Man and Wife Read online

unsteady forefinger to the purse which Anne still held in her

  hand.

  "Never fash yoursel' aboot the landleddy!" said the sage chief of

  the Craig Fernie waiters. "Your purse speaks for you, my lassie.

  Pet it up!" cried Mr. Bishopriggs, waving temptation away from

  him with the duster. "In wi' it into yer pocket! Sae long as the

  warld's the warld, I'll uphaud it any where--while there's siller

  in the purse, there's gude in the woman!"

  Anne's patience, which had resisted harder trials, gave way at

  this.

  "What do you mean by speaking to me in that familiar manner?" she

  asked, rising angrily to her feet again.

  Mr. Bishopriggs tucked his duster under his arm, and proceeded to

  satisfy Anne that he shared the landlady's view of her position,

  without sharing the severity of the landlady's principles.

  "There's nae man livin'," said Mr. Bishopriggs, "looks with mair

  indulgence at human frailty than my ain sel'. Am I no' to be

  familiar wi' ye--when I'm auld eneugh to be a fether to ye, and

  ready to be a fether to ye till further notice? Hech! hech! Order

  your bit dinner lassie. Husband or no husband, ye've got a

  stomach, and ye must een eat. There's fesh and there's fowl--or,

  maybe, ye'll be for the sheep's head singit, when they've done

  with it at the tabble dot?"

  There was but one way of getting rid of him: "Order what you

  like," Anne said, "and leave the room." Mr. Bishopriggs highly

  approved of the first half of the sentence, and totally

  overlooked the second.

  "Ay, ay--just pet a' yer little interests in my hands; it's the

  wisest thing ye can do. Ask for Maister Bishopriggs (that's me)

  when ye want a decent 'sponsible man to gi' ye a word of advice.

  Set ye doon again--set ye doon. And don't tak' the arm-chair.

  Hech! hech! yer husband will be coming, ye know, and he's sure to

  want it!" With that seasonable pleasantry the venerable

  Bishopriggs winked, and went out.

  Anne looked at her watch. By her calculation it was not far from

  the hour when Geoffrey might be expected to arrive at the inn,

  assuming Geoffrey to have left Windygates at the time agreed on.

  A little more patience, and the landlady's scruples would be

  satisfied, and the ordeal would be at an end.

  Could she have met him nowhere else than at this barbarous house,

  and among these barbarous people?

  No. Outside the doors of Windygates she had not a friend to help

  her in all Scotland. There was no place at her disposal but the

  inn; and she had only to be thankful that it occupied a

  sequestered situation, and was not likely to be visited by any of

  Lady Lundie's friends. Whatever the risk might be, the end in

  view justified her in confronting it. Her whole future depended

  on Geoffrey's making an honest woman of her. Not her future with

  _him_--that way there was no hope; that way her life was wasted.

  Her future with Blanche--she looked forward to nothing now but

  her future with Blanche.

  Her spirits sank lower and lower. The tears rose again. It would

  only irritate him if he came and found her crying. She tried to

  divert her mind by looking about the room.

  There was very little to see. Except that it was solidly built of

  good sound stone, the Craig Fernie hotel differed in no other

  important respect from the average of second-rate English inns.

  There was the usual slippery black sofa--constructed to let you

  slide when you wanted to rest. There was the usual

  highly-varnished arm-chair, expressly manufactured to test the

  endurance of the human spine. There was the usual paper on the

  walls, of the pattern designed to make your eyes ache and your

  head giddy. There were the usual engravings, which humanity never

  tires of contemplating. The Royal Portrait, in the first place of

  honor. The next greatest of all human beings--the Duke of

  Wellington--in the second place of honor. The third greatest of

  all human beings--the local member of parliament--in the third

  place of honor; and a hunting scene, in the dark. A door opposite

  the door of admission from the passage opened into the bedroom;

  and a window at the side looked out on the open space in front of

  the hotel, and commanded a view of the vast expanse of the Craig

  Fernie moor, stretching away below the rising ground on which the

  house was built.

