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had shown the way by which her mother was thrown on the world!

  "My Anne is my second self. She is not called by her father's

  name; she is called by mine. She is Anne Silvester as I was. Will

  she end like Me?"--The answer to those words--the last words that

  had trembled on the dying mother's lips--was coming fast. Through

  the chances and changes of many years, the future was pressing

  near--and Anne Silvester stood on the brink of it.

  "Well?" she resumed. "Are you at the end of your objections? Can

  you give me a plain answer at last?"

  No! He had another objection ready as the words passed her lips.

  "Suppose the witnesses at the inn happen to know me?" he said.

  "Suppose it comes to my father's ears in that way?"

  "Suppose you drive me to my death?" she retorted, starting to her

  feet. "Your father shall know the truth, in that case--I swear

  it!"

  He rose, on his side, and drew back from her. She followed him

  up. There was a clapping of hands, at the same moment, on the

  lawn. Somebody had evidently made a brilliant stroke which

  promised to decide the game. There was no security now that

  Blanche might not return again. There was every prospect, the

  game being over, that Lady Lundie would be free. Anne brought the

  interview to its crisis, without wasting a moment more.

  "Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn," she said. "You have bargained for a

  private marriage, and I have consented. Are you, or are you not,

  ready to marry me on your own terms?"

  "Give me a minute to think!"

  "Not an instant. Once for all, is it Yes, or No?"

  He couldn't say "Yes," even then. But he said what was equivalent

  to it. He asked, savagely, "Where is the inn?"

  She put her arm in his, and whispered, rapidly, "Pass the road on

  the right that leads to the railway. Follow the path over the

  moor, and the sheep-track up the hill. The first house you come

  to after that is the inn. You understand!"

  He nodded his head, with a sullen frown, and took his pipe out of

  his pocket again.

  "Let it alone this time," he said, meeting her eye. "My mind's

  upset. When a man's mind's upset, a man can't smoke. What's the

  name of the place?"

  "Craig Fernie."

  "Who am I to ask for at the door?"

  "For your wife."

  "Suppose they want you to give your name when you get there?"

  "If I must give a name, I shall call myself Mrs., instead of

  Miss, Silvester. But I shall do my best to avoid giving any name.

  And you will do your best to avoid making a mistake, by only

  asking for me as your wife. Is there any thing else you want to

  know?"

  "Yes."

  "Be quick about it! What is it?"

  "How am I to know you have got away from here?"

  "If you don't hear from me in half an hour from the time when I

  have left you, you may be sure I have got away. Hush!"

  Two voices, in conversation, were audible at the bottom of the

  steps--Lady Lundie's voice and Sir Patrick's. Anne pointed to the

  door in the back wall of the summer-house. She had just pulled it

  to again, after Geoffrey had passed through it, when Lady Lundie

  and Sir Patrick appeared at the top of the steps.

  CHAPTER THE SIXTH.

  THE SUITOR.

  LADY LUNDIE pointed significantly to the door, and addressed

  herself to Sir Patrick's private ear.

  "Observe!" she said. "Miss Silvester has just got rid of

  somebody."

  Sir Patrick deliberately looked in the wrong direction, and (in

  the politest possible manner) observed--nothing.

  Lady Lundie advanced into the summer-house. Suspicious hatred of

  the governess was written legibly in every line of her face.

  Suspicious distrust of the governess's illness spoke plainly in

  every tone of her voice.

  "May I inquire, Miss Silvester, if your sufferings are relieved?"

  "I am no better, Lady Lundie."

  "I beg your pardon?"

  "I said I was no better."

  "You appear to be able to stand up. When _I_ am ill, I am not so

  fortunate. I am obliged to lie down."'

  "I will follow your example, Lady Lundie. If you will be so good

  as to excuse me, I will leave you, and lie down in my own room."

  She could say no more. The interview with Geoffrey had worn her

  out; there was no spirit left in her to resist the petty malice

  of the woman, after bearing, as she had borne it, the brutish

  indifference of the man. In another moment the hysterical

  suffering which she was keeping down would have forced its way

  outward in tears. Without waiting to know whether she was excused

  or not, without stopping to hear a word more, she left the

  summer-house.

