Man and Wife Read online

desire, kept out of view

  among the crowd; and he decided on walking back by himself. The

  separation from Blanche had changed him in all his habits. He

  asked but two favors during the interval which was to elapse

  before he saw his wife again--to be allowed to bear it in his own

  way, and to be left alone.

  Relieved of the oppression which had kept him silent while the

  race was in progress, Sir Patrick put a question to the surgeon

  as they drove home, which had been in his mind from the moment

  when Geoffrey had lost the day.

  "I hardly understand the anxiety you showed about Delamayn," he

  said, "when you found that he had only fainted under the fatigue.

  Was it something more than a common fainting fit?"

  "It is useless to conceal it now," replied Mr. Speedwell. "He has

  had a narrow escape from a paralytic stroke."

  "Was that what you dreaded when you spoke to him at Windygates?"

  "That was what I saw in his face when I gave him the warning. I

  was right, so far. I was wrong in my estimate of the reserve of

  vital power left in him. When he dropped on the race-course, I

  firmly believed we should find him a dead man."

  "Is it hereditary paralysis? His father's last illness was of

  that sort."

  Mr. Speedwell smiled. "Hereditary paralysis?" he repeated. "Why

  the man is (naturally) a phenomenon of health and strength--in

  the prime of his life. Hereditary paralysis might have found him

  out thirty years hence. His rowing and his running, for the last

  four years, are alone answerable for what has happened to-day."

  Sir Patrick ventured on a suggestion.

  "Surely," he said, "with your name to compel attention to it, you

  ought to make this public--as a warning to others?"

  "It would be quite useless. Delamayn is far from being the first

  man who has dropped at foot-racing, under the cruel stress laid

  on the vital organs. The public have a happy knack of forgetting

  these accidents. They would be quite satisfied when they found

  the other man (who happens to have got through it) produced as a

  sufficient answer to me."

  Anne Silvester's future was still dwelling on Sir Patrick's mind.

  His next inquiry related to the serious subject of Geoffrey's

  prospect of recovery in the time to come.

  "He will never recover," said Mr. Speedwell. "Paralysis is

  hanging over him. How long he may live it is impossible for me to

  say. Much depends on himself. In his condition, any new

  imprudence, any violent emotion, may kill him at a moment's

  notice."

  "If no accident happens," said Sir Patrick, "will he be

  sufficiently himself again to leave his bed and go out?"

  "Certainly."

  "He has an appointment that I know of for Saturday next. Is it

  likely that he will be able to keep it?"

  "Quite likely."

  Sir Patrick said no more. Anne's face was before him again at the

  memorable moment when he had told her that she was Geoffrey's

  wife.

  FOURTEENTH SCENE.--PORTLAND PLACE.

  CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH.

  A SCOTCH MARRIAGE.

  IT was Saturday, the third of October--the day on which the

  assertion of Arnold's marriage to Anne Silvester was to be put to

  the proof.

  Toward two o'clock in the afternoon Blanche and her step-mother

  entered the drawing-room of Lady Lundie's town house in Portland

  Place.

  Since the previous evening the weather had altered for the worse.

  The rain, which had set in from an early hour that morning, still

  fell. Viewed from the drawing-room windows, the desolation of

  Portland Place in the dead season wore its aspect of deepest

  gloom. The dreary opposite houses were all shut up; the black mud

  was inches deep in the roadway; the soot, floating in tiny black

  particles, mixed with the falling rain, and heightened the dirty

  obscurity of the rising mist. Foot-passengers and vehicles,

  succeeding each other at rare intervals, left great gaps of

  silence absolutely uninterrupted by sound. Even the grinders of

  organs were mute; and the wandering dogs of the street were too

  wet to bark. Looking back from the view out of Lady Lundie's

  state windows to the view in Lady Lundie's state room, the

  melancholy that reigned without was more than matched by the

  melancholy that reigned within. The house had been shut up for

  the season: it had not been considered necessary, during its

  mistress's brief visit, to disturb the existing state of things.

