CHAPTER XVI.

CONCERNING AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY TO TIBERIUS.

Two days after the departure of the Whitlows, Mr, Dyce, during breakfast, announced his intention of leaving Ptolemy. "I have promised to visit the Community," said he, "and it is now a pleasant time to be there, Could you lend me your horse and carriage as far as Tiberius, Merryfield ?"

"Not to-day, I guess," said the farmer; "I must go to Mulligansville this afternoon, to see about buying another cow, and Henry has the hill-field to hoe. You could take Jinny and the carriage, but how would I get them back again ?"

"I will go," said his wife, with an unusual eagerness. "I must go there soon, any way. I've things to buy, you know, James, and there's Mrs. Nevins that I've been owing a visit to, this ever so long,"

"Well, if you want to, Sarah," he answered, "I've nothing against it. Are you sure it won't be too much for you? You know you've been having extra work, and you're not strong."

Mrs. Merryfield drew up the corners of her mouth, and gave a spasmodic sob. "Yes, I know I am the weaker vessel," she wailed, "and my own judgment don't pass for any thing."

"Sarah, Sarah, don't be foolish !" said her husband; "you know I never interfere unreasonably with your ways. You can do as you please. I spoke for your own good, and you needn't cry about it."

He rose with an impatient air, and left the table. He could not but admit to himself, sometimes, that the happiness of his married life had not increased in proportion to his progress in

the knowledge of Reform. When be locked back and recalled the lively, rosy young woman, with her first nuptial bashful ness and air of dependence on her husband fresh about her, whom he had brought to the farm-base twenty-five years before, when they Ived in atter ignorance of dietetic laws and solemn daties towards the Human Race, he could not repress a feeling of pain. The slow, fretful woman, who new eonsi lered her years of conting love as a period of servitude, which she strove to balance by claiming more than an equal share in the direction of the househoid, was another (and less agreeable) creature, in comparison with her former self. Of late, she had grown more than usually irritable and unsatisfied, and, although he had kindly ascribed the fact to housekeeping perplexities, his patience was sorely tried. There was no remedy but endurance, so far as he could see. It was impossible, now, to change his convictions in regard to woman's rights, and he was too sincere to allow the practice of his life to be inconsistent with them.

When he returned at noon from a distant field, where he had been engaged all the morning, he was surprised to find the carriage still at home, although his man Henry was engaged in greasing the hubs of the wheels. "Why, Sarah,” said he, as he sat down to dinner, "I thought you would have been off."

"I couldn't get ready," she answered, rather sullenly. "But I need not come back to-night. It will be better for Jinny, anyhow."

Mr. Dyce was unusually talkative on the subject of the Community, the charms of which he painted in the liveliest colors. His host was tired of the subject, but listened with an air of tolerance, as he was so soon to get rid of the speaker.

Bidding the latter good-by, immediately after dinner, he saddled his horse and rode to Mulligansville. The new cow met his requirements, and a bargain was soon concluded. She was to be brought to the farm next day, when the price agreed upon would be paid. Mr. Merryfield had adopted the sensible

rule of defraying all such expenses as they arose.

Hence his

crops were never mortgaged in advance, and by waiting until they could be sold to the best advantage, he prospered from year to year.

When he reached home again, it was nearly four o'clock. Putting up his horse, he entered the house and went directly to the old-fashioned mixture of hook-case, writing-desk, and chest of drawers, which stood in a corner of the sitting-room. He must make a note of the purchase, and, since he was alone, might as well spend an hour, he thought, in looking over his papers and making his calculations for the summer.

He was very methodical in his business arrangements, and the desk was in such perfect order that he always knew the exact place of each particular paper. This was one of the points of controversy with his wife, which he never yielded: he insisted that she should not open the desk in his absence. This time, however, as he seated himself, drew out the sup ports for the lid, and let it down upon them, his exact eye showed him that something had been disturbed. The papers in one of the pigeon-holes projected a little further than usual, and the corners were not square as they should be. Besides, the pile appeared to be diminished in height. He knew every paper the pigeon-hole contained, took them out and ran rapidly through them. One was missing!—an envelope, containing bonds of the New York Central Railroad, to the amount of three thousand dollars, the private property of his wife. It was the investment of a sum which she had inherited at her father's death, made in her own name, and the interest of which she had always received for her separate use.

