Man and Wife Read online

her. She opened the bedroom door, and led the way back into the

  sitting-room.

  "Gone again!" exclaimed Blanche, looking uneasily round the empty

  room. "Anne! there's something so strange in all this, that I

  neither can, nor will, put up with your silence any longer. It's

  not just, it's not kind, to shut me out of your confidence, after

  we have lived together like sisters all our lives!"

  Anne sighed bitterly, and kissed her on the forehead. "You shall

  know all I can tell you--all I _dare_ tell you," she said,

  gently. "Don't reproach me. It hurts me more than you think."

  She turned away to the side table, and came back with a letter in

  her hand. "Read that," she said, and handed it to Blanche.

  Blanche saw her own name, on the address, in the handwriting of

  Anne.

  "What does this mean?" she asked.

  "I wrote to you, after Sir Patrick had left me," Anne replied. "I

  meant you to have received my letter to-morrow, in time to

  prevent any little imprudence into which your anxiety might hurry

  you. All that I _can_ say to you is said there. Spare me the

  distress of speaking. Read it, Blanche."

  Blanche still held the letter, unopened.

  "A letter from you to me! when we are both together, and both

  alone in the same room! It's worse than formal, Anne! It's as if

  there was a quarrel between us. Why should it distress you to

  speak to me?"

  Anne's eyes dropped to the ground. She pointed to the letter for

  the second time.

  Blanche broke the seal.

  She passed rapidly over the opening sentences, and devoted all

  her attention to the second paragraph.

  "And now, my love, you will expect me to atone for the surprise

  and distress that I have caused you, by explaining what my

  situation really is, and by telling you all my plans for the

  future. Dearest Blanche! don't think me untrue to the affection

  we bear toward each other--don't think there is any change in my

  heart toward you--believe only that I am a very unhappy woman,

  and that I am in a position which forces me, against my own will,

  to be silent about myself. Silent even to you, the sister of my

  love--the one person in the world who is dearest to me! A time

  may come when I shall be able to open my heart to you. Oh, what

  good it will do me! what a relief it will be! For the present, I

  must be silent. For the present, we must be parted. God knows

  what it costs me to write this. I think of the dear old days that

  are gone; I remember how I promised your mother to be a sister to

  you, when her kind eyes looked at me, for the last time--_your_

  mother, who was an angel from heaven to _ mine!_ All this comes

  back on me now, and breaks my heart. But it must be! my own

  Blanche, for the present. it must be! I will write often--I will

  think of you, my darling, night and day, till a happier future

  unites us again. God bless _you,_ my dear one! And God help _

  me!"_

  Blanche silently crossed the room to the sofa on which Anne was

  sitting, and stood there for a moment, looking at her. She sat

  down, and laid her head on Anne's shoulder. Sorrowfully and

  quietly, she put the letter into her bosom--and took Anne's hand,

  and kissed it.

  "All my questions are answered, dear. I will wait your time."

  It was simply, sweetly, generously said.

  Anne burst into tears.

  * * * * * *

  The rain still fell, but the storm was dying away.

  Blanche left the sofa, and, going to the window, opened the

  shutters to look out at the night. She suddenly came back to

  Anne.

  "I see lights," she said--"the lights of a carriage coming up out

  of the darkness of the moor. They are sending after me, from

  Windygates. Go into t he bedroom. It's just possible Lady Lundie

  may have come for me herself."

  The ordinary relations of the two toward each other were

  completely reversed. Anne was like a child in Blanche's hands.

  She rose, and withdrew.

  Left alone, Blanche took the letter out of her bosom, and read it

  again, in the interval of waiting for the carriage.

  The second reading confirmed her in a resolution which she had

  privately taken, while she had been sitting by Anne on the

  sofa--a resolution destined to lead to far more serious results

  in the future than any previsions of hers could anticipate. Sir

  Patrick was the one person she knew on whose discretion and

  experience she could implicitly rely. She determined, in Anne's

  own interests, to take her uncle into her confidence, and to tell

  him all that had happened at the inn "I'll first make him forgive

  me," thought Blanche. "And then I'll see if he thinks as I do,

  when I tell him about Anne."

