Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

what I wanted to say. I wish--if I can--to persuade you that I

  come here as a friend, before I mention my name. You will, I am

  sure, not be very sorry to hear that you need dread no further

  annoyance--"

  "Pardon me once more," said Mrs. Glenarm, interposing for the

  second time. "I am at a loss to know to what I am to attribute

  this kind interest in my affairs on the part of a total

  stranger."

  This time, her tone was more than politely cold--it was politely

  impertinent. Mrs. Glenarm had lived all her life in good society,

  and was a perfect mistress of the subtleties of refined insolence

  in her intercourse with those who incurred her displeasure.

  Anne's sensitive nature felt the wound--but Anne's patient

  courage submitted. She put away from her the insolence which had

  tried to sting, and went on, gently and firmly, as if nothing had

  happened.

  "The person who wrote to you anonymously," she said, "alluded to

  a correspondence. He is no longer in possession of it. The

  correspondence has passed into hands which may be trusted to

  respect it. It will be put to no base use in the future--I answer

  for that."

  "You answer for that?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. She suddenly leaned

  forward over the piano, and fixed her eyes in unconcealed

  scrutiny on Anne's face. The violent temper, so often found in

  combination with the weak nature, began to show itself in her

  rising color, and her lowering brow. "How do _you_ know what the

  person wrote?" she asked. "How do _you_ know that the

  correspondence has passed into other hands? Who are you?" Before

  Anne could answer her, she sprang to her feet, electrified by a

  new idea. "The man who wrote to me spoke of something else

  besides a correspondence. He spoke of a woman. I have found you

  out!" she exclaimed, with a burst of jealous fury. "_You_ are the

  woman!"

  Anne rose on her side, still in firm possession of her

  self-control.

  "Mrs. Glenarm," she said, calmly, "I warn--no, I entreat you--not

  to take that tone with me. Compose yourself; and I promise to

  satisfy you that you are more interested than you are willing to

  believe in what I have still to say. Pray bear with me for a

  little longer. I admit that you have guessed right. I own that I

  am the miserable woman who has been ruined and deserted by

  Geoffrey Delamayn."

  "It's false!" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "You wretch! Do you come to

  _me_ with your trumped-up story? What does Julius Delamayn mean

  by exposing me to this?" Her indignation at finding herself in

  the same room with Anne broke its way through, not the restraints

  only, but the common decencies of politeness. "I'll ring for the

  servants!" she said. "I'll have you turned out of the house."

  She tried to cross the fire-place to ring the bell. Anne, who was

  standing nearest to it, stepped forward at the same moment.

  Without saying a word, she motioned with her hand to the other

  woman to stand back. There was a pause. The two waited, with

  their eyes steadily fixed on one another--each with her

  resolution laid bare to the other's view. In a moment more, the

  finer nature prevailed. Mrs. Glenarm drew back a step in silence.

  "Listen to me," said Anne.

  "Listen to you?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. "You have no right to be

  in this house. You have no right to force yourself in here. Leave

  the room!"

  Anne's patience--so firmly and admirably preserved thus

  far--began to fail her at last.

  "Take care, Mrs. Glenarm!" she said, still struggling with

  herself. "I am not naturally a patient woman. Trouble has done

  much to tame my temper--but endurance has its limits. You have

  reached the limits of mine. I have a claim to be heard--and after

  what you have said to me, I _will_ be heard!"

  "You have no claim! You shameless woman, you are married already.

  I know the man's name. Arnold Brinkworth."

  "Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?"

  "I decline to answer a woman who speaks of Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn

  in that familiar way."

  Anne advanced a step nearer.

  "Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?" she repeated.

  There was a light in her eyes, there was a ring in her voice,

  which showed that she was roused at last. Mrs. Glenarm answered

  her, this time.

  "He did tell me."

  "He lied!"

  "He did _not!_ He knew. I believe _him._ I don't believe _you._"

  "If he told you that I was any thing but a single woman--if he

  told you that Arnold Brinkworth was married to any body but Miss

  Lundie of Windygates--I say again he lied!"

  "I say again--I believe _him,_ and not you."

