A RECENT case of a Missing Heiress—how recent does not matter—attracted a large amount of public attention. Stimulating paragraphs first suggested that an heiress was missing. And eventually still more stimulating paragraphs announced that she had been found—and found under circumstances the most romantic in the world. If the mothers of Missing Heiresses deposit their little charges on strange doorsteps and at an early age, it is no reasonable matter of surprise that difficulty should arise in satisfactorily tracing them. And the heroine of the case under consideration will have the satisfaction of knowing that had it not been for the untiring and disinterested efforts of the heir-at-law, she must have continued to perform menial duties to the end of time. The Missing Heiress having been suddenly transformed into a Discovered Heroine, did not thereupon cease to be an object of public interest. Indeed the interest increased. Editors of penny dreadfuls set their young men to “work up” exciting fictions on the basis of facts, and a sensational evening paper discussed the circumstances in a leading article full of that learning, good taste, and common sense, for which the organ in question has been for so long and so justly celebrated. The righteous example of the sensational broadsheet has been followed with more or less success by the editors of the provincial papers, and the story of the Missing Heiress has become as familiar in our mouths as “household words.” But while Society and its organs have been discussing the romantic history of the Heiress from the area, neither Society nor its journals have so much as heard of the story of Mrs. Stubbs, the wife of the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester. And there is nothing more certain in the world than this: that had there been no Missing Heiress there would have been no story to tell of the wife of the umbrella-maker of Blandy Street, Manchester.

When the good fairy of that romance of real life to which we have alluded determined to assure himself of the existence of the Missing Heiress, he went to considerable expense in advertising, in consulting lawyers, in having conferences with detectives, and the like. And it was quite surprising to find how many Missing Heiresses turned up to tell the story of how they had been left upon a certain night on a certain doorstep. Stubbs first heard of the affair from the landlady of the “Six Bells,” and he immediately came to the conclusion that Mrs. Stubbs was the lady in question. Mrs. Stubbs was a foundling. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep. Mrs. Stubbs had been found on a doorstep in the very identical town where the Missing Heiress had been deposited.

“It tuk my brothe away,” said Stubbs, in afterwards describing his sensations.

Stubbs was a small and secretive umbrella-maker, and kept the news to himself until he had seen a man of law. But though Stubbs kept the news to himself he was unable to disguise its effects. If the truth must be told, Stubbs was a short-tempered, tyrannical man, habitually cruel and contemptuous to the wife of his bosom. She had for a short time after marriage attempted to assert her position and maintain her individuality.

But Stubbs being a Republican and a Freethinker, stood upon his undoubted rights, reduced his wife to what he described as her “proper spear,” and became thenceforward and for ever “mawster in his hown ’ouse.” As he himself explained to the President of the Republican Circle—an influential society holding weekly meetings at the “Six Bells,”—

“I said as ’ow I’d break her, an’ she’s broke.”

On the same evening that brought to Mr. Stubbs the intelligence concerning the Missing Heiress, Mrs. Stubbs was in a great distress of mind because she was behindhand with her husband’s tea. A domestic failure of this kind was always calculated to arouse the dormant eloquence of her lord. Indeed, a very trivial shortcoming on the part of Mrs. Stubbs was apt to bring down on her devoted head hard words and sometimes, I regret to say, hard blows. In her efforts to expedite matters on this particular evening, Mrs. Stubbs—as is occasionally the case—instead of forwarding domestic affairs had delayed them. And when the door suddenly opened, and her irate lord stood on the threshold, she stood in the midst of a “confusion worse confounded.” With trembling accents, and not daring to lift her eyes, she faltered,—

“I’m so sorry I’m a bit late, John, but—”

To her intense surprise, John replied in tones more faltering and deferential than her own,—

“It’s orright, Mary, dear. Better late than never, don’t ye know.”

“He calls me ‘dear,’” said Mary to herself, lifting her eyes to ascertain whether her husband was sober. Yes. He was evidently under no alcoholic influence. And yet there he stood, blushing, stammering, and holding in his hand the hat which heretofore in his own house he invariably carried on his head.

“I’m afraid,” he said, hesitatingly, and blushing more than ever. “I’m afraid I’ve been a bit inattentive to you, Mary.”As Mary had never had to complain of his want of attention she very wisely replied,—

“Not at all, John.”

“But I ’ave,” he insisted, “and you’re lookin’ pale like. Let’s git our tea over an’ go to a theayter.”

