Man and Wife Read online

Arnold's frankness by coming to the point himself, as readily as

  his own whimsical humor would let him.

  "Is this female phenomenon my niece?" he inquired.

  "Yes, Sir Patrick."

  "May I ask how you know that my niece is not an adulterated

  article, like the rest of them?"

  Arnold's indignation loosened the last restraints that tied

  Arnold's tongue. He exploded in the three words which mean three

  volumes in every circulating library in the kingdom.

  "I love her."

  Sir Patrick sat back in his chair, and stretched out his legs

  luxuriously.

  "That's the most convincing answer I ever heard in my life," he

  said.

  "I'm in earnest!" cried Arnold, reckless by this time of every

  consideration but one. "Put me to the test, Sir! put me to the

  test!"

  "Oh, very well. The test is easily put." He looked at Arnold,

  with the irrepressible humor twinkling merrily in his eyes, and

  twitching sharply at the corners of his lips. "My niece has a

  beautiful complexion. Do you believe in her complexion?"

  "There's a beautiful sky above our heads," returned Arnold. "I

  believe in the sky."

  "Do you?" retorted Sir Patrick. "You were evidently never caught

  in a shower. My niece has an immense quantity of hair. Are you

  convinced that it all grows on her head?"

  "I defy any other woman's head to produce the like of it!"

  "My dear Arnold, you greatly underrate the existing resources of

  the trade in hair! Look into the shop-windows. When

  you next go to London pray look into the show-windows. In the

  mean time, what do you think of my niece's figure?"

  "Oh, come! there can't be any doubt about _that!_ Any man, with

  eyes in his head, can see it's the loveliest figure in the

  world."

  Sir Patrick laughed softly, and crossed his legs again.

  "My good fellow, of course it is! The loveliest figure in the

  world is the commonest thing in the world. At a rough guess,

  there are forty ladies at this lawn-party. Every one of them

  possesses a beautiful figure. It varies in price; and when it's

  particularly seductive you may swear it comes from Paris. Why,

  how you stare! When I asked you what you thought of my niece's

  figure, I meant--how much of it comes from Nature, and how much

  of it comes from the Shop? I don't know, mind! Do you?"

  "I'll take my oath to every inch of it!"

  "Shop?"

  "Nature!"

  Sir Patrick rose to his feet; his satirical humor was silenced at

  last.

  "If ever I have a son," he thought to himself, "that son shall go

  to sea!" He took Arnold's arm, as a preliminary to putting an end

  to Arnold's suspense. "If I _ can_ be serious about any thing,"

  he resumed, "it's time to be serious with you. I am convinced of

  the sincerity of your attachment. All I know of you is in your

  favor, and your birth and position are beyond dispute. If you

  have Blanche's consent, you have mine." Arnold attempted to

  express his gratitude. Sir Patrick, declining to hear him, went

  on. "And remember this, in the future. When you next want any

  thing that I can give you, ask for it plainly. Don't attempt to

  mystify _me_ on the next occasion, and I will promise, on my

  side, not to mystify _you._ There, that's understood. Now about

  this journey of yours to see your estate. Property has its

  duties, Master Arnold, as well as its rights. The time is fast

  coming when its rights will be disputed, if its duties are not

  performed. I have got a new interest in you, and I mean to see

  that you do your duty. It's settled you are to leave Windygates

  to-day. Is it arranged how you are to go?"

  "Yes, Sir Patrick. Lady Lundie has kindly ordered the gig to take

  me to the station, in time for the next train."

  "When are you to be ready?"

  Arnold looked at his watch. "In a quarter of an hour."

  "Very good. Mind you _are_ ready. Stop a minute! you will have

  plenty of time to speak to Blanche when I have done with you. You

  don't appear to me to be sufficiently anxious about seeing your

  own property."

  "I am not very anxious to leave Blanche, Sir--that's the truth of

  it."

