Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

invitations for the dinner. Geoffrey turned defiantly, book in

  hand, to his college friends about him. The British blood was up;

  and the British resolution to bet, which successfully defies

  common decency and common-law from one end of the country to the

  other, was not to be trifled with.

  "Come on!" cried Geoffrey. "Back the doctor, one of you!"

  Sir Patrick rose in undisguised disgust, and followed the

  surgeon. One, Two, and Three, invited to business by their

  illustrious friend. shook their thick heads at him knowingly, and

  answered with one accord, in one eloquent word--"Gammon!"

  "One of _you_ back him!" persisted Geoffrey, appealing to the two

  choral gentlemen in the back-ground, with his temper fast rising

  to fever heat. The two choral gentlemen compared notes, as usual.

  "We weren't born yesterday, Smith?" "Not if we know it, Jones."

  "Smith!" said Geoffrey, with a sudden assumption of politeness

  ominous of something unpleasant to come.

  Smith said "Yes?"--with a smile.

  "Jones!"

  Jones said "Yes?"--with a reflection of Smith.

  "You're a couple of infernal cads--and you haven't got a hundred

  pound between you!"

  "Come! come!" said Arnold, interfering for the first time. "This

  is shameful, Geoffrey!"

  "Why the"--(never mind what!)--"won't they any of them take the

  bet?"

  "If you must be a fool," returned Arnold, a little irritably on

  his side, "and if nothing else will keep you quiet, _I'll_ take

  the bet."

  "An even hundred on the doctor!" cried Geoffrey. "Done with you!"

  His highest aspirations were satisfied; his temper was in perfect

  order again. He entered the bet in his book; and made his excuses

  to Smith and Jones in the heartiest way. "No offense, old chaps!

  Shake hands!" The two choral gentlemen were enchanted with him.

  "The English aristocracy--eh, Smith?" "Blood and breeding--ah,

  Jones!"

  As soon as he had spoken, Arnold's conscience reproached him: not

  for betting (who is ashamed of _that_ form of gambling in

  England?) but for "backing the doctor." With the best intention

  toward his friend, he was speculating on the failure of his

  friend's health. He anxiously assured Geoffrey that no man in the

  room could be more heartily persuaded that the surgeon was wrong

  than himself. "I don't cry off from the bet," he said. "But, my

  dear fellow, pray understand that I only take it to please

  _you._"

  "Bother all that!" answered Geoffrey, with the steady eye to

  business, which was one of the choicest virtues in his character.

  "A bet's a bet--and hang your sentiment!" He drew Arnold by the

  arm out of ear-shot of the others. "I say!" he asked, anxiously.

  "Do you think I've set the old fogy's back up?"

  "Do you mean Sir Patrick?"

  Geoffrey nodded, and went on.

  "I haven't put that little matter to him yet--about marrying in

  Scotland, you know. Suppose he cuts up rough with me if I try him

  now?" His eye wandered cunningly, as he put the question, to the

  farther end of the room. The surgeon was looking over a

  port-folio of prints. The ladies were still at work on their

  notes of invitation. Sir Patrick was alone at the book-shelves

  immersed in a volume which he had just taken down.

  "Make an apology," suggested Arnold. "Sir Patrick may be a little

  irritable and bitter; but he's a just man and a kind man. Say you

  were not guilty of any intentional disrespect toward him--and you

  will say enough."

  "All right!"

  Sir Patrick, deep in an old Venetian edition of The Decameron,

  found himself suddenly recalled from medieval Italy to modern

  England, by no less a person than Geoffrey Delamayn.

  "What do you want?" he asked, coldly.

  "I want to make an apology," said Geoffrey. "Let by-gones be

  by-gones--and that sort of thing. I wasn't guilty of any

  intentional disrespect toward you. Forgive and forget. Not half a

  bad motto, Sir--eh?"

  It was clumsily expressed--but still it was an apology. Not even

  Geoffrey could appeal to Sir Patrick's courtesy and Sir Patrick's

  consideration in vain.

