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    Man and Wife

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    what I have told you; and you shall have the order to-night."

      She passed her apron over her face, and drew a long breath of

      relief. Geoffrey turned to the door.

      "I will be back at six this evening," he said. "Shall I find it

      done?"

      She bowed her head.

      His first condition accepted, he proceeded to the second.

      "When the opportunity offers," he resumed, "I shall go up to my

      room. I shall ring the dining room bell first. You will go up

      before me when you hear that--and you will show me how you did it

      in the empty house?"

      She made the affirmative sign once more.

      At the same moment the door in the passage below was opened and

      closed again. Geoffrey instantly went down stairs. It was

      possible that Anne might have forgotten something; and it was

      necessary to prevent her from returning to her own room.

      They met in the passage.

      "Tired of waiting in the garden?" he asked, abruptly.

      She pointed to the dining-room.

      "The postman has just given me a letter for you, through the

      grating in the gate," she answered. "I have put it on the table

      in there."

      He went in. The handwriting on the address of the letter was the

      handwriting of Mrs. Glenarm. He put it unread into his pocket,

      and went back to Anne.

      "Step out!" he said. "We shall lose the train."

      They started for their visit to Holchester House.

      CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SEVENTH.

      THE END.

      AT a few minutes before six o'clock that evening, Lord

      Holchester's carriage brought Geoffrey and Anne back to the

      cottage.

      Geoffrey prevented the servant from ringing at the gate. He had

      taken the key with him, when he left home earlier in the day.

      Having admitted Anne, and having closed the gate again, he went

      on before her to the kitchen window, and called to Hester

      Dethridge.

      "Take some cold water into the drawing-room and fill the vase on

      the chimney-piece," he said. "The sooner you put those flowers

      into water," he added, turning to his wife, "the longer they will

      last."

      He pointed, as he spoke, to a nosegay in Anne's hand, which

      Julius had gathered for her from the conservatory at Holchester

      House. Leaving her to arrange the flowers in the vase, he went up

      stairs. After waiting for a moment, he was joined by Hester

      Dethridge.

      "Done?" he asked, in a whisper.

      Hester made the affirmative sign.

      Geoffrey took off his boots and led the way into the spare room.

      They noiselessly moved the bed back to its place against the

      partition wall--and left the room again. When Anne entered it,

      some minutes afterward, not the slightest change of any kind was

      visible since she had last seen it in the middle of the day.

      She removed her bonnet and mantle, and sat down to rest.

      The whole course of events, since the previous night, had tended

      one way, and had exerted the same delusive influence over her

      mind. It was impossible for her any longer to resist the

      conviction that she had distrusted appearances without the

      slightest reason, and that she had permitted purely visionary

      suspicions to fill her with purely causeless alarm. In the firm

      belief that she was in danger, she had watched through the

      night--and nothing had happened. In the confident anticipation

      that Geoffrey had promised what he was resolved not to perform,

      she had waited to see what excuse he would find for keeping her

      at the cottage. And, when the time came for the visit, she found

      him ready to fulfill the engagement which he had made. At

      Holchester House, not the slightest interference had been

      attempted with her perfect liberty of action and speech. Resolved

      to inform Sir Patrick that she had changed her room, she had

      described the alarm of fire and the events which had succeeded

      it, in the fullest detail--and had not been once checked by

      Geoffrey from beginning to end. She had spoken in confidence to

      Blanche, and had never been interrupted. Walking round the

      conservatory, she had dropped behind the others with perfect

      impunity, to say a grateful word to Sir Patrick, and to ask if

      the interpretation that he placed on Geoffrey's conduct was

      really the interpretation which had been hinted at by Blanche.

      They had talked together for ten minutes or more. Sir Patrick had

      assured her that Blanche had correctly represented his opinion.

      He had declared his conviction that the rash way was, in her

      case, the right way; and that she would do well (with his

      assistance) to take the initiative, in the matter of the

      separation, on herself. "As long as he can keep you under the

      same roof with him"--Sir Patrick had said--"so long he will

      speculate on our anxiety to release you from the oppression of

      living with him; and so long he will hold out with his brother

      (in the character of a penitent husband) for higher terms. Put

      the signal in the window, and try the experiment to-night. Once

      find your way to the garden door, and I answer for keeping you

      safely out of his reach until he has submitted to the separation,

      and has signed the deed." In those words he had urged Anne to

      prompt action. He had received, in return, her promise to be

      guided by his advice. She had gone back to the drawing-room; and

      Geoffrey had made no remark on her absence. She had returned to

      Fulham, alone with him in his brother's carriage; and he had

      asked no questions. What was it natural, with her means of

      judging, to infer from all this? Could she see into Sir Patrick's

      mind and detect that he was deliberately concealing his own

      conviction, in the fear that he might paralyze her energies if he

      acknowledged the alarm for her that he really felt? No. She could

      only accept the false appearances that surrounded her in the

      disguise of truth. She could only adopt, in good faith, Sir

      Patrick's assumed point of view, and believe, on the evidence of

      her own observation, that Sir Patrick was right.

