Page:Harper's New Monthly Magazine - v109.djvu/972

900 sieged by memories of the last two months, their anxieties and quarrels,—the waste of time and opportunity—the stabs to feeling and self-respect. Once he found himself groaning aloud—"Kitty!—Kitty!—"

When this huge distracting London was left behind, when he had her to himself amid the Scotch heather and birch, should he find her again—conquer her again?—as in the exquisite days after their marriage. He thought of Cliffe with a kind of proud torment,—disdaining to be jealous,—or afraid. Kitty had amused herself—had tested her freedom, his patience to the utmost. Might she now be content! and reward him a little, for a self-control, a philosophy, which had not been easy!

A French novel on Kitty's little table drew his attention. He thought not without a discomfortable humor of what a French husband would have made of a similar situation,—recalling the remark of a French acquaintance, on some case illustrating the freedom of English wives. "Il y a un élément turc dans le mari français, qui nous rendrait ces moeurs-là impossibles!"

A la bonne heure! Let the Frenchman keep up his seraglio standards as he pleased. An Englishman trusts both his wife and his daughter—scorns indeed to consider whether he trusts them or no! And who comes worst off? Not the Englishman—if, at least, we are to believe the French novel and the French ménage!

He paced up and down for an hour, defying his unseen critics—his mother—his own heart.

Then he went to bed and slept a little. But with the post next morning there was no letter from Kitty. There might be a hundred explanations of that. Yet he felt a sudden need of caution.

"Her ladyship comes up this morning by train," he said to Wilson, as though reading from a note,—"there seems to have been a mishap."

Then he took a hansom, and drove to the Alcots.

"Is Mrs. Alcot at home?" he asked the butler. "Can I have an answer to this note?"

"Mrs. Alcot has been in her room since yesterday morning, sir. She was taken ill just before the coach was coming round, and the horses had to be sent back. But the doctor last night hoped it would be nothing serious."

Ashe turned and went home. Then Kitty was not with Madeleine Alcot,—not on the coach. Where was she, and with whom?

He shut himself into his library, and fell to wondering, in bewilderment, what he had better do. A tide of rage and agony was mounting within him. How to master it!—and keep his brain clear!

He was sitting in front of his writing-table, staring at the floor, his hands hanging before him,—when the door opened and shut. He turned. There, with her back to the door, stood Kitty. Her aspect startled him to his feet. She looked at him, trembling,—her little face haggard and white, with a touch of something in it which had blurred its youth.

"William!" She put both her hands to her breast, as though to support herself. Then she flew forward. "William!—I have done nothing wrong—nothing—nothing! William—look at me!"

He sternly put out his hand,—protecting himself.

"Where have you been?" he said, in a low voice—"and with whom?"

Kitty fell into a chair, and burst into wild tears.