Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

expression not its own, and produces music instead of noise. The

  fine organization which can work this miracle had not been

  bestowed on Mrs. Glenarm. She had been carefully taught; and she

  was to be trusted to play correctly--and that was all. Julius,

  hungry for music, and reigned to circumstances, asked for no

  more.

  The servant returned with his answer. Mrs. Glenarm would join Mr.

  Delamayn in the music-room in ten minutes' time.

  Julius rose, relieved, and resumed his sauntering walk; now

  playing little snatches of music, now stopping to look at the

  flowers on the terrace, with an eye that enjoyed their beauty,

  and a hand that fondled them with caressing touch. If Imperial

  Parliament had seen him at that moment, Imperial Parliament must

  have given notice of a question to his illustrious father: Is it

  possible, my lord, that _ you_ can have begotten such a Member as

  this?

  After stopping for a moment to tighten one of the strings of his

  violin, Julius, raising his head from the instrument, was

  surprised to see a lady approaching him on the terrace. Advancing

  to meet her, and perceiving that she was a total stranger to him,

  he assumed that she was, in all probability, a visitor to his

  wife.

  "Have I the honor of speaking to a friend of Mrs. Delamayn's?" he

  asked. "My wife is not at home, I am sorry to say."

  "I am a stranger to Mrs. Delamayn," the lady answered. "The

  servant informed me that she had gone out; and that I should find

  Mr. Delamayn here."

  Julius bowed--and waited to hear more.

  "I must beg you to forgive my intrusion," the stranger went on.

  "My object is to ask permission to see a lady who is, I have been

  informed, a guest in your house."

  The extraordinary formality of the request rather puzzled Julius.

  "Do you mean Mrs. Glenarm?" he asked.

  "Yes."

  "Pray don't think any permission necessary. A friend of Mrs.

  Glenarm's may take her welcome for granted in this house."

  "I am not a friend of Mrs. Glenarm. I am a total stranger to

  her."

  This made the ceremonious request preferred by the lady a little

  more intelligible--but it left the lady's object in wishing to

  speak to Mrs. Glenarm still in the dark. Julius politely waited,

  until it pleased her to proceed further, and explain herself The

  explanation did not appear to be an easy one to give. Her eyes

  dropped to the ground. She hesitated painfully.

  "My name--if I mention it," she resumed, without looking up, "may

  possibly inform you--" She paused. Her color came and went. She

  hesitated again; struggled with her agitation, and controlled it.

  "I am Anne Silvester," she said, suddenly raising her pale face,

  and suddenly steadying her trembling voice.

  Julius started, and looked at her in silent surprise.

  The name was doubly known to him. Not long since, he had heard it

  from his father's lips, at his father's bedside. Lord Holchester

  had charged him, had earnestly charged him, to bear that name in

  mind, and to help the woman who bore it, if the woman ever

  applied to him in time to come. Again, he had heard the name,

  more lately, associated scandalously with the name of his

  brother. On the receipt of the first of the anonymous letters

  sent to her, Mrs. Glenarm had not only summoned Geoffrey himself

  to refute the aspersion cast upon him, but had forwarded a

  private copy of the letter to his relatives at Swanhaven.

  Geoffrey's defense had not entirely satisfied Julius that his

  brother was free from blame. As he now looked at Anne Silvester,

  the doubt returned upon him strengthened--almost confirmed. Was

  this woman--so modest, so gentle, so simply and unaffectedly

  refined--the shameless adventuress denounced by Geoffrey, as

  claiming him on the strength of a foolish flirtation; knowing

  herself, at the time, to be privately married to another man? Was

  this woman--with the voice of a lady, the look of a lady, the

  manner of a lady--in league (as Geoffrey had declared) with the

  illiterate vagabond who was attempting to extort money

  anonymously from Mrs. Glenarm? Impossible! Making every allowance

  for the proverbial deceitfulness of appearances, impossible!

