Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

for it ane o' these days? Eh! eh! there may be the warth o' a fi'

  pun' note in this, to a puir lad like me!"

  With that comforting reflection, he drew out a battered tin

  cash-box from the inner recesses of the drawer, and locked up the

  stolen correspondence to bide its time.

  The storm rose higher and higher as the evening advanced.

  In the sitting-room, the state of affairs, perpetually changing,

  now presented itself under another new aspect.

  Arnold had finished his dinner, and had sent it away. He had next

  drawn a side-table up to the sofa on which Anne lay--had shuffled

  the pack of cards--and was now using all his powers of persuasion

  to induce her to try one game at _Ecarté_ with him, by way

  of diverting her attention from the tumult of the storm. In sheer

  weariness, she gave up contesting the matter; and, raising

  herself languidly on the sofa, said she would try to play.

  "Nothing can make matters worse than they are," she thought,

  despairingly, as Arnold dealt the cards for her. "Nothing can

  justify my inflicting my own wretchedness on this kind-hearted

  boy!"

  Two worse players never probably sat down to a game. Anne's

  attention perpetually wandered; and Anne's companion was, in all

  human probability, the most incapable card-player in Europe.

  Anne turned up the trump--the nine of Diamonds. Arnold looked at

  his hand--and "proposed." Anne declined to change the cards.

  Arnold announced, with undiminished good-humor, that he saw his

  way clearly, now, to losing the game, and then played his first

  card--the Queen of Trumps!

  Anne took it with the King, and forgot to declare the King. She

  played the ten of Trumps.

  Arnold unexpectedly discovered the eight of Trumps in his hand.

  "What a pity!" he said, as he played it. "Hullo! you haven't

  marked the King! I'll do it for you. That's two--no, three--to

  you. I said I should lose the game. Couldn't be expected to do

  any thing (could I?) with such a hand as mine. I've lost every

  thing now I've lost my trumps. You to play."

  Anne looked at her hand. At the same moment the lightning flashed

  into the room through the ill-closed shutters; the roar of the

  thunder burst over the house, and shook it to its foundation. The

  screaming of some hysterical female tourist, and the barking of a

  dog, rose shrill from the upper floor of the inn. Anne's nerves

  could support it no longer. She flung her cards on the table, and

  sprang to her feet.

  "I can play no more," she said. "Forgive me--I am quite unequal

  to it. My head burns! my heart stifles me!"

  She began to pace the room again. Aggravated by the effect of the

  storm on her nerves, her first vague distrust of the false

  position into which she and Arnold had allowed themselves to

  drift had strengthened, by this time, into a downright horror of

  their situation which was not to be endured. Nothing could

  justify such a risk as the risk they were now running! They had

  dined together like married people--and there they were, at that

  moment, shut in together, and passing the evening like man and

  wife!

  "Oh, Mr. Brinkworth!" she pleaded. "Think--for Blanche's sake,

  think--is there no way out of this?"

  Arnold was quietly collecting the scattered cards.

  "Blanche, again?" he said, with the most exasperating composure.

  "I wonder how she feels, in this storm?"

  In Anne's excited state, the reply almost maddened her. She

  turned from Arnold, and hurried to the door.

  "I don't care!" she cried, wildly. "I won't let this deception go

  on. I'll do what I ought to have done before. Come what may of

  it, I'll tell the landlady the truth!"

  She had opened the door, and was on the point of stepping into

  the passage--when she stopped, and started violently. Was it

  possible, in that dreadful weather, that she had actually heard

  the sound of carriage wheels on the strip of paved road outside

  the inn?

  Yes! others had heard the sound too. The hobbling figure of Mr.

  Bishopriggs passed her in the passage, making for the house door.

  The hard voice of the landlady rang through the inn, ejaculating

  astonishment in broad Scotch. Anne closed the sitting-room door

  again, and turned to Arnold--who had risen, in surprise, to his

  feet.

  "Travelers!" she exclaimed. "At this time!"

  "And in this weather!" added Arnold.

  "_Can_ it be Geoffrey?" she asked--going back to the old vain

  delusion that he might yet feel for her, and return.

