yon had a tick spell?’ asked one, with an appearance of much sympathy. * How is Mr Hastings ?’ inquired the other as Olemmie made a plea of headache. * 1 saw him at the B. and P. depot last night, in company with a veiled lady. He got their tickets in a hurry, and they both went aboard the train.’

Clemmie started and could hardly repress an expression of dismay, but she made out to cover it in some way though not without exciting the suspicions of both her callers. ‘ Depend upon it, there is something wrong between those two,’ said Miss Pride, who bad given the bit of information, and who was keen to scent domestic difficulties, * I shouldn’t think she was the sort of wife for him,’

Miss Pride had a great admiration for Mr Hastings. ‘ I shouldn't think so either,’ returned her friend. ‘ I agree with you on the other point; I don’t believe a headache would give her such a woe-begone face as she had this morning. ’ The two continued to discuss the matter, and mentioned it to the next friend upon whom they called, while poor Clemmie was fairly frantic with the terrible doubt that had taken possession of her. She had never thought of a rival, but now the pangs of jealausy seized her. Some one had taken her place in his affection, that was the solution of his coldness to her. There was no telling how long It had been going on. Could it be possible that be had been with her those evenings when she had supposed him at his olub P That grievance seemed a slight one now in the light of this horrible fear. She had always believed him to be the soul of honor, but instances of marital infidelity within her circle came to her mind, men, too, of high standing; why [not be as well as others ? • And if he wandered from me I did nothing to bring him back,’ she thought,- reproaching herself. ‘ Many a man has become estranged from his wife because there were others to greet him with bright smiles,’ recurred to her again like a prophecy. ‘ And he’s solacing himself with another, while I have been so ntterly miserable,' she sobbed. ‘ How could he ? No one conld take his place In my heart.’ The anguish she suffered would have atoned for far worse sins than those of which she was guilty. She had no one to confide in, for at her marriage they had moved to a strange city, and she had as yet no intimate friend whom she could trust with so delicate a matter.

The day wore pn, and at dusk she could stand the pressure no longer, end she pat on a dark hat and ulster and went out on the busy street. It was in October and delightfully cool, she walked along rapidly, and the rush and hnny seemed to deaden the pain about her heart. Half unconsciously she left the broad thoroughfare end took the street that led to the bridge over the river. Strange thoughts were crowding into her mind, a dull despair was settling over her. She reached the bridge and stood leaning on the parapet looking out over the water, the lines of Longfellow that she had often sung in happier days running in an undercurrent through her thoughts : ‘ How often, O, how often, I had wished that the ebbing tide Would bear me away on its bosom O’er the ocean wild and wide.’

Her chief thought was that life without her husband’s love would he Intolerable. That she had held it lightly and tampered with it added to her weight of sorrow. That he was false and fickle did not abate it an iota. The future stretched drearily before her.

‘lf I could only end it all, ’ she thought, looking at the dark water beneath, that had a sort of fascination for her. Her thirty-six bonrs of suffering had seemed to her like an eternity. She felt she had not strength to suffer more. The calm silent-flowing tide had a charm for her. It was so sweet and peaceful, reflecting the silent stars on its bosom. One plunge, and its rest might be communicated to her tired, aching heart, How long she had stood there she didn’t know, but it came to her that there was only an occasional footstep where there had been many when she came. These looked curiously at the solitary figure leaning on the bridge, but she neither oared nor noticed. She was usually timid to excess, but her great trouble had sunk all minor fears. She looked around and saw no one.

‘Good-bye, Harold,’ she said, ‘yon will never know how much I love yon,’ and in a moment more she would have taken the fatal leap. But hurried footsteps sounded, a hand grasped her shoulder firmly, and her husband’s voice said, * Clemmie !' in a tone of infinite pain. She uttered one wild, startled cry as she looked into his faoe, and then, without another word on either side, he drew her arm through his and led her home —she weak and overcome, he busy with unutterable thoughts. When they reached home her strength gave way entirely, and he had to carry her upstairs to their chamber. He lighten the gas and, looking into her face, saw traces of her terrible suffering. He sat down and took her in his arms with such infinite tenderness that Clemmie burst into blessed tears, which eased her overburdened heart.

‘ What were you going to do that fer, Clemmie V

‘ I—l thought yon did not love me, and I didn’t want to live; and I —l thought yon loved some one else, and had gone away.’ ‘ What made you think so ?’ ‘Miss Pride called and said she saw you take the train in company with a lady.’ ‘T will explain that presently,’ he said. ‘You told me yesterday morning that I had killed all your love for me. How was that, Clemmie ?’ ‘But I didn't mean it ! I didn't mean it !’ sobbed Clemmie. ‘ I loved you as mnch as ever. I knew if, as soon as you had gone away.’ Feeling as if he were commencing a new life, Harold explained his absence. Ho had left the house half-angrily, but during the day had pondered painfully npon the state of his domestic life. Late in the afternoon he had accidentally met the wife of a very dear old friend, who had just received a telegram summoning her to the deathbed of her husband, who was among strangers in a city a hundred miles distant. She was a timid little oreatnre, and was just recovering from an illness, and seemed in such distress, that he had volunteered to accompany her, partly on her account, partly that ho might' occe more look upon the face of a friend as dear to him as a brother.

‘ There was no time to come home, but I should have sent you word or telegraphed to you on the way, only I thought you would not care to know my whereabouts. If I had foreseen how you would suffer I should have taken a different course,’ ho added, stiiken with remosse as he looked upon her face.

* Oh, Harold, I cannot tell you what I have suffered; but it is all over now,’ she said smiling through her tears, and their lips met in tho long kiss of rcoonollfation. ‘lt seems strange,’ he said, ‘but something urged me to come home from the depot round over the bridge, though it is the longest way. I know now it was to save you,* he added, in a whisper. ‘I would have taken a carriage, but 1 wanted a chance to think.’ Thera were mutnal confessions and promises of a different course in the future. Harold realised that he had been selfish; that he had not striven to adapt himself to her nature.

‘ Not so selfish as I was,’ she returned, womanlike, taking tho largest share of tho blame.

And so Olemmie’s ordeal proved the medicine to close the widening breach. Far better to have suffered tenfold more than to slowly drift asunder on the sands of mie> understanding, as so many are doing everyday, making married life seem a hollowmockery. instead of the most sacred relation upon earth.