Man and Wife - Wilkie Collins (phonics books TXT) 📗

one woman who was eternally sacred to him⁠—to the woman from whose bosom he had drawn the breath of life.

“Does the man live,” he said, “who can think of his mother⁠—and despise women?”

That answer set the prisoned misery in her free. She gave him her hand⁠—she faintly thanked him. The merciful tears came to her at last.

Arnold rose, and turned away to the window in despair. “I mean well,” he said. “And yet I only distress her!”

She heard him, and straggled to compose herself “No,” she answered, “you comfort me. Don’t mind my crying⁠—I’m the better for it.” She looked round at him gratefully. “I won’t distress you, Mr. Brinkworth. I ought to thank you⁠—and I do. Come back or I shall think you are angry with me.” Arnold went back to her. She gave him her hand once more. “One doesn’t understand people all at once,” she said, simply. “I thought you were like other men⁠—I didn’t know till today how kind you could be. Did you walk here?” she added, suddenly, with an effort to change the subject. “Are you tired? I have not been kindly received at this place⁠—but I’m sure I may offer you whatever the inn affords.”

It was impossible not to feel for her⁠—it was impossible not to be interested in her. Arnold’s honest longing to help her expressed itself a little too openly when he spoke next. “All I want, Miss Silvester, is to be of some service to you, if I can,” he said. “Is there anything I can do to make your position here more comfortable? You will stay at this place, won’t you? Geoffrey wishes it.”

She shuddered, and looked away. “Yes! yes!” she answered, hurriedly.

“You will hear from Geoffrey,” Arnold went on, “tomorrow or next day. I know he means to write.”

“For Heaven’s sake, don’t speak of him any more!” she cried out. “How do you think I can look you in the face⁠—” Her cheeks flushed deep, and her eyes rested on him with a momentary firmness. “Mind this! I am his wife, if promises can make me his wife! He has pledged his word to me by all that is sacred!” She checked herself impatiently. “What am I saying? What interest can you have in this miserable state of things? Don’t let us talk of it! I have something else to say to you. Let us go back to my troubles here. Did you see the landlady when you came in?”

“No. I only saw the waiter.”

“The landlady has made some absurd difficulty about letting me have these rooms because I came here alone.”

“She won’t make any difficulty now,” said Arnold. “I have settled that.”

“You!”

Arnold smiled. After what had passed, it was an indescribable relief to him to see the humorous side of his own position at the inn.

“Certainly,” he answered. “When I asked for the lady who had arrived here alone this afternoon⁠—”

“Yes.”

“I was told, in your interests, to ask for her as my wife.”

Anne looked at him⁠—in alarm as well as in surprise.

“You asked for me as your wife?” she repeated.

“Yes. I haven’t done wrong⁠—have I? As I understood it, there was no alternative. Geoffrey told me you had settled with him to present yourself here as a married lady, whose husband was coming to join her.”

“I thought of him when I said that. I never thought of you.”

“Natural enough. Still, it comes to the same thing (doesn’t it?) with the people of this house.”

“I don’t understand you.”

“I will try and explain myself a little better. Geoffrey said your position here depended on my asking for you at the door (as he would have asked for you if he had come) in the character of your husband.”

“He had no right to say that.”

“No right? After what you have told me of the landlady, just think what might have happened if he had not said it! I haven’t had much experience myself of these things. But⁠—allow me to ask⁠—wouldn’t it have been a little awkward (at my age) if I had come here and inquired for you as a friend? Don’t you think, in that case, the landlady might have made some additional difficulty about letting you have the rooms?”

It was beyond dispute that the landlady would have refused to let the rooms at all. It was equally plain that the deception which Arnold had practiced on the people of the inn was a deception which Anne had herself rendered necessary, in her own interests. She was not to blame; it was clearly impossible for her to have foreseen such an event as Geoffrey’s departure for London. Still, she felt an uneasy sense of responsibility⁠—a vague dread of what might happen next. She sat nervously twisting her handkerchief in her lap, and made no answer.

“Don’t suppose I object to this little stratagem,” Arnold went on. “I am serving my old friend, and I am helping the lady who is soon to be his wife.”

Anne rose abruptly to her feet, and amazed him by a very unexpected question.

“Mr. Brinkworth,” she said, “forgive me the rudeness of something I am about to say to you. When are you going away?”

Arnold burst out laughing.

“When I am quite sure I can do nothing more to assist you,” he answered.

“Pray don’t think of me any longer.”

“In your situation! who else am I to think of?”

Anne laid her hand earnestly on his arm, and answered:

“Blanche!”

“Blanche?” repeated Arnold, utterly at a loss to understand her.

“Yes⁠—Blanche. She found time to tell me what had passed between you this morning before I left Windygates. I know you have made her an offer: I know you are engaged to be married to her.”

Arnold was delighted to hear it. He had been merely unwilling to leave her thus far. He was absolutely determined to stay with her now.

“Don’t expect me to go after that!” he said. “Come and sit down again, and let’s talk about Blanche.”

Anne declined impatiently, by a gesture. Arnold was too deeply interested in the new topic to take