Savannah daily herald. (Savannah, Ga.) 1865-1866, February 21, 1865, Image 1
SAVANNAH DAILY HERALD. ** ' -i ' • »’ [ I-* £ ]Vo. 3<i. / Habamwlj jj|i*ilg PtmivOSBKD KVBKT EVENING, StJNDAYS EXCEPTED, ay W. MASON & CO. At D1 Bat Stweet, Sataknah, Geougia. TKttilfi: Pei Copy - Five Cents. Per Hundred $3 50. per Year....! ............. f .slo 00. ADVBP.TIBIKO: A timited number of Advertised eels will be re* fired at the rate of Twenty Cents per line for gist insertion,aud Fifteen Cents per Line for eaeh wibsoqaen' insertion ; invariably in aevance. Ad vertisements should be handed la before noon of oaoh day. JOB PIUNTINO la every style, neatly and promptly dive. 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 I PRICE tPiv© Cents.