  "Not a word more, Mr. Delamayn!" said the polite old man. "Accept

  my excuses for any thing which I may have said too sharply, on my

  side; and let us by all means forget the rest."

  Having met the advance made to him, in those terms, he paused,

  expecting Geoffrey to leave him free to return to the Decameron.

  To his unutterable astonishment, Geoffrey suddenly stooped over

  him, and whispered in his ear, "I want a word in private with

  you."

  Sir Patrick started back, as if Geoffrey had tried to bite him.

  "I beg your pardon, Mr. Delamayn--what did you say?"

  "Could you give me a word in private?"

  Sir Patrick put back the Decameron; and bowed in freezing

  silence. The confidence of the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn was

  the last confidence in the world into which he desired to be

  drawn. "This is the secret of the apology!" he thought. "What can

  he possibly want with Me?"

  "It's about a friend of mine," pursued Geoffrey; leading the way

  toward one of the windows. "He's in a scrape, my friend is. And I

  want to ask your advice. It's strictly private, you know." There

  he came to a full stop--and looked to see what impression he had

  produced, so far.

  Sir Patrick declined, either by word or g esture, to exhibit the

  slightest anxiety to hear a word more.

  "Would you mind taking a turn in the garden?" asked Geoffrey.

  Sir Patrick pointed to his lame foot. "I have had my allowance of

  walking this morning," he said. "Let my infirmity excuse me."

  Geoffrey looked about him for a substitute for the garden, and

  led the way back again toward one of the convenient curtained

  recesses opening out of the inner wall of the library. "We shall

  be private enough here," he said.

  Sir Patrick made a final effort to escape the proposed

  conference--an undisguised effort, this time

  "Pray forgive me, Mr. Delamayn. Are you quite sure that you apply

  to the right person, in applying to _me?_"

  "You're a Scotch lawyer, ain't you?"

  "Certainly."

  "And you understand about Scotch marriages--eh?"

  Sir Patrick's manner suddenly altered.

  "Is _that_ the subject you wish to consult me on?" he asked.

  "It's not me. It's my friend."

  "Your friend, then?"

  "Yes. It's a scrape with a woman. Here in Scotland. My friend

  don't know whether he's married to her or not."

  "I am at your service, Mr. Delamayn."

  To Geoffrey's relief--by no means unmixed with surprise--Sir

  Patrick not only showed no further reluctance to be consulted by

  him, but actually advanced to meet his wishes, by leading the way

  to the recess that was nearest to them. The quick brain of the

  old lawyer had put Geoffrey's application to him for assistance,

  and Blanche's application to him for assistance, together; and

  had built its own theory on the basis thus obtained. "Do I se
e a

  connection between the present position of Blanche's governess,

  and the present position of Mr. Delamayn's 'friend?' " thought

  Sir Patrick. "Stranger extremes than _that_ have met me in my

  experience. Something may come out of this."

  The two strangely-assorted companions seated themselves, one on

  each side of a little table in the recess. Arnold and the other

  guests had idled out again on to the lawn. The surgeon with his

  prints, and the ladies with their invitations, were safely

  absorbed in a distant part of the library. The conference between

  the two men, so trifling in appearance, so terrible in its

  destined influence, not over Anne's future only, but over the

  future of Arnold and Blanche, was, to all practical purposes, a

  conference with closed doors.

  "Now," said Sir Patrick, "what is the question?"

  "The question," said Geoffrey, "is whether my friend is married

  to her or not?"

  "Did he mean to marry her?"

  "No."

  "He being a single man, and she being a single woman, at the

  time? And both in Scotland?"

  "Yes."

  "Very well. Now tell me the circumstances."

  Geoffrey hesitated. The art of stating circumstances implies the

  cultivation of a very rare gift--the gift of arranging ideas. No

  one was better acquainted with this truth than Sir Patrick. He

  was purposely puzzling Geoffrey at starting, under the firm

  conviction that his client had something to conceal from him. The

  one process that could be depended on for extracting the truth,

  under those circumstances, was the process of interrogation. If

  Geoffrey was submitted to it, at the outset, his cunning might

  take the alarm. Sir Patrick's object was to make the man himself

  invite interrogation. Geoffrey invited it forthwith, by

  attempting to state the circumstances, and by involving them in

  the usual confusion. Sir Patrick waited until he had thoroughly

  lost the thread of his narrative--and then played for the winning

  trick.

