Man and Wife - Wilkie Collins (the gingerbread man read aloud txt) š
- Author: Wilkie Collins
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No! it was not to be done. Something in Blancheās trivial questionāor something, perhaps, in the sight of Blancheās faceāroused the warning instinct in Anne, which silenced her on the very brink of the disclosure. At the last moment the iron chain of circumstances made itself felt, binding her without mercy to the hateful, the degrading deceit. Could she own the truth, about Geoffrey and herself, to Blanche? and, without owning it, could she explain and justify Arnoldās conduct in joining her privately at Craig Fernie? A shameful confession made to an innocent girl; a risk of fatally shaking Arnoldās place in Blancheās estimation; a scandal at the inn, in the disgrace of which the others would be involved with herselfāthis was the price at which she must speak, if she followed her first impulse, and said, in so many words, āArnold is here.ā
It was not to be thought of. Cost what it might in present wretchednessāend how it might, if the deception was discovered in the futureāBlanche must be kept in ignorance of the truth, Arnold must be kept in hiding until she had gone.
Anne opened the door for the second time, and went in.
The business of the toilet was standing still. Blanche was in confidential communication with Mrs. Inchbare. At the moment when Anne entered the room she was eagerly questioning the landlady about her friendās āinvisible husbandāāshe was just saying, āDo tell me! what is he like?ā
The capacity for accurate observation is a capacity so uncommon, and is so seldom associated, even where it does exist, with the equally rare gift of accurately describing the thing or the person observed, that Anneās dread of the consequences if Mrs. Inchbare was allowed time to comply with Blanches request, was, in all probability, a dread misplaced. Right or wrong, however, the alarm that she felt hurried her into taking measures for dismissing the landlady on the spot. āWe mustnāt keep you from your occupations any longer,ā she said to Mrs. Inchbare. āI will give Miss Lundie all the help she needs.ā
Barred from advancing in one direction, Blancheās curiosity turned back, and tried in another. She boldly addressed herself to Anne.
āI must know something about him,ā she said. āIs he shy before strangers? I heard you whispering with him on the other side of the door. Are you jealous, Anne? Are you afraid I shall fascinate him in this dress?ā
Blanche, in Mrs. Inchbareās best gownāan ancient and high-waisted silk garment, of the hue called ābottle-green,ā pinned up in front, and trailing far behind herāwith a short, orange-colored shawl over her shoulders, and a towel tied turban fashion round her head, to dry her wet hair, looked at once the strangest and the prettiest human anomaly that ever was seen. āFor heavenās sake,ā she said, gayly, ādonāt tell your husband I am in Mrs. Inchbareās clothes! I want to appear suddenly, without a word to warn him of what a figure I am! I should have nothing left to wish for in this world,ā she added, ā if Arnold could only see me now!ā
Looking in the glass, she noticed Anneās face reflected behind her, and started at the sight of it.
āWhat is the matter?ā she asked. āYour face frightens me.ā
It was useless to prolong the pain of the inevitable misunderstanding between them. The one course to take was to silence all further inquiries then and there. Strongly as she felt this, Anneās inbred loyalty to Blanche still shrank from deceiving her to her face. āI might write it,ā she thought. āI canāt say it, with Arnold Brinkworth in the same house with her! āWrite it? As she reconsidered the word, a sudden idea struck her. She opened the bedroom door, and led the way back into the sitting-room.
āGone again!ā exclaimed Blanche, looking uneasily round the empty room. āAnne! thereās something so strange in all this, that I neither can, nor will, put up with your silence any longer. Itās not just, itās not kind, to shut me out of your confidence, after we have lived together like sisters all our lives!ā
Anne sighed bitterly, and kissed her on the forehead. āYou shall know all I can tell youāall I dare tell you,ā she said, gently. āDonāt reproach me. It hurts me more than you think.ā
She turned away to the side table, and came back with a letter in her hand. āRead that,ā she said, and handed it to Blanche.
Blanche saw her own name, on the address, in the handwriting of Anne.
āWhat does this mean?ā she asked.
āI wrote to you, after Sir Patrick had left me,ā Anne replied. āI 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.ā
Blanche still held the letter, unopened.
āA letter from you to me! when we are both together, and both alone in the same room! Itās worse than formal, Anne! Itās as if there was a quarrel between us. Why should it distress you to speak to me?ā
Anneās 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.
āAnd 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! donāt think me untrue to the affection we bear toward each otherādonāt think there is any change in my heart toward youābelieve 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 loveāthe 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 timeā_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 oftenāI 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!ā_
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 Anneās shoulder. Sorrowfully and quietly, she put the letter into her bosomāand took Anneās hand, and kissed it.
āAll my questions are answered, dear. I will wait your time.ā
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.
āI see lights,ā she saidāāthe 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. Itās just possible Lady Lundie may have come for me herself.ā
The ordinary relations of the two toward each other were completely reversed. Anne was like a child in Blancheās 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 sofaāa 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 Anneās own interests, to take her uncle into her confidence, and to tell him all that had happened at the inn āIāll first make him forgive me,ā thought Blanche. āAnd then Iāll see if he thinks as I do, when I tell him about Anne.ā
The carriage drew up at the door; and Mrs. Inchbare showed inānot Lady Lundie, but Lady Lundieās maid.
The womanās account of what had happened at Windygates was simple enough. Lady Lundie had, as a matter of course, placed the right interpretation on Blancheās 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 Patrickās 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 weatherāhad 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 Patrickās 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 womanās hands, and joined Anne in the bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home.
āI am going back to a good scolding,ā she said. āBut a scolding is no novelty in my experience of Lady Lundie. Iām not uneasy about that, AnneāIām uneasy about you. Can I be sure of one thingādo you stay here for the present?ā
The worst that could happen at the inn had happened. Nothing was to be gained nowāand every thing might be lostāby leaving the place at which Geoffrey had promised to write to her. Anne answered that she proposed remaining at the inn for the present.
āYou promise to write to me?ā
āYes.ā
āIf there is any thing I can do for youā?ā
āThere is nothing, my love.ā
āThere may be. If you want to see me, we can meet at Windygates without being discovered. Come at luncheon-timeāgo around by the shrubberyāand step in at the library window. You know as well as I do there is nobody in the library at that hour. Donāt say itās impossibleāyou donāt know what may happen. I shall wait ten minutes every day on the chance of seeing you. Thatās settledāand itās settled that you write. Before I go, darling, is there any thing else we can think of for the future?ā
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
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