  The carriage drew up at the door; and Mrs. Inchbare showed

  in--not Lady Lundie, but Lady Lundie's maid.

  The woman's account of what had happened at Windygates was simple

  enough. Lady Lundie had, as a matter of course, placed the right

  interpretation on Blanche's abrupt departure in the pony-chaise,

  and had ordered the carriage, with the firm determination of

  following her step-daughter herself. But the agitations and

  anxieties of the day had proved too much for her. She had been

  seized by one of the attacks of giddiness to which she was always

  subject after excessive mental irritation; and, eager as she was

  (on more accounts than one) to go to the inn herself, she had

  been compelled, in Sir Patrick's absence, to commit the pursuit

  of Blanche to her own maid, in whose age and good sense she could

  place every confidence. The woman seeing the state of the

  weather--had thoughtfully brought a box with her, containing a

  change of wearing apparel. In offering it to Blanche, she added,

  with all due respect, that she had full powers from her mistress

  to go on, if necessary, to the shooting-cottage, and to place the

  matter in Sir Patrick's hands. This said, she left it to her

  young lady to decide for herself, whether she would return to

  Windygates, under present circumstances, or not.

  Blanche took the box from the woman's hands, and joined Anne in

  the bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home.

  "I am going back to a good scolding," she said. "But a scolding

  is no novelty in my experience of Lady Lundie. I'm not uneasy

  about that, Anne--I'm uneasy about you. Can I be sure of one

  thing--do you stay here for the present?"

  The worst that could happen at the inn _had_ happened. Nothing

  was to be gained now--and every thing might be lost--by leaving

  the place at which Geoffrey had promised to write to her. Anne

  answered that she proposed remaining at the inn for the present.

  "You promise to write to me?"

  "Yes."

  "If there is any thing I can do for you--?"

  "There is nothing, my love."

  "There may be. If you want to see me, we can meet at Windygates

  without being discovered. Come at luncheon-time--go around by the

  shrubbery--and step in at the library window. You know as well as
>
  I do there is nobody in the library at that hour. Don't say it's

  impossible--you don't know what may happen. I shall wait ten

  minutes every day on the chance of seeing you. That's

  settled--and it's settled that you write. Before I go, darling,

  is there any thing else we can think of for the future?"

  At those words Anne suddenly shook off the depression that

  weighed on her. She caught Blanche in her arms, she held Blanche

  to her bosom with a fierce energy. "Will you always be to me, in

  the future, what you are now?" she asked, abruptly. "Or is the

  time coming when you will hate me?" She prevented any reply by a

  kiss--and pushed Blanche toward the door. "We have had a happy

  time together in the years that are gone," she said, with a

  farewell wave of her hand. "Thank God for that! And never mind

  the rest."

  She threw open the bedroom door, and called to the maid, in the

  sitting-room. "Miss Lundie is waiting for you." Blanche pressed

  her hand, and left her.

  Anne waited a while in the bedroom, listening to the sound made

  by the departure of the carriage from the inn door. Little by

  little, the tramp of the horses and the noise of the rolling

  wheels lessened and lessened. When the last faint sounds were

  lost in silence she stood for a moment thinking--then, rousing on

  a sudden, hurried into the sitting-room, and rang the bell.

  "I shall go mad," she said to herself, "if I stay here alone."

  Even Mr. Bishopriggs felt the necessity of being silent when he

  stood face to face with her on answering the bell.

  "I want to speak to him. Send him here instantly."

  Mr. Bishopriggs understood her, and withdrew.

  Arnold came in.

  "Has she gone?" were the first words he said.

  "She has gone. She won't suspect you when you see her again. I

  have told her nothing. Don't ask me for my reasons!"

  "I have no wish to ask you."

  "Be angry with me, if you like!"

  "I have no wish to be angry with you."