  "You believe I am Arnold Brinkworth's wife?"

  "I am certain of it."

  "You tell me that to my face?"

  "I tell you to your face--you may have been Geoffrey Delamayn's

  mistress; you are Arnold Brinkworth's wife."

  At those words the long restrained anger leaped up in Anne--all

  the more hotly for having been hitherto so steadily controlled.

  In one breathless moment the whirlwind of her indignation swept

  away, not only all remembrance of the purpose which had brought

  her to Swanhaven, but all sense even of the unpardonable wrong

  which she had suffered at Geoffrey's hands. If he had been there,

  at that moment, and had offered to redeem his pledge, she would

  have consented to marry him, while Mrs. Glenarm s eye was on

  her--no matter whether she destroyed herself in her first cool

  moment afterward or not. The small sting had planted itself at

  last in the great nature. The noblest woman is only a woman,

  after all!

  "I forbid your marriage to Geoffrey Delamayn! I insist on his

  performing the promise he gave me, to make me his wife! I have

  got it here in his own words, in his own writing. On his soul, he

  swears it to me--he will redeem his pledge. His mistress, did you

  say? His wife, Mrs. Glenarm, before the week is out!"

  In those wild words she cast back the taunt--with the letter held

  in triumph in her hand.

  Daunted for the moment by the doubt now literally forced on her,

  that Anne might really have the claim on Geoffrey which she

  advanced, Mrs. Glenarm answered nevertheless with the obstinacy

  of a woman brought to bay--with a resolution not to be convinced

  by conviction itself.

  "I won't give him up!" she cried. "Your letter is a forgery. You

  have no proof. I won't, I won't, I won't give him up!" she

  repeated, with the impotent iteration of an angry child.

  Anne pointed disdainfully to the letter that she held. "Here is

  his pledged and written word," she said. "While I live, you will

  never be his wife."

  "I shall be his wife the day after the race. I am going to him in

  London--to warn him against You!"

  "You will find me in London, before you--with this in my hand. Do

  you know his writing?"

  She held up the letter, open. Mrs. Glenarm's hand flew out with

  the stealthy rapidity of a cat's paw, to seize and destroy it.
<
br />   Quick as she was, her rival was quicker still. For an instant

  they faced each other breathless--one with the letter held behind

  her; one with her hand still stretched out.

  At the same moment--before a word more had passed between

  them--the glass door opened; and Julius Delamayn appeared in the

  room.

  He addressed himself to Anne.

  "We decided, on the terrace," he said, quietly, "that you should

  speak to Mrs. Glenarm, if Mrs. Glenarm wished it. Do you think it

  desirable that the interview should be continued any longer?"

  Anne's head drooped on her breast. The fiery anger in her was

  quenched in an instant.

  "I have been cruelly provoked, Mr. Delamayn," she answered. "But

  I have no right to plead that." She looked up at him for a

  moment. The hot tears of shame gathered in her eyes, and fell

  slowly over her cheeks. She bent her head again, and hid them

  from him. "The only atonement I can make," she said, "is to ask

  your pardon, and to leave the house."

  In silence, she turned away to the door. In silence, Julius

  Delamayn paid her the trifling courtesy of opening it for her.

  She went out.

  Mrs. Glenarm's indignation--suspended for the moment--transferred

  itself to Julius.

  "If I have been entrapped into seeing that woman, with your

  approval," she said, haughtily, "I owe it to myself, Mr.

  Delamayn, to follow her example, and to leave your house."

  "I authorized her to ask you for an interview, Mrs. Glenarm. If

  she has presumed on the permission that I gave her, I sincerely

  regret it, and I beg you to accept my apologies. At the same

  time, I may venture to add, in defense of my conduct, that I

  thought her--and think her still--a woman to be pitied more than

  to be blamed."

  "To be pitied did you say?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, doubtful whether

  her ears had not deceived her.

  "To be pitied," repeated Julius.

  "_You_ may find it convenient, Mr. Delamayn, to forget what your

  brother has told us about that person. _I_ happen to remember

  it."

