who hated them; to husbands whose interests pointed to mercenary
alliances with other women; to husbands whose one want and one
purpose was to be free from their wives. Strange, what different
ways had led mother and daughter both to the same fate! Would the
parallel hold to the end? "Shall I die," she wondered, thinking
of her mother's last moments, "in Blanche's arms?"
The time had passed unheeded. The morning movement in the house
had failed to catch her ear. She was first called out of herself
to the sense of the present and passing events by the voice of
the servant-girl outside the door.
"The master wants you, ma'am, down stairs."
She rose instantly and put away the little book.
"Is that all the message?" she asked, opening the door.
"Yes, ma'am."
She followed the girl down stairs; recalling to her memory the
strange words addressed to her by Geoffrey, in the presence of
the servants, on the evening before. Was she now to know what
those words really meant? The doubt would soon be set at rest.
"Be the trial what it may," she thought to herself, "let me bear
it as my mother would have borne it."
The servant opened the door of the dining-room. Breakfast was on
the table. Geoffrey was standing at the window. Hester Dethridge
was waiting, posted near the door. He came forward--with the
nearest approach to gentleness in his manner which she had ever
yet seen in it--he came forward, with a set smile on his lips,
and offered her his hand!
She had entered the room, prepared (as she believed) for any
thing that could happen. She was not prepared for this. She stood
speechless, looking at him.
After one glance at her, when she came in, Hester Dethridge
looked at him, too--and from that moment never looked away again,
as long as Anne remained in the room.
He broke the silence--in a voice that was not like his own; with
a furtive restraint in his manner which she had never noticed in
it before.
"Won't you shake hands with your husband," he asked, "when your
husband asks you?"
She mechanically put her hand in his. He dropped it instantly,
with a start. "God! how cold!" he exclaimed. His own hand was
burning hot, and shook incessantly.
He pointed to a chair at the head of the table.
"Will you make the tea?" he asked.
She had given him her hand mechanically; she advanced a step
mechanically--and then stopped.
"Would you prefer breakfasting by yourself?" he said.
"If you please," she answered, faintly.
"Wait a minute. I have something to say before you go."
She waited. He considered with himself; consulting his
memory--visibly, unmistakably, consulting it before he spoke
again.
"I have had the night to think in," he said. "The night has made
a new man of me. I beg your pardon for what I said yesterday. I
was not myself yesterday. I talked nonsense yesterday. Please to
forget it, and forgive it. I wish to turn over a new leaf. and
make amends--make amends for my past conduct. It shall be my
endeavor to be a good husband. In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge,
I request you to give me a chance. I won't force your inclinati
ons. We are married--what's the use of regretting it? Stay here,
as you said yesterday, on your own terms. I wish to make it up.
In the presence of Mrs. Dethridge, I say I wish to make it up. I
won't detain you. I request you to think of it. Good-morning."
He said those extraordinary words like a slow boy saying a hard
lesson--his eyes on the ground, his fingers restlessly fastening
and unfastening a button on his waistcoat.
Anne left the room. In the passage she was obliged to wait, and
support herself against the wall. His unnatural politeness was
horrible; his carefully asserted repentance chilled her to the
soul with dread. She had never felt--in the time of his fiercest
anger and his foulest language--the unutterable horror of him
that she felt now.
Hester Dethridge came out, closing the door behind her. She
looked attentively at Anne--then wrote on her slate, and held it
out, with these words on it:
"Do you believe him?"
Anne pushed the slate away, and ran up stairs. She fastened the
door--and sank into a chair.
"He is plotting something against me," she said to herself.
"What?"
A sickening, physical sense of dread--entirely new in her
question. The sinking at her heart turned her faint. She went to
get the air at the open window.
At the same moment there was a ring at the gate bell. Suspicious
of any thing and every thing. she felt a sudden distrust of
letting herself be seen. She drew back behind the curtain and
looked out.
A man-servant, in livery, was let in. He had a letter in his
hand. He said to the girl as he passed Anne's window, "I come
from Lady Holchester; I must see Mr. Delamayn instantly."
They went in. There was an interval. The footman reappeared,
leaving the place. There was another interval. Then there came a
knock at the door. Anne hesitated. The knock was repeated, and
the dumb murmuring of Hester Dethridge was heard outside. Anne
opened the door.
Hester came in with the breakfast. She pointed to a letter among
other things on the tray. It was addressed to Anne, in Geoffrey's
handwriting, and it contained these words:
"My father died yesterday. Write your orders for your mourning.
The boy will take them. You are not to trouble yourself to go to
London. Somebody is to come here to you from the shop."
Anne dropped the paper on her lap without looking up. At the same
moment Hester Dethridge's slate was passed stealthily between her
eyes and the note--with these words traced on it. "His mother is
coming to-day. His brother has been telegraphed from Scotland. He
was drunk last night. He's drinking again. I know what that
means. Look out, missus--look out."