  He spoke and looked like an altered man. Quietly seating himself

  at the table, he rested his head on his hand--and so remained

  silent. Anne was taken completely by surprise. She drew near, and

  looked at him curiously. Let a woman's mood be what it may, it is

  certain to feel the influence of any change for which she is

  unprepared in the manner of a man--when that man interests her.

  The cause of this is not to be found in the variableness of her

  humor. It is far more probably to be traced to the noble

  abnegation of Self, which is one of the grandest--and to the

  credit of woman be it said--one of the commonest virtues of the

  sex. Little by little, the sweet feminine charm of Anne's face

  came softly and sadly back. The inbred nobility of the woman's

  nature answered the call which the man had unconsciously made on

  it. She touched Arnold on the shoulder.

  "This has been hard on _you,_" she said. "And I am to blame for

  it. Try and forgive me, Mr. Brinkworth. I am sincerely sorry. I

  wish with all my heart I could comfort you!"

  "Thank you, Miss Silvester. It was not a very pleasant feeling,

  to be hiding from Blanche as if I was afraid of her--and it's set

  me thinking, I suppose, for the first time in my life. Never

  mind. It's all over now. Can I do any thing for you?"

  "What do you propose doing to-night?"

  "What I have proposed doing all along--my duty by Geoffrey. I

  have promised him to see you through your difficulties here, and

  to provide for your safety till he comes back. I can only make

  sure of doing that by keeping up appearances, and staying in the

  sitting-room to-night. When we next meet it will be under

  pleasanter circumstances, I hope. I shall always be glad to think

  that I was of some service to you. In the mean time I shall be

  most likely away to-morrow morning before you are up."

  Anne held out her hand to take leave. Nothing could undo what had

  been done. The time for warning and remonstrance had passed away.

  "You have not befriended an ungrateful woman," she said. "The day

  may yet come, Mr. Brinkworth, when I shall prove it."

  "I hope not, Miss Silvester. Good-by, and good luck!"

  She withdrew into her own room. Arnold locked the sitting-room

  door, and stretched himself on the sofa for the night.

  * * * * * *

  The morning was bright, the air was delicious after the storm.

  Arnold had gone, as he had promised, before Anne was out of her

  room. It was understood at the inn that important business had

  unexpectedly called him south. Mr. Bishopriggs had been presented

  with a handsome gratuity; and Mrs. Inchbare had been informed

  that the rooms were taken for a week certain.

  In every quarter but one the march of events had now, to all

  appearance, fallen back into a quiet course. Arnold was on his

  way to his estate; Blanche was safe at Windygates; Anne's

  residence at the inn was assured for a week to come. The one

  present doubt was the doubt which hung over Geoffrey's movements.

  The one event still involved in darkness turned on the question

  of life or death waiting for solution in London--otherwise, the

  question of Lord Holchester's health. Taken by i tself, the

  alternative, either way, was plain enough. If my lord

  lived--Geoffrey would he free to come back, and marry her

  privately in Scotland. If my lord died--Geoffrey would be free to

  send for her, and marry her publicly in London. But could

  Geoffrey be relied on?

  Anne went out on to the terrace-ground in front of the inn. The

  cool morning breeze blew steadily. Towering white clouds sailed

  in grand procession over the heavens, now obscuring, and now

  revealing the sun. Yellow light and purple shadow chased each

  other over the broad brown surface of the moor--even as hope and

  fear chased each other over Anne's mind, brooding on what might

  come to her with the coming time.

  She turned away, weary of questioning the impenetrable future,

  and went back to the inn.

  Crossing the hall she looked at the clock. It was past the hour

  when the train from Perthshire was due in London. Geoffrey and

  his brother were, at that moment, on their way to Lord

  Holchester's house.

  THIRD SCENE.--LONDON.

  CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.

  GEOFFREY AS A LETTER-WRITER.

  LORD HOLCHESTER'S servants--with the butler at their head--were

  on the look-out for Mr. Julius Delamayn's arrival from Scotland.

