Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

Brinkworth."

  Sir Patrick folded the letter, and looked at the two inclosures

  lying on the table. His eye was hard, his brow was frowning, as

  he put his hand to take up Anne's letter. The letter from

  Arnold's agent in Edinburgh lay nearer to him. As it happened, he

  took that first.

  It was short enough, and clearly enough written, to invite a

  reading before he put it down again. The lawyer reported that he

  had made the necessary inquiries at Glasgow, with this result.

  Anne had been traced to The Sheep's Head Hotel. She had lain

  there utterly helpless, from illness, until the beginning of

  September. She had been advertised, without result, in the

  Glasgow newspapers. On the 5th of September she had sufficiently

  recovered to be able to leave the hotel. She had been seen at the

  railway station on the same day--but from that point all trace of

  her had been lost once more. The lawyer had accordingly stopped

  the proceedings, and now waited further instructions from his

  client.

  This letter was not without its effect in encouraging Sir Patrick

  to suspend the harsh and hasty judgment of Anne, which any man,

  placed in his present situation, must have been inclined to form.

  Her illness claimed its small share of sympathy. Her friendless

  position--so plainly and so sadly revealed by the advertising in

  the newspapers--pleaded for merciful construction of faults

  committed, if faults there were. Gravely, but not angrily, Sir

  Patrick opened her letter--the letter that cast a doubt on his

  niece's marriage.

  Thus Anne Silvester wrote:

  "GLASGOW, _September_ 5.

  "DEAR MR. BRINKWORTH,--Nearly three weeks since I attempted to

  write to you from this place. I was seized by sudden illness

  while I was engaged over my letter; and from that time to this I

  have laid helpless in bed--very near, as they tell me, to death.

  I was strong enough to be dressed, and to sit up for a little

  while yesterday and the day before. To-day, I have made a better

  advance toward recovery. I can hold my pen and control my

  thoughts. The first use to which I put this improvement is to

  write these lines.

  "I am going (so far as I know) to surprise--possibly to

  alarm--you. There is no escaping from it, for you or for me; it

  must be done.

  "Thinking of how best to introduce what I am now obliged to say,

  I can find no better way than this. I must ask you to take your

  memory back to a day which we have both bitter reason to

  regret--the day when Geoffrey Delamayn sent you to see me at the

  inn at Craig Fernie.

  "You may possibly not remember--it unhappily produced no

  impression on you at the time--that I felt, and expressed, more

  than once on that occasion, a very great dislike to your passing

  me off on the people of the inn as your wife. It was necessary to

  my being permitted to remain at Craig Fernie that you should do

  so. I knew this; but still I shrank from it. It was impossible

  for me to contradict you, without involving you in the painful

  consequences, and running the risk of making a scandal which

  might find its way to Blanche's ears. I knew this also; but still

  my conscience reproached me. It was a vague feeling. I was quite

  unaware of the actual danger in which you were placing yourself,

  or I would have spoken out, no matter what came of it. I had what

  is called a presentiment that you were not acting

  discreetly--nothing more. As I love and honor my mother's

  memory--as I trust in the mercy of God--this is the truth.

  "You left the inn the next morning, and we have not met since.

  "A few days after you went away my anxieties grew more than I

  could bear alone. I went secretly to Windygates, and had an

  interview with Blanche.

  "She was absent for a few minutes from the room in which we had

  met. In that interval I saw Geoffrey Delamayn for the first time

  since I had left him at Lady Lundie's lawn-party. He treated me

  as if I was a stranger. He told me that he had found out all that

  had passed between us at the inn. He said he had taken a lawyer's

  opinion. Oh, Mr. Brinkworth! how can I break it to you? how can I

  write the words which repeat what he said to me next? It must be

  done. Cruel as it is, it must be done. He refused to my face to

  marr y me. He said I was married already. He said I was your

  wife.

  "Now you know why I have referred you to what I felt (and

  confessed to feeling) when we were together at Craig Fernie. If

  you think hard thoughts, and say hard words of me, I can claim no

  right to blame you. I am innocent--and yet it is my fault.

  "My head swims, and the foolish tears are rising in spite of me.

  I must leave off, and rest a little.

  "I have been sitting at the window, and watching the people in

  the street as they go by. They are all strangers. But, somehow,

  the sight of them seems to rest my mind. The hum of the great

  city gives me heart, and helps me to go on.

  "I can not trust myself to write of the man who has betrayed us

  both. Disgraced and broken as I am, there is something still left

  in me which lifts me above _him._ If he came repentant, at this

  moment, and offered me all that rank and wealth and worldly

  consideration can give, I would rather be what I am now than be

  his wife.

  "Let me speak of you; and (for Blanche's sake) let me speak of

  myself.

  "I ought, no doubt, to have waited to see you at Windygates, and

  to have told you at once of what had happened. But I was weak and

  ill and the shock of hearing what I heard fell so heavily on me

  that I fainted. After I came to myself I was so horrified, when I

  thought of you and Blanche that a sort of madness possessed me. I

  had but one idea--the idea of running away and hiding myself.