  Anne turned in despair from the view in the room to the view from

  the window. Within the last half hour it had changed for the

  worse. The clouds had gathered; the sun was hidden; the light on

  the landscape was gray and dull. Anne turned from the window, as

  she had turned from the room. She was just making the hopeless

  attempt to rest her weary limbs on the sofa, when the sound of

  voices and footsteps in the passage caught her ear.

  Was Geoffrey's voice among them? No.

  Were the strangers coming in?

  The landlady had declined to let her have the rooms: it was quite

  possible that the strangers might be coming to look at them.

  There was no knowing who they might be. In the impulse of the

  moment she flew to the bedchamber and locked herself in.

  The door from the passage opened, and Arnold Brinkworth--shown in

  by Mr. Bishopriggs--entered the sitting-room.

  "Nobody here!" exclaimed Arnold, looking round. "Where is she?"

  Mr. Bishopriggs pointed to the bedroom door. "Eh! yer good

  leddy's joost in the bedchamber, nae doot!"

  Arnold started. He had felt no difficulty (when he and Geoffrey

  had discussed the question at Windygates) about presenting

  himself at the inn in the assumed character of Anne's husband.

  But the result of putting the deception in practice was, to say

  the least of it, a little embarrassing at first. Here was the

  waiter describing Miss Silvester as his "good lady;" and leaving

  it (most naturally and properly) to the "good lady's" husband to

  knock at her bedroom door, and tell her that he was there. In

  despair of knowing what else to do at the moment, Arnold asked

  for the landlady, whom he had not seen on arriving at the inn.

  "The landleddy's just tottin' up the ledgers o' the hottle in her

  ain room," answered Mr. Bishopriggs. "She'll be here anon--the

  wearyful woman!--speerin' who ye are and what ye are, and takin'

  a' the business o' the hoose on her ain pair o' shouthers." He

  dropped the subject of the landlady, and put in a plea for

  himself. "I ha' lookit after a' the leddy's little comforts,

  Sir," he whispered. "Trust in me! trust in me!"

  Arnold's attention was absorbed in the very serious difficulty of

  announcing his arrival to Anne. "How am I to get her out?" he

  said to himself, with a look of perplexity directed at the

  bedroom door.

  He had spoken loud enough for the waiter to hear him. Arnold's

  look of perplexity was instantly reflected on the face of Mr.

  Bishopriggs. The head-waiter at Craig Fernie possessed an immense

  experience of the manners and customs of newly-married people on

  their honeymoon trip. He had been a second fath
er (with excellent

  pecuniary results) to innumerable brides and bridegrooms. He knew

  young married couples in all their varieties:--The couples who

  try to behave as if they had been married for many years; the

  couples who attempt no concealment, and take advice from

  competent authorities about them. The couples who are bashfully

  talkative before third persons; the couples who are bashfully

  silent under similar circumstances. The couples who don't know

  what to do, the couples who wish it was over; the couples who

  must never be intruded upon without careful preliminary knocking

  at the door; the couples who _can_ eat and drink in the intervals

  of "bliss," and the other couples who _can't._ But the bridegroom

  who stood he lpless on one side of the door, and the bride who

  remained locked in on the other, were new varieties of the

  nuptial species, even in the vast experience of Mr. Bishopriggs

  himself.

  "Hoo are ye to get her oot?" he repeated. "I'll show ye hoo!" He

  advanced as rapidly as his gouty feet would let him, and knocked

  at the bedroom door. "Eh, my leddy! here he is in flesh and

  bluid. Mercy preserve us! do ye lock the door of the nuptial

  chamber in your husband's face?"

  At that unanswerable appeal the lock was heard turning in the

  door. Mr. Bishopriggs winked at Arnold with his one available

  eye, and laid his forefinger knowingly along his enormous nose.

  "I'm away before she falls into your arms! Rely on it I'll no

  come in again without knocking first!"

  He left Arnold alone in the room. The bedroom door opened slowly

  by a few inches at a time. Anne's voice was just audible speaking

  cautiously behind it.

  "Is that you, Geoffrey?"