  "Would it be easier to you if I asked a few questions?" he

  inquired, innocently.

  "Much easier."

  "I am quite at your service. Suppose we clear the ground to begin

  with? Are you at liberty to mention names?"

  "No."

  "Places?"

  "No."

  "Dates?"

  "Do you want me to be particular?"

  "Be as particular as you can."

  "Will it do, if I say the present year?"

  "Yes. Were your friend and the lady--at some time in the present

  year--traveling together in Scotland?"

  "No."

  "Living together in Scotland?"

  "No."

  "What _were_ they doing together in Scotland?"

  "Well--they were meeting each other at an inn."

  "Oh? They were meeting each other at an inn. Which was first at

  the rendezvous?"

  "The woman was first. Stop a bit! We are getting to it now." He

  produced from his pocket the written memorandum of Arnold's

  proceedings at Craig Fernie, which he had taken down from

  Arnold's own lips. "I've got a bit of note here," he went on.

  "Perhaps you'd like to have a look at it?"

  Sir Patrick took the note--read it rapidly through to

  himself--then re-read it, sentence by sentence, to Geoffrey;

  using it as a text to speak from, in making further inquiries.

  " 'He asked for her by the name of his wife, at the door,' " read

  Sir Patrick. "Meaning, I presume, the door of the inn? Had the

  lady previously given herself out as a married woman to the

  people of the inn?"

  "Yes."

  "How long had she been at the inn before the gentleman joined

  her?"

  "Only an hour or so."

  "Did she give a name?"

  "I can't be quite sure--I should say not."

  "Did the gentleman give a name?"

  "No. I'm certain _he_ didn't."

  Sir Patrick returned to the memorandum.

  " 'He said at dinner, before the landlady and the waiter, I take

  these rooms for my wife. He made _her_ say he was her husband, at

  the same time.' Was that done jocosely, Mr. Delamayn--either by

  the lady or the gentleman?"

  "No. It was done in downright earnest."

  "You mean it was done to look like earnest, and so to deceive the

  landlady and the waiter?"

  "Yes."

  Sir Patrick returned to the memorandum.

  " 'After that, he stopped all night.' Stopped in the rooms he had

  taken for himself and his wife?"

  "Yes."

  "And what happened the next day?"

  "He went away. Wait a bit! Said he had business for an excuse."

  "That is to say, he kept up the deception with the people of the

  inn? and left the lady behind him, in the character of his wife?"

  "That's it."

  "Did he go back to the inn?"

  "No."

  "How long did the lady stay there, after he had gone?"

  "She staid--well, she staid a few days."

  "And your friend has not seen her since?"

  "No."

  "Are your friend and the lady English or Scotch?"

  "Both English."

  "At the time when they met at the inn, had they either of them

  arrived in Scotland, from the place in which they were previously

  living, within a period of less than twenty-one days?"

  Geoffrey hesitated. There could be no difficulty in answering for

  Anne. Lady Lundie and her domestic circle had occupied Windygates

  for a much longer period than three weeks before the date of the

  lawn-party. The question, as it affected Arnold, was the only

  question that required reflection. After searching his memory for

  details of the conversation which had taken place between them,

  when he and Arnold had met at the lawn-party, Geoffrey recalled a

  certain reference on the part of his friend to a performance at

  the Edinburgh theatre, which at once decided the question of

  time. Arnold had been necessarily detained in Edinburgh, before

  his arrival at Windygates, by legal business connected with his

  inheritance; and he, like Anne, had certainly been in Scotland,

  before they met at Craig Fernie, for a longer period than a

  period of three weeks He accordingly informed Sir Patrick that

  the lady and gentleman had been in Scotland for more than

  twenty-one days--and then added a question on his own behalf:

  "Don't let me hurry you, Sir--but, shall you soon have done?"

