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SAVANNAH DAILY HERALD.
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JOB PIUNTINO
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A WIFE’S SECRET.
1 was forty years old when I married
Caroline .Mowbray. A severe disap
pointment which 1 experienced in early
life had changed me. much. To most
persons I seemed cold hearted and re
pulsive; but I thought she knew me
better. Her father was a clergyman of
email means, and she had tour brothers,
two of them abroad. By accident I met
her. ,Our courtship was short. ; • Her
hither was happy to see 1 his last child
provided for, and our wedding was cele
brated with great pomp. Two of her
brothers were there; the other two
were in India, I took her to our se
cluded house In the country, and for a
year and more I lived a life of happiness
such as falls to the lot of few.
Bhe was of wonderful beauty. Tall,
«f exquisitely moulded shape, with
flashing eyes of brilliant blackness.
She Wits much given to melan
choly* which grready increased af
ter th§ first year of our union. I then
began to fancy that the memory of some
old affection haunted her; but she often
told me that I was-the only man she bad
ever loved, and that my well-known
learning and accomplishments (those
were her words) had long caused her to
entertain for me the greatest respect,
even before she had seen me.
Several times I came upon her unex
pectedly, and {‘ound her in tears, with
an open letter in her hand. On my en
treating her to let me know the cause of
her unhappiness she pleaded nervousness,,
the thought ot her father s delicate
health* and other family matters, which,
she assured me, I could not enter into. I
troubled , myself much about this. I
thought that my manner toward her was
not demonstrative enough, and indeed
no manner, could show the boundless
depth qf my love for her V then I thought
that the disparity of our years precluded
a perfect interchange of I'eeling and sen
timent. ,
We had been married fifteen months
when most unexpected news came to me
from India* An English relative had
died there, leaving me a large fortune,
and my presence was required in Bengal
to arrange important afSiirs. Finding
that a ship was soon about to sail I re
solved to take passage in her, and I set
tled all things needful for my wife’s com
fort during my absence, which was to be
tor a twelvemonth. Her despondency
deepened, and I strove to flatter myself
.that my approaching departure was the
'-cause.
I had had a lovely garden laid out for
her. A side-walk led down to a tasteful
bridge of ornamented wood, which
spanned a pretty stream; an insignificant
stream ia dry vreaiher, but a dangerous
torrent after rain. ' In time of flood the
water rushed down with great veloc ty,
*ad to' prevent the “bursting'’ of toe
bridge, several of the flooring boards
were not nailed down. This bridge led
into a park, Just beyohd which, were the
•tables, and the sublee commanded a
SAVANNAH, GA., TUESDAY EVENING, FEB. 21, 1865.
view of our garden. Although there Was
thus a short cut to the stables from the
house, none of the servants were allow
ed to avail themselves of it; our usual;
evening stroll was the garden and tin*
park, and those were strictly private.
For some days the ram had been fall
ing heavily, and our walks were stopped.
I was much occupied, however, by busi
ness in the neighboring town, and did
not return as early as usual for several
days in succession.
I returned one dark rainy evening just
before sunset. Much rain had fallen,
and as I crossed the bridge on foot I
noticed the steam flowing turbid and
whirling beneath. This was not my
usual way of going home ; but in con
sequence of the rain I rode straight to
the stables, gave ray horse to the groom,
and took the 6hort cut. There was a
shady summer-house in the upper cor
ner of the garden, and I observed, to my
surprise, a man’s footprints along the
path leading thither from the bridge.
The prints were those of a fashionably
made boot; and nay surprise was in
creased by coming to a spot in which
they seemed to have been met by another
person’s prints, and thence hoik led to
the summer-house. Whose foot but hers
could have made those tiny impressions?
I reached the summer-house, and there
I found my wife
‘‘Good Heavens, Caroline? I exclaim
ed ; “you out on such an evening—you
so delicate?” She was shivering with;
cold. “Who was here ?” I said.
She shivered still more, and. replied,
timidly, “No stranger has been here,
Reginald.”
“What!” said I; “no one up the walk
from the bridge> ••
She looked frigktenened, again shud
dered, and,, gazing with 'her large eyes
in my face, she repeated, “No strange i
has been here.”
I looked at her .earnestly. Her eyes
drooped; she was ghastly pale.
i “Well, my dearest,” I said, “let me
muffle you well; you are very imprudent
in so exposing yourself to the damp
air.”
