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diff --git a/1586-h/1586-h.htm b/1586-h/1586-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..4269373 --- /dev/null +++ b/1586-h/1586-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,33486 @@ +<?xml version="1.0" encoding="utf-8"?> + +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd" > + +<html xmlns="http://www.w3.org/1999/xhtml" lang="en"> + <head> + <title> + Man and Wife, by Wilkie Collins + </title> + <style type="text/css" xml:space="preserve"> + + body { margin:5%; background:#faebd0; text-align:justify} + P { text-indent: 1em; margin-top: .25em; margin-bottom: .25em; } + H1,H2,H3,H4,H5,H6 { text-align: center; margin-left: 15%; margin-right: 15%; } + hr { width: 50%; text-align: center;} + .foot { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; text-indent: -3em; font-size: 90%; } + blockquote {font-size: 97%; font-style: italic; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%;} + .mynote {background-color: #DDE; color: #000; padding: .5em; margin-left: 10%; margin-right: 10%; font-family: sans-serif; font-size: 95%;} + .toc { margin-left: 10%; margin-bottom: .75em;} + .toc2 { margin-left: 20%;} + div.fig { display:block; margin:0 auto; text-align:center; } + div.middle { margin-left: 20%; margin-right: 20%; text-align: justify; } + .figleft {float: left; margin-left: 0%; margin-right: 1%;} + .figright {float: right; margin-right: 0%; margin-left: 1%;} + .pagenum {display:inline; font-size: 70%; font-style:normal; + margin: 0; padding: 0; position: absolute; right: 1%; + text-align: right;} + pre { font-style: italic; font-size: 90%; margin-left: 10%;} + +</style> + </head> + <body> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + +The Project Gutenberg EBook of Man and Wife, by Wilkie Collins + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + +Title: Man and Wife + +Author: Wilkie Collins + +Release Date: February 21, 2006 [EBook #1586] +Last Updated: September 11, 2016 + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: UTF-8 + +*** START OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN AND WIFE *** + + + + +Produced by James Rusk and David Widger + + + + + +</pre> + + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <h1> + MAN AND WIFE + </h1> + <h2> + by Wilkie Collins + </h2> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <blockquote> + <p class="toc"> + <big><b>CONTENTS</b></big> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PROL"> <b>PROLOGUE.—THE IRISH MARRIAGE.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART"> Part the First. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_PART2"> Part the Second. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0004"> <big><b>THE STORY.</b></big> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0005"> <b>FIRST SCENE.—THE SUMMER-HOUSE.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0001"> CHAPTER THE FIRST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0002"> CHAPTER THE SECOND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0003"> CHAPTER THE THIRD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0004"> CHAPTER THE FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0005"> CHAPTER THE FIFTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0006"> CHAPTER THE SIXTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0007"> CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0008"> CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0014"> <b>SECOND SCENE.—THE INN.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0009"> CHAPTER THE NINTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0010"> CHAPTER THE TENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0011"> CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0012"> CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0013"> CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0020"> <b>THIRD SCENE.—LONDON.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0014"> CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0015"> CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0016"> CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0024"> <b>FOURTH SCENE.—WINDYGATES.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0017"> CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0018"> CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0019"> CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0020"> CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0021"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0022"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0023"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0024"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0025"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0026"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0027"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0028"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0037"> <b>FIFTH SCENE.—GLASGOW.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0029"> CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0030"> CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0040"> <b>SIXTH SCENE.—SWANHAVEN LODGE.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0031"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0032"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0033"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0044"> <b>SEVENTH SCENE.—HAM FARM.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0034"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0035"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0036"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0037"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0038"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0050"> <b>EIGHTH SCENE—THE PANTRY.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0039"> CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0052"> <b>NINTH SCENE.—THE MUSIC-ROOM.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0040"> CHAPTER THE FORTIETH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0054"> <b>TENTH SCENE—THE BEDROOM.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0041"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0056"> <b>ELEVENTH SCENE.—SIR PATRICK’S HOUSE.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0042"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0043"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0059"> <b>TWELFTH SCENE.—DRURY LANE.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0044"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0061"> <b>THIRTEENTH SCENE.—FULHAM.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0045"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0063"> <b>FOURTEENTH SCENE.—PORTLAND PLACE.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0046"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0065"> <b>FIFTEENTH SCENE.—HOLCHESTER HOUSE.</b> + </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0047"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_4_0067"> <b>SIXTEENTH SCENE.—SALT PATCH.</b> </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0048"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-EIGHTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0049"> CHAPTER THE FORTY-NINTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0050"> CHAPTER THE FIFTIETH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0051"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FIRST. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0052"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SECOND. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0053"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-THIRD. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0054"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FOURTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0055"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FIFTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0056"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SIXTH. </a> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2HCH0057"> CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SEVENTH. </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + <p class="toc"> + <a href="#link2H_EPIL"> <b>EPILOGUE.</b> </a> + </p> + <p> + <br /> + </p> + </blockquote> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PROL" id="link2H_PROL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> <br /> <br /> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + PROLOGUE.—THE IRISH MARRIAGE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART" id="link2H_PART"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part the First. + </h2> + <p> + THE VILLA AT HAMPSTEAD. I. + </p> + <p> + ON a summer’s morning, between thirty and forty years ago, two girls were + crying bitterly in the cabin of an East Indian passenger ship, bound + outward, from Gravesend to Bombay. + </p> + <p> + They were both of the same age—eighteen. They had both, from + childhood upward, been close and dear friends at the same school. They + were now parting for the first time—and parting, it might be, for + life. + </p> + <p> + The name of one was Blanche. The name of the other was Anne. + </p> + <p> + Both were the children of poor parents, both had been pupil-teachers at + the school; and both were destined to earn their own bread. Personally + speaking, and socially speaking, these were the only points of resemblance + between them. + </p> + <p> + Blanche was passably attractive and passably intelligent, and no more. + Anne was rarely beautiful and rarely endowed. Blanche’s parents were + worthy people, whose first consideration was to secure, at any sacrifice, + the future well-being of their child. Anne’s parents were heartless and + depraved. Their one idea, in connection with their daughter, was to + speculate on her beauty, and to turn her abilities to profitable account. + </p> + <p> + The girls were starting in life under widely different conditions. Blanche + was going to India, to be governess in the household of a Judge, under + care of the Judge’s wife. Anne was to wait at home until the first + opportunity offered of sending her cheaply to Milan. There, among + strangers, she was to be perfected in the actress’s and the singer’s art; + then to return to England, and make the fortune of her family on the lyric + stage. + </p> + <p> + Such were the prospects of the two as they sat together in the cabin of + the Indiaman locked fast in each other’s arms, and crying bitterly. The + whispered farewell talk exchanged between them—exaggerated and + impulsive as girls’ talk is apt to be—came honestly, in each case, + straight from the heart. + </p> + <p> + “Blanche! you may be married in India. Make your husband bring you back to + England.” + </p> + <p> + “Anne! you may take a dislike to the stage. Come out to India if you do.” + </p> + <p> + “In England or out of England, married or not married, we will meet, + darling—if it’s years hence—with all the old love between us; + friends who help each other, sisters who trust each other, for life! Vow + it, Blanche!” + </p> + <p> + “I vow it, Anne!” + </p> + <p> + “With all your heart and soul?” + </p> + <p> + “With all my heart and soul!” + </p> + <p> + The sails were spread to the wind, and the ship began to move in the + water. It was necessary to appeal to the captain’s authority before the + girls could be parted. The captain interfered gently and firmly. “Come, my + dear,” he said, putting his arm round Anne; “you won’t mind <i>me!</i> I + have got a daughter of my own.” Anne’s head fell on the sailor’s shoulder. + He put her, with his own hands, into the shore-boat alongside. In five + minutes more the ship had gathered way; the boat was at the landing-stage—and + the girls had seen the last of each other for many a long year to come. + </p> + <p> + This was in the summer of eighteen hundred and thirty-one. + </p> + <p> + II. + </p> + <p> + Twenty-four years later—in the summer of eighteen hundred and + fifty-five—there was a villa at Hampstead to be let, furnished. + </p> + <p> + The house was still occupied by the persons who desired to let it. On the + evening on which this scene opens a lady and two gentlemen were seated at + the dinner-table. The lady had reached the mature age of forty-two. She + was still a rarely beautiful woman. Her husband, some years younger than + herself, faced her at the table, sitting silent and constrained, and + never, even by accident, looking at his wife. The third person was a + guest. The husband’s name was Vanborough. The guest’s name was Kendrew. + </p> + <p> + It was the end of the dinner. The fruit and the wine were on the table. + Mr. Vanborough pushed the bottles in silence to Mr. Kendrew. The lady of + the house looked round at the servant who was waiting, and said, “Tell the + children to come in.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and a girl twelve years old entered, lending by the hand + a younger girl of five. They were both prettily dressed in white, with + sashes of the same shade of light blue. But there was no family + resemblance between them. The elder girl was frail and delicate, with a + pale, sensitive face. The younger was light and florid, with round red + cheeks and bright, saucy eyes—a charming little picture of happiness + and health. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew looked inquiringly at the youngest of the two girls. + </p> + <p> + “Here is a young lady,” he said, “who is a total stranger to me.” + </p> + <p> + “If you had not been a total stranger yourself for a whole year past,” + answered Mrs. Vanborough, “you would never have made that confession. This + is little Blanche—the only child of the dearest friend I have. When + Blanche’s mother and I last saw each other we were two poor school-girls + beginning the world. My friend went to India, and married there late in + life. You may have heard of her husband—the famous Indian officer, + Sir Thomas Lundie? Yes: ‘the rich Sir Thomas,’ as you call him. Lady + Lundie is now on her way back to England, for the first time since she + left it—I am afraid to say how many years since. I expected her + yesterday; I expect her to-day—she may come at any moment. We + exchanged promises to meet, in the ship that took her to India—‘vows’ + we called them in the dear old times. Imagine how changed we shall find + each other when we <i>do</i> meet again at last!” + </p> + <p> + “In the mean time,” said Mr. Kendrew, “your friend appears to have sent + you her little daughter to represent her? It’s a long journey for so young + a traveler.” + </p> + <p> + “A journey ordered by the doctors in India a year since,” rejoined Mrs. + Vanborough. “They said Blanche’s health required English air. Sir Thomas + was ill at the time, and his wife couldn’t leave him. She had to send the + child to England, and who should she send her to but me? Look at her now, + and say if the English air hasn’t agreed with her! We two mothers, Mr. + Kendrew, seem literally to live again in our children. I have an only + child. My friend has an only child. My daughter is little Anne—as <i>I</i> + was. My friend’s daughter is little Blanche—as <i>she</i> was. And, + to crown it all, those two girls have taken the same fancy to each other + which we took to each other in the by-gone days at school. One has often + heard of hereditary hatred. Is there such a thing as hereditary love as + well?” + </p> + <p> + Before the guest could answer, his attention was claimed by the master of + the house. + </p> + <p> + “Kendrew,” said Mr. Vanborough, “when you have had enough of domestic + sentiment, suppose you take a glass of wine?” + </p> + <p> + The words were spoken with undisguised contempt of tone and manner. Mrs. + Vanborough’s color rose. She waited, and controlled the momentary + irritation. When she spoke to her husband it was evidently with a wish to + soothe and conciliate him. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, my dear, you are not well this evening?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be better when those children have done clattering with their + knives and forks.” + </p> + <p> + The girls were peeling fruit. The younger one went on. The elder stopped, + and looked at her mother. Mrs. Vanborough beckoned to Blanche to come to + her, and pointed toward the French window opening to the floor. + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to eat your fruit in the garden, Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Blanche, “if Anne will go with me.” + </p> + <p> + Anne rose at once, and the two girls went away together into the garden, + hand in hand. On their departure Mr. Kendrew wisely started a new subject. + He referred to the letting of the house. + </p> + <p> + “The loss of the garden will be a sad loss to those two young ladies,” he + said. “It really seems to be a pity that you should be giving up this + pretty place.” + </p> + <p> + “Leaving the house is not the worst of the sacrifice,” answered Mrs. + Vanborough. “If John finds Hampstead too far for him from London, of + course we must move. The only hardship that I complain of is the hardship + of having the house to let.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough looked across the table, as ungraciously as possible, at + his wife. + </p> + <p> + “What have <i>you</i> to do with it?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vanborough tried to clear the conjugal horizon b y a smile. + </p> + <p> + “My dear John,” she said, gently, “you forget that, while you are at + business, I am here all day. I can’t help seeing the people who come to + look at the house. Such people!” she continued, turning to Mr. Kendrew. + “They distrust every thing, from the scraper at the door to the chimneys + on the roof. They force their way in at all hours. They ask all sorts of + impudent questions—and they show you plainly that they don’t mean to + believe your answers, before you have time to make them. Some wretch of a + woman says, ‘Do you think the drains are right?’—and sniffs + suspiciously, before I can say Yes. Some brute of a man asks, ‘Are you + quite sure this house is solidly built, ma’am?’—and jumps on the + floor at the full stretch of his legs, without waiting for me to reply. + Nobody believes in our gravel soil and our south aspect. Nobody wants any + of our improvements. The moment they hear of John’s Artesian well, they + look as if they never drank water. And, if they happen to pass my + poultry-yard, they instantly lose all appreciation of the merits of a + fresh egg!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew laughed. “I have been through it all in my time,” he said. + “The people who want to take a house are the born enemies of the people + who want to let a house. Odd—isn’t it, Vanborough?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough’s sullen humor resisted his friend as obstinately as it had + resisted his wife. + </p> + <p> + “I dare say,” he answered. “I wasn’t listening.” + </p> + <p> + This time the tone was almost brutal. Mrs. Vanborough looked at her + husband with unconcealed surprise and distress. + </p> + <p> + “John!” she said. “What <i>can</i> be the matter with you? Are you in + pain?” + </p> + <p> + “A man may be anxious and worried, I suppose, without being actually in + pain.” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear you are worried. Is it business?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—business.” + </p> + <p> + “Consult Mr. Kendrew.” + </p> + <p> + “I am waiting to consult him.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vanborough rose immediately. “Ring, dear,” she said, “when you want + coffee.” As she passed her husband she stopped and laid her hand tenderly + on his forehead. “I wish I could smooth out that frown!” she whispered. + Mr. Vanborough impatiently shook his head. Mrs. Vanborough sighed as she + turned to the door. Her husband called to her before she could leave the + room. + </p> + <p> + “Mind we are not interrupted!” + </p> + <p> + “I will do my best, John.” She looked at Mr. Kendrew, holding the door + open for her; and resumed, with an effort, her former lightness of tone. + “But don’t forget our ‘born enemies!’ Somebody may come, even at this hour + of the evening, who wants to see the house.” + </p> + <p> + The two gentlemen were left alone over their wine. There was a strong + personal contrast between them. Mr. Vanborough was tall and dark—a + dashing, handsome man; with an energy in his face which all the world saw; + with an inbred falseness under it which only a special observer could + detect. Mr. Kendrew was short and light—slow and awkward in manner, + except when something happened to rouse him. Looking in <i>his</i> face, + the world saw an ugly and undemonstrative little man. The special + observer, penetrating under the surface, found a fine nature beneath, + resting on a steady foundation of honor and truth. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough opened the conversation. + </p> + <p> + “If you ever marry,” he said, “don’t be such a fool, Kendrew, as I have + been. Don’t take a wife from the stage.” + </p> + <p> + “If I could get such a wife as yours,” replied the other, “I would take + her from the stage to-morrow. A beautiful woman, a clever woman, a woman + of unblemished character, and a woman who truly loves you. Man alive! what + do you want more?” + </p> + <p> + “I want a great deal more. I want a woman highly connected and highly bred—a + woman who can receive the best society in England, and open her husband’s + way to a position in the world.” + </p> + <p> + “A position in the world!” cried Mr. Kendrew. “Here is a man whose father + has left him half a million of money—with the one condition annexed + to it of taking his father’s place at the head of one of the greatest + mercantile houses in England. And he talks about a position, as if he was + a junior clerk in his own office! What on earth does your ambition see, + beyond what your ambition has already got?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough finished his glass of wine, and looked his friend steadily + in the face. + </p> + <p> + “My ambition,” he said, “sees a Parliamentary career, with a Peerage at + the end of it—and with no obstacle in the way but my estimable + wife.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew lifted his hand warningly. “Don’t talk in that way,” he said. + “If you’re joking—it’s a joke I don’t see. If you’re in earnest—you + force a suspicion on me which I would rather not feel. Let us change the + subject.” + </p> + <p> + “No! Let us have it out at once. What do you suspect?” + </p> + <p> + “I suspect you are getting tired of your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “She is forty-two, and I am thirty-five; and I have been married to her + for thirteen years. You know all that—and you only suspect I am + tired of her. Bless your innocence! Have you any thing more to say?” + </p> + <p> + “If you force me to it, I take the freedom of an old friend, and I say you + are not treating her fairly. It’s nearly two years since you broke up your + establishment abroad, and came to England on your father’s death. With the + exception of myself, and one or two other friends of former days, you have + presented your wife to nobody. Your new position has smoothed the way for + you into the best society. You never take your wife with you. You go out + as if you were a single man. I have reason to know that you are actually + believed to be a single man, among these new acquaintances of yours, in + more than one quarter. Forgive me for speaking my mind bluntly—I say + what I think. It’s unworthy of you to keep your wife buried here, as if + you were ashamed of her.” + </p> + <p> + “I <i>am</i> ashamed of her.” + </p> + <p> + “Vanborough!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little! you are not to have it all your own way, my good fellow. + What are the facts? Thirteen years ago I fell in love with a handsome + public singer, and married her. My father was angry with me; and I had to + go and live with her abroad. It didn’t matter, abroad. My father forgave + me on his death-bed, and I had to bring her home again. It does matter, at + home. I find myself, with a great career opening before me, tied to a + woman whose relations are (as you well know) the lowest of the low. A + woman without the slightest distinction of manner, or the slightest + aspiration beyond her nursery and her kitchen, her piano and her books. Is + <i>that</i> a wife who can help me to make my place in society?—who + can smooth my way through social obstacles and political obstacles, to the + House of Lords? By Jupiter! if ever there was a woman to be ‘buried’ (as + you call it), that woman is my wife. And, what’s more, if you want the + truth, it’s because I <i>can’t</i> bury her here that I’m going to leave + this house. She has got a cursed knack of making acquaintances wherever + she goes. She’ll have a circle of friends about her if I leave her in this + neighborhood much longer. Friends who remember her as the famous + opera-singer. Friends who will see her swindling scoundrel of a father + (when my back is turned) coming drunk to the door to borrow money of her! + I tell you, my marriage has wrecked my prospects. It’s no use talking to + me of my wife’s virtues. She is a millstone round my neck, with all her + virtues. If I had not been a born idiot I should have waited, and married + a woman who would have been of some use to me; a woman with high + connections—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew touched his host’s arm, and suddenly interrupted him. + </p> + <p> + “To come to the point,” he said—“a woman like Lady Jane Parnell.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough started. His eyes fell, for the first time, before the eyes + of his friend. + </p> + <p> + “What do you know about Lady Jane?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I don’t move in Lady Jane’s world—but I do go sometimes to + the opera. I saw you with her last night in her box; and I heard what was + said in the stalls near me. You were openly spoken of as the favored man + who was singled out from the rest by Lady Jane. Imagine what would happen + if your wife heard that! You are wrong, Vanborough—you are in every + way wrong. You alarm, you distress, you disappoint me. I never sought this + explanation—but now it has come, I won’t shrink from it. Reconsider + your conduct; reconsider what you have said to me—or you count me no + longer among your friends. No! I want no farther talk about it now. We are + both getting hot—we may end in saying what had better have been left + unsaid. Once more, let us change the subject. You wrote me word that you + wanted me here to-day, because you needed my advice on a matter of some + importance. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Silence followed that question. Mr. Vanborough’s face betrayed signs of + embarrassment. He poured himself out another glass of wine, and drank it + at a draught before he replied. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not so easy to tell you what I want,” he said, “after the tone you + have taken with me about my wife.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “Is Mrs. Vanborough concerned in the matter?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Does she know about it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you kept the thing a secret out of regard for <i>her?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have I any right to advise on it?” + </p> + <p> + “You have the right of an old friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, why not tell me frankly what it is?” + </p> + <p> + There was another moment of embarrassment on Mr. Vanborough’s part. + </p> + <p> + “It will come better,” he answered, “from a third person, whom I expect + here every minute. He is in possession of all the facts—and he is + better able to state them than I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is the person?” + </p> + <p> + “My friend, Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “Your lawyer?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—the junior partner in the firm of Delamayn, Hawke, and + Delamayn. Do you know him?” + </p> + <p> + “I am acquainted with him. His wife’s family were friends of mine before + he married. I don’t like him.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re rather hard to please to-day! Delamayn is a rising man, if ever + there was one yet. A man with a career before him, and with courage enough + to pursue it. He is going to leave the Firm, and try his luck at the Bar. + Every body says he will do great things. What’s your objection to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no objection whatever. We meet with people occasionally whom we + dislike without knowing why. Without knowing why, I dislike Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “Whatever you do you must put up with him this evening. He will be here + directly.” + </p> + <p> + He was there at that moment. The servant opened the door, and announced—“Mr. + Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + III. + </p> + <p> + Externally speaking, the rising solicitor, who was going to try his luck + at the Bar, looked like a man who was going to succeed. His hard, hairless + face, his watchful gray eyes, his thin, resolute lips, said plainly, in so + many words, “I mean to get on in the world; and, if you are in my way, I + mean to get on at your expense.” Mr. Delamayn was habitually polite to + every body—but he had never been known to say one unnecessary word + to his dearest friend. A man of rare ability; a man of unblemished honor + (as the code of the world goes); but not a man to be taken familiarly by + the hand. You would never have borrowed money of him—but you would + have trusted him with untold gold. Involved in private and personal + troubles, you would have hesitated at asking him to help you. Involved in + public and producible troubles, you would have said, Here is my man. Sure + to push his way—nobody could look at him and doubt it—sure to + push his way. + </p> + <p> + “Kendrew is an old friend of mine,” said Mr. Vanborough, addressing + himself to the lawyer. “Whatever you have to say to <i>me</i> you may say + before <i>him.</i> Will you have some wine?” + </p> + <p> + “No—thank you.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you brought any news?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the written opinions of the two barristers?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “‘Because nothing of the sort is necessary. If the facts of the case are + correctly stated there is not the slightest doubt about the law.” + </p> + <p> + With that reply Mr. Delamayn took a written paper from his pocket, and + spread it out on the table before him. + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” asked Mr. Vanborough. + </p> + <p> + “The case relating to your marriage.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew started, and showed the first tokens of interest in the + proceedings which had escaped him yet. Mr. Delamayn looked at him for a + moment, and went on. + </p> + <p> + “The case,” he resumed, “as originally stated by you, and taken down in + writing by our head-clerk.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough’s temper began to show itself again. + </p> + <p> + “What have we got to do with that now?” he asked. “You have made your + inquiries to prove the correctness of my statement—haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And you have found out that I am right?” + </p> + <p> + “I have found out that you are right—if the case is right. I wish to + be sure that no mistake has occurred between you and the clerk. This is a + very important matter. I am going to take the responsibility of giving an + opinion which may be followed by serious consequences; and I mean to + assure myself that the opinion is given on a sound basis, first. I have + some questions to ask you. Don’t be impatient, if you please. They won’t + take long.” + </p> + <p> + He referred to the manuscript, and put the first question. + </p> + <p> + “You were married at Inchmallock, in Ireland, Mr. Vanborough, thirteen + years since?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Your wife—then Miss Anne Silvester—was a Roman Catholic?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Her father and mother were Roman Catholics?” + </p> + <p> + “They were.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>Your</i> father and mother were Protestants? and <i>you</i> were + baptized and brought up in the Church of England?” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Anne Silvester felt, and expressed, a strong repugnance to marrying + you, because you and she belonged to different religious communities?” + </p> + <p> + “She did.” + </p> + <p> + “You got over her objection by consenting to become a Roman Catholic, like + herself?” + </p> + <p> + “It was the shortest way with her and it didn’t matter to <i>me</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “You were formally received into the Roman Catholic Church?” + </p> + <p> + “I went through the whole ceremony.” + </p> + <p> + “Abroad or at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Abroad.” + </p> + <p> + “How long was it before the date of your marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “Six weeks before I was married.” + </p> + <p> + Referring perpetually to the paper in his hand, Mr. Delamayn was + especially careful in comparing that last answer with the answer given to + the head-clerk. + </p> + <p> + “Quite right,” he said, and went on with his questions. + </p> + <p> + “The priest who married you was one Ambrose Redman—a young man + recently appointed to his clerical duties?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he ask if you were both Roman Catholics?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he ask any thing more?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure he never inquired whether you had both been Catholics <i>for + more than one year before you came to him to be married?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it.” + </p> + <p> + “He must have forgotten that part of his duty—or being only a + beginner, he may well have been ignorant of it altogether. Did neither you + nor the lady think of informing him on the point?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither I nor the lady knew there was any necessity for informing him.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn folded up the manuscript, and put it back in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “Right,” he said, “in every particular.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough’s swarthy complexion slowly turned pale. He cast one + furtive glance at Mr. Kendrew, and turned away again. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said to the lawyer, “now for your opinion! What is the law?” + </p> + <p> + “The law,” answered Mr. Delamayn, “is beyond all doubt or dispute. Your + marriage with Miss Anne Silvester is no marriage at all.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew started to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” he asked, sternly. + </p> + <p> + The rising solicitor lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise. If Mr. + Kendrew wanted information, why should Mr. Kendrew ask for it in that way? + “Do you wish me to go into the law of the case?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn stated the law, as that law still stands—to the + disgrace of the English Legislature and the English Nation. + </p> + <p> + “By the Irish Statute of George the Second,” he said, “every marriage + celebrated by a Popish priest between two Protestants, or between a Papist + and any person who has been a Protestant within twelve months before the + marriage, is declared null and void. And by two other Acts of the same + reign such a celebration of marriage is made a felony on the part of the + priest. The clergy in Ireland of other religious denominations have been + relieved from this law. But it still remains in force so far as the Roman + Catholic priesthood is concerned.” + </p> + <p> + “Is such a state of things possible in the age we live in!” exclaimed Mr. + Kendrew. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn smiled. He had outgrown the customary illusions as to the age + we live in. + </p> + <p> + “There are other instances in which the Irish marriage-law presents some + curious anomalies of its own,” he went on. “It is felony, as I have just + told you, for a Roman Catholic priest to celebrate a marriage which may be + lawfully celebrated by a parochial clergyman, a Presbyterian mini ster, + and a Non-conformist minister. It is also felony (by another law) on the + part of a parochial clergyman to celebrate a marriage that may be lawfully + celebrated by a Roman Catholic priest. And it is again felony (by yet + another law) for a Presbyterian minister and a Non-conformist minister to + celebrate a marriage which may be lawfully celebrated by a clergyman of + the Established Church. An odd state of things. Foreigners might possibly + think it a scandalous state of things. In this country we don’t appear to + mind it. Returning to the present case, the results stand thus: Mr. + Vanborough is a single man; Mrs. Vanborough is a single woman; their child + is illegitimate, and the priest, Ambrose Redman, is liable to be tried, + and punished, as a felon, for marrying them.” + </p> + <p> + “An infamous law!” said Mr. Kendrew. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> the law,” returned Mr. Delamayn, as a sufficient answer to + him. + </p> + <p> + Thus far not a word had escaped the master of the house. He sat with his + lips fast closed and his eyes riveted on the table, thinking. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew turned to him, and broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Am I to understand,” he asked, “that the advice you wanted from me + related to <i>this?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean to tell me that, foreseeing the present interview and the result + to which it might lead, you felt any doubt as to the course you were bound + to take? Am I really to understand that you hesitate to set this dreadful + mistake right, and to make the woman who is your wife in the sight of + Heaven your wife in the sight of the law?” + </p> + <p> + “If you choose to put it in that light,” said Mr. Vanborough; “if you + won’t consider—” + </p> + <p> + “I want a plain answer to my question—‘yes, or no.’” + </p> + <p> + “Let me speak, will you! A man has a right to explain himself, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew stopped him by a gesture of disgust. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t trouble you to explain yourself,” he said. “I prefer to leave the + house. You have given me a lesson, Sir, which I shall not forget. I find + that one man may have known another from the days when they were both + boys, and may have seen nothing but the false surface of him in all that + time. I am ashamed of having ever been your friend. You are a stranger to + me from this moment.” + </p> + <p> + With those words he left the room. + </p> + <p> + “That is a curiously hot-headed man,” remarked Mr. Delamayn. “If you will + allow me, I think I’ll change my mind. I’ll have a glass of wine.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough rose to his feet without replying, and took a turn in the + room impatiently. Scoundrel as he was—in intention, if not yet in + act—the loss of the oldest friend he had in the world staggered him + for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “This is an awkward business, Delamayn,” he said. “What would you advise + me to do?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn shook his head, and sipped his claret. + </p> + <p> + “I decline to advise you,” he answered. “I take no responsibility, beyond + the responsibility of stating the law as it stands, in your case.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough sat down again at the table, to consider the alternative of + asserting or not asserting his freedom from the marriage tie. He had not + had much time thus far for turning the matter over in his mind. But for + his residence on the Continent the question of the flaw in his marriage + might no doubt have been raised long since. As things were, the question + had only taken its rise in a chance conversation with Mr. Delamayn in the + summer of that year. + </p> + <p> + For some minutes the lawyer sat silent, sipping his wine, and the husband + sat silent, thinking his own thoughts. The first change that came over the + scene was produced by the appearance of a servant in the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough looked up at the man with a sudden outbreak of anger. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want here?” + </p> + <p> + The man was a well-bred English servant. In other words, a human machine, + doing its duty impenetrably when it was once wound up. He had his words to + speak, and he spoke them. + </p> + <p> + “There is a lady at the door, Sir, who wishes to see the house.” + </p> + <p> + “The house is not to be seen at this time of the evening.” + </p> + <p> + The machine had a message to deliver, and delivered it. + </p> + <p> + “The lady desired me to present her apologies, Sir. I was to tell you she + was much pressed for time. This was the last house on the house agent’s + list, and her coachman is stupid about finding his way in strange places.” + </p> + <p> + “Hold your tongue, and tell the lady to go to the devil!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn interfered—partly in the interests of his client, + partly in the interests of propriety. + </p> + <p> + “You attach some importance, I think, to letting this house as soon as + possible?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Of course I do!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it wise—on account of a momentary annoyance—to lose an + opportunity of laying your hand on a tenant?” + </p> + <p> + “Wise or not, it’s an infernal nuisance to be disturbed by a stranger.” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please. I don’t wish to interfere. I only wish to say—in + case you are thinking of my convenience as your guest—that it will + be no nuisance to <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The servant impenetrably waited. Mr. Vanborough impatiently gave way. + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Let her in. Mind, if she comes here, she’s only to look into + the room, and go out again. If she wants to ask questions, she must go to + the agent.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn interfered once more, in the interests, this time, of the + lady of the house. + </p> + <p> + “Might it not be desirable,” he suggested, “to consult Mrs. Vanborough + before you quite decide?” + </p> + <p> + “Where’s your mistress?” + </p> + <p> + “In the garden, or the paddock, Sir—I am not sure which.” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t send all over the grounds in search of her. Tell the house-maid, + and show the lady in.” + </p> + <p> + The servant withdrew. Mr. Delamayn helped himself to a second glass of + wine. + </p> + <p> + “Excellent claret,” he said. “Do you get it direct from Bordeaux?” + </p> + <p> + There was no answer. Mr. Vanborough had returned to the contemplation of + the alternative between freeing himself or not freeing himself from the + marriage tie. One of his elbows was on the table, he bit fiercely at his + finger-nails. He muttered between his teeth, “What am I to do?” + </p> + <p> + A sound of rustling silk made itself gently audible in the passage + outside. The door opened, and the lady who had come to see the house + appeared in the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + IV. + </p> + <p> + She was tall and elegant; beautifully dressed, in the happiest combination + of simplicity and splendor. A light summer veil hung over her face. She + lifted it, and made her apologies for disturbing the gentlemen over their + wine, with the unaffected ease and grace of a highly-bred woman. + </p> + <p> + “Pray accept my excuses for this intrusion. I am ashamed to disturb you. + One look at the room will be quite enough.” + </p> + <p> + Thus far she had addressed Mr. Delamayn, who happened to be nearest to + her. Looking round the room her eye fell on Mr. Vanborough. She started, + with a loud exclamation of astonishment. <i>“You!”</i> she said. “Good + Heavens! who would have thought of meeting <i>you</i> here?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough, on his side, stood petrified. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Jane!” he exclaimed. “Is it possible?” + </p> + <p> + He barely looked at her while she spoke. His eyes wandered guiltily toward + the window which led into the garden. The situation was a terrible one—equally + terrible if his wife discovered Lady Jane, or if Lady Jane discovered his + wife. For the moment nobody was visible on the lawn. There was time, if + the chance only offered—there was time for him to get the visitor + out of the house. The visitor, innocent of all knowledge of the truth, + gayly offered him her hand. + </p> + <p> + “I believe in mesmerism for the first time,” she said. “This is an + instance of magnetic sympathy, Mr. Vanborough. An invalid friend of mine + wants a furnished house at Hampstead. I undertake to find one for her, and + the day <i>I</i> select to make the discovery is the day <i>you</i> select + for dining with a friend. A last house at Hampstead is left on my list—and + in that house I meet you. Astonishing!” She turned to Mr. Delamayn. “I + presume I am addressing the owner of the house?” Before a word could be + said by either of the gentlemen she noticed the garden. “What pretty + grounds! Do I see a lady in the garden? I hope I have not driven her + away.” She looked round, and appealed to Mr. Vanborough. “Your friend’s + wife?” she asked, and, on this occasion, waited for a reply. + </p> + <p> + In Mr. Vanborough’s situation what reply was possible? + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vanborough was not only visible—but audible—in the + garden; giving her orders to one of the out-of-door servants with the tone + and manner which proclaimed the mistress of the house. Suppose he said, + “She is <i>not</i> my friend’s wife?” Female curiosity would inevitably + put the next question, “Who is she?” Suppose he invented an explanation? + The explanation would take time, and time would give his wife an + opportunity of discovering Lady Jane. Seeing all these considerations in + one breathless moment, Mr. Vanborough took the shortest and the boldest + way out of the difficulty. He answered silently by an affirmative + inclination of the head, which dextrously turned Mrs. Vanborough into to + Mrs. Delamayn without allowing Mr. Delamayn the opportunity of hearing it. + </p> + <p> + But the lawyer’s eye was habitually watchful, and the lawyer saw him. + </p> + <p> + Mastering in a moment his first natural astonishment at the liberty taken + with him, Mr. Delamayn drew the inevitable conclusion that there was + something wrong, and that there was an attempt (not to be permitted for a + moment) to mix him up in it. He advanced, resolute to contradict his + client, to his client’s own face. + </p> + <p> + The voluble Lady Jane interrupted him before he could open his lips. + </p> + <p> + “Might I ask one question? Is the aspect south? Of course it is! I ought + to see by the sun that the aspect is south. These and the other two are, I + suppose, the only rooms on the ground-floor? And is it quiet? Of course + it’s quiet! A charming house. Far more likely to suit my friend than any I + have seen yet. Will you give me the refusal of it till to-morrow?” There + she stopped for breath, and gave Mr. Delamayn his first opportunity of + speaking to her. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your ladyship’s pardon,” he began. “I really can’t—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough—passing close behind him and whispering as he passed—stopped + the lawyer before he could say a word more. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, don’t contradict me! My wife is coming this way!” + </p> + <p> + At the same moment (still supposing that Mr. Delamayn was the master of + the house) Lady Jane returned to the charge. + </p> + <p> + “You appear to feel some hesitation,” she said. “Do you want a reference?” + She smiled satirically, and summoned her friend to her aid. “Mr. + Vanborough!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough, stealing step by step nearer to the window—intent, + come what might of it, on keeping his wife out of the room—neither + heeded nor heard her. Lady Jane followed him, and tapped him briskly on + the shoulder with her parasol. + </p> + <p> + At that moment Mrs. Vanborough appeared on the garden side of the window. + </p> + <p> + “Am I in the way?” she asked, addressing her husband, after one steady + look at Lady Jane. “This lady appears to be an old friend of yours.” There + was a tone of sarcasm in that allusion to the parasol, which might develop + into a tone of jealousy at a moment’s notice. + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane was not in the least disconcerted. She had her double privilege + of familiarity with the men whom she liked—her privilege as a woman + of high rank, and her privilege as a young widow. She bowed to Mrs. + Vanborough, with all the highly-finished politeness of the order to which + she belonged. + </p> + <p> + “The lady of the house, I presume?” she said, with a gracious smile. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vanborough returned the bow coldly—entered the room first—and + then answered, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane turned to Mr. Vanborough. + </p> + <p> + “Present me!” she said, submitting resignedly to the formalities of the + middle classes. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough obeyed, without looking at his wife, and without mentioning + his wife’s name. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Jane Parnell,” he said, passing over the introduction as rapidly as + possible. “Let me see you to your carriage,” he added, offering his arm. + “I will take care that you have the refusal of the house. You may trust it + all to me.” + </p> + <p> + No! Lady Jane was accustomed to leave a favorable impression behind her + wherever she went. It was a habit with her to be charming (in widely + different ways) to both sexes. The social experience of the upper classes + is, in England, an experience of universal welcome. Lady Jane declined to + leave until she had thawed the icy reception of the lady of the house. + </p> + <p> + “I must repeat my apologies,” she said to Mrs. Vanborough, “for coming at + this inconvenient time. My intrusion appears to have sadly disturbed the + two gentlemen. Mr. Vanborough looks as if he wished me a hundred miles + away. And as for your husband—” She stopped and glanced toward Mr. + Delamayn. “Pardon me for speaking in that familiar way. I have not the + pleasure of knowing your husband’s name.” + </p> + <p> + In speechless amazement Mrs. Vanborough’s eyes followed the direction of + Lady Jane’s eyes—and rested on the lawyer, personally a total + stranger to her. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn, resolutely waiting his opportunity to speak, seized it once + more—and held it this time. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” he said. “There is some misapprehension here, for + which I am in no way responsible. I am <i>not</i> that lady’s husband.” + </p> + <p> + It was Lady Jane’s turn to be astonished. She looked at the lawyer. + Useless! Mr. Delamayn had set himself right—Mr. Delamayn declined to + interfere further. He silently took a chair at the other end of the room. + Lady Jane addressed Mr. Vanborough. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever the mistake may be,” she said, “you are responsible for it. You + certainly told me this lady was your friend’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + “What!!!” cried Mrs. Vanborough—loudly, sternly, incredulously. + </p> + <p> + The inbred pride of the great lady began to appear behind the thin outer + veil of politeness that covered it. + </p> + <p> + “I will speak louder if you wish it,” she said. “Mr. Vanborough told me + you were that gentleman’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough whispered fiercely to his wife through his clenched teeth. + </p> + <p> + “The whole thing is a mistake. Go into the garden again!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vanborough’s indignation was suspended for the moment in dread, as + she saw the passion and the terror struggling in her husband’s face. + </p> + <p> + “How you look at me!” she said. “How you speak to me!” + </p> + <p> + He only repeated, “Go into the garden!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane began to perceive, what the lawyer had discovered some minutes + previously—that there was something wrong in the villa at Hampstead. + The lady of the house was a lady in an anomalous position of some kind. + And as the house, to all appearance, belonged to Mr. Vanborough’s friend, + Mr. Vanborough’s friend must (in spite of his recent disclaimer) be in + some way responsible for it. Arriving, naturally enough, at this erroneous + conclusion, Lady Jane’s eyes rested for an instant on Mrs. Vanborough with + a finely contemptuous expression of inquiry which would have roused the + spirit of the tamest woman in existence. The implied insult stung the + wife’s sensitive nature to the quick. She turned once more to her husband—this + time without flinching. + </p> + <p> + “Who is that woman?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane was equal to the emergency. The manner in which she wrapped + herself up in her own virtue, without the slightest pretension on the one + hand, and without the slightest compromise on the other, was a sight to + see. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Vanborough,” she said, “you offered to take me to my carriage just + now. I begin to understand that I had better have accepted the offer at + once. Give me your arm.” + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” said Mrs. Vanborough, “your ladyship’s looks are looks of + contempt; your ladyship’s words can bear but one interpretation. I am + innocently involved in some vile deception which I don’t understand. But + this I do know—I won’t submit to be insulted in my own house. After + what you have just said I forbid my husband to give you his arm.” + </p> + <p> + Her husband! + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane looked at Mr. Vanborough—at Mr. Vanborough, whom she + loved; whom she had honestly believed to be a single man; whom she had + suspected, up to that moment, of nothing worse than of trying to screen + the frailties of his friend. She dropped her highly-bred tone; she lost + her highly-bred manners. The sense of her injury (if this was true), the + pang of her jealousy (if that woman was his wife), stripped the human + nature in her bare of all disguises, raised the angry color in her cheeks, + and struck the angry fire out of her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “If you can tell the truth, Sir,” she said, haughtily, “be so good as to + tell it now. Have you been falsely presenting yourself to the world—falsely + presenting yourself to <i>me</i>—in the character and with the + aspirations of a single man? Is that lady your wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear her? do you see her?” cried Mrs. Vanborough, appealing to her + husband, in her turn. She suddenly drew back from him, shuddering from + head to foot. “He hesitates!” she said to herself, faintly. “Good God! he + hesitates!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane sternly repeated her question. + </p> + <p> + “Is that lady your wife?” + </p> + <p> + He roused his scoundrel-courage, and said the fatal word: + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Vanborough staggered back. She caught at the white curtains of the + window to save herself from falling, and tore them. She looked at her + husband, with the torn curtain clenched fast in her hand. She asked + herself, “Am I mad? or is he?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane drew a deep breath of relief. He was not married! He was only a + profligate single man. A profligate single man is shocking—but + reclaimable. It is possible to blame him severely, and to insist on his + reformation in the most uncompromising terms. It is also possible to + forgive him, and marry him. Lady Jane took the necessary position under + the circumstances with perfect tact. She inflicted reproof in the present + without excluding hope in the future. + </p> + <p> + “I have made a very painful discovery,” she said, gravely, to Mr. + Vanborough. “It rests with <i>you</i> to persuade me to forget it! + Good-evening!” + </p> + <p> + She accompanied the last words by a farewell look which aroused Mrs. + Vanborough to frenzy. She sprang forward and prevented Lady Jane from + leaving the room. + </p> + <p> + “No!” she said. “You don’t go yet!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough came forward to interfere. His wife eyed him with a + terrible look, and turned from him with a terrible contempt. “That man has + lied!” she said. “In justice to myself, I insist on proving it!” She + struck a bell on a table near her. The servant came in. “Fetch my + writing-desk out of the next room.” She waited—with her back turned + on her husband, with her eyes fixed on Lady Jane. Defenseless and alone + she stood on the wreck of her married life, superior to the husband’s + treachery, the lawyer’s indifference, and her rival’s contempt. At that + dreadful moment her beauty shone out again with a gleam of its old glory. + The grand woman, who in the old stage days had held thousands breathless + over the mimic woes of the scene, stood there grander than ever, in her + own woe, and held the three people who looked at her breathless till she + spoke again. + </p> + <p> + The servant came in with the desk. She took out a paper and handed it to + Lady Jane. + </p> + <p> + “I was a singer on the stage,” she said, “when I was a single woman. The + slander to which such women are exposed doubted my marriage. I provided + myself with the paper in your hand. It speaks for itself. Even the highest + society, madam, respects <i>that!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane examined the paper. It was a marriage-certificate. She turned + deadly pale, and beckoned to Mr. Vanborough. “Are you deceiving me?” she + asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough looked back into the far corner of the room, in which the + lawyer sat, impenetrably waiting for events. “Oblige me by coming here for + a moment,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn rose and complied with the request. Mr. Vanborough addressed + himself to Lady Jane. + </p> + <p> + “I beg to refer you to my man of business. <i>He</i> is not interested in + deceiving you.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I required simply to speak to the fact?” asked Mr. Delamayn. “I + decline to do more.” + </p> + <p> + “You are not wanted to do more.” + </p> + <p> + Listening intently to that interchange of question and answer, Mrs. + Vanborough advanced a step in silence. The high courage that had sustained + her against outrage which had openly declared itself shrank under the + sense of something coming which she had not foreseen. A nameless dread + throbbed at her heart and crept among the roots of her hair. + </p> + <p> + Lady Jane handed the certificate to the lawyer. + </p> + <p> + “In two words, Sir,” she said, impatiently, “what is this?” + </p> + <p> + “In two words, madam,” answered Mr. Delamayn; “waste paper.” + </p> + <p> + “He is <i>not</i> married?” + </p> + <p> + “He is <i>not</i> married.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s hesitation Lady Jane looked round at Mrs. Vanborough, + standing silent at her side—looked, and started back in terror. + “Take me away!” she cried, shrinking from the ghastly face that confronted + her with the fixed stare of agony in the great, glittering eyes. “Take me + away! That woman will murder me!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Vanborough gave her his arm and led her to the door. There was dead + silence in the room as he did it. Step by step the wife’s eyes followed + them with the same dreadful stare, till the door closed and shut them out. + The lawyer, left alone with the disowned and deserted woman, put the + useless certificate silently on the table. She looked from him to the + paper, and dropped, without a cry to warn him, without an effort to save + herself, senseless at his feet. + </p> + <p> + He lifted her from the floor and placed her on the sofa, and waited to see + if Mr. Vanborough would come back. Looking at the beautiful face—still + beautiful, even in the swoon—he owned it was hard on her. Yes! in + his own impenetrable way, the rising lawyer owned it was hard on her. + </p> + <p> + But the law justified it. There was no doubt in this case. The law + justified it. + </p> + <p> + The trampling of horses and the grating of wheels sounded outside. Lady + Jane’s carriage was driving away. Would the husband come back? (See what a + thing habit is! Even Mr. Delamayn still mechanically thought of him as the + husband—in the face of the law! in the face of the facts!) + </p> + <p> + No. Then minutes passed. And no sign of the husband coming back. + </p> + <p> + It was not wise to make a scandal in the house. It was not desirable (on + his own sole responsibility) to let the servants see what had happened. + Still, there she lay senseless. The cool evening air came in through the + open window and lifted the light ribbons in her lace cap, lifted the + little lock of hair that had broken loose and drooped over her neck. + Still, there she lay—the wife who had loved him, the mother of his + child—there she lay. + </p> + <p> + He stretched out his hand to ring the bell and summon help. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment the quiet of the summer evening was once more + disturbed. He held his hand suspended over the bell. The noise outside + came nearer. It was again the trampling of horses and the grating of + wheels. Advancing—rapidly advancing—stopping at the house. + </p> + <p> + Was Lady Jane coming back? + </p> + <p> + Was the husband coming back? + </p> + <p> + There was a loud ring at the bell—a quick opening of the house-door—a + rustling of a woman’s dress in the passage. The door of the room opened, + and the woman appeared—alone. Not Lady Jane. A stranger—older, + years older, than Lady Jane. A plain woman, perhaps, at other times. A + woman almost beautiful now, with the eager happiness that beamed in her + face. + </p> + <p> + She saw the figure on the sofa. She ran to it with a cry—a cry of + recognition and a cry of terror in one. She dropped on her knees—and + laid that helpless head on her bosom, and kissed, with a sister’s kisses, + that cold, white cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, my darling!” she said. “Is it thus we meet again?” + </p> + <p> + Yes! After all the years that had passed since the parting in the cabin of + the ship, it was thus the two school-friends met again. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_PART2" id="link2H_PART2"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + Part the Second. + </h2> + <p> + THE MARCH OF TIME. V. + </p> + <p> + ADVANCING from time past to time present, the Prologue leaves the date + last attained (the summer of eighteen hundred and fifty-five), and travels + on through an interval of twelve years—tells who lived, who died, + who prospered, and who failed among the persons concerned in the tragedy + at the Hampstead villa—and, this done, leaves the reader at the + opening of THE STORY in the spring of eighteen hundred and sixty-eight. + </p> + <p> + The record begins with a marriage—the marriage of Mr. Vanborough and + Lady Jane Parnell. + </p> + <p> + In three months from the memorable day when his solicitor had informed him + that he was a free man, Mr. Vanborough possessed the wife he desired, to + grace the head of his table and to push his fortunes in the world—the + Legislature of Great Britain being the humble servant of his treachery, + and the respectable accomplice of his crime. + </p> + <p> + He entered Parliament. He gave (thanks to his wife) six of the grandest + dinners, and two of the most crowded balls of the season. He made a + successful first speech in the House of Commons. He endowed a church in a + poor neighborhood. He wrote an article which attracted attention in a + quarterly review. He discovered, denounced, and remedied a crying abuse in + the administration of a public charity. He received (thanks once more to + his wife) a member of the Royal family among the visitors at his country + house in the autumn recess. These were his triumphs, and this his rate of + progress on the way to the peerage, during the first year of his life as + the husband of Lady Jane. + </p> + <p> + There was but one more favor that Fortune could confer on her spoiled + child—and Fortune bestowed it. There was a spot on Mr. Vanborough’s + past life as long as the woman lived whom he had disowned and deserted. At + the end of the first year Death took her—and the spot was rubbed + out. + </p> + <p> + She had met the merciless injury inflicted on her with a rare patience, + with an admirable courage. It is due to Mr. Vanborough to admit that he + broke her heart, with the strictest attention to propriety. He offered + (through his lawyer ) a handsome provision for her and for her child. It + was rejected, without an instant’s hesitation. She repudiated his money—she + repudiated his name. By the name which she had borne in her maiden days—the + name which she had made illustrious in her Art—the mother and + daughter were known to all who cared to inquire after them when they had + sunk in the world. + </p> + <p> + There was no false pride in the resolute attitude which she thus assumed + after her husband had forsaken her. Mrs. Silvester (as she was now called) + gratefully accepted for herself, and for Miss Silvester, the assistance of + the dear old friend who had found her again in her affliction, and who + remained faithful to her to the end. They lived with Lady Lundie until the + mother was strong enough to carry out the plan of life which she had + arranged for the future, and to earn her bread as a teacher of singing. To + all appearance she rallied, and became herself again, in a few months’ + time. She was making her way; she was winning sympathy, confidence, and + respect every where—when she sank suddenly at the opening of her new + life. Nobody could account for it. The doctors themselves were divided in + opinion. Scientifically speaking, there was no reason why she should die. + It was a mere figure of speech—in no degree satisfactory to any + reasonable mind—to say, as Lady Lundie said, that she had got her + death-blow on the day when her husband deserted her. The one thing certain + was the fact—account for it as you might. In spite of science (which + meant little), in spite of her own courage (which meant much), the woman + dropped at her post and died. + </p> + <p> + In the latter part of her illness her mind gave way. The friend of her old + school-days, sitting at the bedside, heard her talking as if she thought + herself back again in the cabin of the ship. The poor soul found the tone, + almost the look, that had been lost for so many years—the tone of + the past time when the two girls had gone their different ways in the + world. She said, “we will meet, darling, with all the old love between + us,” just as she had said almost a lifetime since. Before the end her mind + rallied. She surprised the doctor and the nurse by begging them gently to + leave the room. When they had gone she looked at Lady Lundie, and woke, as + it seemed, to consciousness from a dream. + </p> + <p> + “Blanche,” she said, “you will take care of my child?” + </p> + <p> + “She shall be <i>my</i> child, Anne, when you are gone.” + </p> + <p> + The dying woman paused, and thought for a little. A sudden trembling + seized her. + </p> + <p> + “Keep it a secret!” she said. “I am afraid for my child.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid? After what I have promised you?” + </p> + <p> + She solemnly repeated the words, “I am afraid for my child.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “My Anne is my second self—isn’t she?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She is as fond of your child as I was of you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She is not called by her father’s name—she is called by mine. She + is Anne Silvester as I was. Blanche! <i>Will she end like Me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + The question was put with the laboring breath, with the heavy accents + which tell that death is near. It chilled the living woman who heard it to + the marrow of her bones. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think that!” she cried, horror-struck. “For God’s sake, don’t think + that!” + </p> + <p> + The wildness began to appear again in Anne Silvester’s eyes. She made + feebly impatient signs with her hands. Lady Lundie bent over her, and + heard her whisper, “Lift me up.” + </p> + <p> + She lay in her friend’s arms; she looked up in her friend’s face; she went + back wildly to her fear for her child. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t bring her up like Me! She must be a governess—she must get + her bread. Don’t let her act! don’t let her sing! don’t let her go on the + stage!” She stopped—her voice suddenly recovered its sweetness of + tone—she smiled faintly—she said the old girlish words once + more, in the old girlish way, “Vow it, Blanche!” Lady Lundie kissed her, + and answered, as she had answered when they parted in the ship, “I vow it, + Anne!” + </p> + <p> + The head sank, never to be lifted more. The last look of life flickered in + the filmy eyes and went out. For a moment afterward her lips moved. Lady + Lundie put her ear close to them, and heard the dreadful question + reiterated, in the same dreadful words: “She is Anne Silvester—as I + was. <i>Will she end like Me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + VI. + </p> + <p> + Five years passed—and the lives of the three men who had sat at the + dinner-table in the Hampstead villa began, in their altered aspects, to + reveal the progress of time and change. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Kendrew; Mr. Delamayn; Mr. Vanborough. Let the order in which they are + here named be the order in which their lives are reviewed, as seen once + more after a lapse of five years. + </p> + <p> + How the husband’s friend marked his sense of the husband’s treachery has + been told already. How he felt the death of the deserted wife is still + left to tell. Report, which sees the inmost hearts of men, and delights in + turning them outward to the public view, had always declared that Mr. + Kendrew’s life had its secret, and that the secret was a hopeless passion + for the beautiful woman who had married his friend. Not a hint ever + dropped to any living soul, not a word ever spoken to the woman herself, + could be produced in proof of the assertion while the woman lived. When + she died Report started up again more confidently than ever, and appealed + to the man’s own conduct as proof against the man himself. + </p> + <p> + He attended the funeral—though he was no relation. He took a few + blades of grass from the turf with which they covered her grave—when + he thought that nobody was looking at him. He disappeared from his club. + He traveled. He came back. He admitted that he was weary of England. He + applied for, and obtained, an appointment in one of the colonies. To what + conclusion did all this point? Was it not plain that his usual course of + life had lost its attraction for him, when the object of his infatuation + had ceased to exist? It might have been so—guesses less likely have + been made at the truth, and have hit the mark. It is, at any rate, certain + that he left England, never to return again. Another man lost, Report + said. Add to that, a man in ten thousand—and, for once, Report might + claim to be right. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn comes next. + </p> + <p> + The rising solicitor was struck off the roll, at his own request—and + entered himself as a student at one of the Inns of Court. For three years + nothing was known of him but that he was reading hard and keeping his + terms. He was called to the Bar. His late partners in the firm knew they + could trust him, and put business into his hands. In two years he made + himself a position in Court. At the end of the two years he made himself a + position out of Court. He appeared as “Junior” in “a famous case,” in + which the honor of a great family, and the title to a great estate were + concerned. His “Senior” fell ill on the eve of the trial. He conducted the + case for the defendant and won it. The defendant said, “What can I do for + you?” Mr. Delamayn answered, “Put me into Parliament.” Being a landed + gentleman, the defendant had only to issue the necessary orders—and + behold, Mr. Delamayn was in Parliament! + </p> + <p> + In the House of Commons the new member and Mr. Vanborough met again. + </p> + <p> + They sat on the same bench, and sided with the same party. Mr. Delamayn + noticed that Mr. Vanborough was looking old and worn and gray. He put a + few questions to a well-informed person. The well-informed person shook + his head. Mr. Vanborough was rich; Mr. Vanborough was well-connected + (through his wife); Mr. Van borough was a sound man in every sense of the + word; <i>but</i>—nobody liked him. He had done very well the first + year, and there it had ended. He was undeniably clever, but he produced a + disagreeable impression in the House. He gave splendid entertainments, but + he wasn’t popular in society. His party respected him, but when they had + any thing to give they passed him over. He had a temper of his own, if the + truth must be told; and with nothing against him—on the contrary, + with every thing in his favor—he didn’t make friends. A soured man. + At home and abroad, a soured man. + </p> + <p> + VII. + </p> + <p> + Five years more passed, dating from the day when the deserted wife was + laid in her grave. It was now the year eighteen hundred and sixty six. + </p> + <p> + On a certain day in that year two special items of news appeared in the + papers—the news of an elevation to the peerage, and the news of a + suicide. + </p> + <p> + Getting on well at the Bar, Mr. Delamayn got on better still in + Parliament. He became one of the prominent men in the House. Spoke + clearly, sensibly, and modestly, and was never too long. Held the House, + where men of higher abilities “bored” it. The chiefs of his party said + openly, “We must do something for Delamayn,” The opportunity offered, and + the chiefs kept their word. Their Solicitor-General was advanced a step, + and they put Delamayn in his place. There was an outcry on the part of the + older members of the Bar. The Ministry answered, “We want a man who is + listened to in the House, and we have got him.” The papers supported the + new nomination. A great debate came off, and the new Solicitor-General + justified the Ministry and the papers. His enemies said, derisively, “He + will be Lord Chancellor in a year or two!” His friends made genial jokes + in his domestic circle, which pointed to the same conclusion. They warned + his two sons, Julius and Geoffrey (then at college), to be careful what + acquaintances they made, as they might find themselves the sons of a lord + at a moment’s notice. It really began to look like something of the sort. + Always rising, Mr. Delamayn rose next to be Attorney-General. About the + same time—so true it is that “nothing succeeds like success”—a + childless relative died and left him a fortune. In the summer of + ‘sixty-six a Chief Judgeship fell vacant. The Ministry had made a previous + appointment which had been universally unpopular. They saw their way to + supplying the place of their Attorney-General, and they offered the + judicial appointment to Mr. Delamayn. He preferred remaining in the House + of Commons, and refused to accept it. The Ministry declined to take No for + an answer. They whispered confidentially, “Will you take it with a + peerage?” Mr. Delamayn consulted his wife, and took it with a peerage. The + London <i>Gazette</i> announced him to the world as Baron Holchester of + Holchester. And the friends of the family rubbed their hands and said, + “What did we tell you? Here are our two young friends, Julius and + Geoffrey, the sons of a lord!” + </p> + <p> + And where was Mr. Vanborough all this time? Exactly where we left him five + years since. + </p> + <p> + He was as rich, or richer, than ever. He was as well-connected as ever. He + was as ambitious as ever. But there it ended. He stood still in the House; + he stood still in society; nobody liked him; he made no friends. It was + all the old story over again, with this difference, that the soured man + was sourer; the gray head, grayer; and the irritable temper more + unendurable than ever. His wife had her rooms in the house and he had his, + and the confidential servants took care that they never met on the stairs. + They had no children. They only saw each other at their grand dinners and + balls. People ate at their table, and danced on their floor, and compared + notes afterward, and said how dull it was. Step by step the man who had + once been Mr. Vanborough’s lawyer rose, till the peerage received him, and + he could rise no longer; while Mr. Vanborough, on the lower round of the + ladder, looked up, and noted it, with no more chance (rich as he was and + well-connected as he was) of climbing to the House of Lords than your + chance or mine. + </p> + <p> + The man’s career was ended; and on the day when the nomination of the new + peer was announced, the man ended with it. + </p> + <p> + He laid the newspaper aside without making any remark, and went out. His + carriage set him down, where the green fields still remain, on the + northwest of London, near the foot-path which leads to Hampstead. He + walked alone to the villa where he had once lived with the woman whom he + had so cruelly wronged. New houses had risen round it, part of the old + garden had been sold and built on. After a moment’s hesitation he went to + the gate and rang the bell. He gave the servant his card. The servant’s + master knew the name as the name of a man of great wealth, and of a Member + of Parliament. He asked politely to what fortunate circumstance he owed + the honor of that visit. Mr. Vanborough answered, briefly and simply, “I + once lived here; I have associations with the place with which it is not + necessary for me to trouble you. Will you excuse what must seem to you a + very strange request? I should like to see the dining-room again, if there + is no objection, and if I am disturbing nobody.” + </p> + <p> + The “strange requests” of rich men are of the nature of “privileged + communications,” for this excellent reason, that they are sure not to be + requests for money. Mr. Vanborough was shown into the dining-room. The + master of the house, secretly wondering, watched him. + </p> + <p> + He walked straight to a certain spot on the carpet, not far from the + window that led into the garden, and nearly opposite the door. On that + spot he stood silently, with his head on his breast—thinking. Was it + <i>there</i> he had seen her for the last time, on the day when he left + the room forever? Yes; it was there. After a minute or so he roused + himself, but in a dreamy, absent manner. He said it was a pretty place, + and expressed his thanks, and looked back before the door closed, and then + went his way again. His carriage picked him up where it had set him down. + He drove to the residence of the new Lord Holchester, and left a card for + him. Then he went home. Arrived at his house, his secretary reminded him + that he had an appointment in ten minutes’ time. He thanked the secretary + in the same dreamy, absent manner in which he had thanked the owner of the + villa, and went into his dressing-room. The person with whom he had made + the appointment came, and the secretary sent the valet up stairs to knock + at the door. There was no answer. On trying the lock it proved to be + turned inside. They broke open the door, and saw him lying on the sofa. + They went close to look—and found him dead by his own hand. + </p> + <p> + VIII. + </p> + <p> + Drawing fast to its close, the Prologue reverts to the two girls—and + tells, in a few words, how the years passed with Anne and Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie more than redeemed the solemn pledge that she had given to her + friend. Preserved from every temptation which might lure her into a + longing to follow her mother’s career; trained for a teacher’s life, with + all the arts and all the advantages that money could procure, Anne’s first + and only essays as a governess were made, under Lady Lundie’s own roof, on + Lady Lundie’s own child. The difference in the ages of the girls—seven + years—the love between them, which seemed, as time went on, to grow + with their growth, favored the trial of the experiment. In the double + relation of teacher and friend to little Blanche, the girlhood of Anne + Silvester the younger passed safely, happily, uneventfully, in the modest + sanctuary of home. Who could imagine a contrast more complete than the + contrast between her early life and her mother’s? Who could see any thing + but a death-bed delusion in the terrible question which had tortured the + mother’s last moments: “Will she end like Me?” + </p> + <p> + But two events of importance occurred in the quiet family circle during + the lapse of years which is now under review. In eighteen hundred and + fifty-eight the household was enlivened by the arrival of Sir Thomas + Lundie. In eighteen hundred and sixty-five the household was broken up by + the return of Sir Thomas to India, accompanied by his wife. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s health had b een failing for some time previously. The + medical men, consulted on the case, agreed that a sea-voyage was the one + change needful to restore their patient’s wasted strength—exactly at + the time, as it happened, when Sir Thomas was due again in India. For his + wife’s sake, he agreed to defer his return, by taking the sea-voyage with + her. The one difficulty to get over was the difficulty of leaving Blanche + and Anne behind in England. + </p> + <p> + Appealed to on this point, the doctors had declared that at Blanche’s + critical time of life they could not sanction her going to India with her + mother. At the same time, near and dear relatives came forward, who were + ready and anxious to give Blanche and her governess a home—Sir + Thomas, on his side, engaging to bring his wife back in a year and a half, + or, at most, in two years’ time. Assailed in all directions, Lady Lundie’s + natural unwillingness to leave the girls was overruled. She consented to + the parting—with a mind secretly depressed, and secretly doubtful of + the future. + </p> + <p> + At the last moment she drew Anne Silvester on one side, out of hearing of + the rest. Anne was then a young woman of twenty-two, and Blanche a girl of + fifteen. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” she said, simply, “I must tell <i>you</i> what I can not tell + Sir Thomas, and what I am afraid to tell Blanche. I am going away, with a + mind that misgives me. I am persuaded I shall not live to return to + England; and, when I am dead, I believe my husband will marry again. Years + ago your mother was uneasy, on her death-bed, about <i>your</i> future. I + am uneasy, now, about Blanche’s future. I promised my dear dead friend + that you should be like my own child to me—and it quieted her mind. + Quiet my mind, Anne, before I go. Whatever happens in years to come—promise + me to be always, what you are now, a sister to Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand for the last time. With a full heart Anne Silvester + kissed it, and gave the promise. + </p> + <p> + IX. + </p> + <p> + In two months from that time one of the forebodings which had weighed on + Lady Lundie’s mind was fulfilled. She died on the voyage, and was buried + at sea. + </p> + <p> + In a year more the second misgiving was confirmed. Sir Thomas Lundie + married again. He brought his second wife to England toward the close of + eighteen hundred and sixty six. + </p> + <p> + Time, in the new household, promised to pass as quietly as in the old. Sir + Thomas remembered and respected the trust which his first wife had placed + in Anne. The second Lady Lundie, wisely guiding her conduct in this matter + by the conduct of her husband, left things as she found them in the new + house. At the opening of eighteen hundred and sixty-seven the relations + between Anne and Blanche were relations of sisterly sympathy and sisterly + love. The prospect in the future was as fair as a prospect could be. + </p> + <p> + At this date, of the persons concerned in the tragedy of twelve years + since at the Hampstead villa, three were dead; and one was self-exiled in + a foreign land. There now remained living Anne and Blanche, who had been + children at the time; and the rising solicitor who had discovered the flaw + in the Irish marriage—once Mr. Delamayn: now Lord Holchester. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0004" id="link2H_4_0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THE STORY. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0005" id="link2H_4_0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIRST SCENE.—THE SUMMER-HOUSE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0001" id="link2HCH0001"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIRST. + </h2> + <p> + THE OWLS. + </p> + <p> + IN the spring of the year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight there lived, in + a certain county of North Britain, two venerable White Owls. + </p> + <p> + The Owls inhabited a decayed and deserted summer-house. The summer-house + stood in grounds attached to a country seat in Perthshire, known by the + name of Windygates. + </p> + <p> + The situation of Windygates had been skillfully chosen in that part of the + county where the fertile lowlands first begin to merge into the mountain + region beyond. The mansion-house was intelligently laid out, and + luxuriously furnished. The stables offered a model for ventilation and + space; and the gardens and grounds were fit for a prince. + </p> + <p> + Possessed of these advantages, at starting, Windygates, nevertheless, went + the road to ruin in due course of time. The curse of litigation fell on + house and lands. For more than ten years an interminable lawsuit coiled + itself closer and closer round the place, sequestering it from human + habitation, and even from human approach. The mansion was closed. The + garden became a wilderness of weeds. The summer-house was choked up by + creeping plants; and the appearance of the creepers was followed by the + appearance of the birds of night. + </p> + <p> + For years the Owls lived undisturbed on the property which they had + acquired by the oldest of all existing rights—the right of taking. + Throughout the day they sat peaceful and solemn, with closed eyes, in the + cool darkness shed round them by the ivy. With the twilight they roused + themselves softly to the business of life. In sage and silent + companionship of two, they went flying, noiseless, along the quiet lanes + in search of a meal. At one time they would beat a field like a setter + dog, and drop down in an instant on a mouse unaware of them. At another + time—moving spectral over the black surface of the water—they + would try the lake for a change, and catch a perch as they had caught the + mouse. Their catholic digestions were equally tolerant of a rat or an + insect. And there were moments, proud moments, in their lives, when they + were clever enough to snatch a small bird at roost off his perch. On those + occasions the sense of superiority which the large bird feels every where + over the small, warmed their cool blood, and set them screeching + cheerfully in the stillness of the night. + </p> + <p> + So, for years, the Owls slept their happy sleep by day, and found their + comfortable meal when darkness fell. They had come, with the creepers, + into possession of the summer-house. Consequently, the creepers were a + part of the constitution of the summer-house. And consequently the Owls + were the guardians of the Constitution. There are some human owls who + reason as they did, and who are, in this respect—as also in respect + of snatching smaller birds off their roosts—wonderfully like them. + </p> + <p> + The constitution of the summer-house had lasted until the spring of the + year eighteen hundred and sixty-eight, when the unhallowed footsteps of + innovation passed that way; and the venerable privileges of the Owls were + assailed, for the first time, from the world outside. + </p> + <p> + Two featherless beings appeared, uninvited, at the door of the + summer-house, surveyed the constitutional creepers, and said, “These must + come down”—looked around at the horrid light of noonday, and said, + “That must come in”—went away, thereupon, and were heard, in the + distance, agreeing together, “To-morrow it shall be done.” + </p> + <p> + And the Owls said, “Have we honored the summer-house by occupying it all + these years—and is the horrid light of noonday to be let in on us at + last? My lords and gentlemen, the Constitution is destroyed!” + </p> + <p> + They passed a resolution to that effect, as is the manner of their kind. + And then they shut their eyes again, and felt that they had done their + duty. + </p> + <p> + The same night, on their way to the fields, they observed with dismay a + light in one of the windows of the house. What did the light mean? + </p> + <p> + It meant, in the first place, that the lawsuit was over at last. It meant, + in the second place that the owner of Windygates, wanting money, had + decided on letting the property. It meant, in the third place, that the + property had found a tenant, and was to be renovated immediately out of + doors and in. The Owls shrieked as they flapped along the lanes in the + darkness, And that night they struck at a mouse—and missed him. + </p> + <p> + The next morning, the Owls—fast asleep in charge of the Constitution—were + roused by voices of featherless beings all round them. They opened their + eyes, under protest, and saw instruments of destruction attacking the + creepers. Now in one direction, and now in another, those instruments let + in on the summer-house the horrid light of day. But the Owls were equal to + the occasion. They ruffled their feathers, and cried, “No surrender!” The + featherless beings plied their work cheerfully, and answered, “Reform!” + The creepers were torn down this way and that. The horrid daylight poured + in brighter and brighter. The Owls had barely time to pass a new + resolution, namely, “That we do stand by the Constitution,” when a ray of + the outer sunlight flashed into their eyes, and sent them flying headlong + to the nearest shade. There they sat winking, while the summer-house was + cleared of the rank growth that had choked it up, while the rotten + wood-work was renewed, while all the murky place was purified with air and + light. And when the world saw it, and said, “Now we shall do!” the Owls + shut their eyes in pious remembrance of the darkness, and answered, “My + lords and gentlemen, the Constitution is destroyed!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0002" id="link2HCH0002"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE SECOND. + </h2> + <h3> + THE GUESTS. + </h3> + <p> + Who was responsible for the reform of the summer-house? The new tenant at + Windygates was responsible. + </p> + <p> + And who was the new tenant? + </p> + <p> + Come, and see. + </p> + <p> + In the spring of eighteen hundred and sixty-eight the summer-house had + been the dismal dwelling-place of a pair of owls. In the autumn of the + same year the summer-house was the lively gathering-place of a crowd of + ladies and gentlemen, assembled at a lawn party—the guests of the + tenant who had taken Windygates. + </p> + <p> + The scene—at the opening of the party—was as pleasant to look + at as light and beauty and movement could make it. + </p> + <p> + Inside the summer-house the butterfly-brightness of the women in their + summer dresses shone radiant out of the gloom shed round it by the dreary + modern clothing of the men. Outside the summer-house, seen through three + arched openings, the cool green prospect of a lawn led away, in the + distance, to flower-beds and shrubberies, and, farther still, disclosed, + through a break in the trees, a grand stone house which closed the view, + with a fountain in front of it playing in the sun. + </p> + <p> + They were half of them laughing, they were all of them talking—the + comfortable hum of their voices was at its loudest; the cheery pealing of + the laughter was soaring to its highest notes—when one dominant + voice, rising clear and shrill above all the rest, called imperatively for + silence. The moment after, a young lady stepped into the vacant space in + front of the summer-house, and surveyed the throng of guests as a general + in command surveys a regiment under review. + </p> + <p> + She was young, she was pretty, she was plump, she was fair. She was not + the least embarrassed by her prominent position. She was dressed in the + height of the fashion. A hat, like a cheese-plate, was tilted over her + forehead. A balloon of light brown hair soared, fully inflated, from the + crown of her head. A cataract of beads poured over her bosom. A pair of + cock-chafers in enamel (frightfully like the living originals) hung at her + ears. Her scanty skirts shone splendid with the blue of heaven. Her ankles + twinkled in striped stockings. Her shoes were of the sort called + “Watteau.” And her heels were of the height at which men shudder, and ask + themselves (in contemplating an otherwise lovable woman), “Can this + charming person straighten her knees?” + </p> + <p> + The young lady thus presenting herself to the general view was Miss + Blanche Lundie—once the little rosy Blanche whom the Prologue has + introduced to the reader. Age, at the present time, eighteen. Position, + excellent. Money, certain. Temper, quick. Disposition, variable. In a + word, a child of the modern time—with the merits of the age we live + in, and the failings of the age we live in—and a substance of + sincerity and truth and feeling underlying it all. + </p> + <p> + “Now then, good people,” cried Miss Blanche, “silence, if you please! We + are going to choose sides at croquet. Business, business, business!” + </p> + <p> + Upon this, a second lady among the company assumed a position of + prominence, and answered the young person who had just spoken with a look + of mild reproof, and in a tone of benevolent protest. + </p> + <p> + The second lady was tall, and solid, and five-and-thirty. She presented to + the general observation a cruel aquiline nose, an obstinate straight chin, + magnificent dark hair and eyes, a serene splendor of fawn-colored apparel, + and a lazy grace of movement which was attractive at first sight, but + inexpressibly monotonous and wearisome on a longer acquaintance. This was + Lady Lundie the Second, now the widow (after four months only of married + life) of Sir Thomas Lundie, deceased. In other words, the step-mother of + Blanche, and the enviable person who had taken the house and lands of + Windygates. + </p> + <p> + “My dear,” said Lady Lundie, “words have their meanings—even on a + young lady’s lips. Do you call Croquet, ‘business?’” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t call it pleasure, surely?” said a gravely ironical voice in the + back-ground of the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + The ranks of the visitors parted before the last speaker, and disclosed to + view, in the midst of that modern assembly, a gentleman of the bygone + time. + </p> + <p> + The manner of this gentleman was distinguished by a pliant grace and + courtesy unknown to the present generation. The attire of this gentleman + was composed of a many-folded white cravat, a close-buttoned blue + dress-coat, and nankeen trousers with gaiters to match, ridiculous to the + present generation. The talk of this gentleman ran in an easy flow—revealing + an independent habit of mind, and exhibiting a carefully-polished capacity + for satirical retort—dreaded and disliked by the present generation. + Personally, he was little and wiry and slim—with a bright white + head, and sparkling black eyes, and a wry twist of humor curling sharply + at the corners of his lips. At his lower extremities, he exhibited the + deformity which is popularly known as “a club-foot.” But he carried his + lameness, as he carried his years, gayly. He was socially celebrated for + his ivory cane, with a snuff-box artfully let into the knob at the top—and + he was socially dreaded for a hatred of modern institutions, which + expressed itself in season and out of season, and which always showed the + same, fatal knack of hitting smartly on the weakest place. Such was Sir + Patrick Lundie; brother of the late baronet, Sir Thomas; and inheritor, at + Sir Thomas’s death, of the title and estates. + </p> + <p> + Miss Blanche—taking no notice of her step-mother’s reproof, or of + her uncle’s commentary on it—pointed to a table on which croquet + mallets and balls were laid ready, and recalled the attention of the + company to the matter in hand. + </p> + <p> + “I head one side, ladies and gentlemen,” she resumed. “And Lady Lundie + heads the other. We choose our players turn and turn about. Mamma has the + advantage of me in years. So mamma chooses first.” + </p> + <p> + With a look at her step-daughter—which, being interpreted, meant, “I + would send you back to the nursery, miss, if I could!”—Lady Lundie + turned and ran her eye over her guests. She had evidently made up her + mind, beforehand, what player to pick out first. + </p> + <p> + “I choose Miss Silvester,” she said—with a special emphasis laid on + the name. + </p> + <p> + At that there was another parting among the crowd. To us (who know her), + it was Anne who now appeared. Strangers, who saw her for the first time, + saw a lady in the prime of her life—a lady plainly dressed in + unornamented white—who advanced slowly, and confronted the mistress + of the house. + </p> + <p> + A certain proportion—and not a small one—of the men at the + lawn-party had been brought there by friends who were privileged to + introduce them. The moment she appeared every one of those men suddenly + became interested in the lady who had been chosen first. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a very charming woman,” whispered one of the strangers at the + house to one of the friends of the house. “Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + The friend whispered back. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Lundie’s governess—that’s all.” + </p> + <p> + The moment during which the question was put and answered was also the + moment which brought Lady Lundie and Miss Silvester face to face in the + presence of the company. + </p> + <p> + The stranger at the house looked at the two women, and whispered again. + </p> + <p> + “Something wrong between the lady and the governess,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The friend looked also, and answered, in one emphatic word: + </p> + <p> + “Evidently!” + </p> + <p> + There are certain women whose influence over men is an unfathomable + mystery to observers of their own sex. The governess was one of those + women. She had inherited the charm, but not the beauty, of her unhappy + mother. Judge her by the standard set up in the illustrated gift-books and + the print-shop windows—and the sentence must have inevitably + followed. “She has not a single good feature in her face.” + </p> + <p> + There was nothing individually remarkable about Miss Silvester, seen in a + state of repose. She was of the average height. She was as well made as + most women. In hair and complexion she was neither light nor dark, but + provokingly neutral just between the two. Worse even than this, there were + positive defects in her face, which it was impossible to deny. A nervous + contraction at one corner of her mouth drew up the lips out of the + symmetrically right line, when, they moved. A nervous uncertainty in the + eye on the same side narrowly escaped presenting the deformity of a + “cast.” And yet, with these indisputable drawbacks, here was one of those + women—the formidable few—who have the hearts of men and the + peace of families at their mercy. She moved—and there was some + subtle charm, Sir, in the movement, that made you look back, and suspend + your conversation with your friend, and watch her silently while she + walked. She sat by you and talked to you—and behold, a sensitive + something passed into that little twist at the corner of the mouth, and + into that nervous uncertainty in the soft gray eye, which turned defect + into beauty—which enchained your senses—which made your nerves + thrill if she touched you by accident, and set your heart beating if you + looked at the same book with her, and felt her breath on your face. All + this, let it be well understood, only happened if you were a man. + </p> + <p> + If you saw her with the eyes of a woman, the results were of quite another + kind. In that case you merely turned to your nearest female friend, and + said, with unaffected pity for the other sex, “What <i>can</i> the men see + in her!” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of the lady of the house and the eyes of the governess met, with + marked distrust on either side. Few people could have failed to see what + the stranger and the friend had noticed alike—that there was + something smoldering under the surface here. Miss Silvester spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Lady Lundie,” she said. “I would rather not play.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie assumed an extreme surprise which passed the limits of + good-breeding. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, indeed?” she rejoined, sharply. “Considering that we are all here for + the purpose of playing, that seems rather remarkable. Is any thing wrong, + Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + A flush appeared on the delicate paleness of Miss Silvester’s face. But + she did her duty as a woman and a governess. She submitted, and so + preserved appearances, for that time. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing is the matter,” she answered. “I am not very well this morning. + But I will play if you wish it.” + </p> + <p> + “I do wish it,” answered Lady Lundie. + </p> + <p> + Miss Silvester turned aside toward one of the entrances into the + summer-house. She waited for events, looking out over the lawn, with a + visible inner disturbance, marked over the bosom by the rise and fall of + her white dress. + </p> + <p> + It was Blanche’s turn to select the next player. + </p> + <p> + In some preliminary uncertainty as to her choice she looked about among + the guests, and caught the eye of a gentleman in the front ranks. He stood + side by side with Sir Patrick—a striking representative of the + school that is among us—as Sir Patrick was a striking representative + of the school that has passed away. + </p> + <p> + The modern gentleman was young and florid, tall and strong. The parting of + his curly Saxon locks began in the center of his forehead, traveled over + the top of his head, and ended, rigidly-central, at the ruddy nape of his + neck. His features were as perfectly regular and as perfectly + unintelligent as human features can be. His expression preserved an + immovable composure wonderful to behold. The muscles of his brawny arms + showed through the sleeves of his light summer coat. He was deep in the + chest, thin in the flanks, firm on the legs—in two words a + magnificent human animal, wrought up to the highest pitch of physical + development, from head to foot. This was Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn—commonly + called “the honorable;” and meriting that distinction in more ways than + one. He was honorable, in the first place, as being the son (second son) + of that once-rising solicitor, who was now Lord Holchester. He was + honorable, in the second place, as having won the highest popular + distinction which the educational system of modern England can bestow—he + had pulled the stroke-oar in a University boat-race. Add to this, that + nobody had ever seen him read any thing but a newspaper, and that nobody + had ever known him to be backward in settling a bet—and the picture + of this distinguished young Englishman will be, for the present, complete. + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s eye naturally rested on him. Blanche’s voice naturally picked + him out as the first player on her side. + </p> + <p> + “I choose Mr. Delamayn,” she said. + </p> + <p> + As the name passed her lips the flush on Miss Silvester’s face died away, + and a deadly paleness took its place. She made a movement to leave the + summer-house—checked herself abruptly—and laid one hand on the + back of a rustic seat at her side. A gentleman behind her, looking at the + hand, saw it clench itself so suddenly and so fiercely that the glove on + it split. The gentleman made a mental memorandum, and registered Miss + Silvester in his private books as “the devil’s own temper.” + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Mr. Delamayn, by a strange coincidence, took exactly the same + course which Miss Silvester had taken before him. He, too, attempted to + withdraw from the coming game. + </p> + <p> + “Thanks very much,” he said. “Could you additionally honor me by choosing + somebody else? It’s not in my line.” + </p> + <p> + Fifty years ago such an answer as this, addressed to a lady, would have + been considered inexcusably impertinent. The social code of the present + time hailed it as something frankly amusing. The company laughed. Blanche + lost her temper. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t we interest you in any thing but severe muscular exertion, Mr. + Delamayn?” she asked, sharply. “Must you always be pulling in a boat-race, + or flying over a high jump? If you had a mind, you would want to relax it. + You have got muscles instead. Why not relax <i>them</i>?” + </p> + <p> + The shafts of Miss Lundie’s bitter wit glided off Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn + like water off a duck’s back. + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please,” he said, with stolid good-humor. “Don’t be offended. + I came here with ladies—and they wouldn’t let me smoke. I miss my + smoke. I thought I’d slip away a bit and have it. All right! I’ll play.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! smoke by all means!” retorted Blanche. “I shall choose somebody else. + I won’t have you!” + </p> + <p> + The honorable young gentleman looked unaffectedly relieved. The petulant + young lady turned her back on him, and surveyed the guests at the other + extremity of the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + “Who shall I choose?” she said to herself. + </p> + <p> + A dark young man—with a face burned gipsy-brown by the sun; with + something in his look and manner suggestive of a roving life, and perhaps + of a familiar acquaintance with the sea—advanced shyly, and said, in + a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Choose me!” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s face broke prettily into a charming smile. Judging from + appearances, the dark young man had a place in her estimation peculiarly + his own. + </p> + <p> + “You!” she said, coquettishly. “You are going to leave us in an hour’s + time!” + </p> + <p> + He ventured a step nearer. “I am coming back,” he pleaded, “the day after + to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You play very badly!” + </p> + <p> + “I might improve—if you would teach me.” + </p> + <p> + “Might you? Then I will teach you!” She turned, bright and rosy, to her + step-mother. “I choose Mr. Arnold Brinkworth,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Here, again, there appeared to be something in a name unknown to + celebrity, which nevertheless produced its effect—not, this time, on + Miss Silvester, but on Sir Patrick. He looked at Mr. Brinkworth with a + sudden interest and curiosity. If the lady of the house had not claimed + his attention at the moment he would evidently have spoken to the dark + young man. + </p> + <p> + But it was Lady Lundie’s turn to choose a second player on her side. Her + brother-in-law was a person of some importance; and she had her own + motives for ingratiating herself with the head of the family. She + surprised the whole company by choosing Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Mamma!” cried Blanche. “What can you be thinking of? Sir Patrick won’t + play. Croquet wasn’t discovered in his time.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick never allowed “his time” to be made the subject of disparaging + remarks by the younger generation without paying the younger generation + back in its own coin. + </p> + <p> + “In <i>my</i> time, my dear,” he said to his niece, “people were expected + to bring some agreeable quality with them to social meetings of this sort. + In your time you have dispensed with all that. Here,” remarked the old + gentleman, taking up a croquet mallet from the table near him, “is one of + the qualifications for success in modern society. And here,” he added, + taking up a ball, “is another. Very good. Live and learn. I’ll play! I’ll + play!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie (born impervious to all sense of irony) smiled graciously. + </p> + <p> + “I knew Sir Patrick would play,” she said, “to please me.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick bowed with satirical politeness. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Lundie,” he answered, “you read me like a book.” To the astonishment + of all persons present under forty he emphasized those words by laying his + hand on his heart, and quoting poetry. “I may say with Dryden,” added the + gallant old gentleman: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “‘Old as I am, for ladies’ love unfit, + The power of beauty I remember yet.’” + </pre> + <p> + Lady Lundie looked unaffectedly shocked. Mr. Delamayn went a step farther. + He interfered on the spot—with the air of a man who feels himself + imperatively called upon to perform a public duty. + </p> + <p> + “Dryden never said that,” he remarked, “I’ll answer for it.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick wheeled round with the help of his ivory cane, and looked Mr. + Delamayn hard in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know Dryden, Sir, better than I do?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Geoffrey answered, modestly, “I should say I did. I have + rowed three races with him, and we trained together.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked round him with a sour smile of triumph. + </p> + <p> + “Then let me tell you, Sir,” he said, “that you trained with a man who + died nearly two hundred years ago.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn appealed, in genuine bewilderment, to the company generally: + </p> + <p> + “What does this old gentleman mean?” he asked. “I am speaking of Tom + Dryden, of Corpus. Every body in the University knows <i>him.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I am speaking,” echoed Sir Patrick, “of John Dryden the Poet. Apparently, + every body in the University does <i>not</i> know <i>him!”</i> + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn answered, with a cordial earnestness very pleasant to see: + </p> + <p> + “Give you my word of honor, I never heard of him before in my life! Don’t + be angry, Sir. <i>I’m</i> not offended with <i>you.</i>” He smiled, and + took out his brier-wood pipe. “Got a light?” he asked, in the friendliest + possible manner. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick answered, with a total absence of cordiality: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t smoke, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn looked at him, without taking the slightest offense: + </p> + <p> + “You don’t smoke!” he repeated. “I wonder how you get through your spare + time?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick closed the conversation: + </p> + <p> + “Sir,” he said, with a low bow, “you <i>may</i> wonder.” + </p> + <p> + While this little skirmish was proceeding Lady Lundie and her + step-daughter had organized the game; and the company, players and + spectators, were beginning to move toward the lawn. Sir Patrick stopped + his niece on her way out, with the dark young man in close attendance on + her. + </p> + <p> + “Leave Mr. Brinkworth with me,” he said. “I want to speak to him.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche issued her orders immediately. Mr. Brinkworth was sentenced to + stay with Sir Patrick until she wanted him for the game. Mr. Brinkworth + wondered, and obeyed. + </p> + <p> + During the exercise of this act of authority a circumstance occurred at + the other end of the summer-house. Taking advantage of the confusion + caused by the general movement to the lawn, Miss Silvester suddenly placed + herself close to Mr. Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + “In ten minutes,” she whispered, “the summer-house will be empty. Meet me + here.” + </p> + <p> + The Honorable Geoffrey started, and looked furtively at the visitors about + him. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think it’s safe?” he whispered back. + </p> + <p> + The governess’s sensitive lips trembled, with fear or with anger, it was + hard to say which. + </p> + <p> + “I insist on it!” she answered, and left him. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Delamayn knitted his handsome eyebrows as he looked after her, and + then left the summer-house in his turn. The rose-garden at the back of the + building was solitary for the moment. He took out his pipe and hid himself + among the roses. The smoke came from his mouth in hot and hasty puffs. He + was usually the gentlest of masters—to his pipe. When he hurried + that confidential servant, it was a sure sign of disturbance in the inner + man. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0003" id="link2HCH0003"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRD. + </h2> + <h3> + THE DISCOVERIES. + </h3> + <p> + BUT two persons were now left in the summer-house—Arnold Brinkworth + and Sir Patrick Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth,” said the old gentleman, “I have had no opportunity of + speaking to you before this; and (as I hear that you are to leave us, + to-day) I may find no opportunity at a later time. I want to introduce + myself. Your father was one of my dearest friends—let me make a + friend of your father’s son.” + </p> + <p> + He held out his hands, and mentioned his name. + </p> + <p> + Arnold recognized it directly. “Oh, Sir Patrick!” he said, warmly, “if my + poor father had only taken your advice—” + </p> + <p> + “He would have thought twice before he gambled away his fortune on the + turf; and he might have been alive here among us, instead of dying an + exile in a foreign land,” said Sir Patrick, finishing the sentence which + the other had begun. “No more of that! Let’s talk of something else. Lady + Lundie wrote to me about you the other day. She told me your aunt was + dead, and had left you heir to her property in Scotland. Is that true?—It + is?—I congratulate you with all my heart. Why are you visiting here, + instead of looking after your house and lands? Oh! it’s only + three-and-twenty miles from this; and you’re going to look after it + to-day, by the next train? Quite right. And—what? what?—coming + back again the day after to-morrow? Why should you come back? Some special + attraction here, I suppose? I hope it’s the right sort of attraction. + You’re very young—you’re exposed to all sorts of temptations. Have + you got a solid foundation of good sense at the bottom of you? It is not + inherited from your poor father, if you have. You must have been a mere + boy when he ruined his children’s prospects. How have you lived from that + time to this? What were you doing when your aunt’s will made an idle man + of you for life?” + </p> + <p> + The question was a searching one. Arnold answered it, without the + slightest hesitation; speaking with an unaffected modesty and simplicity + which at once won Sir Patrick’s heart. + </p> + <p> + “I was a boy at Eton, Sir,” he said, “when my father’s losses ruined him. + I had to leave school, and get my own living; and I have got it, in a + roughish way, from that time to this. In plain English, I have followed + the sea—in the merchant-service.” + </p> + <p> + “In plainer English still, you met adversity like a brave lad, and you + have fairly earned the good luck that has fallen to you,” rejoined Sir + Patrick. “Give me your hand—I have taken a liking to you. You’re not + like the other young fellows of the present time. I shall call you + ‘Arnold.’ You mus’n’t return the compliment and call me ‘Patrick,’ mind—I’m + too old to be treated in that way. Well, and how do you get on here? What + sort of a woman is my sister-in-law? and what sort of a house is this?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “Those are extraordinary questions for you to put to me,” he said. “You + talk, Sir, as if you were a stranger here!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick touched a spring in the knob of his ivory cane. A little gold + lid flew up, and disclosed the snuff-box hidden inside. He took a pinch, + and chuckled satirically over some passing thought, which he did not think + it necessary to communicate to his young friend. + </p> + <p> + “I talk as if I was a stranger here, do I?” he resumed. “That’s exactly + what I am. Lady Lundie and I correspond on excellent terms; but we run in + different grooves, and we see each other as seldom as possible. My story,” + continued the pleasant old man, with a charming frankness which leveled + all differences of age and rank between Arnold and himself, “is not + entirely unlike yours; though I <i>am</i> old enough to be your + grandfather. I was getting my living, in my way (as a crusty old Scotch + lawyer), when my brother married again. His death, without leaving a son + by either of his wives, gave me a lift in the world, like you. Here I am + (to my own sincere regret) the present baronet. Yes, to my sincere regret! + All sorts of responsibilities which I never bargained for are thrust on my + shoulders. I am the head of the family; I am my niece’s guardian; I am + compelled to appear at this lawn-party—and (between ourselves) I am + as completely out of my element as a man can be. Not a single familiar + face meets <i>me</i> among all these fine people. Do you know any body + here?” + </p> + <p> + “I have one friend at Windygates,” said Arnold. “He came here this + morning, like you. Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + As he made the reply, Miss Silvester appeared at the entrance to the + summer-house. A shadow of annoyance passed over her face when she saw that + the place was occupied. She vanished, unnoticed, and glided back to the + game. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked at the son of his old friend, with every appearance of + being disappointed in the young man for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Your choice of a friend rather surprises me,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Arnold artlessly accepted the words as an appeal to him for information. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir—there’s nothing surprising in it,” he + returned. “We were school-fellows at Eton, in the old times. And I have + met Geoffrey since, when he was yachting, and when I was with my ship. + Geoffrey saved my life, Sir Patrick,” he added, his voice rising, and his + eyes brightening with honest admiration of his friend. “But for him, I + should have been drowned in a boat-accident. Isn’t <i>that</i> a good + reason for his being a friend of mine?” + </p> + <p> + “It depends entirely on the value you set on your life,” said Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “The value I set on my life?” repeated Arnold. “I set a high value on it, + of course!” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, Mr. Delamayn has laid you under an obligation.” + </p> + <p> + “Which I can never repay!” + </p> + <p> + “Which you will repay one of these days, with interest—if I know any + thing of human nature,” answered Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + He said the words with the emphasis of strong conviction. They were barely + spoken when Mr. Delamayn appeared (exactly as Miss Silvester had appeared) + at the entrance to the summer-house. He, too, vanished, unnoticed—like + Miss Silvester again. But there the parallel stopped. The Honorable + Geoffrey’s expression, on discovering the place to be occupied, was, + unmistakably an expression of relief. + </p> + <p> + Arnold drew the right inference, this time, from Sir Patrick’s language + and Sir Patrick’s tones. He eagerly took up the defense of his friend. + </p> + <p> + “You said that rather bitterly, Sir,” he remarked. “What has Geoffrey done + to offend you?” + </p> + <p> + “He presumes to exist—that’s what he has done,” retorted Sir + Patrick. “Don’t stare! I am speaking generally. Your friend is the model + young Briton of the present time. I don’t like the model young Briton. I + don’t see the sense of crowing over him as a superb national production, + because he is big and strong, and drinks beer with impunity, and takes a + cold shower bath all the year round. There is far too much glorification + in England, just now, of the mere physical qualities which an Englishman + shares with the savage and the brute. And the ill results are beginning to + show themselves already! We are readier than we ever were to practice all + that is rough in our national customs, and to excuse all that is violent + and brutish in our national acts. Read the popular books—attend the + popular amusements; and you will find at the bottom of them all a + lessening regard for the gentler graces of civilized life, and a growing + admiration for the virtues of the aboriginal Britons!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold listened in blank amazement. He had been the innocent means of + relieving Sir Patrick’s mind of an accumulation of social protest, + unprovided with an issue for some time past. “How hot you are over it, + Sir!” he exclaimed, in irrepressible astonishment. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick instantly recovered himself. The genuine wonder expressed in + the young man’s face was irresistible. + </p> + <p> + “Almost as hot,” he said, “as if I was cheering at a boat-race, or + wrangling over a betting-book—eh? Ah, we were so easily heated when + I was a young man! Let’s change the subject. I know nothing to the + prejudice of your friend, Mr. Delamayn. It’s the cant of the day,” cried + Sir Patrick, relapsing again, “to take these physically-wholesome men for + granted as being morally-wholesome men into the bargain. Time will show + whether the cant of the day is right.—So you are actually coming + back to Lady Lundie’s after a mere flying visit to your own property? I + repeat, that is a most extraordinary proceeding on the part of a landed + gentleman like you. What’s the attraction here—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Before Arnold could reply Blanche called to him from the lawn. His color + rose, and he turned eagerly to go out. Sir Patrick nodded his head with + the air of a man who had been answered to his own entire satisfaction. + “Oh!” he said, “<i>that’s</i> the attraction, is it?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s life at sea had left him singularly ignorant of the ways of the + world on shore. Instead of taking the joke, he looked confused. A deeper + tinge of color reddened his dark cheeks. “I didn’t say so,” he answered, a + little irritably. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick lifted two of his white, wrinkled old fingers, and + good-humoredly patted the young sailor on the cheek. + </p> + <p> + “Yes you did,” he said. “In red letters.” + </p> + <p> + The little gold lid in the knob of the ivory cane flew up, and the old + gentleman rewarded himself for that neat retort with a pinch of snuff. At + the same moment Blanche made her appearance on the scene. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth,” she said, “I shall want you directly. Uncle, it’s your + turn to play.” + </p> + <p> + “Bless my soul!” cried Sir Patrick, “I forgot the game.” He looked about + him, and saw his mallet and ball left waiting on the table. “Where are the + modern substitutes for conversation? Oh, here they are!” He bowled the + ball out before him on to the lawn, and tucked the mallet, as if it was an + umbrella, under his arm. “Who was the first mistaken person,” he said to + himself, as he briskly hobbled out, “who discovered that human life was a + serious thing? Here am I, with one foot in the grave; and the most serious + question before me at the present moment is, Shall I get through the + Hoops?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold and Blanche were left together. + </p> + <p> + Among the personal privileges which Nature has accorded to women, there + are surely none more enviable than their privilege of always looking their + best when they look at the man they love. When Blanche’s eyes turned on + Arnold after her uncle had gone out, not even the hideous fashionable + disfigurements of the inflated “chignon” and the tilted hat could destroy + the triple charm of youth, beauty, and tenderness beaming in her face. + Arnold looked at her—and remembered, as he had never remembered yet, + that he was going by the next train, and that he was leaving her in the + society of more than one admiring man of his own age. The experience of a + whole fortnight passed under the same roof with her had proved Blanche to + be the most charming girl in existence. It was possible that she might not + be mortally offended with him if he told her so. He determined that he <i>would</i> + tell her so at that auspicious moment. + </p> + <p> + But who shall presume to measure the abyss that lies between the Intention + and the Execution? Arnold’s resolution to speak was as firmly settled as a + resolution could be. And what came of it? Alas for human infirmity! + Nothing came of it but silence. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t look quite at your ease, Mr. Brinkworth,” said Blanche. “What + has Sir Patrick been saying to you? My uncle sharpens his wit on every + body. He has been sharpening it on <i>you?”</i> + </p> + <p> + Arnold began to see his way. At an immeasurable distance—but still + he saw it. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick is a terrible old man,” he answered. “Just before you came in + he discovered one of my secrets by only looking in my face.” He paused, + rallied his courage, pushed on at all hazards, and came headlong to the + point. “I wonder,” he asked, bluntly, “whether you take after your uncle?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche instantly understood him. With time at her disposal, she would + have taken him lightly in hand, and led him, by fine gradations, to the + object in view. But in two minutes or less it would be Arnold’s turn to + play. “He is going to make me an offer,” thought Blanche; “and he has + about a minute to do it in. He <i>shall</i> do it!” + </p> + <p> + “What!” she exclaimed, “do you think the gift of discovery runs in the + family?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold made a plunge. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it did!” he said. + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked the picture of astonishment. + </p> + <p> + “Why?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “If you could see in my face what Sir Patrick saw—” + </p> + <p> + He had only to finish the sentence, and the thing was done. But the tender + passion perversely delights in raising obstacles to itself. A sudden + timidity seized on Arnold exactly at the wrong moment. He stopped short, + in the most awkward manner possible. + </p> + <p> + Blanche heard from the lawn the blow of the mallet on the ball, and the + laughter of the company at some blunder of Sir Patrick’s. The precious + seconds were slipping away. She could have boxed Arnold on both ears for + being so unreasonably afraid of her. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” she said, impatiently, “if I did look in your face, what should I + see?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold made another plunge. He answered: “You would see that I want a + little encouragement.” + </p> + <p> + “From <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—if you please.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked back over her shoulder. The summer-house stood on an + eminence, approached by steps. The players on the lawn beneath were + audible, but not visible. Any one of them might appear, unexpectedly, at a + moment’s notice. Blanche listened. There was no sound of approaching + footsteps—there was a general hush, and then another bang of the + mallet on the ball and then a clapping of hands. Sir Patrick was a + privileged person. He had been allowed, in all probability, to try again; + and he was succeeding at the second effort. This implied a reprieve of + some seconds. Blanche looked back again at Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Consider yourself encouraged,” she whispered; and instantly added, with + the ineradicable female instinct of self-defense, “within limits!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold made a last plunge—straight to the bottom, this time. + </p> + <p> + “Consider yourself loved,” he burst out, “without any limits at all.” + </p> + <p> + It was all over—the words were spoken—he had got her by the + hand. Again the perversity of the tender passion showed itself more + strongly than ever. The confession which Blanche had been longing to hear, + had barely escaped her lover’s lips before Blanche protested against it! + She struggled to release her hand. She formally appealed to Arnold to let + her go. + </p> + <p> + Arnold only held her the tighter. + </p> + <p> + “Do try to like me a little!” he pleaded. “I am so fond of <i>you!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Who was to resist such wooing as this?—when you were privately fond + of him yourself, remember, and when you were certain to be interrupted in + another moment! Blanche left off struggling, and looked up at her young + sailor with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Did you learn this method of making love in the merchant-service?” she + inquired, saucily. + </p> + <p> + Arnold persisted in contemplating his prospects from the serious point of + view. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go back to the merchant-service,” he said, “if I have made you angry + with me.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche administered another dose of encouragement. + </p> + <p> + “Anger, Mr. Brinkworth, is one of the bad passions,” she answered, + demurely. “A young lady who has been properly brought up has no bad + passions.” + </p> + <p> + There was a sudden cry from the players on the lawn—a cry for “Mr. + Brinkworth.” Blanche tried to push him out. Arnold was immovable. + </p> + <p> + “Say something to encourage me before I go,” he pleaded. “One word will + do. Say, Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche shook her head. Now she had got him, the temptation to tease him + was irresistible. + </p> + <p> + “Quite impossible!” she rejoined. “If you want any more encouragement, you + must speak to my uncle.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll speak to him,” returned Arnold, “before I leave the house.” + </p> + <p> + There was another cry for “Mr. Brinkworth.” Blanche made another effort to + push him out. + </p> + <p> + “Go!” she said. “And mind you get through the hoop!” + </p> + <p> + She had both hands on his shoulders—her face was close to his—she + was simply irresistible. Arnold caught her round the waist and kissed her. + Needless to tell him to get through the hoop. He had surely got through it + already! Blanche was speechless. Arnold’s last effort in the art of + courtship had taken away her breath. Before she could recover herself a + sound of approaching footsteps became plainly audible. Arnold gave her a + last squeeze, and ran out. + </p> + <p> + She sank on the nearest chair, and closed her eyes in a flutter of + delicious confusion. + </p> + <p> + The footsteps ascending to the summer-house came nearer. Blanche opened + her eyes, and saw Anne Silvester, standing alone, looking at her. She + sprang to her feet, and threw her arms impulsively round Anne’s neck. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t know what has happened,” she whispered. “Wish me joy, darling. + He has said the words. He is mine for life!” + </p> + <p> + All the sisterly love and sisterly confidence of many years was expressed + in that embrace, and in the tone in which the words were spoken. The + hearts of the mothers, in the past time, could hardly have been closer to + each other—as it seemed—than the hearts of the daughters were + now. And yet, if Blanche had looked up in Anne’s face at that moment, she + must have seen that Anne’s mind was far away from her little love-story. + </p> + <p> + “You know who it is?” she went on, after waiting for a reply. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Who else should it be?” + </p> + <p> + “And you are really happy, my love?” + </p> + <p> + “Happy?” repeated Blanche “Mind! this is strictly between ourselves. I am + ready to jump out of my skin for joy. I love him! I love him! I love him!” + she cried, with a childish pleasure in repeating the words. They were + echoed by a heavy sigh. Blanche instantly looked up into Anne’s face. + “What’s the matter?” she asked, with a sudden change of voice and manner. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s observation saw too plainly to be blinded in that way. + </p> + <p> + “There <i>is</i> something the matter,” she said. “Is it money?” she + added, after a moment’s consideration. “Bills to pay? I have got plenty of + money, Anne. I’ll lend you what you like.” + </p> + <p> + “No, no, my dear!” + </p> + <p> + Blanche drew back, a little hurt. Anne was keeping her at a distance for + the first time in Blanche’s experience of her. + </p> + <p> + “I tell you all my secrets,” she said. “Why are <i>you</i> keeping a + secret from <i>me?</i> Do you know that you have been looking anxious and + out of spirits for some time past? Perhaps you don’t like Mr. Brinkworth? + No? you <i>do</i> like him? Is it my marrying, then? I believe it is! You + fancy we shall be parted, you goose? As if I could do without you! Of + course, when I am married to Arnold, you will come and live with us. + That’s quite understood between us—isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Anne drew herself suddenly, almost roughly, away from Blanche, and pointed + out to the steps. + </p> + <p> + “There is somebody coming,” she said. “Look!” + </p> + <p> + The person coming was Arnold. It was Blanche’s turn to play, and he had + volunteered to fetch her. + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s attention—easily enough distracted on other occasions—remained + steadily fixed on Anne. + </p> + <p> + “You are not yourself,” she said, “and I must know the reason of it. I + will wait till to-night; and then you will tell me, when you come into my + room. Don’t look like that! You <i>shall</i> tell me. And there’s a kiss + for you in the mean time!” + </p> + <p> + She joined Arnold, and recovered her gayety the moment she looked at him. + </p> + <p> + “Well? Have you got through the hoops?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the hoops. I have broken the ice with Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “What! before all the company!” + </p> + <p> + “Of course not! I have made an appointment to speak to him here.” + </p> + <p> + They went laughing down the steps, and joined the game. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Anne Silvester walked slowly to the inner and darker part of + the summer-house. A glass, in a carved wooden frame, was fixed against one + of the side walls. She stopped and looked into it—looked, + shuddering, at the reflection of herself. + </p> + <p> + “Is the time coming,” she said, “when even Blanche will see what I am in + my face?” + </p> + <p> + She turned aside from the glass. With a sudden cry of despair she flung up + her arms and laid them heavily against the wall, and rested her head on + them with her back to the light. At the same moment a man’s figure + appeared—standing dark in the flood of sunshine at the entrance to + the summer-house. The man was Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0004" id="link2HCH0004"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FOURTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE TWO. + </h3> + <p> + He advanced a few steps, and stopped. Absorbed in herself, Anne failed to + hear him. She never moved. + </p> + <p> + “I have come, as you made a point of it,” he said, sullenly. “But, mind + you, it isn’t safe.” + </p> + <p> + At the sound of his voice, Anne turned toward him. A change of expression + appeared in her face, as she slowly advanced from the back of the + summer-house, which revealed a likeness to her moth er, not perceivable at + other times. As the mother had looked, in by-gone days, at the man who had + disowned her, so the daughter looked at Geoffrey Delamayn—with the + same terrible composure, and the same terrible contempt. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he asked. “What have you got to say to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn,” she answered, “you are one of the fortunate people of this + world. You are a nobleman’s son. You are a handsome man. You are popular + at your college. You are free of the best houses in England. Are you + something besides all this? Are you a coward and a scoundrel as well?” + </p> + <p> + He started—opened his lips to speak—checked himself—and + made an uneasy attempt to laugh it off. “Come!” he said, “keep your + temper.” + </p> + <p> + The suppressed passion in her began to force its way to the surface. + </p> + <p> + “Keep my temper?” she repeated. “Do <i>you</i> of all men expect me to + control myself? What a memory yours must be! Have you forgotten the time + when I was fool enough to think you were fond of me? and mad enough to + believe you could keep a promise?” + </p> + <p> + He persisted in trying to laugh it off. “Mad is a strongish word to use, + Miss Silvester!” + </p> + <p> + “Mad is the right word! I look back at my own infatuation—and I + can’t account for it; I can’t understand myself. What was there in <i>you</i>,” + she asked, with an outbreak of contemptuous surprise, “to attract such a + woman as I am?” + </p> + <p> + His inexhaustible good-nature was proof even against this. He put his + hands in his pockets, and said, “I’m sure I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away from him. The frank brutality of the answer had not + offended her. It forced her, cruelly forced her, to remember that she had + nobody but herself to blame for the position in which she stood at that + moment. She was unwilling to let him see how the remembrance hurt her—that + was all. A sad, sad story; but it must be told. In her mother’s time she + had been the sweetest, the most lovable of children. In later days, under + the care of her mother’s friend, her girlhood had passed so harmlessly and + so happily—it seemed as if the sleeping passions might sleep + forever! She had lived on to the prime of her womanhood—and then, + when the treasure of her life was at its richest, in one fatal moment she + had flung it away on the man in whose presence she now stood. + </p> + <p> + Was she without excuse? No: not utterly without excuse. + </p> + <p> + She had seen him under other aspects than the aspect which he presented + now. She had seen him, the hero of the river-race, the first and foremost + man in a trial of strength and skill which had roused the enthusiasm of + all England. She had seen him, the central object of the interest of a + nation; the idol of the popular worship and the popular applause. <i>His</i> + were the arms whose muscle was celebrated in the newspapers. <i>He</i> was + first among the heroes hailed by ten thousand roaring throats as the pride + and flower of England. A woman, in an atmosphere of red-hot enthusiasm, + witnesses the apotheosis of Physical Strength. Is it reasonable—is + it just—to expect her to ask herself, in cold blood, What (morally + and intellectually) is all this worth?—and that, when the man who is + the object of the apotheosis, notices her, is presented to her, finds her + to his taste, and singles her out from the rest? No. While humanity is + humanity, the woman is not utterly without excuse. + </p> + <p> + Has she escaped, without suffering for it? + </p> + <p> + Look at her as she stands there, tortured by the knowledge of her own + secret—the hideous secret which she is hiding from the innocent + girl, whom she loves with a sister’s love. Look at her, bowed down under a + humiliation which is unutterable in words. She has seen him below the + surface—now, when it is too late. She rates him at his true value—now, + when her reputation is at his mercy. Ask her the question: What was there + to love in a man who can speak to you as that man has spoken, who can + treat you as that man is treating you now? you so clever, so cultivated, + so refined—what, in Heaven’s name, could <i>you</i> see in him? Ask + her that, and she will have no answer to give. She will not even remind + you that he was once your model of manly beauty, too—that you waved + your handkerchief till you could wave it no longer, when he took his seat, + with the others, in the boat—that your heart was like to jump out of + your bosom, on that later occasion when he leaped the last hurdle at the + foot-race, and won it by a head. In the bitterness of her remorse, she + will not even seek for <i>that</i> excuse for herself. Is there no atoning + suffering to be seen here? Do your sympathies shrink from such a character + as this? Follow her, good friends of virtue, on the pilgrimage that leads, + by steep and thorny ways, to the purer atmosphere and the nobler life. + Your fellow-creature, who has sinned and has repented—you have the + authority of the Divine Teacher for it—is your fellow-creature, + purified and ennobled. A joy among the angels of heaven—oh, my + brothers and sisters of the earth, have I not laid my hand on a fit + companion for You? + </p> + <p> + There was a moment of silence in the summer-house. The cheerful tumult of + the lawn-party was pleasantly audible from the distance. Outside, the hum + of voices, the laughter of girls, the thump of the croquet-mallet against + the ball. Inside, nothing but a woman forcing back the bitter tears of + sorrow and shame—and a man who was tired of her. + </p> + <p> + She roused herself. She was her mother’s daughter; and she had a spark of + her mother’s spirit. Her life depended on the issue of that interview. It + was useless—without father or brother to take her part—to lose + the last chance of appealing to him. She dashed away the tears—time + enough to cry, is time easily found in a woman’s existence—she + dashed away the tears, and spoke to him again, more gently than she had + spoken yet. + </p> + <p> + “You have been three weeks, Geoffrey, at your brother Julius’s place, not + ten miles from here; and you have never once ridden over to see me. You + would not have come to-day, if I had not written to you to insist on it. + Is that the treatment I have deserved?” + </p> + <p> + She paused. There was no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear me?” she asked, advancing and speaking in louder tones. + </p> + <p> + He was still silent. It was not in human endurance to bear his contempt. + The warning of a coming outbreak began to show itself in her face. He met + it, beforehand, with an impenetrable front. Feeling nervous about the + interview, while he was waiting in the rose-garden—now that he stood + committed to it, he was in full possession of himself. He was composed + enough to remember that he had not put his pipe in its case—composed + enough to set that little matter right before other matters went any + farther. He took the case out of one pocket, and the pipe out of another. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” he said, quietly. “I hear you.” + </p> + <p> + She struck the pipe out of his hand at a blow. If she had had the strength + she would have struck him down with it on the floor of the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you use me in this way?” she burst out, vehemently. “Your + conduct is infamous. Defend it if you can!” + </p> + <p> + He made no attempt to defend it. He looked, with an expression of genuine + anxiety, at the fallen pipe. It was beautifully colored—it had cost + him ten shillings. “I’ll pick up my pipe first,” he said. His face + brightened pleasantly—he looked handsomer than ever—as he + examined the precious object, and put it back in the case. “All right,” he + said to himself. “She hasn’t broken it.” His attitude as he looked at her + again, was the perfection of easy grace—the grace that attends on + cultivated strength in a state of repose. “I put it to your own + common-sense,” he said, in the most reasonable manner, “what’s the good of + bullying me? You don’t want them to hear you, out on the lawn there—do + you? You women are all alike. There’s no beating a little prudence into + your heads, try how one may.” + </p> + <p> + There he waited, expecting her to speak. She waited, on her side, and + forced him to go on. + </p> + <p> + “Look here,” he said, “there’s no need to quarrel, you know. I don’t want + to break my promise; but what can I do? I’m not the eldest son. I’m + dependent on my father for every farthing I have; and I’m on bad terms + with him already. Can’t you see it yourself? You’re a lady, and all that, + I know. But you’re only a governess. It’s your interest as well as mine to + wait till my father has provided for me. Here it is in a nut-shell: if I + marry you now, I’m a ruined man.” + </p> + <p> + The answer came, this time. + </p> + <p> + “You villain if you <i>don’t</i> marry me, I am a ruined woman!” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I mean. Don’t look at me in that way.” + </p> + <p> + “How do you expect me to look at a woman who calls me a villain to my + face?” + </p> + <p> + She suddenly changed her tone. The savage element in humanity—let + the modern optimists who doubt its existence look at any uncultivated man + (no matter how muscular), woman (no matter how beautiful), or child (no + matter how young)—began to show itself furtively in his eyes, to + utter itself furtively in his voice. Was he to blame for the manner in + which he looked at her and spoke to her? Not he! What had there been in + the training of <i>his</i> life (at school or at college) to soften and + subdue the savage element in him? About as much as there had been in the + training of his ancestors (without the school or the college) five hundred + years since. + </p> + <p> + It was plain that one of them must give way. The woman had the most at + stake—and the woman set the example of submission. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t be hard on me,” she pleaded. “I don’t mean to be hard on <i>you.</i> + My temper gets the better of me. You know my temper. I am sorry I forgot + myself. Geoffrey, my whole future is in your hands. Will you do me + justice?” + </p> + <p> + She came nearer, and laid her hand persuasively on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you a word to say to me? No answer? Not even a look?” She waited + a moment more. A marked change came over her. She turned slowly to leave + the summer-house. “I am sorry to have troubled you, Mr. Delamayn. I won’t + detain you any longer.” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her. There was a tone in her voice that he had never heard + before. There was a light in her eyes that he had never seen in them + before. Suddenly and fiercely he reached out his hand, and stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “Where are you going?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She answered, looking him straight in the face, “Where many a miserable + woman has gone before me. Out of the world.” + </p> + <p> + He drew her nearer to him, and eyed her closely. Even <i>his</i> + intelligence discovered that he had brought her to bay, and that she + really meant it! + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean you will destroy yourself?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I mean I will destroy myself.” + </p> + <p> + He dropped her arm. “By Jupiter, she <i>does</i> mean it!” + </p> + <p> + With that conviction in him, he pushed one of the chairs in the + summer-house to her with his foot, and signed to her to take it. “Sit + down!” he said, roughly. She had frightened him—and fear comes + seldom to men of his type. They feel it, when it does come, with an angry + distrust; they grow loud and brutal, in instinctive protest against it. + “Sit down!” he repeated. She obeyed him. “Haven’t you got a word to say to + me?” he asked, with an oath. No! there she sat, immovable, reckless how it + ended—as only women can be, when women’s minds are made up. He took + a turn in the summer-house and came back, and struck his hand angrily on + the rail of her chair. “What do you want?” + </p> + <p> + “You know what I want.” + </p> + <p> + He took another turn. There was nothing for it but to give way on his + side, or run the risk of something happening which might cause an awkward + scandal, and come to his father’s ears. + </p> + <p> + “Look here, Anne,” he began, abruptly. “I have got something to propose.” + </p> + <p> + She looked up at him. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say to a private marriage?” + </p> + <p> + Without asking a single question, without making objections, she answered + him, speaking as bluntly as he had spoken himself: + </p> + <p> + “I consent to a private marriage.” + </p> + <p> + He began to temporize directly. + </p> + <p> + “I own I don’t see how it’s to be managed—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped him there. + </p> + <p> + “I do!” + </p> + <p> + “What!” he cried out, suspiciously. “You have thought of it yourself, have + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And planned for it?” + </p> + <p> + “And planned for it!” + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t you tell me so before?” + </p> + <p> + She answered haughtily; insisting on the respect which is due to women—the + respect which was doubly due from <i>him,</i> in her position. + </p> + <p> + “Because <i>you</i> owed it to <i>me,</i> Sir, to speak first.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I’ve spoken first. Will you wait a little?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a day!” + </p> + <p> + The tone was positive. There was no mistaking it. Her mind was made up. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the hurry?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you eyes?” she asked, vehemently. “Have you ears? Do you see how + Lady Lundie looks at me? Do you hear how Lady Lundie speaks to me? I am + suspected by that woman. My shameful dismissal from this house may be a + question of a few hours.” Her head sunk on her bosom; she wrung her + clasped hands as they rested on her lap. “And, oh, Blanche!” she moaned to + herself, the tears gathering again, and falling, this time, unchecked. + “Blanche, who looks up to me! Blanche, who loves me! Blanche, who told me, + in this very place, that I was to live with her when she was married!” She + started up from the chair; the tears dried suddenly; the hard despair + settled again, wan and white, on her face. “Let me go! What is death, + compared to such a life as is waiting for <i>me?</i>” She looked him over, + in one disdainful glance from head to foot; her voice rose to its loudest + and firmest tones. “Why, even <i>you</i>; would have the courage to die if + you were in my place!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey glanced round toward the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “Hush!” he said. “They will hear you!” + </p> + <p> + “Let them hear me! When <i>I</i> am past hearing <i>them</i>, what does it + matter?” + </p> + <p> + He put her back by main force on the chair. In another moment they must + have heard her, through all the noise and laughter of the game. + </p> + <p> + “Say what you want,” he resumed, “and I’ll do it. Only be reasonable. I + can’t marry you to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “You can!” + </p> + <p> + “What nonsense you talk! The house and grounds are swarming with company. + It can’t be!” + </p> + <p> + “It can! I have been thinking about it ever since we came to this house. I + have got something to propose to you. Will you hear it, or not?” + </p> + <p> + “Speak lower!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you hear it, or not?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s somebody coming!” + </p> + <p> + “Will you hear it, or not?” + </p> + <p> + “The devil take your obstinacy! Yes!” + </p> + <p> + The answer had been wrung from him. Still, it was the answer she wanted—it + opened the door to hope. The instant he had consented to hear her her mind + awakened to the serious necessity of averting discovery by any third + person who might stray idly into the summer-house. She held up her hand + for silence, and listened to what was going forward on the lawn. + </p> + <p> + The dull thump of the croquet-mallet against the ball was no longer to be + heard. The game had stopped. + </p> + <p> + In a moment more she heard her own name called. An interval of another + instant passed, and a familiar voice said, “I know where she is. I’ll + fetch her.” + </p> + <p> + She turned to Geoffrey, and pointed to the back of the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + “It’s my turn to play,” she said. “And Blanche is coming here to look for + me. Wait there, and I’ll stop her on the steps.” + </p> + <p> + She went out at once. It was a critical moment. Discovery, which meant + moral-ruin to the woman, meant money-ruin to the man. Geoffrey had not + exaggerated his position with his father. Lord Holchester had twice paid + his debts, and had declined to see him since. One more outrage on his + father’s rigid sense of propriety, and he would be left out of the will as + well as kept out of the house. He looked for a means of retreat, in case + there was no escaping unperceived by the front entrance. A door—intended + for the use of servants, when picnics and gipsy tea-parties were given in + the summer-house—had been made in the back wall. It opened outward, + and it was locked. With his strength it was easy to remove that obstacle. + He put his shoulder to the door. At the moment when he burst it open he + felt a hand on his arm. Anne was behind him, alone. + </p> + <p> + “You may want it before long,” she said, observing the open door, without + expressing any surprise, “You don’t want it now. Another person will play + for me—I have told Blanche I am not well. Sit down. I have secured a + respite of five minutes, and I must make the most of it. In that time, or + less, Lady Lundie’s suspicions will bring her here—to see how I am. + For the present, shut the door.” + </p> + <p> + She seated herself, and pointed to a second chair. He took it—with + his eye on the closed door. + </p> + <p> + “Come to the point!” he said, impatiently. “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “You can marry me privately to-day,” she answered. “Lis ten—and I + will tell you how!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0005" id="link2HCH0005"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE PLAN. + </h3> + <p> + SHE took his hand, and began with all the art of persuasion that she + possessed. + </p> + <p> + “One question, Geoffrey, before I say what I want to say. Lady Lundie has + invited you to stay at Windygates. Do you accept her invitation? or do you + go back to your brother’s in the evening?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t go back in the evening—they’ve put a visitor into my room. + I’m obliged to stay here. My brother has done it on purpose. Julius helps + me when I’m hard up—and bullies me afterward. He has sent me here, + on duty for the family. Somebody must be civil to Lady Lundie—and + I’m the sacrifice.” + </p> + <p> + She took him up at his last word. “Don’t make the sacrifice,” she said. + “Apologize to Lady Lundie, and say you are obliged to go back.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because we must both leave this place to-day.” + </p> + <p> + There was a double objection to that. If he left Lady Lundie’s, he would + fail to establish a future pecuniary claim on his brother’s indulgence. + And if he left with Anne, the eyes of the world would see them, and the + whispers of the world might come to his father’s ears. + </p> + <p> + “If we go away together,” he said, “good-by to my prospects, and yours + too.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t mean that we shall leave together,” she explained. “We will leave + separately—and I will go first.” + </p> + <p> + “There will be a hue and cry after you, when you are missed.” + </p> + <p> + “There will be a dance when the croquet is over. I don’t dance—and I + shall not be missed. There will be time, and opportunity to get to my own + room. I shall leave a letter there for Lady Lundie, and a letter”—her + voice trembled for a moment—“and a letter for Blanche. Don’t + interrupt me! I have thought of this, as I have thought of every thing + else. The confession I shall make will be the truth in a few hours, if + it’s not the truth now. My letters will say I am privately married, and + called away unexpectedly to join my husband. There will be a scandal in + the house, I know. But there will be no excuse for sending after me, when + I am under my husband’s protection. So far as you are personally concerned + there are no discoveries to fear—and nothing which it is not + perfectly safe and perfectly easy to do. Wait here an hour after I have + gone to save appearances; and then follow me.” + </p> + <p> + “Follow you?” interposed Geoffrey. “Where?” She drew her chair nearer to + him, and whispered the next words in his ear. + </p> + <p> + “To a lonely little mountain inn—four miles from this.” + </p> + <p> + “An inn!” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “An inn is a public place.” + </p> + <p> + A movement of natural impatience escaped her—but she controlled + herself, and went on as quietly as before: + </p> + <p> + “The place I mean is the loneliest place in the neighborhood. You have no + prying eyes to dread there. I have picked it out expressly for that + reason. It’s away from the railway; it’s away from the high-road: it’s + kept by a decent, respectable Scotchwoman—” + </p> + <p> + “Decent, respectable Scotchwomen who keep inns,” interposed Geoffrey, + “don’t cotton to young ladies who are traveling alone. The landlady won’t + receive you.” + </p> + <p> + It was a well-aimed objection—but it missed the mark. A woman bent + on her marriage is a woman who can meet the objections of the whole world, + single-handed, and refute them all. + </p> + <p> + “I have provided for every thing,” she said, “and I have provided for + that. I shall tell the landlady I am on my wedding-trip. I shall say my + husband is sight-seeing, on foot, among the mountains in the neighborhood—” + </p> + <p> + “She is sure to believe that!” said Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “She is sure to <i>dis</i>believe it, if you like. Let her! You have only + to appear, and to ask for your wife—and there is my story proved to + be true! She may be the most suspicious woman living, as long as I am + alone with her. The moment you join me, you set her suspicions at rest. + Leave me to do my part. My part is the hard one. Will you do yours?” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible to say No: she had fairly cut the ground from under his + feet. He shifted his ground. Any thing rather than say Yes! + </p> + <p> + “I suppose <i>you</i> know how we are to be married?” he asked. “All I can + say is—<i>I</i> don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “You do!” she retorted. “You know that we are in Scotland. You know that + there are neither forms, ceremonies, nor delays in marriage, here. The + plan I have proposed to you secures my being received at the inn, and + makes it easy and natural for you to join me there afterward. The rest is + in our own hands. A man and a woman who wish to be married (in Scotland) + have only to secure the necessary witnesses and the thing is done. If the + landlady chooses to resent the deception practiced on her, after that, the + landlady may do as she pleases. We shall have gained our object in spite + of her—and, what is more, we shall have gained it without risk to <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t lay it all on my shoulders,” Geoffrey rejoined. “You women go + headlong at every thing. Say we are married. We must separate afterward—or + how are we to keep it a secret?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. You will go back, of course, to your brother’s house, as if + nothing had happened.” + </p> + <p> + “And what is to become of <i>you?