Man and Wife

by Wilkie Collins

who hated them; to husbands whose interests pointed to mercenary

  alliances with other women; to husbands whose one want and one

  purpose was to be free from their wives. Strange, what different

  ways had led mother and daughter both to the same fate! Would the

  parallel hold to the end? "Shall I die," she wondered, thinking

  of her mother's last moments, "in Blanche's arms?"

  The time had passed unheeded. The morning movement in the house

  had failed to catch her ear. She was first called out of herself

  to the sense of the present and passing events by the voice of

  the servant-girl outside the door.

  "The master wants you, ma'am, down stairs."

  She rose instantly and put away the little book.

  "Is that all the message?" she asked, opening the door.

  "Yes, ma'am."

  She followed the girl down stairs; recalling to her memory the

  strange words addressed to her by Geoffrey, in the presence of

  the servants, on the evening before. Was she now to know what

  those words really meant? The doubt would soon be set at rest.

  "Be the trial what it may," she thought to herself, "let me bear

  it as my mother would have borne it."

  The servant opened the door of the dining-room. Breakfast was on

  the table. Geoffrey was standing at the window. Hester Dethridge

  was waiting, posted near the door. He came forward--with the

  nearest approach to gentleness in his manner which she had ever

  yet seen in it--he came forward, with a set smile on his lips,

  and offered her his hand!

  She had entered the room, prepared (as she believed) for any

  thing that could happen. She was not prepared for this. She stood

  speechless, looking at him.

  After one glance at her, when she came in, Hester Dethridge

  looked at him, too--and from that moment never looked away again,

  as long as Anne remained in the room.

  He broke the silence--in a voice that was not like his own; with

  a furtive restraint in his manner which she had never noticed in

  it before.

  "Won't you shake hands with your husband," he asked, "when your

  husband asks you?"

  She mechanically put her hand in his. He dropped it instantly,

  with a start. "God! how cold!" he exclaimed. His own hand was

  burning hot, and shook incessantly.

  He pointed to a chair at the head of the table.

  "Will you make the tea?" he asked.

  She had given him her hand mechanically; she advanced a step

  mechanically--and then stopped.

  "Would you prefer breakfasting by yourself?" he said.

  "If you please," she answered, faintly.

  "Wait a minute. I have something to say before you go."

  She waited. He considered with himself; consulting his

  memory--visibly, unmistakably, consulting it before he spoke

  again.

  "I have had the night to think in," he said. "The night has made

  a new man of me. I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday. I

  was not myself yesterday. I talked nonsense yesterday. Please to

  forget it, and forgive it. I wish to turn over a new leaf. and

  make amends--make amends for my past conduct. It shall be my

  endeavor to be a good husband. In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge,

  I request you to give me a chance. I won't force your inclinati

  ons. We are married--what's the use of regretting it? Stay here,

  as you said yesterday, on your own terms. I wish to make it up.

  In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge, I say I wish to make it up. I

  won't detain you. I request you to think of it. Good-morning."

  He said those extraordinary words like a slow boy saying a hard

  lesson--his eyes on the ground, his fingers restlessly fastening

  and unfastening a button on his waistcoat.

  Anne left the room. In the passage she was obliged to wait, and

  support herself against the wall. His unnatural politeness was

  horrible; his carefully asserted repentance chilled her to the

  soul with dread. She had never felt--in the time of his fiercest

  anger and his foulest language--the unutterable horror of him

  that she felt now.

  Hester Dethridge came out, closing the door behind her. She

  looked attentively at Anne--then wrote on her slate, and held it

  out, with these words on it:

  "Do you believe him?"

  Anne pushed the slate away, and ran up stairs. She fastened the

  door--and sank into a chair.

  "He is plotting something against me," she said to herself.

  "What?"

  A sickening, physical sense of dread--entirely new in her

  experience of herself--made her shrink from pursuing the

  question. The sinking at her heart turned her faint. She went to

  get the air at the open window.

