Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

that interview. It was useless--without father or brother to take

  her part--to lose the last chance of appealing to him. She dashed

  away the tears--time enough to cry, is time easily found in a

  woman's existence--she dashed away the tears, and spoke to him

  again, more gently than she had spoken yet.

  "You have been three weeks, Geoffrey, at your brother Julius's

  place, not ten miles from here; and you have never once ridden

  over to see me. You would not have come to-day, if I had not

  written to you to insist on it. Is that the treatment I have

  deserved?"

  She paused. There was no answer.

  "Do you hear me?" she asked, advancing and speaking in louder

  tones.

  He was still silent. It was not in human endurance to bear his

  contempt. The warning of a coming outbreak began to show itself

  in her face. He met it, beforehand, with an impenetrable front.

  Feeling nervous about the interview, while he was waiting in the

  rose-garden--now that he stood committed to it, he was in full

  possession of himself. He was composed enough to remember that he

  had not put his pipe in its case--composed enough to set that

  little matter right before other matters went any farther. He

  took the case out of one pocket, and the pipe out of another.

  "Go on," he said, quietly. "I hear you."

  She struck the pipe out of his hand at a blow. If she had had the

  strength she would have struck him down with it on the floor of

  the summer-house.

  "How dare you use me in this way?" she burst out, vehemently.

  "Your conduct is infamous. Defend it if you can!"

  He made no attempt to defend it. He looked, with an expression of

  genuine anxiety, at the fallen pipe. It was beautifully

  colored--it had cost him ten shillings. "I'll pick up my pipe

  first," he said. His face brightened pleasantly--he looked

  handsomer than ever--as he examined the precious object, and put

  it back in the case. "All right," he said to himself. "She hasn't

  broken it." His attitude as he looked at her again, was the

  perfection of easy grace--the grace that attends on cultivated

  strength in a state of repose. "I put it to your own

  common-sense, " he said, in the most reasonable manner, "what's

  the good of bullying me? You don't want them to hear you, out on

  the lawn there--do you? You women are all alike. There's no

  beating a little prudence into your heads, try how one may."

  There he waited, expecting her to speak. She waited, on her side,

  and forced him to go on.

  "Look here," he said, "there's no need to quarrel, you know. I

  don't want to break my promise; but what can I do ? I'm not the

  eldest son. I'm dependent on my father for every farthing I have;

  and I'm on bad terms with him already. Can't you see it yourself?

  You're a lady, and all that, I know. But you're only a governess.

  It's your interest as well as mine to wait till my father has

  provided for me. Here it is in a nut-shell: if I marry you now,

  I'm a ruined man."

  The answer came, this time.

  "You villain if you _don't_ marry me, I am a ruined woman!"

  "What do you mean?"

  "You know what I mean. Don't look at me in that way."

  "How do you expect me to look at a woman who calls me a villain

  to my face?"

  She suddenly changed her tone. The savage element in

  humanity--let the modern optimists who doubt its existence look

  at any uncultivated man (no matter how muscular), woman (no

  matter how beautiful), or child (no matter how young)--began to

  show itself furtively in his eyes, to utter itself furtively in

  his voice. Was he to blame for the manner in which he looked at

  her and spoke to her? Not he! What had there been in the training

  of _his_ life (at school or at college) to soften and subdue the

  savage element in him? About as much as there had been in the

  training of his ancestors (without the school or the college)

  five hundred years since.

  It was plain that one of them must give way. The woman had the

  most at stake--and the woman set the example of submission.

  "Don't be hard on me," she pleaded. "I don't mean to be hard on

  _you._ My temper gets the better of me. You know my temper. I am

  sorry I forgot myself. Geoffrey, my whole future is in your

  hands. Will you do me justice?"

  She came nearer, and laid her hand persuasively on his arm.

  "Haven't you a word to say to me? No answer? Not even a look?"

