thrust a part of his body in and prevented the movement.
“Are you certain?” he asked.
“I am,” was positively answered, while the girl strove to shut the door by forcing it against Mr. Lane. At this moment something like a smothered cry from within reached his ears, when, throwing open the door with a sudden application of strength that prostrated the girl, he stepped over her body and entered the vestibule. Just then there arose a wild cry for help! He knew the voice; it came from one of the parlours, into which he rushed. There he saw his wife struggling in the arms of a woman and a man, while his frightened child stood near, white and speechless with terror. As he entered, Amanda saw him.
“Oh, my husband!” she exclaimed. In a moment she was released, and the man and woman fled from the room, but not before the face of the former was fully recognised by Mr. Lane.
Little Mary had already sprung to her father, and was quivering and panting on his breast.
“Oh! take me away quickly—quickly!” cried Mrs. Lane, staggering towards her husband and falling into his arms.
Without waiting for explanations, Mr. Lane went from the house with his wife and child, and, placing them in the carriage at the door, was driven to an hotel.
The reader doubtless understands the scene we have just described. The man named Bond was in the act of carrying out his threat to remove Mrs. Lane to a chamber by force when her husband appeared.
Of all that passed between the severely-tried husband and wife after their meeting, it behooves us not to write. The circumstances we have detailed were exceedingly painful to the parties most interested; but their effect, like the surgeon’s knife, was salutary. Mr. Lane afterwards regarded his wife from an entirely different point of view, and found her a very different woman from what he had at first believed her to be. He saw in her a strength of character and a clearness of intellect for which he had never given her credit; and, from looking down upon her as a child or an inferior, came to feel towards her as an equal.
His indignation at the treatment she had received in Philadelphia was extreme. The man named Bond he knew very well, and he at first determined to call him to account personally; but as this would lead to a mortifying notoriety and exposure of the whole affair, he was reluctantly induced to keep silence. Bond has never crossed his way since: it might not be well for him to do so.
Some years have passed. No one who meets Mr. and Mrs. Lane, at home or abroad, would dream that, at one time, they were driven asunder by a strong repulsion. Few are more deeply attached, or happier in their domestic relations; but neither trespasses on the other’s rights, nor interferes with the other’s prerogative. Mutual deference, confidence, respect, and love, unite them with a bond that cannot again be broken.
THE INVALID WIFE.
“MY poor head! It seems as if it would burst!” murmured Mrs. Bain, as she arose from a stooping position, and clasped her temples with both hands. She was engaged in dressing a restless, fretful child, some two or three years old. Two children had been washed and dressed, and this was the last to be made ready for breakfast.
As Mrs. Bain stood, with pale face, closed eyes, and tightly compressed lips, still clasping her throbbing temples, the bell announcing the morning meal was rung. The sound caused her to start, and she said, in a low and fretful voice—
“There’s the breakfast bell; and Charley isn’t ready yet; nor have I combed my hair. How my head does ache! I am almost blind with the pain.”
Then she resumed her work of dressing Charley, who struggled, cried, and resisted, until she was done.
Mr. Bain was already up and dressed. He was seated in the parlour, enjoying his morning paper, when the breakfast bell rang. The moment he heard the sound, he threw down his newspaper, and, leaving the parlour, ascended to the dining-room. His two oldest children were there, ready to take their places at the table.
“Where’s your mother?” he inquired of one of them.
“She’s dressing Charley,” was answered.
“Never ready in time,” said Mr. Bain, to himself, impatiently. He spoke in an under tone.
For a few moments he stood with his hands on the back of his chair. Then he walked twice the length of the dining-room; and then he went to the door and called—
“Jane! Jane! Breakfast is on the table.”
“I’ll be there in a minute,” was replied by Mrs. Bain.
“Oh, yes! I know something about your minutes.” Mr. Bain said this to himself. “This never being in time annoys me terribly. I’m always ready. I’m always up to time. But there’s no regard to time in this house.”
Mrs. Bain was still struggling with her cross and troublesome child, when the voice of her impatient husband reached her. The sound caused a throb of intenser pain to pass through her aching head.
“Jane, make haste! Breakfast is all getting cold, and I’m in a hurry to go away to business,” was called once more.
“Do have a little patience. I’ll be there in a moment,” replied Mrs. Bain.
“A moment! This is always the way.”
And Mr. Bain once more paced backwards and forwards.
Meantime the wife hurriedly completed her own toilet, and then repaired to the dining-room. She was just five minutes too late.
One glance at her pale, suffering face should have changed to sympathy and pity the ill-humour of her thoughtless, impatient husband. But it was not so. The moment she appeared, he said—
“This is too bad, Jane! I’ve told you, over and over, that I don’t like to wait after the bell rings. My mother was always promptly at her place, and I’d like my wife to imitate so good an example.”
Perhaps nothing could have hurt Mrs. Bain more than such a cruel reference of her husband to his mother, coupled with so unfeeling a declaration of his will concerning her—as if she were to be the mere creature of his will.