  At the same moment there was a ring at the gate bell. Suspicious

  of any thing and every thing. she felt a sudden distrust of

  letting herself be seen. She drew back behind the curtain and

  looked out.

  A man-servant, in livery, was let in. He had a letter in his

  hand. He said to the girl as he passed Anne's window, "I come

  from Lady Holchester; I must see Mr. Delamayn instantly."

  They went in. There was an interval. The footman reappeared,

  leaving the place. There was another interval. Then there came a

  knock at the door. Anne hesitated. The knock was repeated, and

  the dumb murmuring of Hester Dethridge was heard outside. Anne

  opened the door.

  Hester came in with the breakfast. She pointed to a letter among

  other things on the tray. It was addressed to Anne, in Geoffrey's

  handwriting, and it contained these words:

  "My father died yesterday. Write your orders for your mourning.

  The boy will take them. You are not to trouble yourself to go to

  London. Somebody is to come here to you from the shop."

  Anne dropped the paper on her lap without looking up. At the same

  moment Hester Dethridge's slate was passed stealthily between her

  eyes and the note--with these words traced on it. "His mother is

  coming to-day. His brother has been telegraphed from Scotland. He

  was drunk last night. He's drinking again. I know what that

  means. Look out, missus--look out."

  Anne signed to her to leave the room. She went out, pulling the

  door to, but not closing it behind her.

  There was another ring at the gate bell. Once more Anne went to

  the window. Only the lad, this time; arriving to take his orders

  for the day. He had barely entered the garden when he was

  followed by the postman with letters. In a minute more Geoffrey's

  voice was heard in the passage, and Geoffrey's heavy step

  ascended the wooden stairs. Anne hurried across the room to draw

  the bolts. Geoffrey met her before she could close the door.

  "A letter for you," he said, keeping scrupulously out of the

  room. "I don't wish to force your inclinations--I only request

  you to tell me who it's from."

  His manner was as carefully subdued as ever. But the

  unacknowledged distrust in him (when he looked at her) betrayed

  itself in his eye.

  She glanced at the handwriting on the address.

  "From Blanche," she answered.

  He softly
put his foot between the door and the post--and waited

  until she had opened and read Blanche's letter.

  "May I see it?" he asked--and put in his hand for it through the

  door.

  The spirit in Anne which would once have resisted him was dead in

  her now. She handed him the open letter.

  It was very short. Excepting some brief expressions of fondness,

  it was studiously confined to stating the purpose for which it

  had been written. Blanche proposed to visit Anne that afternoon,

  accompanied by her uncle, she sent word beforehand, to make sure

  of finding Anne at home. That was all. The letter had evidently

  been written under Sir Patrick's advice.

  Geoffrey handed it back, after first waiting a moment to think.

  "My father died yesterday," he said. "My wife can't receive

  visitors before he is buried. I don't wish to force your

  inclinations. I only say I can't let visitors in here before the

  funeral--except my own family. Send a note down stairs. The lad

  will take it to your friend when he goes to London." With those

  words he left

  An appeal to the proprieties of life, in the mouth of Geoffrey

  Delamayn, could only mean one of two things. Either he had spoken

  in brutal mockery--or he had spoken with some ulterior object in

  view. Had he seized on the event of his father's death as a

  pretext for isolating his wife from all communication with the

  outer world? Were there reasons, which had not yet asserted

  themselves, for his dreading the result, if he allowed Anne to

  communicate with her friends?

  The hour wore on, and Hester Dethridge appeared again. The lad

  was waiting for Anne's orders for her mourning, and for her note

  to Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth.

  Anne wrote the orders and the note. Once more the horrible slate

  appeared when she had done, between the writing paper and her

  eyes, with the hard lines of warning pitilessly traced on it. "

  He has locked the gate. When there's a ring we are to come to him

  for the key. He has written to a woman. Name outside the letter,

  Mrs. Glenarm. He has had more brandy. Like my husband. Mind

  yourself."