  She waited a moment more. A marked change came over her. She

  turned slowly to leave the summer-house. "I am sorry to have

  troubled you, Mr. Delamayn. I won't detain you any longer."

  He looked at her. There was a tone in her voice that he had never

  heard before. There was a light in her eyes that he had never

  seen in them before. Suddenly and fiercely he reached out his

  hand, and stopped her.

  "Where are you going?" he asked.

  She answered, looking him straight in the face, "Where many a

  miserable woman has gone before me. Out of the world."

  He drew her nearer to him, and eyed her closely. Even _his_

  intelligence discovered that he had brought her to bay, and that

  she really meant it!

  "Do you mean you will destroy yourself?" he said.

  "Yes. I mean I will destroy myself."

  He dropped her arm. "By Jupiter, she _does_ mean it!"

  With that conviction in him, he pushed one of the chairs in the

  summer-house to her with his foot, and signed to her to take it.

  "Sit down!" he said, roughly. She had frightened him--and fear

  comes seldom to men of his type. They feel it, when it does come,

  with an angry distrust; they grow loud and brutal, in instinctive

  protest against it. "Sit down!" he repeated. She obeyed him.

  "Haven't you got a word to say to me?" he asked, with an oath.

  No! there she sat, immovable, reckless how it ended--as only

  women can be, when women's minds are made up. He took a turn in

  the summer-house and came back, and struck his hand angrily on

  the rail of her chair. "What do you want?"

  "You know what I want."

  He took another turn. There was nothing for it but to give way on

  his side, or run the risk of something happening which might

  cause an awkward scandal, and come to his father's ears.

  "Look here, Anne," he began, abruptly. "I have got something to

  propose."

  She looked up at him.

  "What do you say to a private marriage?"

  Without asking a single question, without making objections, she

  answered him, speaking as bluntly as he had spoken himself:

  "I consent to a private marriage."

  He began to temporize directly.

  "I own I don't see how it's to be managed--"

  She stopped him there.

  "I do!"

  "What!" he cried out, suspiciously. "You have thought of it

  yourself, have you?"

  "Yes."

  "And planned for it?"

  "And planned for it!"

  "Why didn't you tell me so before?"

  She answered haughtily; insisting on the respect which is due to

  women--the respe
ct which was doubly due from _him,_ in her

  position.

  "Because _you_ owed it to _me,_ Sir, to speak first."

  "Very well. I've spoken first. Will you wait a little?"

  "Not a day!"

  The tone was positive. There was no mistaking it. Her mind was

  made up.

  "Where's the hurry?"

  "Have you eyes?" she asked, vehemently. "Have you ears? Do you

  see how Lady Lundie looks at me? Do you hear how Lady Lundie

  speaks to me? I am suspected by that woman. My shameful dismissal

  from this house may be a question of a few hours." Her head sunk

  on her bosom; she wrung her clasped hands as they rested on her

  lap. "And, oh, Blanche!" she moaned to herself, the tears

  gathering again, and falling, this time, unchecked. "Blanche, who

  looks up to me! Blanche, who loves me! Blanche, who told me, in

  this very place, that I was to live with her when she was

  married!" She started up from the chair; the tears dried

  suddenly; the hard despair settled again, wan and white, on her

  face. "Let me go! What is death, compared to such a life as is

  waiting for _me?_" She looked him over, in one disdainful glance

  from head to foot; her voice rose to its loudest and firmest

  tones." Why, even _you_; would have the courage to die if you

  were in my place!"

  Geoffrey glanced round toward the lawn.

  "Hush!" he said. "They will hear you!"

  "Let them hear me! When _I_ am past hearing _them_, what does it

  matter?"

  He put her back by main force on the chair. In another moment

  they must have heard her, through all the noise and laughter of

  the game.

  "Say what you want," he resumed, "and I'll do it. Only be

  reasonable. I can't marry you to-day."

  "You can!"

  "What nonsense you talk! The house and grounds are swarming with

  company. It can't be!"