Anne signed to her to leave the room. She went out, pulling the
door to, but not closing it behind her.
There was another ring at the gate bell. Once more Anne went to
the window. Only the lad, this time; arriving to take his orders
for the day. He had barely entered the garden when he was
followed by the postman with letters. In a minute more Geoffrey's
voice was heard in the passage, and Geoffrey's heavy step
ascended the wooden stairs. Anne hurried across the room to draw
the bolts. Geoffrey met her before she could close the door.
"A letter for you," he said, keeping scrupulously out of the
room. "I don't wish to force your inclinations--I only request
you to tell me who it's from."
His manner was as carefully subdued as ever. But the
unacknowledged distrust in him (when he looked at her) betrayed
itself in his eye.
She glanced at the handwriting on the address.
"From Blanche," she answered.
He softly
put his foot between the door and the post--and waited
until she had opened and read Blanche's letter.
"May I see it?" he asked--and put in his hand for it through the
door.
The spirit in Anne which would once have resisted him was dead in
her now. She handed him the open letter.
It was very short. Excepting some brief expressions of fondness,
it was studiously confined to stating the purpose for which it
had been written. Blanche proposed to visit Anne that afternoon,
accompanied by her uncle, she sent word beforehand, to make sure
of finding Anne at home. That was all. The letter had evidently
been written under Sir Patrick's advice.
Geoffrey handed it back, after first waiting a moment to think.
"My father died yesterday," he said. "My wife can't receive
visitors before he is buried. I don't wish to force your
inclinations. I only say I can't let visitors in here before the
funeral--except my own family. Send a note down stairs. The lad
will take it to your friend when he goes to London." With those
words he left
An appeal to the proprieties of life, in the mouth of Geoffrey
Delamayn, could only mean one of two things. Either he had spoken
in brutal mockery--or he had spoken with some ulterior object in
view. Had he seized on the event of his father's death as a
pretext for isolating his wife from all communication with the
outer world? Were there reasons, which had not yet asserted
themselves, for his dreading the result, if he allowed Anne to
communicate with her friends?
The hour wore on, and Hester Dethridge appeared again. The lad
was waiting for Anne's orders for her mourning, and for her note
to Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth.
Anne wrote the orders and the note. Once more the horrible slate
appeared when she had done, between the writing paper and her
eyes, with the hard lines of warning pitilessly traced on it. "
He has locked the gate. When there's a ring we are to come to him
Mrs. Glenarm. He has had more brandy. Like my husband. Mind
yourself."
The one way out of the high walls all round the cottage locked.
Friends forbidden to see her. Solitary imprisonment, with her
husband for a jailer. Before she had been four-and-twenty hours
in the cottage it had come to that. And what was to follow?
She went back mechanically to the window. The sight of the outer
world, the occasional view of a passing vehicle, helped to
sustain her.
The lad appeared in the front garden departing to perform his
errand to London. Geoffrey went with him to open the gate, and
called after him, as he passed through it, "Don't forget the
books!"
The "books?" What "books?" Who wanted them? The slightest thing
now roused Anne's suspicion. For hours afterward the books
haunted her mind.
He secured the gate and came back again. He stopped under Anne's
window and called to her. She showed herself. "When you want air
and exercise," he said, "the back garden is at your own
disposal." He put the key of the gate in his pocket and returned
to the house.
After some hesitation Anne decided on taking him at his word. In
her state of suspense, to remain within the four walls of the
bedroom was unendurable. If some lurking snare lay hid under the
fair-sounding proposal which Geoffrey had made, it was less
repellent to her boldly to prove what it might be than to wait
pondering over it with her mind in the dark. She put on her hat
and went down into the garden. Nothing happened out of the
common. Wherever he was he never showed himself. She wandered up
and down, keeping on the side of the garden which was farthest
from the dining-room window. To a woman, escape from the place
was simply impossible. Setting out of the question the height of
the walls, they were armed at the top with a thick setting of
jagged broken glass. A small back-door in the end wall (intended
probably for the gardener's use) was bolted and locked--the key
having been taken out. There was not a house near. The lands of
the local growers of vegetables surrounded the garden on all
sides. In the nineteenth century, and in the immediate
neighborhood of a great metropolis, Anne was as absolutely
isolated from all contact with the humanity around her as if she
lay in her grave.
After the lapse of half an hour the silence was broken by a noise
of carriage wheels on the public road in front, and a ring at the
bell. Anne kept close to the cottage, at the back; determined, if
a chance offered, on speaking to the visitor, whoever the visitor
might be.
She heard voices in the dining-room th rough the open
window--Geoffrey's voice and the voice of a woman. Who was the
woman? Not Mrs. Glenarm, surely? After a while the visitor's
voice was suddenly raised. "Where is she?" it said. "I wish to
see her." Anne instantly advanced to the back-door of the
house--and found herself face to face with a lady who was a total
stranger to her.
"Are you my son's wife?" asked the lady.
"I am your son's prisoner," Anne answered.
