Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWICE TRIED,

Waikato Times, Volume XXVII, Issue 2590, 16 February 1889, Page 1 (Supplement)

Novelist. [ALL RIGHTS RESERVED.] TWICE TRIED,

BY ANNIE S. SWAN, Author of " Aldersyde," "Carlowrie," " Across Her Path," " Sundered Hearts, &c„ &c.

CHAPTER XVl.—(Continued.) Not many yards past the Bank he met his father-in-law hurrying to see Mr Angus on some business of the Earl's. "Hulloa! Robert. How are you? Amy well, eh ?" he said in his cheery fashion. "la your father in? I had a telegram from Lord Beauly to-day which will require his attention."

" I think he is still in his private room," answered Robert. " All well at the Thorn V

" Yes, thanks, although we might be anything for aught you and Amy care," laughed the factor. "James was amusing us at breakfast this morning by counting on his left hand the times you had been together at the Thorn since your marriage." " Well, I own we have been rather remiss," said Robert. "But we seem to like our own fireside best."

" All very good and commendable," said Mr Burnett, drily ; " only don't grow selfish over yonr own fireside. I must say I am agreeably disappointed in Amy. I ; thought you would have some ' trouble with her," "No man need have any trouble with his wife, if only he take the right way with her," said Robert, rather loftily. "Amy has accommodated herself very readily to my quiet habits." " I suppose she must; but don't live like hermits up at Fairgate. It is not good for either of you," said Mr Burnett. " Tell Amy to walk over soon, and I'll drive her home. Mary is going north to Dingwall on Friday to spend a week with her cousins. But, there, I must be off. Good-bye." And with a nod and a smile the factor hurried off, having opened up a new vein of thought in his son-in-law's mind. Might it be possible, after all, that he was not quite doing his duty to his young wife ! Was it a right or a fitting thing that one so youug should so quickly have settled down into a staid, sober wife, like Martha, careful and troubled over many things, especially when her girlhood had been such a bright, happy, sunshiny time, in which each day brought its attendant pleasures, and in which the word care had had no place. For the first time since his marriage a vague feeling of dissatisfaction with himself crept over Robert An»us. Amy had never complained. She had not seemed to desire anything beyond their quiet life at Fairgate, and yet, now that he began to ponder over things, he ..remembered how very seldom he Tieard her laugh or sing. True, he did not greatly care for music. Nevertheless, he had been particular that the piano should be one of Erard's best instruments, yet how very seldom its rich, sweet tones were heard in the house. He was startled when he thought of these thing 3, remembering that Amy had been the very life and sunshine of

the Thorn. The piano had been her idol in those days, and she could play and sing almost every new piece that was published. Then she was in the midst of every bustle and gay frolic of the younger members of the family. What then, had wrought this great change? He felt that it should not be—the cares of wifehood should not so soon have changed the light-hearted girl into the sober, quiet, practical woman who now presided over his home. Robert Angus was glad when he reached Fairgate that day, and he hurried into the house possessed with a strange yearning to look into his wife's face, and, holding her in his arms, to ask what had wrought the change. She was watching in oriel window of the dining-room, ready to touch the bell at once, and give the maids the signal to bring dinner in. While her hand was on the bell-rope her husband entered the room, and, ere the summons was given, took her to his heart. " Don't ring yet, Amy. Dinner can wait. I have something to say to you." He saw her face flush deepest crimson first, and then pale to the whiteness of the lace at her throat. He wondered at it, little guessing the wild dread beating at her heart. " What is it V she asked faintly. " You frighten me, Robert." " Don't start so, my darling ; you are too easily frightened," he said, with the utmost tenderness. " Come over here to the window, where I can see your face. Now, tell me truly, Amy—are you happy here with me V " Why do you ask roe such a strange question ?" she asked, falteringly, scarcely daring to lift her eyes to his face. " Because, if you are happy, it is little short of a miracle," he said, grimly. "My eyes have been opened to-day, Amy, never mind how, and I know I have treated you shamefully, and why you have borne it all so meekly passes my comprehension." " What are you saying? I don't know what you are talking about, Robert." " I know, though, and that is enough at present," said Robert, more grimly still. "Eight months ago, Amy, I married you ; took you away from a happy home, where you had everything in the shape of pleasure that you could desire. Well, I married you and brought you home to this dismal house, and shut you up like a prisoner. I forgot that you were only a girl, my poor love, and that you had all a girl's natural cravings after gaiety and pleasure. I was happy enough in my quietude among my books, it was a bore to me to entertain visitors, and I dare say I let you see it plainly enough. In my utter selfishness and thoughtlessness, my darling, I have been very cruel to you. Oh, Amy, why did you not complain ! Why did you not tell me of it long ago ?" But Amy never spoke. Her flushed face was hidden on his arm, but he could not feel her trembling. " Look up, ruy darling, and say you forgive me," he said, fondly. " I have been blind and selfish too long ; but I will try to make amends now. We will begin a new life at Fairgate, which I promise you will be as merry and happy a house as the Thorn, if only you will help me to make it so." " Oh, Robert, hush," fell low and brokenly from Amy's lips. He did know the keen agony which prompted that cry ! " Mrs Angus was asking me today if I was not thinking of taking you away for a holiday," said are Robert after a while. "We are so busy just now that I could not possibly get away longer than a day or two. We will have a glorious holiday in August though, but I intend you shall have a change soon. I saw your father to-day, and he tells me Polly is going up to Dingwall for a week. What would you say to going with her, and I would come up next Friday and bring you home ?" "To Dingwall, Robert!" repeated Amy, and she spoke like one in a dream. "Couldn't you take me away just now—to-day or to-mor-row V she added wistfully, and her eyes, full of dumb entreaty, looked into his. He wondered a little at the request, at the intensity of the look which accompanied it, but he shook his head. "It is utterly impossible just now, dearest, but you will go north with your sister. I have quite decided it. Now that I look at you, I do not wonder that Mrs Angus thought you required a change. Amy, I feel as if I could never forgive myself for my neglect of you." " Don't speak in that way. You have not neglected me. You have been all that is kind and good," she said with difficulty, and she turned a little way from him. " It is I who am unworthy. You should never have married me, Robert." "Or you should never lißve married me, rather," he corrected, laughingly, " In six months time we will not cast such reflections at each other. The more I think of it the more I am amazed that you have borne my stupid selfishness so patiently. I have never heard you once complain." " I had no need," she whispered ; " I had no need. But, we must have some dinner now," she added, with a wan smile, which somehow struck Robert Angus to the heart. " Are you well enough, Amy V he asked, anxiously.