  "Your name has been mentioned to me," said Julius, answering her

  after a momentary pause. His instincts, as a gentleman, made him

  shrink from referring to the association of her name with the

  name of his brother. "My father mentioned you," he added,

  considerately explaining his knowledge of her in _that_ way,

  "when I last saw him in London."

  "Your father!" She came a step nearer, with a look of distrust as

  well as a look of astonishment in her face. "Your father is Lord

  Holchester--is he not?"

  "Yes."

  "What made him speak of _me?_"

  "He was ill at the time," Julius answered. "And he had been

  thinking of events in his past life with which I am entirely

  unacquainted. He said he had known your father and mother. He

  desired me, if you were ever in want of any assistance, to place

  my services at your disposal. When he expressed that wish, he

  spoke very earnestly--he gave me the impression that there was a

  feeling of regret associated with the recollections on which he

  had been dwelling."

  Slowly, and in silence, Anne drew back to the low wall of the

  terrace close by. She rested one hand on it to support herself.

  Julius had said words of terrible import without a suspicion of

  what he had done. Never until now had Anne Silvester known that

  the man who had betrayed her was the son of that other man whose

  discovery of the flaw in the marriage had ended in the betrayal

  of her mother before her. She felt the shock of the revelation

  with a chill of superstitious dread. Was the chain of a fatality

  wound invisibly round her? Turn which way she might was she still

  going darkly on, in the track of her dead mother, to an appointed

  and hereditary doom? Present things passed from her view as the

  awful doubt cast its shadow over her mind. She lived again for a

  moment in the time when she was a child. She saw the face of her

  mother once more, with the wan despair on it of the bygone days

  when the title of wife was denied her, and the social prospect

  was closed forever.

  Julius approached, and roused her.

  "Can I get you any thing?" he asked. "You are looking very ill. I

  hope I have said nothing to distress you?"

  The question failed to attract her attention. She put a question

  herself instead of answering it.

  "Did you say you were quite ignorant of what your father was

  thinking of when he spoke to you about me?"

  "Quite ignorant."

  "Is your brother likely to know more about it than you do?"

  "Certainly not."

  She paused, absorbed once more in her own thoughts. Startled, on

  the memorable day when they had first met, by Geoffrey's family

  name, she had put the question to him whether there had not been

  some acquaintance between their pare
nts in the past time.

  Deceiving her in all else, he had not deceived in this. He had

  spoken in good faith, when he had declared that he had never

  heard her father or her mother mentioned at home.

  The curiosity of Julius was aroused. He attempted to lead her on

  into saying more.

  "You appear to know what my father was thinking of when he spoke

  to me," he resumed. "May I ask--"

  She interrupted him with a gesture of entreaty.

  "Pray don't ask! It's past and over--it can have no interest for

  you--it has nothing to do with my errand here. I must return,"

  she went on, hurriedly, "to my object in trespassing on your

  kindness. Have you heard me mentioned, Mr. Delamayn, by another

  member of your family besides your father?"

  Julius had not anticipated that sh e would approach, of her own

  accord, the painful subject on which he had himself forborne to

  touch. He was a little disappointed. He had expected more

  delicacy of feeling from her than she had shown.

  "Is it necessary," he asked, coldly, "to enter on that?"

  The blood rose again in Anne's cheeks.

  "If it had not been necessary," she answered, "do you think I

  could have forced myself to mention it to _you?_ Let me remind

  you that I am here on sufferance. If I don't speak plainly (no

  matter at what sacrifice to my own feelings), I make my situation

  more embarrassing than it is already. I have something to tell

  Mrs. Glenarm relating to the anonymous letters which she has

  lately received. And I have a word to say to her, next, about her

  contemplated marriage. Before you allow me to do this, you ought

  to know who I am. (I have owned it.) You ought to have heard the

  worst that can be said of my conduct. (Your face tells me you

  have heard the worst.) After the forbearance you have shown to

  me, as a perfect stranger, I will not commit the meanness of

  taking you by surprise. Perhaps, Mr. Delamayn, you understand,

  _now,_ why I felt myself obliged to refer to your brother. Will

  you trust me with permission to speak to Mrs. Glenarm?"