  Coverings of dim brown hue shrouded the furniture. The

  chandeliers hung invisible in enormous bags. The silent clocks

  hibernated under extinguishers dropped over them two months

  since. The tables, drawn up in corners--loaded with ornaments at

  other times--had nothing but pen, ink, and paper (suggestive of

  the coming proceedings) placed on them now. The smell of the

  house was musty; the voice of the house was still. One melancholy

  maid haunted the bedrooms up stairs, like a ghost. One melancholy

  man, appointed to admit the visitors, sat solitary in the lower

  regions--the last of the flunkies, mouldering in an extinct

  servants' hall. Not a word passed, in the drawing-room, between

  Lady Lundie and Blanche. Each waited the appearance of the

  persons concerned in the coming inquiry, absorbed in her own

  thoughts. Their situation at the moment was a solemn burlesque of

  the situation of two ladies who are giving an evening party, and

  who are waiting to receive their guests. Did neither of them see

  this? Or, seeing it, did they shrink from acknowledging it? In

  similar positions, who does not shrink? The occasions are many on

  which we have excellent reason to laugh when the tears are in our

  eyes; but only children are bold enough to follow the impulse. So

  strangely, in human existence, does the mockery of what is

  serious mingle with the serious reality itself, that nothing but

  our own self-respect preserves our gravity at some of the most

  important emergencies in our lives. The two ladies waited the

  coming ordeal together gravely, as became the occasion. The

  silent maid flitted noiseless up stairs. The silent man waited

  motionless in the lower regions. Outside, the street was a

  desert. Inside, the house was a tomb.

  The church clock struck the hour. Two.

  At the same moment the first of the persons concerned in the

  investigation arrived.

  Lady Lundie waited composedly for the opening of the drawing-room

  door. Blanche started, and trembled. Was it Arnold? Was it Anne?

  The door opened--and Blanche drew a breath of relief. The first

  arrival was only Lady Lundie's solicitor--invited to attend the

  proceedings on her ladyship's behalf. He was one of that large

  class of purely mechanical and perfectly mediocre persons

  connected with the practice of the law who will probably, in a

  more advanced state of science, be superseded by machinery. He

  made himself useful in altering the arrangement of the tables and

  chairs, so as to keep the contending parties effectually
/>   separated from each other. He also entreated Lady Lundie to bear

  in mind that he knew nothing of Scotch law, and that he was there

  in the capacity of a friend only. This done, he sat down, and

  looked out with silent interest at the rain--as if it was an

  operation of Nature which he had never had an opportunity of

  inspecting before.

  The next knock at the door heralded the arrival of a visitor of a

  totally different order. The melancholy man-servant announced

  Captain Newenden.

  Possibly, in deference to the occasion, possibly, in defiance of

  the weather, the captain had taken another backward step toward

  the days of his youth. He was painted and padded, wigged and

  dressed, to represent the abstract idea of a male human being of

  five-and twenty in robust health. There might have been a little

  stiffness in the region of the waist, and a slight want of

  firmness in the eyelid and the chin. Otherwise there was the

  fiction of five-and twenty, founded in appearance on the fact of

  five-and-thirty--with the truth invisible behind it, counting

  seventy years! Wearing a flower in his buttonhole, and carrying a

  jaunty little cane in his hand--brisk, rosy, smiling,

  perfumed--the captain's appearance brightened the dreary room. It

  was pleasantly suggestive of a morning visit from an idle young

  man. He appeared to be a little surprised to find Blanche present

  on the scene of approaching conflict. Lady Lundie thought it due

  to herself to explain. "My s tep-daughter is here in direct

  defiance of my entreaties and my advice. Persons may present

  themselves whom it is, in my opinion, improper she should see.

  Revelations will take place which no young woman, in her

  position, should hear. She insists on it, Captain Newenden--and I

  am obliged to submit."

  The captain shrugged his shoulders, and showed his beautiful

  teeth.

