Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

living knew less.

  "Say?" he repeated. "Look here! say I'm half distracted, and all

  that. And--wait a bit--tell her to stop where she is till I write

  to her."

  Arnold hesitated. Absolutely ignorant of that low and limited

  form of knowledge which is called "knowledge of the world," his

  inbred delicacy of mind revealed to him the serious difficulty of

  the position which his friend was asking him to occupy as plainly

  as if he was looking at it through the warily-gathered experience

  of society of a man of twice his age.

  "Can't you write to her now, Geoffrey?" he asked.

  "What's the good of that?"

  "Consider for a minute, and you will see. You have trusted me

  with a very awkward secret. I may be wrong--I never was mixed up

  in such a matter before--but to present myself to this lady as

  your messenger seems exposing her to a dreadful humiliation. Am I

  to go and tell her to her face: 'I know what you are hiding from

  the knowledge of all the world;' and is she to be expected to

  endure it?"

  "Bosh!" said Geoffrey. "They can

  endure a deal more than you think. I wish you had heard how she

  bullied me, in this very place. My good fellow, you don't

  understand women. The grand secret, in dealing with a woman, is

  to take her as you take a cat, by the scruff of the neck--"

  "I can't face her--unless you will help me by breaking the thing

  to her first. I'll stick at no sacrifice to serve you; but--hang

  it!--make allowances, Geoffrey, for the difficulty you are

  putting me in. I am almost a stranger; I don't know how Miss

  Silvester may receive me, before I can open my lips."

  Those last words touched the question on its practical side. The

  matter-of-fact view of the difficulty was a view which Geoffrey

  instantly recognized and understood.

  "She has the devil's own temper," he said. "There's no denying

  that. Perhaps I'd better write. Have we time to go into the

  house?"

  "No. The house is full of people, and we haven't a minute to

  spare. Write at once, and write here. I have got a pencil."

  "What am I to write on?"

  "Any thing--your brother's card."

  Geoffrey took the pencil which Arnold offered to him, and looked

  at the card. The lines his brother had written covered it. There

  was no room left. He felt in his pocket, and produced a

  letter--the letter which Anne had referred to at the interview

  between them--the letter which she had written to insist on his

  attending the lawn-party at Windygates.

  "This will do," he said. "It's one of Anne's own letters to me.

  There's room on the fourth page. If I write," he added, turning

  suddenly on Arnold, "you promise to take it to her? Your hand on

  the bargain!"

  He held out the hand which had saved Arnold's life in Lisbon

  Harbor, and received Arnold's promise, in remembrance of that

  time.

  "All right, old fellow. I can tell you how to find the place as

  we go along in the gig. By-the-by, there's one thing that's

  rather important. I'd better mention it while I think of it."

  "What is that?"

  "You mustn't present yourself at the inn in your own name; and

  you mustn't ask for her by _her_ name."

  "Who am I to ask for?"

  "It's a little awkward. She has gone there as a married woman, in

  case they're particular about taking her in--"

  "I understand. Go on."

  "And she has planned to tell them (by way of making it all right

  and straight for both of us, you know) that she expects her

  husband to join her. If I had been able to go I should have asked

  at the door for 'my wife.' You are going in my place--"

  "And I must ask at the door for 'my wife,' or I shall expose Miss

  Silvester to unpleasant consequences?"

  "You don't object?"

  "Not I! I don't care what I say to the people of the inn. It's

  the meeting with Miss Silvester that I'm afraid of."

  "I'll put that right for you--never fear!"

  He went at once to the table and rapidly scribbled a few

  lines--then stopped and considered. "Will that do?" he asked

  himself. "No; I'd better say something spooney to quiet her." He

  considered again, added a line, and brought his hand down on the

  table with a cheery smack. "That will do the business! Read it

  yourself, Arnold--it's not so badly written."

  Arnold read the note without appearing to share his friend's

  favorable opinion of it.

  "This is rather short," he said.

  "Have I time to make it longer?"

  "Perhaps not. But let Miss Silvester see for herself that you

  have no time to make it longer. The train starts in less than

  half an hour. Put the time."

