Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

her up in the air like a baby, and gave her a rough loud-sounding

  kiss on each cheek. "With kind compliments from yours truly!" he

  said--and burst out laughing, and put her down again.

  "How dare you do that?" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "I shall claim Mrs.

  Delamayn's protection if I am to be insulted in this way! I will

  never forgive you, Sir!" As she said those indignant words she

  shot a look at him which flatly contradicted them. The next

  moment she was leaning on his arm, and was looking at him

  wonderingly, for the thousandth time, as an entire novelty in her

  experience of male human kind. "How rough you are, Geoffrey!" she

  said, softly. He smiled in recognition of that artless homage to

  the manly virtue of his character. She saw the smile, and

  instantly made another effort to dispute the hateful supremacy of

  Perry. "Put him off!" whispere d the daughter of Eve, determined

  to lure Adam into taking a bite of the apple. "Come, Geoffrey,

  dear, never mind Perry, this once. Take me to the lake!"

  Geoffrey looked at his watch. "Perry expects me in a quarter of

  an hour," he said.

  Mrs. Glenarm's indignation assumed a new form. She burst out

  crying. Geoffrey surveyed her for a moment with a broad stare of

  surprise--and then took her by both arms, and shook her!

  "Look here!" he said, impatiently. "Can you coach me through my

  training?"

  "I would if I could!"

  "That's nothing to do with it! Can you turn me out, fit, on the

  day of the race? Yes? or No?"

  "No."

  "Then dry your eyes and let Perry do it."

  Mrs. Glenarm dried her eyes, and made another effort.

  "I'm not fit to be seen," she said. "I'm so agitated, I don't

  know what to do. Come indoors, Geoffrey--and have a cup of tea."

  Geoffrey shook his head. "Perry forbids tea," he said, "in the

  middle of the day."

  "You brute!" cried Mrs. Glenarm.

  "Do you want me to lose the race?" retorted Geoffrey.

  "Yes!"

  With that answer she left him at last, and ran back into the

  house.

  Geoffrey took a turn on the terrace--considered a

  little--stopped--and looked at the porch under which the irate

  widow had disappeared from his view. "Ten thousand a year," he

  said, thinking of the matrimonial prospect which he was placing

  in peril. "And devilish well earned," he added, going into the

  house, under protest, to appease Mrs. Glenarm.

  The offended lady was on a sofa, in the solitary drawing-room.

  Geoffrey sat down by her. She declined to look at him. "Don't be

  a fool!" said Geoffrey, in his most persuasive manner. Mrs.

  Glenarm put her handkerchief to her eyes. Geoffrey took it away

  again without ceremony. Mrs. Glenarm rose to leave the room.

  Geoffrey stopped her by main force. Mrs. Glenarm threatened to

  summon the servants. Geoffrey said, "All right! I don't care if

  the whole house knows I'm fond of you!" Mrs. Glenarm looked at

  the door, and whispered "Hush! for Heaven's sake!" Geoffrey put

  her arm in his, and said, "Come along with me: I've got something

  to say to you." Mrs. Glenarm drew back, and shook her head.

  Geoffrey put his arm round her waist, and walked her out of the

  room, and out of the house--taking the direction, not of the

  terrace, but of a fir plantation on the opposite side of the

  grounds. Arrived among the trees, he stopped and held up a

  warning forefinger before the offended lady's face. "You're just

  the sort of woman I like," he said; "and there ain't a man living

  who's half as sweet on you as I am. You leave off bullying me

  about Perry, and I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll let you see me

  take a Sprint."

  He drew back a step, and fixed his big blue eyes on her, with a

  look which said, "You are a highly-favored woman, if ever there

  was one yet!" Curiosity instantly took the leading place among

  the emotions of Mrs. Glenarm. "What's a Sprint, Geoffrey?" she

  asked.

  "A short run, to try me at the top of my speed. There ain't

  another living soul in all England that I'd let see it but you.

  _Now_ am I a brute?"

  Mrs. Glenarm was conquered again, for the hundredth time at

  least. She said, softly, "Oh, Geoffrey, if you could only be

  always like this!" Her eyes lifted themselves admiringly to his.