  Arnold's heart began to beat fast, in anticipation of the

  disclosure which was now close at hand. He knew neither what to

  say or do--he remained silent.

  Anne repeated the question in louder tones:

  "Is that you?"

  There was the certain prospect of alarming her, if some reply was

  not given. There was no help for it. Come what come might, Arnold

  answered, in a whisper:

  "Yes."

  The door was flung wide open. Anne Silvester appeared on the

  threshold, confronting him.

  "Mr. Brinkworth!!!" she exclaimed, standing petrified with

  astonishment.

  For a moment more neither of them spoke. Anne advanced one step

  into the sitting-room, and put the next inevitable question, with

  an instantaneous change from surprise to suspicion.

  "What do you want here?"

  Geoffrey's letter represented the only possible excuse for

  Arnold's appearance in that place, and at that time.

  "I have got a letter for you," he said--and offered it to her.

  She was instantly on her guard. They were little better than

  strangers to each other, as Arnold had said. A sickening

  presentiment of some treachery on Geoffrey's part struck cold to

  her heart. She refused to take the letter.

  "I expect no letter," she said. "Who told you I was here?" She

  put the question, not only with a tone of suspicion, but with a

  look of contempt. The look was not an easy one for a man to bear.

  It required a momentary exertion of self-control on Arnold's

  part, before he could trust himself to answer with due

  consideration for her. "Is there a watch set on my actions?" she

  went on, with rising anger. "And are _you_ the spy?"

  "You haven't known me very long, Miss Silvester," Arnold

  answered, quietly. "But you ought to know me better than to say

  that. I am the bearer of a letter from Geoffrey."

  She was an the point of following his example, and of speaking of

  Geoffrey by his Christian name, on her side. But she checked

  herself, before the word had passed her lips.

  "Do you mean Mr. Delamayn?" she asked, coldly.

  "Yes."

  "What occasion have _I_ for a letter from Mr. Delamayn?"

  She was determined to acknowledge nothing--she kept him

  obstinately at arm's-length. Arnold did, as a matter of instinct,

  what a man of larger experience would have done, as a matter of

  calculation--he closed with her boldly, then and there.

  "Miss Silvester! it's no use beating about the bush. If you won't

  take the letter, you force me to speak out. I am here on a very

  unpleasant errand. I begin to wish, from the bottom of my heart,

  I had never undertaken it."

  A quick spasm of pain passed across her face. She was beginning,

  dimly beginning, to understand him. He hesitated. His generous

  nature shrank from hurting her.

  "Go on," she said, with an effort.

  "Try not to be angry with me, Miss Silvester. Geoffrey and I are

  old friends. Geoffrey knows he can trust me--"

  "Trust you?" she interposed. "Stop!"

  Arnold waited. She went on, speaking to herself, not to him.

  "When I was in the other room I asked if Geoffrey was there. And

  this man answered for him." She sprang forward with a cry of

  horror.

  "Has he told you--"

  "For God's sake, read his letter!"

  She violently pushed back the hand with which Arnold once more

  offered the letter. "You don't look at me! He _has_ told you!"

  "Read his letter," persisted Arnold. "In justice to him, if you

  won't in justice to me."

  The situation was too painful to be endured. Arnold looked at

  her, this time, with a man's resolution in his eyes--spoke to

  her, this time, with a man's resolution in his voice. She took

  the letter.

  "I beg your pardon, Sir," she said, with a sudden humiliation of

  tone and manner, inexpressibly shocking, inexpressibly pitiable

  to see. "I understand my position at last. I am a woman doubly

  betrayed. Please to excuse what I said to you just now, when I

  supposed myself to have some claim on your respect. Perhaps you

  will grant me your pity? I can ask for nothing more."

  Arnold was silent. Words were useless in the face of such utter

  self-abandonment as this. Any man living--even Geoffrey

  himself--must have felt for her at that moment.

  She looked for the first time at the letter. She opened it on the

  wrong side. "My own letter!" she said to herself. "In the hands

  of another man!"

  "Look at the last page," said Arnold.

  She turned to the last page, and read the hurried penciled lines.

