Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

  "We have had enough of irregularity," she said. sternly. "I, for

  one, object to more."

  Sir Patrick waited patiently for Mr. Moy's reply. The Scotch

  lawyer and the English lawyer looked at each other--and

  understood each other. Mr. Moy answered for both.

  "We don't presume to restrain you, Sir Patrick, by other limits

  than those which, as a gentleman, you impose on yourself.

  Subject," added the cautious Scotchman, "to the right of

  objection which we have already reserved."

  "Do you object to my speaking to your client?" asked Sir Patrick.

  "To Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?"

  "Yes."

  All eyes turned on Geoffrey. He was sitting half asleep, as it

  seemed--with his heavy hands hanging listlessly over his knees,

  and his chin resting on the hooked handle of his stick.

  Looking toward Anne, when Sir Patrick pronounced Geoffrey's name,

  Mr. Moy saw a change in her. She withdrew her hands from her

  face, and turned suddenly toward her legal adviser. Was she in

  the secret of the carefully concealed object at which his

  opponent had been aiming from the first? Mr. Moy decided to put

  that doubt to the test. He invited Sir Patrick, by a gesture, to

  proceed. Sir Patrick addressed himself to Geoffrey.

  "You are seriously interested in this inquiry," he said; "and you

  have taken no part in it yet. Take a part in it now. Look at this

  lady."

  Geoffrey never moved.

  "I've seen enough of her already," he said, brutally.

  "You may well be ashamed to look at her," said Sir Patrick,

  quietly. "But you might have acknowledged it in fitter words.

  Carry your memory back to the fourteenth of August. Do you deny

  that you promised to many Miss Silvester privately at the Craig

  Fernie inn?"

  "I object to that question," said Mr. Moy. "My client is under no

  sort of obligation to answer it."

  Geoffrey's rising temper--ready to resent any thing--resented his

  adviser's interference. "I shall answer if I like," he retorted,

  insolently. He looked up for a moment at Sir Patrick, without

  moving his chin from the hook of his stick. Then he looked down

  again. "I do deny it," he said.

  "You deny that you have promised to marry Miss Silvester?"

  "Yes."

  "I asked you just now to look at her--"

  "And I told you I had seen enough of her already."

  "Look at _me._ In my presence, and in the presence of the other

  persons here, do you deny that you owe this lady, by your own

  solemn engagement, the reparation of marriage?"

  He suddenly lifted his head. His eyes, after resting for an

  instant only on Sir Patrick, turned, little by little; and,

  brightening slowly, fixed themselves with a hideous, tigerish

  glare on Anne's face. "I know what I owe her," he said.

  The devouring hatred of his look was matched by the ferocious

  vindictiveness of his tone, as he spoke those words. It was

  horrible to see him; it was horrible to hear him. Mr. Moy said to

  him, in a whisper, "Control yourself, or I will throw up your

  case."

  Without answering--without even listening--he lifted one of his

  hands, and looked at it vacantly. He whispered something to

  himself; and counted out what he was whispering slowly; in

  divisions of his own, on three of his fingers in succession. He

  fixed his eyes again on Anne with the same devouring hatred in

  their look, and spoke (this time directly addressing himself to

  her) with the same ferocious vindictiveness in his tone. "But for

  you, I should be married to Mrs. Glenarm. But for you, I should

  be friends with my father. But for you, I should have won the

  race. I know what I owe you." His loosely hanging hands

  stealthily clenched themselves. His head sank again on his broad

  breast. He said no more.

  Not a soul moved--not a word was spoken. The same common horror

  held them all speechless. Anne's eyes turned once more on

  Blanche. Anne's courage upheld her, even at that moment.

  Sir Patrick rose. The strong emotion which he had suppressed thus

  far, showed itself plainly in his face--uttered itself plainly in

  his voice.

  "Come into the next room," he said to Anne. "I must speak to you

  instantly!"

  Without noticing the astonishment that he caused; without paying

  the smallest attention to the remonstrances addressed to him by

  his sister-in-law and by the Scotch lawyer, he took Anne by the

  arm, opened the folding-doors at one end of the room--entered the

  room beyond with her--and closed the doors again.