  "Oh, all right! and the date too, if you like."

  He had just added the desired words and figures, and had given

  the revised letter to Arnold, when Sir Patrick returned to

  announce that the gig was waiting.

  "Come!" he said. "You haven't a moment to lose!"

  Geoffrey started to his feet. Arnold hesitated.

  "I must see Blanche!" he pleaded. "I can't leave Blanche without

  saying good-by. Where is she?"

  Sir Patrick pointed to the steps, with a smile. Blanche had

  followed him from the house. Arnold ran out to her instantly.

  "Going?" she said, a little sadly.

  "I shall be back in two days," Arnold whispered. "It's all right!

  Sir Patrick consents."

  She held him fast by the arm. The hurried parting before other

  people seemed to be not a parting to Blanche's taste.

  "You will lose the train!" cried Sir Patrick.

  Geoffrey seized Arnold by the arm which Blanche was holding, and

  tore him--literally tore him--away. The two were out of sight, in

  the shrubbery, before Blanche's indignation found words, and

  addressed itself to her uncle.

  "Why is that brute going away with Mr. Brinkworth?" she asked.

  "Mr. Delamayn is called to London by his father's illness,"

  replied Sir Patrick. "You don't like him?"

  "I hate him!"

  Sir Patrick reflected a little.

  "She is a young girl of eighteen," he thought to himself. "And I

  am an old man of seventy. Curious, that we should agree about any

  thing. More than curious that we should agree in disliking Mr.

  Delamayn."

  He roused himself, and looked again at Blanche. She was seated at

  the table, with her head on her hand; absent, and out of

  spirits--thinking of Arnold, and set, with the future all smooth

  before them, not thinking happily.

  "Why, Blanche! Blanche!" cried Sir Patrick, "one would think he

  had gone for a voyage round the world. You silly child! he will

  be back again the day after to-morrow."

  "I wish he hadn't gone with that man!" said Blanche. "I wish he

  hadn't got that man for a friend!"

  "There! there! the man was rude enough I own. Never mind! he will

  leave the man at the second station. Come back to the ball-room

  with me. Dance it off, my dear--dance it off!"

  "No," returned Blanche. "I'm in no humor for dancing. I shall go

  up stairs
, and talk about it to Anne."

  "You will do nothing of the sort!" said a third voice, suddenly

  joining in the conversation.

  Both uncle and niece looked up, and found Lady Lundie at the top

  of the summer-house steps.

  "I forbid you to mention that woman's name again in my hearing,"

  pursued her ladyship. "Sir Patrick! I warned you (if you

  remember?) that the matter of the governess was not a matter to

  be trifled with. My worst anticipations are realized. Miss

  Silvester has left the house!"

  CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.

  THE SCANDAL.

  IT was still early in the afternoon when the guests at Lady

  Lundie's lawn-party began to compare notes together in corners,

  and to agree in arriving at a general conviction that "some thing

  was wrong."

  Blanche had mysteriously disappeared from her partners in the

  dance. Lady Lundie had mysteriously abandoned her guests. Blanche

  had not come back. Lady Lundie had returned with an artificial

  smile, and a preoccupied manner. She acknowledged that she was

  "not very well." The same excuse had been given to account for

  Blanche's absence--and, again (some time previously), to explain

  Miss Silvester's withdrawal from the croquet! A wit among the

  gentlemen declared it reminded him of declining a verb. "I am not

  very well; thou art not very well; she is not very well"--and so

  on. Sir Patrick too! Only think of the sociable Sir Patrick being

  in a state of seclusion--pacing up and down by himself in the

  loneliest part of the garden. And the servants again! it had even

  spread to the servants! _They_ were presuming to whisper in

  corners, like their betters. The house-maids appeared,

  spasmodically, where house maids had no business to be. Doors

  banged and petticoats whisked in the upper regions. Something

  wrong--depend upon it, something wrong! "We had much better go

  away. My dear, order the carriage"--"Louisa, love, no more

  dancing; your papa is going."--"_Good_-afternoon, Lady

  Lundie!"--"Haw! thanks very much!"--"_So_ sorry for dear

  Blanche!"--"Oh, it's been _too_ charming!" So Society jabbered

  its poor, nonsensical little jargon, and got itself politely out

  of the way before the storm came.