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I shall go to London.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you to do in London?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I already told you that I have thought of every thing? When I get + to London I shall apply to some of my mother’s old friends—friends + of hers in the time when she was a musician. Every body tells me I have a + voice—if I had only cultivated it. I <i>will</i> cultivate it! I can + live, and live respectably, as a concert singer. I have saved money enough + to support me, while I am learning—and my mother’s friends will help + me, for her sake.” + </p> + <p> + So, in the new life that she was marking out, was she now unconsciously + reflecting in herself the life of her mother before her. Here was the + mother’s career as a public singer, chosen (in spite of all efforts to + prevent it) by the child! Here (though with other motives, and under other + circumstances) was the mother’s irregular marriage in Ireland, on the + point of being followed by the daughter’s irregular marriage in Scotland! + And here, stranger still, was the man who was answerable for it—the + son of the man who had found the flaw in the Irish marriage, and had shown + the way by which her mother was thrown on the world! “My Anne is my second + self. She is not called by her father’s name; she is called by mine. She + is Anne Silvester as I was. Will she end like Me?”—The answer to + those words—the last words that had trembled on the dying mother’s + lips—was coming fast. Through the chances and changes of many years, + the future was pressing near—and Anne Silvester stood on the brink + of it. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she resumed. “Are you at the end of your objections? Can you give + me a plain answer at last?” + </p> + <p> + No! He had another objection ready as the words passed her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Suppose the witnesses at the inn happen to know me?” he said. “Suppose it + comes to my father’s ears in that way?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you drive me to my death?” she retorted, starting to her feet. + “Your father shall know the truth, in that case—I swear it!” + </p> + <p> + He rose, on his side, and drew back from her. She followed him up. There + was a clapping of hands, at the same moment, on the lawn. Somebody had + evidently made a brilliant stroke which promised to decide the game. There + was no security now that Blanche might not return again. There was every + prospect, the game being over, that Lady Lundie would be free. Anne + brought the interview to its crisis, without wasting a moment more. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn,” she said. “You have bargained for a private + marriage, and I have consented. Are you, or are you not, ready to marry me + on your own terms?” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a minute to think!” + </p> + <p> + “Not an instant. Once for all, is it Yes, or No?” + </p> + <p> + He couldn’t say “Yes,” even then. But he said what was equivalent to it. + He asked, savagely, “Where is the inn?” + </p> + <p> + She put her arm in his, and whispered, rapidly, “Pass the road on the + right that leads to the railway. Follow the path over the moor, and the + sheep-track up the hill. The first house you come to after that is the + inn. You understand!” + </p> + <p> + He nodded his head, with a sullen frown, and took his pipe out of his + pocket again. + </p> + <p> + “Let it alone this time,” he said, meeting her eye. “My mind’s upset. When + a man’s mind’s upset, a man can’t smoke. What’s the name of the place?” + </p> + <p> + “Craig Fernie.” + </p> + <p> + “Who am I to ask for at the door?” + </p> + <p> + “For your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose they want you to give your name when you get there?” + </p> + <p> + “If I must give a name, I shall call myself Mrs., instead of Miss, + Silvester. But I shall do my best to avoid giving any name. And you will + do your best to avoid making a mistake, by only asking for me as your + wife. Is there any thing else you want to know?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Be quick about it! What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “How am I to know you have got away from here?” + </p> + <p> + “If you don’t hear from me in half an hour from the time when I have left + you, you may be sure I have got away. Hush!” + </p> + <p> + Two voices, in conversation, were audible at the bottom of the steps—Lady + Lundie’s voice and Sir Patrick’s. Anne pointed to the door in the back + wall of the summer-house. She had just pulled it to again, after Geoffrey + had passed through it, when Lady Lundie and Sir Patrick appeared at the + top of the steps. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0006" id="link2HCH0006"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE SIXTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SUITOR. + </h3> + <p> + LADY LUNDIE pointed significantly to the door, and addressed herself to + Sir Patrick’s private ear. + </p> + <p> + “Observe!” she said. “Miss Silvester has just got rid of somebody.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick deliberately looked in the wrong direction, and (in the + politest possible manner) observed—nothing. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie advanced into the summer-house. Suspicious hatred of the + governess was written legibly in every line of her face. Suspicious + distrust of the governess’s illness spoke plainly in every tone of her + voice. + </p> + <p> + “May I inquire, Miss Silvester, if your sufferings are relieved?” + </p> + <p> + “I am no better, Lady Lundie.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon?” + </p> + <p> + “I said I was no better.” + </p> + <p> + “You appear to be able to stand up. When <i>I</i> am ill, I am not so + fortunate. I am obliged to lie down.”’ + </p> + <p> + “I will follow your example, Lady Lundie. If you will be so good as to + excuse me, I will leave you, and lie down in my own room.” + </p> + <p> + She could say no more. The interview with Geoffrey had worn her out; there + was no spirit left in her to resist the petty malice of the woman, after + bearing, as she had borne it, the brutish indifference of the man. In + another moment the hysterical suffering which she was keeping down would + have forced its way outward in tears. Without waiting to know whether she + was excused or not, without stopping to hear a word more, she left the + summer-house. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s magnificent black eyes opened to their utmost width, and + blazed with their most dazzling brightness. She appealed to Sir Patrick, + poised easily on his ivory cane, and looking out at the lawn-party, the + picture of venerable innocence. + </p> + <p> + “After what I have already told you, Sir Patrick, of Miss Silvester’s + conduct, may I ask whether you consider <i>that</i> proceeding at all + extraordinary?” + </p> + <p> + The old gentleman touched the spring in the knob of his cane, and + answered, in the courtly manner of the old school: + </p> + <p> + “I consider no proceeding extraordinary Lady Lundie, which emanates from + your enchanting sex.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed, and took his pinch. With a little jaunty flourish of the hand, + he dusted the stray grains of snuff off his finger and thumb, and looked + back again at the lawn-party, and became more absorbed in the diversions + of his young friends than ever. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie stood her ground, plainly determined to force a serious + expression of opinion from her brother-in-law. Before she could speak + again, Arnold and Blanche appeared together at the bottom of the steps. + “And when does the dancing begin?” inquired Sir Patrick, advancing to meet + them, and looking as if he felt the deepest interest in a speedy + settlement of the question. + </p> + <p> + “The very thing I was going to ask mamma,” returned Blanche. “Is she in + there with Anne? Is Anne better?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie forthwith appeared, and took the answer to that inquiry on + herself. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester has retired to her room. Miss Silvester persists in being + ill. Have you noticed, Sir Patrick, that these half-bred sort of people + are almost invariably rude when they are ill?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s bright face flushed up. “If you think Anne a half-bred person, + Lady Lundie, you stand alone in your opinion. My uncle doesn’t agree with + you, I’m sure.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s interest in the first quadrille became almost painful to + see. “<i>Do</i> tell me, my dear, when <i>is</i> the dancing going to + begin?” + </p> + <p> + “The sooner the better,” interposed Lady Lundie; “before Blanche picks + another quarrel with me on the subject of Miss Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked at her uncle. “Begin! begin! Don’t lose time!” cried the + ardent Sir Patrick, pointing toward the house with his cane. “Certainly, + uncle! Any thing that <i>you</i> wish!” With that parting shot at her + step-mother, Blanche withdrew. Arnold, who had thus far waited in silence + at the foot of the steps, looked appealingly at Sir Patrick. The train + which was to take him to his newly inherited property would start in less + than an hour; and he had not presented himself to Blanche’s guardian in + the character of Blanche’s suitor yet! Sir Patrick’s indifference to all + domestic claims on him—claims of persons who loved, and claims of + persons who hated, it didn’t matter which—remained perfectly + unassailable. There he stood, poised on his cane, humming an old Scotch + air. And there was Lady Lundie, resolute not to leave him till he had seen + the governess with <i>her</i> eyes and judged the governess with <i>her</i> + mind. She returned to the charge—in spite of Sir Patrick, humming at + the top of the steps, and of Arnold, waiting at the bottom. (Her enemies + said, “No wonder poor Sir Thomas died in a few months after his marriage!” + And, oh dear me, our enemies <i>are</i> sometimes right!) + </p> + <p> + “I must once more remind you, Sir Patrick, that I have serious reason to + doubt whether Miss Silvester is a fit companion for Blanche. My governess + has something on her mind. She has fits of crying in private. She is up + and walking about her room when she ought to be asleep. She posts her own + letters—<i>and,</i> she has lately been excessively insolent to Me. + There is something wrong. I must take some steps in the matter—and + it is only proper that I should do so with your sanction, as head of the + family.” + </p> + <p> + “Consider me as abdicating my position, Lady Lundie, in your favor.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick, I beg you to observe that I am speaking seriously, and that + I expect a serious reply.” + </p> + <p> + “My good lady, ask me for any thing else and it is at your service. I have + not made a serious reply since I gave up practice at the Scottish Bar. At + my age,” added Sir Patrick, cunningly drifting into generalities, “nothing + is serious—except Indigestion. I say, with the philosopher, ‘Life is + a comedy to those who think, and tragedy to those who feel.’” He took his + sister-in-law’s hand, and kissed it. “Dear Lady Lundie, why feel?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie, who had never “felt” in her life, appeared perversely + determined to feel, on this occasion. She was offended—and she + showed it plainly. + </p> + <p> + “When you are next called on, Sir Patrick, to judge of Miss Silvester’s + conduct,” she said, “unless I am entirely mistaken, you will find yourself + <i>compelled</i> to consider it as something beyond a joke.” With those + words, she walked out of the summer-house—and so forwarded Arnold’s + interests by leaving Blanche’s guardian alone at last. + </p> + <p> + It was an excellent opportunity. The guests were safe in the house—there + was no interruption to be feared, Arnold showed himself. Sir Patrick + (perfectly undisturbed by Lady Lundie’s parting speech) sat down in the + summer-house, without noticing his young friend, and asked himself a + question founded on profound observation of the female sex. “Were there + ever two women yet with a quarrel between them,” thought the old + gentleman, “who didn’t want to drag a man into it? Let them drag <i>me</i> + in, if they can!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold advanced a step, and modestly announced himself. “I hope I am not + in the way, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “In the way? of course not! Bless my soul, how serious the boy looks! Are + <i>you</i> going to appeal to me as the head of the family next?” + </p> + <p> + It was exactly what Arnold was about to do. But it was plain that if he + admitted it just then Sir Patrick (for some unintelligible reason) would + decline to listen to him. He answered cautiously, “I asked leave to + consult you in private, Sir; and you kindly said you would give me the + opportunity before I left Windygates?” + </p> + <p> + “Ay! ay! to be sure. I remember. We were both engaged in the serious + business of croquet at the time—and it was doubtful which of us did + that business most clumsily. Well, here is the opportunity; and here am I, + with all my worldly experience, at your service. I have only one caution + to give you. Don’t appeal to me as ‘the head of the family.’ My + resignation is in Lady Lundie’s hands.” + </p> + <p> + He was, as usual, half in jest, half in earnest. The wry twist of humor + showed itself at the corners of his lips. Arnold was at a loss how to + approach Sir Patrick on the subject of his niece without reminding him of + his domestic responsibilities on the one hand, and without setting himself + up as a target for the shafts of Sir Patrick’s wit on the other. In this + difficulty, he committed a mistake at the outset. He hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t hurry yourself,” said Sir Patrick. “Collect your ideas. I can wait! + I can wait!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold collected his ideas—and committed a second mistake. He + determined on feeling his way cautiously at first. Under the circumstances + (and with such a man as he had now to deal with), it was perhaps the + rashest resolution at which he could possibly have arrived—it was + the mouse attempting to outmanoeuvre the cat. + </p> + <p> + “You have been very kind, Sir, in offering me the benefit of your + experience,” he began. “I want a word of advice.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose you take it sitting?” suggested Sir Patrick. “Get a chair.” His + sharp eyes followed Arnold with an expression of malicious enjoyment. + “Wants my advice?” he thought. “The young humbug wants nothing of the sort—he + wants my niece.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold sat down under Sir Patrick’s eye, with a well-founded suspicion + that he was destined to suffer, before he got up again, under Sir + Patrick’s tongue. + </p> + <p> + “I am only a young man,” he went on, moving uneasily in his chair, “and I + am beginning a new life—” + </p> + <p> + “Any thing wrong with the chair?” asked Sir Patrick. “Begin your new life + comfortably, and get another.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s nothing wrong with the chair, Sir. Would you—” + </p> + <p> + “Would I keep the chair, in that case? Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “I mean, would you advise me—” + </p> + <p> + “My good fellow, I’m waiting to advise you. (I’m sure there’s something + wrong with that chair. Why be obstinate about it? Why not get another?)” + </p> + <p> + “Please don’t notice the chair, Sir Patrick—you put me out. I want—in + short—perhaps it’s a curious question—” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t say till I have heard it,” remarked Sir Patrick. “However, we + will admit it, for form’s sake, if you like. Say it’s a curious question. + Or let us express it more strongly, if that will help you. Say it’s the + most extraordinary question that ever was put, since the beginning of the + world, from one human being to another.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s this!” Arnold burst out, desperately. “I want to be married!” + </p> + <p> + “That isn’t a question,” objected Sir Patrick. “It’s an assertion. You + say, I want to be married. And I say, Just so! And there’s an end of it.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s head began to whirl. “Would you advise me to get married, Sir?” + he said, piteously. “That’s what I meant.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! That’s the object of the present interview, is it? Would I advise you + to marry, eh?” + </p> + <p> + (Having caught the mouse by this time, the cat lifted his paw and let the + luckless little creature breathe again. Sir Patrick’s manner suddenly + freed itself from any slight signs of impatience which it might have + hitherto shown, and became as pleasantly easy and confidential as a manner + could be. He touched the knob of his cane, and helped himself, with + infinite zest and enjoyment, to a pinch of snuff.) + </p> + <p> + “Would I advise you to marry?” repeated Sir Patrick. “Two courses are open + to us, Mr. Arnold, in treating that question. We may put it briefly, or we + may put it at great length. I am for putting it briefly. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + “What you say, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. May I begin by making an inquiry relating to your past life?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly!” + </p> + <p> + “Very good again. When you were in the merchant service, did you ever have + any experience in buying provisions ashore?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold stared. If any relation existed between that question and the + subject in hand it was an impenetrable relation to <i>him</i>. He + answered, in unconcealed bewilderment, “Plenty of experience, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m coming to the point,” pursued Sir Patrick. “Don’t be astonished. I’m + coming to the point. What did you think of your moist sugar when you + bought it at the grocer’s?” + </p> + <p> + “Think?” repeated Arnold. “Why, I thought it was moist sugar, to be sure!” + </p> + <p> + “Marry, by all means!” cried Sir Patrick. “You are one of the few men who + can try that experiment with a fair chance of success.” + </p> + <p> + The suddenness of the answer fairly took away Arnold’s breath. There was + something perfectly electric in the brevity of his venerable friend. He + stared harder than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you understand me?” asked Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand what the moist sugar has got to do with it, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t see that?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a bit!” + </p> + <p> + “Then I’ll show you,” said Sir Patrick, crossing his legs, and setting in + comfortably for a good talk “You go to the tea-shop, and get your moist + sugar. You take it on the understanding that it is moist sugar. But it + isn’t any thing of the sort. It’s a compound of adulterations made up to + look like sugar. You shut your eyes to that awkward fact, and swallow your + adulterated mess in various articles of food; and you and your sugar get + on together in that way as well as you can. Do you follow me, so far?” + </p> + <p> + Yes. Arnold (quite in the dark) followed, so far. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick. “You go to the marriage-shop, and get a + wife. You take her on the understanding—let us say—that she + has lovely yellow hair, that she has an exquisite complexion, that her + figure is the perfection of plumpness, and that she is just tall enough to + carry the plumpness off. You bring her home, and you discover that it’s + the old story of the sugar over again. Your wife is an adulterated + article. Her lovely yellow hair is—dye. Her exquisite skin is—pearl + powder. Her plumpness is—padding. And three inches of her height are—in + the boot-maker’s heels. Shut your eyes, and swallow your adulterated wife + as you swallow your adulterated sugar—and, I tell you again, you are + one of the few men who can try the marriage experiment with a fair chance + of success.” + </p> + <p> + With that he uncrossed his legs again, and looked hard at Arnold. Arnold + read the lesson, at last, in the right way. He gave up the hopeless + attempt to circumvent Sir Patrick, and—come what might of it—dashed + at a direct allusion to Sir Patrick’s niece. + </p> + <p> + “That may be all very true, Sir, of some young ladies,” he said. “There is + one I know of, who is nearly related to you, and who doesn’t deserve what + you have said of the rest of them.” + </p> + <p> + This was coming to the point. Sir Patrick showed his approval of Arnold’s + frankness by coming to the point himself, as readily as his own whimsical + humor would let him. + </p> + <p> + “Is this female phenomenon my niece?” he inquired. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask how you know that my niece is not an adulterated article, like + the rest of them?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s indignation loosened the last restraints that tied Arnold’s + tongue. He exploded in the three words which mean three volumes in every + circulating library in the kingdom. + </p> + <p> + “I love her.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick sat back in his chair, and stretched out his legs luxuriously. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the most convincing answer I ever heard in my life,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in earnest!” cried Arnold, reckless by this time of every + consideration but one. “Put me to the test, Sir! put me to the test!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well. The test is easily put.” He looked at Arnold, with the + irrepressible humor twinkling merrily in his eyes, and twitching sharply + at the corners of his lips. “My niece has a beautiful complexion. Do you + believe in her complexion?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s a beautiful sky above our heads,” returned Arnold. “I believe in + the sky.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you?” retorted Sir Patrick. “You were evidently never caught in a + shower. My niece has an immense quantity of hair. Are you convinced that + it all grows on her head?” + </p> + <p> + “I defy any other woman’s head to produce the like of it!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Arnold, you greatly underrate the existing resources of the trade + in hair! Look into the shop-windows. When you next go to London pray look + into the show-windows. In the mean time, what do you think of my niece’s + figure?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, come! there can’t be any doubt about <i>that!</i> Any man, with eyes + in his head, can see it’s the loveliest figure in the world.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick laughed softly, and crossed his legs again. + </p> + <p> + “My good fellow, of course it is! The loveliest figure in the world is the + commonest thing in the world. At a rough guess, there are forty ladies at + this lawn-party. Every one of them possesses a beautiful figure. It varies + in price; and when it’s particularly seductive you may swear it comes from + Paris. Why, how you stare! When I asked you what you thought of my niece’s + figure, I meant—how much of it comes from Nature, and how much of it + comes from the Shop? I don’t know, mind! Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll take my oath to every inch of it!” + </p> + <p> + “Shop?” + </p> + <p> + “Nature!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick rose to his feet; his satirical humor was silenced at last. + </p> + <p> + “If ever I have a son,” he thought to himself, “that son shall go to sea!” + He took Arnold’s arm, as a preliminary to putting an end to Arnold’s + suspense. “If I <i>can</i> be serious about any thing,” he resumed, “it’s + time to be serious with you. I am convinced of the sincerity of your + attachment. All I know of you is in your favor, and your birth and + position are beyond dispute. If you have Blanche’s consent, you have + mine.” Arnold attempted to express his gratitude. Sir Patrick, declining + to hear him, went on. “And remember this, in the future. When you next + want any thing that I can give you, ask for it plainly. Don’t attempt to + mystify <i>me</i> on the next occasion, and I will promise, on my side, + not to mystify <i>you.</i> There, that’s understood. Now about this + journey of yours to see your estate. Property has its duties, Master + Arnold, as well as its rights. The time is fast coming when its rights + will be disputed, if its duties are not performed. I have got a new + interest in you, and I mean to see that you do your duty. It’s settled you + are to leave Windygates to-day. Is it arranged how you are to go?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Patrick. Lady Lundie has kindly ordered the gig to take me to + the station, in time for the next train.” + </p> + <p> + “When are you to be ready?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold looked at his watch. “In a quarter of an hour.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. Mind you <i>are</i> ready. Stop a minute! you will have plenty + of time to speak to Blanche when I have done with you. You don’t appear to + me to be sufficiently anxious about seeing your own property.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not very anxious to leave Blanche, Sir—that’s the truth of + it.” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind Blanche. Blanche is not business. They both begin with a B—and + that’s the only connection between them. I hear you have got one of the + finest houses in this part of Scotland. How long are you going to stay in + Scotland? How long are you going to stay in it?” + </p> + <p> + “I have arranged (as I have already told you, Sir) to return to Windygates + the day after to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Here is a man with a palace waiting to receive him—and he is + only going to stop one clear day in it!” + </p> + <p> + “I am not going to stop in it at all, Sir Patrick—I am going to stay + with the steward. I’m only wanted to be present to-morrow at a dinner to + my tenants—and, when that’s over, there’s nothing in the world to + prevent my coming back here. The steward himself told me so in his last + letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, if the steward told you so, of course there is nothing more to be + said!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t object to my coming back! pray don’t, Sir Patrick! I’ll promise to + live in my new house when I have got Blanche to live in it with me. If you + won’t mind, I’ll go and tell her at once that it all belongs to her as + well as to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Gently! gently! you talk as if you were married to her already!” + </p> + <p> + “It’s as good as done, Sir! Where’s the difficulty in the way now?” + </p> + <p> + As he asked the question the shadow of some third person, advancing from + the side of the summer-house, was thrown forward on the open sunlit space + at the top of the steps. In a moment more the shadow was followed by the + substance—in the shape of a groom in his riding livery. The man was + plainly a stranger to the place. He started, and touched his hat, when he + saw the two gentlemen in the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” asked Sir Patrick + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir; I was sent by my master—” + </p> + <p> + “Who is your master?” + </p> + <p> + “The Honorable Mr. Delamayn, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir. Mr. Geoffrey’s brother—Mr. Julius. I have ridden over from + the house, Sir, with a message from my master to Mr. Geoffrey.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you find him?” + </p> + <p> + “They told me I should find him hereabouts, Sir. But I’m a stranger, and + don’t rightly know where to look.” He stopped, and took a card out of his + pocket. “My master said it was very important I should deliver this + immediately. Would you be pleased to tell me, gentlemen, if you happen to + know where Mr. Geoffrey is?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold turned to Sir Patrick. “I haven’t seen him. Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have smelt him,” answered Sir Patrick, “ever since I have been in the + summer-house. There is a detestable taint of tobacco in the air—suggestive + (disagreeably suggestive to <i>my</i> mind) of your friend, Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold laughed, and stepped outside the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + “If you are right, Sir Patrick, we will find him at once.” He looked + around, and shouted, “Geoffrey!” + </p> + <p> + A voice from the rose-garden shouted back, “Hullo!” + </p> + <p> + “You’re wanted. Come here!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey appeared, sauntering doggedly, with his pipe in his mouth, and + his hands in his pockets. + </p> + <p> + “Who wants me?” + </p> + <p> + “A groom—from your brother.” + </p> + <p> + That answer appeared to electrify the lounging and lazy athlete. Geoffrey + hurried, with eager steps, to the summer-house. He addressed the groom + before the man had time to speak With horror and dismay in his face, he + exclaimed: + </p> + <p> + “By Jupiter! Ratcatcher has relapsed!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick and Arnold looked at each other in blank amazement. + </p> + <p> + “The best horse in my brother’s stables!” cried Geoffrey, explaining, and + appealing to them, in a breath. “I left written directions with the + coachman, I measured out his physic for three days; I bled him,” said + Geoffrey, in a voice broken by emotion—“I bled him myself, last + night.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir—” began the groom. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the use of begging my pardon? You’re a pack of infernal fools! + Where’s your horse? I’ll ride back, and break every bone in the coachman’s + skin! Where’s your horse?” + </p> + <p> + “If you please, Sir, it isn’t Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher’s all right.” + </p> + <p> + “Ratcatcher’s all right? Then what the devil is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a message, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “About what?” + </p> + <p> + “About my lord.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! About my father?” He took out his handkerchief, and passed it over + his forehead, with a deep gasp of relief. “I thought it was Ratcatcher,” + he said, looking at Arnold, with a smile. He put his pipe into his mouth, + and rekindled the dying ashes of the tobacco. “Well?” he went on, when the + pipe was in working order, and his voice was composed again: “What’s up + with my father?” + </p> + <p> + “A telegram from London, Sir. Bad news of my lord.” + </p> + <p> + The man produced his master’s card. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey read on it (written in his brother’s handwriting) these words: + </p> + <p> + “I have only a moment to scribble a line on my card. Our father is + dangerously ill—his lawyer has been sent for. Come with me to London + by the first train. Meet at the junction.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word to any one of the three persons present, all silently + looking at him, Geoffrey consulted his watch. Anne had told him to wait + half an hour, and to assume that she had gone if he failed to hear from + her in that time. The interval had passed—and no communication of + any sort had reached him. The flight from the house had been safely + accomplished. Anne Silvester was, at that moment, on her way to the + mountain inn. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0007" id="link2HCH0007"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE SEVENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE DEBT. + </h3> + <p> + ARNOLD was the first who broke the silence. “Is your father seriously + ill?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey answered by handing him the card. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick, who had stood apart (while the question of Ratcatcher’s + relapse was under discussion) sardonically studying the manners and + customs of modern English youth, now came forward, and took his part in + the proceedings. Lady Lundie herself must have acknowledged that he spoke + and acted as became the head of the family, on t his occasion. + </p> + <p> + “Am I right in supposing that Mr. Delamayn’s father is dangerously ill?” + he asked, addressing himself to Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Dangerously ill, in London,” Arnold answered. “Geoffrey must leave + Windygates with me. The train I am traveling by meets the train his + brother is traveling by, at the junction. I shall leave him at the second + station from here.” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you tell me that Lady Lundie was going to send you to the railway + in a gig?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “If the servant drives, there will be three of you—and there will be + no room.” + </p> + <p> + “We had better ask for some other vehicle,” suggested Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked at his watch. There was no time to change the carriage. + He turned to Geoffrey. “Can you drive, Mr. Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + Still impenetrably silent, Geoffrey replied by a nod of the head. + </p> + <p> + Without noticing the unceremonious manner in which he had been answered, + Sir Patrick went on: + </p> + <p> + “In that case, you can leave the gig in charge of the station-master. I’ll + tell the servant that he will not be wanted to drive.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me save you the trouble, Sir Patrick,” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick declined, by a gesture. He turned again, with undiminished + courtesy, to Geoffrey. “It is one of the duties of hospitality, Mr. + Delamayn, to hasten your departure, under these sad circumstances. Lady + Lundie is engaged with her guests. I will see myself that there is no + unnecessary delay in sending you to the station.” He bowed—and left + the summer-house. + </p> + <p> + Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were alone. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to London in + time.” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. There was something in Geoffrey’s face—a strange mixture + of doubt and bewilderment, of annoyance and hesitation—which 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 speak—and + then looked away again, in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about your + father?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “I’m in the devil’s own mess,” was the answer. + </p> + <p> + “Can I do any thing to help you?” + </p> + <p> + 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 waited—wondering what was coming + next. + </p> + <p> + “I say, old fellow!” said Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon Harbor?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started. If he could have called to mind his first interview in the + summer-house with his father’s old friend he might have remembered Sir + Patrick’s 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 friend’s + question as a reproach which he had not deserved. + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I can ever forget,” he cried, warmly, “that you swam ashore + with me and saved my life?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in view. + </p> + <p> + “One good turn deserves another,” he said, “don’t it?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold took his hand. “Only tell me!” he eagerly rejoined—“only tell + me what I can do!” + </p> + <p> + “You are going to-day to see your new place, ain’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you put off going till to-morrow?” + </p> + <p> + “If it’s any thing serious—of course I can!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to make sure + that they were alone. + </p> + <p> + “You know the governess here, don’t you?” he said, in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I’ve got into a little difficulty with Miss Silvester. And there + isn’t a living soul I can ask to help me but <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “You know I will help you. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “It isn’t so easy to say. Never mind—you’re no saint either, are + you? You’ll keep it a secret, of course? Look here! I’ve acted like an + infernal fool. I’ve gone and got the girl into a scrape—” + </p> + <p> + Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him. + </p> + <p> + “Good heavens, Geoffrey! You don’t mean—” + </p> + <p> + “I do! Wait a bit—that’s not the worst of it. She has left the + house.” + </p> + <p> + “Left the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Left, for good and all. She can’t come back again.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “Because she’s written to her missus. Women (hang ‘em!) never do these + things by halves. She’s left a letter to say she’s privately married, and + gone off to her husband. Her husband is—Me. Not that I’m 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. That’s out of the + question now. While she’s expecting me at the inn I shall be bowling along + to London. Somebody must tell her what has happened—or she’ll play + the devil, and the whole business will burst up. I can’t trust any of the + people here. I’m done for, old chap, unless you help me.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold lifted his hands in dismay. “It’s the most dreadful situation, + Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey thoroughly agreed with him. “Enough to knock a man over,” he + said, “isn’t it? I’d give something for a drink of beer.” He produced his + everlasting pipe, from sheer force of habit. “Got a match?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s mind was too preoccupied to notice the question. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you won’t think I’m making light of your father’s illness,” he + said, earnestly. “But it seems to me—I must say it—it seems to + me that the poor girl has the first claim on you.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked at him in surly amazement. + </p> + <p> + “The first claim on me? Do you think I’m going to risk being cut out of my + father’s will? Not for the best woman that ever put on a petticoat!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s admiration of his friend was the solidly-founded admiration of + many years; admiration for a man who could row, box, wrestle, jump—above + all, who could swim—as few other men could perform those exercises + in contemporary England. But that answer shook his faith. Only for the + moment—unhappily for Arnold, only for the moment. + </p> + <p> + “You know best,” he returned, a little coldly. “What can I do?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey took his arm—roughly as he took every thing; but in a + companionable and confidential way. + </p> + <p> + “Go, like a good fellow, and tell her what has happened. We’ll start from + here as if we were both going to the railway; and I’ll 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 it’s doing the kind + thing by an old friend. There’s no risk of being found out. I’m to drive, + remember! There’s no servant with us, old boy, to notice, and tell tales.” + </p> + <p> + Even Arnold began to see dimly by this time that he was likely to pay his + debt of obligation with interest—as Sir Patrick had foretold. + </p> + <p> + “What am I to say to her?” he asked. “I’m bound to do all I can do to help + you, and I will. But what am I to say?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Say?” he repeated. “Look here! say I’m half distracted, and all that. And—wait + a bit—tell her to stop where she is till I write to her.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold hesitated. Absolutely ignorant of that low and limited form of + knowledge which is called “knowledge of the world,” 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. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you write to her now, Geoffrey?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the good of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Consider for a minute, and you will see. You have trusted me with a very + awkward secret. I may be wrong—I never was mixed up in such a matter + before—but 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: ‘I know what you are hiding from the knowledge of all the world;’ + and is she to be expected to endure it?” + </p> + <p> + “Bosh!” said Geoffrey. “They 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 + don’t understand women. The grand secret, in dealing with a woman, is to + take her as you take a cat, by the scruff of the neck—” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t face her—unless you will help me by breaking the thing to + her first. I’ll stick at no sacrifice to serve you; but—hang it!—make + allowances, Geoffrey, for the difficulty you are putting me in. I am + almost a stranger; I don’t know how Miss Silvester may receive me, before + I can open my lips.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “She has the devil’s own temper,” he said. “There’s no denying that. + Perhaps I’d better write. Have we time to go into the house?” + </p> + <p> + “No. The house is full of people, and we haven’t a minute to spare. Write + at once, and write here. I have got a pencil.” + </p> + <p> + “What am I to write on?” + </p> + <p> + “Any thing—your brother’s card.” + </p> + <p> + 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 letter—the letter which + Anne had referred to at the interview between them—the letter which + she had written to insist on his attending the lawn-party at Windygates. + </p> + <p> + “This will do,” he said. “It’s one of Anne’s own letters to me. There’s + room on the fourth page. If I write,” he added, turning suddenly on + Arnold, “you promise to take it to her? Your hand on the bargain!” + </p> + <p> + He held out the hand which had saved Arnold’s life in Lisbon Harbor, and + received Arnold’s promise, in remembrance of that time. + </p> + <p> + “All right, old fellow. I can tell you how to find the place as we go + along in the gig. By-the-by, there’s one thing that’s rather important. + I’d better mention it while I think of it.” + </p> + <p> + “What is that?” + </p> + <p> + “You mustn’t present yourself at the inn in your own name; and you mustn’t + ask for her by <i>her</i> name.” + </p> + <p> + “Who am I to ask for?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a little awkward. She has gone there as a married woman, in case + they’re particular about taking her in—” + </p> + <p> + “I understand. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “And 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 ‘my + wife.’ You are going in my place—” + </p> + <p> + “And I must ask at the door for ‘my wife,’ or I shall expose Miss + Silvester to unpleasant consequences?” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t object?” + </p> + <p> + “Not I! I don’t care what I say to the people of the inn. It’s the meeting + with Miss Silvester that I’m afraid of.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll put that right for you—never fear!” + </p> + <p> + He went at once to the table and rapidly scribbled a few lines—then + stopped and considered. “Will that do?” he asked himself. “No; I’d better + say something spooney to quiet her.” He considered again, added a line, + and brought his hand down on the table with a cheery smack. “That will do + the business! Read it yourself, Arnold—it’s not so badly written.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold read the note without appearing to share his friend’s favorable + opinion of it. + </p> + <p> + “This is rather short,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Have I time to make it longer?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps 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.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, all right! and the date too, if you like.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” he said. “You haven’t a moment to lose!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey started to his feet. Arnold hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “I must see Blanche!” he pleaded. “I can’t leave Blanche without saying + good-by. Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick pointed to the steps, with a smile. Blanche had followed him + from the house. Arnold ran out to her instantly. + </p> + <p> + “Going?” she said, a little sadly. + </p> + <p> + “I shall be back in two days,” Arnold whispered. “It’s all right! Sir + Patrick consents.” + </p> + <p> + She held him fast by the arm. The hurried parting before other people + seemed to be not a parting to Blanche’s taste. + </p> + <p> + “You will lose the train!” cried Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey seized Arnold by the arm which Blanche was holding, and tore him—literally + tore him—away. The two were out of sight, in the shrubbery, before + Blanche’s indignation found words, and addressed itself to her uncle. + </p> + <p> + “Why is that brute going away with Mr. Brinkworth?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn is called to London by his father’s illness,” replied Sir + Patrick. “You don’t like him?” + </p> + <p> + “I hate him!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick reflected a little. + </p> + <p> + “She is a young girl of eighteen,” he thought to himself. “And I am an old + man of seventy. Curious, that we should agree about any thing. More than + curious that we should agree in disliking Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + He roused himself, and looked again at Blanche. She was seated at the + table, with her head on her hand; absent, and out of spirits—thinking + of Arnold, and set, with the future all smooth before them, not thinking + happily. + </p> + <p> + “Why, Blanche! Blanche!” cried Sir Patrick, “one would think he had gone + for a voyage round the world. You silly child! he will be back again the + day after to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish he hadn’t gone with that man!” said Blanche. “I wish he hadn’t got + that man for a friend!” + </p> + <p> + “There! there! the man was rude enough I own. Never mind! he will leave + the man at the second station. Come back to the ball-room with me. Dance + it off, my dear—dance it off!” + </p> + <p> + “No,” returned Blanche. “I’m in no humor for dancing. I shall go up + stairs, and talk about it to Anne.” + </p> + <p> + “You will do nothing of the sort!” said a third voice, suddenly joining in + the conversation. + </p> + <p> + Both uncle and niece looked up, and found Lady Lundie at the top of the + summer-house steps. + </p> + <p> + “I forbid you to mention that woman’s name again in my hearing,” pursued + her ladyship. “Sir Patrick! I warned you (if you remember?) that the + matter of the governess was not a matter to be trifled with. My worst + anticipations are realized. Miss Silvester has left the house!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0008" id="link2HCH0008"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE EIGHTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SCANDAL. + </h3> + <p> + IT was still early in the afternoon when the guests at Lady Lundie’s + lawn-party began to compare notes together in corners, and to agree in + arriving at a general conviction that “some thing was wrong.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche had mysteriously disappeared from her partners in the dance. Lady + Lundie had mysteriously abandoned her guests. Blanche had not come back. + Lady Lundie had returned with an artificial smile, and a preoccupied + manner. She acknowledged that she was “not very well.” The same excuse had + been given to account for Blanche’s absence—and, again (some time + previously), to explain Miss Silvester’s withdrawal from the croquet! A + wit among the gentlemen declared it reminded him of declining a verb. “I + am not very well; thou art not very well; she is not very well”—and + so on. Sir Patrick too! Only think of the sociable Sir Patrick being in a + state of seclusion—pacing up and down by himself in the loneliest + part of the garden. And the servants again! it had even spread to the + servants! <i>They</i> were presuming to whisper in corners, like their + betters. The house-maids appeared, spasmodically, where house maids had no + business to be. Doors banged and petticoats whisked in the upper regions. + Something wrong—depend upon it, something wrong! “We had much better + go away. My dear, order the carriage”—“Louisa, love, no more + dancing; your papa is going.”—“<i>Good</i>-afternoon, Lady Lundie!”—“Haw! + thanks very much!”—“<i>So</i> sorry for dear Blanche!”—“Oh, + it’s been <i>too</i> charming!” So Society jabbered its poor, nonsensical + little jargon, and got itself politely out of the way before the storm + came. + </p> + <p> + This was exactly the consummation of events for which Sir Patrick had been + waiting in the seclusion of the garden. + </p> + <p> + There was no evading the responsibility which was now thrust upon him. + Lady Lundie had announced it as a settled resolution, on her part, to + trace Anne to the place in which she had taken refuge, and discover + (purely in the interests of virtue) whether she actually was married or + not. Blanche (already overwrought by the excitement of the day) had broken + into an hysterical passion of tears on hearing the news, and had then, on + recovering, taken a view of her own of Anne’s flight from the house. Anne + would never have kept her marriage a secret from Blanche; Anne would never + have written such a formal farewell letter as she had written to Blanche—if + things were going as smoothly with her as she was trying to make them + believe at Windygates. Some dreadful trouble had fallen on Anne and + Blanche was determined (as Lady Lundie was determined) to find out where + she had gone, and to follow, and help her. + </p> + <p> + It was plain to Sir Patrick (to whom both ladies had opened their hearts, + at separate interviews) that his sister-in-law, in one way, and his niece + in another, were equally likely—if not duly restrained—to + plunge headlong into acts of indiscretion which might lead to very + undesirable results. A man in authority was sorely needed at Windygates + that afternoon—and Sir Patrick was fain to acknowledge that he was + the man. + </p> + <p> + “Much is to be said for, and much is to be said against a single life,” + thought the old gentleman, walking up and down the sequestered garden-path + to which he had retired, and applying himself at shorter intervals than + usual to the knob of his ivory cane. “This, however, is, I take it, + certain. A man’s married friends can’t prevent him from leading the life + of a bachelor, if he pleases. But they can, and do, take devilish good + care that he sha’n’t enjoy it!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s meditations were interrupted by the appearance of a servant, + previously instructed to keep him informed of the progress of events at + the house. + </p> + <p> + “They’re all gone, Sir Patrick,” said the man. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a comfort, Simpson. We have no visitors to deal with now, except + the visitors who are staying in the house?” + </p> + <p> + “None, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “They’re all gentlemen, are they not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s another comfort, Simpson. Very good. I’ll see Lady Lundie first.” + </p> + <p> + Does any other form of human resolution approach the firmness of a woman + who is bent on discovering the frailties of another woman whom she hates? + You may move rocks, under a given set of circumstances. But here is a + delicate being in petticoats, who shrieks if a spider drops on her neck, + and shudders if you approach her after having eaten an onion. Can you move + <i>her,</i> under a given set of circumstances, as set forth above? Not + you! + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick found her ladyship instituting her inquiries on the same + admirably exhaustive system which is pursued, in cases of disappearance, + by the police. Who was the last witness who had seen the missing person? + Who was the last servant who had seen Anne Silvester? Begin with the + men-servants, from the butler at the top to the stable boy at the bottom. + Go on with the women-servants, from the cook in all her glory to the small + female child who weeds the garden. Lady Lundie had cross-examined her way + downward as far as the page, when Sir Patrick joined her. + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady! pardon me for reminding you again, that this is a free + country, and that you have no claim whatever to investigate Miss + Silvester’s proceedings after she has left your house.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie raised her eyes, devotionally, to the ceiling. She looked like + a martyr to duty. If you had seen her ladyship at that moment, you would + have said yourself, “A martyr to duty.” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir Patrick! As a Christian woman, that is not <i>my</i> way of + looking at it. This unhappy person has lived under my roof. This unhappy + person has been the companion of Blanche. I am responsible—I am, in + a manner, morally responsible. I would give the world to be able to + dismiss it as you do. But no! I must be satisfied that she <i>is</i> + married. In the interests of propriety. For the quieting of my own + conscience. Before I lay my head on my pillow to-night, Sir Patrick—before + I lay my head on my pillow to-night!” + </p> + <p> + “One word, Lady Lundie—” + </p> + <p> + “No!” repeated her ladyship, with the most pathetic gentleness. “You are + right, I dare say, from the worldly point of view. I can’t take the + worldly point of view. The worldly point of view hurts me.” She turned, + with impressive gravity, to the page. “You know where you will go, + Jonathan, if you tell lies!” + </p> + <p> + Jonathan was lazy, Jonathan was pimply, Jonathan was fat—<i>but</i> + Jonathan was orthodox. He answered that he did know; and, what is more, he + mentioned the place. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick saw that further opposition on his part, at that moment, would + be worse than useless. He wisely determined to wait, before he interfered + again, until Lady Lundie had thoroughly exhausted herself and her + inquiries. At the same time—as it was impossible, in the present + state of her ladyship’s temper, to provide against what might happen if + the inquiries after Anne unluckily proved successful—he decided on + taking measures to clear the house of the guests (in the interests of all + parties) for the next four-and-twenty hours. + </p> + <p> + “I only want to ask you a question, Lady Lundie,” he resumed. “The + position of the gentlemen who are staying here is not a very pleasant one + while all this is going on. If you had been content to let the matter pass + without notice, we should have done very well. As things are, don’t you + think it will be more convenient to every body if I relieve you of the + responsibility of entertaining your guests?” + </p> + <p> + “As head of the family?” stipulated Lady Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “As head of the family!” answered Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “I gratefully accept the proposal,” said Lady Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “I beg you won’t mention it,” rejoined Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + He quitted the room, leaving Jonathan under examination. He and his + brother (the late Sir Thomas) had chosen widely different paths in life, + and had seen but little of each other since the time when they had been + boys. Sir Patrick’s recollections (on leaving Lady Lundie) appeared to + have taken him back to that time, and to have inspired him with a certain + tenderness for his brother’s memory. He shook his head, and sighed a sad + little sigh. “Poor Tom!” he said to himself, softly, after he had shut the + door on his brother’s widow. “Poor Tom!” + </p> + <p> + On crossing the hall, he stopped the first servant he met, to inquire + after Blanche. Miss Blanche was quiet, up stairs, closeted with her maid + in her own room. “Quiet?” thought Sir Patrick. “That’s a bad sign. I shall + hear more of my niece.” + </p> + <p> + Pending that event, the next thing to do was to find the guests. Unerring + instinct led Sir Patrick to the billiard-room. There he found them, in + solemn conclave assembled, wondering what they had better do. Sir Patrick + put them all at their ease in two minutes. + </p> + <p> + “What do you say to a day’s shooting to-morrow?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Every man present—sportsman or not—said yes. + </p> + <p> + “You can start from this house,” pursued Sir Patrick; “or you can start + from a shooting-cottage which is on the Windygates property—among + the woods, on the other side of the moor. The weather looks pretty well + settled (for Scotland), and there are plenty of horses in the stables. It + is useless to conceal from you, gentlemen, that events have taken a + certain unexpected turn in my sister-in-law’s family circle. You will be + equally Lady Lundie’s guests, whether you choose the cottage or the house. + For the next twenty-four hours (let us say)—which shall it be?” + </p> + <p> + Every body—with or without rheumatism—answered “the cottage.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick, “It is arranged to ride over to the + shooting-cottage this evening, and to try the moor, on that side, the + first thing in the morning. If events here will allow me, I shall be + delighted to accompany you, and do the honors as well as I can. If not, I + am sure you will accept my apologies for to-night, and permit Lady + Lundie’s steward to see to your comfort in my place.” + </p> + <p> + Adopted unanimously. Sir Patrick left the guests to their billiards, and + went out to give the necessary orders at the stables. + </p> + <p> + In the mean time Blanche remained portentously quiet in the upper regions + of the house; while Lady Lundie steadily pursued her inquiries down + stairs. She got on from Jonathan (last of the males, indoors) to the + coachman (first of the males, out-of-doors), and dug down, man by man, + through that new stratum, until she struck the stable-boy at the bottom. + Not an atom of information having been extracted in the house or out of + the house, from man or boy, her ladyship fell back on the women next. She + pulled the bell, and summoned the cook—Hester Dethridge. + </p> + <p> + A very remarkable-looking person entered the room. + </p> + <p> + Elderly and quiet; scrupulously clean; eminently respectable; her gray + hair neat and smooth under her modest white cap; her eyes, set deep in + their orbits, looking straight at any person who spoke to her—here, + at a first view, was a steady, trust-worthy woman. Here also on closer + inspection, was a woman with the seal of some terrible past suffering set + on her for the rest of her life. You felt it, rather than saw it, in the + look of immovable endurance which underlain her expression—in the + deathlike tranquillity which never disappeared from her manner. Her story + was a sad one—so far as it was known. She had entered Lady Lundie’s + service at the period of Lady Lundie’s marriage to Sir Thomas. Her + character (given by the clergyman of her parish) described her as having + been married to an inveterate drunkard, and as having suffered unutterably + during her husband’s lifetime. There were drawbacks to engaging her, now + that she was a widow. On one of the many occasions on which her husband + had personally ill-treated her, he had struck her a blow which had + produced very remarkable nervous results. She had lain insensible many + days together, and had recovered with the total loss of her speech. In + addition to this objection, she was odd, at times, in her manner; and she + made it a condition of accepting any situation, that she should be + privileged to sleep in a room by herself As a set-off against all this, it + was to be said, on the other side of the question, that she was sober; + rigidly honest in all her dealings; and one of the best cooks in England. + In consideration of this last merit, the late Sir Thomas had decided on + giving her a trial, and had discovered that he had never dined in his life + as he dined when Hester Dethridge was at the head of his kitchen. She + remained after his death in his widow’s service. Lady Lundie was far from + liking her. An unpleasant suspicion attached to the cook, which Sir Thomas + had over-looked, but which persons less sensible of the immense importance + of dining well could not fail to regard as a serious objection to her. + Medical men, consulted about her case discovered certain physiological + anomalies in it which led them to suspect the woman of feigning dumbness, + for some reason best known to herself. She obstinately declined to learn + the deaf and dumb alphabet—on the ground that dumbness was not + associated with deafness in her case. Stratagems were invented (seeing + that she really did possess the use of her ears) to entrap her into also + using her speech, and failed. Efforts were made to induce her to answer + questions relating to her past life in her husband’s time. She flatly + declined to reply to them, one and all. At certain intervals, strange + impulses to get a holiday away from the house appeared to seize her. If + she was resisted, she passively declined to do her work. If she was + threatened with dismissal, she impenetrably bowed her head, as much as to + say, “Give me the word, and I go.” Over and over again, Lady Lundie had + decided, naturally enough, on no longer keeping such a servant as this; + but she had never yet carried the decision to execution. A cook who is a + perfect mistress of her art, who asks for no perquisites, who allows no + waste, who never quarrels with the other servants, who drinks nothing + stronger than tea, who is to be trusted with untold gold—is not a + cook easily replaced. In this mortal life we put up with many persons and + things, as Lady Lundie put up with her cook. The woman lived, as it were, + on the brink of dismissal—but thus far the woman kept her place—getting + her holidays when she asked for them (which, to do her justice, was not + often) and sleeping always (go where she might with the family) with a + locked door, in a room by herself. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge advanced slowly to the table at which Lady Lundie was + sitting. A slate and pencil hung at her side, which she used for making + such replies as were not to be expressed by a gesture or by a motion of + the head. She took up the slate and pencil, and waited with stony + submission for her mistress to begin. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie opened the proceedings with the regular formula of inquiry + which she had used with all the other servants, + </p> + <p> + “Do you know that Miss Silvester has left the house?” + </p> + <p> + The cook nodded her head affirmatively. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know at what time she left it?” + </p> + <p> + Another affirmative reply. The first which Lady Lundie had received to + that question yet. She eagerly went on to the next inquiry. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her since she left the house?” + </p> + <p> + A third affirmative reply. + </p> + <p> + “Where?” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge wrote slowly on the slate, in singularly firm upright + characters for a woman in her position of life, these words: + </p> + <p> + “On the road that leads to the railway. Nigh to Mistress Chew’s Farm.” + </p> + <p> + “What did you want at Chew’s Farm?” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge wrote: “I wanted eggs for the kitchen, and a breath of + fresh air for myself.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Miss Silvester see you?” + </p> + <p> + A negative shake of the head. + </p> + <p> + “Did she take the turning that leads to the railway?” + </p> + <p> + Another negative shake of the head. + </p> + <p> + “She went on, toward the moor?” + </p> + <p> + An affirmative reply. + </p> + <p> + “What did she do when she got to the moor?” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge wrote: “She took the footpath which leads to Craig + Fernie.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie rose excitedly to her feet. There was but one place that a + stranger could go to at Craig Fernie. “The inn!” exclaimed her ladyship. + “She has gone to the inn!” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge waited immovably. Lady Lundie put a last precautionary + question, in these words: + </p> + <p> + “Have you reported what you have seen to any body else?” + </p> + <p> + An affirmative reply. Lady Lundie had not bargained for that. Hester + Dethridge (she thought) must surely have misunderstood her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean that you have told somebody else what you have just told me?” + </p> + <p> + Another affirmative reply. + </p> + <p> + “A person who questioned you, as I have done?” + </p> + <p> + A third affirmative reply. + </p> + <p> + “Who was it?” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge wrote on her slate: “Miss Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie stepped back, staggered by the discovery that Blanche’s + resolution to trace Anne Silvester was, to all appearance, as firmly + settled as her own. Her step-daughter was keeping her own counsel, and + acting on her own responsibility—her step-daughter might be an + awkward obstacle in the way. The manner in which Anne had left the house + had mortally offended Lady Lundie. An inveterately vindictive woman, she + had resolved to discover whatever compromising elements might exist in the + governess’s secret, and to make them public property (from a paramount + sense of duty, of course) among her own circle of friends. But to do this—with + Blanche acting (as might certainly be anticipated) in direct opposition to + her, and openly espousing Miss Silvester’s interests—was manifestly + impossible. + </p> + <p> + The first thing to be done—and that instantly—was to inform + Blanche that she was discovered, and to forbid her to stir in the matter. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie rang the bell twice—thus intimating, according to the + laws of the household, that she required the attendance of her own maid. + She then turned to the cook—still waiting her pleasure, with stony + composure, slate in hand. + </p> + <p> + “You have done wrong,” said her ladyship, severely. “I am your mistress. + You are bound to answer your mistress—” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge bowed her head, in icy acknowledgment of the principle + laid down—so far. + </p> + <p> + The bow was an interruption. Lady Lundie resented it. + </p> + <p> + “But Miss Blanche is <i>not</i> your mistress,” she went on, sternly. “You + are very much to blame for answering Miss Blanche’s inquiries about Miss + Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge, perfectly unmoved, wrote her justification on her slate, + in two stiff sentences: “I had no orders <i>not</i> to answer. I keep + nobody’s secrets but my own.” + </p> + <p> + That reply settled the question of the cook’s dismissal—the question + which had been pending for months past. + </p> + <p> + “You are an insolent woman! I have borne with you long enough—I will + bear with you no longer. When your month is up, you go!” + </p> + <p> + In those words Lady Lundie dismissed Hester Dethridge from her service. + </p> + <p> + Not the slightest change passed over the sinister tranquillity of the + cook. She bowed her head again, in acknowledgment of the sentence + pronounced on her—dropped her slate at her side—turned about—and + left the room. The woman was alive in the world, and working in the world; + and yet (so far as all human interests were concerned) she was as + completely out of the world as if she had been screwed down in her coffin, + and laid in her grave. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s maid came into the room as Hester left it. + </p> + <p> + “Go up stairs to Miss Blanche,” said her mistress, “and say I want her + here. Wait a minute!” She paused, and considered. Blanche might decline to + submit to her step-mother’s interference with her. It might be necessary + to appeal to the higher authority of her guardian. “Do you know where Sir + Patrick is?” asked Lady Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “I heard Simpson say, my lady, that Sir Patrick was at the stables.” + </p> + <p> + “Send Simpson with a message. My compliments to Sir Patrick—and I + wish to see him immediately.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The preparations for the departure to the shooting-cottage were just + completed; and the one question that remained to be settled was, whether + Sir Patrick could accompany the party—when the man-servant appeared + with the message from his mistress. + </p> + <p> + “Will you give me a quarter of an hour, gentlemen?” asked Sir Patrick. “In + that time I shall know for certain whether I can go with you or not.” + </p> + <p> + As a matter of course, the guests decided to wait. The younger men among + them (being Englishmen) naturally occupied their leisure time in betting. + Would Sir Patrick get the better of the domestic crisis? or would the + domestic crisis get the better of Sir Patrick? The domestic crisis was + backed, at two to one, to win. + </p> + <p> + Punctually at the expiration of the quarter of an hour, Sir Patrick + reappeared. The domestic crisis had betrayed the blind confidence which + youth and inexperience had placed in it. Sir Patrick had won the day. + </p> + <p> + “Things are settled and quiet, gentlemen; and I am able to accompany you,” + he said. “There are two ways to the shooting-cottage. One—the + longest—passes by the inn at Craig Fernie. I am compelled to ask you + to go with me by that way. While you push on to the cottage, I must drop + behind, and say a word to a person who is staying at the inn.” + </p> + <p> + He had quieted Lady Lundie—he had even quieted Blanche. But it was + evidently on the condition that he was to go to Craig Fernie in their + places, and to see Anne Silvester himself. Without a word more of + explanation he mounted his horse, and led the way out. The shooting-party + left Windygates. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0014" id="link2H_4_0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SECOND SCENE.—THE INN. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0009" id="link2HCH0009"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE NINTH. + </h2> + <h3> + ANNE. + </h3> + <p> + “YE’LL just permit me to remind ye again, young leddy, that the hottle’s + full—exceptin’ only this settin’-room, and the bedchamber yonder + belonging to it.” + </p> + <p> + So spoke “Mistress Inchbare,” landlady of the Craig Fernie Inn, to Anne + Silvester, standing in the parlor, purse in hand, and offering the price + of the two rooms before she claimed permission to occupy them. + </p> + <p> + The time of the afternoon was about the time when Geoffrey Delamayn had + started in the train, on his journey to London. About the time also, when + Arnold Brinkworth had crossed the moor, and was mounting the first rising + ground which led to the inn. + </p> + <p> + Mistress Inchbare was tall and thin, and decent and dry. Mistress + Inchbare’s unlovable hair clung fast round her head in wiry little yellow + curls. Mistress Inchbare’s hard bones showed themselves, like Mistress + Inchbare’s hard Presbyterianism, without any concealment or compromise. In + short, a savagely-respectable woman who plumed herself on presiding over a + savagely-respectable inn. + </p> + <p> + There was no competition to interfere with Mistress Inchbare. She + regulated her own prices, and made her own rules. If you objected to her + prices, and revolted from her rules, you were free to go. In other words, + you were free to cast yourself, in the capacity of houseless wanderer, on + the scanty mercy of a Scotch wilderness. The village of Craig Fernie was a + collection of hovels. The country about Craig Fernie, mountain on one side + and moor on the other, held no second house of public entertainment, for + miles and miles round, at any point of the compass. No rambling individual + but the helpless British Tourist wanted food and shelter from strangers in + that part of Scotland; and nobody but Mistress Inchbare had food and + shelter to sell. A more thoroughly independent person than this was not to + be found on the face of the hotel-keeping earth. The most universal of all + civilized terrors—the terror of appearing unfavorably in the + newspapers—was a sensation absolutely unknown to the Empress of the + Inn. You lost your temper, and threatened to send her bill for exhibition + in the public journals. Mistress Inchbare raised no objection to your + taking any course you pleased with it. “Eh, man! send the bill whar’ ye + like, as long as ye pay it first. There’s nae such thing as a newspaper + ever darkens my doors. Ye’ve got the Auld and New Testaments in your + bedchambers, and the natural history o’ Pairthshire on the coffee-room + table—and if that’s no’ reading eneugh for ye, ye may een gae back + South again, and get the rest of it there.” + </p> + <p> + This was the inn at which Anne Silvester had appeared alone, with nothing + but a little bag in her hand. This was the woman whose reluctance to + receive her she innocently expected to overcome by showing her purse. + </p> + <p> + “Mention your charge for the rooms,” she said. “I am willing to pay for + them beforehand.” + </p> + <p> + Her majesty, Mrs. Inchbare, never even looked at her subject’s poor little + purse. + </p> + <p> + “It just comes to this, mistress,” she answered. “I’m no’ free to tak’ + your money, if I’m no’ free to let ye the last rooms left in the hoose. + The Craig Fernie hottle is a faimily hottle—and has its ain gude + name to keep up. Ye’re ower-well-looking, my young leddy, to be traveling + alone.” + </p> + <p> + The time had been when Anne would have answered sharply enough. The hard + necessities of her position made her patient now. + </p> + <p> + “I have already told you,” she said, “my husband is coming here to join + me.” She sighed wearily as she repeated her ready-made story—and + dropped into the nearest chair, from sheer inability to stand any longer. + </p> + <p> + Mistress Inchbare looked at her, with the exact measure of compassionate + interest which she might have shown if she had been looking at a stray dog + who had fallen footsore at the door of the inn. + </p> + <p> + “Weel! weel! sae let it be. Bide awhile, and rest ye. We’ll no’ chairge ye + for that—and we’ll see if your husband comes. I’ll just let the + rooms, mistress, to <i>him,</i>, instead o’ lettin’ them to <i>you.</i> + And, sae, good-morrow t’ ye.” With that final announcement of her royal + will and pleasure, the Empress of the Inn withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Anne made no reply. She watched the landlady out of the room—and + then struggled to control herself no longer. In her position, suspicion + was doubly insult. The hot tears of shame gathered in her eyes; and the + heart-ache wrung her, poor soul—wrung her without mercy. + </p> + <p> + A trifling noise in the room startled her. She looked up, and detected a + man in a corner, dusting the furniture, and apparently acting in the + capacity of attendant at the inn. He had shown her into the parlor on her + arrival; but he had remained so quietly in the room that she had never + noticed him since, until that moment. + </p> + <p> + He was an ancient man—with one eye filmy and blind, and one eye + moist and merry. His head was bald; his feet were gouty; his nose was + justly celebrated as the largest nose and the reddest nose in that part of + Scotland. The mild wisdom of years was expressed mysteriously in his + mellow smile. In contact with this wicked world, his manner revealed that + happy mixture of two extremes—the servility which just touches + independence, and the independence which just touches servility—attained + by no men in existence but Scotchmen. Enormous native impudence, which + amused but never offended; immeasurable cunning, masquerading habitually + under the double disguise of quaint prejudice and dry humor, were the + solid moral foundations on which the character of this elderly person was + built. No amount of whisky ever made him drunk; and no violence of + bell-ringing ever hurried his movements. Such was the headwaiter at the + Craig Fernie Inn; known, far and wide, to local fame, as “Maister + Bishopriggs, Mistress Inchbare’s right-hand man.” + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing there?” Anne asked, sharply. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs turned himself about on his gouty feet; waved his duster + gently in the air; and looked at Anne, with a mild, paternal smile. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! Am just doostin’ the things; and setin’ the room in decent order for + ye.” + </p> + <p> + “For <i>me?</i> Did you hear what the landlady said?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs advanced confidentially, and pointed with a very unsteady + forefinger to the purse which Anne still held in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Never fash yoursel’ aboot the landleddy!” said the sage chief of the + Craig Fernie waiters. “Your purse speaks for you, my lassie. Pet it up!” + cried Mr. Bishopriggs, waving temptation away from him with the duster. + “In wi’ it into yer pocket! Sae long as the warld’s the warld, I’ll uphaud + it any where—while there’s siller in the purse, there’s gude in the + woman!” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s patience, which had resisted harder trials, gave way at this. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by speaking to me in that familiar manner?” she asked, + rising angrily to her feet again. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs tucked his duster under his arm, and proceeded to satisfy + Anne that he shared the landlady’s view of her position, without sharing + the severity of the landlady’s principles. “There’s nae man livin’,” said + Mr. Bishopriggs, “looks with mair indulgence at human frailty than my ain + sel’. Am I no’ to be familiar wi’ ye—when I’m auld eneugh to be a + fether to ye, and ready to be a fether to ye till further notice? Hech! + hech! Order your bit dinner lassie. Husband or no husband, ye’ve got a + stomach, and ye must een eat. There’s fesh and there’s fowl—or, + maybe, ye’ll be for the sheep’s head singit, when they’ve done with it at + the tabble dot?” + </p> + <p> + There was but one way of getting rid of him: “Order what you like,” Anne + said, “and leave the room.” Mr. Bishopriggs highly approved of the first + half of the sentence, and totally overlooked the second. + </p> + <p> + “Ay, ay—just pet a’ yer little interests in my hands; it’s the + wisest thing ye can do. Ask for Maister Bishopriggs (that’s me) when ye + want a decent ‘sponsible man to gi’ ye a word of advice. Set ye doon again—set + ye doon. And don’t tak’ the arm-chair. Hech! hech! yer husband will be + coming, ye know, and he’s sure to want it!” With that seasonable + pleasantry the venerable Bishopriggs winked, and went out. + </p> + <p> + Anne looked at her watch. By her calculation it was not far from the hour + when Geoffrey might be expected to arrive at the inn, assuming Geoffrey to + have left Windygates at the time agreed on. A little more patience, and + the landlady’s scruples would be satisfied, and the ordeal would be at an + end. + </p> + <p> + Could she have met him nowhere else than at this barbarous house, and + among these barbarous people? + </p> + <p> + No. Outside the doors of Windygates she had not a friend to help her in + all Scotland. There was no place at her disposal but the inn; and she had + only to be thankful that it occupied a sequestered situation, and was not + likely to be visited by any of Lady Lundie’s friends. Whatever the risk + might be, the end in view justified her in confronting it. Her whole + future depended on Geoffrey’s making an honest woman of her. Not her + future with <i>him</i>—that way there was no hope; that way her life + was wasted. Her future with Blanche—she looked forward to nothing + now but her future with Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Her spirits sank lower and lower. The tears rose again. It would only + irritate him if he came and found her crying. She tried to divert her mind + by looking about the room. + </p> + <p> + There was very little to see. Except that it was solidly built of good + sound stone, the Craig Fernie hotel differed in no other important respect + from the average of second-rate English inns. There was the usual slippery + black sofa—constructed to let you slide when you wanted to rest. + There was the usual highly-varnished arm-chair, expressly manufactured to + test the endurance of the human spine. There was the usual paper on the + walls, of the pattern designed to make your eyes ache and your head giddy. + There were the usual engravings, which humanity never tires of + contemplating. The Royal Portrait, in the first place of honor. The next + greatest of all human beings—the Duke of Wellington—in the + second place of honor. The third greatest of all human beings—the + local member of parliament—in the third place of honor; and a + hunting scene, in the dark. A door opposite the door of admission from the + passage opened into the bedroom; and a window at the side looked out on + the open space in front of the hotel, and commanded a view of the vast + expanse of the Craig Fernie moor, stretching away below the rising ground + on which the house was built. + </p> + <p> + Anne turned in despair from the view in the room to the view from the + window. Within the last half hour it had changed for the worse. The clouds + had gathered; the sun was hidden; the light on the landscape was gray and + dull. Anne turned from the window, as she had turned from the room. She + was just making the hopeless attempt to rest her weary limbs on the sofa, + when the sound of voices and footsteps in the passage caught her ear. + </p> + <p> + Was Geoffrey’s voice among them? No. + </p> + <p> + Were the strangers coming in? + </p> + <p> + The landlady had declined to let her have the rooms: it was quite possible + that the strangers might be coming to look at them. There was no knowing + who they might be. In the impulse of the moment she flew to the bedchamber + and locked herself in. + </p> + <p> + The door from the passage opened, and Arnold Brinkworth—shown in by + Mr. Bishopriggs—entered the sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Nobody here!” exclaimed Arnold, looking round. “Where is she?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs pointed to the bedroom door. “Eh! yer good leddy’s joost + in the bedchamber, nae doot!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started. He had felt no difficulty (when he and Geoffrey had + discussed the question at Windygates) about presenting himself at the inn + in the assumed character of Anne’s husband. But the result of putting the + deception in practice was, to say the least of it, a little embarrassing + at first. Here was the waiter describing Miss Silvester as his “good + lady;” and leaving it (most naturally and properly) to the “good lady’s” + husband to knock at her bedroom door, and tell her that he was there. In + despair of knowing what else to do at the moment, Arnold asked for the + landlady, whom he had not seen on arriving at the inn. + </p> + <p> + “The landleddy’s just tottin’ up the ledgers o’ the hottle in her ain + room,” answered Mr. Bishopriggs. “She’ll be here anon—the wearyful + woman!—speerin’ who ye are and what ye are, and takin’ a’ the + business o’ the hoose on her ain pair o’ shouthers.” He dropped the + subject of the landlady, and put in a plea for himself. “I ha’ lookit + after a’ the leddy’s little comforts, Sir,” he whispered. “Trust in me! + trust in me!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s attention was absorbed in the very serious difficulty of + announcing his arrival to Anne. “How am I to get her out?” he said to + himself, with a look of perplexity directed at the bedroom door. + </p> + <p> + He had spoken loud enough for the waiter to hear him. Arnold’s look of + perplexity was instantly reflected on the face of Mr. Bishopriggs. The + head-waiter at Craig Fernie possessed an immense experience of the manners + and customs of newly-married people on their honeymoon trip. He had been a + second father (with excellent pecuniary results) to innumerable brides and + bridegrooms. He knew young married couples in all their varieties:—The + couples who try to behave as if they had been married for many years; the + couples who attempt no concealment, and take advice from competent + authorities about them. The couples who are bashfully talkative before + third persons; the couples who are bashfully silent under similar + circumstances. The couples who don’t know what to do, the couples who wish + it was over; the couples who must never be intruded upon without careful + preliminary knocking at the door; the couples who <i>can</i> eat and drink + in the intervals of “bliss,” and the other couples who <i>can’t.</i> But + the bridegroom who stood helpless on one side of the door, and the bride + who remained locked in on the other, were new varieties of the nuptial + species, even in the vast experience of Mr. Bishopriggs himself. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo are ye to get her oot?” he repeated. “I’ll show ye hoo!” He advanced + as rapidly as his gouty feet would let him, and knocked at the bedroom + door. “Eh, my leddy! here he is in flesh and bluid. Mercy preserve us! do + ye lock the door of the nuptial chamber in your husband’s face?” + </p> + <p> + At that unanswerable appeal the lock was heard turning in the door. Mr. + Bishopriggs winked at Arnold with his one available eye, and laid his + forefinger knowingly along his enormous nose. “I’m away before she falls + into your arms! Rely on it I’ll no come in again without knocking first!” + </p> + <p> + He left Arnold alone in the room. The bedroom door opened slowly by a few + inches at a time. Anne’s voice was just audible speaking cautiously behind + it. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you, Geoffrey?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s heart began to beat fast, in anticipation of the disclosure which + was now close at hand. He knew neither what to say or do—he remained + silent. + </p> + <p> + Anne repeated the question in louder tones: + </p> + <p> + “Is that you?” + </p> + <p> + There was the certain prospect of alarming her, if some reply was not + given. There was no help for it. Come what come might, Arnold answered, in + a whisper: + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The door was flung wide open. Anne Silvester appeared on the threshold, + confronting him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth!!!” she exclaimed, standing petrified with astonishment. + </p> + <p> + For a moment more neither of them spoke. Anne advanced one step into the + sitting-room, and put the next inevitable question, with an instantaneous + change from surprise to suspicion. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want here?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s letter represented the only possible excuse for Arnold’s + appearance in that place, and at that time. + </p> + <p> + “I have got a letter for you,” he said—and offered it to her. + </p> + <p> + She was instantly on her guard. They were little better than strangers to + each other, as Arnold had said. A sickening presentiment of some treachery + on Geoffrey’s part struck cold to her heart. She refused to take the + letter. + </p> + <p> + “I expect no letter,” she said. “Who told you I was here?” She put the + question, not only with a tone of suspicion, but with a look of contempt. + The look was not an easy one for a man to bear. It required a momentary + exertion of self-control on Arnold’s part, before he could trust himself + to answer with due consideration for her. “Is there a watch set on my + actions?” she went on, with rising anger. “And are <i>you</i> the spy?” + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t known me very long, Miss Silvester,” Arnold answered, + quietly. “But you ought to know me better than to say that. I am the + bearer of a letter from Geoffrey.” + </p> + <p> + She was an the point of following his example, and of speaking of Geoffrey + by his Christian name, on her side. But she checked herself, before the + word had passed her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Mr. Delamayn?” she asked, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What occasion have <i>I</i> for a letter from Mr. Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + She was determined to acknowledge nothing—she kept him obstinately + at arm’s-length. Arnold did, as a matter of instinct, what a man of larger + experience would have done, as a matter of calculation—he closed + with her boldly, then and there. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester! it’s no use beating about the bush. If you won’t take the + letter, you force me to speak out. I am here on a very unpleasant errand. + I begin to wish, from the bottom of my heart, I had never undertaken it.” + </p> + <p> + A quick spasm of pain passed across her face. She was beginning, dimly + beginning, to understand him. He hesitated. His generous nature shrank + from hurting her. + </p> + <p> + “Go on,” she said, with an effort. + </p> + <p> + “Try not to be angry with me, Miss Silvester. Geoffrey and I are old + friends. Geoffrey knows he can trust me—” + </p> + <p> + “Trust you?” she interposed. “Stop!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold waited. She went on, speaking to herself, not to him. + </p> + <p> + “When I was in the other room I asked if Geoffrey was there. And this man + answered for him.” She sprang forward with a cry of horror. + </p> + <p> + “Has he told you—” + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, read his letter!” + </p> + <p> + She violently pushed back the hand with which Arnold once more offered the + letter. “You don’t look at me! He <i>has</i> told you!” + </p> + <p> + “Read his letter,” persisted Arnold. “In justice to him, if you won’t in + justice to me.” + </p> + <p> + The situation was too painful to be endured. Arnold looked at her, this + time, with a man’s resolution in his eyes—spoke to her, this time, + with a man’s resolution in his voice. She took the letter. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir,” she said, with a sudden humiliation of tone and + manner, inexpressibly shocking, inexpressibly pitiable to see. “I + understand my position at last. I am a woman doubly betrayed. Please to + excuse what I said to you just now, when I supposed myself to have some + claim on your respect. Perhaps you will grant me your pity? I can ask for + nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold was silent. Words were useless in the face of such utter + self-abandonment as this. Any man living—even Geoffrey himself—must + have felt for her at that moment. + </p> + <p> + She looked for the first time at the letter. She opened it on the wrong + side. “My own letter!” she said to herself. “In the hands of another man!” + </p> + <p> + “Look at the last page,” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + She turned to the last page, and read the hurried penciled lines. + “Villain! villain! villain!” At the third repetition of the word, she + crushed the letter in the palm of her hand, and flung it from her to the + other end of the room. The instant after, the fire that had flamed up in + her died out. Feebly and slowly she reached out her hand to the nearest + chair, and sat down in it with her back to Arnold. “He has deserted me!” + was all she said. The words fell low and quiet on the silence: they were + the utterance of an immeasurable despair. + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong!” exclaimed Arnold. “Indeed, indeed you are wrong! It’s no + excuse—it’s the truth. I was present when the message came about his + father.” + </p> + <p> + She never heeded him, and never moved. She only repeated the words + </p> + <p> + “He has deserted me!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t take it in that way!” pleaded Arnold—“pray don’t! It’s + dreadful to hear you; it is indeed. I am sure he has <i>not</i> deserted + you.” There was no answer; no sign that she heard him; she sat there, + struck to stone. It was impossible to call the landlady in at such a + moment as this. In despair of knowing how else to rouse her, Arnold drew a + chair to her side, and patted her timidly on the shoulder. “Come!” he + said, in his single-hearted, boyish way. “Cheer up a little!” + </p> + <p> + She slowly turned her head, and looked at him with a dull surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you say he had told you every thing?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you despise a woman like me?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s heart went back, at that dreadful question, to the one woman who + was eternally sacred to him—to the woman from whose bosom he had + drawn the breath of life. + </p> + <p> + “Does the man live,” he said, “who can think of his mother—and + despise women?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Arnold rose, and turned away to the window in despair. “I mean well,” he + said. “And yet I only distress her!” + </p> + <p> + 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 to-day 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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 any thing I can + do to make your position here more comfortable? You will stay at this + place, won’t you? Geoffrey wishes it.” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered, and looked away. “Yes! yes!” she answered, hurriedly. + </p> + <p> + “You will hear from Geoffrey,” Arnold went on, “to-morrow or next day. I + know he means to write.” + </p> + <p> + “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 <i>you</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I only saw the waiter.” + </p> + <p> + “The landlady has made some absurd difficulty about letting me have these + rooms because I came here alone.” + </p> + <p> + “She won’t make any difficulty now,” said Arnold. “I have settled that.” + </p> + <p> + “<i>You!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” he answered. “When I asked for the lady who had arrived here + alone this afternoon—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I was told, in your interests, to ask for her as my wife.” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked at him—in alarm as well as in surprise. + </p> + <p> + “You asked for me as your wife?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought of <i>him</i> when I said that. I never thought of <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Natural enough. Still, it comes to the same thing (doesn’t it?) with the + people of this house.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you.” + </p> + <p> + “I will try and explain myself a little better. Geoffrey said your + position here depended on my asking for you at the door (as <i>he</i> + would have asked for you if he had come) in the character of your + husband.” + </p> + <p> + “He had no right to say that.” + </p> + <p> + “No right? After what you have told me of the landlady, just think what + might have happened if he had <i>not</i> 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + Anne rose abruptly to her feet, and amazed him by a very unexpected + question. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth,” she said, “forgive me the rudeness of something I am + about to say to you. When are you going away?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold burst out laughing. + </p> + <p> + “When I am quite sure I can do nothing more to assist you,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t think of <i>me</i> any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “In your situation! who else am I to think of?” + </p> + <p> + Anne laid her hand earnestly on his arm, and answered: + </p> + <p> + “Blanche!” + </p> + <p> + “Blanche?” repeated Arnold, utterly at a loss to understand her. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t expect me to go after that!” he said. “Come and sit down again, and + let’s talk about Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + Anne declined impatiently, by a gesture. Arnold was too deeply interested + in the new topic to take any notice of it. + </p> + <p> + “You know all about her habits and her tastes,” he went on, “and what she + likes, and what she dislikes. It’s most important that I should talk to + you about her. When we are husband and wife, Blanche is to have all her + own way in every thing. That’s my idea of the Whole Duty of Man—when + Man is married. You are still standing? Let me give you a chair.” + </p> + <p> + It was cruel—under other circumstances it would have been impossible—to + disappoint him. But the vague fear of consequences which had taken + possession of Anne was not to be trifled with. She had no clear conception + of the risk (and it is to be added, in justice to Geoffrey, that <i>he</i> + had no clear conception of the risk) on which Arnold had unconsciously + ventured, in undertaking his errand to the inn. Neither of them had any + adequate idea (few people have) of the infamous absence of all needful + warning, of all decent precaution and restraint, which makes the marriage + law of Scotland a trap to catch unmarried men and women, to this day. But, + while Geoffrey’s mind was incapable of looking beyond the present + emergency, Anne’s finer intelligence told her that a country which offered + such facilities for private marriage as the facilities of which she had + proposed to take advantage in her own case, was not a country in which a + man could act as Arnold had acted, without danger of some serious + embarrassment following as the possible result. With this motive to + animate her, she resolutely declined to take the offered chair, or to + enter into the proposed conversation. + </p> + <p> + “Whatever we have to say about Blanche, Mr. Brinkworth, must be said at + some fitter time. I beg you will leave me.” + </p> + <p> + “Leave you!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Leave me to the solitude that is best for me, and to the sorrow that + I have deserved. Thank you—and good-by.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold made no attempt to disguise his disappointment and surprise. + </p> + <p> + “If I must go, I must,” he said, “But why are you in such a hurry?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t want you to call me your wife again before the people of this + inn.” + </p> + <p> + “Is <i>that</i> all? What on earth are you afraid of?” + </p> + <p> + She was unable fully to realize her own apprehensions. She was doubly + unable to express them in words. In her anxiety to produce some reason + which might prevail on him to go, she drifted back into that very + conversation about Blanche into which she had declined to enter but the + moment before. + </p> + <p> + “I have reasons for being afraid,” she said. “One that I can’t give; and + one that I can. Suppose Blanche heard of what you have done? The longer + you stay here—the more people you see—the more chance there is + that she <i>might</i> hear of it.” + </p> + <p> + “And what if she did?” asked Arnold, in his own straightforward way. “Do + you think she would be angry with me for making myself useful to <i>you?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” rejoined Anne, sharply, “if she was jealous of me.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s unlimited belief in Blanche expressed itself, without the + slightest compromise, in two words: + </p> + <p> + “That’s impossible!” + </p> + <p> + Anxious as she was, miserable as she was, a faint smile flitted over + Anne’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick would tell you, Mr. Brinkworth, that nothing is impossible + where women are concerned.” She dropped her momentary lightness of tone, + and went on as earnestly as ever. “You can’t put yourself in Blanche’s + place—I can. Once more, I beg you to go. I don’t like your coming + here, in this way! I don’t like it at all!” + </p> + <p> + She held out her hand to take leave. At the same moment there was a loud + knock at the door of the room. + </p> + <p> + Anne sank into the chair at her side, and uttered a faint cry of alarm. + Arnold, perfectly impenetrable to all sense of his position, asked what + there was to frighten her—and answered the knock in the two + customary words: + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0010" id="link2HCH0010"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + MR. BISHOPRIGGS. + </h3> + <p> + THE knock at the door was repeated—a louder knock than before. + </p> + <p> + “Are you deaf?” shouted Arnold. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, little by little, an inch at a time. Mr. Bishopriggs + appeared mysteriously, with the cloth for dinner over his arm, and with + his second in command behind him, bearing “the furnishing of the table” + (as it was called at Craig Fernie) on a tray. + </p> + <p> + “What the deuce were you waiting for?” asked Arnold. “I told you to come + in.” + </p> + <p> + “And <i>I</i> tauld <i>you,</i>” answered Mr. Bishopriggs, “that I wadna + come in without knocking first. Eh, man!” he went on, dismissing his + second in command, and laying the cloth with his own venerable hands, + “d’ye think I’ve lived in this hottle in blinded eegnorance of hoo young + married couples pass the time when they’re left to themselves? Twa knocks + at the door—and an unco trouble in opening it, after that—is + joost the least ye can do for them! Whar’ do ye think, noo, I’ll set the + places for you and your leddy there?” + </p> + <p> + Anne walked away to the window, in undisguised disgust. Arnold found Mr. + Bishopriggs to be quite irresistible. He answered, humoring the joke, + </p> + <p> + “One at the top and one at the bottom of the table, I suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “One at tap and one at bottom?” repeated Mr. Bishopriggs, in high disdain. + “De’il a bit of it! Baith yer chairs as close together as chairs can be. + Hech! hech!—haven’t I caught ‘em, after goodness knows hoo many + preleeminary knocks at the door, dining on their husbands’ knees, and + steemulating a man’s appetite by feeding him at the fork’s end like a + child? Eh!” sighed the sage of Craig Fernie, “it’s a short life wi’ that + nuptial business, and a merry one! A mouth for yer billin’ and cooin’; and + a’ the rest o’ yer days for wondering ye were ever such a fule, and + wishing it was a’ to be done ower again.—Ye’ll be for a bottle o’ + sherry wine, nae doot? and a drap toddy afterwards, to do yer digestin’ + on?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold nodded—and then, in obedience to a signal from Anne, joined + her at the window. Mr. Bishopriggs looked after them attentively—observed + that they were talking in whispers—and approved of that proceeding, + as representing another of the established customs of young married + couples at inns, in the presence of third persons appointed to wait on + them. + </p> + <p> + “Ay! ay!” he said, looking over his shoulder at Arnold, “gae to your + deerie! gae to your deerie! and leave a’ the solid business o’ life to Me. + Ye’ve Screepture warrant for it. A man maun leave fether and mother (I’m + yer fether), and cleave to his wife. My certie! ‘cleave’ is a strong word—there’s + nae sort o’ doot aboot it, when it comes to ‘cleaving!’” He wagged his + head thoughtfully, and walked to the side-table in a corner, to cut the + bread. + </p> + <p> + As he took up the knife, his one wary eye detected a morsel of crumpled + paper, lying lost between the table and the wall. It was the letter from + Geoffrey, which Anne had flung from her, in the first indignation of + reading it—and which neither she nor Arnold had thought of since. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that I see yonder?” muttered Mr. Bishopriggs, under his breath. + “Mair litter in the room, after I’ve doosted and tidied it wi’ my ain + hands!” + </p> + <p> + He picked up the crumpled paper, and partly opened it. “Eh! what’s here? + Writing on it in ink? and writing on it in pencil? Who may this belong + to?” He looked round cautiously toward Arnold and Anne. They were both + still talking in whispers, and both standing with their backs to him, + looking out of the window. “Here it is, clean forgotten and dune with!” + thought Mr. Bishopriggs. “Noo what would a fule do, if he fund this? A + fule wad light his pipe wi’ it, and then wonder whether he wadna ha’ dune + better to read it first. And what wad a wise man do, in a seemilar + position?” He practically answered that question by putting the letter + into his pocket. It might be worth keeping, or it might not; five minutes’ + private examination of it would decide the alternative, at the first + convenient opportunity. “Am gaun’ to breeng the dinner in!” he called out + to Arnold. “And, mind ye, there’s nae knocking at the door possible, when + I’ve got the tray in baith my hands, and mairs the pity, the gout in baith + my feet.” With that friendly warning, Mr. Bishopriggs went his way to the + regions of the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Arnold continued his conversation with Anne in terms which showed that the + question of his leaving the inn had been the question once more discussed + between them while they were standing at the window. + </p> + <p> + “You see we can’t help it,” he said. “The waiter has gone to bring the + dinner in. What will they think in the house, if I go away already, and + leave ‘my wife’ to dine alone?” + </p> + <p> + It was so plainly necessary to keep up appearances for the present, that + there was nothing more to be said. Arnold was committing a serious + imprudence—and yet, on this occasion, Arnold was right. Anne’s + annoyance at feeling that conclusion forced on her produced the first + betrayal of impatience which she had shown yet. She left Arnold at the + window, and flung herself on the sofa. “A curse seems to follow me!” she + thought, bitterly. “This will end ill—and I shall be answerable for + it!” + </p> + <p> + In the mean time Mr. Bishopriggs had found the dinner in the kitchen, + ready, and waiting for him. Instead of at once taking the tray on which it + was placed into the sitting-room, he conveyed it privately into his own + pantry, and shut the door. + </p> + <p> + “Lie ye there, my freend, till the spare moment comes—and I’ll look + at ye again,” he said, putting the letter away carefully in the + dresser-drawer. “Noo aboot the dinner o’ they twa turtle-doves in the + parlor?” he continued, directing his attention to the dinner tray. “I maun + joost see that the cook’s ‘s dune her duty—the creatures are no’ + capable o’ decidin’ that knotty point for their ain selves.” He took off + one of the covers, and picked bits, here and there, out of the dish with + the fork, “Eh! eh! the collops are no’ that bad!” He took off another + cover, and shook his head in solemn doubt. “Here’s the green meat. I doot + green meat’s windy diet for a man at my time o’ life!” He put the cover on + again, and tried the next dish. “The fesh? What the de’il does the woman + fry the trout for? Boil it next time, ye betch, wi’ a pinch o’ saut and a + spunefu’ o’ vinegar.” He drew the cork from a bottle of sherry, and + decanted the wine. “The sherry wine?” he said, in tones of deep feeling, + holding the decanter up to the light. “Hoo do I know but what it may be + corkit? I maun taste and try. It’s on my conscience, as an honest man, to + taste and try.” He forthwith relieved his conscience—copiously. + There was a vacant space, of no inconsiderable dimensions, left in the + decanter. Mr. Bishopriggs gravely filled it up from the water-bottle. “Eh! + it’s joost addin’ ten years to the age o’ the wine. The turtle-doves will + be nane the waur—and I mysel’ am a glass o’ sherry the better. + Praise Providence for a’ its maircies!” Having relieved himself of that + devout aspiration, he took up the tray again, and decided on letting the + turtle-doves have their dinner. + </p> + <p> + The conversation in the parlor (dropped for the moment) had been renewed, + in the absence of Mr. Bishopriggs. Too restless to remain long in one + place, Anne had risen again from the sofa, and had rejoined Arnold at the + window. + </p> + <p> + “Where do your friends at Lady Lundie’s believe you to be now?” she asked, + abruptly. + </p> + <p> + “I am believed,” replied Arnold, “to be meeting my tenants, and taking + possession of my estate.” + </p> + <p> + “How are you to get to your estate to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “By railway, I suppose. By-the-by, what excuse am I to make for going away + after dinner? We are sure to have the landlady in here before long. What + will she say to my going off by myself to the train, and leaving ‘my wife’ + behind me?