  She took his arm again of her own accord, and pressed it with a

  loving clasp. Geoffrey prophetically felt the ten thousand a year

  in his pocket. "Do you really love me?" whispered Mrs. Glenarm.

  "Don't I!" answered the hero. The peace was made, and the two

  walked on again.

  They passed through the plantation, and came out on some open

  ground, rising and falling prettily, in little hillocks and

  hollows. The last of the hillocks sloped down into a smooth level

  plain, with a fringe of sheltering trees on its farther

  side--with a snug little stone cottage among the trees--and with

  a smart little man, walking up and down before the cottage,

  holding his hands behind him. The level plain was the hero's

  exercising ground; the cottage was the hero's retreat; and the

  smart little man was the hero's trainer.

  If Mrs. Glenarm hated Perry, Perry (judging by appearances) was

  in no danger of loving Mrs. Glenarm. As Geoffrey approached with

  his companion, the trainer came to a stand-still, and stared

  silently at the lady. The lady, on her side, declined to observe

  that any such person as the trainer was then in existence, and

  present in bodily form on the scene.

  "How about time?" said Geoffrey.

  Perry consulted an elaborate watch, constructed to mark time to

  the fifth of a second, and answered Geoffrey, with his eye all

  the while on Mrs. Glenarm.

  "You've got five minutes to spare."

  "Show me where you run, I'm dying to see it!" said the eager

  widow, taking possession of Geoffrey's arm with both hands.

  Geoffrey led her back to a place (marked by a sapling with a

  little flag attached to it) at some short distance from the

  cottage. She glided along by his side, with subtle undulations of

  movement which appeared to complete the exasperation of Perry. He

  waited until she was out of hearing--and then he invoked (let us

  say) the blasts of heaven on the fashionably-dressed head of Mrs.

  Glenarm.

  "You take your place there," said Geoffrey, posting her by the

  sapling. "When I pass you--" He stopped, and surveyed her with a

  good-humored masculine pity. "How the devil am I to make you

  understand it?" he went on. "Look here! when I pass you, it will

  be at what you would call (if I was a horse) full gallop. Hold

  your tongue--I haven't done yet. You're to look on after me as I

  leave you, to where the edge of the cottage wall cuts the trees.

  When you have lost sight of me behind the wall, you'll have seen

  me run my three hundred yards from this flag. You're in luck's

  way! Perry tries me at the long Sprint to-day. You understand

  you're to stop here? Very well then--let me go and get my toggery

  on."

  "Sha'n't
I see you again, Geoffrey?"

  "Haven't I just told you that you'll see me run?"

  "Yes--but after that?"

  "After that, I'm sponged and rubbed down--and rest in the

  cottage."

  "You'll come to us this evening?"

  He nodded, and left her. The face of Perry looked unutterable

  things when he and Geoffrey met at the door of the cottage.

  "I've got a question to ask you, Mr. Delamayn," said the trainer.

  "Do you want me? or don't you?"

  "Of course I want you."

  "What did I say when I first come here?" proceeded Perry,

  sternly. "I said, 'I won't have nobody a looking on at a man I'm

  training. These here ladies and gentlemen may all have made up

  their minds to see you. I've made up my mind not to have no

  lookers-on. I won't have you timed at your work by nobody but me.

  I won't have every blessed yard of ground you cover put in the

  noospapers. I won't have a living soul in the secret of what you

  can do, and what you can't, except our two selves.'--Did I say

  that, Mr. Delamayn? or didn't I?"

  "All right!"

  "Did I say it? or didn't I?"

  "Of course you did!"

  "Then don't you bring no more women here. It's clean against

  rules. And I won't have it."

  Any other living creature adopting this tone of remonstrance

  would probably have had reason to repent it. But Geoffrey himself

  was afraid to show his temper in the presence of Perry. In view

  of the coming race, the first and foremost of British trainers

  was not to be trifled with, even by the first and foremost of

  British athletes.

  "She won't come again," said Geoffrey. "She's going away from

  Swanhaven in two days' time."