  "It can! I have been thinking about it ever since we came to this

  house. I have got something to propose to you. Will you hear it,

  or not?"

  "Speak lower!"

  "Will you hear it, or not?"

  "There's somebody coming!"

  "Will you hear it, or not?"

  "The devil take your obstinacy! Yes!"

  The answer had been wrung from him. Still, it was the answer she

  wanted--it opened the door to hope. The instant he had consented

  to hear her her mind awakened to the serious necessity of

  averting discovery by any third person who might stray idly into

  the summer-house. She held up her hand for silence, and listened

  to what was going forward on the lawn.

  The dull thump of the croquet-mallet against the ball was no

  longer to be heard. The game had stopped.

  In a moment more she heard her own name called. An interval of

  another instant passed, and a familiar voice said, "I know where

  she is. I'll fetch her."

  She turned to Geoffrey, and pointed to the back of the

  summer-house.

  "It's my turn to play," she said. "And Blanche is coming here to

  look for me. Wait there, and I'll stop her on the steps."

  She went out at once. It was a critical moment. Discovery, which

  meant moral-ruin to the woman, meant money-ruin to the man.

  Geoffrey had not exaggerated his position with his father. Lord

  Holchester had twice paid his debts, and had declined to see him

  since. One more outrage on his father's rigid sense of propriety,

  and he would be left out of the will as well as kept out of the

  house. He looked for a means of retreat, in case there was no

  escaping unperceived by the front entrance. A door--intended for

  the use of servants, when picnics and gipsy tea-parties were

  given in the summer-house--had been made in the back wall. It

  opened outward, and it was locked. With his strength it was easy

  to remove that obstacle. He put his shoulder to the door. At the

  moment when he burst it open he felt a hand on his arm. Anne was

  behind him, alone.

  "You may want it before long," she said, observing the open door,

  without expressing any surprise, "You don't want it now. Another

  person will play for me--I have told Blanche I am not well. Sit

  down. I have secured a respite of five minutes, and I must make

  the most of it. In that time, or less, Lady Lundie's suspicions

  will bring her here--to see how I am. For the present, shut the

  door."

  She seated herself, and pointed to a second chair. He took

  it--with his eye on the closed door.

  "Come to the point!" he said, impatiently. "What is it?"

  "You can marry me privately to-day," she answered. "Lis ten--and

  I will tell you how!"

  CHAPTER THE FIFTH.

  THE PLAN.

  SHE took his hand, and began with all the art of persuasion that

  she possessed.

  "One question, Geoffrey, before I say what I want to say. Lady

  Lundie has invited you to stay at Windygates. Do you accept her

  invitation? or do you go back to your brother's in the evening?"

  "I can't go back in the evening--they've put a visitor into my

  room. I'm obliged to stay here. My brother has done it on

  purpose. Julius helps me when I'm hard up--and bullies me

  afterward. He has sent me here, on duty for the family. Somebody

  must be civil to Lady Lundie--and I'm the sacrifice."

  She took him up at his last word. "Don't make the sacrifice," she

  said. "Apologize to Lady Lundie, and say you are obliged to go

  back."

  "Why?"

  "Because we must both leave this place to-day."

  There was a double objection to that. If he left Lady Lundie's,

  he would fail to establish a future pecuniary claim on his

  brother's indulgence. And if he left with Anne, the eyes of the

  world would see them, and the whispers of the world might come to

  his father's ears.

  "If we go away together," he said, "good-by to my prospects, and

  yours too."

  "I don't mean that we shall leave together," she explained. "We

  will leave separately--and I will go first."

  "There will be a hue and cry after you, when you are missed."