  Lady Lundie appealed to her legal adviser. Blanche rose--advanced

  a few steps--and stood in breathless suspense, looking at the

  folding-doors. Arnold advanced a step, to speak to his wife. The

  captain approached Mr. Moy.

  "What does this mean?" he asked.

  Mr. Moy answered, in strong agitation on his side.

  "It means that I have not been properly instructed. Sir Patrick

  Lundie has some evidence in his possession that seriously

  compromises Mr. Delamayn's case. He has shrunk from producing it

  hitherto--he finds himself forced to produce it now. How is it,"

  asked the lawyer, turning sternly on his client, "that you have

  left me in the dark?"

  "I know nothing about it," answered Geoffrey, without lifting his

  head.

  Lady Lundie signed to Blanche to stand aside, and advanced toward

  the folding-doors. Mr. Moy stopped her.

  "I advise your ladyship to be patient. Interference is useless

  there."

  "Am I not to interfere, Sir, in my own house?"

  "Unless I am entirely mistaken, madam, the end of the proceedings

  in your house is at hand. You will damage your own interests by

  interfering. Let us know what we are about at last. Let the end

  come."

  Lady Lundie yielded, and returned to her place. They all waited

  in silence for the opening of the doors.

  Sir Patrick Lundie and Anne Silvester were alone in the room.

  He took from the breast-pocket of his coat the sheet of

  note-paper which contained Anne's letter, and Geoffrey's reply.

  His hand trembled as he held it; his voice faltered as he spoke.

  "I have done all that can be done," he said. "I have left nothing

  untried, to prevent the necessity of producing this."

  "I feel your kindness gratefully, Sir Patrick. You must produce

  it now."

  The woman's calmness presented a strange and touching contrast to

  the man's emotion. There was no shrinking in her face, there was

  no unsteadiness in her voice as she answered him. He took her

  hand. Twice he attempted to speak; and twice his own agitation

  overpowered him. He offered the letter to her i n silence.

  In silence, on her side, she put the letter away from her,

  wondering what he meant.

  "Take it back," he said. "I can't produce it! I daren't produce

  it! After what my own eyes have seen, after what my own ears have

  heard, in the next room--as God is my witness, I daren't ask you

  to declare yourself Geoffrey Delamayn's wife!"

&nb
sp; She answered him in one word.

  "Blanche!"

  He shook his head impatiently. "Not even in Blanche's interests!

  Not even for Blanche's sake! If there is any risk, it is a risk I

  am ready to run. I hold to my own opinion. I believe my own view

  to be right. Let it come to an appeal to the law! I will fight

  the case, and win it."

  "Are you _sure_ of winning it, Sir Patrick?"

  Instead of replying, he pressed the letter on her. "Destroy it,"

  he whispered. "And rely on my silence."

  She took the letter from him.

  "Destroy it," he repeated. "They may open the doors. They may

  come in at any moment, and see it in your hand."

  "I have something to ask you, Sir Patrick, before I destroy it.

  Blanche refuses to go back to her husband, unless she returns

  with the certain assurance of being really his wife. If I produce

  this letter, she may go back to him to-day. If I declare myself

  Geoffrey Delamayn's wife, I clear Arnold Brinkworth, at once and

  forever of all suspicion of being married to me. Can you as

  certainly and effectually clear him in any other way? Answer me

  that, as a man of honor speaking to a woman who implicitly trusts

  him!"

  She looked him full in the face. His eyes dropped before hers--he

  made no reply.

  "I am answered," she said.

  With those words, she passed him, and laid her hand on the door.

  He checked her. The tears rose in his eyes as he drew her gently

  back into the room.

  "Why should we wait?" she asked.

  "Wait," he answered, "as a favor to _me._"

  She seated herself calmly in the nearest chair, and rested her

  head on her hand, thinking.

  He bent over her, and roused her, impatiently, almost angrily.

  The steady resolution in her face was terrible to him, when he

  thought of the man in the next room.