  "Villain! villain! villain!" At the third repetition of the word,

  she crushed the letter in the palm of her hand, and flung it from

  her to the other end of the room. The instant after, the fire

  that had flamed up in her died out. Feebly and slowly she reached

  out her hand to the nearest chair, and sat down in it with her

  back to Arnold. "He has deserted me!" was all she said. The words

  fell low and quiet on the silence: they were the utterance of an

  immeasurable despair.

  "You are wrong!" exclaimed Arnold. "Indeed, indeed you are wrong!

  It's no excuse--it's the truth. I was present when the message

  came about his father."

  She never heeded him, and never moved. She only repeated ther />
  words

  "He has deserted me!"

  "Don't take it in that way!" pleaded Arnold--"pray don't! It's

  dreadful to hear you; it is indeed. I am sure he has _not_

  deserted you." There was no answer; no sign that she heard him;

  she sat there, struck to stone. It was impossible to call the

  landlady in at such a moment as this. In despair of knowing how

  else to rouse her, Arnold drew a chair to her side, and patted

  her timidly on the shoulder. "Come!" he said, in his

  single-hearted, boyish way. "Cheer up a little!"

  She slowly turned her head, and looked at him with a dull

  surprise.

  "Didn't you say he had told you every thing?" she asked.

  "Yes."

  "Don't you despise a woman like me?"

  Arnold's heart went back, at that dreadful question, to the one

  woman who was eternally sacred to him--to the woman from whose

  bosom he had drawn the breath of life.

  "Does the man live," he said, "who can think of his mother--and

  despise women?"

  That answer set the prisoned misery in her free. She gave him her

  hand--she faintly thanked him. The merciful tears came to her at

  last.

  Arnold rose, and turned away to the window in despair. "I mean

  well," he said. "And yet I only distress her!"

  She heard him, and straggled to compose herself "No," she

  answered, "you comfort me. Don't mind my crying--I'm the better

  for it." She looked round at him gratefully. "I won't distress

  you, Mr. Brinkworth. I ought to thank you--and I do. Come back or

  I shall think you are angry with me." Arnold went back to her.

  She gave him her hand once more. "One doesn't understand people

  all at once," she said, simply. "I thought you were like other

  men--I didn't know till to-day how kind you could be. Did you

  walk here?" she added, suddenly, with an effort to change the

  subject. "Are you tired? I have not been kindly received at this

  place--but I'm sure I may offer you whatever the inn affords."

  It was impossible not to feel for her--it was impossible not to

  be interested in her. Arnold's honest longing to help her

  expressed itself a little too openly when he spoke next. "All I

  want, Miss Silvester, is to be of some service to you, if I can,"

  he said. "Is there any thing I can do to make your position here

  more comfortable? You will stay at this place,

  won't you? Geoffrey wishes it."

  She shuddered, and looked away. "Yes! yes!" she answered,

  hurriedly.

  "You will hear from Geoffrey," Arnold went on, "to-morrow or next

  day. I know he means to write."

  "For Heaven's sake, don't speak of him any more!" she cried out.

  "How do you think I can look you in the face--" Her cheeks

  flushed deep, and her eyes rested on him with a momentary

  firmness. "Mind this! I am his wife, if promises can make me his

  wife! He has pledged his word to me by all that is sacred!" She

  checked herself impatiently. "What am I saying? What interest can

  _you_ have in this miserable state of things? Don't let us talk

  of it! I have something else to say to you. Let us go back to my

  troubles here. Did you see the landlady when you came in?"

  "No. I only saw the waiter."

  "The landlady has made some absurd difficulty about letting me

  have these rooms because I came here alone."

  "She won't make any difficulty now," said Arnold. "I have settled

  that."

  "_You!_"

  Arnold smiled. After what had passed, it was an indescribable

  relief to him to see the humorous side of his own position at the

  inn.

  "Certainly," he answered. "When I asked for the lady who had

  arrived here alone this afternoon--"

  "Yes."

  "I was told, in your interests, to ask for her as my wife."

  Anne looked at him--in alarm as well as in surprise.

  "You asked for me as your wife?" she repeated.