  "There will be a dance when the croquet is over. I don't

  dance--and I shall not be missed. There will be time, and

  opportunity to get to my own room. I shall leave a letter there

  for Lady Lundie, and a letter"--her voice trembled for a

  moment--"and a letter for Blanche. Don't interrupt me! I have

  thought of this, as I have thought of every thing else. The

  confession I shall make will be the truth in a few hours, if it's

  not the truth now. My letters will say I am privately married,

  and called away unexpectedly to join my husband. There will be a

  scandal in the house, I know. But there will be no excuse for

  sending after me, when I am under my husband's protection. So far

  as you are personally concerned there are no discoveries to

  fear--and nothing which it is not perfectly safe and perfectly

  easy to do. Wait here an hour after I have gone to save

  appearances; and then follow me."

  "Follow you?" interposed Geoffrey. "Where?" She drew her chair

  nearer to him, and whispered
the next words in his ear.

  "To a lonely little mountain inn--four miles from this."

  "An inn!"

  "Why not?"

  "An inn is a public place."

  A movement of natural impatience escaped her--but she controlled

  herself, and went on as quietly as before:

  "The place I mean is the loneliest place in the neighborhood. You

  have no prying eyes to dread there. I have picked it out

  expressly for that reason. It's away from the railway; it's away

  from the high-road: it's kept by a decent, respectable

  Scotchwoman--"

  "Decent, respectable Scotchwomen who keep inns," interposed

  Geoffrey, "don't cotton to young ladies who are traveling alone.

  The landlady won't receive you."

  It was a well-aimed objection--but it missed the mark. A woman

  bent on her marriage is a woman who can meet the objections of

  the whole world, single-handed, and refute them all.

  "I have provided for every thing," she said, "and I have provided

  for that. I shall tell the landlady I am on my wedding-trip. I

  shall say my husband is sight-seeing, on foot, among the

  mountains in the neighborhood--"

  "She is sure to believe that!" said Geoffrey.

  "She is sure to _dis_believe it, if you like. Let her! You have

  only to appear, and to ask for your wife--and there is my story

  proved to be true! She may be the most suspicious woman living,

  as long as I am alone with her. The moment you join me, you set

  her suspicions at rest. Leave me to do my part. My part is the

  hard one. Will you do yours?"

  It was impossible to say No: she had fairly cut the ground from

  under his feet. He shifted his ground. Any thing rather than say

  Yes!

  "I suppose _you_ know how we are to be married?" he asked. "All I

  can say is--_I_ don't."

  "You do!" she retorted. "You know that we are in Scotland. You

  know that there are neither forms, ceremonies, nor delays in

  marriage, here. The plan I have proposed to you secures my being

  received at the inn, and makes it easy and natural for you to

  join me there afterward. The rest is in our own hands. A man and

  a woman who wish to be married (in Scotland) have only to secure

  the necessary witnesses and the thing is done. If the landlady

  chooses to resent the deception practiced on her, after that, the

  landlady may do as she pleases. We shall have gained our object

  in spite of her--and, what is more, we shall have gained it

  without risk to _you._"

  "Don't lay it all on my shoulders," Geoffrey rejoined. "You women

  go headlong at every thing. Say we are married. We must separate

  afterward--or how are we to keep it a secret?"

  "Certainly. You will go back, of course, to your brother's house,

  as if nothing had happened."

  "And what is to become of _you?_"

  "I shall go to London."

  "What are you to do in London?"

  "Haven't I already told you that I have thought of every thing?

  When I get to London I shall apply to some of my mother's old

  friends--friends of hers in the time when she was a musician.

  Every body tells me I have a voice--if I had only cultivated it.

  I _will_ cultivate it! I can live, and live respectably, as a

  concert singer. I have saved money enough to support me, while I

  am learning--and my mother's friends will help me, for her sake."

  So, in the new life that she was marking out, was she now

  unconsciously reflecting in herself the life of her mother before

  her. Here was the mother's career as a public singer, chosen (in

  spite of all efforts to prevent it) by the child! Here (though

  with other motives, and under other circumstances) was the

  mother's irregular marriage in Ireland, on the point of being

  followed by the daughter's irregular marriage in Scotland! And

  here, stranger still, was the man who was answerable for it--the

  son of the man who had found the flaw in the Irish marriage, and