  Arnold shook his head. "Not Geoffrey. Whoever else it may be--not

  Geoffrey!"

  Mrs. Inchbare suddenly entered the room--with her cap-ribb ons

  flying, her eyes staring, and her bones looking harder than ever.

  "Eh, mistress!" she said to Anne. "Wha do ye think has driven

  here to see ye, from Windygates Hoose, and been owertaken in the

  storm?"

  Anne was speechless. Arnold put the question: "Who is it?"

  "Wha is't?" repeated Mrs. Inchbare. "It's joost the bonny young

  leddy--Miss Blanche hersel'."

  An irrepressible cry of horror burst from Anne. The landlady set

  it down to the lightning, which flashed into the room again at

  the same moment.

  "Eh, mistress! ye'll find Miss Blanche a bit baulder than to

  skirl at a flash o' lightning, that gait! Here she is, the bonny

  birdie!" exclaimed Mrs. Inchbare, deferentially backing out into

  the passage again.

  Blanche's voice reached them, calling for Anne.

  Anne caught Arnold by the hand and wrung it hard. "Go!" she

  whispered. The next instant she was at the mantle-piece, and had

  blown out both the candles.

  Another flash of lightning came through the darkness, and showed

  Blanche's figure standing at the door.

  CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.

  BLANCHE.

  MRS. INCHBARE was the first person who acted in the emergency.

  She called for lights; and sternly rebuked the house-maid, who

  brought them, for not having closed the house door. "Ye feckless

  ne'er-do-weel!" cried the landlady; "the wind's blawn the candles

  oot."

  The woman declared (with perfect truth) that the door had been

  closed. An awkward dispute might have ensued if Blanche had not

  diverted Mrs. Inchbare's attention to herself. The appearance of

  the lights disclosed her, wet through with her arms round Anne's

  neck. Mrs. Inchbare digressed at once to the pressing question of

  changing the young lady's clothes, and gave Anne the opportunity

  of looking round her, unobserved. Arnold had made his escape

  before the candles had been brought in.

  In the mean time Blanche's attention was absorbed in her own

  dripping skirts.

  "Good gracious! I'm absolutely distilling rain from every part of

  me. And I'm making you, Anne, as wet as I am! Lend me some dry

  things. You can't? Mrs. Inchbare, what does your experience

  suggest? Which had I better do? Go to bed while my clothes are

  being dried? or borrow from your wardrobe--though you _are_ a

/>   head and shoulders taller than I am?"

  Mrs. Inchbare instantly bustled out to fetch the choicest

  garments that her wardrobe could produce. The moment the door had

  closed on her Blanche looked round the room in her turn.

  The rights of affection having been already asserted, the claims

  of curiosity naturally pressed for satisfaction next.

  "Somebody passed me in the dark," she whispered. "Was it your

  husband? I'm dying to be introduced to him. And, oh my dear! what

  _is_ your married name?"

  Anne answered, coldly, "Wait a little. I can't speak about it

  yet."

  "Are you ill?" asked Blanche.

  "I am a little nervous."

  "Has any thing unpleasant happened between you and my uncle? You

  have seen him, haven't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Did he give you my message?"

  "He gave me your message.--Blanche! you promised him to stay at

  Windygates. Why, in the name of heaven, did you come here

  to-night?"

  "If you were half as fond of me as I am of you," returned

  Blanche, "you wouldn't ask that. I tried hard to keep my promise,

  but I couldn't do it. It was all very well, while my uncle was

  laying down the law--with Lady Lundie in a rage, and the dogs

  barking, and the doors banging, and all that. The excitement kept

  me up. But when my uncle had gone, and the dreadful gray, quiet,

  rainy evening came, and it had all calmed down again, there was

  no bearing it. The house--without you--was like a tomb. If I had

  had Arnold with me I might have done very well. But I was all by

  myself. Think of that! Not a soul to speak to! There wasn't a

  horrible thing that could possibly happen to you that I didn't

  fancy was going to happen. I went into your empty room and looked

  at your things. _That_ settled it, my darling! I rushed down

  stairs--carried away, positively carried away, by an Impulse

  beyond human resistance. How could I help it? I ask any

  reasonable person how could I help it? I ran to the stables and

  found Jacob. Impulse--all impulse! I said, 'Get the

  pony-chaise--I must have a drive--I don't care if it rains--you

  come with me.' All in a breath, and all impulse! Jacob behaved

  like an angel. He said, 'All right, miss.' I am perfectly certain

  Jacob would die for me if I asked him. He is drinking hot grog at

  this moment, to prevent him from catching cold, by my express

  orders. He had the pony-chaise out in two minutes; and off we

  went. Lady Lundie, my dear, prostrate in her own room--too much

  sal volatile. I hate her. The rain got worse. I didn't mind it.