  This was exactly the consummation of events for which Sir Patrick

  had been waiting in the seclusion of the garden.

  There was no evading the responsibility which was now thrust upon

  him. Lady Lundie had announced it as a settled resolution, on her

  part, to trace Anne to the place in which she had taken refuge,

  and discover (purely in the interests of virtue) whether she

  actually was married or not. Blanche (already overwrought by the

  excitem ent of the day) had broken into an hysterical passion of

  tears on hearing the news, and had then, on recovering, taken a

  view of her own of Anne's flight from the house. Anne would never

  have kept her marriage a secret from Blanche; Anne would never

  have written such a formal farewell letter as she had written to

  Blanche--if things were going as smoothly with her as she was

  trying to make them believe at Windygates. Some dreadful trouble

  had fallen on Anne and Blanche was determined (as Lady Lundie was

  determined) to find out where she had gone, and to follow, and

  help her.

  It was plain to Sir Patrick (to whom both ladies had opened their

  hearts, at separate interviews) that his sister-in-law, in one

  way, and his niece in another, were equally likely--if not duly

  restrained--to plunge headlong into acts of indiscretion which

  might lead to very undesirable results. A man in authority was

  sorely needed at Windygates that afternoon--and Sir Patrick was

  fain to acknowledge that he was the man.

  "Much is to be said for, and much is to be said against a single

  life," thought the old gentleman, walking up and down the

  sequestered garden-path to which he had retired , and applying

  himself at shorter intervals than usual to the knob of his ivory

  cane. "This, however, is, I take it, certain. A man's married

  friends can't prevent him from leading the life of a bachelor, if

  he pleases. But they can, and do, take devilish good care that he

  sha'n't enjoy it!"

  Sir Patrick's meditations were interrupted by the appearance of a

  servant, previously instructed to keep him informed of the

  progress of events at the house.

  "They're all gone, Sir Patrick," said the man.

  "That's a comfort, Simpson. We have no visitors to deal with now,

  except the visitors who are staying in the house?"

  "None, Sir Patrick."

  "They're all gentlemen, are they not?"

  "Yes, Sir Patrick."

  "That's another comfort, Simpson. Very good. I'll see Lady Lundie

  first."

  Does any other form of human resolution approach the firmness of

  a woman who is bent on discovering the frailties of another woman

  whom she hates? You may move rocks, under a given set of

  circumstances. But here is a delicate being in petticoats, who

  shrieks if a spider drops on her neck, and shudders if you

  approach her after having eaten an onion. Can you move _her,_

  under a given set of circumstances, as set forth above? Not you!

  Sir Patrick found her ladyship instituting her inquiries on the

  same admirably exhaustive system which is pursued, in cases of

  disappearance, by the police. Who was the last witness who had

  seen the missing person? Who was the last servant who had seen

  Anne Silvester? Begin with the men-servants, from the butler at

  the top to the stable boy at the bottom. Go on with the

  women-servants, from the cook in all her glory to the small

  female child who weeds the garden. Lady Lundie had cross-examined

  her way downward as far as the page, when Sir Patrick joined her.

  "My dear lady! pardon me for reminding you again, that this is a

  free country, and that you have no claim whatever to investigate

  Miss Silvester's proceedings after she has left your house."

  Lady Lundie raised her eyes, devotionally, to the ceiling. She

  looked like a martyr to duty. If you had seen her ladyship at

  that moment, you would have said yourself, "A martyr to duty."

  "No, Sir Patrick! As a Christian woman, that is not _my_ way of

  looking at it. This unhappy person has lived under my roof. This

  unhappy person has been the companion of Blanche. I am

  responsible--I am, in a manner, morally responsible. I would give

  the world to be able to dismiss it as you do. But no! I must be

  satisfied that she _is_ married. In the interests of propriety.

