Man and Wife by Wilkie Collins (ebook reader screen .TXT) đ
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were alone.
âI am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to London in time.â
He stopped. There was something in Geoffreyâs faceâa strange mixture of doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and hesitationâwhich 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 speakâand then looked away again, in silence.
âIs there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your father?â asked Arnold.
âIâm in the devilâs own mess,â was the answer.
âCan I do any thing to help you?â
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 waitedâwondering what was coming next.
âI say, old fellow!â said Geoffrey.
âYes.â
âDo you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon Harbor?â
Arnold started. If he could have called to mind his first interview in the summer-house with his fatherâs old friend he might have remembered Sir Patrickâs 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 friendâs question as a reproach which he had not deserved.
âDo you think I can ever forget,â he cried, warmly, âthat you swam ashore with me and saved my life?â
Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in view.
âOne good turn deserves another,â he said, âdonât it?â
Arnold took his hand. âOnly tell me!â he eagerly rejoinedââonly tell me what I can do!â
âYou are going to-day to see your new place, ainât you?â
âYes.â
âCan you put off going till to-morrow?â
âIf itâs any thing seriousâof course I can!â
Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to make sure that they were alone.
âYou know the governess here, donât you?â he said, in a whisper.
âMiss Silvester?â
âYes. Iâve got into a little difficulty with Miss Silvester. And there isnât a living soul I can ask to help me but you.â
âYou know I will help you. What is it?â
âIt isnât so easy to say. Never mindâyouâre no saint either, are you? Youâll keep it a secret, of course? Look here! Iâve acted like an infernal fool. Iâve gone and got the girl into a scrapeââ
Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.
âGood heavens, Geoffrey! You donât meanââ
âI do! Wait a bitâthatâs not the worst of it. She has left the house.â
âLeft the house?â
âLeft, for good and all. She canât come back again.â
âWhy not?â
âBecause sheâs written to her missus. Women (hang âem!) never do these things by halves. Sheâs left a letter to say sheâs privately married, and gone off to her husband. Her husband isâMe. Not that Iâm 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. Thatâs out of the question now. While sheâs expecting me at the inn I shall be bowling along to London. Somebody must tell her what has happenedâor sheâll play the devil, and the whole business will burst up. I canât trust any of the people here. Iâm done for, old chap, unless you help me.â
Arnold lifted his hands in dismay. âItâs the most dreadful situation, Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!â
Geoffrey thoroughly agreed with him. âEnough to knock a man over,â he said, âisnât it? Iâd give something for a drink of beer.â He produced his everlasting pipe, from sheer force of habit. âGot a match?â he asked.
Arnoldâs mind was too preoccupied to notice the question.
âI hope you wonât think Iâm making light of your fatherâs illness,â he said, earnestly. âBut it seems to meâI must say itâit seems to me that the poor girl has the first claim on you.â
Geoffrey looked at him in surly amazement.
âThe first claim on me? Do you think Iâm going to risk being cut out of my fatherâs will? Not for the best woman that ever put on a petticoat!â
Arnoldâs admiration of his friend was the solidly-founded admiration of many years; admiration for a man who could row, box, wrestle, jumpâabove all, who could swimâas few other men could perform those exercises in contemporary England. But that answer shook his faith. Only for the momentâunhappily for Arnold, only for the moment.
âYou know best,â he returned, a little coldly. âWhat can I do?â
Geoffrey took his armâroughly as he took every thing; but in a companionable and confidential way.
âGo, like a good fellow, and tell her what has happened. Weâll start from here as if we were both going to the railway; and Iâll 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 itâs doing the kind thing by an old friend. Thereâs no risk of being found out. Iâm to drive, remember! Thereâs no servant with us, old boy, to notice, and tell tales.â
Even Arnold began to see dimly by this time that he was likely to pay his debt of obligation with interestâas Sir Patrick had foretold.
âWhat am I to say to her?â he asked. âIâm bound to do all I can do to help you, and I will. But what am I to say?â
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 living knew less.
