Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

matter; he had got the whip-hand of her now. "You are a married

  woman." There was the one sufficient answer, which was strong

  enough to back him in denying any thing!

  He made out the letter in his own mind. "Something like this

  would do," he thought, as he went round and round the

  walnut-tree: "You may be surprised not to have seen me. You have

  only yourself to thank for it. I know what took place between you

  and him at the inn. I have had a lawyer's advice. You are Arnold

  Brinkworth's wife. I wish you joy, and good-by forever." Address

  those lines: "To Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth;" instruct the messenger

  to leave the letter late that night, without waiting for an

  answer; start the first thing the next morning for his brother's

  house; and behold, it was done!

  But even here there was an obstacle--one last exasperating

  obstacle--still in the way.

  If she was known at the inn by any name at all, it was by the

  name of Mrs. Silvester. A letter addressed to "Mrs. Arnold

  Brinkworth" would probably not be taken in at the door; or if it

  was admitted. and if it was actually offered to her, she might

  decline to receive it, as a letter not addressed to herself. A

  man of readier mental resources would have seen that the name on

  the outside of the letter mattered little or nothing, so long as

  the contents were read by the person to whom they were addressed.

  But Geoffrey's was the order of mind which expresses disturbance

  by attaching importance to trifles. He attached an absurd

  importance to preserving absolute consistency in his letter,

  outside and in. If he declared her to be Arnold Brinkworth's

  wife, he must direct to her as Arnold Brinkworth's wife; or who

  could tell what the law might say, or what scrape he might not

  get himself into by a mere scratch of the pen! The more he

  thought of it, the more persuaded he felt of his own cleverness

  here, and the hotter and the angrier he grew.

  There is a way out of every thing. And there was surely a way out

  of this, if he could only see it.

  He failed to see it. After dealing with all the great

  difficulties, the small difficulty proved too much for him. It

  struck him that he might have been thinking too long about

  it--considering that he was not accustomed to thinking long about

  any thing. Besides, his head was getting giddy, with going

  mechanically round and round the tree. He irritably turned his

  back on the tree and struck into another path: resolved to think

  of something else, and then to return to his difficulty, and see

  it with a new eye.

  Leaving his thoughts free to wander where they liked, his

  thoughts naturally busied themselves with the next subject that

  was uppermost in his mind, the subject of the Foot-Race. In a

  week's time his arrangements ought to be made. Now, as to the

  training, first.

  He decided on employing two trainers this time. One to travel to

  Scotland, and begin with him at his brother's house. The other to

  take him up, with a fresh eye to him, on his return to London. He

  turned over in his mind the performances of the formidable rival

  against whom he was to be matched. That other man was the

  swiftest runner of the two. The betting in Geoffrey's favor was

  betting which calculated on the unparalleled length of the race,

  and on Geoffrey's prodigious powers of endurance. How long he

  should "wait on" the man? Whereabouts it would be safe to "pick

  the man up?" How near the end to calculate the man's exhaustion

  to a nicety, and "put on the spurt," and pass him? These were

  nice points to decide. The deliberations of a

  pedestrian-privy-council would be required to help him under this

  heavy responsibility. What men coul d he trust? He could trust A.

  and B.--both of them authorities: both of them stanch. Query

  about C.? As an authority, unexceptionable; as a man, doubtful.

  The problem relating to C. brought him to a standstill--and

  declined to be solved, even then. Never mind! he could always

  take the advice of A. and B. In the mean time devote C. to the

  infernal regions; and, thus dismissing him, try and think of

  something else. What else? Mrs. Glenarm? Oh, bother the women!

  one of them is the same as another. They all waddle when they

  run; and they all fill their stomachs before dinner with sloppy

  tea. That's the only difference between women and men--the rest

  is nothing but a weak imitation of Us. Devote the women to the

  infernal regions; and, so dismissing _them,_ try and think of

  something else. Of what? Of something worth thinking of, this

  time--of filling another pipe.