      Toward dusk, Anne began to feel the exhaustion which was the

      necessary result of a night passed without sleep. She rang her

      bell, and asked for some tea.

      Hester Dethridge answered the bell. Instead of making the usual

      sign, she stood considering--and then wrote on her slate. These

      were the words: "I have all the work to do, now the girl has

      gone. If you would have your tea in the drawing-room, you would

      save me another journey up stairs."

      Anne at once engaged to comply with the request.

      "Are you ill?" she asked; noticing, faint as the light now was,

      something strangely altered in Hester's manner.

      Without looking up, Hester shook her head.

      "Has any thing happened to vex you?"

      The negative sign was repeated.

      "Have I offended you?"

      She suddenly advanced a step, suddenly looked at Anne; checked

      herself with a dull moan, like a moan of pain; and hurried out of

      the room.

      Concluding that she had inadvertently said, or done, something to

      off
    end Hester Dethridge, Anne determined to return to the subject

      at the first favorable opportunity. In the mean time, she

      descended to the ground-floor. The dining-room door, standing

      wide open, showed her Geoffrey sitting at the table, writing a

      letter--with the fatal brandy-bottle at his side.

      After what Mr. Speedwell had told her, it was her duty to

      interfere. She performed her duty, without an instant's

      hesitation.

      "Pardon me for interrupting you," she said. "I think you have

      forgotten what Mr. Speedwell told you about that."

      She pointed to the bottle. Geoffrey looked at it; looked down

      again at his letter; and impatiently shook his head. She made a

      second attempt at remonstrance--again without effect. He only

      said, "All right!" in lower tones than were customary with him,

      and continued his occupation. It was useless to court a third

      repulse. Anne went into the drawing-room.

      The letter on which he was engaged was an answer to Mrs. Glenarm,

      who had written to tell him that she was leaving town. He had

      reached his two concluding sentences when Anne spoke to him. They

      ran as follows: "I may have news to bring you, before long, which

      you don't look for. Stay where you are through to-morrow, and

      wait to hear from me."

      After sealing the envelope, he emptied his glass of brandy and

      water; and waited, looking through the open door. When Hester

      Dethridge crossed the passage with the tea-tray, and entered the

      drawing-room, he gave the sign which had been agreed on. He rang

      his bell. Hester came out again, closing the drawing-room door

      behind her.

      "Is she safe at her tea?" he asked, removing his heavy boots, and

      putting on the slippers which were placed ready for him.

      Hester bowed her head.

      He pointed up the stairs. "You go first," he whispered. "No

      nonsense! and no noise!"

      She ascended the stairs. He followed slowly. Although he had only

      drunk one glass of brandy and water, his step was uncertain

      already. With one hand on the wall, and one hand on the banister,

      he made his way to the top; stopped, and listened for a moment;

      then joined Hester in his own room, and softly locked the door.

      "Well?" he said.

      She was standing motionless in the middle of the room--not like a

      living woman--like a machine waiting to be set in movement.

      Finding it useless to speak to her, he touched her (with a

      strange sensation of shrinking in him as he did it), and pointed

      to the partition wall.

      The touch roused her. With slow step and vacant face--moving as

      if she was walking in her sleep--she led the way to the papered

      wall; knelt down at the skirting-board; and, taking out two small

      sharp nails, lifted up a long strip of the paper which had been

      detached from the plaster beneath. Mounting on a chair, she

      turned back the strip and pinned it up, out of the way, using the

      two nails, which she had kept ready in her hand.

      By the last dim rays of twilight, Geoffrey looked at the wall.

      A hollow space met his view. At a distance of some three feet

      from the floor, the laths had been sawn away, and the plaster had

      been ripped out, piecemeal, so as to leave a cavity, sufficient

      in height and width to allow free power of working in any

      direction, to a man's arms. The cavity completely pierced the

      substance of the wall. Nothing but the paper on the other side

      prevented eye or hand from penetrating into the next room.

      Hester Dethridge got down from the chair, and made signs for a

      light.

      Geoffrey took a match from the box. The same strange uncertainty

      which had already possessed his feet, appeared now to possess his

      hands. He struck the match too heavily against the sandpaper, and

      broke it. He tried another, and struck it too lightly to kindle

      the flame. Hester took the box out of his hands. Having lit the

      candle, she hel d it low, and pointed to the skirting-board.

      Two little hooks were fixed into the floor, near the part of the

      wall from which the paper had been removed. Two lengths of fine

      and strong string were twisted once or twice round the hooks. The

      loose ends of the string extending to some length beyond the

      twisted parts, were neatly coiled away against the

      skirting-board. The other ends, drawn tight, disappeared in two

      small holes drilled through the wall, at a height of a foot from

      the floor.

      After first untwisting the strings from the hooks, Hester rose,

      and held the candle so as to light the cavity in the wall. Two

      more pieces of the fine string were seen here, resting loose upon

      the uneven surface which marked the lower boundary of the

      hollowed space. Lifting these higher strings, Hester lifted the

      loosened paper in the next room--the lower strings, which had

      previously held the strip firm and flat against the sound portion

      of the wall, working in their holes, and allowing the paper to

      move up freely. As it rose higher and higher, Geoffrey saw thin

      strips of cotton wool lightly attached, at intervals, to the back

      of the paper, so as effectually to prevent it from making a

      grating sound against the wall. Up and up it came slowly, till it

      could be pulled through the hollow space, and pinned up out of

      the way, as the strip previously lifted had been pinned before

      it. Hester drew back, and made way for Geoffrey to look through.