  The appearance of the two brothers together took the whole

  domestic establishment by surprise. Inquiries were addressed to

  the butler by Julius; Geoffrey standing by, and taking no other

  than a listener's part in the proceedings.

  "Is my father alive?"

  "His lordship, I am rejoiced to say, has astonished the doctors,

  Sir. He rallied last night in the most wonderful way. If things

  go on for the next eight-and-forty hours as they are going now,

  my lord's recovery is considered certain."

  "What was the illness?"

&
nbsp; "A paralytic stroke, Sir. When her ladyship telegraphed to you in

  Scotland the doctors had given his lordship up."

  "Is my mother at home?"

  "Her ladyship is at home to _you,_, Sir."'

  The butler laid a special emphasis on the personal pronoun.

  Julius turned to his brother. The change for the better in the

  state of Lord Holchester's health made Geoffrey's position, at

  that moment, an embarrassing one. He had been positively

  forbidden to enter the house. His one excuse for setting that

  prohibitory sentence at defiance rested on the assumption that

  his father was actually dying. As matters now stood, Lord

  Holchester's order remained in full force. The under-servants in

  the hall (charged to obey that order as they valued their places)

  looked from "Mr. Geoffrey" to the butler, The butler looked from

  "Mr. Geoffrey" to "Mr. Julius." Julius looked at his brother.

  There was an awkward pause. The position of the second son was

  the position of a wild beast in the house--a creature to be got

  rid of, without risk to yourself, if you only knew how.

  Geoffrey spoke, and solved the problem

  "Open the door, one of you fellows," he said to the footmen. "I'm

  off."

  "Wait a minute," interposed his brother. "It will be a sad

  disappointment to my mother to know that you have been here, and

  gone away again without seeing her. These are no ordinary

  circumstances, Geoffrey. Come up stairs with me--I'll take it on

  myself."

  "I'm blessed if I take it on _my_self!" returned Geoffrey. "Open

  the door!"

  "Wait here, at any rate," pleaded Julius, "till I can send you

  down a message."

  "Send your message to Nagle's Hotel. I'm at home at Nagle's--I'm

  not at home here."

  At that point the discussion was interrupted by the appearance of

  a little terrier in the hall. Seeing strangers, the dog began to

  bark. Perfect tranquillity in the house had been absolutely

  insisted on by the doctors; and the servants, all trying together

  to catch the animal and quiet him, simply aggravated the noise he

  was making. Geoffrey solved this problem also in his own decisive

  way. He swung round as the dog was passing him, and kicked it

  with his heavy boot. The little creature fell on the spot,

  whining piteously. "My lady's pet dog!" exclaimed the butler.

  "You've broken its ribs, Sir." "I've broken it of barking, you

  mean," retorted Geoffrey. "Ribs be hanged!" He turned to his

  brother. "That settles it," he said, jocosely. "I'd better defer

  the pleasure of calling on dear mamma till the next opportunity.

  Ta-ta, Julius. You know where to find me. Come, and dine. We'll

  give you a steak at Nagle's that will make a man of you."

  He went out. The tall footmen eyed his lordship's second son with

  unaffected respect. They had seen him, in public, at the annual

  festival of the Christian-Pugilistic-Association, with "the

  gloves" on. He could have beaten the biggest man in the hall

  within an inch of his life in three minutes. The porter bowed as

  he threw open the door. The whole interest and attention of the

  domestic establishment then present was concentrated on Geoffrey.

  Julius went up stairs to his mother without attracting the

  slightest notice.

  The month was August. The streets were empty. The vilest breeze

  that blows--a hot east wind in London--was the breeze abroad on

  that day. Even Geoffrey appeared to feel the influence of the

  weather as the cab carried him from his father's door to the

  hotel. He took off his hat, and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and lit

  his everlasting pipe, and growled and grumbled between his teeth

  in the intervals of smoking. Was it only the hot wind that wrung

  from him these demonstrations of discomfort? Or was there some

  secret anxiety in his mind which assisted the depressing

  influences of the day? There was a secret anxiety in his mind.