'Quite well. I know I look pale. Ido not go out enough. But if you insist upon rae going to Dingwall, I shall surely gather some roses there." " Would you not like to go, Amy 1 You used to enjoy a visit to the North. I remember I used to despair of ever seeing you again, you stayed away so long." " I will go if you wish me to." " Don't put it in that way, Amy," he said, quickly. "It reminds me of my tyranny. I think it would do you good, and when you come back we must have some young people to stay here. Couldn't you get up a garden party or something r "I daresay we could. Well, I will go, Robert." said Amy, list, lessly. " Here comes Sarah with the soup." Robert Angus was uneasy about his wife. There was something in her look and manner he could not understand, and again and again he blamed himself for his lack of interest, his inattention to her in the past. He was by nature reserved and undemonstrative, and forgot that the young life he had linked with his own might require a different atmosphere from that which satisfied him. He had imagined that in making Amy Burnett his wife he had given her the highest, most indisputable proof of his love, forgetting that to certain natures the outward evidences of love, caresses and endearing words, are almost indispensable if their own affection is to be kept bright and

living. It is not a mark of the highest nature, perhaps, nor of the most unselfish ; but it is nevertheless true, and it was true, sadly true, of Robert .Virus's wife. She"went over to the Thorn one day to tell them of her intention to accompany Mary to the North ; an announcement which her mother was pleased to hear, for she fancied her looking worn and in need of change. In answer to her anxious questioning, Amy said she was perfectly well, and Mrs Burnett wondered whether she had not found happiness at Fairgate, only she was too prudent to hint at such a thing. On the Friday afternoon the sisters left Auchengray Mrs Burnett and Robert Angus seeing them safely into the train. "You will write every clay, Amy ?" he said to his wife, bis eyes bent upon her in tenderness, for somehow he had never felt his heart go out to her as it did that day. " Yes, I will write if I have anything to say," she added, with a slight smile, but she did not ask lain to send a daily letter, at which he felt a little pang of disappointment. " Here comes the train. Goodbye, my darling," he said. " Take care of yourself, Amy. I will be up without fail next Friday." " Very well. Good-bye," she said, and suffered him to kiss her without returning the caress. Just as the train was moving she leaned out of the carriage window and touched her mother's shoulder. " Kiss me again, mamma," she said, hurriedly. " You will always love me." Mrs Burnett was surprised, but could say nothing, for the train steamed away. When it was fairly out of the station, Amy leaned back in her corner, and, to Mary's amazement, burst into tears. CHAPTER XVII. — A Cruel Blow.

" What is the meaning of this, I should like to know ? When did I make such a stupid blunder in an account before?" muttered Robert Angus to himself, pushing his hair back from his forehead iu real annoyance, for he had undone a good hour's work ; a most unusual thing for him, for he was a quick and accurate accountant. He could not tell why, but he was unusually abstracted, or, perhaps, out of sorts would be. the better term. He had had a bad dream the previous night, and had risen depressed and unrefreshed. Then the morning mail had brought no letter from Amy, the second day she had missed, and, though it was only Thursday, he had half resolved to run up to Dingwall that afternoon, just to see if all was right. He tried to banish the va"ue feelings of uneasiness which possessed him, and set himself labouriously to rectify his mistake, when the young lad who had replaced Rausome in the bank tapped | at the door, and said a lady wished to see him, "Who is it do you know, Graham ? Is it not Mrs Angus she wishes to see ?" he asked, without much interest. "No, sir, she asked for Mr Robert. I think it is Mrs Burnett, of the Thorn," said the lad, who was a stranger in Auchengray, and did not know mauy of its folks. " Ah, show her in," said Robert, springing to his feet, all his listlessness gone. Mrs Burnett entered presently, shut the door, and turned a white, anxious face to him. "Robert, where is Amy?" she asked almost in a whisper, and sank into the chair he had placed for her, for she was trembling in every limb.