The surprise of Mrs. Stubbs blossomed into a wild and astounded amazement. She looked straight at Mr. Stubbs to see whether he was in earnest, and coming to the conclusion that sincerity was defined there, she deliberately went up to her husband and kissed him. He submitted to the infliction with a good grace, though still blushing consumedly. The play was to Mrs. Stubbs the height of earthly bliss. She was a person of small intellect and simple tastes, and followed with childlike wonder the moving histories illustrated on the stage. It mattered not to her whether the play was comedy or tragedy; burlesque or melodrama. There were colour and ornament and music. These sufficed. And from the rise of the curtain till its fall she watched the proceedings open-mouthed and wondering. That her husband should not only permit her to enjoy her favourite amusement, but absolutely offer himself to accompany her to the theatre overwhelmed her, and so in the first moment of surprise she had kissed him.

His conduct all through the evening was delightful. He comported himself like a very squire of dames; purchased for her ginger-beer and oranges, and reminded her, as she coyly suggested, of the happy days of their courtship. His conduct then was but a foretaste of his conduct for many days to come. He discovered that Mary was overworked, and insisted on having a girl in to assist her in the house. Every moment, when not employed in his small shop—it was little better than a stall—he spent in his house, usually appearing with a votive offering in the shape of a lobster or a basket of mushrooms, or even a box of chocolate creams. Except on “meeting evenings,” he never now entered the “Six Bells,” but spent the precious hours at home like a devoted husband, smoking his pipe, sipping gin and water, and reading for her such extracts from the daily broadsheets as contained no allusion direct or remote to Missing Heiresses.

The lawyer who had been consulted by Mr. Stubbs was like his client, a Member of the Republican Circle. Also, like his client, he was a Socialist and Freethinker; and his name was Chatham. From the first instruction given him by Mr Stubbs, he expressed the greatest confidence in the claim of his wife, and prosecuted his inquiries with the utmost zeal and goodwill. Mr. Stubbs had at the time of his important discovery a hundred pounds in the bank. The most of this money soon found its way into the office of Mr. Chatham. Inquiries of the kind cost something. There are so many journeys to be made, so many witnesses to be interviewed; so many reams of foolscap to be crossed, all at the rate of so much per folio. But Mr. Stubbs, strong in the belief that his wife would soon be worth untold gold grudged none of it. Indeed, when it was all gone, he borrowed other sums. It was, after all, only the proverbial sprat to catch the proverbial whale. The blubber would repay him when realised. Until everything was made clear, however, he preferred to keep his wife in the dark. And the interval—it could only be a short one—he magnanimously devoted to cultivating the acquaintance of a helpmeet whom he had long neglected.

When the hundred pounds had all gone, and when the obliging persons who had lent him sums of money to “go on with,” became clamorous for repayment, he had his moments of depression. He was, however, sustained by the assurance of his lawyer, and consoled by the unremitting attention of his wife. At times when the fit of melancholy was particularly bad, he would break into some exclamation such as in less happy days he had used to Mrs. Stubbs. But he immediately checked himself, and called her his “angel,” and his “guiding star.” And she, poor woman, accepted the amendment, soothed and comforted her ruffled consort, and expressed a belief that his monetary troubles would soon be over.

Her prophecy was verified. His monetary troubles were soon over. Once again Mrs. Stubbs was expecting her husband’s return to tea. But there was no confusion now. The table was laid, the kettle boiling, the bread and butter cut, and the shrimps and water-cresses gracing the festive board. The master of the house was late. But he would soon return, no doubt bearing a peace-offering—now invariably delivered to his spouse when he failed to be punctual. She was thus reflecting when the door burst suddenly open, and John Stubbs entered with his hat on his head. His face was pale, his eyes seemed to start from his head. He approached the table, struck it with his closed fist and—I regret to have to record it—called his wife “a she devil.” It was one of the dear old words of an earlier and more tempestuous period. She bore it in silence. But when he yelled,—

“She’s found, you swindler! D’ye hear, y’imposter, the real Heiress is found, ye deceitful hussy,” she was puzzled beyond measure.

“Where’s my money?” he howled, as he pulled the cloth from the table and dashed the shrimps and water-cresses to the ground. “Where’s my hundred pounds. Where’s the money I spent in bonnets an’ in theayters an’ in chocolate creams? Eh, you thing! You born on a doorstep! Bah!”

He then proceeded to demolish the furniture, and his wife displaying that discretion which is the better part of valour, watched her opportunity, and when his back was turned fled out into the street. She believed that he was mad. Perhaps he was—for he managed that night to fall into the river and die there. After the inquest the members of the Republican Circle, with whom he was deservedly popular, gave him a semi-public funeral with banners and music. Towards the cost of the obsequies Mr. Chatham contributed a guinea. And to this day Mrs. Stubbs, who is doing very well in the laundry line of business, has never been able to guess the cause of her deceased husband’s insanity.