  Jacob didn't mind it. The pony didn't mind it. They had both

  caught my impulse--especially the pony. It didn't come on to

  thunder till some time afterward; and then we were nearer Craig

  Fernie than Windygates--to say nothing of your being at one place

  and not at the other. The lightning was quite awful on the moor.

  If I had had one of the horses, he would have been frightened.

  The pony shook his darling little head, and dashed through it. He

  is to have beer. A mash with beer in it--by my express orders.

  When he has done we'll borrow a lantern, and go into the stable,

  and kiss him. In the mean time, my dear, here I am--wet through

  in a thunderstorm, which doesn't in the least matter--and

  determined to satisfy my own mind about you, which matters a

  great deal, and must and shall be done before I rest to-night! "

  She turned Anne, by main force, as she spoke, toward the light of

  the candles.

  Her tone changed the moment she looked at Anne's face.

  "I knew it!" she said. "You would never have kept the most

  interesting event in your life a secret from _me_--you would

  never have written me such a cold formal letter as the letter you

  left in your room--if there had not been something wrong. I said

  so at the time. I know it now! Why has your husband forced you to

  leave Windygates at a moment's notice? Why does he slip out of

  the room in the dark, as if he was afraid of being seen? Anne!

  Anne! what has come to you? Why do you receive me in this way?"

  At that critical moment Mrs. Inchbare reappeared, with the

  choicest selection of wearing apparel which her wardrobe could

  furnish. Anne hailed the welcome interruption. She took the

  candles, and led the way into the bedroom immediately.

  "Change your wet clothes first," she said. "We can talk after

  that."

  The bedroom door had hardly been closed a minute before there was

  a tap at it. Signing to Mrs. Inchbare not to interrupt the

  services she was rendering to Blanche, Anne passed quickly into

  the sitting-room, and closed the door behind her. To her infinite

  relief, she only found herself face to face with the discreet Mr.

  Bishopriggs.

  "What do you want?" she asked.

  The eye of Mr. Bishopriggs announced, by a wink, that his mission

  was of a confidential nature. The hand of Mr. Bishopriggs

  wavered; the breath of Mr. Bishopriggs exhaled a spirituous fume.

  He slowly produced a slip of paper, with some lines of writing on

  it.

  "From ye ken who," he explained, jocosely. "A bit love-letter, I

  trow, from him that's dear to ye. Eh! he's an awfu' reprobate is

  him that's dear to ye. Miss, in the bedchamber there, will nae

  doot be the one he's jilted for _you?_ I see it all--ye can't

  blind Me--I ha' been a frail person my ain self, in my time.

  Hech! he's safe and sound, is the reprobate. I ha' lookit after

  a' his little creature-comforts--I'm joost a fether to him, as

  well as a fether to you. Trust Bishopriggs--when puir human

  nature wants a bit pat on the back, trust Bishopriggs."

  While the sage was speaking these comfortable words, Anne was

  reading the lines traced on the paper. They were signed by

  Arnold; and they ran thus:

  "I am in the smoking-room of the inn. It rests with you to say

  whether I must stop there. I don't believe Blanche would be

  jealous. If I knew how to explain my being at the inn without

  betraying the confidence which you and Geoffrey have placed in

  me, I wouldn't be away from her another moment. It does grate on

  me so! At the same time, I don't want to make your position

  harder than it is. Think of yourself f irst. I leave it in your

  hands. You have only to say, Wait, by the bearer--and I shall

  understand that I am to stay where I am till I hear from you

  again."

  Anne looked up from the message.