  Blanche was far too deeply interested in the coming ordeal to

  care to defend herself: she looked as if she had not even heard

  what her step-mother had said of her. The solicitor remained

  absorbed in the interesting view of the falling rain. Lady Lundie

  asked after Mrs. Glenarm. The captain, in reply, described his

  niece's anxiety as something--something--something, in short,

  only to be indicated by shaking his ambrosial curls and waving

  his jaunty cane. Mrs. Delamayn was staying with her until her

  uncle returned with the news. And where was Julius? Detained in

  Scotland by election business. And Lord and Lady Holchester? Lord

  and Lady Holchester knew nothing about it.

  There was another knock at the door. Blanche's pale face turned

  paler still. Was it Arnold? Was it Anne? After a longer delay

  than usual, the servant announced Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn and Mr.

  Moy.

  Geoffrey, slowly entering first, saluted the two ladies in

  silence, and noticed no one else. The London solicitor,

  withdrawing himself for a moment from the absorbing prospect of

  the rain, pointed to the places reserved for the new-comer and

  for the legal adviser whom he had brought with him. Geoffrey

  seated himself, without so much as a glance round the room.

  Leaning his elbows on his knees, he vacantly traced patterns on

  the carpet with his clumsy oaken walking-stick. Stolid

  indifference expressed itself in his lowering brow and his

  loosely-hanging mouth. The loss of the race, and the

  circumstances accompanying it, appeared to have made him duller

  than usual and heavier than usual--and that was all.

  Captain Newenden, approaching to speak to him, stopped half-way,

  hesitated, thought better of it--and addressed himself to Mr.

  Moy.

  Geoffrey's legal adviser--a Scotchman of the ruddy, ready, and

  convivial type--cordially met the advance. He announced, in reply

  to the captain's inquiry, that the witnesses (Mrs. Inchbare and

  Bishopriggs) were waiting below until they were wanted, in the

  housekeeper's room. Had there been any difficulty in finding

  them? Not the least. Mrs. Inchbare was, as a matter of course, at

  her hotel. Inquiries being set on foot for Bishopriggs, it

  appeared that he and the landlady had come to an understanding,

  and that he had returned to his old post of headwaiter at the

  inn. The captain and Mr. Moy kept up the conversation between

  them, thus begun, with unflagging ease and spirit. Theirs were

  the only voices heard in the trying interval that elapsed before

  the next knock was heard at the door.

  At last it came. There could be no doubt now as to the persons

  who might next be expected to enter the room. Lady Lundie took

  her step-daughter firmly by the hand. She was not sure of what

  Blanche's first impulse might lead her to do. For the first time

  in her life, Blanche left her hand willingly in her step-mother's

  grasp.

  The door opened, and they came in.

  Sir Patrick Lundie entered first, with Anne Silvester on his arm.

  Arnold Brinkworth followed them.

  Both Sir Patrick and Anne bowed in silence to the persons

  assembled. Lady Lundie ceremoniously returned her

  brother-in-law's salute--and pointedly abstained from noticing

  Anne's presence in the room. Blanche never looked up. Arnold

  advanced to her, with his hand held out. Lady Lundie rose, and

  motioned him back. "Not _yet,_ Mr. Brinkworth!" she said, in her

  most quietly merciless manner. Arnold stood, heedless of her,

  looking at his wife. His wife lifted her eyes to his; the tears

  rose in them on the instant. Arnold's dark complexion turned ashy

  pale under the effort that it cost him to command himself. "I

  won't distress you," he said, gently--and turned back again to

  the table at which Sir Patrick and Anne were seated together

  apart from the rest. Sir Patrick took his hand, and pressed it in

  silent approval.

  The one person who took no part, even as spectator, in the events

  that followed the appearance of Sir Patrick and his companions in

  the room--was Geoffrey. The only change visible in him was a

  change in the handling of his walking-stick. Instead of tracing

  patterns on the carpet, it beat a tattoo. For the rest, there he

  sat with his heavy head on his breast and his brawny arms on his

  knees--weary of it by anticipation before it had begun.

  Sir Patrick broke the silence. He addressed himself to his

  sister-in-law.

  "Lady Lundie, are all the persons present whom you expected to

  see here to-day?"

  The gathered venom in Lady Lundie seized the opportunity of

  planting its first sting.

  "All whom I expected are here," she answered. "And more than I

  expected," she added, with a look at Anne.