  "Never mind Blanche. Blanche is not business. They both begin

  with a B--and that's the only connection between them. I hear you

  have got one of the finest houses in this part of Scotland. How

  long are you going to stay in Scotland? How long are you going to

  stay in it?"

  "I have arranged (as I have already told you, Sir) to return to

  Windygates the day after to-morrow."

  "What! Here is a man with a palace waiting to receive him--and he

  is only going to stop one clear day in it!"

  "I am not going to stop in it at all, Sir Patrick--I am going to

  stay with the steward. I'm only wanted to be present to-morrow at

  a dinner to my tenants--and, when that's over, there's nothing in

  the world to prevent my coming back here. The steward himself

  told me so in his last letter."

  "Oh, if the steward told you so, of course there is nothing more

  to be said!"

  "Don't object to my coming back! pray don't, Sir Patrick! I'll

  promise to live in my new house when I have got Blanche to live

  in it with me. If you won't mind, I'll go and tell her at once

  that it all belongs to her as well as to me."

  "Gently! gently! you talk as if you were married to her already!"

  "It's as good as done, Sir! Where's the difficulty in the way

  now?"

  As he asked the question the shadow of some third person,

  advancing from the side of the summer-house, was thrown forward

  on the open sunlit space at the top of the steps. In a moment

  more the shadow was followed by the substance--in the shape of a

  groom in his riding livery. The man was plainly a stranger to the

  place. He started, and touched his hat, when he saw the two

  gentlemen in the summer-house.

  "What do you want?" asked Sir Patrick

  "I beg your pardon, Sir; I was sent by my master--"

  "Who is your master?"

  "The Honorable Mr. Delamayn, Sir."

  "Do you mean Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?" asked Arnold.

  "No, Sir. Mr. Geoffrey's brother--Mr. Julius. I have ridden over

  from the house, Sir, with a message from my master to Mr.

  Geoffrey."

  "Can't you find him?"

  "They told me I should find him hereabouts, Sir. But I'm a

  stranger, and don't rightly know where to look." He stopped, and

  took a card out of his pocket. "My master said it was very

  important I should deliver this immediately. Would you be pleased

  to tell me, gentlemen, if you happen to know where Mr. Geoffrey

  is?"

  Arnold turned to Sir Patrick. "I haven't seen him. Have you?"

  "I have smelt him," answered Sir Patrick, "ever since I have been

  in the summer-house. There is a detestable taint of tobacco in

  the air--suggestive (disagreeably suggestive to _my_ mind) of

  your friend, Mr. Delamayn."

  Arnold laughed, and stepped outside the summer-house.

  "If you are right, Si
r Patrick, we will find him at once." He

  looked around, and shouted, "Geoffrey!"

  A voice from the rose-garden shouted back, "Hullo!"

  "You're wanted. Come here!"

  Geoffrey appeared, sauntering doggedly, with his pipe in his

  mouth, and his hands in his pockets.

  "Who wants me?"

  "A groom--from your brother."

  That answer appeared to electrify the lounging and lazy athlete.

  Geoffrey hurried, with eager steps, to the summer-house. He

  addressed the groom before the man had time to speak With horror

  and dismay in his face, he exclaimed:

  "By Jupiter! Ratcatcher has relapsed!"

  Sir Patrick and Arnold looked at each other in blank amazement.

  "The best horse in my brother's stables!" cried Geoffrey,

  explaining, and appealing to them, in a breath. "I left written

  directions with the coachman, I measured out his physic for three

  days; I bled him," said Geoffrey, in a voice broken by

  emotion--"I bled him myself, last night."

  "I beg your pardon, Sir--" began the groom.

  "What's the use of begging my pardon? You're a pack of infernal

  fools! Where's your horse? I'll ride back, and break every bone

  in the coachman's skin! Where's your horse?"

  "If you please, Sir, it isn't Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher's all

  right."

  "Ratcatcher's all right? Then what the devil is it?"

  "It's a message, Sir."

  "About what?"

  "About my lord."