  "I've put every shilling I'm worth in the world on you," pursued

  Perry, relapsing into tenderness. "And I tell you I felt it! It

  cut me to the heart when I see you coming along with a woman at

  your heels. It's a fraud on his backers, I says to myself--that's

  what it is, a fraud on his backers!"

  "Shut up!" said Geoffrey. "And come and help me to win your

  money." He kicked open the door of the cottage--and athlete and

  trainer disappeared from view.

  After waiting a few minutes by the little flag, Mrs. Glenarm saw

  the two men approaching her from the cottage. Dressed in a

  close-fitting costume, light and elastic, adapting itself to

  every movement, and made to answer every purpose required by the

  exercise in which he was abo ut to engage, Geoffrey's physical

  advantages showed themselves in their best and bravest aspect.

  His head sat proud and easy on his firm, white throat, bared to

  the air. The rising of his mighty chest, as he drew in deep

  draughts of the fragrant summer breeze; the play of his lithe and

  supple loins; the easy, elastic stride of his straight and

  shapely legs, presented a triumph of physical manhood in its

  highest type. Mrs. Glenarm's eyes devoured him in silent

  admiration. He looked like a young god of mythology--like a

  statue animated with color and life. "Oh, Geoffrey!" she

  exclaimed, softly, as he went by. He neither answered, nor

  looked: he had other business on hand than listening to soft

  nonsense. He was gathering himself up for the effort; his lips

  were set; his fists were lightly clenched. Perry posted himself

  at his place, grim and silent, with the watch in his hand.

  Geoffrey walked on beyond the flag, so as to give himself start

  enough to reach his full speed as he passed it. "Now then!" said

  Perry. In an instant more, he flew by (to Mrs. Glenarm's excited

  imagination) like an arrow from a bow. His action was perfect.

  His speed, at its utmost rate of exertion, preserved its rare

  underlying elements of strength and steadiness. Less and less and

  less he grew to the eyes that followed his course; still lightly

  flying over the ground, still firmly keeping the straight line. A

  moment more, and the runner vanished behind the wall of the

  cottage, and the stop-watch of the trainer returned to its place

  in his pocket.

  In her eagerness to know the result, Mrs. Glenarm forget her

  jealousy of Perry.

  "How long has he been?" she asked.

  "There's a good many besides you would be glad to know that,"

  said Perry.

  "Mr. Delamayn will tell me, you rude man!"

  "That depends, ma'am, on whether _I_ tell _him._"

  With this reply, Perry hurried back to the cottage.

  Not a word passed while the trainer was attending to his man, and

  while the man was recovering his breath. When Geoffrey had been

  carefully rubbed down, and clothed again in his ordinary

  garments, Perry pulled a comfortable easy-chair out of a corner.

  Geoffrey fell into the chair, rather than sat down in it. Perry

  started, and looked at him attentively.

  "Well?" said Geoffrey. "How about the time? Long? short? or

  middling?"

  "Very good time," said Perry.

  "How long?"

  "When did you say the lady was going, Mr. Delamayn?"

  "In two days."

  "Very well, Sir. I'll tell you 'how long' when the lady's gone."

  Geoffrey made no attempt to insist on an immediate reply. He

  smiled faintly. After an interval of less than ten minutes he

  stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.

  "Going to sleep?" said Perry.

  Geoffrey opened his eyes with an effort. "No," he said. The word

  had hardly passed his lips before his eyes closed again.

  "Hullo!" said Perry, watching him. "I don't like that."

  He went closer to the chair. There was no doubt about it. The man

  was asleep.

  Perry emitted a long whistle under his breath. He stooped and

  laid two of his fingers softly on Geoffrey's pulse. The beat was

  slow, heavy, and labored. It was unmistakably the pulse of an

  exhausted man.

  The trainer changed color, and took a turn in the room. He opened

  a cupboard, and produced from it his diary of the preceding year.

  The entries relating to the last occasion on which he had

  prepared Geoffrey for a foot-race included the fullest details.

  He turned to the report of the first trial, at three hundred

  yards, full speed. The time was, by one or two seconds, not so

  good as the time on this occasion. But the result, afterward, was

  utterly different. There it was, in Perry's own words: "Pulse

  good. Man in high spirits. Ready, if I would have let him, to run

  it over again."