  "Take time to consider," he pleaded. "Don't be led away by your

  own impulse. Don't act under a false excitement. Nothing binds

  you to this dreadful sacrifice of yourself."

  "Excitement! Sacrifice!" She smiled sadly as she repeated the

  words. "Do you know, Sir Patrick, what I was thinking of a moment

  since? Only of old times, when I was a little girl. I saw the sad

  side of life sooner than most children see it. My mother was

  cruelly deserted. The hard marriage laws of this country were

  harder on her than on me. She died broken-hearted. But one friend

  comforted her at the last moment, and promised to be a mother to

  her child. I can't remember one unhappy day in all the after-time

  when I lived with that faithful woman and her little

  daughter--till the day that parted us. She went away with her

  husband; and I and the little daughter were left behind. She said

  her last words to me. Her heart was sinking under the dread of

  coming death. 'I promised your mother that you should be like my

  own child to me, and it quieted her mind. Quiet _my_ mind, Anne,

  before I go. Whatever happens in years to come--promise me to be

  always what you are now, a sister to Blanche.' Where is the false

  excitement, Sir Patrick, in old remembrances like these? And how

  can there be a sacrifice in any thing that I do for Blanche?"

  She rose, and offered him her hand. Sir Patrick lifted it to his

  lips in silence.

  "Come!" she said. "For both our sakes, let us not prolong this."

  He turned aside his head. It was no moment to let her see that

  she had completely unmanned him. She waited for him, with her

  hand on the lock. He rallied his courage--he forced himself to

  face the horror of the situation calmly. She opened the door, and

  led the way back into the other room.

  Not a word was spoken by any of the persons present, as the two

  returned to their places. The noise of a carriage passing in the

  street was painfully audible. The chance banging of a door in the

  lower regions of the house made every one start.

  Anne's sweet voice broke the dreary silence.

  "Must I speak for myself, Sir Patrick? Or will you (I ask it as a

  last and greatest favor) speak for me?"

  "You insist on appealing to the letter in your hand?"

  "I am resolved to appeal to it."

  "Will nothing induce you to defer the close of this inquiry--so

  far as you are concerned--for four-and-twenty hours?"

  "Either you or I, Sir Patrick, must say what is to be said, and

  do what is to be done, before we leave this room."

  "Give me the letter."

  She gave it to him. Mr. Moy whispered to his client, "Do you know

  what that is?" Geoffrey shook his head. "Do you really remember

  nothing about it?" Geoffrey answered in one surly word,

  "Nothing!"

  Sir Patrick addressed himself to the assembled company.

  "I have to ask your pardon," he said, "for abruptly leaving the

  room, and for obliging Miss Silvester to leave it with me. Every

  body present, except that man" (he pointed to Geoffrey), "will, I

  believe, understand and forgive me, now that I am forced to make

  my conduct the subject of the plainest and the fullest

  explanation. I shall address that explanation, for reasons which

  will presently appear, to my niece."

  Blanche started. "To me!" she exclaimed.

  "To you," Sir Patrick answered.

  Blanche turned toward Arnold, daunted by a vague sense of

  something serious to come. The letter that she had received from

  her husband on her departure from Ham Farm had necessarily

  alluded to relations between Geoffrey and Anne, of which Blanche

  had been previously ignorant. Was any reference coming to those

  relations? Was there something yet to be disclosed which Arnold's

  letter had not prepared her to hear?

  Sir Patrick resumed.

  "A short time since," he said to Blanche, "I proposed to you to

  return to your husband's protection--and to leave the termination

  of this matter in my hands. You have refused to go back to him

  until you are first certainly assured that you are his wife.

  Thanks to a sacrifice to your interests and your happiness, on

  Miss Silvester's part--which I tell you frankly I have done my

  utmost to prevent--I am in a position to prove positively that

  Arnold Brinkworth was a single man when he married you from my

  house in Kent."

  Mr. Moy's experience forewarned him of what was coming. He

  pointed to the letter in Sir Patrick's hand.