  The one way out of the high walls all round the cottage locked.

  Friends forbidden to see her. Solitary imprisonment, with her

  husband for a jailer. Before she had been four-and-twenty hours

  in the cottage it had come to that. And what was to follow?

  She went back mechanically to the window. The sight of the outer

  world, the occasional view of a passing vehicle, helped to

  sustain her.

  The lad appeared in the front garden departing to perform his

  errand to London. Geoffrey went with him to open the gate, and

  called after him, as he passed through it, "Don't forget the

  books!"

  The "books?" What "books?" Who wanted them? The slightest thing

  now roused Anne's suspicion. For hours afterward the books

  haunted her mind.

  He secured the gate and came back again. He stopped under Anne's

  window and called to her. She showed herself. "When you want air

  and exercise," he said, "the back garden is at your own

  disposal." He put the key of the gate in his pocket and returned

  to the house.

  After some hesitation Anne decided on taking him at his word. In

  her state of suspense, to remain within the four walls of the

  bedroom was unendurable. If some lurking snare lay hid under the

  fair-sounding proposal which Geoffrey had made, it was less

  repellent to her boldly to prove what it might be than to wait

  pondering over it with her mind in the dark. She put on her hat

  and went down into the garden. Nothing happened out of the

  common. Wherever he was he never showed himself. She wandered up

  and down, keeping on the side of the garden which was farthest

  from the dining-room window. To a woman, escape from the place

  was simply impossible. Setting out of the question the height of

  the walls, they were armed at the top with a thick setting of

  jagged broken glass. A small back-door in the end wall (intended

  probably for the gardener's use) was bolted and locked--the key

  having been taken out. There was not a house near. The lands of

  the local growers of vegetables surrounded the garden on all

  sides. In the nineteenth century, and in the immediate

  neighborhood of a great metropolis, Anne was as absolutely

  isolated from all contact with the humanity around her as if she

  lay in her grave.

  After the lapse of half an hour the silence was broken by a noise

  of carriage wheels on the public road in front, and a ring at the

  bell. Anne kept close to the cottage, at the back; determined, if

  a chance offered, on speaking to the visitor, whoever the visitor

  might be.

  She heard voices in the dining-room th rough the open

  window--Geoffrey's voice and the voice of a woman. Who was the

  woman? Not Mrs. Glenarm, surely? After a while the visitor's

  voice was suddenly raised. "Where is she?" it said. "I wish to

  see her." Anne instantly advanced to the back-door of the

  house--and found herself face to face with a lady who was a total

  stranger to her.

  "Are you my son's wife?" asked the lady.

  "I am your son's prisoner," Anne answered.

  Lady Holchester's pale face turned paler still. It was plain that

  Anne's reply had confirmed some doubt in the mother s mind which

  had been already suggested to it by the son.

  "What do you mean?" she asked, in a whisper.

  Geoffrey's heavy footsteps crossed the dining-room. There was no

  time to explain. Anne whispered back,

  "Tell my friends what I have told you."

  Geoffrey appeared at the dining-room door.

  "Name one of your friends," said Lady Holchester.

  "Sir Patrick Lundie."

  Geoffrey heard the answer. "What about Sir Patrick Lundie?" he

  asked.

  "I wish to see Sir Patrick Lundie," said his mother. "And your

  wife can tell me where to find him."

  Anne instantly understood that Lady Holchester would communicate

  with Sir Patrick. She mentioned his London address. Lady

  Holchester turned to leave the cottage. Her son stopped her.

  "Let's set things straight," he said, "before you go. My mother,"

  he went on, addressing himself to Anne, "don't think there's much

  chance for us two of living comfortably together. Bear witness to

  the truth--will you? What did I tell you at breakfast-time?

  Didn't I say it should be my endeavor to make you a good husband?

  Didn't I say--in Mrs. Dethridge's presence--I wanted to make it

  up?" He waited until Anne had answered in the affirmative, and

  then appealed to his mother. "Well? what do you think now?"