  "My mind got clearer and quieter on the way to this place; and,

  arrived here, I did what I hope and believe was the best thing I

  could do. I consulted two lawyers. They differed in opinion as to

  whether we were married or not--according to the law which

  decides on such things in Scotland. The first said Yes. The

  second said No--but advised me to write immediately and tell you

  the position in which you stood. I attempted to write the same

  day, and fell ill as you know.

  "Thank God, the delay that has happened is of no consequence. I

  asked Blanche, at Windygates, when you were to be married--and

  she told me not until the end of the autumn. It is only the fifth

  of September now. You have plenty of time before you. For all our

  sakes, make good use of it.

  "What are you to do?

  "Go at once to Sir Patrick Lundie, and show him this letter.

  Follow his advice--no matter how it may affect _me._ I should ill

  requite your kindness, I should be false indeed to the love I

  bear to Blanche, if I hesitated to brave any exposure that may

  now be necessary in your interests and in hers. You have been all

  that is generous, all that is delicate, all that is kind in this


  matter. You have kept my disgraceful secret--I am quite sure of

  it--with the fidelity of an honorable man who has had a woman's

  reputation placed in his charge. I release you, with my whole

  heart, dear Mr. Brinkworth, from your pledge. I entreat you, on

  my knees, to consider yourself free to reveal the truth. I will

  make any acknowledgment, on my side, that is needful under the

  circumstances--no matter how public it may be. Release yourself

  at any price; and then, and not till then, give back your regard

  to the miserable woman who has laden you with the burden of her

  sorrow, and darkened your life for a moment with the shadow of

  her shame.

  "Pray don't think there is any painful sacrifice involved in

  this. The quieting of my own mind is involved in it--and that is

  all.

  "What has life left for _me?_ Nothing but the barren necessity of

  living. When I think of the future now, my mind passes over the

  years that may be left to me in this world. Sometimes I dare to

  hope that the Divine Mercy of Christ--which once pleaded on earth

  for a woman like me--may plead, when death has taken me, for my

  spirit in Heaven. Sometimes I dare to hope that I may see my

  mother, and Blanche's mother, in the better world. Their hearts

  were bound together as the hearts of sisters while they were

  here; and they left to their children the legacy of their love.

  Oh, help me to say, if we meet again, that not in vain I promised

  to be a sister to Blanche! The debt I owe to her is the

  hereditary debt of my mother's gratitude. And what am I now? An

  obstacle in the way of the happiness of her life. Sacrifice me to

  that happiness, for God's sake! It is the one thing I have left

  to live for. Again and again I say it--I care nothing for myself.

  I have no right to be considered; I have no wish to be

  considered. Tell the whole truth about me, and call me to bear

  witness to it as publicly as you please!

  "I have waited a little, once more, trying to think, before I

  close my letter, what there may be still left to write.

  "I can not think of any thing left but the duty of informing you

  how you may find me. if you wish to write--or if it is thought

  necessary that we should meet again.

  "One word before I tell you this.

  "It is impossible for me to guess what you will do, or what you

  will be advised to do by others, when you get my letter. I don't

  even know that you may not already have heard of what your

  position is from Geoffrey Delamayn himself. In this event, or in

  the event of your thinking it desirable to take Blanche into your

  confidence, I venture to suggest that you should appoint some

  person whom you can trust to see me on your behalf--or, if you

  can not do this that you should see me in the presence of a third

  person. The man who has not hesitated to betray us both, will not

  hesitate to misrepresent us in the vilest way, if he can do it in

  the future. For your own sake, let us be careful to give lying

  tongues no opportunity of assailing your place in Blanche's

  estimation. Don't act so as to risk putting yourself in a false

  position _again!_ Don't let it be possible that a feeling

  unworthy of her should be roused in the loving and generous

  nature of your future wife!

  "This written, I may now tell you how to communicate with me

  after I have left this place.

  "You will find on the slip of paper inclosed the name and address

  of the second of the two lawyers whom I consulted in Glasgow. It

  is arranged between us that I am to inform him, by letter, of the

  next place to which I remove, and that he is to communicate the

  information either to you or to Sir Patrick Lundie, on your

  applying for it personally or by writing. I don't yet know myself

  where I may find refuge. Nothing is certain but that I can not,

  in my present state of weakness, travel far.

  "If you wonder why I move at all until I am stronger, I can only

  give a reason which may appear fanciful and overstrained.

  "I have been informed that I was advertised in the Glasgow

  newspapers during the time when I lay at this hotel, a stranger

  at the point of death. Trouble has perhaps made me morbidly

  suspicious. I am afraid of what may happen if I stay here, after

  my place of residence has been made publicly known. So, as soon

  as I can move, I go away in secret. It will be enough for me, if

  I can find rest and peace in some quiet place, in the country

  round Glasgow. You need feel no anxiety about my means of living.

  I have money enough for all that I need--and, if I get well

  again, I know how to earn my bread.

  "I send no message to Blanche--I dare not till this is over. Wait

  till she is your happy wife; and then give her a kiss, and say it

  comes from Anne.

  "Try and forgive me, dear Mr. Brinkworth. I have said all. Yours

  gratefully,

  "ANNE SILVESTER."