  Lady Lundie's magnificent black eyes opened to their utmost

  width, and blazed with their most dazzling brightness. She

  appealed to Sir Patrick, poised easily on his ivory cane, and

  looking out at the lawn-party, the picture of venerable

  innocence.

  "After what I have already told you, Sir Patrick, of Miss

  Silvester's conduct, may I ask whether you consider _that_

  proceeding at all extraordinary?"

  The old gentleman touched the spring in the knob of his cane, and

  answered, in the courtly manner of the old school:

  "I consider no proceeding extraordinary Lady Lundie, which

  emanates from your enchanting sex."

  He bowed, and took his pinch. With a little jaunty flourish of

  the hand, he dusted the stray grains of snuff off his finger and

  thumb, and looked back again at the lawn-party, and became more

  absorbed in the diversions of his young friends than ever.

  Lady Lundie stood her ground, plainly determined to force a

  serious expression of opinion from her brother-in-law. Before she

  could speak again, Arnold and Blanche appeared together at the

  bottom of the steps. "And when does the dancing begin?" inquired

  Sir Patrick, advancing to meet them, and looking as if he felt

  the deepest interest in a speedy settlement of the question.

  "The very thing I was going to ask mamma," returned Blanche. "Is

  she in there with Anne? Is Anne better?"

  Lady Lundie forthwith appeared, and took the answer to that

  inquiry on herself.

  "Miss Silvester has retired to her room. Miss Silvester persists

  in being ill. Have you noticed, Sir Patrick, that these half-bred

  sort of people are almost invariably rude when they are ill?"

  Blanche's bright face flushed up. "If you think Anne a half-bred

  person, Lady Lundie, you stand alone in your opinion. My uncle

  doesn't agree with you, I'm sure."

  Sir Patrick's interest in the first quadrille became almost

  painful to see. "_Do_ tell me, my dear, when _is_ the dancing

  going to begin?"

  "The sooner the better," interposed Lady Lundie; "before Blanche

  picks another quarrel with me on the subject of Miss Silvester."

  Blanche looked at her uncle. "Begin! begin! Don't lose time!"

  cried the ardent Sir Patrick, pointing toward the house with his

  cane. "Certainly, uncle! Any thing that _you_ wish!" With that

  parting shot at her
step-mother, Blanche withdrew. Arnold, who

  had thus far waited in silence at the foot of the steps, looked

  appealingly at Sir Patrick. The train which was to take him to

  his newly inherited property would start in less than an hour;

  and he had not presented himself to Blanche's guardian in the

  character of Blanche's suitor yet! Sir Patrick's indifference to

  all domestic claims on him--claims of persons who loved, and

  claims of persons who hated, it didn't matter which--remained

  perfectly unassailable. There he stood, poised on his cane,

  humming an old Scotch air. And there was Lady Lundie, resolute

  not to leave him till he had seen the governess with _her_ eyes

  and judged the governess with _her_ mind. She returned to the

  charge--in spite of Sir Patrick, humming at the top of the steps,

  and of Arnold, waiting at the bottom. (Her enemies said, "No

  wonder poor Sir Thomas died in a few months after his marriage!"

  And, oh dear me, our enemies _are_ sometimes right!)

  "I must once more remind you, Sir Patrick, that I have serious

  reason to doubt whether Miss Silvester is a fit companion for

  Blanche. My governess has something on her mind. She has fits of

  crying in private. She is up and walking about her room when she

  ought to be asleep. She posts her own letters--_and,_ she has

  lately been excessively insolent to Me. There is something wrong.

  I must take some steps in the matter--and it is only proper that

  I should do so with your sanction, as head of the family."

  "Consider me as abdicating my position, Lady Lundie, in your

  favor."

  "Sir Patrick, I beg you to observe that I am speaking seriously,

  and that I expect a serious reply."

  "My good lady, ask me for any thing else and it is at your

  service. I have not made a serious reply since I gave up practice

  at the Scottish Bar. At my age," added Sir Patrick, cunningly

  drifting into generalities, "nothing is serious--except

  Indigestion. I say, with the philosopher, 'Life is a comedy to

  those who think, and tragedy to those who feel.' " He took his

  sister-in-law's hand, and kissed it. "Dear Lady Lundie, why

  feel?"

