Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

  ARNOLD.

  MEANWHILE Arnold remained shut up in the head-waiter's

  pantry--chafing secretly at the position forced upon him.

  He was, for the first time in his life, in hiding from another

  person, and that person a man. Twice--stung to it by the

  inevitable loss of self-respect which his situation

  occasioned--he had gone to the door, determined to face Sir

  Patrick boldly; and twice he had abandoned the idea, in mercy to

  Anne. It would have been impossible for him to set himself right

  with Blanche's guardian without betraying the unhappy woman whose

  secret he was bound in honor to keep. "I wish to Heaven I had

  never come here!" was the useless aspiration that escaped him, as

  he doggedly seated himself on the dresser to wait till Sir

  Patrick's departure set him free.

  After an interval--not by any means the long interval which he

  had anticipated--his solitude was enlivened by the appearance of

  Father Bishopriggs.

  "Well?" cried Arnold, jumping off the dresser, "is the coast

  clear?"

  There were occasions when Mr. Bishopriggs became, on a sudden,

  unexpectedly hard of hearing, This was one of them.

  "Hoo do ye find the paintry?" he asked, without paying the

  slightest attention to Arnold's question. "Snug and private? A

  Patmos in the weelderness, as ye may say!"

  His one available eye, which had begun by looking at Arnold's

  face, dropped slowly downward, and fixed itself, in mute but

  eloquent expectation, on Arnold's waistcoat pocket.

  "I understand!" said Arnold. "I promised to pay you for the

  Patmos--eh? There you are!"

  Mr. Bishopriggs pocketed the money with a dreary smile and a

  sympathetic shake of the head. Other waiters would have returned

  thanks. The sage of Craig Fernie returned a few brief remarks

  instead. Admirable in many things, Father Bishopriggs was

  especially great at drawing a moral. He drew a moral on this

  occasion from his own gratuity.

  "There I am--as ye say. Mercy presairve us! ye need the siller at

  every turn, when there's a woman at yer heels. It's an awfu'

  reflection--ye canna hae any thing to do wi' the sex they ca' the

  opposite sex without its being an expense to ye. There's this

  young leddy o' yours, I doot she'll ha' been an expense to ye

  from the first. When you were coortin' her, ye did it, I'll go

  bail, wi' the open hand. Presents and keep-sakes, flowers and

  jewelery, and little dogues. Sair expenses all of them!"

  "Hang your reflections! Has Sir Patrick left the inn?"

  The reflections of Mr. Bishopriggs declined to be disposed of in

  any thing approaching to a summary way. On they flowed from their

  parent source, as slowly and as smoothly as ever!

  "Noo ye're married to her, there's her bonnets and goons and

  under-clothin'--her ribbons, laces, furbelows, and fallals. A

  sair expense again!"

  "What is the expense of cutting your reflections short, Mr.

  Bishopriggs?"

  "Thirdly, and lastly, if ye canna agree wi' her as time gaes

  on--if there's incompaitibeelity of temper betwixt ye--in short,

  if ye want a wee bit separation, hech, Sirs! ye pet yer hand in

  yer poaket, and come to an aimicable understandin' wi' her in

  that way. Or, maybe she takes ye into Court, and pets _her_ hand

  in your poaket, and comes to a hoastile understandin' wi' ye

  there. Show me a woman--and I'll show ye a man not far off wha'

  has mair expenses on his back than he ever bairgained for."

  Arnold's patience would last no longer--he turned to the door.

  Mr. Bishopriggs, with equal alacrity on his side, turned to the

  matter in hand. "Yes, Sir! The room is e'en clear o' Sir

  Paitrick, and the leddy's alane, and waitin' for ye."

  In a moment more Arnold was back in the sitting-room.

  "Well?" he asked, anxiously. "What is it? Bad news from Lady

  Lundie's?"

  Anne closed and directed the letter to Blanche, which she had

  just completed. "No," she replied. "Nothing to interest _you."_."

  "What did Sir Patrick want?"

  "Only to warn me. They have found out at Windygates that I am

  here."

  "That's awkward, isn't it?"

  "Not in the least. I can manage perfectly; I have nothing to

  fear. Don't think of _me_--think of yourself."

  "I am not suspected, am I?"