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth! that joke—if it <i>is</i> a joke—is worn + out!” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “You may leave your excuse to me,” pursued Anne. “Do you go by the up + train, or the down?” + </p> + <p> + “By the up train.” + </p> + <p> + The door opened suddenly; and Mr. Bishopriggs appeared with the dinner. + Anne nervously separated herself from Arnold. The one available eye of Mr. + Bishopriggs followed her reproachfully, as he put the dishes on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I warned ye baith, it was a clean impossibility to knock at the door this + time. Don’t blame me, young madam—don’t blame <i>me!”</i> + </p> + <p> + “Where will you sit?” asked Arnold, by way of diverting Anne’s attention + from the familiarities of Father Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + “Any where!” she answered, impatiently; snatching up a chair, and placing + it at the bottom of the table. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs politely, but firmly, put the chair back again in its + place. + </p> + <p> + “Lord’s sake! what are ye doin’? It’s clean contrary to a’ the laws and + customs o’ the honey-mune, to sit as far away from your husband as that!” + </p> + <p> + He waved his persuasive napkin to one of the two chairs placed close + together at the table. + </p> + <p> + Arnold interfered once more, and prevented another outbreak of impatience + from Anne. + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter?” he said. “Let the man have his way.” + </p> + <p> + “Get it over as soon as you can,” she returned. “I can’t, and won’t, bear + it much longer.” + </p> + <p> + They took their places at the table, with Father Bishopriggs behind them, + in the mixed character of major domo and guardian angel. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s the trout!” he cried, taking the cover off with a flourish. “Half + an hour since, he was loupin’ in the water. There he lies noo, fried in + the dish. An emblem o’ human life for ye! When ye can spare any leisure + time from yer twa selves, meditate on that.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold took up the spoon, to give Anne one of the trout. Mr. Bishopriggs + clapped the cover on the dish again, with a countenance expressive of + devout horror. + </p> + <p> + “Is there naebody gaun’ to say grace?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Come! come!” said Arnold. “The fish is getting cold.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs piously closed his available eye, and held the cover + firmly on the dish. “For what ye’re gaun’ to receive, may ye baith be + truly thankful!” He opened his available eye, and whipped the cover off + again. “My conscience is easy noo. Fall to! Fall to!” + </p> + <p> + “Send him away!” said Anne. “His familiarity is beyond all endurance.” + </p> + <p> + “You needn’t wait,” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! but I’m here to wait,” objected Mr. Bishopriggs. “What’s the use o’ + my gaun’ away, when ye’ll want me anon to change the plates for ye?” He + considered for a moment (privately consulting his experience) and arrived + at a satisfactory conclusion as to Arnold’s motive for wanting to get rid + of him. “Tak’ her on yer knee,” he whispered in Arnold’s ear, “as soon as + ye like! Feed him at the fork’s end,” he added to Anne, “whenever ye + please! I’ll think of something else, and look out at the proaspect.” He + winked—and went to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Come! come!” said Arnold to Anne. “There’s a comic side to all this. Try + and see it as I do.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs returned from the window, and announced the appearance of + a new element of embarrassment in the situation at the inn. + </p> + <p> + “My certie!” he said, “it’s weel ye cam’ when ye did. It’s ill getting to + this hottle in a storm.” + </p> + <p> + Anne started and looked round at him. “A storm coming!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! ye’re well hoosed here—ye needn’t mind it. There’s the cloud + down the valley,” he added, pointing out of the window, “coming up one + way, when the wind’s blawing the other. The storm’s brewing, my leddy, + when ye see that!” + </p> + <p> + There was another knock at the door. As Arnold had predicted, the landlady + made her appearance on the scene. + </p> + <p> + “I ha’ just lookit in, Sir,” said Mrs. Inchbare, addressing herself + exclusively to Arnold, “to see ye’ve got what ye want.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you are the landlady? Very nice, ma’am—very nice.” + </p> + <p> + Mistress Inchbare had her own private motive for entering the room, and + came to it without further preface. + </p> + <p> + “Ye’ll excuse me, Sir,” she proceeded. “I wasna in the way when ye cam’ + here, or I suld ha’ made bauld to ask ye the question which I maun e’en + ask noo. Am I to understand that ye hire these rooms for yersel’, and this + leddy here—yer wife?” + </p> + <p> + Anne raised her head to speak. Arnold pressed her hand warningly, under + the table, and silenced her. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly,” he said. “I take the rooms for myself, and this lady here—my + wife!” + </p> + <p> + Anne made a second attempt to speak. + </p> + <p> + “This gentleman—” she began. + </p> + <p> + Arnold stopped her for the second time. + </p> + <p> + “This gentleman?” repeated Mrs. Inchbare, with a broad stare of surprise. + “I’m only a puir woman, my leddy—d’ye mean yer husband here?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s warning hand touched Anne’s, for the third time. Mistress + Inchbare’s eyes remained fixed on her in merciless inquiry. To have given + utterance to the contradiction which trembled on her lips would have been + to involve Arnold (after all that he had sacrificed for her) in the + scandal which would inevitably follow—a scandal which would be + talked of in the neighborhood, and which might find its way to Blanche’s + ears. White and cold, her eyes never moving from the table, she accepted + the landlady’s implied correction, and faintly repeated the words: “My + husband.” + </p> + <p> + Mistress Inchbare drew a breath of virtuous relief, and waited for what + Anne had to say next. Arnold came considerately to the rescue, and got her + out of the room. + </p> + <p> + “Never mind,” he said to Anne; “I know what it is, and I’ll see about it. + She’s always like this, ma’am, when a storm’s coming,” he went on, turning + to the landlady. “No, thank you—I know how to manage her. Well send + to you, if we want your assistance.” + </p> + <p> + “At yer ain pleasure, Sir,” answered Mistress Inchbare. She turned, and + apologized to Anne (under protest), with a stiff courtesy. “No offense, my + leddy! Ye’ll remember that ye cam’ here alane, and that the hottle has its + ain gude name to keep up.” Having once more vindicated “the hottle,” she + made the long-desired move to the door, and left the room. + </p> + <p> + “I’m faint!” Anne whispered. “Give me some water.” + </p> + <p> + There was no water on the table. Arnold ordered it of Mr. Bishopriggs—who + had remained passive in the back-ground (a model of discreet attention) as + long as the mistress was in the room. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth!” said Anne, when they were alone, “you are acting with + inexcusable rashness. That woman’s question was an impertinence. Why did + you answer it? Why did you force me—?” + </p> + <p> + She stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Arnold insisted on her + drinking a glass of wine—and then defended himself with the patient + consideration for her which he had shown from the first. + </p> + <p> + “Why didn’t I have the inn door shut in your face”—he asked, good + humoredly—“with a storm coming on, and without a place in which you + can take refuge? No, no, Miss Silvester! I don’t presume to blame you for + any scruples you may feel—but scruples are sadly out of place with + such a woman as that landlady. I am responsible for your safety to + Geoffrey; and Geoffrey expects to find you here. Let’s change the subject. + The water is a long time coming. Try another glass of wine. No? Well—here + is Blanche’s health” (he took some of the wine himself), “in the weakest + sherry I ever drank in my life.” As he set down his glass, Mr. Bishopriggs + came in with the water. Arnold hailed him satirically. “Well? have you got + the water? or have you used it all for the sherry?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs stopped in the middle of the room, thunder-struck at the + aspersion cast on the wine. + </p> + <p> + “Is that the way ye talk of the auldest bottle o’ sherry wine in + Scotland?” he asked, gravely. “What’s the warld coming to? The new + generation’s a foot beyond my fathoming. The maircies o’ Providence, as + shown to man in the choicest veentages o’ Spain, are clean thrown away on + ‘em.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you brought the water?” + </p> + <p> + “I ha’ brought the water—and mair than the water. I ha’ brought ye + news from ootside. There’s a company o’ gentlemen on horseback, joost + cantering by to what they ca’ the shootin’ cottage, a mile from this.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—and what have we got to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “Bide a wee! There’s ane o’ them has drawn bridle at the hottle, and he’s + speerin’ after the leddy that cam’ here alane. The leddy’s your leddy, as + sure as saxpence. I doot,” said Mr. Bishopriggs, walking away to the + window, “<i>that’s</i> what ye’ve got to do with it.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold looked at Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect any body?” + </p> + <p> + “Is it Geoffrey?” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible. Geoffrey is on his way to London.” + </p> + <p> + “There he is, any way,” resumed Mr. Bishopriggs, at the window. “He’s + loupin’ down from his horse. He’s turning this way. Lord save us!” he + exclaimed, with a start of consternation, “what do I see? That incarnate + deevil, Sir Paitrick himself!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold sprang to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Sir Patrick Lundie?” + </p> + <p> + Anne ran to the window. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>is</i> Sir Patrick!” she said. “Hide yourself before he comes in!” + </p> + <p> + “Hide myself?” + </p> + <p> + “What will he think if he sees you with <i>me?”</i> + </p> + <p> + He was Blanche’s guardian, and he believed Arnold to be at that moment + visiting his new property. What he would think was not difficult to + foresee. Arnold turned for help to Mr. Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + “Where can I go?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs pointed to the bedroom door. + </p> + <p> + “Whar’ can ye go? There’s the nuptial chamber!” + </p> + <p> + “Impossible!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs expressed the utmost extremity of human amazement by a + long whistle, on one note. + </p> + <p> + “Whew! Is that the way ye talk o’ the nuptial chamber already?” + </p> + <p> + “Find me some other place—I’ll make it worth your while.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh! there’s my paintry! I trow that’s some other place; and the door’s at + the end o’ the passage.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold hurried out. Mr. Bishopriggs—evidently under the impression + that the case before him was a case of elopement, with Sir Patrick mixed + up in it in the capacity of guardian—addressed himself, in friendly + confidence, to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “My certie, mistress! it’s ill wark deceivin’ Sir Paitrick, if that’s what + ye’ve dune. Ye must know, I was ance a bit clerk body in his chambers at + Embro—” + </p> + <p> + The voice of Mistress Inchbare, calling for the head-waiter, rose shrill + and imperative from the regions of the bar. Mr. Bishopriggs disappeared. + Anne remained, standing helpless by the window. It was plain by this time + that the place of her retreat had been discovered at Windygates. The one + doubt to decide, now, was whether it would be wise or not to receive Sir + Patrick, for the purpose of discovering whether he came as friend or enemy + to the inn. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0011" id="link2HCH0011"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + SIR PATRICK. + </h3> + <p> + THE doubt was practically decided before Anne had determined what to do. + She was still at the window when the sitting-room door was thrown open, + and Sir Patrick appeared, obsequiously shown in by Mr. Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + “Ye’re kindly welcome, Sir Paitrick. Hech, Sirs! the sight of you is gude + for sair eyne.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick turned and looked at Mr. Bishopriggs—as he might have + looked at some troublesome insect which he had driven out of the window, + and which had returned on him again. + </p> + <p> + “What, you scoundrel! have you drifted into an honest employment at last?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs rubbed his hands cheerfully, and took his tone from his + superior, with supple readiness, + </p> + <p> + “Ye’re always in the right of it, Sir Paitrick! Wut, raal wut in that + aboot the honest employment, and me drifting into it. Lord’s sake, Sir, + hoo well ye wear!” + </p> + <p> + Dismissing Mr. Bishopriggs by a sign, Sir Patrick advanced to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “I am committing an intrusion, madam which must, I am afraid, appear + unpardonable in your eyes,” he said. “May I hope you will excuse me when I + have made you acquainted with my motive?” + </p> + <p> + He spoke with scrupulous politeness. His knowledge of Anne was of the + slightest possible kind. Like other men, he had felt the attraction of her + unaffected grace and gentleness on the few occasions when he had been in + her company—and that was all. If he had belonged to the present + generation he would, under the circumstances, have fallen into one of the + besetting sins of England in these days—the tendency (to borrow an + illustration from the stage) to “strike an attitude” in the presence of a + social emergency. A man of the present period, in Sir Patrick’s position, + would have struck an attitude of (what is called) chivalrous respect; and + would have addressed Anne in a tone of ready-made sympathy, which it was + simply impossible for a stranger really to feel. Sir Patrick affected + nothing of the sort. One of the besetting sins of <i>his</i> time was the + habitual concealment of our better selves—upon the whole, a far less + dangerous national error than the habitual advertisement of our better + selves, which has become the practice, public and privately, of society in + this age. Sir Patrick assumed, if anything, less sympathy on this occasion + than he really felt. Courteous to all women, he was as courteous as usual + to Anne—and no more. + </p> + <p> + “I am quite at a loss, Sir, to know what brings you to this place. The + servant here informs me that you are one of a party of gentlemen who have + just passed by the inn, and who have all gone on except yourself.” In + those guarded terms Anne opened the interview with the unwelcome visitor, + on her side. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick admitted the fact, without betraying the slightest + embarrassment. + </p> + <p> + “The servant is quite right,” he said. “I am one of the party. And I have + purposely allowed them to go on to the keeper’s cottage without me. Having + admitted this, may I count on receiving your permission to explain the + motive of my visit?” + </p> + <p> + Necessarily suspicious of him, as coming from Windygates, Anne answered in + few and formal words, as coldly as before. + </p> + <p> + “Explain it, Sir Patrick, if you please, as briefly as possible.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick bowed. He was not in the least offended; he was even (if the + confession may be made without degrading him in the public estimation) + privately amused. Conscious of having honestly presented himself at the + inn in Anne’s interests, as well as in the interests of the ladies at + Windygates, it appealed to his sense of humor to find himself kept at + arm’s-length by the very woman whom he had come to benefit. The temptation + was strong on him to treat his errand from his own whimsical point of + view. He gravely took out his watch, and noted the time to a second, + before he spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “I have an event to relate in which you are interested,” he said. “And I + have two messages to deliver, which I hope you will not object to receive. + The event I undertake to describe in one minute. The messages I promise to + dispose of in two minutes more. Total duration of this intrusion on your + time—three minutes.” + </p> + <p> + He placed a chair for Anne, and waited until she had permitted him, by a + sign, to take a second chair for himself. + </p> + <p> + “We will begin with the event,” he resumed. “Your arrival at this place is + no secret at Windygates. You were seen on the foot-road to Craig Fernie by + one of the female servants. And the inference naturally drawn is, that you + were on your way to the inn. It may be important for you to know this; and + I have taken the liberty of mentioning it accordingly.” He consulted his + watch. “Event related. Time, one minute.” + </p> + <p> + He had excited her curiosity, to begin with. “Which of the women saw me?” + she asked, impulsively. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick (watch in hand) declined to prolong the interview by answering + any incidental inquiries which might arise in the course of it. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” he rejoined; “I am pledged to occupy three minutes only. I + have no room for the woman. With your kind permission, I will get on to + the messages next.” + </p> + <p> + Anne remained silent. Sir Patrick went on. + </p> + <p> + “First message: ‘Lady Lundie’s compliments to her step-daughter’s late + governess—with whose married name she is not acquainted. Lady Lundie + regrets to say that Sir Patrick, as head of the family, has threatened to + return to Edinburgh, unless she consents to be guided by his advice in the + course she pursues with the late governess. Lady Lundie, accordingly, + foregoes her intention of calling at the Craig Fernie inn, to express her + sentiments and make her inquiries in person, and commits to Sir Patrick + the duty of expressing her sentiments; reserving to herself the right of + making her inquiries at the next convenient opportunity. Through the + medium of her brother-in-law, she begs to inform the late governess that + all intercourse is at an end between them, and that she declines to act as + reference in case of future emergency.’—Message textually correct. + Expressive of Lady Lundie’s view of your sudden departure from the house. + Time, two minutes.” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s color rose. Anne’s pride was up in arms on the spot. + </p> + <p> + “The impertinence of Lady Lundie’s message is no more than I should have + expected from her,” she said. “I am only surprised at Sir Patrick’s + delivering it.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick’s motives will appear presently,” rejoined the incorrigible + old gentleman. “Second message: ‘Blanche’s fondest love. Is dying to be + acquainted with Anne’s husband, and to be informed of Anne’s married name. + Feels indescribable anxiety and apprehension on Anne’s account. Insists on + hearing from Anne immediately. Longs, as she never longed for any thing + yet, to order her pony-chaise and drive full gallop to the inn. Yields, + under irresistible pressure, to t he exertion of her guardian’s authority, + and commits the expression of her feelings to Sir Patrick, who is a born + tyrant, and doesn’t in the least mind breaking other people’s hearts.’ Sir + Patrick, speaking for himself, places his sister-in-law’s view and his + niece’s view, side by side, before the lady whom he has now the honor of + addressing, and on whose confidence he is especially careful not to + intrude. Reminds the lady that his influence at Windygates, however + strenuously he may exert it, is not likely to last forever. Requests her + to consider whether his sister-in-law’s view and his niece’s view in + collision, may not lead to very undesirable domestic results; and leaves + her to take the course which seems best to herself under those + circumstances.—Second message delivered textually. Time, three + minutes. A storm coming on. A quarter of an hour’s ride from here to the + shooting-cottage. Madam, I wish you good-evening.” + </p> + <p> + He bowed lower than ever—and, without a word more, quietly left the + room. + </p> + <p> + Anne’s first impulse was (excusably enough, poor soul) an impulse of + resentment. + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Sir Patrick!” she said, with a bitter look at the closing + door. “The sympathy of society with a friendless woman could hardly have + been expressed in a more amusing way!” + </p> + <p> + The little irritation of the moment passed off with the moment. Anne’s own + intelligence and good sense showed her the position in its truer light. + </p> + <p> + She recognized in Sir Patrick’s abrupt departure Sir Patrick’s considerate + resolution to spare her from entering into any details on the subject of + her position at the inn. He had given her a friendly warning; and he had + delicately left her to decide for herself as to the assistance which she + might render him in maintaining tranquillity at Windygates. She went at + once to a side-table in the room, on which writing materials were placed, + and sat down to write to Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “I can do nothing with Lady Lundie,” she thought. “But I have more + influence than any body else over Blanche and I can prevent the collision + between them which Sir Patrick dreads.” + </p> + <p> + She began the letter. “My dearest Blanche, I have seen Sir Patrick, and he + has given me your message. I will set your mind at ease about me as soon + as I can. But, before I say any thing else, let me entreat you, as the + greatest favor you can do to your sister and your friend, not to enter + into any disputes about me with Lady Lundie, and not to commit the + imprudence—the useless imprudence, my love—of coming here.” + She stopped—the paper swam before her eyes. “My own darling!” she + thought, “who could have foreseen that I should ever shrink from the + thought of seeing <i>you?”</i> She sighed, and dipped the pen in the ink, + and went on with the letter. + </p> + <p> + The sky darkened rapidly as the evening fell. The wind swept in fainter + and fainter gusts across the dreary moor. Far and wide over the face of + Nature the stillness was fast falling which tells of a coming storm. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0012" id="link2HCH0012"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWELFTH. + </h2> + <h3> + ARNOLD. + </h3> + <p> + MEANWHILE Arnold remained shut up in the head-waiter’s pantry—chafing + secretly at the position forced upon him. + </p> + <p> + He was, for the first time in his life, in hiding from another person, and + that person a man. Twice—stung to it by the inevitable loss of + self-respect which his situation occasioned—he had gone to the door, + determined to face Sir Patrick boldly; and twice he had abandoned the + idea, in mercy to Anne. It would have been impossible for him to set + himself right with Blanche’s guardian without betraying the unhappy woman + whose secret he was bound in honor to keep. “I wish to Heaven I had never + come here!” was the useless aspiration that escaped him, as he doggedly + seated himself on the dresser to wait till Sir Patrick’s departure set him + free. + </p> + <p> + After an interval—not by any means the long interval which he had + anticipated—his solitude was enlivened by the appearance of Father + Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” cried Arnold, jumping off the dresser, “is the coast clear?” + </p> + <p> + There were occasions when Mr. Bishopriggs became, on a sudden, + unexpectedly hard of hearing, This was one of them. + </p> + <p> + “Hoo do ye find the paintry?” he asked, without paying the slightest + attention to Arnold’s question. “Snug and private? A Patmos in the + weelderness, as ye may say!” + </p> + <p> + His one available eye, which had begun by looking at Arnold’s face, + dropped slowly downward, and fixed itself, in mute but eloquent + expectation, on Arnold’s waistcoat pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I understand!” said Arnold. “I promised to pay you for the Patmos—eh? + There you are!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs pocketed the money with a dreary smile and a sympathetic + shake of the head. Other waiters would have returned thanks. The sage of + Craig Fernie returned a few brief remarks instead. Admirable in many + things, Father Bishopriggs was especially great at drawing a moral. He + drew a moral on this occasion from his own gratuity. + </p> + <p> + “There I am—as ye say. Mercy presairve us! ye need the siller at + every turn, when there’s a woman at yer heels. It’s an awfu’ reflection—ye + canna hae any thing to do wi’ the sex they ca’ the opposite sex without + its being an expense to ye. There’s this young leddy o’ yours, I doot + she’ll ha’ been an expense to ye from the first. When you were coortin’ + her, ye did it, I’ll go bail, wi’ the open hand. Presents and keep-sakes, + flowers and jewelery, and little dogues. Sair expenses all of them!” + </p> + <p> + “Hang your reflections! Has Sir Patrick left the inn?” + </p> + <p> + The reflections of Mr. Bishopriggs declined to be disposed of in any thing + approaching to a summary way. On they flowed from their parent source, as + slowly and as smoothly as ever! + </p> + <p> + “Noo ye’re married to her, there’s her bonnets and goons and + under-clothin’—her ribbons, laces, furbelows, and fallals. A sair + expense again!” + </p> + <p> + “What is the expense of cutting your reflections short, Mr. Bishopriggs?” + </p> + <p> + “Thirdly, and lastly, if ye canna agree wi’ her as time gaes on—if + there’s incompaitibeelity of temper betwixt ye—in short, if ye want + a wee bit separation, hech, Sirs! ye pet yer hand in yer poaket, and come + to an aimicable understandin’ wi’ her in that way. Or, maybe she takes ye + into Court, and pets <i>her</i> hand in your poaket, and comes to a + hoastile understandin’ wi’ ye there. Show me a woman—and I’ll show + ye a man not far off wha’ has mair expenses on his back than he ever + bairgained for.” Arnold’s patience would last no longer—he turned to + the door. Mr. Bishopriggs, with equal alacrity on his side, turned to the + matter in hand. “Yes, Sir! The room is e’en clear o’ Sir Paitrick, and the + leddy’s alane, and waitin’ for ye.” + </p> + <p> + In a moment more Arnold was back in the sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he asked, anxiously. “What is it? Bad news from Lady Lundie’s?” + </p> + <p> + Anne closed and directed the letter to Blanche, which she had just + completed. “No,” she replied. “Nothing to interest <i>you</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “What did Sir Patrick want?” + </p> + <p> + “Only to warn me. They have found out at Windygates that I am here.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s awkward, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least. I can manage perfectly; I have nothing to fear. Don’t + think of <i>me</i>—think of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not suspected, am I?” + </p> + <p> + “Thank heaven—no. But there is no knowing what may happen if you + stay here. Ring the bell at once, and ask the waiter about the trains.” + </p> + <p> + Struck by the unusual obscurity of the sky at that hour of the evening, + Arnold went to the window. The rain had come—and was falling + heavily. The view on the moor was fast disappearing in mist and darkness. + </p> + <p> + “Pleasant weather to travel in!” he said. + </p> + <p> + “The railway!” Anne exclaimed, impatiently. “It’s getting late. See about + the railway!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold walked to the fire-place to ring the bell. The railway time-table + hanging over it met his eye. + </p> + <p> + “Here’s the information I want,” he said to Anne; “if I only knew how to + get at it. ‘Down’—‘Up’—‘A. M.’—P. M.’ What a cursed + confusion! I believe they do it on purpose.” + </p> + <p> + Anne joined him at the fire-place. + </p> + <p> + “I understand it—I’ll help you. Did you say it was the up train you + wanted?” + </p> + <p> + “What is the name of the station you stop at?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold told her. She followed the intricate net-work of lines and figures + with her finger—suddenly stopped—looked again to make sure—and + turned from the time-table with a face of blank despair. The last train + for the day had gone an hour since. + </p> + <p> + In the silence which followed that discovery, a first flash of lightning + passed across the window and the low roll of thunder sounded the outbreak + of the storm. + </p> + <p> + “What’s to be done now?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + In the face of the storm, Anne answered without hesitation, “You must take + a carriage, and drive.” + </p> + <p> + “Drive? They told me it was three-and-twenty miles, by railway, from the + station to my place—let alone the distance from this inn to the + station.” + </p> + <p> + “What does the distance matter? Mr. Brinkworth, you can’t possibly stay + here!” + </p> + <p> + A second flash of lightning crossed the window; the roll of the thunder + came nearer. Even Arnold’s good temper began to be a little ruffled by + Anne’s determination to get rid of him. He sat down with the air of a man + who had made up his mind not to leave the house. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear that?” he asked, as the sound of the thunder died away + grandly, and the hard pattering of the rain on the window became audible + once more. “If I ordered horses, do you think they would let me have them, + in such weather as this? And, if they did, do you suppose the horses could + face it on the moor? No, no, Miss Silvester—I am sorry to be in the + way, but the train has gone, and the night and the storm have come. I have + no choice but to stay here!” + </p> + <p> + Anne still maintained her own view, but less resolutely than before. + “After what you have told the landlady,” she said, “think of the + embarrassment, the cruel embarrassment of our position, if you stop at the + inn till to-morrow morning!” + </p> + <p> + “Is that all?” returned Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Anne looked up at him, quickly and angrily. No! he was quite unconscious + of having said any thing that could offend her. His rough masculine sense + broke its way unconsciously through all the little feminine subtleties and + delicacies of his companion, and looked the position practically in the + face for what it was worth, and no more. “Where’s the embarrassment?” he + asked, pointing to the bedroom door. “There’s your room, all ready for + you. And here’s the sofa, in this room, all ready for <i>me.</i> If you + had seen the places I have slept in at sea—!” + </p> + <p> + She interrupted him, without ceremony. The places he had slept in, at sea, + were of no earthly importance. The one question to consider, was the place + he was to sleep in that night. + </p> + <p> + “If you must stay,” she rejoined, “can’t you get a room in some other part + of the house?” + </p> + <p> + But one last mistake in dealing with her, in her present nervous + condition, was left to make—and the innocent Arnold made it. “In + some other part of the house?” he repeated, jestingly. “The landlady would + be scandalized. Mr. Bishopriggs would never allow it!” + </p> + <p> + She rose, and stamped her foot impatiently on the floor. “Don’t joke!” she + exclaimed. “This is no laughing matter.” She paced the room excitedly. “I + don’t like it! I don’t like it!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold looked after her, with a stare of boyish wonder. + </p> + <p> + “What puts you out so?” he asked. “Is it the storm?” + </p> + <p> + She threw herself on the sofa again. “Yes,” she said, shortly. “It’s the + storm.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s inexhaustible good-nature was at once roused to activity again. + </p> + <p> + “Shall we have the candles,” he suggested, “and shut the weather out?” She + turned irritably on the sofa, without replying. “I’ll promise to go away + the first thing in the morning!” he went on. “Do try and take it easy—and + don’t be angry with me. Come! come! you wouldn’t turn a dog out, Miss + Silvester, on such a night as this!” + </p> + <p> + He was irresistible. The most sensitive woman breathing could not have + accused him of failing toward her in any single essential of consideration + and respect. He wanted tact, poor fellow—but who could expect him to + have learned that always superficial (and sometimes dangerous) + accomplishment, in the life he had led at sea? At the sight of his honest, + pleading face, Anne recovered possession of her gentler and sweeter self. + She made her excuses for her irritability with a grace that enchanted him. + “We’ll have a pleasant evening of it yet!” cried Arnold, in his hearty way—and + rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + The bell was hung outside the door of that Patmos in the wilderness—otherwise + known as the head-waiter’s pantry. Mr. Bishopriggs (employing his brief + leisure in the seclusion of his own apartment) had just mixed a glass of + the hot and comforting liquor called “toddy” in the language of North + Britain, and was just lifting it to his lips, when the summons from Arnold + invited him to leave his grog. + </p> + <p> + “Haud yer screechin’ tongue!” cried Mr. Bishopriggs, addressing the bell + through the door. “Ye’re waur than a woman when ye aince begin!” + </p> + <p> + The bell—like the woman—went on again. Mr. Bishopriggs, + equally pertinacious, went on with his toddy. + </p> + <p> + “Ay! ay! ye may e’en ring yer heart out—but ye won’t part a + Scotchman from his glass. It’s maybe the end of their dinner they’ll be + wantin’. Sir Paitrick cam’ in at the fair beginning of it, and spoilt the + collops, like the dour deevil he is!” The bell rang for the third time. + “Ay! ay! ring awa’! I doot yon young gentleman’s little better than a + belly-god—there’s a scandalous haste to comfort the carnal part o’ + him in a’ this ringin’! He knows naething o’ wine,” added Mr. Bishopriggs, + on whose mind Arnold’s discovery of the watered sherry still dwelt + unpleasantly. + </p> + <p> + The lightning quickened, and lit the sitting-room horribly with its lurid + glare; the thunder rolled nearer and nearer over the black gulf of the + moor. Arnold had just raised his hand to ring for the fourth time, when + the inevitable knock was heard at the door. It was useless to say “come + in.” The immutable laws of Bishopriggs had decided that a second knock was + necessary. Storm or no storm, the second knock came—and then, and + not till then, the sage appeared, with the dish of untasted “collops” in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Candles!” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs set the “collops” (in the language of England, minced + meat) upon the table, lit the candles on the mantle-piece, faced about + with the fire of recent toddy flaming in his nose, and waited for further + orders, before he went back to his second glass. Anne declined to return + to the dinner. Arnold ordered Mr. Bishopriggs to close the shutters, and + sat down to dine by himself. + </p> + <p> + “It looks greasy, and smells greasy,” he said to Anne, turning over the + collops with a spoon. “I won’t be ten minutes dining. Will you have some + tea?” + </p> + <p> + Anne declined again. + </p> + <p> + Arnold tried her once more. “What shall we do to get through the evening?” + </p> + <p> + “Do what you like,” she answered, resignedly. + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s mind was suddenly illuminated by an idea. + </p> + <p> + “I have got it!” he exclaimed. “We’ll kill the time as our + cabin-passengers used to kill it at sea.” He looked over his shoulder at + Mr. Bishopriggs. “Waiter! bring a pack of cards.” + </p> + <p> + “What’s that ye’re wantin’?” asked Mr. Bishopriggs, doubting the evidence + of his own senses. + </p> + <p> + “A pack of cards,” repeated Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Cairds?” echoed Mr. Bishopriggs. “A pack o’ cairds? The deevil’s + allegories in the deevil’s own colors—red and black! I wunna execute + yer order. For yer ain saul’s sake, I wunna do it. Ha’ ye lived to your + time o’ life, and are ye no’ awakened yet to the awfu’ seenfulness o’ + gamblin’ wi’ the cairds?” + </p> + <p> + “Just as you please,” returned Arnold. “You will find me awakened—when + I go away—to the awful folly of feeing a waiter.” + </p> + <p> + “Does that mean that ye’re bent on the cairds?” asked Mr. Bishopriggs, + suddenly betraying signs of worldly anxiety in his look and manner. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—that means I am bent on the cards.” + </p> + <p> + “I tak’ up my testimony against ‘em—but I’m no’ telling ye that I + canna lay my hand on ‘em if I like. What do they say in my country? ‘Him + that will to Coupar, maun to Coupar.’ And what do they say in your + country? ‘Needs must when the deevil drives.’” With that excellent reason + for turning his back on his own principles, Mr. Bishopriggs shuffled out + of the room to fetch the cards. + </p> + <p> + The dresser-drawer in the pantry contained a choice selection of + miscellaneous objects—a pack of cards being among them. In searching + for the cards, the wary hand of the head-waiter came in contact with a + morsel of crumpled-up paper. He drew it out, and recognized the letter + which he had picked up in the sitting-room some hours since. + </p> + <p> + “Ay! ay! I’ll do weel, I trow, to look at this while my mind’s runnin’ on + it,” said Mr. Bishopriggs. “The cairds may e’en find their way to the + parlor by other hands than mine.” + </p> + <p> + He forthwith sent the cards to Arnold by his second in command, closed the + pantry door, and carefully smoothed out the crumpled sheet of paper on + which the two letters were written. This done, he trimmed his candle, and + began with the letter in ink, which occupied the first three pages of the + sheet of note-paper. + </p> + <p> + It ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “WINDYGATES HOUSE, <i>August</i> 12, 1868. + </p> + <p> + “GEOFFREY DELAMAYN,—I have waited in the hope that you would ride + over from your brother’s place, and see me—and I have waited in + vain. Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear it no longer. + Consider! in your own interests, consider—before you drive the + miserable woman who has trusted you to despair. You have promised me + marriage by all that is sacred. I claim your promise. I insist on nothing + less than to be what you vowed I should be—what I have waited all + this weary time to be—what I <i>am</i>, in the sight of Heaven, your + wedded wife. Lady Lundie gives a lawn-party here on the 14th. I know you + have been asked. I expect you to accept her invitation. If I don’t see + you, I won’t answer for what may happen. My mind is made up to endure this + suspense no longer. Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past! Be faithful—be + just—to your loving wife, + </p> + <p> + “ANNE SILVESTER.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs paused. His commentary on the correspondence, so far, was + simple enough. “Hot words (in ink) from the leddy to the gentleman!” He + ran his eye over the second letter, on the fourth page of the paper, and + added, cynically, “A trifle caulder (in pencil) from the gentleman to the + leddy! The way o’ the warld, Sirs! From the time o’ Adam downwards, the + way o’ the warld!” + </p> + <p> + The second letter ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR ANNE,—Just called to London to my father. They have + telegraphed him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I will write you. + Trust the bearer. Upon my soul, I’ll keep my promise. Your loving husband + that is to be, + </p> + <p> + “GEOFFREY DELAMAYN.” + </p> + <p> + WINDYGATES HOUSE, <i>Augt.</i> 14, 4 P. M. + </p> + <p> + “In a mortal hurry. Train starts at 4.30.” + </p> + <p> + There it ended! + </p> + <p> + “Who are the pairties in the parlor? Is ane o’ them ‘Silvester?’ and + t’other ‘Delamayn?’” pondered Mr. Bishopriggs, slowly folding the letter + up again in its original form. “Hech, Sirs! what, being intairpreted, may + a’ this mean?” + </p> + <p> + He mixed himself a second glass of toddy, as an aid to reflection, and sat + sipping the liquor, and twisting and turning the letter in his gouty + fingers. It was not easy to see his way to the true connection between the + lady and gentleman in the parlor and the two letters now in his own + possession. They might be themselves the writers of the letters, or they + might be only friends of the writers. Who was to decide? + </p> + <p> + In the first case, the lady’s object would appear to have been as good as + gained; for the two had certainly asserted themselves to be man and wife, + in his own presence, and in the presence of the landlady. In the second + case, the correspondence so carelessly thrown aside might, for all a + stranger knew to the contrary, prove to be of some importance in the + future. Acting on this latter view, Mr. Bishopriggs—whose past + experience as “a bit clerk body,” in Sir Patrick’s chambers, had made a + man of business of him—produced his pen and ink, and indorsed the + letter with a brief dated statement of the circumstances under which he + had found it. “I’ll do weel to keep the Doecument,” he thought to himself. + “Wha knows but there’ll be a reward offered for it ane o’ these days? Eh! + eh! there may be the warth o’ a fi’ pun’ note in this, to a puir lad like + me!” + </p> + <p> + With that comforting reflection, he drew out a battered tin cash-box from + the inner recesses of the drawer, and locked up the stolen correspondence + to bide its time. + </p> + <p> + The storm rose higher and higher as the evening advanced. + </p> + <p> + In the sitting-room, the state of affairs, perpetually changing, now + presented itself under another new aspect. + </p> + <p> + Arnold had finished his dinner, and had sent it away. He had next drawn a + side-table up to the sofa on which Anne lay—had shuffled the pack of + cards—and was now using all his powers of persuasion to induce her + to try one game at <i>Ecarte</i> with him, by way of diverting her + attention from the tumult of the storm. In sheer weariness, she gave up + contesting the matter; and, raising herself languidly on the sofa, said + she would try to play. “Nothing can make matters worse than they are,” she + thought, despairingly, as Arnold dealt the cards for her. “Nothing can + justify my inflicting my own wretchedness on this kind-hearted boy!” + </p> + <p> + Two worse players never probably sat down to a game. Anne’s attention + perpetually wandered; and Anne’s companion was, in all human probability, + the most incapable card-player in Europe. + </p> + <p> + Anne turned up the trump—the nine of Diamonds. Arnold looked at his + hand—and “proposed.” Anne declined to change the cards. Arnold + announced, with undiminished good-humor, that he saw his way clearly, now, + to losing the game, and then played his first card—the Queen of + Trumps! + </p> + <p> + Anne took it with the King, and forgot to declare the King. She played the + ten of Trumps. + </p> + <p> + Arnold unexpectedly discovered the eight of Trumps in his hand. “What a + pity!” he said, as he played it. “Hullo! you haven’t marked the King! I’ll + do it for you. That’s two—no, three—to you. I said I should + lose the game. Couldn’t be expected to do any thing (could I?) with such a + hand as mine. I’ve lost every thing now I’ve lost my trumps. You to play.” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked at her hand. At the same moment the lightning flashed into the + room through the ill-closed shutters; the roar of the thunder burst over + the house, and shook it to its foundation. The screaming of some + hysterical female tourist, and the barking of a dog, rose shrill from the + upper floor of the inn. Anne’s nerves could support it no longer. She + flung her cards on the table, and sprang to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “I can play no more,” she said. “Forgive me—I am quite unequal to + it. My head burns! my heart stifles me!” + </p> + <p> + She began to pace the room again. Aggravated by the effect of the storm on + her nerves, her first vague distrust of the false position into which she + and Arnold had allowed themselves to drift had strengthened, by this time, + into a downright horror of their situation which was not to be endured. + Nothing could justify such a risk as the risk they were now running! They + had dined together like married people—and there they were, at that + moment, shut in together, and passing the evening like man and wife! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Mr. Brinkworth!” she pleaded. “Think—for Blanche’s sake, think—is + there no way out of this?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold was quietly collecting the scattered cards. + </p> + <p> + “Blanche, again?” he said, with the most exasperating composure. “I wonder + how she feels, in this storm?” + </p> + <p> + In Anne’s excited state, the reply almost maddened her. She turned from + Arnold, and hurried to the door. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t care!” she cried, wildly. “I won’t let this deception go on. I’ll + do what I ought to have done before. Come what may of it, I’ll tell the + landlady the truth!” + </p> + <p> + She had opened the door, and was on the point of stepping into the passage—when + she stopped, and started violently. Was it possible, in that dreadful + weather, that she had actually heard the sound of carriage wheels on the + strip of paved road outside the inn? + </p> + <p> + Yes! others had heard the sound too. The hobbling figure of Mr. + Bishopriggs passed her in the passage, making for the house door. The hard + voice of the landlady rang through the inn, ejaculating astonishment in + broad Scotch. Anne closed the sitting-room door again, and turned to + Arnold—who had risen, in surprise, to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Travelers!” she exclaimed. “At this time!” + </p> + <p> + “And in this weather!” added Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Can</i> it be Geoffrey?” she asked—going back to the old vain + delusion that he might yet feel for her, and return. + </p> + <p> + Arnold shook his head. “Not Geoffrey. Whoever else it may be—not + Geoffrey!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Inchbare suddenly entered the room—with her cap-ribb ons + flying, her eyes staring, and her bones looking harder than ever. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, mistress!” she said to Anne. “Wha do ye think has driven here to see + ye, from Windygates Hoose, and been owertaken in the storm?” + </p> + <p> + Anne was speechless. Arnold put the question: “Who is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Wha is’t?” repeated Mrs. Inchbare. “It’s joost the bonny young leddy—Miss + Blanche hersel’.” + </p> + <p> + An irrepressible cry of horror burst from Anne. The landlady set it down + to the lightning, which flashed into the room again at the same moment. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, mistress! ye’ll find Miss Blanche a bit baulder than to skirl at a + flash o’ lightning, that gait! Here she is, the bonny birdie!” exclaimed + Mrs. Inchbare, deferentially backing out into the passage again. + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s voice reached them, calling for Anne. + </p> + <p> + Anne caught Arnold by the hand and wrung it hard. “Go!” she whispered. The + next instant she was at the mantle-piece, and had blown out both the + candles. + </p> + <p> + Another flash of lightning came through the darkness, and showed Blanche’s + figure standing at the door. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0013" id="link2HCH0013"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + BLANCHE. + </h3> + <p> + MRS. INCHBARE was the first person who acted in the emergency. She called + for lights; and sternly rebuked the house-maid, who brought them, for not + having closed the house door. “Ye feckless ne’er-do-weel!” cried the + landlady; “the wind’s blawn the candles oot.” + </p> + <p> + The woman declared (with perfect truth) that the door had been closed. An + awkward dispute might have ensued if Blanche had not diverted Mrs. + Inchbare’s attention to herself. The appearance of the lights disclosed + her, wet through with her arms round Anne’s neck. Mrs. Inchbare digressed + at once to the pressing question of changing the young lady’s clothes, and + gave Anne the opportunity of looking round her, unobserved. Arnold had + made his escape before the candles had been brought in. + </p> + <p> + In the mean time Blanche’s attention was absorbed in her own dripping + skirts. + </p> + <p> + “Good gracious! I’m absolutely distilling rain from every part of me. And + I’m making you, Anne, as wet as I am! Lend me some dry things. You can’t? + Mrs. Inchbare, what does your experience suggest? Which had I better do? + Go to bed while my clothes are being dried? or borrow from your wardrobe—though + you <i>are</i> a head and shoulders taller than I am?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Inchbare instantly bustled out to fetch the choicest garments that + her wardrobe could produce. The moment the door had closed on her Blanche + looked round the room in her turn. + </p> + <p> + The rights of affection having been already asserted, the claims of + curiosity naturally pressed for satisfaction next. + </p> + <p> + “Somebody passed me in the dark,” she whispered. “Was it your husband? I’m + dying to be introduced to him. And, oh my dear! what <i>is</i> your + married name?” + </p> + <p> + Anne answered, coldly, “Wait a little. I can’t speak about it yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill?” asked Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “I am a little nervous.” + </p> + <p> + “Has any thing unpleasant happened between you and my uncle? You have seen + him, haven’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he give you my message?” + </p> + <p> + “He gave me your message.—Blanche! you promised him to stay at + Windygates. Why, in the name of heaven, did you come here to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “If you were half as fond of me as I am of you,” returned Blanche, “you + wouldn’t ask that. I tried hard to keep my promise, but I couldn’t do it. + It was all very well, while my uncle was laying down the law—with + Lady Lundie in a rage, and the dogs barking, and the doors banging, and + all that. The excitement kept me up. But when my uncle had gone, and the + dreadful gray, quiet, rainy evening came, and it had all calmed down + again, there was no bearing it. The house—without you—was like + a tomb. If I had had Arnold with me I might have done very well. But I was + all by myself. Think of that! Not a soul to speak to! There wasn’t a + horrible thing that could possibly happen to you that I didn’t fancy was + going to happen. I went into your empty room and looked at your things. <i>That</i> + settled it, my darling! I rushed down stairs—carried away, + positively carried away, by an Impulse beyond human resistance. How could + I help it? I ask any reasonable person how could I help it? I ran to the + stables and found Jacob. Impulse—all impulse! I said, ‘Get the + pony-chaise—I must have a drive—I don’t care if it rains—you + come with me.’ All in a breath, and all impulse! Jacob behaved like an + angel. He said, ‘All right, miss.’ I am perfectly certain Jacob would die + for me if I asked him. He is drinking hot grog at this moment, to prevent + him from catching cold, by my express orders. He had the pony-chaise out + in two minutes; and off we went. Lady Lundie, my dear, prostrate in her + own room—too much sal volatile. I hate her. The rain got worse. I + didn’t mind it. Jacob didn’t mind it. The pony didn’t mind it. They had + both caught my impulse—especially the pony. It didn’t come on to + thunder till some time afterward; and then we were nearer Craig Fernie + than Windygates—to say nothing of your being at one place and not at + the other. The lightning was quite awful on the moor. If I had had one of + the horses, he would have been frightened. The pony shook his darling + little head, and dashed through it. He is to have beer. A mash with beer + in it—by my express orders. When he has done we’ll borrow a lantern, + and go into the stable, and kiss him. In the mean time, my dear, here I am—wet + through in a thunderstorm, which doesn’t in the least matter—and + determined to satisfy my own mind about you, which matters a great deal, + and must and shall be done before I rest to-night!” + </p> + <p> + She turned Anne, by main force, as she spoke, toward the light of the + candles. + </p> + <p> + Her tone changed the moment she looked at Anne’s face. + </p> + <p> + “I knew it!” she said. “You would never have kept the most interesting + event in your life a secret from <i>me</i>—you would never have + written me such a cold formal letter as the letter you left in your room—if + there had not been something wrong. I said so at the time. I know it now! + Why has your husband forced you to leave Windygates at a moment’s notice? + Why does he slip out of the room in the dark, as if he was afraid of being + seen? Anne! Anne! what has come to you? Why do you receive me in this + way?” + </p> + <p> + At that critical moment Mrs. Inchbare reappeared, with the choicest + selection of wearing apparel which her wardrobe could furnish. Anne hailed + the welcome interruption. She took the candles, and led the way into the + bedroom immediately. + </p> + <p> + “Change your wet clothes first,” she said. “We can talk after that.” + </p> + <p> + The bedroom door had hardly been closed a minute before there was a tap at + it. Signing to Mrs. Inchbare not to interrupt the services she was + rendering to Blanche, Anne passed quickly into the sitting-room, and + closed the door behind her. To her infinite relief, she only found herself + face to face with the discreet Mr. Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + The eye of Mr. Bishopriggs announced, by a wink, that his mission was of a + confidential nature. The hand of Mr. Bishopriggs wavered; the breath of + Mr. Bishopriggs exhaled a spirituous fume. He slowly produced a slip of + paper, with some lines of writing on it. + </p> + <p> + “From ye ken who,” he explained, jocosely. “A bit love-letter, I trow, + from him that’s dear to ye. Eh! he’s an awfu’ reprobate is him that’s dear + to ye. Miss, in the bedchamber there, will nae doot be the one he’s jilted + for <i>you?</i> I see it all—ye can’t blind Me—I ha’ been a + frail person my ain self, in my time. Hech! he’s safe and sound, is the + reprobate. I ha’ lookit after a’ his little creature-comforts—I’m + joost a fether to him, as well as a fether to you. Trust Bishopriggs—when + puir human nature wants a bit pat on the back, trust Bishopriggs.” + </p> + <p> + While the sage was speaking these comfortable words, Anne was reading the + lines traced on the paper. They were signed by Arnold; and they ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “I am in the smoking-room of the inn. It rests with you to say whether I + must stop there. I don’t believe Blanche would be jealous. If I knew how + to explain my being at the inn without betraying the confidence which you + and Geoffrey have placed in me, I wouldn’t be away from her another + moment. It does grate on me so! At the same time, I don’t want to make + your position harder than it is. Think of yourself first. I leave it in + your hands. You have only to say, Wait, by the bearer—and I shall + understand that I am to stay where I am till I hear from you again.” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked up from the message. + </p> + <p> + “Ask him to wait,” she said; “and I will send word to him again.” + </p> + <p> + “Wi’ mony loves and kisses,” suggested Mr. Bishopriggs, as a necessary + supplement to the message. “Eh! it comes as easy as A. B. C. to a man o’ + my experience. Ye can ha’ nae better gae-between than yer puir servant to + command, Sawmuel Bishopriggs. I understand ye baith pairfeckly.” He laid + his forefinger along his flaming nose, and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Without allowing herself to hesitate for an instant, Anne opened the + bedroom door—with the resolution of relieving Arnold from the new + sacrifice imposed on him by owning the truth. + </p> + <p> + “Is that you?” asked Blanche. + </p> + <p> + At the sound of her voice, Anne started back guiltily. “I’ll be with you + in a moment,” she answered, and closed the door again between them. + </p> + <p> + No! it was not to be done. Something in Blanche’s trivial question—or + something, perhaps, in the sight of Blanche’s face—roused 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 Arnold’s conduct in + joining her privately at Craig Fernie? A shameful confession made to an + innocent girl; a risk of fatally shaking Arnold’s place in Blanche’s estimation; + a scandal at the inn, in the disgrace of which the others would be + involved with herself—this was the price at which she must speak, if + she followed her first impulse, and said, in so many words, “Arnold is + here.” + </p> + <p> + It was not to be thought of. Cost what it might in present wretchedness—end + how it might, if the deception was discovered in the future—Blanche + must be kept in ignorance of the truth, Arnold must be kept in hiding + until she had gone. + </p> + <p> + Anne opened the door for the second time, and went in. + </p> + <p> + 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 friend’s “invisible + husband”—she was just saying, “Do tell me! what is he like?” + </p> + <p> + 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 Anne’s 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. “We mustn’t keep you from your + occupations any longer,” she said to Mrs. Inchbare. “I will give Miss + Lundie all the help she needs.” + </p> + <p> + Barred from advancing in one direction, Blanche’s curiosity turned back, + and tried in another. She boldly addressed herself to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>must</i> know something about him,” she said. “Is 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?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche, in Mrs. Inchbare’s best gown—an ancient and high-waisted + silk garment, of the hue called “bottle-green,” pinned up in front, and + trailing far behind her—with 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. “For heaven’s sake,” she said, gayly, “don’t tell your + husband I am in Mrs. Inchbare’s 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,” she added, “if Arnold could only see me + now!” + </p> + <p> + Looking in the glass, she noticed Anne’s face reflected behind her, and + started at the sight of it. + </p> + <p> + “What <i>is</i> the matter?” she asked. “Your face frightens me.” + </p> + <p> + 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, Anne’s inbred loyalty to + Blanche still shrank from deceiving her to her face. “I might write it,” + she thought. “I can’t say it, with Arnold Brinkworth in the same house + with her!” Write 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. + </p> + <p> + “Gone again!” exclaimed Blanche, looking uneasily round the empty room. + “Anne! there’s something so strange in all this, that I neither can, nor + will, put up with your silence any longer. It’s not just, it’s not kind, + to shut me out of your confidence, after we have lived together like + sisters all our lives!” + </p> + <p> + Anne sighed bitterly, and kissed her on the forehead. “You shall know all + I can tell you—all I <i>dare</i> tell you,” she said, gently. “Don’t + reproach me. It hurts me more than you think.” + </p> + <p> + She turned away to the side table, and came back with a letter in her + hand. “Read that,” she said, and handed it to Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Blanche saw her own name, on the address, in the handwriting of Anne. + </p> + <p> + “What does this mean?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “I wrote to you, after Sir Patrick had left me,” Anne replied. “I 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 <i>can</i> + say to you is said there. Spare me the distress of speaking. Read it, + Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche still held the letter, unopened. + </p> + <p> + “A letter from you to me! when we are both together, and both alone in the + same room! It’s worse than formal, Anne! It’s as if there was a quarrel + between us. Why should it distress you to speak to me?” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s eyes dropped to the ground. She pointed to the letter for the + second time. + </p> + <p> + Blanche broke the seal. + </p> + <p> + She passed rapidly over the opening sentences, and devoted all her + attention to the second paragraph. + </p> + <p> + “And 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! don’t + think me untrue to the affection we bear toward each other—don’t + think there is any change in my heart toward you—believe 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 love—the 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 time—<i>your</i> mother, who was an angel from + heaven to <i>mine!</i> 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 + often—I will think of you, my darling, night and day, till a happier + future unites us again. God bless <i>you,</i> my dear one! And God help <i>me!</i>” + </p> + <p> + 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 Anne’s shoulder. Sorrowfully and quietly, she put the letter into + her bosom—and took Anne’s hand, and kissed it. + </p> + <p> + “All my questions are answered, dear. I will wait your time.” + </p> + <p> + It was simply, sweetly, generously said. + </p> + <p> + Anne burst into tears. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The rain still fell, but the storm was dying away. + </p> + <p> + Blanche left the sofa, and, going to the window, opened the shutters to + look out at the night. She suddenly came back to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “I see lights,” she said—“the 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. It’s just possible Lady Lundie may have come for me + herself.” + </p> + <p> + The ordinary relations of the two toward each other were completely + reversed. Anne was like a child in Blanche’s hands. She rose, and + withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Blanche took the letter out of her bosom, and read it again, + in the interval of waiting for the carriage. + </p> + <p> + The second reading confirmed her in a resolution which she had privately + taken, while she had been sitting by Anne on the sofa—a 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 Anne’s own interests, to take her uncle into her + confidence, and to tell him all that had happened at the inn “I’ll first + make him forgive me,” thought Blanche. “And then I’ll see if he thinks as + I do, when I tell him about Anne.” + </p> + <p> + The carriage drew up at the door; and Mrs. Inchbare showed in—not + Lady Lundie, but Lady Lundie’s maid. + </p> + <p> + The woman’s account of what had happened at Windygates was simple enough. + Lady Lundie had, as a matter of course, placed the right interpretation on + Blanche’s 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 Patrick’s 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 weather—had + 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 Patrick’s 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. + </p> + <p> + Blanche took the box from the woman’s hands, and joined Anne in the + bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home. + </p> + <p> + “I am going back to a good scolding,” she said. “But a scolding is no + novelty in my experience of Lady Lundie. I’m not uneasy about that, Anne—I’m + uneasy about you. Can I be sure of one thing—do you stay here for + the present?” + </p> + <p> + The worst that could happen at the inn <i>had</i> happened. Nothing was to + be gained now—and every thing might be lost—by leaving the + place at which Geoffrey had promised to write to her. Anne answered that + she proposed remaining at the inn for the present. + </p> + <p> + “You promise to write to me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “If there is any thing I can do for you—?” + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing, my love.” + </p> + <p> + “There may be. If you want to see me, we can meet at Windygates without + being discovered. Come at luncheon-time—go around by the shrubbery—and + step in at the library window. You know as well as I do there is nobody in + the library at that hour. Don’t say it’s impossible—you don’t know + what may happen. I shall wait ten minutes every day on the chance of + seeing you. That’s settled—and it’s settled that you write. Before I + go, darling, is there any thing else we can think of for the future?” + </p> + <p> + 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 a + fierce energy. “Will you always be to me, in the future, what you are + now?” she asked, abruptly. “Or is the time coming when you will hate me?” + She prevented any reply by a kiss—and pushed Blanche toward the + door. “We have had a happy time together in the years that are gone,” she + said, with a farewell wave of her hand. “Thank God for that! And never + mind the rest.” + </p> + <p> + She threw open the bedroom door, and called to the maid, in the + sitting-room. “Miss Lundie is waiting for you.” Blanche pressed her hand, + and left her. + </p> + <p> + Anne waited a while in the bedroom, listening to the sound made by the + departure of the carriage from the inn door. Little by little, the tramp + of the horses and the noise of the rolling wheels lessened and lessened. + When the last faint sounds were lost in silence she stood for a moment + thinking—then, rousing on a sudden, hurried into the sitting-room, + and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “I shall go mad,” she said to herself, “if I stay here alone.” + </p> + <p> + Even Mr. Bishopriggs felt the necessity of being silent when he stood face + to face with her on answering the bell. + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to him. Send him here instantly.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs understood her, and withdrew. + </p> + <p> + Arnold came in. + </p> + <p> + “Has she gone?” were the first words he said. + </p> + <p> + “She has gone. She won’t suspect you when you see her again. I have told + her nothing. Don’t ask me for my reasons!” + </p> + <p> + “I have no wish to ask you.” + </p> + <p> + “Be angry with me, if you like!” + </p> + <p> + “I have no wish to be angry with you.” + </p> + <p> + He spoke and looked like an altered man. Quietly seating himself at the + table, he rested his head on his hand—and so remained silent. Anne + was taken completely by surprise. She drew near, and looked at him + curiously. Let a woman’s mood be what it may, it is certain to feel the + influence of any change for which she is unprepared in the manner of a man—when + that man interests her. The cause of this is not to be found in the + variableness of her humor. It is far more probably to be traced to the + noble abnegation of Self, which is one of the grandest—and to the + credit of woman be it said—one of the commonest virtues of the sex. + Little by little, the sweet feminine charm of Anne’s face came softly and + sadly back. The inbred nobility of the woman’s nature answered the call + which the man had unconsciously made on it. She touched Arnold on the + shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “This has been hard on <i>you,</i>” she said. “And I am to blame for it. + Try and forgive me, Mr. Brinkworth. I am sincerely sorry. I wish with all + my heart I could comfort you!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Miss Silvester. It was not a very pleasant feeling, to be + hiding from Blanche as if I was afraid of her—and it’s set me + thinking, I suppose, for the first time in my life. Never mind. It’s all + over now. Can I do any thing for you?” + </p> + <p> + “What do you propose doing to-night?” + </p> + <p> + “What I have proposed doing all along—my duty by Geoffrey. I have + promised him to see you through your difficulties here, and to provide for + your safety till he comes back. I can only make sure of doing that by + keeping up appearances, and staying in the sitting-room to-night. When we + next meet it will be under pleasanter circumstances, I hope. I shall + always be glad to think that I was of some service to you. In the mean + time I shall be most likely away to-morrow morning before you are up.” + </p> + <p> + Anne held out her hand to take leave. Nothing could undo what had been + done. The time for warning and remonstrance had passed away. + </p> + <p> + “You have not befriended an ungrateful woman,” she said. “The day may yet + come, Mr. Brinkworth, when I shall prove it.” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not, Miss Silvester. Good-by, and good luck!” + </p> + <p> + She withdrew into her own room. Arnold locked the sitting-room door, and + stretched himself on the sofa for the night. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The morning was bright, the air was delicious after the storm. + </p> + <p> + Arnold had gone, as he had promised, before Anne was out of her room. It + was understood at the inn that important business had unexpectedly called + him south. Mr. Bishopriggs had been presented with a handsome gratuity; + and Mrs. Inchbare had been informed that the rooms were taken for a week + certain. + </p> + <p> + In every quarter but one the march of events had now, to all appearance, + fallen back into a quiet course. Arnold was on his way to his estate; + Blanche was safe at Windygates; Anne’s residence at the inn was assured + for a week to come. The one present doubt was the doubt which hung over + Geoffrey’s movements. The one event still involved in darkness turned on + the question of life or death waiting for solution in London—otherwise, + the question of Lord Holchester’s health. Taken by itself, the + alternative, either way, was plain enough. If my lord lived—Geoffrey + would be free to come back, and marry her privately in Scotland. If my + lord died—Geoffrey would be free to send for her, and marry her + publicly in London. But could Geoffrey be relied on? + </p> + <p> + Anne went out on to the terrace-ground in front of the inn. The cool + morning breeze blew steadily. Towering white clouds sailed in grand + procession over the heavens, now obscuring, and now revealing the sun. + Yellow light and purple shadow chased each other over the broad brown + surface of the moor—even as hope and fear chased each other over + Anne’s mind, brooding on what might come to her with the coming time. + </p> + <p> + She turned away, weary of questioning the impenetrable future, and went + back to the inn. + </p> + <p> + Crossing the hall she looked at the clock. It was past the hour when the + train from Perthshire was due in London. Geoffrey and his brother were, at + that moment, on their way to Lord Holchester’s house. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0020" id="link2H_4_0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THIRD SCENE.—LONDON. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0014" id="link2HCH0014"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + GEOFFREY AS A LETTER-WRITER. + </h3> + <p> + LORD HOLCHESTER’S servants—with the butler at their head—were + on the look-out for Mr. Julius Delamayn’s arrival from Scotland. The + appearance of the two brothers together took the whole domestic + establishment by surprise. Inquiries were addressed to the butler by + Julius; Geoffrey standing by, and taking no other than a listener’s part + in the proceedings. + </p> + <p> + “Is my father alive?” + </p> + <p> + “His lordship, I am rejoiced to say, has astonished the doctors, Sir. He + rallied last night in the most wonderful way. If things go on for the next + eight-and-forty hours as they are going now, my lord’s recovery is + considered certain.” + </p> + <p> + “What was the illness?” + </p> + <p> + “A paralytic stroke, Sir. When her ladyship telegraphed to you in Scotland + the doctors had given his lordship up.” + </p> + <p> + “Is my mother at home?” + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship is at home to <i>you,</i>, Sir.”’ + </p> + <p> + The butler laid a special emphasis on the personal pronoun. Julius turned + to his brother. The change for the better in the state of Lord + Holchester’s health made Geoffrey’s position, at that moment, an + embarrassing one. He had been positively forbidden to enter the house. His + one excuse for setting that prohibitory sentence at defiance rested on the + assumption that his father was actually dying. As matters now stood, Lord + Holchester’s order remained in full force. The under-servants in the hall + (charged to obey that order as they valued their places) looked from “Mr. + Geoffrey” to the butler, The butler looked from “Mr. Geoffrey” to “Mr. + Julius.” Julius looked at his brother. There was an awkward pause. The + position of the second son was the position of a wild beast in the house—a + creature to be got rid of, without risk to yourself, if you only knew how. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey spoke, and solved the problem + </p> + <p> + “Open the door, one of you fellows,” he said to the footmen. “I’m off.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute,” interposed his brother. “It will be a sad disappointment + to my mother to know that you have been here, and gone away again without + seeing her. These are no ordinary circumstances, Geoffrey. Come up stairs + with me—I’ll take it on myself.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m blessed if I take it on <i>my</i>self!” returned Geoffrey. “Open the + door!” + </p> + <p> + “Wait here, at any rate,” pleaded Julius, “till I can send you down a + message.” + </p> + <p> + “Send your message to Nagle’s Hotel. I’m at home at Nagle’s—I’m not + at home here.” + </p> + <p> + At that point the discussion was interrupted by the appearance of a little + terrier in the hall. Seeing strangers, the dog began to bark. Perfect + tranquillity in the house had been absolutely insisted on by the doctors; + and the servants, all trying together to catch the animal and quiet him, + simply aggravated the noise he was making. Geoffrey solved this problem + also in his own decisive way. He swung round as the dog was passing him, + and kicked it with his heavy boot. The little creature fell on the spot, + whining piteously. “My lady’s pet dog!” exclaimed the butler. “You’ve + broken its ribs, Sir.” “I’ve broken it of barking, you mean,” retorted + Geoffrey. “Ribs be hanged!” He turned to his brother. “That settles it,” + he said, jocosely. “I’d better defer the pleasure of calling on dear mamma + till the next opportunity. Ta-ta, Julius. You know where to find me. Come, + and dine. We’ll give you a steak at Nagle’s that will make a man of you.” + </p> + <p> + He went out. The tall footmen eyed his lordship’s second son with + unaffected respect. They had seen him, in public, at the annual festival + of the Christian-Pugilistic-Association, with “the gloves” on. He could + have beaten the biggest man in the hall within an inch of his life in + three minutes. The porter bowed as he threw open the door. The whole + interest and attention of the domestic establishment then present was + concentrated on Geoffrey. Julius went up stairs to his mother without + attracting the slightest notice. + </p> + <p> + The month was August. The streets were empty. The vilest breeze that blows—a + hot east wind in London—was the breeze abroad on that day. Even + Geoffrey appeared to feel the influence of the weather as the cab carried + him from his father’s door to the hotel. He took off his hat, and + unbuttoned his waistcoat, and lit his everlasting pipe, and growled and + grumbled between his teeth in the intervals of smoking. Was it only the + hot wind that wrung from him these demonstrations of discomfort? Or was + there some secret anxiety in his mind which assisted the depressing + influences of the day? There was a secret anxiety in his mind. And the + name of it was—Anne. + </p> + <p> + As things actually were at that moment, what course was he to take with + the unhappy woman who was waiting to hear from him at the Scotch inn? + </p> + <p> + To write? or not to write? That was the question with Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + The preliminary difficulty, relating to addressing a letter to Anne at the + inn, had been already provided for. She had decided—if it proved + necessary to give her name, before Geoffrey joined her—to call + herself Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. A letter addressed to “Mrs. + Silvester” might be trusted to find its way to her without causing any + embarrassment. The doubt was not here. The doubt lay, as usual, between + two alternatives. Which course would it be wisest to take?—to inform + Anne, by that day’s post, that an interval of forty-eight hours must + elapse before his father’s recovery could be considered certain? Or to + wait till the interval was over, and be guided by the result? Considering + the alternatives in the cab, he decided that the wise course was to + temporize with Anne, by reporting matters as they then stood. + </p> + <p> + Arrived at the hotel, he sat down to write the letter—doubted—and + tore it up—doubted again—and began again—doubted once + more—and tore up the second letter—rose to his feet—and + owned to himself (in unprintable language) that he couldn’t for the life + of him decide which was safest—to write or to wait. + </p> + <p> + In this difficulty, his healthy physical instincts sent him to healthy + physical remedies for relief. “My mind’s in a muddle,” said Geoffrey. + “I’ll try a bath.” + </p> + <p> + It was an elaborate bath, proceeding through many rooms, and combining + many postures and applications. He steamed. He plunged. He simmered. He + stood under a pipe, and received a cataract of cold water on his head. He + was laid on his back; he was laid on his stomach; he was respectfully + pounded and kneaded, from head to foot, by the knuckles of accomplished + practitioners. He came out of it all, sleek, clear rosy, beautiful. He + returned to the hotel, and took up the writing materials—and behold + the intolerable indecision seized him again, declining to be washed out! + This time he laid it all to Anne. “That infernal woman will be the ruin of + me,” said Geoffrey, taking up his hat. “I must try the dumb-bells.” + </p> + <p> + The pursuit of the new remedy for stimulating a sluggish brain took him to + a public house, kept by the professional pedestrian who had the honor of + training him when he contended at Athletic Sports. + </p> + <p> + “A private room and the dumb-bells!” cried Geoffrey. “The heaviest you + have got.” + </p> + <p> + He stripped himself of his upper clothing, and set to work, with the heavy + weights in each hand, waving them up and down, and backward and forward, + in every attainable variety o f movement, till his magnificent muscles + seemed on the point of starting through his sleek skin. Little by little + his animal spirits roused themselves. The strong exertion intoxicated the + strong man. In sheer excitement he swore cheerfully—invoking thunder + and lightning, explosion and blood, in return for the compliments + profusely paid to him by the pedestrian and the pedestrian’s son. “Pen, + ink, and paper!” he roared, when he could use the dumb-bells no longer. + “My mind’s made up; I’ll write, and have done with it!” He sat down to his + writing on the spot; actually finished the letter; another minute would + have dispatched it to the post—and, in that minute, the maddening + indecision took possession of him once more. He opened the letter again, + read it over again, and tore it up again. “I’m out of my mind!” cried + Geoffrey, fixing his big bewildered blue eyes fiercely on the professor + who trained him. “Thunder and lightning! Explosion and blood! Send for + Crouch.” + </p> + <p> + Crouch (known and respected wherever English manhood is known and + respected) was a retired prize-fighter. He appeared with the third and + last remedy for clearing the mind known to the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn—namely, + two pair of boxing-gloves in a carpet-bag. + </p> + <p> + The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and faced each + other in the classically correct posture of pugilistic defense. “None of + your play, mind!” growled Geoffrey. “Fight, you beggar, as if you were in + the Ring again with orders to win.” No man knew better than the great and + terrible Crouch what real fighting meant, and what heavy blows might be + given even with such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed and padded + gloves. He pretended, and only pretended, to comply with his patron’s + request. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance by knocking him + down. The great and terrible rose with unruffled composure. “Well hit, + Sir!” he said. “Try it with the other hand now.” Geoffrey’s temper was not + under similar control. Invoking everlasting destruction on the + frequently-blackened eyes of Crouch, he threatened instant withdrawal of + his patronage and support unless the polite pugilist hit, then and there, + as hard as he could. The hero of a hundred fights quailed at the dreadful + prospect. “I’ve got a family to support,” remarked Crouch. “If you <i>will</i> + have it, Sir—there it is!” The fall of Geoffrey followed, and shook + the house. He was on his legs again in an instant—not satisfied even + yet. “None of your body-hitting!” he roared. “Stick to my head. Thunder + and lightning! explosion and blood! Knock it out of me! Stick to the + head!” Obedient Crouch stuck to the head. The two gave and took blows + which would have stunned—possibly have killed—any civilized + member of the community. Now on one side of his patron’s iron skull, and + now on the other, the hammering of the prize-fighter’s gloves fell, thump + upon thump, horrible to hear—until even Geoffrey himself had had + enough of it. “Thank you, Crouch,” he said, speaking civilly to the man + for the first time. “That will do. I feel nice and clear again.” He shook + his head two or three times, he was rubbed down like a horse by the + professional runner; he drank a mighty draught of malt liquor; he + recovered his good-humor as if by magic. “Want the pen and ink, Sir?” + inquired his pedestrian host. “Not I!” answered Geoffrey. “The muddle’s + out of me now. Pen and ink be hanged! I shall look up some of our fellows, + and go to the play.” He left the public house in the happiest condition of + mental calm. Inspired by the stimulant application of Crouch’s gloves, his + torpid cunning had been shaken up into excellent working order at last. + Write to Anne? Who but a fool would write to such a woman as that until he + was forced to it? Wait and see what the chances of the next + eight-and-forty hours might bring forth, and then write to her, or desert + her, as the event might decide. It lay in a nut-shell, if you could only + see it. Thanks to Crouch, he did see it—and so away in a pleasant + temper for a dinner with “our fellows” and an evening at the play! + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0015" id="link2HCH0015"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + GEOFFREY IN THE MARRIAGE MARKET. + </h3> + <p> + THE interval of eight-and-forty hours passed—without the occurrence + of any personal communication between the two brothers in that time. + </p> + <p> + Julius, remaining at his father’s house, sent brief written bulletins of + Lord Holchester’s health to his brother at the hotel. The first bulletin + said, “Going on well. Doctors satisfied.” The second was firmer in tone. + “Going on excellently. Doctors very sanguine.” The third was the most + explicit of all. “I am to see my father in an hour from this. The doctors + answer for his recovery. Depend on my putting in a good word for you, if I + can; and wait to hear from me further at the hotel.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s face darkened as he read the third bulletin. He called once + more for the hated writing materials. There could be no doubt now as to + the necessity of communicating with Anne. Lord Holchester’s recovery had + put him back again in the same critical position which he had occupied at + Windygates. To keep Anne from committing some final act of despair, which + would connect him with a public scandal, and ruin him so far as his + expectations from his father were concerned, was, once more, the only safe + policy that Geoffrey could pursue. His letter began and ended in twenty + words: + </p> + <p> + “DEAR ANNE,—Have only just heard that my father is turning the + corner. Stay where you are. Will write again.” + </p> + <p> + Having dispatched this Spartan composition by the post, Geoffrey lit his + pipe, and waited the event of the interview between Lord Holchester and + his eldest son. + </p> + <p> + Julius found his father alarmingly altered in personal appearance, but in + full possession of his faculties nevertheless. Unable to return the + pressure of his son’s hand—unable even to turn in the bed without + help—the hard eye of the old lawyer was as keen, the hard mind of + the old lawyer was as clear, as ever. His grand ambition was to see Julius + in Parliament. Julius was offering himself for election in Perthshire, by + his father’s express desire, at that moment. Lord Holchester entered + eagerly into politics before his eldest son had been two minutes by his + bedside. + </p> + <p> + “Much obliged, Julius, for your congratulations. Men of my sort are not + easily killed. (Look at Brougham and Lyndhurst!) You won’t be called to + the Upper House yet. You will begin in the House of Commons—precisely + as I wished. What are your prospects with the constituency? Tell me + exactly how you stand, and where I can be of use to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, Sir, you are hardly recovered enough to enter on matters of + business yet?” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite recovered enough. I want some present interest to occupy me. + My thoughts are beginning to drift back to past times, and to things which + are better forgotten.” A sudden contraction crossed his livid face. He + looked hard at his son, and entered abruptly on a new question. “Julius!” + he resumed, “have you ever heard of a young woman named Anne Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + Julius answered in the negative. He and his wife had exchanged cards with + Lady Lundie, and had excused themselves from accepting her invitation to + the lawn-party. With the exception of Blanche, they were both quite + ignorant of the persons who composed the family circle at Windygates. + </p> + <p> + “Make a memorandum of the name,” Lord Holchester went on. “Anne Silvester. + Her father and mother are dead. I knew her father in former times. Her + mother was ill-used. It was a bad business. I have been thinking of it + again, for the first time for many years. If the girl is alive and about + the world she may remember our family name. Help her, Julius, if she ever + wants help, and applies to you.” The painful contraction passed across his + face once more. Were his thoughts taking him back to the memorable summer + evening at the Hampstead villa? Did he see the deserted woman swooning at + his feet again? “About your election?” he asked, impatiently. “My mind is + not used to be idle. Give it something to do.” + </p> + <p> + Julius stated his position as plainly and as briefly as he could. The + father found nothing to object to in the report—except the son’s + absence from the field of action. He blamed Lady Holchester for summoning + Julius to London. He was annoyed at his son’s being there, at the bedside, + when he ought to have been addressing the electors. “It’s inconvenient, + Julius,” he said, petulantly. “Don’t you see it yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Having previously arranged with his mother to take the first opportunity + that offered of risking a reference to Geoffrey, Julius decided to “see + it” in a light for which his father was not prepared. The opportunity was + before him. He took it on the spot. + </p> + <p> + “It is no inconvenience to me, Sir,” he replied, “and it is no + inconvenience to my brother either. Geoffrey was anxious about you too. + Geoffrey has come to London with me.” + </p> + <p> + Lord Holchester looked at his eldest son with a grimly-satirical + expression of surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Have I not already told you,” he rejoined, “that my mind is not affected + by my illness? Geoffrey anxious about me! Anxiety is one of the civilized + emotions. Man in his savage state is incapable of feeling it.” + </p> + <p> + “My brother is not a savage, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “His stomach is generally full, and his skin is covered with linen and + cloth, instead of red ochre and oil. So far, certainly, your brother is + civilized. In all other respects your brother is a savage.” + </p> + <p> + “I know what you mean, Sir. But there is something to be said for + Geoffrey’s way of life. He cultivates his courage and his strength. + Courage and strength are fine qualities, surely, in their way?” + </p> + <p> + “Excellent qualities, as far as they go. If you want to know how far that + is, challenge Geoffrey to write a sentence of decent English, and see if + his courage doesn’t fail him there. Give him his books to read for his + degree, and, strong as he is, he will be taken ill at the sight of them. + You wish me to see your brother. Nothing will induce me to see him, until + his way of life (as you call it) is altered altogether. I have but one + hope of its ever being altered now. It is barely possible that the + influence of a sensible woman—possessed of such advantages of birth + and fortune as may compel respect, even from a savage—might produce + its effect on Geoffrey. If he wishes to find his way back into this house, + let him find his way back into good society first, and bring me a + daughter-in-law to plead his cause for him—whom his mother and I can + respect and receive. When that happens, I shall begin to have some belief + in Geoffrey. Until it does happen, don’t introduce your brother into any + future conversations which you may have with Me. To return to your + election. I have some advice to give you before you go back. You will do + well to go back to-night. Lift me up on the pillow. I shall speak more + easily with my head high.” + </p> + <p> + His son lifted him on the pillows, and once more entreated him to spare + himself. + </p> + <p> + It was useless. No remonstrances shook the iron resolution of the man who + had hewed his way through the rank and file of political humanity to his + own high place apart from the rest. Helpless, ghastly, snatched out of the + very jaws of death, there he lay, steadily distilling the clear + common-sense which had won him all his worldly rewards into the mind of + his son. Not a hint was missed, not a caution was forgotten, that could + guide Julius safely through the miry political ways which he had trodden + so safely and so dextrously himself. An hour more had passed before the + impenetrable old man closed his weary eyes, and consented to take his + nourishment and compose himself to rest. His last words, rendered barely + articulate by exhaustion, still sang the praises of party manoeuvres and + political strife. “It’s a grand career! I miss the House of Commons, + Julius, as I miss nothing else!” + </p> + <p> + Left free to pursue his own thoughts, and to guide his own movements, + Julius went straight from Lord Holchester’s bedside to Lady Holchester’s + boudoir. + </p> + <p> + “Has your father said any thing about Geoffrey?” was his mother’s first + question as soon as he entered the room. + </p> + <p> + “My father gives Geoffrey a last chance, if Geoffrey will only take it.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holchester’s face clouded. “I know,” she said, with a look of + disappointment. “His last chance is to read for his degree. Hopeless, my + dear. Quite hopeless! If it had only been something easier than that; + something that rested with me—” + </p> + <p> + “It does rest with you,” interposed Julius. “My dear mother!—can you + believe it?—Geoffrey’s last chance is (in one word) Marriage!” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Julius! it’s too good to be true!” + </p> + <p> + Julius repeated his father’s own words. Lady Holchester looked twenty + years younger as she listened. When he had done she rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “No matter who calls,” she said to the servant, “I am not at home.” She + turned to Julius, kissed him, and made a place for him on the sofa by her + side. “Geoffrey shall take <i>that</i> chance,” she said, gayly—“I + will answer for it! I have three women in my mind, any one of whom would + suit him. Sit down, my dear, and let us consider carefully which of the + three will be most likely to attract Geoffrey, and to come up to your + father’s standard of what his daughter-in-law ought to be. When we have + decided, don’t trust to writing. Go yourself and see Geoffrey at his + hotel.” + </p> + <p> + Mother and son entered on their consultation—and innocently sowed + the seeds of a terrible harvest to come. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0016" id="link2HCH0016"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE SIXTEENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + GEOFFREY AS A PUBLIC CHARACTER. + </h3> + <p> + TIME had advanced to after noon before the selection of Geoffrey’s future + wife was accomplished, and before the instructions of Geoffrey’s brother + were complete enough to justify the opening of the matrimonial negotiation + at Nagle’s Hotel. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t leave him till you have got his promise,” were Lady Holchester’s + last words when her son started on his mission. + </p> + <p> + “If Geoffrey doesn’t jump at what I am going to offer him,” was the son’s + reply, “I shall agree with my father that the case is hopeless; and I + shall end, like my father, in giving Geoffrey up.” + </p> + <p> + This was strong language for Julius to use. It was not easy to rouse the + disciplined and equable temperament of Lord Holchester’s eldest son. No + two men were ever more thoroughly unlike each other than these two + brothers. It is melancholy to acknowledge it of the blood relation of a + “stroke oar,” but it must be owned, in the interests of truth, that Julius + cultivated his intelligence. This degenerate Briton could digest books—and + couldn’t digest beer. Could learn languages—and couldn’t learn to + row. Practiced the foreign vice of perfecting himself in the art of + playing on a musical instrument and couldn’t learn the English virtue of + knowing a good horse when he saw him. Got through life. (Heaven only knows + how!) without either a biceps or a betting-book. Had openly acknowledged, + in English society, that he didn’t think the barking of a pack of hounds + the finest music in the world. Could go to foreign parts, and see a + mountain which nobody had ever got to the top of yet—and didn’t + instantly feel his honor as an Englishman involved in getting to the top + of it himself. Such people may, and do, exist among the inferior races of + the Continent. Let us thank Heaven, Sir, that England never has been, and + never will be, the right place for them! + </p> + <p> + Arrived at Nagle’s Hotel, and finding nobody to inquire of in the hall, + Julius applied to the young lady who sat behind the window of “the bar.” + The young lady was reading something so deeply interesting in the evening + newspaper that she never even heard him. Julius went into the coffee-room. + </p> + <p> + The waiter, in his corner, was absorbed over a second newspaper. Three + gentlemen, at three different tables, were absorbed in a third, fourth, + and fifth newspaper. They all alike went on with their reading without + noticing the entrance of the stranger. Julius ventured on disturbing the + waiter by asking for Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. At the sound of that + illustrious name the waiter looked up with a start. “Are you Mr. + Delamayn’s brother, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The three gentlemen at the tables looked up with a start. The light of + Geoffrey’s celebrity fell, reflected, on Geoffrey’s brother, and made a + public character of him. + </p> + <p> + “You’ll find Mr. Geoffrey, Sir,” said the waiter, in a flurried, excited + manner, “at the Cock and Bottle, Putney.” + </p> + <p> + “I expected to find him here. I had an appointment with him at this + hotel.” + </p> + <p> + The wait er opened his eyes on Julius with an expression of blank + astonishment. “Haven’t you heard the news, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “No!” + </p> + <p> + “God bless my soul!” exclaimed the waiter—and offered the newspaper. + </p> + <p> + “God bless my soul!” exclaimed the three gentlemen—and offered the + three newspapers. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” asked Julius. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” repeated the waiter, in a hollow voice. “The most dreadful + thing that’s happened in my time. It’s all up, Sir, with the great + Foot-Race at Fulham. Tinkler has gone stale.” + </p> + <p> + The three gentlemen dropped solemnly back into their three chairs, and + repeated the dreadful intelligence, in chorus—“Tinkler has gone + stale.” + </p> + <p> + A man who stands face to face with a great national disaster, and who + doesn’t understand it, is a man who will do wisely to hold his tongue and + enlighten his mind without asking other people to help him. Julius + accepted the waiter’s newspaper, and sat down to make (if possible) two + discoveries: First, as to whether “Tinkler” did, or did not, mean a man. + Second, as to what particular form of human affliction you implied when + you described that man as “gone stale.” + </p> + <p> + There was no difficulty in finding the news. It was printed in the largest + type, and was followed by a personal statement of the facts, taken one way—which + was followed, in its turn, by another personal statement of the facts, + taken in another way. More particulars, and further personal statements, + were promised in later editions. The royal salute of British journalism + thundered the announcement of Tinkler’s staleness before a people + prostrate on the national betting book. + </p> + <p> + Divested of exaggeration, the facts were few enough and simple enough. A + famous Athletic Association of the North had challenged a famous Athletic + Association of the South. The usual “Sports” were to take place—such + as running, jumping, “putting” the hammer, throwing cricket-balls, and the + like—and the whole was to wind up with a Foot-Race of unexampled + length and difficulty in the annals of human achievement between the two + best men on either side. “Tinkler” was the best man on the side of the + South. “Tinkler” was backed in innumerable betting-books to win. And + Tinkler’s lungs had suddenly given way under stress of training! A + prospect of witnessing a prodigious achievement in foot-racing, and (more + important still) a prospect of winning and losing large sums of money, was + suddenly withdrawn from the eyes of the British people. The “South” could + produce no second opponent worthy of the North out of its own associated + resources. Surveying the athletic world in general, but one man existed + who might possibly replace “Tinkler”—and it was doubtful, in the + last degree, whether he would consent to come forward under the + circumstances. The name of that man—Julius read it with horror—was + Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + Profound silence reigned in the coffee-room. Julius laid down the + newspaper, and looked about him. The waiter was busy, in his corner, with + a pencil and a betting-book. The three gentlemen were busy, at the three + tables, with pencils and betting-books. + </p> + <p> + “Try and persuade him!” said the waiter, piteously, as Delamayn’s brother + rose to leave the room. + </p> + <p> + “Try and persuade him!” echoed the three gentlemen, as Delamayn’s brother + opened the door and went out. + </p> + <p> + Julius called a cab and told the driver (busy with a pencil and a + betting-book) to go to the Cock and Bottle, Putney. The man brightened + into a new being at the prospect. No need to hurry him; he drove, unasked, + at the top of his horse’s speed. + </p> + <p> + As the cab drew near to its destination the signs of a great national + excitement appeared, and multiplied. The lips of a people pronounced, with + a grand unanimity, the name of “Tinkler.” The heart of a people hung + suspended (mostly in the public houses) on the chances for and against the + possibility of replacing “Tinkler” by another man. The scene in front of + the inn was impressive in the highest degree. Even the London blackguard + stood awed and quiet in the presence of the national calamity. Even the + irrepressible man with the apron, who always turns up to sell nuts and + sweetmeats in a crowd, plied his trade in silence, and found few indeed + (to the credit of the nation be it spoken) who had the heart to crack a + nut at such a time as this. The police were on the spot, in large numbers, + and in mute sympathy with the people, touching to see. Julius, on being + stopped at the door, mentioned his name—and received an ovation. His + brother! oh, heavens, his brother! The people closed round him, the people + shook hands with him, the people invoked blessings on his head. Julius was + half suffocated, when the police rescued him, and landed him safe in the + privileged haven on the inner side of the public house door. A deafening + tumult broke out, as he entered, from the regions above stairs. A distant + voice screamed, “Mind yourselves!” A hatless shouting man tore down + through the people congregated on the stairs. “Hooray! Hooray! He’s + promised to do it! He’s entered for the race!” Hundreds on hundreds of + voices took up the cry. A roar of cheering burst from the people outside. + Reporters for the newspapers raced, in frantic procession, out of the inn, + and rushed into cabs to put the news in print. The hand of the landlord, + leading Julius carefully up stairs by the arm, trembled with excitement. + “His brother, gentlemen! his brother!” At those magic words a lane was + made through the throng. At those magic words the closed door of the + council-chamber flew open; and Julius found himself among the Athletes of + his native country, in full parliament assembled. Is any description of + them needed? The description of Geoffrey applies to them all. The manhood + and muscle of England resemble the wool and mutton of England, in this + respect, that there is about as much variety in a flock of athletes as in + a flock of sheep. Julius looked about him, and saw the same man in the + same dress, with the same health, strength, tone, tastes, habits, + conversation, and pursuits, repeated infinitely in every part of the room. + The din was deafening; the enthusiasm (to an uninitiated stranger) + something at once hideous and terrifying to behold. Geoffrey had been + lifted bodily on to the table, in his chair, so as to be visible to the + whole room. They sang round him, they danced round him, they cheered round + him, they swore round him. He was hailed, in maudlin terms of endearment, + by grateful giants with tears in their eyes. “Dear old man!” “Glorious, + noble, splendid, beautiful fellow!” They hugged him. They patted him on + the back. They wrung his hands. They prodded and punched his muscles. They + embraced the noble legs that were going to run the unexampled race. At the + opposite end of the room, where it was physically impossible to get near + the hero, the enthusiasm vented itself in feats of strength and acts of + destruction. Hercules I. cleared a space with his elbows, and laid down—and + Hercules II. took him up in his teeth. Hercules III. seized the poker from + the fireplace, and broke it on his arm. Hercules IV. followed with the + tongs, and shattered them on his neck. The smashing of the furniture and + the pulling down of the house seemed likely to succeed—when + Geoffrey’s eye lighted by accident on Julius, and Geoffrey’s voice, + calling fiercely for his brother, hushed the wild assembly into sudden + attention, and turned the fiery enthusiasm into a new course. Hooray for + his brother! One, two, three—and up with his brother on our + shoulders! Four five, six—and on with his brother, over our heads, + to the other end of the room! See, boys—see! the hero has got him by + the collar! the hero has lifted him on the table! The hero heated red-hot + with his own triumph, welcomes the poor little snob cheerfully, with a + volley of oaths. “Thunder and lightning! Explosion and blood! What’s up + now, Julius? What’s up now?” + </p> + <p> + Julius recovered his breath, and arranged his coat. The quiet little man, + who had just muscle enough to lift a dictionary from the shelf, and just + training enough to play the fiddle, so far from being daunted by the rough + reception accorded to him, appeared to feel no other sentiment in relation + to it than a sentiment of unmitigated contempt. + </p> + <p> + “You’re not frightened, are you?” said Geoffrey. “Our fellows are a + roughish lot, but they mean well.