  He took out his tobacco-pouch; and suddenly suspended operations

  at the moment of opening it.

  What was the object he saw, on the other side of a row of dwarf

  pear-trees, away to the right? A woman--evidently a servant by

  her dress--stooping down with her back to him, gathering

  something: herbs they looked like, as well as he could make them

  out at the distance.

  What was that thing hanging by a string at the woman's side? A

  slate? Yes. What the deuce did she want with a slate at her side?

  He was in search of something to divert his mind--and here it was

  found. "Any thing will do for me," he thought. "Suppose I 'chaff'

  her a little about her slate?"

  He called to the woman across the pear-trees. "Hullo!"

  The woman raised herself, and advanced toward him slowly--looking

  at him, as she came on, with the sunken eyes, the sorrow-stricken

  face, the stony tranquillity of Hester Dethridge.

  Geoffrey was staggered. He had not bargained for exchanging the

  dullest producible vulgarities of human speech (called in the

  language of slang, "Chaff") with such a woman as this.

  "What's that slate for?" he asked, not knowing what else to say,

  to begin with.

  The woman lifted her hand to her lips--touched them--and shook

  her head.

  "Dumb?"

  The woman bowed her head.

  "Who are you?"

  The woman wrote on her slate, and handed it to him over the

  pear-trees. He read:--"I am the cook."

  "Well, cook, were you born dumb?"

  The woman shook her head.

  "What struck you dumb?"

  The woman wrote on her slate:--"A blow."

  "Who gave you the blow?"

  She shook her head.

  "Won't you tell me?"

  She shook her head again.

  Her eyes had rested on his face while he was questioning her;

  staring at him, cold, dull, and changeless as the eyes of a

  corpse. Firm as his nerves were--dense as he was, on all ordinary

  occasions, to any thing in the shape of an imaginative

  impression--the eyes of the dumb cook slowly penetrated him with

  a stealthy inner chill. Something crept at the marrow of his

  back, and shuddered under the roots of his hair. He felt a sudden

  impulse to get away from her. It was simple enough; he had only

  to say good-morning, and go on. He did say good-morning--but he

  never moved. He put his hand into his pocket, an
d offered her

  some money, as a way of making _her_ go. She stretched out her

  hand across the pear-trees to take it--and stopped abruptly, with

  her arm suspended in the air. A sinister change passed over the

  deathlike tranquillity of her face. Her closed lips slowly

  dropped apart. Her dull eyes slowly dilated; looked away,

  sideways, from _his_ eyes; stopped again; and stared, rigid and

  glittering, over his shoulder--stared as if they saw a sight of

  horror behind him. "What the devil are you looking at?" he

  asked--and turned round quickly, with a start. There was neither

  person nor thing to be seen behind him. He turned back again to

  the woman. The woman had left him, under the influence of some

  sudden panic. She was hurrying away from him--running, old as she

  was--flying the sight of him, as if the sight of him was the

  pestilence.

  "Mad!" he thought--and turned his back on the sight of her.

  He found himself (hardly knowing how he had got there) under the

  walnut-tree once more. In a few minutes his hardy nerves had

  recovered themselves--he could laugh over the remembrance of the

  strange impression that had been produced on him. "Frightened for

  the first time in my life," he thought--"and that by an old

  woman! It's time I went into training again, when things have

  come to this!"

  He looked at his watch. It was close on the luncheon hour up at

  the house; and he had not decided yet what to do about his letter

  to Anne. He resolved to decide, then and there.

  The woman--the dumb woman, with the stony face and the horrid

  eyes--reappeared in his thoughts, and got in the way of his

  decision. Pooh! some crazed old servant, who might once have been

  cook; who was kept out of charity now. Nothing more important

  than that. No more of her! no more of her!

  He laid himself down on the grass, and gave his mind to the

  serious question. How to address Anne as "Mrs. Arnold

  Brinkworth?" and how to make sure of her receiving the letter?

  The dumb old woman got in his way again.