  The look was not returned--was not even seen. From the moment

  when she had taken her place by Sir Patrick, Anne's eyes had

  rested on Blanche. They never moved--they never for an instant

  lost their tender sadness--when the woman who hated her spoke.

  All that was beautiful and true in that noble nature seemed to

  find its one sufficient enc
ouragement in Blanche. As she looked

  once more at the sister of the unforgotten days of old, its

  native beauty of expression shone out again in her worn and weary

  face. Every man in the room (but Geoffrey) looked at her; and

  every man (but Geoffrey) felt for her.

  Sir Patrick addressed a second question to his sister-in-law.

  "Is there any one here to represent the interests of Mr. Geoffrey

  Delamayn?" he asked.

  Lady Lundie referred Sir Patrick to Geoffrey himself. Without

  looking up, Geoffrey motioned with his big brown hand to Mr. Moy,

  sitting by his side.

  Mr. Moy (holding the legal rank in Scotland which corresponds to

  the rank held by solicitors in England) rose and bowed to Sir

  Patrick, with the courtesy due to a man eminent in his time at

  the Scottish Bar.

  "I represent Mr. Delamayn," he said. "I congratulate myself, Sir

  Patrick, on having your ability and experience to appeal to in

  the conduct of the pending inquiry."

  Sir Patrick returned the compliment as well as the bow.

  "It is I who should learn from you," he answered. "_I_ have had

  time, Mr. Moy, to forget what I once knew."

  Lady Lundie looked from one to the other with unconcealed

  impatience as these formal courtesies were exchanged between the

  lawyers. "Allow me to remind you, gentlemen, of the suspense that

  we are suffering at this end of the room," she said. "And permit

  me to ask when you propose to begin?"

  Sir Patrick looked invitingly at Mr. Moy. Mr. Moy looked

  invitingly at Sir Patrick. More formal courtesies! a polite

  contest this time as to which of the two learned gentlemen should

  permit the other to speak first! Mr. Moy's modesty proving to be

  quite immovable, Sir Patrick ended it by opening the proceedings.

  "I am here," he said, "to act on behalf of my friend, Mr. Arnold

  Brinkworth. I beg to present him to you, Mr. Moy as the husband

  of my niece--to whom he was lawfully married on the seventh of

  September last, at the Church of Saint Margaret, in the parish of

  Hawley, Kent. I have a copy of the marriage certificate here--if

  you wish to look at it."

  Mr. Moy's modesty declined to look at it.

  "Quite needless, Sir Patrick! I admit that a marriage ceremony

  took place on the date named, between the persons named; but I

  contend that it was not a valid marriage. I say, on behalf of my

  client here present (Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn), that Arnold

  Brinkworth was married at a date prior to the seventh of

  September last--namely, on the fourteenth of August in this year,

  and at a place called Craig Fernie, in Scotland--to a lady named

  Anne Silvester, now living, and present among us (as I

  understand) at this moment."

  Sir Patrick presented Anne. "This is the lady, Mr. Moy."

  Mr. Moy bowed, and made a suggestion. "To save needless

  formalities, Sir Patrick, shall we take the question of identity

  as established on both sides?"

  Sir Patrick agreed with his learned friend. Lad y Lundie opened

  and shut her fan in undisguised impatience. The London solicitor

  was deeply interested. Captain Newenden, taking out his

  handkerchief, and using it as a screen, yawned behind it to his

  heart's content. Sir Patrick resumed.

  "You assert the prior marriage," he said to his colleague. "It

  rests with you to begin."

  Mr. Moy cast a preliminary look round him at the persons

  assembled.

  "The object of our meeting here," he said, "is, if I am not

  mistaken, of a twofold nature. In the first place, it is thought

  desirable, by a person who has a special interest in the issue of

  this inquiry" (he glanced at the captain--the captain suddenly

  became attentive), "to put my client's assertion, relating to Mr.

  Brinkworth's marriage, to the proof. In the second place, we are

  all equally desirous--whatever difference of opinion may

  otherwise exist--to make this informal inquiry a means, if

  possible, of avoiding the painful publicity which would result