I wrapped her large shawl around her;
from one of its folds there fell on the
ground a glove. It dropped from behind,
and she did not see it. I picked it up
and concealed it It was a lavender kid
glove that had been worn by a man.
I will not speak much of my feelings
that night Hundreds of trivial things
came rushing and crowding into my.
memory—all of them, each of them, con
firmation that the worst was true of her.
Her dejection, her frequent weeping
over the letters, were now accounted
for. Had she not often and os‘ten with
drawn from mo in the evenings, and
staid away, returning wnh overladen ex-
cuses ? Had I not seen her, more than
once of late, drop a latter into the re
ceiving-box of the post-office, when she
might have put it injjaiy mail-bag at the
house ? Had I not seen hex nervously
starting at the slightest noise,* when
seated in the twilight at the window in
her little sitting-room which overlooked
•the garden ? ' ‘ . .‘
She walked into the house before me
and I had time to collect myself I
pleaded headache, and retired into my
library. She knew that! never could
bear the presence of any one when ill,
and I was safe from interruption. Amidst
the whirling d a uce of my maddening
thoughts no idea of revenge on her had
any place. . I don’t believe in the cohi
manly-received opinion that real love
can be changed into hate. ,1 could not
hate her. I even thought with pity of the
outer Sorrow that could not' lad to be
hers in this word for eyermore.
But him-r-he escaped me 1 No. How
best to proceed ? *‘Shall I go apd ques
tion my groom, who must from the
stables have sometimes witnessed their
stolen interviews ?’' No'; soy iusth’cts
revolted at the Idea of talking to a groom
about her, fallen angel though she was.
I would do it all myself. My plans were
soon formed. Early next morning Ifpde
to our little town and sent back, Wmy
servant, a note to my wife, stating that I
was compelled to start for the city that
moment to make some arrafigemenlts
about my voyage, and thAt I should be
absent at least a iveek. I then went to
D——, purchased a light-colored wig, a
large pair of green , spectacles, and, dis
guisea with these and a large beard and
moustache, returned to bur village,Where
I engaged apartments opposite the post
office. There I remained on the watch.
Three days after my supposed;' de
parture my wife's carriage drove up to
the i shop kept by the postmaster,
Previous to her entering the shop I saw
her drop a note into ;the letter-box. After
a few minutes’ delay in making purchas
es sl?e drove off again.
Late in the afternoon a tall, distin
guished-looking man, with a traveling
eap, its peak closely drawn down over
his fate, entered the shop. I felt this to
be my enemy. I saw him receive a let
ter from the postmaster's wiro and hasti
ly walk away: I huTried to the shop,
and in broken English asked if t) ere
were letters for Mr. .Thirl ? She replied
in the negative,' but I earnestly requested
her to look over all the letters. This was
in order to gain time for a question or
two.
I inquired who was the fine looking
man who had just gone out of the shop ?
BUe didn’t know ; he was a stranger.—.
#ut was not his name on his letters ?
Qh yes; the name was Mr. Thornton,but
he didn’t live in the village.. Had he been
long in the habit of coming for letters ?
Not very long.
I walked^forth in the direction of my
home. It was nearly dusk when I came
within sight of that spot where my bliss
in life had been, Over the wet spoDgy
fields, over crumbling fences, through
swollen water courses, I had come, but
danger and fatigue were unfelt. About
half a mile from the house I saw a horse
tied up to a fence. He was with her
then.
I hid myself close to the bridge for a
while until} darkness should conceal my
movements. I then hurried across! and
approached the summer-house noiseless
ly. They were not there. No. Os coarse
.they were in the house then, I was not
long left in indecision, as to my next step.
The window of her sitting-room opened,
and there they stood, within a few yards
of me, his arm thrown round her waist.
I heard him, I saw him kiss her; I heard
her kiss him ; I heard his impassioned
“Gootl-by,” and then, with the noiseless
step of late, I hastened by a near cut to
the bridge.
,1 crossed it, shoved the ends of three
planks off their supports so that the
slightest weight should tilt them over,
ano waited about ten vards off, with a
heart whose throbs T heard above the
roaring of the angry flood.