  For the quieting of my own conscience. Before I lay my head on my

  pillow to-night, Sir Patrick--before I lay my head on my pillow

  to-night!"

  "One word, Lady Lundie--"

  "No!" repeated her ladyship, with the most pathetic gentleness.

  "You are right, I dare say, from the worldly point of view. I

  can't take the worldly point of view. The worldly point of view

  hurts me." She turned, with impressive gravity, to the page. "You

  know where you will go, Jonathan, if you tell lies!"
/>
  Jonathan was lazy, Jonathan was pimply, Jonathan was fat--_but_

  Jonathan was orthodox. He answered that he did know; and, what is

  more, he mentioned the place.

  Sir Patrick saw that further opposition on his part, at that

  moment, would be worse than useless. He wisely determined to

  wait, before he interfered again, until Lady Lundie had

  thoroughly exhausted herself and her inquiries. At the same

  time--as it was impossible, in the present state of her

  ladyship's temper, to provide against what might happen if the

  inquiries after Anne unluckily proved successful--he decided on

  taking measures to clear the house of the guests (in the

  interests of all parties) for the next four-and-twenty hours.

  "I only want to ask you a question, Lady Lundie," he resumed.

  "The position of the gentlemen who are staying here is not a very

  pleasant one while all this is going on. If you had been content

  to let the matter pass without notice, we should have done very

  well. As things are, don't you think it will be more convenient

  to every body if I relieve you of the responsibility of

  entertaining your guests?"

  "As head of the family?" stipulated Lady Lundie.

  "As head of the family!" answered Sir Patrick.

  "I gratefully accept the proposal," said Lady Lundie.

  "I beg you won't mention it," rejoined Sir Patrick.

  He quitted the room, leaving Jonathan under examination. He and

  his brother (the late Sir Thomas) had chosen widely different

  paths in life, and had seen but little of each other since the

  time when they had been boys. Sir Patrick's recollections (on

  leaving Lady Lundie) appeared to have taken him back to that

  time, and to have inspired him with a certain tenderness for his

  brother's memory. He shook his head, and sighed a sad little

  sigh. "Poor Tom!" he said to himself, softly, after he had shut

  the door on his brother's widow. "Poor Tom!"

  On crossing the hall, he stopped the first servant he met, to

  inquire after Blanche. Miss Blanche was quiet, up stairs,

  closeted with her maid in her own room. "Quiet?" thought Sir

  Patrick. "That's a bad sign. I shall hear more of my niece."

  Pending that event, the next thing to do was to find the guests.

  Unerring instinct led Sir Patrick to the billiard-room. There he

  found them, in solemn conclave assembled. wondering what they had

  better do. Sir Patrick put them all at their ease in two minutes.

  "What do you say to a day's shooting to-morrow?" he asked.

  Every man present--sportsman or not--said yes.

  "You can start from this house," pursued Sir Patrick; "or you can

  start from a shooting-cottage which is on the Windygates

  property--among the woods, on the other side of the moor. The

  weather looks pretty well settled (for Scotland), and there are

  plenty of horses in the stables. It is useless to conceal from

  you, gentlemen, that events have taken a certain unexpected turn

  in my sister-in-law's family circle. You will be equally Lady

  Lundie's guests, whether you choose the cottage or the house. For

  the next twenty-four hours (let us say)--which shall it be?"

  Every body--with or without rheumatism--answered "the cottage."

  "Very good," pursued Sir Patrick, "It is arranged to ride over to

  the shooting-cottage this evening, and to try the moor, on that

  side, the first thing in the morning. If events here will allow

  me, I shall be delighted to accompany you, and do the honors as

  well as I can. If not, I am sure you will accept my apologies for

  to-night, and permit Lady Lundie's steward to see to your comfort

  in my place."

  Adopted unanimously. Sir Patrick left the guests to their

  billiards, and went out to give the necessary orders at the

  stables.

  In the mean time Blanche remained portentously quiet in the upper

  regions of the house; while Lady Lundie steadily pursued her