  "Oh! About my father?" He took out his handkerchief, and passed

  it over his forehead, with a deep gasp of relief. "I thought it

  was Ratcatcher," he said, looking at Arnold, with a smile. He put

  his pipe into his mouth, and rekindled the dying ashes of the

  tobacco. "Well?" he went on, when the pipe was in working order,

  and his voice was composed again: "What's up with my father?"

  "A telegram from London, Sir. Bad news of my lord."

  The man produced his master's card.

  Geoffrey read on it (written in his brother's handwriting) these

  words:

  "I have only a moment to scribble a line on my card. Our father

  is dangerously ill--his lawyer has been sent for. Come with me to

  London by the first train. Meet at the junction."

  Without a word to any one of the three persons present, all

  silently looking at him, Geoffrey consulted his watch. Anne had

  told him to wait half an hour, and to assume that she had gone if

  he failed to hear from her in that time. The interval had

  passed--and no communication of any sort had reached him. The

  flight from the house had been safely accomplished. Anne

  Silvester was, at that moment, on her way to the mountain inn.

  CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.

  THE DEBT.

  ARNOLD was the first who broke the silence. "Is your father

  seriously ill?" he asked.

  Geoffrey answered by handing him the card.

  Sir Patrick, who had stood apart (while the question of

  Ratcatcher's relapse was under discussion) sardonically studying

  the manners and customs of modern English youth, now came

  forward, and took his part in the proceedings. Lady Lundie

  herself must have acknowledged that he spoke and acted as became

  the head of the family, on t his occasion.

  "Am I right in supposing that Mr. Delamayn's father is

  dangerously ill?" he asked, addressing himself to Arnold.

  "Dangerously ill, in London," Arnold answered. "Geoffrey must

  leave Windygates with me. The train I am traveling by meets the

  train his brother is traveling by, at the junction. I shall leave

  him at the second station from here."

  "Didn't you tell me that Lady Lundie was going to send you to the

  railway in a gig?"

  "Yes."

  "If the servant drives, there will be three of you--and there

  will be no room."

  "We had better ask for some other vehicle," suggested Arnold.

  Sir Patrick looked at his watch. There was no time to change the

  carriage. He turned to Geoffrey. "Can you drive, Mr. Delamayn?"

  Still impenetrably silent, Geoffrey replied by a nod of the head.

  Without noticing the unceremonious manner in which he had been

  answered, Sir Patrick went on:

  "In that case, you can leave the gig in charge of the

  station-master. I'll tell the servant that he will not be wanted

  to drive."

  "Let me save you the trouble, Sir Patrick," said Arnold.

  Sir Patrick declined, by a gesture. He turned again, with

  undiminished courtesy, to Geoffrey. "It is one of the duties of

  hospitality, Mr. Delamayn, to hasten your departure, under these

  sad circumstances. Lady Lundie is engaged with her guests. I will

  see myself that there is no unnecessary delay in sending you to

  the station." He bowed--and left the summer-house.

  Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were

  alone.

  "I am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to

  London in time."

  He stopped. There was something in Geoffrey's face--a strange

  mixture of doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and

  hesitation--which was not to be accounted for as the natural

  result of the news that he had received. His color shifted and

  changed; he picked fretfully at his finger-nails; he looked at

  Arnold as if he was going to speak--and then looked away again,

  in silence.

  "Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about

  your father?" asked Arnold.

  "I'm in the devil's own mess," was the answer.

  "Can I do any thing to help you?"

  Instead of making a direct reply, Geoffrey lifted his mighty

  hand, and gave Arnold a friendly slap on the shoulder which shook

  him from head to foot. Arnold steadied himself, and

  waited--wondering what was coming next.

  "I say, old fellow!" said Geoffrey.

  "Yes."

  "Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon

  Harbor?"

  Arnold started. If he could have called to mind his first

  interview in the summer-house with his father's old friend he

  might have remembered Sir Patrick's prediction that he would

  sooner or later pay, with interest, the debt he owed to the man

  who had saved his life. As it was his memory reverted at a bound

  to the time of the boat-accident. In the ardor of his gratitude

  and the innocence of his heart, he almost resented his friend's

  question as a reproach which he had not deserved.