  Sir Patrick put the letter down with unfeigned respect for the

  woman who had written it.

  Something of the personal influence which Anne exercised more or

  less over all the men with whom she came in contact seemed to

  communicate itself to the old lawyer through the medium of her

  letter. His thoughts perversely wandered away from the serious

  and pressing question of his niece's position into a region of

  purely speculative inquiry relating to Anne. What infatuation (he

  asked himself) had placed that noble creature at the mercy of

  such a man as Geoffrey Delamayn?

  We have all, at one time or another in our lives, been perplexed

  as Sir Patrick was perplexed now.

  If we know any thing by experience, we know that women cast

  themselves away impulsively on unworthy men, and that men ruin

  themselves headlong for unworthy w omen. We have the institution

  of Divorce actually among us, existing mainly because the two

  sexes are perpetually placing themselves in these anomalous

  relations toward each other. And yet, at every fresh instance

  which comes before us, we persist in being astonished to find

  that the man and the woman have not chosen each other on rational

  and producible grounds! We expect human passion to act on logical

  principles; and human fallibility--with love for its guide--to be

  above all danger of making a mistake! Ask the wisest among Anne

  Silvester's sex what they saw to rationally justify them in

  choosing the men to whom they have given their hearts and their

  lives, and you will be putting a question to those wise women

  which they never once thought of putting to themselves. Nay, more

  still. Look into your own experience, and say frankly, Could you

  justify your own excellent choice at the time when you

  irrevocably made it? Could you have put your reasons on paper

  when you first owned to yourself that you loved him? And would

  the reasons have borne critical inspection if you had?

  Sir Patrick gave it up in despair. The interests of his niece

  were at stake. He wisely determined to rouse his mind by

  occupying
himself with the practical necessities of the moment.

  It was essential to send an apology to the rector, in the first

  place, so as to leave the evening at his disposal for considering

  what preliminary course of conduct he should advise Arnold to

  pursue.

  After writing a few lines of apology to his partner at

  Piquet--assigning family business as the excuse for breaking his

  engagement--Sir Patrick rang the bell. The faithful Duncan

  appeared, and saw at once in his master s face that something had

  happened.

  "Send a man with this to the Rectory," said Sir Patrick. "I can't

  dine out to-day. I must have a chop at home."

  "I am afraid, Sir Patrick--if I may be excused for remarking

  it--you have had some bad news?"

  "The worst possible news, Duncan. I can't tell you about it now.

  Wait within hearing of the bell. In the mean time let nobody

  interrupt me. If the steward himself comes I can't see him."

  After thinking it over carefully, Sir Patrick decided that there

  was no alternative but to send a message to Arnold and Blanche,

  summoning them back to England in the first place. The necessity

  of questioning Arnold, in the minutest detail, as to every thing

  that had happened between Anne Silvester and himself at the Craig

  Fernie inn, was the first and foremost necessity of the case.

  At the same time it appeared to be desirable, for Blanche's sake,

  to keep her in ignorance, for the present at least, of what had

  happened. Sir Patrick met this difficulty with characteristic

  ingenuity and readiness of resource.

  He wrote a telegram to Arnold, expressed in the following terms:

  "Your letter and inclosures received. Return to Ham Farm as soon

  as you conveniently can. Keep the thing still a secret from

  Blanche. Tell her, as the reason for coming back, that the lost

  trace of Anne Silvester has been recovered, and that there may be

  reasons for her returning to England before any thing further can

  be done."

  Duncan having been dispatched to the station with this message,

  Duncan's master proceeded to calculate the question of time.

  Arnold would in all probability receive the telegram at Baden, on

  the next day, September the seventeenth. In three days more he

  and Blanche might be expected to reach Ham Farm. During the

  interval thus placed at his disposal Sir Patrick would have ample

  time in which to recover himself, and to see his way to acting

  for the best in the alarming emergency that now confronted him.

  On the nineteenth Sir Patrick received a telegram informing him

  that he might expect to see the young couple late in the evening

  on the twentieth.

  Late in the evening the sound of carriage-wheels was audible on

  the drive; and Sir Patrick, opening the door of his room, heard

  the familiar voices in the hall.

  "Well!" cried Blanche, catching sight of him at the door, "is

  Anne found?"

  "Not just yet, my dear."

  "Is there news of her?"

  "Yes."

  "Am I in time to be of use?"

  "In excellent time. You shall hear all about it to-morrow. Go and

  take off your traveling-things, and come down again to supper as

  soon as you can."

  Blanche kissed him, and went on up stairs. She had, as her uncle

  thought in the glimpse he had caught of her, been improved by her

  marriage. It had quieted and steadied her. There were graces in

  her look and manner which Sir Patrick had not noticed before.

  Arnold, on his side, appeared to less advantage. He was restless

  and anxious; his position with Miss Silvester seemed to be

  preying on his mind. As soon as his young wife's back was turned,

  he appealed to Sir Patrick in an eager whisper.

  "I hardly dare ask you what I have got it on my mind to say," he

  began. "I must bear it if you are angry with me, Sir Patrick.

  But--only tell me one thing. Is there a way out of it for us?

  Have you thought of that?"