  "Thank heaven--no. But there is no knowing what may happen if you

  stay here. Ring the bell at once, and ask the waiter about the

  trains."

  Struck by the unusual obscurity of the sky at that hour of the

  evening, Arnold went to the window. The rain had come--and was

  falling heavily. The view on the moor was fast disappearing in

  mist and darkness.

  "Pleasant weather to travel in!" he said.

  "The railway!" Anne exclaimed, impatiently. "It's getting late.

  See about the railway!"

  Arnold walked to the fire-place to ring the bell. The railway

  time-table hanging over it met his eye.

  "Here's the information I want," he said to Anne; "if I only knew

  how to get at it. 'Down'--'Up'--'A. M.'--P. M.' What a cursed

  confusion! I believe they do it on purpose."

  Anne joined him at the fire-place.

  "I understand it--I'll help you. Did you say it was the up train

  you wanted?"

  "What is the name of the station you stop at?"

  Arnold told her. She followed the intricate net-work of lines and

  figures with her finger--suddenly stopped--looked again to make

  sure--and turned from the time-table with a face of blank

  despair. The last train for the day had gone an hour since.

  In the silence which followed that discovery, a first flash of

  lightning passed across the window and the low roll of thunder

  sounded the outbreak of the storm.

  "What's to be done now?" asked Arnold.

  In the face of the storm, Anne answered without hesitation, "You

  must take a carriage, and drive."

  "Drive? They told me it was three-and-twenty miles, by railway,

  from the station to my place--let alone the distance from this

  inn to the station."

  "What does the distance matter? Mr. Brinkworth, you can't

  possibly stay here!"

  A second flash of lightning crossed the window; the roll of the

  thunder came nearer. Even Arnold's good temper began to be a

  little ruffled by Anne's determination to get rid of him. He sat

  down with the air of a man who had made up his mind not to leave

  the house.

  "Do you hear that?" he asked, as the sound of the thunder died

  away grandly, and the hard pattering of the rain on the window

  became audible once more. "If I ordered horses, do you think they

  would let me have them, in such weather as this? And, if they

  did, do you suppose the horses could face it on the moor? No, no,

  Miss Silvester--I am sorry to be in the way, but the train has

  gone, and the night and the storm have come. I have no choice but

  to stay here!"

  Anne still maintained her own view, but less resolutely than

  before. "After what you have told the landlady," she said, "think
/>
  of the embarrassment, the cruel embarrassment of our position, if

  you stop at the inn till to-morrow morning!"

  "Is that all?" returned Arnold.

  Anne looked up at him, quickly and angrily. No! he was quite

  unconscious of having said any thing that could offend her. His

  rough masculine sense broke its way unconsciously through all the

  little feminine subtleties and delicacies of his companion, and

  looked the position practically in the face for what it was

  worth, and no more. "Where's the embarrassment?" he asked,

  pointing to the bedroom door. "There's your room, all ready for

  you. And here's the sofa, in this room, all ready for _me._ If

  you had seen the places I have slept in at sea--!"

  She interrupted him, without ceremony. The places he had slept

  in, at sea, were of no earthly importance. The one question to

  consider, was the place he was to sleep in that night.

  "If you must stay," she rejoined, "can't you get a room in some

  other part of the house?"

  But one last mistake in dealing with her, in her present nervous

  condition, was left to make--and the innocent Arnold made it. "In

  some other part of the house?" he repeated, jestingly. "The

  landlady would be scandalized. Mr. Bishopriggs would never allow

  it!"

  She rose, and stamped her foot impatiently on the floor. "Don't

  joke!" she exclaimed. "This is no laughing matter." She paced the

  room excitedly. "I don't like it! I don't like it!"

  Arnold looked after her, with a stare of boyish wonder.

  "What puts you out so?" he asked. "Is it the storm?"

  She threw herself on the sofa again. "Yes," she said, shortly.

  "It's the storm."

  Arnold's inexhaustible good-nature was at once roused to activity

  again.

  "Shall we have the candles," he suggested, "and shut the weather

  out?" She turned irritably on the sofa, without replying. "I'll

  promise to go away the first thing in the morning!" he went on.

