Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

could get temporary employment--and at Perth he determined to

  make his first anonymous advances to Mrs. Glenarm.

  The remainder of the evening passed quietly enough at the Lodge.

  The guests were sleepy and dull after the excitement of the day.

  Mrs. Glenarm retired early. At eleven o'clock Julius Delamayn was

  the only person left up in the house. He was understood to be in

  his study, preparing an address to the electors, based on

  instructions sent from London by his father. He was actually

  occupied in the music-room--now that there was nobody to discover

  him--playing exercises softly on his beloved violin.

  At the trainer's cottage a trifling incident occured, that night,

  which afforded materials for a note in Perry's professional

  diary.

  Geoffrey had sustained the later trial of walking for a given

  time and distance, at his full speed, without showing any of

  those symptoms of exhaustion which had followed the more serious

  experiment of running, to which he had been subjected earlier in

  the day. Perry, honestly bent--though he had privately hedged his

  own bets--on doing his best to bring his man in good order to the

  post on the day of the race, had forbidden Geoffrey to pay his

  evening visit to the house, and had sent him to bed earlier than

  usual. The trainer was alone, looking over his own written rules,

  and considering what modifications he should introduce into the

  diet and exercises of the next day, when he was startled by a

  sound of groaning from the bedroom in which his patron lay

  asleep.

  He went in, and found Geoffrey rolling to and fro on the pillow,

  with his face contorted, with his hands clenched, and with the

  perspiration standing thick on his forehead--suffering evidently

  under the nervous oppression produced by the phantom-terrors of a

  dream.

  Perry spoke to him, and pulled him up in the bed. He woke with a

  scream. He stared at his trainer in vacant terror, and spoke to

  his trainer in wild words. "What are your horrid eyes looking at

  over my shoulder?" he cried out. "Go to the devil--and take your

  infernal slate with you!" Perry spoke to him once more. "You've

  been dreaming of somebody, Mr. Delamayn. What's to do about a

  slate?" Geoffrey looked eagerly round the room, and heaved a

  heavy breath of relief. "I could have sworn she was staring at me

  over the dwarf pear-trees," he said. "All right, I know where I

  am now." Perry (attributing the dream to nothing more important

  than a passing indigestion) administered some brandy and water,

  and left him to drop off again to sleep. He fretfully forbade the

  extinguishing of the light. "Afraid of the dark?" said Perry,

  with a laugh. No. He was afraid of dreaming again of the dumb

  cook at Windygates House.

  SEVENTH SCENE.--HAM FARM.

  CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.

  THE NIGHT BEFORE.

  THE time was the night before the marriage. The place was Sir

  Patrick's house in Kent.

  The lawyers had kept their word. The settlements had been

  forwarded, and had been signed two days since.

  With the exception of the surgeon and one of the three young

  gentlemen from the University, who had engagements elsewhere, the

  visitors at Windygates had emigrated southward to be present at

  the marriage. Besides these gentlemen, there were some ladies

  among the guests invited by Sir Patrick--all of them family

  connections, and three of them appointed to the position of

  Blanche's bridesmaids. Add one or two neighbors to be invited to

  the breakfast--and the wedding-party would be complete.

  There was nothing architecturally remarkable about Sir Patrick's

  house. Ham Farm possessed neither the splendor of Windygates nor

  the picturesque antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was a

  perfectly commonplace English country seat, surrounded by

  perfectly commonplace English scenery. Snug monotony welcomed you

  when you went in, and snug monotony met you again when you turned

  to the window and looked out.

  The animation and variety wanting at Ham Farm were far from being

  supplied by the company in the house. It was remembered, at an

  after-period, that a duller wedding-party had never been

  assembled together.

  Sir Patrick, having no early associations with the place, openly

  admitted that his residence in Kent preyed on his spirits, and

  that he would have infinitely preferred a room at the inn in the

  village. The effort to sustain his customary vivacity was not

  encouraged by persons and circumstances about him. Lady Lundie's

  fidelity to the memory of the late Sir Thomas, on the scene of

  his last illness and death, persisted in asserting itself, under

  an ostentation of concealment which tried even the trained temper

  of Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed by her private

  anxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to look gayly

  at the last memorable days of her maiden life. Arnold,

  sacrificed--by express stipulation on the part of Lady Lundie--to

  the prurient delicacy which forbids the bridegroom, before

  marriage, to sleep in the same house with the bride, found

  himself ruthlessly shut out from Sir Patrick's hospitality, and

  exiled every night to a bedroom at the inn. He accepted his

  solitary doom with a resignation which extended its sobering

  influence to his customary flow of spirits. As for the ladies,

  the elder among them existed in a state of chronic protest

  against Lady Lundie, and the younger were absorbed in the

  essentially serious occupation of considering and comparing their

  wedding-dresses. The two young gentlemen from the University

  performed prodigies of yawning, in the intervals of prodigies of

  billiard playing. Smith said, in despair, "There's no making

  things pleasant in this house, Jones." And Jones sighed, and

  mildly agreed with him.