  It was simply and modestly said--with an unaffected and touching

  resignation of look and manner. Julius gave her back the respect

  and the sympathy which, for a moment, he had unjustly withheld

  from her.

  "You have placed a confidence in me," he said "which most persons

  in your situation would have withheld. I feel bound, in return to

  place confidence in you. I will take it for granted that your

  motive in this matter is one which it is my duty to respect. It

  will be for Mrs. Glenarm to say whether she wishes the interview

  to take place or not. All that I can do is to leave you free to

  propose it to her. You _are_ free."

  As he spoke the sound of the piano reached them from the

  music-room. Julius pointed to the glass door which opened on to

  the terrace.

  "You have only to go in by that door," he said, "and you will

  find Mrs. Glenarm alone."

  Anne bowed, and left him. Arrived at the short flight of steps

  which led up to the door, she paused to collect her thoughts

  before she went in.

  A sudden reluctance to go on and enter the room took possession

  of her, as she waited with her foot on the lower step. The report

  of Mrs. Glenarm's contemplated marriage had produced no such

  effect on her as Sir Patrick had supposed: it had found no love

  for Geoffrey left to wound, no latent jealousy only waiting to be

  inflamed. Her object in taking the journey to Perth was completed

  when her correspondence with Geoffrey was in her own hands again.

  The change of purpose which had brought her to Swanhaven was due

  entirely to the new view of her position toward Mrs. Glenarm

  which the coarse commonsense of Bishopriggs had first suggested

  to her. If she failed to protest against Mrs. Glenarm's marriage,

  in the interests of the reparation which Geoffrey owed to her,

  her conduct would only confirm Geoffrey's audacious assertion

  that she was a married woman already. For her own sake she might

  still have hesitated to move in the matter. But Blanche's

  interests were concerned as well as her own; and, for Blanche's

  sake, she had resolved on making the journey to Swanhaven Lodge.

  At the same time, feeling toward Geoffrey as she felt

  now--conscious as she was of not really desiring the reparation

  on which she was about to insist--it was essential to the

  preservation of her own self-respect that she should have some

  purpose in view which could justify her to her own conscience in

  assuming the character of Mrs. Glenarm's rival.

  She had only to call to mind the critical situation of

  Blanche--and to see her purpose before her plainly. Assuming that

  she could open the coming interview by peaceably proving that her

  claim on Geoffrey was beyond dispute, she might then, without

  fear of misconception, take the tone of a friend instead of an

  enemy, and might, with the best grace, assure Mrs. Glenarm that

  she had no rivalry to dread, on the one easy condition that she

  engaged to make Geoffrey repair the evil that he had done. "Marry

  him without a word against it to dread from _me_--so long as he

  unsays the words and undoes the deeds which have thrown a doubt

  on the marriage of Arnold and Blanche." If she could but bring

  the interview to this end--there was the way found of extricating

  Arnold, by her own exertions, from the false position in which

  she had innocently placed him toward his wife! Such was the

  object before her, as she now stood on the brink of her interview

  with Mrs. Glenarm.

  Up to this moment, she had firmly believed in her capacity to

  realize her own visionary project. It was only when she had her

  foot on the step that a doubt of the success of the coming

  experiment crossed her mind. For the first time, she saw the weak

  point in her own reasoning. For the first time, she felt how much

  she had blindly taken for granted, in assuming that Mrs. Glenarm

  would have sufficient sense of justice and sufficient command of

  temper to hear her patiently. All her hopes of success rested on

  her own favorable estimate of a woman who was a total stranger to

  her! What if the first words exchanged between them proved the

  estimate to be wrong?

  It was too late to pause and reconsider the position. Julius

  Delamayn had noticed her hesitation, and was advancing toward her

  from the end of the terrace. There was no help for it but to

  master her own irresolution, and to run the risk boldly. "Come

  what may, I have gone too far to stop _here._" With that

  desperate resolution to animate her, she opened the glass door at

  the top of the steps, and went into the room.