  "Do try and take it easy--and don't be angry with me. Come! come!

  you wouldn't turn a dog out, Miss Silvester, on such a night as

  this!"

  He was irresistible. The most sensitive woman breathing could not

  have accused him of failing toward her in any single essential of

  consideration and respect. He wanted tact, poor fellow--but who

  could expect him to have learned that always superficial (and

  sometimes dangerous) accomplishment, in the life he had led at

  sea? At the sight of his honest, pleading face, Anne recovered

  possession of her gentler and sweeter self. She made her excuses

  for her irritability with a grace that enchanted him. "We'll have

  a pleasant evening of it yet!" cried Arnold, in his hearty

  way--and rang the bell.

  The bell was hung outside the door of that Patmos in the

  wilderness--otherwise known as the head-waiter's pantry. Mr.

  Bishopriggs (employing his brief leisure in the seclusion of his

  own apartment) had just mixed a glass of the hot and comforting

  liquor called "toddy" in the language of North Britain, and was

  just lifting it to his lips, when the summons from Arnold invited

  him to leave his grog.

  "Haud yer screechin' tongue! " cried Mr. Bishopriggs, addressing

  the bell through the door. "Ye're waur than a woman when ye aince

  begin!"

  The bell--like the woman--went on again. Mr. Bishopriggs, equally

  pertinacious, went on with his toddy.

  "Ay! ay! ye may e'en ring yer heart out--but ye won't part a

  Scotchman from his glass. It's maybe the end of their dinner

  they'll be wantin'. Sir Paitrick cam' in at the fair beginning of

  it, and spoilt the collops, like the dour deevil he is!" The bell

  rang for the third time. "Ay! ay! ring awa'! I doot yon young

  gentleman's little better than a belly-god--there's a scandalous

  haste to comfort the carnal part o' him in a' this ringin'! He

  knows naething o' wine," added Mr. Bishopriggs, on whose mind

  Arnold's discovery of the watered sherry still dwelt

  unpleasantly.

  The lightning quickened, and lit the sitting-room horribly with

  its lurid glare; the thunder rolled nearer and nearer over the

  black gulf of the moor. Arnold had just raised his hand to ring

  for the fourth time, when the inevitable knock was heard at the

  door. It was useless to say "come in." The immutable laws of

  Bishopriggs had decided that a second knock was necessary. Storm

  or no storm, the second knock came--and then, and not till then,

  the sage appeared, with the dish of untasted "collops" in his

  hand.

  "Candles!" said Arnold.

  Mr. Bishopriggs set the "collops" (in the language of England,

  minced meat) upon the table, lit the candles on the mantle-piece,

  faced about with the fire of recent toddy flaming in his nose,

  and waited for further orders, before he went back to his second

  glass. Anne declined to return to the dinner. Arnold ordered Mr.

  Bishopriggs to close the shutters, and sat down to dine by

  himself.

  "It looks greasy, and smells greasy," he said to Anne, turning

  over the collops with a spoon. "I won't be ten minutes dining.

  Will you have some tea?"

  Anne declined again.

  Arnold tried her once more. "What shall we do to get through the

  evening?"

  "Do what you like," she answered, resignedly.

  Arnold's mind was suddenly illuminated by an idea.

  "I have got it!" he exclaimed. "We'll kill the time as our

  cabin-passengers used to kill it at sea." He looked over his

  shoulder at Mr. Bishopriggs. "Waiter! bring a pack of cards."

  "What's that ye're wantin'?" asked Mr. Bishopriggs, doubting the

  evidence of his own senses.

  "A pack of cards," repeated Arnold.

  "Cairds?" echoed Mr. Bishopriggs. "A pack o' cairds? The deevil's

  allegories in the deevil's own colors--red and black! I wunna

  execute yer order. For yer ain saul's sake, I wunna do it. Ha' ye

  lived to your time o' life, and are ye no' awakened yet to the

  awfu' seenfulness o' gamblin' wi' the cairds?"

  "Just as you please," returned Arnold. "You will find me

  awakened--when I go away--to the awful folly of feeing a waiter."

  "Does that mean that ye're bent on the cairds?" asked Mr.

  Bishopriggs, suddenly betraying signs of worldly anxiety in his

  look and manner.