âSay?â he repeated. âLook here! say Iâm half distracted, and all that. Andâwait a bitâtell her to stop where she is till I write to her.â
Arnold hesitated. Absolutely ignorant of that low and limited form of knowledge which is called âknowledge of the world,â his inbred delicacy of mind revealed to him the serious difficulty of the position which his friend was asking him to occupy as plainly as if he was looking at it through the warily-gathered experience of society of a man of twice his age.
âCanât you write to her now, Geoffrey?â he asked.
âWhatâs the good of that?â
âConsider for a minute, and you will see. You have trusted me with a very awkward secret. I may be wrongâI never was mixed up in such a matter beforeâbut to present myself to this lady as your messenger seems exposing her to a dreadful humiliation. Am I to go and tell her to her face: âI know what you are hiding from the knowledge of all the world;â and is she to be expected to endure it?â
âBosh!â said Geoffrey. âThey can endure a deal more than you think. I wish you had heard how she bullied me, in this very place. My good fellow, you donât understand women. The grand secret, in dealing with a woman, is to take her as you take a cat, by the scruff of the neckââ
âI canât face herâunless you will help me by breaking the thing to her first. Iâll stick at no sacrifice to serve you; butâhang it!âmake allowances, Geoffrey, for the difficulty you are putting me in. I am almost a stranger; I donât know how Miss Silvester may receive me, before I can open my lips.â
Those last words touched the question on its practical side. The matter-of-fact view of the difficulty was a view which Geoffrey instantly recognized and understood.
âShe has the devilâs own temper,â he said. âThereâs no denying that. Perhaps Iâd better write. Have we time to go into the house?â
âNo. The house is full of people, and we havenât a minute to spare. Write at once, and write here. I have got a pencil.â
âWhat am I to write on?â
âAny thingâyour brotherâs card.â
Geoffrey took the pencil which Arnold offered to him, and looked at the card. The lines his brother had written covered it. There was no room left. He felt in his pocket, and produced a letterâthe letter which Anne had referred to at the interview between themâthe letter which she had written to insist on his attending the lawn-party at Windygates.
âThis will do,â he said. âItâs one of Anneâs own letters to me. Thereâs room on the fourth page. If I write,â he added, turning suddenly on Arnold, âyou promise to take it to her? Your hand on the bargain!â
He held out the hand which had saved Arnoldâs life in Lisbon Harbor, and received Arnoldâs promise, in remembrance of that time.
âAll right, old fellow. I can tell you how to find the place as we go along in the gig. By-the-by, thereâs one thing thatâs rather important. Iâd better mention it while I think of it.â
âWhat is that?â
âYou mustnât present yourself at the inn in your own name; and you mustnât ask for her by her name.â
âWho am I to ask for?â
âItâs a little awkward. She has gone there as a married woman, in case theyâre particular about taking her inââ
âI understand. Go on.â
âAnd she has planned to tell them (by way of making it all right and straight for both of us, you know) that she expects her husband to join her. If I had been able to go I should have asked at the door for âmy wife.â You are going in my placeââ
âAnd I must ask at the door for âmy wife,â or I shall expose Miss Silvester to unpleasant consequences?â
âYou donât object?â
âNot I! I donât care what I say to the people of the inn. Itâs the meeting with Miss Silvester that Iâm afraid of.â
âIâll put that right for youânever fear!â
He went at once to the table and rapidly scribbled a few linesâthen stopped and considered. âWill that do?â he asked himself. âNo; Iâd better say something spooney to quiet her.â He considered again, added a line, and brought his hand down on the table with a cheery smack. âThat will do the business! Read it yourself, Arnoldâitâs not so badly written.â
Arnold read the note without appearing to share his friendâs favorable opinion of it.
âThis is rather short,â he said.
âHave I time to make it longer?â
âPerhaps not. But let Miss Silvester see for herself that you have no time to make it longer. The train starts in less than half an hour. Put the time.â
âOh, all right! and the date too, if you like.â
He had just added the desired words and figures, and had given the revised letter to Arnold, when Sir Patrick returned to announce that the gig was waiting.
âCome!â he said. âYou havenât a moment to lose!â
Geoffrey started to his feet. Arnold hesitated.
âI must see Blanche!â he pleaded. âI canât leave Blanche without saying good-by. Where is she?â
Sir Patrick pointed to the steps, with a smile. Blanche had followed him from the house. Arnold ran out to her
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