  "I shall have done, after two more questions," answered Sir

  Patrick. "Am I to understand that the lady claims, on the

  strength of the circumstances which you have mentioned to me, to

  be your friend's wife?"

  Geoffrey made an affirmative reply. The readiest means of

  obtaining Sir Patrick's opinion was, in this case, to answer,

  Yes. In other words, to represent Anne (in the character of "the

  lady") as claiming to be married to Arnold (in the character of

  "his friend").

  Having made this concession to circumstances, he was, at the same

  time, quite cunning enough to see that it was of vital importance

  to the purpose which he had in view, to confine himself strict
ly

  to this one perversion of the truth. There could be plainly no

  depending on the lawyer's opinion, unless that opinion was given

  on the facts exactly a s they had occurred at the inn. To the

  facts he had, thus far, carefully adhered; and to the facts (with

  the one inevitable departure from them which had been just forced

  on him) he determined to adhere to the end.

  "Did no letters pass between the lady and gentleman?" pursued Sir

  Patrick.

  "None that I know of," answered Geoffrey, steadily returning to

  the truth.

  "I have done, Mr. Delamayn."

  "Well? and what's your opinion?"

  "Before I give my opinion I am bound to preface it by a personal

  statement which you are not to take, if you please, as a

  statement of the law. You ask me to decide--on the facts with

  which you have supplied me--whether your friend is, according to

  the law of Scotland, married or not?"

  Geoffrey nodded. "That's it!" he said, eagerly.

  "My experience, Mr. Delamayn, is that any single man, in

  Scotland, may marry any single woman, at any time, and under any

  circumstances. In short, after thirty years' practice as a

  lawyer, I don't know what is _not_ a marriage in Scotland."

  "In plain English," said Geoffrey, "you mean she's his wife?"

  In spite of his cunning; in spite of his self-command, his eyes

  brightened as he said those words. And the tone in which he

  spoke--though too carefully guarded to be a tone of triumph--was,

  to a fine ear, unmistakably a tone of relief.

  Neither the look nor the tone was lost on Sir Patrick.

  His first suspicion, when he sat down to the conference, had been

  the obvious suspicion that, in speaking of "his friend," Geoffrey

  was speaking of himself. But, like all lawyers, he habitually

  distrusted first impressions, his own included. His object, thus

  far, had been to solve the problem of Geoffrey's true position

  and Geoffrey's real motive. He had set the snare accordingly, and

  had caught his bird.

  It was now plain to his mind--first, that this man who was

  consulting him, was, in all probability, really speaking of the

  case of another person: secondly, that he had an interest (of

  what nature it was impossible yet to say) in satisfying his own

  mind that "his friend" was, by the law of Scotland, indisputably

  a married man. Having penetrated to that extent the secret which

  Geoffrey was concealing from him, he abandoned the hope of making

  any further advance at that present sitting. The next question to

  clear up in the investigation, was the question of who the

  anonymous "lady" might be. And the next discovery to make was,

  whether "the lady" could, or could not, be identified with Anne

  Silvester. Pending the inevitable delay in reaching that result,

  the straight course was (in Sir Patrick's present state of

  uncertainty) the only course to follow in laying down the law. He

  at once took the question of the marriage in hand--with no

  concealment whatever, as to the legal bearings of it, from the

  client who was consulting him.

  "Don't rush to conclusions, Mr. Delamayn," he said. "I have only

  told you what my general experience is thus far. My professional

  opinion on the special case of your friend has not been given

  yet."

  Geoffrey's face clouded again. Sir Patrick carefully noted the

  new change in it.

  "The law of Scotland," he went on, "so far as it relates to

  Irregular Marriages, is an outrage on common decency and

  common-sense. If you think my language in thus describing it too

  strong--I can refer you to the language of a judicial authority.

  Lord Deas delivered a recent judgment of marriage in Scotland,

  from the bench, in these words: 'Consent makes marriage. No form