  On the Sunday evening--which was the evening before the

  marriage--the dullness, as a matter of course, reached its

  climax.

  But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on week

  days are regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinately

  anti-Christian tone of feeling which prevails in this matter

  among the Anglo-Saxon race. It is not sinful to wrangle in

  religious controversy; and it is not sinful to slumber over a

  religious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the pious

  observance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sex

  wrangled in Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sex

  slumbered over Sunday books. As for the men, it is unnecessary to

  say that the young ones smoked when they were not yawning, and

  yawned when they were not smoking. Sir Patrick staid in the

  library, sorting old letters and examining old accounts. Every

  person in the house felt the oppression of the senseless social

  prohibitions which they had imposed on themselves. And yet every

  person in the house would have been scandalized if the plain

  question had been put: You know this is a tyranny of your own

  mak
ing, you know you don't really believe in it, you know you

  don't really like it--why do you submit? The freest people on the

  civilized earth are the only people on the civilized earth who

  dare not face that question.

  The evening dragged its slow length on; the welcome time drew

  nearer and nearer for oblivion in bed. Arnold was silently

  contemplating, for the last time, his customary prospects of

  banishment to the inn, when he became aware that Sir Patrick was

  making signs to him. He rose and followed his host into the empty

  dining-room. Sir Patrick carefully closed the door. What did it

  mean?

  It meant--so far as Arnold was concerned--that a private

  conversation was about to diversify the monotony of the long

  Sunday evening at Ham Farm.

  "I have a word to say to you, Arnold," the old gentleman began,

  "before you become a married man. Do you remember the

  conversation at dinner yesterday, about the dancing-party at

  Swanhaven Lodge?"

  "Yes."

  "Do you remember what Lady Lundie said while the topic was on the

  table?"

  "She told me, what I can't believe, that Geoffrey Delamayn was

  going to be married to Mrs. Glenarm."

  "Exactly! I observed that you appeared to be startled by what my

  sister-in-law had said; and when you declared that appearances

  must certainly have misled her, you looked and spoke (to my mind)

  like a man animated by a strong feeling of indignation. Was I

  wrong in drawing that conclusion?"

  "No, Sir Patrick. You were right."

  "Have you any objection to tell me why you felt indignant?"

  Arnold hesitated.

  "You are probably at a loss to know what interest _I_ can feel in

  the matter?"

  Arnold admitted it with his customary frankness.

  "In that case," rejoined Sir Patrick, "I had better go on at once

  with the matter in hand--leaving you to see for yourself the

  connection between what I am about to say, and the question that

  I have just put. When I have done, you shall then reply to me or

  not, exactly as you think right. My dear boy, the subject on

  which I want to speak to you is--Miss Silvester."

  Arnold started. Sir Patrick looked at him with a moment's

  attention, and went on:

  "My niece has her faults of temper and her failings of judgment,"

  he said. "But she has one atoning quality (among many others)

  which ought to make--and which I believe will make--the happiness

  of your married life. In the popular phrase, Blanche is as true

  as steel. Once her friend, always her friend. Do you see what I

  am coming to? She has said nothing about it, Arnold; but she has

  not yielded one inch in her resolution to reunite herself to Miss

  Silvester. One of the first questions you will have to determine,

  after to-morrow, will be the question of whether you do, or not,

  sanction your wife in attempting to communicate with her lost

  friend."

  Arnold answered without the slightest reserve

  "I am heartily sorry for Blanche's lost friend, Sir Patrick. My

  wife will have my full approval if she tries to bring Miss

  Silvester back--and my best help too, if I can give it."

  Those words were earnestly spoken. It was plain that they came

  from his heart.

  "I think you are wrong," said Sir Patrick. "I, too, am sorry for

  Miss Silvester. But I am convinced that she has not left Blanche

  without a serious reason for it. And I believe you will be

  encouraging your wife in a hopeless effort, if you encourage her

  to persist in the search for her lost friend. However, it is your

  affair, and not mine. Do you wish me to offer you any facilities

  for tracing Miss Silvester which I may happen to possess?"

  "If you _can_ help us over any obstacles at starting, Sir

  Patrick, it will be a kindness to Blanche, and a kindness to me."

  "Very good. I suppose you remember what I said to you, one

  morning, when we were talking of Miss Silvester at Windygates?"

  "You said you had determined to let her go her own way."

  "Quite right! On the evening of the day when I said that I

  received information that Miss Silvester had been traced to

  Glasgow. You won't require me to explain why I never mentioned

  this to you or to Blanche. In mentioning it now, I communicate to

  you the only positive information, on the subject of the missing

  woman, which I possess. There are two other chances of finding

  her (of a more speculative kind) which can only be tested by

  inducing two men (both equally difficult to deal with) to confess

  what they know. One of those two men is--a person named

  Bishopriggs, formerly waiter at the Craig Fernie inn."