  Lady Holchester declined to reveal what she thought. "You shall

  see me, or hear from me, this evening," she said to Anne.

  Geoffrey attempted to repeat his unanswered question. His mother

  looked at him. His eyes instantly dropped before hers. She

  gravely bent her head to Anne, and drew her veil. Her son

  followed her out in silence to the gate.

  Anne returned to her room, su
stained by the first sense of relief

  which she had felt since the morning. "His mother is alarmed,"

  she said to herself. "A change will come."

  A change _was_ to come--with the coming night.

  CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FIRST.

  THE PROPOSAL.

  TOWARD sunset, Lady Holchester's carriage drew up before the gate

  of the cottage.

  Three persons occupied the carriage: Lady Holchester, her eldest

  son (now Lord Holchester), and Sir Patrick Lundie.

  "Will you wait in the carriage, Sir Patrick ?" said Julius. " Or

  will you come in?"

  "I will wait. If I can be of the least use to _her,_, send for me

  instantly. In the mean time don't forget to make the stipulation

  which I have suggested. It is the one certain way of putting your

  brother's real feeling in this matter to the test."

  The servant had rung the bell without producing any result. He

  rang again. Lady Holchester put a question to Sir Patrick.

  "If I have an opportunity of speaking to my son's wife alone,"

  she said, "have you any message to give?"

  Sir Patrick produced a little note.

  "May I appeal to your ladyship's kindness to give her this?" The

  gate was opened by the servant-girl, as Lady Holchester took the

  note. "Remember," reiterated Sir Patrick, earnestly "if I can be

  of the smallest service to her--don't think of my position with

  Mr. Delamayn. Send for me at once."

  Julius and his mother were conducted into the drawing-room. The

  girl informed them that her master had gone up stairs to lie

  down, and that he would be with them immediately.

  Both mother and son were too anxious to speak. Julius wandered

  uneasily about the room. Some books attracted his notice on a

  table in the corner--four dirty, greasy volumes, with a slip of

  paper projecting from the leaves of one of them, and containing

  this inscription, "With Mr. Perry's respects." Julius opened the

  volume. It was the ghastly popular record of Criminal Trials in

  England, called the Newgate Calendar. Julius showed it to his

  mother.

  "Geoffrey's taste in literature!" he said, with a faint smile.

  Lady Holchester signed to him to put the book back.

  "You have seen Geoffrey's wife already--have you not?" she asked.

  There was no contempt now in her tone when she referred to Anne.

  The impression produced on her by her visit to the cottage,

  earlier in the day, associated Geoffrey's wife with family

  anxieties of no trivial kind. She might still (for Mrs. Glenarm's

  sake) be a woman to be disliked--but she was no longer a woman to

  be despised.

  "I saw her when she came to Swanhaven," said Julius. "I agree

  with Sir Patrick in thinking her a very interesting person."

  "What did Sir Patrick say to you about Geoffrey this

  afternoon--while I was out of the room?"

  "Only what he said to _you._ He thought their position toward

  each other here a very deplorable one. He considered that the

  reasons were serious for our interfering immediately."

  "Sir Patrick's own opinion, Julius, goes farther than that."

  "He has not acknowledged it, that I know of. "

  "How _can_ he acknowledge it--to us?"

  The door opened, and Geoffrey entered the room.

  Julius eyed him closely as they shook hands. His eyes were

  bloodshot; his face was flushed; his utterance was thick--the

  look of him was the look of a man who had been drinking hard.

  "Well?" he said to his mother. "What brings you back?"

  "Julius has a proposal to make to you," Lady Holchester answered.

  "I approve of it; and I have come with him."

  Geoffrey turned to his brother.

  "What can a rich man like you want with a poor devil like me?" he

  asked.

  "I want to do you justice, Geoffrey--if you will help me, by

  meeting me half-way. Our mother has told you about the will?"