  Lady Lundie, who had never "felt" in her life, appeared

  perversely determined to feel, on this occasion. She was

  offended--and she showed it plainly.

  "When you are next called on, Sir Patrick, to judge of Miss

  Silvester's conduct," she said, "unless I am entirely mistaken,

  you will find yourself _compelled_ to consider it as something

  beyond a joke." With those words, she walked out of the

  summer-house--and so forwarded Arnold's interests by leaving

  Blanche's guardian alone at last.

  It was an excellent opportunity. The guests were safe in the

  house--there was no interruption to be feared, Arnold showed

  himself. Sir Patrick (perfectly undisturbed by Lady Lundie's

  parting speech) sat down in the summer-house, without noticing

  his young friend, and asked himself a question founded on

  profound observation of the female sex. "Were there ever two

  women yet with a quarrel between them," thought the old

  gentleman, "who didn't want to drag a man into it? Let them drag

  _me_ in, if they can!"

  Arnold advanced a step, and modestly announced himself. "I hope I

  am not in the way, Sir Patrick?"

  "In the way? of course not! Bless my soul, how serious the boy

  looks! Are _you_ going to appeal to me as the head of the family

  next?"

  It was exactly what Arnold was about to do. But it was plain that

  if he admitted it just then Sir Patrick (for some unintelligible

  reason) would decline to listen to him. He answered cautiously,

  "I asked leave to consult you in private, Sir; and you kindly

  said you would give me the opportunity before I left W

  indygates?"

  "Ay! ay! to be sure. I remember. We were both engaged in the

  serious business of croquet at the time--and it was doubtful

  which of us did that business most clumsily. Well, here is the

  opportunity; and here am I, with all my worldly experience, at

  your service. I have only one caution to give you. Don't appeal

  to me as 'the head of the family.' My resignation is in Lady

  Lundie's hands."

  He was, as usual, half in jest, half in earnest. The wry twist of

  humor showed itself at the corners of his lips. Arnold was at a

  loss how to approach Sir Patrick on the subject of his niece

  without reminding him of his domestic responsibilities on the one

  hand, and without setting himself up as a target for the shafts

  of Sir Patrick's wit on the other. In this difficulty, he

  committed a mistake at the outset. He hesitated.

  "Don't hurry yourself," said Sir Patrick. "Collect your ideas. I

  can wait! I can wait!"

  Arnold collected his ideas--and committed a second mistake. He

  determined on feeling his way cautiously at first. Under the

  circumstances (and with such a man as he had now to deal with),

  it was perhaps the rashest resolution at which he could possibly

  have arrived--it was the mouse attempting to outmanoeuvre the cat

  "You have been very kind, Sir, in offering me the benefit of your

  experience," he began. "I want a word of advice."

  "Suppose you take it sitting?" suggested Sir Patrick. "Get a

  chair." His sharp eyes followed Arnold with an expression of

  malicious enjoyment. "Wants my advice?" he thought. "The young

  humbug wants nothing of the sort--he wants my niece."

  Arnold sat down under Sir Patrick's eye, with a well-founded

  suspicion that he was destined to suffer, before he got up again,

  under Sir Patrick's tongue.

  "I am only a young man," he went on, moving uneasily in his

  chair, "and I am beginning a new life--"

  "Any thing wrong with the chair?" asked Sir Patrick. "Begin your

  new life comfortably, and get another."

  "There's nothing wrong with the chair, Sir. Would you--"

  "Would I keep the chair, in that case? Certainly."

  "I mean, would you advise me--"

  "My good fellow, I'm waiting to advise you. (I'm sure there's

  something wrong with that chair. Why be obstinate about it? Why

  not get another?)"

  "Please don't notice the chair, Sir Patrick--you put me out. I

  want--in short--perhaps it's a curious question--"

  "I can't say till I have heard it," remarked Sir Patrick.