■i He cams. lie made a few steps along
the bridge. Then & wild cry, a dashing
ot wood together, a plunge in the tor
rent, an interval of silence: another cry,
‘•Help, help That was all. I was
avehged- No mortal , could escape out
of that rock-banked stream in its then
state y
Next morning, I sent a note to my
wife, jj “ Caroline,” t said, ‘‘ I was close
to J°h when you and he parted last
night. I saw everything. He shall come
to you no more. God forgive you.”
I left at once in a ship bound for Ben
gal, The events of the past few weeks
had made such a wreck of me in body
and mind that there were many of my
feflow-passengers who thought *me in
sane. I canuot describe the agony of
my fife during those few days. His face
—that r face which I never saw In lffe
was with me ever. And, so do *?ly was
the mfemory of. her entwined with my
beia& hie face bore a likeness to heft;
but unlike hers it always wore a ghastly*
frown, which grew into a menace. >•: *1
One evening, it was at sundown,a man r 1
fell averbdard. The ship was gbin j
and there was a, stiff breeze. As
pa?4sd the qtm!ter*-br rather, asthe qu ir- '•
ter passed was plain (bathe con T d
hpt swim, i A '■ sudden • impulse seized *
me; I snatched a life-buoy and leaped
overboard. The helpless' seaman and
myself floated f together. I remember
seeing the cormorants sweeping about 1
our heads, and a boat putting forth from
the ship. a
The nfcxt familiar remembrance which
conies to me Is our presence on bo^rd.
a whaler Which had picked us up. We
wore forwarded oy the first passing ves- 1
eel to our destination. The tedi m of<
business arrangements connected with
my i-ecent inheritance was a parti LI re
lief. JBkf my fortune was no solace to
the bitter past After two vkh.ru of ob
jectless life I went to Australia. Here,
.a few days after my arrival, in the
course of my travels 1 came to a creek
where I stopped to lunch. I had but
just alighted whdn a horseman passed me
at a rapid pace. He Wore a red Gn:baldi
shirt, and a helmet hat with a red silk,
“puggaree” streaming behind it. lie
had hardly disappeared over the steep
bank on the opposite side of the creek
when two shots were heard, followed by
a shout. I spurred my horse' over the
creek, and in a few seconds beheld the *
person who had passed me overthrown,
his leg pinned to the ground by his
horse, which had fallen, and h man in a
mask,*about a dozen yards off, taking
aim at him with a revolver. The red
horseman and the bush-ranger tired si
multaneously, and the robber swerved in
his saddle, but he came very close to the
other and extended his revolver again.
I took a long Shot, the robber’s pistol feJfl
to the ground; his right arm dropped at
his side, and, uttering a koWl 6f rago
kud pain, he giillopped off toward the
scrub.
When I reached the fallen man, and
had released him; he said, gayly, “Well,
by Jove, that was touch and go! Your
shot saved my life, Sir, .and a better shot
with a revolver I never saw V'
“Who could your assailant haye been?’
said £ *
“Oh, one of Jhicky‘B gang, of course.
They have become very- troublesome
lately, and don’t scruple to t;*ke life. I
am certain I hit the scoundrel, but, by
Jove i Sir, you have given him a stinger.
My tent is. not far from this, and I be
seech your company.’’ , v
We soon came to his tent.
“Now then, Bob, look sharp about
dinner 1” Bob looked sharp, and we
Were soon seated at h on which we
.saw “steamer,”J>rohz6- winged
pigeons; a Couple of wild ducks, and pre
served potatoes. Nor were wc.come
liqukli wanting. There were sparkling
hoCk, sherry, and pale brandy.
After dinner wo lighted our pipes (Ip
and I )i and he became very • communi
cative. , , ,
“I came out without twenty pounds, M
he said, “and no one could believe how
lucky I have been. If riches could'give
happirtess, I ought to be one of tbe hap*
piest young fellow? in the Australian. v
He'said this with a Ugep sigh, and
smoked meditatively* I listened to him
wifth gfeat attention. A tine young fel
low lie was; a man every inch of him.
He had evidently been reared as a gen
tleman, and bush-life had not made him
forget his early habits.
“Have you ever been In America ?”
he inquired, after a panic in our conver
sation. r, ; «
“Often,” I said, “bn visits.”
* “In what parts particularly ?”
*ManyV The last I visited was New
York.” • - * • - : .
“indeed b-T fcno# many families in
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