  He closed his eyes impatiently, and tried to shut her out in a

  darkness of his own making.

  The woman showed herself through the darkness. He saw her, as if

  he had just asked her a question, writing on her slate. What she

  wrote he failed to make out. It was all over in an instant. He

  started up, with a feeling of astonishment at himself--and, at

  the same moment his brain cleared with the suddenness of a flash

  of light. He saw his way, without a conscious effort on his own

  part, through the difficulty that had troubled him. Two

  envelopes, of course: an inner one, unsealed, and addressed to

  "Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth;" an outer one, sealed, and addressed to

  "Mrs. Silvester:" and there was the problem solved! Surely the

  simplest problem that had ever puzzled a stupid head.

  Why had he not seen it before? Impossible to say.

  How came he to have seen it now?

  The dumb old woman reappeared in his thoughts--as if the answer

  to the question lay in something connected with _her._

  He became alarmed about himself, for the first time in his life.

  Had this persistent impression, produced by nothing but a crazy

  old woman, any thing to do with the broken health which the

  surgeon had talked about? Was his head on the turn? Or had he

  smoked too much on an empty stomach, and gone too long (after

  traveling all night) without his customary drink of ale?

  He left the garden to put that latter theory to the test

  forthwith. The betting would have gone dead against him if the

  public had seen him at that moment. He looked haggard and

  anxious--and with good reason too. His nervous system had

  suddenly forced itself on his notice, without the slightest

  previous introduction, and was saying (in an unknown tongue),

  Here I am!

  Returning to the purely ornamental part of the grounds, Geoffrey

  encountered one of the footmen giving a message to one of the

  gardeners. He at once asked for the butler--as the only safe

  authority to consult in the present emergency.

  Conducted to the butler's pantry, Geoffrey requested that

  functionary to produce a jug of his oldest ale, with appropriate

  solid nourishment in the shape of "a hunk of bread and cheese."

  The butler stared. As a form of condescension among the upper

  classes this was quite new to him.

  "Luncheon will be ready directly, Sir."

  "What is there for lunch?"

  The butler ran over an appetizing list of good dishes and rare

  wines.

  "The devil take your kickshaws!" said Geoffrey. "Give me my old

  ale, and my hunk of bread and cheese."

  "Where will you take them, Sir?"

  "Here, to be sure! And the sooner the better."

  The butler issued the necessary orders with all needful alacrity.

  He spread the simple refreshment demanded, before his

  distinguished guest, in a state of blank bewilderment. Here was a

  nobleman's son, and a public celebrity into the bargain, filling

  himself with bread and cheese and ale, in at once the most

  voracious and the most unpretending manner, at _his_ table! The

  butler ventured on a little complimentary familiarity. He smiled,

  and touched the betting-book in his breast-pocket. "I've put six

  pound on you, Sir, for the

  Race." "All right, old boy! you shall win your money!" With

  those noble words the honorable gentleman clapped him on the

  back, and held out his tumbler for some more ale. The butler felt

  trebly an Englishman as he filled the foaming glass. Ah! foreign

  nations may have their revolutions! foreign aristocracies may

  tumble down! The British aristocracy lives in the hearts of the

  people, and lives forever!

  "Another!" said Geoffrey, presenting his empty glass. "Here's

  luck!" He tossed off his liquor at a draught, and nodded to the

  butler, and went out.

  Had the experiment succeeded? Had he proved his own theory about

  himself to be right? Not a doubt of it! An empty stomach, and a

  determination of tobacco to the head--these were the true causes

  of that strange state of mind into which he had fallen in the

  kitchen-garden. The dumb woman with the stony face vanished as if

  in a mist. He felt nothing now but a comfortable buzzing in his

  head, a genial warmth all over him, and an unlimited capacity for

  carrying any responsibility that could rest on mortal shoulders.

  Geoffrey was himself again.