  Perry looked round at the same man, a year afterward--utterly

  worn out, and fast asleep in the chair.

  He fetched pen, ink, and paper out of the cupboard, and wrote two

  letters--both marked "Private." The first was to a medical man, a

  great authority among trainers. The second was to Perry's own

  agent in London, whom he knew he could trust. The letter pledged

  the agent to the strictest secrecy, and directed him to back

  Geoffrey's opponent in the Foot-Race for a sum equal to the sum

  which Perry had betted on Geoffrey himself. "If you have got any

  money of your own on him," the letter concluded, "do as I do.


  'Hedge'--and hold your tongue."

  "Another of 'em gone stale!" said the trainer, looking round

  again at the sleeping man. "He'll lose the race."

  CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.

  SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (SECOND SOWING).

  AND what did the visitors say of the Swans?

  They said, "Oh, what a number of them!"--which was all that was

  to be said by persons ignorant of the natural history of aquatic

  birds.

  And what did the visitors say of the lake?

  Some of them said, "How solemn!" Some of them said, "How

  romantic!" Some of them said nothing--but privately thought it a

  dismal scene.

  Here again the popular sentiment struck the right note at

  starting. The lake was hidden in the centre of a fir wood. Except

  in the middle, where the sunlight reached them, the waters lay

  black under the sombre shadow of the trees. The one break in the

  plantation was at the farther end of the lake. The one sign of

  movement and life to be seen was the ghostly gliding of the swans

  on the dead-still surface of the water. It was solemn--as they

  said; it was romantic--as they said. It was dismal--as they

  thought. Pages of description could express no more. Let pages of

  description be absent, therefore, in this place.

  Having satiated itself with the swans, having exhausted the lake,

  the general curiosity reverted to the break in the trees at the

  farther end--remarked a startlingly artificial object, intruding

  itself on the scene, in the shape of a large red curtain, which

  hung between two of the tallest firs, and closed the prospect

  beyond from view--requested an explanation of the curtain from

  Julius Delamayn--and received for answer that the mystery should

  be revealed on the arrival of his wife with the tardy remainder

  of the guests who had loitered about the house.

  On the appearance of Mrs. Delamayn and the stragglers, the united

  party coasted the shore of the lake, and stood assembled in front

  of the curtain. Pointing to the silken cords hanging at either

  side of it, Julius Delamayn picked out two little girls (children

  of his wife's sister), and sent them to the cords, with

  instructions to pull, and see what happened. The nieces of Julius

  pulled with the eager hands of children in the presence of a

  mystery--the curtains parted in the middle, and a cry of

  universal astonishment and delight saluted the scene revealed to

  view.

  At the end of a broad avenue of firs a cool green glade spread

  its grassy carpet in the midst of the surrounding plantation. The

  ground at the farther end of the glade rose; and here, on the

  lower slopes, a bright little spring of water bubbled out between

  gray old granite rocks.

  Along the right-hand edge of the turf ran a row of tables,

  arrayed in spotless white, and covered with refreshments waiting

  for the guests. On the opposite side was a band of music, which

  burst into harmony at the moment when the curtains were drawn.

  Looking back through the avenue, the eye caught a distant glimpse

  of the lake, where the sunlight played on the water, and the

  plumage of the gliding swans flashed softly in brilliant white.

  Such was the charming surprise which Julius Delamayn had arranged

  for his friends. It was only at moments like these--or when he

  and his wife were playing Sonatas in the modest little music-room

  at Swanhaven--that Lord Holchester's eldest son was really happy.

  He secretly groaned over the duties which his position as a

  landed gentleman imposed upon him; and he suffered under some of

  the highest privileges of his rank and station as under social

  martyrdom in its cruelest form.

  "We'll dine first," said Julius, "and dance afterward. There is

  the programme!"

  He led the way to the tables, with the two ladies nearest to

  him--utterly careless whether they were or were not among the

  ladies of the highest rank then present. To Lady Lundie's

  astonishment he took the first seat