      There was Anne's room, visible through the wall! He softly parted

      the light curtains that hang over the bed. There was the pillow,

      on which her head would rest at night, within reach of his hands!

      The deadly dexterity of it struck him cold. His nerves gave way.

      He drew back with a start of guilty fear, and looked round the

      room. A pocket flask of brandy lay on the table at his bedside.

      He snatched it up, and emptied it at a draught--and felt like

      himself again.

      He beckoned to Hester to approach him.

      "Before we go any further," he said, "there's one thing I want to

      know. How is it all to be put right again? Suppose this room is

      examined? Those strings will show."

      Hester opened a cupboard and produced a jar. She took out the

      cork. There was a mixture inside which looked like glue. Partly

      by signs, and partly by help of the slate, she showed how the

      mixture could be applied to the back of the loosened strip of

      paper in the next room--how the paper could be glued to the sound

      lower part of the wall by tightening the strings--how the

      strings, having served that purpose, could be safely removed--how

      the same process could be followed in Geoffrey's room, after the

      hollowed place had been filled up again with the materials

      waiting in the scullery, or even without filling up the hollowed

      place if the time failed for doing it. In either case, the

      refastened paper would hide every thing, and the wall would tell

      no tales.

      Geoffrey was satisfied. He pointed next to the towels in his

      room.

      "Take one of them," he said, "and show me how you did it, with

      y
    our own hands."

      As he said the words, Anne's voice reached his ear from below,

      calling for "Mrs. Dethridge."

      It was impossible to say what might happen next. In another

      minute, she might go up to her room, and discover every thing.

      Geoffrey pointed to the wall.

      "Put it right again," he said. "Instantly!"

      It was soon done. All that was necessary was to let the two

      strips of paper drop back into their places--to fasten the strip

      to the wall in Anne's room, by tightening the two lower

      strings--and then to replace the nails which held the loose strip

      on Geoffrey's side. In a minute, the wall had reassumed its

      customary aspect.

      They stole out, and looked over the stairs into the passage

      below. After calling uselessly for the second time, Anne

      appeared, crossed over to the kitchen; and, returning again with

      the kettle in her hand, closed the drawing-room door.

      Hester Dethridge waited impenetrably to receive her next

      directions. There were no further directions to give. The hideous

      dramatic representation of the woman's crime for which Geoffrey

      had asked was in no respect necessary: the means were all

      prepared, and the manner of using them was self-evident. Nothing

      but the opportunity, and the resolution to profit by it, were

      wanting to lead the way to the end. Geoffrey signed to Hester to

      go down stairs.

      "Get back into the kitchen," he said, "before she comes out

      again. I shall keep in the garden. When she goes up into her room

      for the night, show yourself at the back-door--and I shall know."

      Hester set her foot on the first stair--stopped--turned

      round--and looked slowly along the two walls of the passage, from

      end to end--shuddered--shook her head--and went slowly on down

      the stairs.

      "What were you looking for?" he whispered after her.

      She neither answered, nor looked back--she went her way into the

      kitchen.

      He waited a minute, and then followed her.

      On his way out to the garden, he went into the dining-room. The

      moon had risen; and the window-shutters were not closed. It was

      easy to find the brandy and the jug of water on the table. He

      mixed the two, and emptied the tumbler at a draught. "My head's

      queer," he whispered to himself. He passed his handkerchief over

      his face. "How infernally hot it is to-night!" He made for the

      door. It was open, and plainly visible--and yet, he failed to

      find his way to it. Twice, he found himself trying to walk

      through the wall, on either side. The third time, he got out, and

      reached the garden. A strange sensation possessed him, as he

      walked round and round. He had not drunk enough, or nearly

      enough, to intoxicate him. His mind, in a dull way, felt the same

      as usual; but his body was like the body of a drunken man.

      The night advanced; the clock of Putney Church struck ten.

      Anne appeared again from the drawing room, with her bedroom

      candle in her hand.

      "Put out the lights," she said to Hester, at the kitchen door; "I

      am going up stairs."

      She entered her room. The insupportable sense of weariness, after

      the sleepless night that she had passed, weighed more heavily on

      her than ever. She locked her door, but forbore, on this

      occasion, to fasten the bolts. The dread of danger was no longer

      present to her mind; and there was this positive objection to

      losing the bolts, that the unfastening of them would increase the

      difficulty of leaving the room noiselessly later in the night.

      She loosened her dress, and lifted her hair from her temples--and

      paced to and fro in the room wearily, thinking. Geoffrey's habits

      were irregular; Hester seldom went to bed early.

      Two hours at least--more probably three--must pass, before it

      would be safe to communicate with Sir Patrick by means of the

      signal in the window. Her strength was fast failing her. If she

      persisted, for the next three hours, in denying herself the

     
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