  Mrs. Glenarm rose from the piano. The two women--one so richly,

  the other so plainly dressed; one with her beauty in its full

  bloom, the other worn and blighted; one with society at her feet,

  the other an outcast living under the bleak shadow of

  reproach--the two women stood face to face, and exchanged the

  cold co
urtesies of salute between strangers, in silence.

  The first to meet the trivial necessities of the situation was

  Mrs. Glenarm. She good-humoredly put an end to the

  embarrassment--which the shy visitor appeared to feel acutely--by

  speaking first.

  "I am afraid the servants have not told you?" she said. "Mrs.

  Delamayn has gone out."

  "I beg your pardon--I have not called to see Mrs. Delamayn."

  Mrs. Glenarm looked a little surprised. She went on, however, as

  amiably as before.

  "Mr. Delamayn, perhaps?" she suggested. "I expect him here every

  moment."

  Anne explained again. "I have just parted from Mr. Delamayn."

  Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in astonishment. Anne proceeded. "I

  have come here, if you will excuse the intrusion--"

  She hesitated--at a loss how to end the sentence. Mrs. Glenarm,

  beginning by this time to feel a strong curiosity as to what

  might be coming next, advanced to the rescue once more.

  "Pray don't apologize," she said. "I think I understand that you

  are so good as to have come to see _me._ You look tired. Won't

  you take a chair?"

  Anne could stand no longer. She took the offered chair. Mrs.

  Glenarm resumed her place on the music-stool, and ran her fingers

  idly over the keys of the piano. "Where did you see Mr.

  Delamayn?" she went on. "The most irresponsible of men, except

  when he has got his fiddle in his hand! Is he coming in soon? Are

  we going to have any music? Have you come to play with us? Mr.

  Delamayn is a perfect fanatic in music, isn't he? Why isn't he

  here to introduce us? I suppose you like the classical style,

  too? Did you know that I was in the music-room? Might I ask your

  name?"

  Frivolous as they were, Mrs. Glenarm's questions were not without

  their use. They gave Anne time to summon her resolution, and to

  feel the necessity of explaining herself.

  "I am speaking, I believe, to Mrs. Glenarm?" she began.

  The good-humored widow smiled and bowed graciously.

  "I have come here, Mrs. Glenarm--by Mr. Delamayn's permission--to

  ask leave to speak to you on a matter in which you are

  interested."

  Mrs. Glenarm's many-ringed fingers paused over the keys of the

  piano. Mrs. Gle narm's plump face turned on the stranger with a

  dawning expression of surprise.

  "Indeed? I am interested in so many matters. May I ask what

  _this_ matter is?"

  The flippant tone of the speaker jarred on Anne. If Mrs.

  Glenarm's nature was as shallow as it appeared to be on the

  surface, there was little hope of any sympathy establishing

  itself between them.

  "I wished to speak to you," she answered, "about something that

  happened while you were paying a visit in the neighborhood of

  Perth."

  The dawning surprise in Mrs. Glenarm's face became intensified

  into an expression of distrust. Her hearty manner vanished under

  a veil of conventional civility, drawn over it suddenly. She

  looked at Anne. "Never at the best of times a beauty," she

  thought. "Wretchedly out of health now. Dressed like a servant,

  and looking like a lady. What _does_ it mean?"

  The last doubt was not to be borne in silence by a person of Mrs.

  Glenarm's temperament. She addressed herself to the solution of

  it with the most unblushing directness--dextrously excused by the

  most winning frankness of manner.

  "Pardon me," she said. "My memory for faces is a bad one; and I

  don't think you heard me just now, when I asked for your name.

  Have we ever met before?"

  "Never."

  "And yet--if I understand what you are referring to--you wish to

  speak to me about something which is only interesting to myself

  and my most intimate friends."

  "You understand me quite correctly," said Anne. "I wish to speak

  to you about some anonymous letters--"

  "For the third time, will you permit me to ask for your name?"

  "You shall hear it directly--if you will first allow me to finish