  "Do you think I can ever forget," he cried, warmly, "that you

  swam ashore with me and saved my life?"

  Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in

  view.

  "One good turn deserves another," he said, "don't it?"

  Arnold took his hand. "Only tell me!" he eagerly rejoined--"only

  tell me what I can do!"

  "You are going to-day to see your new place, ain't you?"

  "Yes."

  "Can you put off going till to-morrow?"

  "If it's any thing serious--of course I can!"

  Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to

  make sure that they were alone.

  "You know the governess here, don't you?"
he said, in a whisper.

  "Miss Silvester?"

  "Yes. I've got into a little difficulty with Miss Silvester. And

  there isn't a living soul I can ask to help me but _you._"

  "You know I will help you. What is it?"

  "It isn't so easy to say. Never mind--you're no saint either, are

  you? You'll keep it a secret, of course? Look here! I've acted

  like an infernal fool. I've gone and got the girl into a

  scrape--"

  Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.

  "Good heavens, Geoffrey! You don't mean--"

  "I do! Wait a bit--that's not the worst of it. She has left the

  house."

  "Left the house?"

  "Left, for good and all. She can't come back again."

  "Why not?"

  "Because she's written to her missus. Women (hang 'em!) never do

  these things by halves. She's left a letter to say she's

  privately married, and gone off to her husband. Her husband

  is--Me. Not that I'm married to her yet, you understand. I have

  only promised to marry her. She has gone on first (on the sly) to

  a place four miles from this. And we settled I was to follow, and

  marry her privately this afternoon. That's out of the question

  now. While she's expecting me at the inn I shall be bowling along

  to London. Somebody must tell her what has happened--or she'll

  play the devil, and the whole business will burst up. I can't

  trust any of the people here. I'm done for, old chap, unless you

  help me."

  Arnold lifted his hands in dismay. "It's the most dreadful

  situation, Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!"

  Geoffrey thoroughly agreed with him. "Enough to knock a man

  over," he said, "isn't it? I'd give something for a drink of

  beer." He produced his everlasting pipe, from sheer force of

  habit. "Got a match?" he asked.

  Arnold's mind was too preoccupied to notice the question.

  "I hope you won't think I'm making light of your father's

  illness," he said, earnestly. "But it seems to me--I must say

  it--it seems to me that the poor girl has the first claim on

  you."

  Geoffrey looked at him in surly amazement.

  "The first claim on me? Do you think I'm going to risk being cut

  out of my father's will? Not for the best woman that ever put on

  a petticoat!"

  Arnold's admiration of his friend was the solidly-founded

  admiration of many years; admiration for a man who could row,

  box, wrestle, jump--above all, who could swim--as few other men

  could perform those exercises in contemporary England. But that

  answer shook his faith. Only for the moment--unhappily for

  Arnold, only for the moment.

  "You know best," he returned, a little coldly. "What can I do?"

  Geoffrey took his arm--roughly as he took every thing; but in a

  companionable and confidential way.

  "Go, like a good fellow, and tell her what has happened. We'll

  start from here as if we were both going to the railway; and I'll

  drop you at the foot-path, in the gig. You can get on to your own

  place afterward by the evening train. It puts you to no

  inconvenience, and it's doing the kind thing by an old friend.

  There's no risk of being found out. I'm to drive, remember!

  There's no servant with us, old boy, to notice, and tell tales."

  Even Arnold began to see dimly by this time that he was likely to

  pay his debt of obligation with interest--as Sir Patrick had

  foretold.

  "What am I to say to her?" he asked. "I'm bound to do all I can

  do to help you, and I will. But what am I to say?"

  It was a natural question to put. It was not an easy question to

  answer. What a man, under given muscular circumstances, could do,

  no person living knew better than Geoffrey Delamayn. Of what a

  man, under given social circumstances, could say, no person