  "Do you claim on a promise of marriage?" he asked.

  Sir Patrick rejoined by putting a question on his side.

  "Do you remember the famous decision at Doctors' Commons, which

  established the marriage of Captain Dalrymple and Miss Gordon?"

  Mr. Moy was answered. "I understand you, Sir Patrick," he said.

  After a moment's pause, he addressed his next words to Anne. "And

  from the bottom of my heart, madam, I respect _you._"

  It was said with a fervent sincerity of tone which wrought the

  interest of the other persons, who were still waiting for

  enlightenment, to the highest pitch. Lady Lundie and Captain

  Newenden whispered to each other anxiously. Arnold turned pale.

&nb
sp; Blanche burst into tears.

  Sir Patrick turned once more to his niece.

  "Some little time since," he said, "I had occasion to speak to

  you of the scandalous uncertainty of the marriage laws of

  Scotland. But for that uncertainty (entirely without parallel in

  any other civilized country in Europe), Arnold Brinkworth would

  never have occupied the position in which he stands here

  to-day--and these proceedings would never have taken place. Bear

  that fact in mind. It is not only answerable for the mischief

  that has been already done, but for the far more serious evil

  which is still to come."

  Mr. Moy took a note. Sir Patrick went on.

  "Loose and reckless as the Scotch law is, there happens, however,

  to be one case in which the action of it has been confirmed and

  settled by the English Courts. A written promise of marriage

  exchanged between a man and woman, in Scotland, marries that man

  and woman by Scotch law. An English Court of Justice (sitting in

  judgment on the ease I have just mentioned to Mr. Moy) has

  pronounced that law to be good--and the decision has since been

  confirmed by the supreme authority of the Hous e of Lords. Where

  the persons therefore--living in Scotland at the time--have

  promised each other marriage in writing, there is now no longer

  any doubt they are certainly, and lawfully, Man and Wife." He

  turned from his niece, and appealed to Mr. Moy." Am I right?"

  "Quite right, Sir Patrick, as to the facts. I own, however, that

  your commentary on them surprises me. I have the highest opinion

  of our Scottish marriage law. A man who has betrayed a woman

  under a promise of marriage is forced by that law (in the

  interests of public morality) to acknowledge her as his wife."

  "The persons here present, Mr. Moy, are now about to see the

  moral merit of the Scotch law of marriage (as approved by

  England) practically in operation before their own eyes. They

  will judge for themselves of the morality (Scotch or English)

  which first forces a deserted woman back on the villain who has

  betrayed her, and then virtuously leaves her to bear the

  consequences."

  With that answer, he turned to Anne, and showed her the letter,

  open in his hand.

  "For the last time," he said, "do you insist on my appealing to

  this?"

  She rose, and bowed her head gravely.

  "It is my distressing duty," said Sir Patrick, "to declare, in

  this lady's name, and on the faith of written promises of

  marriage exchanged between the parties, then residing in

  Scotland, that she claims to be now--and to have been on the

  afternoon of the fourteenth of August last--Mr. Geoffrey

  Delamayn's wedded wife."

  A cry of horror from Blanche, a low murmur of dismay from the

  rest, followed the utterance of those words.

  There was a pause of an instant.

  Then Geoffrey rose slowly to his feet, and fixed his eyes on the

  wife who had claimed him.

  The spectators of the terrible scene turned with one accord

  toward the sacrificed woman. The look which Geoffrey had cast on

  her--the words which Geoffrey had spoken to her--were present to

  all their minds. She stood, waiting by Sir Patrick's side--her

  soft gray eyes resting sadly and tenderly on Blanche's face. To

  see that matchless courage and resignation was to doubt the

  reality of what had happened. They were forced to look back at

  the man to possess their minds with the truth.

  The triumph of law and morality over him was complete. He never

  uttered a word. His furious temper was perfectly and fearfully

  calm. With the promise of merciless vengeance written in the

  Devil s writing on his Devil-possessed face, he kept his eyes

  fixed on the hated woman whom he had ruined--on the hated woman

  who was fastened to him as his wife.