  "So do I, Mrs. Glenarm. But, with my experience of Geoffrey--" He

  hesitated, and ran his fingers nervously over the strings of his

  violin.

  "You don't believe him?" said Mrs. Glenarm.

  Julius declined to admit that he doubted his brother's word, to

  the lady who was about to become his brother's wife.

  "I don't quite go that length," he said. "I find it difficult to

  reconcile what Geoffrey has told us, with Miss Silvester's manner

  and appearance--"

  "Her appearance!" cried Mrs. Glenarm, in a transport of

  astonishment and disgust. "_Her_ appearance! Oh, the men! I beg

  your pardon--I ought to have remembered that there is no

  accounting for tastes. Go on--pray go on!"

  "Shall we compose ourselves with a little music?" suggested

  Julius.

  "I particularly request you will go on," answered Mrs. Glenarm,

  emphatically. "You find it 'impossible to reconcile'--"

  "I said 'difficult.' "

  "Oh, very well. Difficult to reconcile what Geoffrey told us,

  with Miss Silvester's manner and appearance. What next? You had

  something else to say, when I was so rude as to interrupt you.

  What was it?"

  "Only this," said Julius. "I don't find it easy to understand Sir

  Patrick Lundie's conduct in permitting Mr. Brinkworth to commit

  bigamy with his niece."

  "Wait a minute! The marriage of that horrible woman to Mr.

  Brinkworth was a private marriage. Of course, Sir Patrick knew

  nothing about it!"

  Julius owned that this might be possible, and made a second

  attempt to lead the angry lady back to the piano. Useless, once

  more! Though she shrank from confessing it to herself, Mrs.

  Glenarm's belief in the genuineness of her lover's defense had

  been shaken. The tone taken by Julius--moderate as it

  was--revived the first startling suspicion of the credibility of

  Geoffrey's statement which Anne's language and conduct had forced

  on Mrs. Glenarm. She dropped into the nearest chair, and put her

  handkerchief to her eyes. "You always hated poor Geoffrey," she

  said, with a burst of tears. "And now you're defaming him to me!"

  Julius managed her admirably. On the point of answering her

  seriously, he checked himself. "I always hated poor Geoffrey," he

  repeated, with a smile. "You ought to be the last person to say

  that, Mrs. Glenarm! I brought him all the way from London

  expressly to introduce him to _you._"

  "Then I wish you had left him in London!" retorted Mrs. Glenarm,

  shifting suddenly from tears to temper. "I was a happy woman

  before I met your brother. I can't give him up!" she burst out,

  shifting back again from temper to tears. "I don't care if he

  _has_ deceived me. I won't let another woman have him! I _will_

  be his wife!" She threw herself theatrically on her knees before

  Julius. "Oh, _do_ help me to find out the truth!" she said. "Oh,

  Julius, pity me! I am so fond of him!"

  There was genuine distress in her face, there was true feeling in

  her voice. Who would have believed that there were reserves of

  merciless insolence and heartless cruelty in this woman--and that

  they had been lavishly poured out on a fallen sister not five

  minutes since?

  "I will do all I can," said Julius, raising her. "Let us talk of

  it when you are more composed. Try a little music," he repeated,

  "just to quiet your nerves."

  "Would _you_ like me to play?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, becoming a

  model of feminine docility at a moment's notice.

  Julius opened the Sonatas of Mozart, and shouldered his violin.

  "Let's try the Fifteenth," he said, placing Mrs. Glenarm at the

  piano. "We will begin with the Adagio. If ever there was divine

  music written by mortal man, there it is!"

  They began. At the third bar Mrs. Glenarm dropped a note--and the

  bow of Julius paused shuddering on the strings.

  "I can't play!" she said. "I am so agitated; I am so anxious. How

  _am_ I to find out whether that wretch is really married or not?

  Who can I ask? I can't go to Geoffrey in London--the trainers

  won't let me see him. I can't appeal to Mr. Brinkworth himself--I

  am not even acquainted with him. Who else is there? Do think, and

  tell me!"