" Amy ! Where should she be but at Dingwall?" he repeated, blankly. " She is not there! I had a letter from Polly this morning; see, read what she says," said Mrs Burnett, taking a lotter from her bag, and offering it to him with trembling fingers. He took it, mechanically,

and fixed his eyes on the paragraph she indicated. Thus it ran :

" Robert; would be surprised to see Amy home on Tuesday afternoon. She positively wouldn't stay another day. Auntie and the boys made such fun of her, and offered to telegraph for Robert, if only she would stay. It is very funny to be newly married, I think ; you don't feel much interest in anything but your own husband and your own home. I suppose that is quite right, mother, only it seems funny in Amy. She used to be so different. I don't think she is very well. Auntie seemed anxious about her. Do write and tell us if you were not all astonished to see her so soon," " I felt so anxious and so astonished when I got that letter that I just put on my bonnet and walked over to Fairgate," said Mrs Burnett. " I did not know what to think when Jessie assured me her mistress had not come home." "No," repeated Robert Angus, with bloodless lips, "she has not come home." There was a dead silence for a few seconds, then Robert Angus pulled out his watch. "I have time to catch the noon train for the North," he said in a voice of curious calm. "Mother, pray God it may not be as I fear. Good-bye." " What is it you fear ?" Do you think anything can have befallen Amy ? Do you think she can be dead ?» " No, or wo should have known it ere this," he said, taking his hat down from the peg behind the door I and striding out of the room. j Mrs Burnett sat still for a few minutes, and then, rising- heavily from her chair, for a great burden and terror seomed to encompass her, she went away into tne Bank House to speak to Mrs Angus. But the banker and his wife had gone to spend the day with some friends among the hills, and were not expected home till late. Craving for some sympathy or help, Mrs Burnett walked down the High-street, and turned in at the gate of Sunset Cottage. Joan, sitting at her desk in the parlour window, hastened to open the door for her, marvelling a little at her early visit. She saw at once, from the expression of her visitor's face, that there was something wrong. " I want to come in and sit down for a few minutes, Joan," said Mrs Burnett, without smile or greeting of any kind. "I feel a great trouble has come upon us."

Joan did not speak, but held open the door for her old friend to enter, and when she had followed her into the sitting-room, sheplaced her in the most comfortable chair, untied her bonnet strings, and hovered about her with gently, kindly touches, infinitely soothing to the nervous, excited woman. "It is about Amy, Joan," she said at length. "She went to Dingwall, you know, with Mary. I had a letter this morning saying she left to come home to Auchengray on Tuesday, and she has never come. Robert has never seen her." An involuntary exclamation fell from Joan's lips, and she, too visibly paled. "May she not have stopped on the way ? Have you no friends between this and Dingwall, Mrs Burnett?" " None, on the route by which Amy would travel; besides, she had no such intention when she left her aunt's," said Mrs Burnett, drearily. " Oh, Joan, I dare not put in words the terrible suspicion which has whispered itself to me, and which I fear Robert feels also." "You have seen Robert, then?" " Yes ; I have just come from the Bank. He is away like a man possessed to catch the noon train to the North." Joan was silent, but her heart was heavy as lead. " Joan, when did young Ransome leave Auchengray?" asked Mrs Burnett at length. " Was it not on Tuesday ?" " Yes," answered Joan, almost iu a whisper. Mrs Burnett rose, and, tottering to Joan's side, laid her shaking hand on her arm. " Joan," she said, in a shuddering whisper, " may God forgive me if my words cruelly wrong my own child ; but do you think it possible that her disappearance can have anything to do with his departure ?" " God forbid 1" fell fervently from Joan's white lips ; and yet she could not try to dispel the mother's terrible fears, which she doubted were only too well grounded. " Surely a child of mine would never be so base," continued the unhappy woman in low, wailing tones. " She was so well off in every respect ; she had a good and loving husband, a beautiful and happy home, she could have no cares, unless those of her own making. Surely, in her own interests, if for the sake of nothing else, she would never take so wild and wicked a step."

Joan was silent, because she dare not utter the thoughts of her heart. She could not tell the -poor mother that this tragedy was scarcely a surprise to her—nay, that she had seemed to live in daily dread and expectation of it for long. " Dear Mrs Burnett, let us wait, and hope, and pray," she said, in a low voice. " If Amy has really yielded to such a rash impulse it is possible she may rue it ere it be too late. She may yet come back. Oh, I cannot think she would so lightly throw away all a woman has worth living for upon the earth," she added, with unwonted passion.

" I cannot hope. A kind of despair has laid hold of me, Joan. I must go away home now ; but how am I to tell her father ? For the first time since we were married, Joan, I am afraid to look upon his face." What could Joan say? With what words could she comfort or strengthen the stricken woman? She tried to speak, but her lips refused to utter the thronging, yearning sympathies of her soul. {To be continued.)