  "Yes--that means I am bent on the cards."

  "I tak' up my testimony against 'em--but I'm no' telling ye that

  I canna lay my hand on 'em if I like. What do they say in my

  country? 'Him that will to Coupar, maun to Coupar.' And what do

  they say in your country? 'Needs must when the deevil drives.' "

  With that excellent reason for turning his back on his own

  principles, Mr. Bishopriggs shuffled out of the room to fetch the

  cards.

  The dresser-drawer in the pantry contained a choice selection of

  miscellaneous objects--a pack of cards being among them. In

  searching for the cards, the wary hand of the head-waiter came in

  contact with a morsel of crumpled-up paper. He drew it out, and

  recognized the le
tter which he had picked up in the sitting-room

  s ome hours since.

  "Ay! ay! I'll do weel, I trow, to look at this while my mind's

  runnin' on it," said Mr. Bishopriggs. "The cairds may e'en find

  their way to the parlor by other hands than mine."

  He forthwith sent the cards to Arnold by his second in command,

  closed the pantry door, and carefully smoothed out the crumpled

  sheet of paper on which the two letters were written. This done,

  he trimmed his candle, and began with the letter in ink, which

  occupied the first three pages of the sheet of note-paper.

  It ran thus:

  "WINDYGATES HOUSE, _August_ 12, 1868.

  "GEOFFREY DELAMAYN,--I have waited in the hope that you would

  ride over from your brother's place, and see me--and I have

  waited in vain. Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear

  it no longer. Consider! in your own interests, consider--before

  you drive the miserable woman who has trusted you to despair. You

  have promised me marriage by all that is sacred. I claim your

  promise. I insist on nothing less than to be what you vowed I

  should be--what I have waited all this weary time to be--what I

  _am_, in the sight of Heaven, your wedded wife. Lady Lundie gives

  a lawn-party here on the 14th. I know you have been asked. I

  expect you to accept her invitation. If I don't see you, I won't

  answer for what may happen. My mind is made up to endure this

  suspense no longer. Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past! Be

  faithful--be just--to your loving wife,

  "ANNE SILVESTER."

  Mr. Bishopriggs paused. His commentary on the correspondence, so

  far, was simple enough. "Hot words (in ink) from the leddy to the

  gentleman!" He ran his eye over the second letter, on the fourth

  page of the paper, and added, cynically, "A trifle caulder (in

  pencil) from the gentleman to the leddy! The way o' the warld,

  Sirs! From the time o' Adam downwards, the way o' the warld!"

  The second letter ran thus:

  "DEAR ANNE,--Just called to London to my father. They have

  telegraphed him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I will

  write you. Trust the bearer. Upon my soul, I'll keep my promise.

  Your loving husband that is to be,

  "GEOFFREY DELAMAYN."

  WINDYGATES HOUSE, _Augt._ 14, 4 P. M.

  "In a mortal hurry. Train starts at 4.30."

  There it ended!

  "Who are the pairties in the parlor? Is ane o' them 'Silvester?'

  and t'other 'Delamayn?' " pondered Mr. Bishopriggs, slowly

  folding the letter up again in its original form. "Hech, Sirs!

  what, being intairpreted, may a' this mean?"

  He mixed himself a second glass of toddy, as an aid to

  reflection, and sat sipping the liquor, and twisting and turning

  the letter in his gouty fingers. It was not easy to see his way

  to the true connection between the lady and gentleman in the

  parlor and the two letters now in his own possession. They might

  be themselves the writers of the letters, or they might be only

  friends of the writers. Who was to decide?

  In the first case, the lady's object would appear to have been as

  good as gained; for the two had certainly asserted themselves to

  be man and wife, in his own presence, and in the presence of the

  landlady. In the second case, the correspondence so carelessly

  thrown aside might, for all a stranger knew to the contrary,

  prove to be of some importance in the future. Acting on this

  latter view, Mr. Bishopriggs--whose past experience as "a bit

  clerk body," in Sir Patrick's chambers, had made a man of

  business of him--produced his pen and ink, and indorsed the

  letter with a brief dated statement of the circumstances under

  which he had found it. "I'll do weel to keep the Doecument," he

  thought to himself. "Wha knows but there'll be a reward offered