  There was but one chance of making her return to the Adagio--the

  chance of hitting on a suggestion which would satisfy and quiet

  her. Julius laid his violin on the piano, and considered the

  question before him carefully.

  "There are the witnesses," he said. "If Geoffrey's story is to be

  depended on, the landlady and the waiter at the inn can speak to

  the facts."

  "Low people!" objected Mrs. Glenarm. "People I don't know. People

  who might take advantage of my situation, and be insolent to me."

  Julius considered once more; and made another suggestion. With

  the fatal ingenuity of innocence, he hit on the idea of referring

  Mrs. Glenarm to no less a person than Lady Lundie herself!

  "There is our go
od friend at Windygates," he said. "Some whisper

  of the matter may have reached Lady Lundie's ears. It may be a

  little awkward to call on her (if she _has_ heard any thing) at

  the time of a serious family disaster. You are the best judge of

  that, however. All I can do is to throw out the notion.

  Windygates isn't very far off--and something might come of it.

  What do you think?"

  Something might come of it! Let it be remembered that Lady Lundie

  had been left entirely in the dark--that she had written to Sir

  Patrick in a tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem was

  wounded and her suspicion roused--and that her first intimation

  of the serious dilemma in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was now

  likely, thanks to Julius Delamayn, to reach her from the lips of

  a mere acquaintance. Let this be remembered; and then let the

  estimate be formed of what might come of it--not at Windygates

  only, but also at Ham Farm!

  "What do you think?" asked Julius.

  Mrs. Glenarm was enchanted. "The very person to go to!" she said.

  "If I am not let in I can easily write--and explain my object as

  an apology. Lady Lundie is so right-minded, so sympathetic. If

  she sees no one else--I have only to confide my anxieties to her,

  and I am sure she will see me. You will lend me a carriage, won't

  you? I'll go to Windygates to-morrow."

  Julius took his violin off the pi ano.

  "Don't think me very troublesome," he said coaxingly. "Between

  this and to-morrow we have nothing to do. And it is _such_ music,

  if you once get into the swing of it! Would you mind trying

  again?"

  Mrs. Glenarm was willing to do any thing to prove her gratitude,

  after the invaluable hint which she had just received. At the

  second trial the fair pianist's eye and hand were in perfect

  harmony. The lovely melody which the Adagio of Mozart's Fifteenth

  Sonata has given to violin and piano flowed smoothly at last--and

  Julius Delamayn soared to the seventh heaven of musical delight.

  The next day Mrs. Glenarm and Mrs. Delamayn went together to

  Windygates House.

  TENTH SCENE--THE BEDROOM.

  CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.

  LADY LUNDIE DOES HER DUTY.

  THE scene opens on a bedroom--and discloses, in broad daylight, a

  lady in bed.

  Persons with an irritable sense of propriety, whose

  self-appointed duty it is to be always crying out, are warned to

  pause before they cry out on this occasion. The lady now

  presented to view being no less a person than Lady Lundie

  herself, it follows, as a matter of course, that the utmost

  demands of propriety are, by the mere assertion of that fact,

  abundantly and indisputably satisfied. To say that any thing

  short of direct moral advantage could, by any possibility, accrue

  to any living creature by the presentation of her ladyship in a

  horizontal, instead of a perpendicular position, is to assert

  that Virtue is a question of posture, and that Respectability

  ceases to assert itself when it ceases to appear in morning or

  evening dress. Will any body be bold enough to say that? Let

  nobody cry out, then, on the present occasion.

  Lady Lundie was in bed.

  Her ladyship had received Blanche's written announcement of the

  sudden stoppage of the bridal tour; and had penned the answer to

  Sir Patrick--the receipt of which at Ham Farm has been already

  described. This done, Lady Lundie felt it due to herself to take

  a becoming position in her own house, pending the possible

  arrival of Sir Patrick's reply. What does a right-minded woman

  do, when she has reason to believe that she is cruelly distrusted

  by the members of her own family? A right-minded woman feels it

  so acutely that she falls ill. Lady Lundie fell ill accordingly.

  The case being a serious one, a medical practitioner of the

  highest grade in the profession was required to treat it. A