  Arnold started, and changed color. Sir Patrick (silently noticing

  him) stated the circumstances relating to Anne's lost letter, and

  to the conclusion in his own mind which pointed to Bishopriggs as

  the person in possession of it.

  "I have to add," he proceeded, "that Blanche, unfortunately,

  found an opportunity of speaking to Bishopriggs at Swanhaven.

  When she and Lady Lundie joined us at Edinburgh she showed me

  privately a card which had been given to her by Bishopriggs. He

  had described it as the address at which he might be heard

  of--and Blanche entreated me, before we started for London, to

  put the reference to the test. I told her that she had committed

  a serious mistake in attempting to deal with Bishopriggs on her

  own responsibility; and I warned her of the result in which I was

  firmly persuaded the inquiry would end. She declined to believe

  that Bishopriggs had deceived her. I saw that she would take the

  matter into her own hands again unless I interfered; and I went

  to the place. Exactly as I had anticipated, the person to whom

  the card referred me had not heard of Bishopriggs for years, and

  knew nothing whatever about his present movements. Blanche had

  simply put him on his guard, and shown him the propriety of

  keeping out of the way. If you should ever meet with him in the

  future--say nothing to your wife, and communicate with me. I

  decline to assist you in searching for Miss Silvester; but I have

  no objection to assist in recovering a stolen letter from a

  thief. So much for Bishopriggs.--Now as to the other man."

  "Who is he?"

  "Your friend, Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn."

  Arnold sprang to his feet in ungovernable surprise.

  "I appear to astonish you," remarked Sir Patrick.

  Arnold sat down again, and waited, in speechless suspense, to

  hear what was coming next.

  "I have reason to know," said Sir Patrick, "that Mr. Delamayn is

  thoroughly well acquainted with the nature of Miss Silvester's

  present troubles. What his actual connection is with them, and

  how he came into possession of his information, I have not found

  out. My discovery begins and ends with the simple fact that he

  has the information."

  "May I ask one question, Sir Patrick?"

  "What is it?"

  "How did you find out about Geoffrey Delamayn?"

  "It would occupy a long time," answere
d Sir Patrick, "to tell you

  how--and it is not at all necessary to our purpose that you

  should know. My present obligation merely binds me to tell

  you--in strict confidence, mind!--that Miss Silvester's secrets

  are no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I leave to your discretion the

  use you may make of that information. You are now entirely on a

  par with me in relation to your knowledge of the case of Miss

  Silvester. Let us return to the question which I asked you when

  we first came into the room. Do you see the connection, now,

  between that question, and what I have said since?"

  Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running on

  Sir Patrick's discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted to

  Mrs. Inchb are's incomplete description of him for his own escape

  from detection, he was wondering how it had happened that _he_

  had remained unsuspected, while Geoffrey's position had been (in

  part at least) revealed to view.

  "I asked you," resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, "why

  the mere report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarm

  roused your indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer.

  Do you hesitate still?"

  "It's not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick."

  "Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of the

  report takes its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr.

  Delamayn's private affairs, which the rest of us don't

  possess.--Is that conclusion correct?"

  "Quite correct."

  "Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thing

  that you know about Miss Silvester?"

  If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question,

  Sir Patrick's suspicions would have been aroused, and Sir

  Patrick's resolution would have forced a full disclosure from him

  before he left the house.

  It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-day

  was at hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle into

  light. The dark Phantoms of Trouble and Terror to come were

  waiting near them both at that moment. Arnold hesitated

  again--hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick paused for his answer.

  The clock in the hall struck the quarter to twelve.

  "I can't tell you!" said Arnold.

  "Is it a secret?"

  "Yes."

  "Committed to your honor?"

  "Doubly committed to my honor."

  "What do you mean?"

  "I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me into

  his confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence after

  that."

  "Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?"

  "Yes."

  Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily in the face.

  "I have felt an inveterate distrust of Mr. Delamayn from the

  first," he said. "Answer me this. Have you any reason to

  think--since we first talked about your friend in the

  summer-house at Windygates--that my opinion of him might have

  been the right one after all?"

  "He has bitterly disappointed me," answered Arnold. "I can say no

  more."

  "You have had very little experience of the world," proceeded Sir

  Patrick. "And you have just acknowledged that you have had reason

  to distrust your experience of your friend. Are you quite sure

  that you are acting wisely in keeping his secret from _me?_ Are

  you quite sure that you will not repent the course you are taking

  to-night?" He laid a marked emphasis on those last words. "Think,

  Arnold," he added, kindly. "Think before you answer."

  "I feel bound in honor to keep his secret," said Arnold. "No

  thinking can alter that."

  Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end.

  "There is nothing more to be said." With those words he gave

  Arnold his hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished him

  good-night.

  Going out into the hall, Arnold found Blanche alone, looking at

  the barometer.

  "The glass is at Set Fair, my darling," he whispered. "Good-night

  for the last time!"