  "However, we will admit it, for form's sake, if you like. Say

  it's a curious question. Or let us express it more strongly, if

  that will help you. Say it's the most extraordinary question that

  ever was put, since the beginning of the world, from one human

  being to another."

  "It's this!" Arnold burst out, desperately. "I want to be

  married!"

  "That isn't a question," objected Sir Patrick. "It's an

  assertion. You say, I want to be married. And I say, Just so! And

  there's an end of it."

  Arnold's head began to whirl. "Would you advise me to get

  married, Sir?" he said, piteously. "That's what I meant."

  "Oh! That's the object of the present interview, is it? Would I

/>   advise you to marry, eh?"

  (Having caught the mouse by this time, the cat lifted his paw and

  let the luckless little creature breathe again. Sir Patrick's

  manner suddenly freed itself from any slight signs of impatience

  which it might have hitherto shown, and became as pleasantly easy

  and confidential as a manner could be. He touched the knob of his

  cane, and helped himself, with infinite zest and enjoyment, to a

  pinch of snuff.)

  "Would I advise you to marry?" repeated Sir Patrick. "Two courses

  are open to us, Mr. Arnold, in treating that question. We may put

  it briefly, or we may put it at great length. I am for putting it

  briefly. What do you say?"

  "What you say, Sir Patrick."

  "Very good. May I begin by making an inquiry relating to your

  past life?"

  "Certainly!"

  "Very good again. When you were in the merchant service, did you

  ever have any experience in buying provisions ashore?"

  Arnold stared. If any relation existed between that question and

  the subject in hand it was an impenetrable relation to _him_. He

  answered, in unconcealed bewilderment, "Plenty of experience,

  Sir."

  "I'm coming to the point," pursued Sir Patrick. "Don't be

  astonished. I'm coming to the point. What did you think of your

  moist sugar when you bought it at the grocer's?"

  "Think?" repeated Arnold. "Why, I thought it was moist sugar, to

  be sure!"

  "Marry, by all means!" cried Sir Patrick. "You are one of the few

  men who can try that experiment with a fair chance of success."

  The suddenness of the answer fairly took away Arnold's breath.

  There was something perfectly electric in the brevity of his

  venerable friend. He stared harder than ever.

  "Don't you understand me?" asked Sir Patrick.

  "I don't understand what the moist sugar has got to do with it,

  Sir."

  "You don't see that?"

  "Not a bit!"

  "Then I'll show you," said Sir Patrick, crossing his legs, and

  setting in comfortably for a good talk "You go to the tea-shop,

  and get your moist sugar. You take it on the understanding that

  it is moist sugar. But it isn't any thing of the sort. It's a

  compound of adulterations made up to look like sugar. You shut

  your eyes to that awkward fact, and swallow your adulterated mess

  in various articles of food; and you and your sugar get on

  together in that way as well as you can. Do you follow me, so

  far?"

  Yes. Arnold (quite in the dark) followed, so far.

  "Very good," pursued Sir Patrick. "You go to the marriage-shop,

  and get a wife. You take her on the understanding--let us

  say--that she has lovely yellow hair, that she has an exquisite

  complexion, that her figure is the perfection of plumpness, and

  that she is just tall enough to carry the plumpness off. You

  bring her home, and you discover that it's the old story of the

  sugar over again. Your wife is an adulterated article. Her lovely

  yellow hair is--dye. Her exquisite skin is--pearl powder. Her

  plumpness is--padding. And three inches of her height are--in the

  boot-maker's heels. Shut your eyes, and swallow your adulterated

  wife as you swallow your adulterated sugar--and, I tell you

  again, you are one of the few men who can try the marriage

  experiment with a fair chance of success."

  With that he uncrossed his legs again, and looked hard at Arnold.

  Arnold read the lesson, at last, in the right way. He gave up the

  hopeless attempt to circumvent Sir Patrick, and--come what might

  of it--dashed at a direct allusion to Sir Patrick's niece.

  "That may be all very true, Sir, of some young ladies," he said.

  "There is one I know of, who is nearly related to you, and who

  doesn't deserve what you have said of the rest of them."

  This was coming to the point. Sir Patrick showed his approval of