  "Ask him to wait," she said; "and I will send word to him again."

  "Wi' mony loves and kisses," suggested Mr. Bishopriggs, as a

  necessary supplement to the message." Eh! it comes as easy as A.

  B. C. to a man o' my experience. Ye can ha' nae better

  gae-between than yer puir servant to command, Sawmuel

  Bishopriggs. I understand ye baith pairfeckly." He laid his

  forefinger along his flaming nose, and withdrew.

  Without allowing herself to hesitate for an instant, Anne opened

  the bedroom door--with the resolution of relieving Arnold from

  the new sacrifice imposed on him by ownin
g the truth.

  "Is that you?" asked Blanche.

  At the sound of her voice, Anne started back guiltily. "I'll be

  with you in a moment," she answered, and closed the door again

  between them.

  No! it was not to be done. Something in Blanche's trivial

  question--or something, perhaps, in the sight of Blanche's

  face--roused the warning instinct in Anne, which silenced her on

  the very brink of the disclosure. At the last moment the iron

  chain of circumstances made itself felt, binding her without

  mercy to the hateful, the degrading deceit. Could she own the

  truth, about Geoffrey and herself, to Blanche? and, without

  owning it, could she explain and justify Arnold's conduct in

  joining her privately at Craig Fernie? A shameful confession made

  to an innocent girl; a risk of fatally shaking Arnold's place in

  Blanche's estimation; a scandal at the inn, in the disgrace of

  which the others would be involved with herself--this was the

  price at which she must speak, if she followed her first impulse,

  and said, in so many words, "Arnold is here."

  It was not to be thought of. Cost what it might in present

  wretchedness--end how it might, if the deception was discovered

  in the future--Blanche must be kept in ignorance of the truth,

  Arnold must be kept in hiding until she had gone.

  Anne opened the door for the second time, and went in.

  The business of the toilet was standing still. Blanche was in

  confidential communication with Mrs. Inchbare. At the moment when

  Anne entered the room she was eagerly questioning the landlady

  about her friend's "invisible husband"--she was just saying, "Do

  tell me! what is he like?"

  The capacity for accurate observation is a capacity so uncommon,

  and is so seldom associated, even where it does exist, with the

  equally rare gift of accurately describing the thing or the

  person observed, that Anne's dread of the consequences if Mrs.

  Inchbare was allowed time to comply with Blanches request, was,

  in all probability, a dread misplaced. Right or wrong, however,

  the alarm that she felt hurried her into taking measures for

  dismissing the landlady on the spot. "We mustn't keep you from

  your occupations any longer," she said to Mrs. Inchbare. "I will

  give Miss Lundie all the help she needs."

  Barred from advancing in one direction, Blanche's curiosity

  turned back, and tried in another. She boldly addressed herself

  to Anne.

  "I _must_ know something about him," she said. "Is he shy before

  strangers? I heard you whispering with him on the other side of

  the door. Are you jealous, Anne? Are you afraid I shall fascinate

  him in this dress?"

  Blanche, in Mrs. Inchbare's best gown--an ancient and

  high-waisted silk garment, of the hue called "bottle-green,"

  pinned up in front, and trailing far behind her--with a short,

  orange-colored shawl over her shoulders, and a towel tied turban

  fashion round her head, to dry her wet hair, looked at once the

  strangest and the prettiest human anomaly that ever was seen.

  "For heaven's sake," she said, gayly, "don't tell your husband I

  am in Mrs. Inchbare's clothes! I want to appear suddenly, without

  a word to warn him of what a figure I am! I should have nothing

  left to wish for in this world," she added, " if Arnold could

  only see me now!"

  Looking in the glass, she noticed Anne's face reflected behind

  her, and started at the sight of it.

  "What _is_ the matter?" she asked. "Your face frightens me."

  It was useless to prolong the pain of the inevitable

  misunderstanding between them. The one course to take was to

  silence all further inquiries then and there. Strongly as she

  felt this, Anne's inbred loyalty to Blanche still shrank from

  deceiving her to her face. "I might write it," she thought. "I

  can't say it, with Arnold Brinkworth in the same house with her!

  "Write it? As she reconsidered the word, a sudden idea struck