Lady Holchester's pale face turned paler still. It was plain that
Anne's reply had confirmed some doubt in the mother s mind which
had been already suggested to it by the son.
"What do you mean?" she asked, in a whisper.
Geoffrey's heavy footsteps crossed the dining-room. There was no
time to explain. Anne whispered back,
"Tell my friends what I have told you."
Geoffrey appeared at the dining-room door.
"Name one of your friends," said Lady Holchester.
"Sir Patrick Lundie."
Geoffrey heard the answer. "What about Sir Patrick Lundie?" he
asked.
"I wish to see Sir Patrick Lundie," said his mother. "And your
wife can tell me where to find him."
Anne instantly understood that Lady Holchester would communicate
with Sir Patrick. She mentioned his London address. Lady
Holchester turned to leave the cottage. Her son stopped her.
"Let's set things straight," he said, "before you go. My mother,"
he went on, addressing himself to Anne, "don't think there's much
chance for us two of living comfortably together. Bear witness to
the truth--will you? What did I tell you at breakfast-time?
Didn't I say it should be my endeavor to make you a good husband?
Didn't I say--in Mrs. Dethridge's presence--I wanted to make it
up?" He waited until Anne had answered in the affirmative, and
then appealed to his mother. "Well? what do you think now?"
Lady Holchester declined to reveal what she thought. "You shall
see me, or hear from me, this evening," she said to Anne.
Geoffrey attempted to repeat his unanswered question. His mother
looked at him. His eyes instantly dropped before hers. She
gravely bent her head to Anne, and drew her veil. Her son
followed her out in silence to the gate.
Anne returned to her room, su
stained by the first sense of relief
which she had felt since the morning. "His mother is alarmed,"
she said to herself. "A change will come."
A change _was_ to come--with the coming night.
CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FIRST.
THE PROPOSAL.
TOWARD sunset, Lady Holchester's carriage drew up before the gate
of the cottage.
Three persons occupied the carriage: Lady Holchester, her eldest
son (now Lord Holchester), and Sir Patrick Lundie.
"Will you wait in the carriage, Sir Patrick ?" said Julius. " Or
will you come in?"
"I will wait. If I can be of the least use to _her,_, send for me
instantly. In the mean time don't forget to make the stipulation
which I have suggested. It is the one certain way of putting your
brother's real feeling in this matter to the test."
The servant had rung the bell without producing any result. He
rang again. Lady Holchester put a question to Sir Patrick.
"If I have an opportunity of speaking to my son's wife alone,"
she said, "have you any message to give?"
Sir Patrick produced a little note.
"May I appeal to your ladyship's kindness to give her this?" The
gate was opened by the servant-girl, as Lady Holchester took the
note. "Remember," reiterated Sir Patrick, earnestly "if I can be
of the smallest service to her--don't think of my position with
Mr. Delamayn. Send for me at once."
Julius and his mother were conducted into the drawing-room. The
girl informed them that her master had gone up stairs to lie
down, and that he would be with them immediately.
Both mother and son were too anxious to speak. Julius wandered
uneasily about the room. Some books attracted his notice on a
table in the corner--four dirty, greasy volumes, with a slip of
paper projecting from the leaves of one of them, and containing
this inscription, "With Mr. Perry's respects." Julius opened the
volume. It was the ghastly popular record of Criminal Trials in
England, called the Newgate Calendar. Julius showed it to his
mother.
"Geoffrey's taste in literature!" he said, with a faint smile.
Lady Holchester signed to him to put the book back.
"You have seen Geoffrey's wife already--have you not?" she asked.
There was no contempt now in her tone when she referred to Anne.
The impression produced on her by her visit to the cottage,
earlier in the day, associated Geoffrey's wife with family
anxieties of no trivial kind. She might still (for Mrs. Glenarm's
sake) be a woman to be disliked--but she was no longer a woman to
be despised.
"I saw her when she came to Swanhaven," said Julius. "I agree
with Sir Patrick in thinking her a very interesting person."
"What did Sir Patrick say to you about Geoffrey this
afternoon--while I was out of the room?"
"Only what he said to _you._ He thought their position toward
each other here a very deplorable one. He considered that the
reasons were serious for our interfering immediately."
"Sir Patrick's own opinion, Julius, goes farther than that."
"He has not acknowledged it, that I know of. "
"How _can_ he acknowledge it--to us?"
The door opened, and Geoffrey entered the room.
Julius eyed him closely as they shook hands. His eyes were
bloodshot; his face was flushed; his utterance was thick--the
look of him was the look of a man who had been drinking hard.
"Well?" he said to his mother. "What brings you back?"
"Julius has a proposal to make to you," Lady Holchester answered.
"I approve of it; and I have come with him."
Geoffrey turned to his brother.
"What can a rich man like you want with a poor devil like me?" he
asked.
"I want to do you justice, Geoffrey--if you will help me, by
meeting me half-way. Our mother has told you about the will?"