  He went round toward the library, to write his letter to

  Anne--and so have done with that, to begin with. The company had

  collected in the library waiting for the luncheon-bell. All were

  idly talking; and some would be certain, if he showed himself, to

  fasten on _him._ He turned back again, without showing himself.

  The only way of writing in peace and quietness would be to wait

  until they were all at luncheon, and then return to the library.

  The same opportunity would serve also for finding a messenger to

  take the letter, without exciting attention, and for going away

/>   afterward, unseen, on a long walk by himself. An absence of two

  or three hours would cast the necessary dust in Arnold's eyes;

  for it would be certainly interpreted by him as meaning absence

  at an interview with Anne.

  He strolled idly through the grounds, farther and farther away

  from the house.

  The talk in the library--aimless and empty enough, for the most

  part--was talk to the purpose, in one corner of the room, in

  which Sir Patrick and Blanche were sitting together.

  "Uncle! I have been watching you for the last minute or two."

  "At my age, Blanche? that is paying me a very pretty compliment."

  "Do you know what I have seen?"

  "You have seen an old gentleman in want of his lunch."

  "I have seen an old gentleman with something on his mind. What is

  it?"

  "Suppressed gout, my dear."

  "That won't do! I am not to be put off in that way. Uncle! I want

  to know--"

  "Stop there, Blanche! A young lady who says she 'wants to know,'

  expresses very dangerous sentiments. Eve 'wanted to know'--and

  see what it led to. Faust 'wanted to know'--and got into bad

  company, as the necessary result."

  "You are feeling anxious about something," persisted Blanche.

  "And, what is more, Sir Patrick, you behaved in a most

  unaccountable manner a little while since."

  "When?"

  "When you went and hid yourself with Mr. Delamayn in that snug

  corner there. I saw you lead the way in, while I was at work on

  Lady Lundie's odious dinner-invitations."

  "Oh! you call that being at work, do you? I wonder whether there

  was ever a woman yet who could give the whole of her mind to any

  earthly thing that she had to do?"

  "Never mind the women! What subject in common could you and Mr.

  Delamayn possibly have to talk about? And why do I see a wrinkle

  between your eyebrows, now you have done with him?--a wrinkle

  which certainly wasn't there before you had that private

  conference together?"

  Before answering, Sir Patrick considered whether he should take

  Blanche into his confidence or not. The attempt to identify

  Geoffrey's unnamed "lady," which he was determined to make, would

  lead him to Craig Fernie, and would no doubt end in obliging him

  to address himself to Anne. Blanche's intimate knowledge of her

  friend might unquestionably be made useful to him under these

  circumstances; and Blanche's discretion was to be trusted in any

  matter in which Miss Silvester's interests were concerned. On the

  other hand, caution was imperatively necessary, in the present

  imperfect state of his information--and caution, in Sir Patrick's

  mind, carried the day. He decided to wait and see what came first

  of his investigation at the inn.

  "Mr. Delamayn consulted me on a dry point of law, in which a

  friend of his was interested," said Sir Patrick. "You have wasted

  your curiosity, my dear, on a subject totally unworthy of a

  lady's notice."

  Blanche's penetration was not to be deceived on such easy terms

  as these. "Why not say at once that you won't tell me?" she

  rejoined. "_You_ shutting yourself up with Mr. Delamayn to talk

  law! _You_ looking absent and anxious about it afterward! I am a

  very unhappy girl!" said Blanche, with a little, bitter sigh.

  "There is something in me that seems to repel the people I love.

  Not a word in confidence can I get from Anne. And not a word in

  confidence can I get from you. And I do so long to sympathize!

  It's very hard. I think I shall go to Arnold."

  Sir Patrick took his niece's hand.

  "Stop a minute, Blanche. About Miss Silvester? Have you heard

  from her to-day?"

  "No. I am more unhappy about her than words can say."

  "Suppose somebody went to Craig Fernie and tried to find out the

  cause of Miss Silvester's silence? Would you believe that

  somebody sympathized with you then?"

  Blanche's face flushed brightly with pleasure and surprise. She