He leaned back in his chair, thunderstruck at the discovery. Could one of the servants have taken the envelope? Impossible.

Dyce?-how should he know where to find it? Evidently, nothing else had been touched. Had his wife, perhaps, taken it with her, to draw the semi-annual interest at Tiberius? It was not yet due. Mechanically, hardly conscious of what he suspected or feared, he arose and went up-stairs. In the bed

room which Dye had last occupied every thing was in code. He passed into his own, opening closets and wardrobes, expecting either to find or miss somaling viiù might enlight elin Lis wife's wardrobe three pegs upon which dresses bad hang, were empty. He jerked open, in haste, the drawers of her bureau: many things had apparently been removed. Closing them again, be raised his head, and a little note, stick ing among the bristles of the hair-brush, which lay on its back in front of the looking-glass, caught his eye. He seized it, unfolded it with shaking hands, put on his spectacles and read. There were bat two lines:

Seni to Tiberias for the carriage. I am going to the Community."

It was a hard blow for the poor man. The idea of conjugal infidelity on the part of his wife was simply incredible, and no suspicion of that nature entered his mind. It was a deliberate case of desertion, and the abstraction of the bonds indicated that it was meant to be final. What her motives were, he could only guess at in a confused way; but he knew that she would never, of her own accord, have determined upon a course so mad and ruinous. Many things were suddenly clear to him. The evil influence of Dyce, strengthened by his assumed power, as a medium, of bringing her children near to her; the mag netic strength, morbid though it was, of the man's words and presence; the daily opportunities of establishing some intangible authority over the wife, during her husband's absence, until she became, finally, the ignorant slave of his will-all this, or the possibility of it, presented itself to Merryfield's mind in a rush of dim and tangled impressions. He had neither the time nor the power to unravel them, but he felt that there was truth at the core. Following this conviction came the determination to save her-yes! save her at once. There was no time to be lost. Tiberius was eighteen miles distant, and they could not yet have arrived there. He must follow instantly, and overtake them, if possible, before the departure of the train from the west.

Why was he delaying there? The ten minutes that he had been standing, motionless, in the centre of the room, with the note in his hand, his eyes mechanically reading the two lines over and over, until the first terrible chaos of his feelings subsided, had lengthened themselves into hours. Breaking the spell at last, he drew a long breath, which resolved itself into a groan, and lifted his head. The little looking-glass on the bureau was before him: moving a step nearer, he examined his own face with a pitiful curiosity. It looked old and haggard; the corners of his mouth were rigidly drawn and tightened, and the pinched nostrils twitched in spite of himself, but his eyes were hard and dry.

"It don't make much difference in my looks, after all," he said to himself, with a melancholy laugh; and the next instant the eyes overflowed.

After this brief outbreak, he recovered some strength and steadiness, and rapidly arranged in his mind what was first to be done. Taking off his work-day clothes, he put on a better suit, and descended the stairs. Calling to the servant-girl in the kitchen, he informed her, in a voice which he strove to make natural and unconcerned, that he was suddenly obliged to visit Tiberius on business, but would return the next day, with his wife. He left directions with her for Henry, the field-hand, regarding the morrow's work, then resaddled his horse and rode rapidly to Ptolemy.

On the way, his thoughts involuntarily went in advance, and he endeavored to prefigure the meeting with his wife. It was impossible for him, however, to decide what course he should pursue in case she should persist in her determination. It was not enough to overtake her; he must be armed at all points to subdue and reclaim her. She had a stubborn power of resistance with which he was well acquainted; and, moreover, Dyce would be ready enough to assist her. He foreboded his own helplessness in such a case, though the right was on his side and the flagrant wrong on hers.

"It's my own fault," he groaned, bitterly; "I've given