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not frightened,” answered Julius. “I am only wondering—when + the Schools and Universities of England turn out such a set of ruffians as + these—how long the Schools and Universities of England will last.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind what you are about, Julius! They’ll cart you out of window if they + hear you.” + </p> + <p> + “They will only confirm my opinion of them, Geoffrey, if they do.” + </p> + <p> + Here the assembly, seeing but not hearing the colloquy between the two + brothers, became uneasy on the subject of the coming race. A roar of + voices summoned Geoffrey to announce it, if there was any thing wrong. + Having pacified the meeting, Geoffrey turned again to his brother, and + asked him, in no amiable mood, what the devil he wanted there? + </p> + <p> + “I want to tell you something, before I go back to Scotland,” answered + Julius. “My father is willing to give you a last chance. If you don’t take + it, <i>my</i> doors are closed against you as well as <i>his.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Nothing is more remarkable, in its way, than the sound common-sense and + admirable self-restraint exhibited by the youth of the present time when + confronted by an emergency in which their own interests are concerned. + Instead of resenting the tone which his brother had taken with him, + Geoffrey instantly descended from the pedestal of glory on which he stood, + and placed himself without a struggle in the hands which vicariously held + his destiny—otherwise, the hands which vicariously held the purse. + In five minutes more the meeting had been dismissed, with all needful + assurances relating to Geoffrey’s share in the coming Sports—and the + two brothers were closeted together in one of the private rooms of the + inn. + </p> + <p> + “Out with it!” said Geoffrey. “And don’t be long about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t be five minutes,” replied Julius. “I go back to-night by the + mail-train; and I have a great deal to do in the mean time. Here it is, in + plain words: My father consents to see you again, if you choose to settle + in life—with his approval. And my mother has discovered where you + may find a wife. Birth, beauty, and money are all offered to you. Take + them—and you recover your position as Lord Holchester’s son. Refuse + them—and you go to ruin your own way.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s reception of the news from home was not of the most reassuring + kind. Instead of answering he struck his fist furiously on the table, and + cursed with all his heart some absent woman unnamed. + </p> + <p> + “I have nothing to do with any degrading connection which you may have + formed,” Julius went on. “I have only to put the matter before you exactly + as it stands, and to leave you to decide for yourself. The lady in + question was formerly Miss Newenden—a descendant of one of the + oldest families in England. She is now Mrs. Glenarm—the young widow + (and the childless widow) of the great iron-master of that name. Birth and + fortune—she unites both. Her income is a clear ten thousand a year. + My father can and will, make it fifteen thousand, if you are lucky enough + to persuade her to marry you. My mother answers for her personal + qualities. And my wife has met her at our house in London. She is now, as + I hear, staying with some friends in Scotland; and when I get back I will + take care that an invitation is sent to her to pay her next visit at my + house. It remains, of course, to be seen whether you are fortunate enough + to produce a favorable impression on her. In the mean time you will be + doing every thing that my father can ask of you, if you make the attempt.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey impatiently dismissed that part of the question from all + consideration. + </p> + <p> + “If she don’t cotton to a man who’s going to run in the Great Race at + Fulham,” he said, “there are plenty as good as she is who will! That’s not + the difficulty. Bother <i>that!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you again, I have nothing to do with your difficulties,” Julius + resumed. “Take the rest of the day to consider what I have said to you. If + you decide to accept the proposal, I shall expect you to prove you are in + earnest by meeting me at the station to-night. We will travel back to + Scotland together. You will complete your interrupted visit at Lady + Lundie’s (it is important, in my interests, that you should treat a person + of her position in the county with all due respect); and my wife will make + the necessary arrangements with Mrs. Glenarm, in anticipation of your + return to our house. There is nothing more to be said, and no further + necessity of my staying here. If you join me at the station to-night, your + sister-in-law and I will do all we can to help you. If I travel back to + Scotland alone, don’t trouble yourself to follow—I have done with + you.” He shook hands with his brother, and went out. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Geoffrey lit his pipe and sent for the landlord. + </p> + <p> + “Get me a boat. I shall scull myself up the river for an hour or two. And + put in some towels. I may take a swim.” + </p> + <p> + The landlord received the order—with a caution addressed to his + illustrious guest. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t show yourself in front of the house, Sir! If you let the people see + you, they’re in such a state of excitement, the police won’t answer for + keeping them in order.” + </p> + <p> + “All right. I’ll go out by the back way.” + </p> + <p> + He took a turn up and down the room. What were the difficulties to be + overcome before he could profit by the golden prospect which his brother + had offered to him? The Sports? No! The committee had promised to defer + the day, if he wished it—and a month’s training, in his physical + condition, would be amply enough for him. Had he any personal objection to + trying his luck with Mrs. Glenarm? Not he! Any woman would do—provided + his father was satisfied, and the money was all right. The obstacle which + was really in his way was the obstacle of the woman whom he had ruined. + Anne! The one insuperable difficulty was the difficulty of dealing with + Anne. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll see how it looks,” he said to himself, “after a pull up the river!” + </p> + <p> + The landlord and the police inspector smuggled him out by the back way + unknown to the expectant populace in front The two men stood on the + river-bank admiring him, as he pulled away from them, with his long, + powerful, easy, beautiful stroke. + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I call the pride and flower of England!” said the inspector. + “Has the betting on him begun?” + </p> + <p> + “Six to four,” said the landlord, “and no takers.” + </p> + <p> + Julius went early to the station that night. His mother was very anxious. + “Don’t let Geoffrey find an excuse in your example,” she said, “if he is + late.” + </p> + <p> + The first person whom Julius saw on getting out of the carriage was + Geoffrey—with his ticket taken, and his portmanteau in charge of the + guard. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0024" id="link2H_4_0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOURTH SCENE.—WINDYGATES. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0017" id="link2HCH0017"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE SEVENTEENTH + </h2> + <h3> + NEAR IT. + </h3> + <p> + THE Library at Windygates was the largest and the handsomest room in the + house. The two grand divisions under which Literature is usually arranged + in these days occupied the customary places in it. On the shelves which + ran round the walls were the books which humanity in general respects—and + does not read. On the tables distributed over the floor were the books + which humanity in general reads—and does not respect. In the first + class, the works of the wise ancients; and the Histories, Biographies, and + Essays of writers of more modern times—otherwise the Solid + Literature, which is universally respected, and occasionally read. In the + second class, the Novels of our own day—otherwise the Light + Literature, which is universally read, and occasionally respected. At + Windygates, as elsewhere, we believed History to be high literature, + because it assumed to be true to Authorities (of which we knew little)—and + Fiction to be low literature, because it attempted to be true to Nature + (of which we knew less). At Windygates as elsewhere, we were always more + or less satisfied with ourselves, if we were publicly discovered + consulting our History—and more or less ashamed of ourselves, if we + were publicly discovered devouring our Fiction. An architectural + peculiarity in the original arrangement of the library favored the + development of this common and curious form of human stupidity. While a + row of luxurious arm-chairs, in the main thoroughfare of the room, invited + the reader of solid literature to reveal himself in the act of cultivating + a virtue, a row of snug little curtained recesses, opening at intervals + out of one of the walls, enabled the reader of light literature to conceal + himself in the act of indulging a vice. For the rest, all the minor + accessories of this spacious and tranquil place were as plentiful and as + well chosen as the heart could desire. And solid literature and light + literature, and great writers and small, were all bounteously illuminated + alike by a fine broad flow of the light of heaven, pouring into the room + through windows that opened to the floor. + </p> + <p> + It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie’s garden-party, and it + wanted an hour or more of the time at which the luncheon-bell usually + rang. + </p> + <p> + The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden, enjoying the + morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain for some days past. Two + gentlemen (exceptions to the general rule) were alone in the library. They + were the two last gentlemen in the would who could possibly be supposed to + have any legitimate motive for meeting each other in a place of literary + seclusion. One was Arnold Brinkworth, and the other was Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + They had arrived together at Windygates that morning. Geoffrey had + traveled from London with his brother by the train of the previous night. + Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time, from his own property, by + ceremonies incidental to his position which were not to be abridged + without giving offense to many worthy people—had caught the passing + train early that morning at the station nearest to him, and had returned + to Lady Lundie’s, as he had left Lady Lundie’s, in company with his + friend. + </p> + <p> + After a short preliminary interview with Blanche, Arnold had rejoined + Geoffrey in the safe retirement of the library, to say what was still left + to be said between them on the subject of Anne. Having completed his + report of events at Craig Fernie, he was now naturally waiting to hear + what Geoffrey had to say on his side. To Arnold’s astonishment, Geoffrey + coolly turned away to leave the library without uttering a word. + </p> + <p> + Arnold stopped him without ceremony. + </p> + <p> + “Not quite so fast, Geoffrey,” he said. “I have an interest in Miss + Silvester’s welfare as well as in yours. Now you are back again in + Scotland, what are you going to do?” + </p> + <p> + If Geoffrey had told the truth, he must have stated his position much as + follows: + </p> + <p> + He had necessarily decided on deserting Anne when he had decided on + joining his brother on the journey back. But he had advanced no farther + than this. How he was to abandon the woman who had trusted him, without + seeing his own dastardly conduct dragged into the light of day, was more + than he yet knew. A vague idea of at once pacifying and deluding Anne, by + a marriage which should be no marriage at all, had crossed his mind on the + journey. He had asked himself whether a trap of that sort might not be + easily set in a country notorious for the looseness of its marriage laws—if + a man only knew how? And he had thought it likely that his well-informed + brother, who lived in Scotland, might be tricked into innocently telling + him what he wanted to know. He had turned the conversation to the subject + of Scotch marriages in general by way of trying the experiment. Julius had + not studied the question; Julius knew nothing about it; and there the + experiment had come to an end. As the necessary result of the check thus + encountered, he was now in Scotland with absolutely nothing to trust to as + a means of effecting his release but the chapter of accidents, aided by + his own resolution to marry Mrs. Glenarm. Such was his position, and such + should have been the substance of his reply when he was confronted by + Arnold’s question, and plainly asked what he meant to do. + </p> + <p> + “The right thing,” he answered, unblushingly. “And no mistake about it.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m glad to hear you see your way so plainly,” returned Arnold. “In your + place, I should have been all abroad. I was wondering, only the other day, + whether you would end, as I should have ended, in consulting Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey eyed him sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Consult Sir Patrick?” he repeated. “Why would you have done that?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> shouldn’t have known how to set about marrying her,” replied + Arnold. “And—being in Scotland—I should have applied to Sir + Patrick (without mentioning names, of course), because he would be sure to + know all about it.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I don’t see my way quite so plainly as you think,” said Geoffrey. + “Would you advise me—” + </p> + <p> + “To consult Sir Patrick? Certainly! He has passed his life in the practice + of the Scotch law. Didn’t you know that?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then take my advice—and consult him. You needn’t mention names. You + can say it’s the case of a friend.” + </p> + <p> + The idea was a new one and a good one. Geoffrey looked longingly toward + the door. Eager to make Sir Patrick his innocent accomplice on the spot, + he made a second attempt to leave the library; and made it for the second + time in vain. Arnold had more unwelcome inquiries to make, and more advice + to give unasked. + </p> + <p> + “How have you arranged about meeting Miss Silvester?” he went on. “You + can’t go to the hotel in the character of her husband. I have prevented + that. Where else are you to meet her? She is all alone; she must be weary + of waiting, poor thing. Can you manage matters so as to see her to-day?” + </p> + <p> + After staring hard at Arnold while he was speaking, Geoffrey burst out + laughing when he had done. A disinterested anxiety for the welfare of + another person was one of those refinements of feeling which a muscular + education had not fitted him to understand. + </p> + <p> + “I say, old boy,” he burst out, “you seem to take an extraordinary + interest in Miss Silvester! You haven’t fallen in love with her yourself—have + you?” + </p> + <p> + “Come! come!” said Arnold, seriously. “Neither she nor I deserve to be + sneered at, in that way. I have made a sacrifice to your interests, + Geoffrey—and so has she.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s face became serious again. His secret was in Arnold’s hands; + and his estimate of Arnold’s character was founded, unconsciously, on his + experience of himself. “All right,” he said, by way of timely apology and + concession. “I was only joking.” + </p> + <p> + “As much joking as you please, when you have married her,” replied Arnold. + “It seems serious enough, to my mind, till then.” He stopped—considered—and + laid his hand very earnestly on Geoffrey’s arm. “Mind!” he resumed. “You + are not to breathe a word to any living soul, of my having been near the + inn!” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve promised to hold my tongue, once already. What do you want more?” + </p> + <p> + “I am anxious, Geoffrey. I was at Craig Fernie, remember, when Blanche + came there! She has been telling me all that happened, poor darling, in + the firm persuasion that I was miles off at the time. I swear I couldn’t + look her in the face! What would she think of me, if she knew the truth? + Pray be careful! pray be careful!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s patience began to fail him. + </p> + <p> + “We had all this out,” he said, “on the way here from the station. What’s + the good of going over the ground again?” + </p> + <p> + “You’re quite right,” said Arnold, good-humoredly. “The fact is—I’m + out of sorts, this morning. My mind misgives me—I don’t know why.” + </p> + <p> + “Mind?” repeated Geoffrey, in high contempt. “It’s flesh—that’s + what’s the matter with <i>you.</i> You’re nigh on a stone over your right + weight. Mind he hanged! A man in healthy training don’t know that he has + got a mind. Take a turn with the dumb-bells, and a run up hill with a + great-coat on. Sweat it off, Arnold! Sweat it off!” + </p> + <p> + With that excellent advice, he turned to leave the room for the third + time. Fate appeared to have determined to keep him imprisoned in the + library, that morning. On this occasion, it was a servant who got in the + way—a servant, with a letter and a message. “The man waits for + answer.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked at the letter. It was in his brother’s handwriting. He had + left Julius at the junction about three hours since. What could Julius + possibly have to say to him now? + </p> + <p> + He opened the letter. Julius had to announce that Fortune was favoring + them already. He had heard news of Mrs. Glenarm, as soon as he reached + home. She had called on his wife, during his absence in London—she + had been inv ited to the house—and she had promised to accept the + invitation early in the week. “Early in the week,” Julius wrote, “may mean + to-morrow. Make your apologies to Lady Lundie; and take care not to offend + her. Say that family reasons, which you hope soon to have the pleasure of + confiding to her, oblige you to appeal once more to her indulgence—and + come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + Even Geoffrey was startled, when he found himself met by a sudden + necessity for acting on his own decision. Anne knew where his brother + lived. Suppose Anne (not knowing where else to find him) appeared at his + brother’s house, and claimed him in the presence of Mrs. Glenarm? He gave + orders to have the messenger kept waiting, and said he would send back a + written reply. + </p> + <p> + “From Craig Fernie?” asked Arnold, pointing to the letter in his friend’s + hand. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked up with a frown. He had just opened his lips to answer + that ill-timed reference to Anne, in no very friendly terms, when a voice, + calling to Arnold from the lawn outside, announced the appearance of a + third person in the library, and warned the two gentlemen that their + private interview was at an end. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0018" id="link2HCH0018"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + NEARER STILL. + </h3> + <p> + BLANCHE stepped lightly into the room, through one of the open French + windows. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here?” she said to Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. I was just going to look for you in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “The garden is insufferable, this morning.” Saying those words, she fanned + herself with her handkerchief, and noticed Geoffrey’s presence in the room + with a look of very thinly-concealed annoyance at the discovery. “Wait + till I am married!” she thought. “Mr. Delamayn will be cleverer than I + take him to be, if he gets much of his friend’s company <i>then!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “A trifle too hot—eh?” said Geoffrey, seeing her eyes fixed on him, + and supposing that he was expected to say something. + </p> + <p> + Having performed that duty he walked away without waiting for a reply; and + seated himself with his letter, at one of the writing-tables in the + library. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick is quite right about the young men of the present day,” said + Blanche, turning to Arnold. “Here is this one asks me a question, and + doesn’t wait for an answer. There are three more of them, out in the + garden, who have been talking of nothing, for the last hour, but the + pedigrees of horses and the muscles of men. When we are married, Arnold, + don’t present any of your male friends to me, unless they have turned + fifty. What shall we do till luncheon-time? It’s cool and quiet in here + among the books. I want a mild excitement—and I have got absolutely + nothing to do. Suppose you read me some poetry?” + </p> + <p> + “While <i>he</i> is here?” asked Arnold, pointing to the personified + antithesis of poetry—otherwise to Geoffrey, seated with his back to + them at the farther end of the library. + </p> + <p> + “Pooh!” said Blanche. “There’s only an animal in the room. We needn’t mind + <i>him!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I say!” exclaimed Arnold. “You’re as bitter, this morning, as Sir Patrick + himself. What will you say to Me when we are married if you talk in that + way of my friend?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche stole her hand into Arnold’s hand and gave it a little significant + squeeze. “I shall always be nice to <i>you,</i>” she whispered—with + a look that contained a host of pretty promises in itself. Arnold returned + the look (Geoffrey was unquestionably in the way!). Their eyes met + tenderly (why couldn’t the great awkward brute write his letters somewhere + else?). With a faint little sigh, Blanche dropped resignedly into one of + the comfortable arm-chairs—and asked once more for “some poetry,” in + a voice that faltered softly, and with a color that was brighter than + usual. + </p> + <p> + “Whose poetry am I to read?” inquired Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Any body’s,” said Blanche. “This is another of my impulses. I am dying + for some poetry. I don’t know whose poetry. And I don’t know why.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold went straight to the nearest book-shelf, and took down the first + volume that his hand lighted on—a solid quarto, bound in sober + brown. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asked Blanche. “What have you found?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold opened the volume, and conscientiously read the title exactly as it + stood: + </p> + <p> + “Paradise Lost. A Poem. By John Milton.” + </p> + <p> + “I have never read Milton,” said Blanche. “Have you?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Another instance of sympathy between us. No educated person ought to be + ignorant of Milton. Let us be educated persons. Please begin.” + </p> + <p> + “At the beginning?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course! Stop! You musn’t sit all that way off—you must sit where + I can look at you. My attention wanders if I don’t look at people while + they read.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold took a stool at Blanche’s feet, and opened the “First Book” of + Paradise Lost. His “system” as a reader of blank verse was simplicity + itself. In poetry we are some of us (as many living poets can testify) all + for sound; and some of us (as few living poets can testify) all for sense. + Arnold was for sound. He ended every line inexorably with a full stop; and + he got on to his full stop as fast as the inevitable impediment of the + words would let him. He began: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Of Man’s first disobedience and the fruit. + Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste. + Brought death into the world and all our woe. + With loss of Eden till one greater Man. + Restore us and regain the blissful seat. + Sing heavenly Muse—” + </pre> + <p> + “Beautiful!” said Blanche. “What a shame it seems to have had Milton all + this time in the library and never to have read him yet! We will have + Mornings with Milton, Arnold. He seems long; but we are both young, and we + <i>may</i> live to get to the end of him. Do you know dear, now I look at + you again, you don’t seem to have come back to Windygates in good + spirits.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t I? I can’t account for it.” + </p> + <p> + “I can. It’s sympathy with Me. I am out of spirits too.” + </p> + <p> + “You!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. After what I saw at Craig Fernie, I grow more and more uneasy about + Anne. You will understand that, I am sure, after what I told you this + morning?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold looked back, in a violent hurry, from Blanche to Milton. That + renewed reference to events at Craig Fernie was a renewed reproach to him + for his conduct at the inn. He attempted to silence her by pointing to + Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t forget,” he whispered, “that there is somebody in the room besides + ourselves.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche shrugged her shoulders contemptuously. + </p> + <p> + “What does <i>he</i> matter?” she asked. “What does <i>he</i> know or care + about Anne?” + </p> + <p> + There was only one other chance of diverting her from the delicate + subject. Arnold went on reading headlong, two lines in advance of the + place at which he had left off, with more sound and less sense than ever: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In the beginning how the heavens and earth. + Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill—” + </pre> + <p> + At “Sion hill,” Blanche interrupted him again. + </p> + <p> + “Do wait a little, Arnold. I can’t have Milton crammed down my throat in + that way. Besides I had something to say. Did I tell you that I consulted + my uncle about Anne? I don’t think I did. I caught him alone in this very + room. I told him all I have told you. I showed him Anne’s letter. And I + said, ‘What do you think?’ He took a little time (and a great deal of + snuff) before he would say what he thought. When he did speak, he told me + I might quite possibly be right in suspecting Anne’s husband to be a very + abominable person. His keeping himself out of my way was (just as I + thought) a suspicious circumstance, to begin with. And then there was the + sudden extinguishing of the candles, when I first went in. I thought (and + Mrs. Inchbare thought) it was done by the wind. Sir Patrick suspects it + was done by the horrid man himself, to prevent me from seeing him when I + entered the room. I am firmly persuaded Sir Patrick is right. What do <i>you</i> + think?” + </p> + <p> + “I think we had better go on,” said Arnold, with his head down over his + book. “We seem to be forgetting Milton.” + </p> + <p> + “How you do worry about Milton! That last bit wasn’t as interesting as the + other. Is there any love in Paradise Lost?” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps we may find some if we go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, then. Go on. And be quick about it.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold was <i>so</i> quick about it that he lost his place. Instead of + going on he went back. He read once more: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “In the beginning how the heavens and earth. + Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill—” + </pre> + <p> + “You read that before,” said Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “I think not.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure you did. When you said ‘Sion hill’ I recollect I thought of the + Methodists directly. I couldn’t have thought of the Methodists, if you + hadn’t said ‘Sion hill.’ It stands to reason.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll try the next page,” said Arnold. “I can’t have read that before—for + I haven’t turned over yet.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche threw herself back in her chair, and flung her handkerchief + resignedly over her face. “The flies,” she explained. “I’m not going to + sleep. Try the next page. Oh, dear me, try the next page!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold proceeded: + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + “Say first for heaven hides nothing from thy view. + Nor the deep tract of hell say first what cause. + Moved our grand parents in that happy state—” + </pre> + <p> + Blanche suddenly threw the handkerchief off again, and sat bolt upright in + her chair. “Shut it up,” she cried. “I can’t bear any more. Leave off, + Arnold—leave off!” + </p> + <p> + “What’s, the matter now?” + </p> + <p> + “‘That happy state,’” said Blanche. “What does ‘that happy state’ mean? + Marriage, of course! And marriage reminds me of Anne. I won’t have any + more. Paradise Lost is painful. Shut it up. Well, my next question to Sir + Patrick was, of course, to know what he thought Anne’s husband had done. + The wretch had behaved infamously to her in some way. In what way? Was it + any thing to do with her marriage? My uncle considered again. He thought + it quite possible. Private marriages were dangerous things (he said)—especially + in Scotland. He asked me if they had been married in Scotland. I couldn’t + tell him—I only said, ‘Suppose they were? What then?’ ‘It’s barely + possible, in that case,’ says Sir Patrick, ‘that Miss Silvester may be + feeling uneasy about her marriage. She may even have reason—or may + think she has reason—to doubt whether it is a marriage at all.’” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started, and looked round at Geoffrey still sitting at the + writing-table with his back turned on them. Utterly as Blanche and Sir + Patrick were mistaken in their estimate of Anne’s position at Craig + Fernie, they had drifted, nevertheless, into discussing the very question + in which Geoffrey and Miss Silvester were interested—the question of + marriage in Scotland. It was impossible in Blanche’s presence to tell + Geoffrey that he might do well to listen to Sir Patrick’s opinion, even at + second-hand. Perhaps the words had found their way to him? perhaps he was + listening already, of his own accord? + </p> + <p> + (He <i>was</i> listening. Blanche’s last words had found their way to him, + while he was pondering over his half-finished letter to his brother. He + waited to hear more—without moving, and with the pen suspended in + his hand.) + </p> + <p> + Blanche proceeded, absently winding her fingers in and out of Arnold’s + hair as he sat at her feet: + </p> + <p> + “It flashed on me instantly that Sir Patrick had discovered the truth. Of + course I told him so. He laughed, and said I mustn’t jump at conclusions + We were guessing quite in the dark; and all the distressing things I had + noticed at the inn might admit of some totally different explanation. He + would have gone on splitting straws in that provoking way the whole + morning if I hadn’t stopped him. I was strictly logical. I said <i>I</i> + had seen Anne, and <i>he</i> hadn’t—and that made all the + difference. I said, ‘Every thing that puzzled and frightened me in the + poor darling is accounted for now. The law must, and shall, reach that + man, uncle—and I’ll pay for it!’ I was so much in earnest that I + believe I cried a little. What do you think the dear old man did? He took + me on his knee and gave me a kiss; and he said, in the nicest way, that he + would adopt my view, for the present, if I would promise not to cry any + more; and—wait! the cream of it is to come!—that he would put + the view in quite a new light to me as soon as I was composed again. You + may imagine how soon I dried my eyes, and what a picture of composure I + presented in the course of half a minute. ‘Let us take it for granted,’ + says Sir Patrick, ‘that this man unknown has really tried to deceive Miss + Silvester, as you and I suppose. I can tell you one thing: it’s as likely + as not that, in trying to overreach <i>her,</i> he may (without in the + least suspecting it) have ended in overreaching himself.’” + </p> + <p> + (Geoffrey held his breath. The pen dropped unheeded from his fingers. It + was coming. The light that his brother couldn’t throw on the subject was + dawning on it at last!) + </p> + <p> + Blanche resumed: + </p> + <p> + “I was so interested, and it made such a tremendous impression on me, that + I haven’t forgotten a word. ‘I mustn’t make that poor little head of yours + ache with Scotch law,’ my uncle said; ‘I must put it plainly. There are + marriages allowed in Scotland, Blanche, which are called Irregular + Marriages—and very abominable things they are. But they have this + accidental merit in the present case. It is extremely difficult for a man + to pretend to marry in Scotland, and not really to do it. And it is, on + the other hand, extremely easy for a man to drift into marrying in + Scotland without feeling the slightest suspicion of having done it + himself.’ That was exactly what he said, Arnold. When <i>we</i> are + married, it sha’n’t be in Scotland!” + </p> + <p> + (Geoffrey’s ruddy color paled. If this was true he might be caught himself + in the trap which he had schemed to set for Anne! Blanche went on with her + narrative. He waited and listened.) + </p> + <p> + “My uncle asked me if I understood him so far. It was as plain as the sun + at noonday, of course I understood him! ‘Very well, then—now for the + application!’ says Sir Patrick. ‘Once more supposing our guess to be the + right one, Miss Silvester may be making herself very unhappy without any + real cause. If this invisible man at Craig Fernie has actually meddled, I + won’t say with marrying her, but only with pretending to make her his + wife, and if he has attempted it in Scotland, the chances are nine to one + (though <i>he</i> may not believe it, and though <i>she</i> may not + believe it) that he has really married her, after all.’ My uncle’s own + words again! Quite needless to say that, half an hour after they were out + of his lips, I had sent them to Craig Fernie in a letter to Anne!” + </p> + <p> + (Geoffrey’s stolidly-staring eyes suddenly brightened. A light of the + devil’s own striking illuminated him. An idea of the devil’s own bringing + entered his mind. He looked stealthily round at the man whose life he had + saved—at the man who had devotedly served him in return. A hideous + cunning leered at his mouth and peeped out of his eyes. “Arnold Brinkworth + pretended to be married to her at the inn. By the lord Harry! that’s a way + out of it that never struck me before!” With that thought in his heart he + turned back again to his half-finished letter to Julius. For once in his + life he was strongly, fiercely agitated. For once in his life he was + daunted—and that by his Own Thought! He had written to Julius under + a strong sense of the necessity of gaining time to delude Anne into + leaving Scotland before he ventured on paying his addresses to Mrs. + Glenarm. His letter contained a string of clumsy excuses, intended to + delay his return to his brother’s house. “No,” he said to himself, as he + read it again. “Whatever else may do—<i>this</i> won’t!” He looked + round once more at Arnold, and slowly tore the letter into fragments as he + looked.) + </p> + <p> + In the mean time Blanche had not done yet. “No,” she said, when Arnold + proposed an adjournment to the garden; “I have something more to say, and + you are interested in it, this time.” Arnold resigned himself to listen, + and worse still to answer, if there was no help for it, in the character + of an innocent stranger who had never been near the Craig Fernie inn. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” Blanche resumed, “and what do you think has come of my letter to + Anne?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m sure I don’t know.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing has come of it!” + </p> + <p> + “Indeed?” + </p> + <p> + “Absolutely nothing! I know she received the letter yesterday morning. I + ought to have had the answer to-day at breakfast.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps she thought it didn’t require an answer.” + </p> + <p> + “She couldn’t have thought that, for reasons that I know of. Besides, in + my letter yesterday I implored her to tell me (if it was one line only) + whether, in guessing at what her trouble was, Sir Patrick and I had not + guessed right. And here is the day getting on, and no answer! What am I to + conclude?” + </p> + <p> + “I really can’t say!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it possible, Arnold, that we have <i>not</i> guessed right, after all? + Is the wickedness of that man who blew the candles out wickedness beyond + our discovering? The doubt is so dreadful that I have made up my mind not + to bear it after to-day. I count on your sympathy and assistance when + to-morrow comes!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s heart sank. Some new complication was evidently gathering round + him. He waited in silence to hear the worst. Blanche bent forward, and + whispered to him. + </p> + <p> + “This is a secret,” she said. “If that creature at the writing-table has + ears for any thing but rowing and racing, he mustn’t hear this! Anne may + come to me privately to-day while you are all at luncheon. If she doesn’t + come and if I don’t hear from her, then the mystery of her silence must be + cleared up; and You must do it!” + </p> + <p> + “I!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t make difficulties! If you can’t find your way to Craig Fernie, I + can help you. As for Anne, you know what a charming person she is, and you + know she will receive you perfectly, for my sake. I must and will have + some news of her. I can’t break the laws of the household a second time. + Sir Patrick sympathizes, but he won’t stir. Lady Lundie is a bitter enemy. + The servants are threatened with the loss of their places if any one of + them goes near Anne. There is nobody but you. And to Anne you go + to-morrow, if I don’t see her or hear from her to-day!” + </p> + <p> + This to the man who had passed as Anne’s husband at the inn, and who had + been forced into the most intimate knowledge of Anne’s miserable secret! + Arnold rose to put Milton away, with the composure of sheer despair. Any + other secret he might, in the last resort, have confided to the discretion + of a third person. But a woman’s secret—with a woman’s reputation + depending on his keeping it—was not to be confided to any body, + under any stress of circumstances whatever. “If Geoffrey doesn’t get me + out of <i>this,</i>,” he thought, “I shall have no choice but to leave + Windygates to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + As he replaced the book on the shelf, Lady Lundie entered the library from + the garden. + </p> + <p> + “What are you doing here?” she said to her step-daughter. + </p> + <p> + “Improving my mind,” replied Blanche. “Mr. Brinkworth and I have been + reading Milton.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you condescend so far, after reading Milton all the morning, as to + help me with the invitations for the dinner next week?” + </p> + <p> + “If <i>you</i> can condescend, Lady Lundie, after feeding the poultry all + the morning, I must be humility itself after only reading Milton!” + </p> + <p> + With that little interchange of the acid amenities of feminine + intercourse, step-mother and step-daughter withdrew to a writing-table, to + put the virtue of hospitality in practice together. + </p> + <p> + Arnold joined his friend at the other end of the library. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey was sitting with his elbows on the desk, and his clenched fists + dug into his cheeks. Great drops of perspiration stood on his forehead, + and the fragments of a torn letter lay scattered all round him. He + exhibited symptoms of nervous sensibility for the first time in his life—he + started when Arnold spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + “What’s the matter, Geoffrey?” + </p> + <p> + “A letter to answer. And I don’t know how.” + </p> + <p> + “From Miss Silvester?” asked Arnold, dropping his voice so as to prevent + the ladies at the other end of the room from hearing him. + </p> + <p> + “No,” answered Geoffrey, in a lower voice still. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard what Blanche has been saying to me about Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + “Some of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear Blanche say that she meant to send me to Craig Fernie + to-morrow, if she failed to get news from Miss Silvester to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then you know it now. That is what Blanche has just said to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—there’s a limit to what a man can expect even from his best + friend. I hope you won’t ask me to be Blanche’s messenger to-morrow. I + can’t, and won’t, go back to the inn as things are now.” + </p> + <p> + “You have had enough of it—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “I have had enough of distressing Miss Silvester, and more than enough of + deceiving Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean by ‘distressing Miss Silvester?’” + </p> + <p> + “She doesn’t take the same easy view that you and I do, Geoffrey, of my + passing her off on the people of the inn as my wife.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey absently took up a paper-knife. Still with his head down, he + began shaving off the topmost layer of paper from the blotting-pad under + his hand. Still with his head down, he abruptly broke the silence in a + whisper. + </p> + <p> + “I say!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “How did you manage to pass her off as your wife?” + </p> + <p> + “I told you how, as we were driving from the station here.” + </p> + <p> + “I was thinking of something else. Tell me again.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold told him once more what had happened at the inn. Geoffrey listened, + without making any remark. He balanced the paper-knife vacantly on one of + his fingers. He was strangely sluggish and strangely silent. + </p> + <p> + “All <i>that</i> is done and ended,” said Arnold shaking him by the + shoulder. “It rests with you now to get me out of the difficulty I’m + placed in with Blanche. Things must be settled with Miss Silvester + to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Things <i>shall</i> be settled.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall be? What are you waiting for?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m waiting to do what you told me.” + </p> + <p> + “What I told you?” + </p> + <p> + “Didn’t you tell me to consult Sir Patrick before I married her?” + </p> + <p> + “To be sure! so I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Well—I am waiting for a chance with Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “And then?” + </p> + <p> + “And then—” He looked at Arnold for the first time. “Then,” he said, + “you may consider it settled.” + </p> + <p> + “The marriage?” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly looked down again at the blotting-pad. “Yes—the + marriage.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold offered his hand in congratulation. Geoffrey never noticed it. His + eyes were off the blotting-pad again. He was looking out of the window + near him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t I hear voices outside?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I believe our friends are in the garden,” said Arnold. “Sir Patrick may + be among them. I’ll go and see.” + </p> + <p> + The instant his back was turned Geoffrey snatched up a sheet of + note-paper. “Before I forget it!” he said to himself. He wrote the word + “Memorandum” at the top of the page, and added these lines beneath it: + </p> + <p> + “He asked for her by the name of his wife at the door. He said, at dinner, + before the landlady and the waiter, ‘I take these rooms for my wife.’ He + made <i>her</i> say he was her husband at the same time. After that he + stopped all night. What do the lawyers call this in Scotland?—(Query: + a marriage?)” + </p> + <p> + After folding up the paper he hesitated for a moment. “No!” he thought, + “It won’t do to trust to what Miss Lundie said about it. I can’t be + certain till I have consulted Sir Patrick himself.” + </p> + <p> + He put the paper away in his pocket, and wiped the heavy perspiration from + his forehead. He was pale—for <i>him,</i> strikingly pale—when + Arnold came back. + </p> + <p> + “Any thing wrong, Geoffrey?—you’re as white as ashes.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s the heat. Where’s Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “You may see for yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold pointed to the window. Sir Patrick was crossing the lawn, on his + way to the library with a newspaper in his hand; and the guests at + Windygates were accompanying him. Sir Patrick was smiling, and saying + nothing. The guests were talking excitedly at the tops of their voices. + There had apparently been a collision of some kind between the old school + and the new. Arnold directed Geoffrey’s attention to the state of affairs + on the lawn. + </p> + <p> + “How are you to consult Sir Patrick with all those people about him?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll consult Sir Patrick, if I take him by the scruff of the neck and + carry him into the next county!” He rose to his feet as he spoke those + words, and emphasized them under his breath with an oath. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick entered the library, with the guests at his heels. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0019" id="link2HCH0019"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE NINETEENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + CLOSE ON IT. + </h3> + <p> + THE object of the invasion of the library by the party in the garden + appeared to be twofold. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick had entered the room to restore the newspaper to the place + from which he had taken it. The guests, to the number of five, had + followed him, to appeal in a body to Geoffrey Delamayn. Between these two + apparently dissimilar motives there was a connection, not visible on the + surface, which was now to assert itself. + </p> + <p> + Of the five guests, two were middle-aged gentlemen belonging to that + large, but indistinct, division of the human family whom the hand of + Nature has painted in unobtrusive neutral tint. They had absorbed the + ideas of their time with such receptive capacity as they possessed; and + they occupied much the same place in society which the chorus in an opera + occupies on the stage. They echoed the prevalent sentiment of the moment; + and they gave the solo-talker time to fetch his breath. + </p> + <p> + The three remaining guests were on the right side of thirty. All + profoundly versed in horse-racing, in athletic sports, in pipes, beer, + billiards, and betting. All profoundly ignorant of every thing else under + the sun. All gentlemen by birth, and all marked as such by the stamp of “a + University education.” They may be personally described as faint + reflections of Geoffrey; and they may be numerically distinguished (in the + absence of all other distinction) as One, Two, and Three. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick laid the newspaper on the table and placed himself in one of + the comfortable arm-chairs. He was instantly assailed, in his domestic + capacity, by his irrepressible sister-in-law. Lady Lundie dispatched + Blanche to him with the list of her guests at the dinner. “For your + uncle’s approval, my dear, as head of the family.” + </p> + <p> + While Sir Patrick was looking over the list, and while Arnold was making + his way to Blanche, at the back of her uncle’s chair, One, Two, and Three—with + the Chorus in attendance on them—descended in a body on Geoffrey, at + the other end of the room, and appealed in rapid succession to his + superior authority, as follows: + </p> + <p> + “I say, Delamayn. We want You. Here is Sir Patrick running a regular Muck + at us. Calls us aboriginal Britons. Tells us we ain’t educated. Doubts if + we could read, write, and cipher, if he tried us. Swears he’s sick of + fellows showing their arms and legs, and seeing which fellow’s hardest, + and who’s got three belts of muscle across his wind, and who hasn’t, and + the like of that. Says a most infernal thing of a chap. Says—because + a chap likes a healthy out-of-door life, and trains for rowing and + running, and the rest of it, and don’t see his way to stewing over his + books—<i>therefore</i> he’s safe to commit all the crimes in the + calendar, murder included. Saw your name down in the newspaper for the + Foot-Race; and said, when we asked him if he’d taken the odds, he’d lay + any odds we liked against you in the other Race at the University—meaning, + old boy, your Degree. Nasty, that about the Degree—in the opinion of + Number One. Bad taste in Sir Patrick to rake up what we never mention + among ourselves—in the opinion of Number Two. Un-English to sneer at + a man in that way behind his back—in the opinion of Number Three. + Bring him to book, Delamayn. Your name’s in the papers; he can’t ride + roughshod over You.” + </p> + <p> + The two choral gentlemen agreed (in the minor key) with the general + opinion. “Sir Patrick’s views are certainly extreme, Smith?” “I think, + Jones, it’s desirable to hear Mr. Delamayn on the other side.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked from one to the other of his admirers with an expression + on his face which was quite new to them, and with something in his manner + which puzzled them all. + </p> + <p> + “You can’t argue with Sir Patrick yourselves,” he said, “and you want me + to do it?” + </p> + <p> + One, Two, Three, and the Chorus all answered, “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t do it.” + </p> + <p> + One, Two, Three, and the Chorus all asked, “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Because,” answered Geoffrey, “you’re all wrong. And Sir Patrick’s right.” + </p> + <p> + Not astonishment only, but downright stupefaction, struck the deputation + from the garden speechless. + </p> + <p> + Without saying a word more to any of the persons standing near him, + Geoffrey walked straight up to Sir Patrick’s arm-chair, and personally + addressed him. The satellites followed, and listened (as well they might) + in wonder. + </p> + <p> + “You will lay any odds, Sir,” said Geoffrey “against me taking my Degree? + You’re quite right. I sha’n’t take my Degree. You doubt whether I, or any + of those fellows behind me, could read, write, and cipher correctly if you + tried us. You’re right again—we couldn’t. You say you don’t know why + men like Me, and men like Them, may not begin with rowing and running and + the like of that, and end in committing all the crimes in the calendar: + murder included. Well! you may be right again there. Who’s to know what + may happen to him? or what he may not end in doing before he dies? It may + be Another, or it may be Me. How do I know? and how do you?” He suddenly + turned on the deputation, standing thunder-struck behind him. “If you want + to know what I think, there it is for you, in plain words.” + </p> + <p> + There was something, not only in the shamelessness of the declaration + itself, but in the fierce pleasure that the speaker seemed to feel in + making it, which struck the circle of listeners, Sir Patrick included, + with a momentary chill. + </p> + <p> + In the midst of the silence a sixth guest appeared on the lawn, and + stepped into the library—a silent, resolute, unassuming, elderly man + who had arrived the day before on a visit to Windygates, and who was well + known, in and out of London, as one of the first consulting surgeons of + his time. + </p> + <p> + “A discussion going on?” he asked. “Am I in the way?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no discussion—we are all agreed,” cried Geoffrey, answering + boisterously for the rest. “The more the merrier, Sir!” + </p> + <p> + After a glance at Geoffrey, the surgeon suddenly checked himself on the + point of advancing to the inner part of the room, and remained standing at + the window. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon,” said Sir Patrick, addressing himself to Geoffrey, + with a grave dignity which was quite new in Arnold’s experience of him. + “We are not all agreed. I decline, Mr. Delamayn, to allow you to connect + me with such an expression of feeling on your part as we have just heard. + The language you have used leaves me no alternative but to meet your + statement of what you suppose me to have said by my statement of what I + really did say. It is not my fault if the discussion in the garden is + revived before another audience in this room—it is yours.” + </p> + <p> + He looked as he spoke to Arnold and Blanche, and from them to the surgeon + standing at the window. + </p> + <p> + The surgeon had found an occupation for himself which completely isolated + him among the rest of the guests. Keeping his own face in shadow, he was + studying Geoffrey’s face, in the full flood of light that fell on it, with + a steady attention which must have been generally remarked, if all eyes + had not been turned toward Sir Patrick at the time. + </p> + <p> + It was not an easy face to investigate at that moment. + </p> + <p> + While Sir Patrick had been speaking Geoffrey had seated himself near the + window, doggedly impenetrable to the reproof of which he was the object. + In his impatience to consult the one authority competent to decide the + question of Arnold’s position toward Anne, he had sided with Sir Patrick, + as a means of ridding himself of the unwelcome presence of his friends—and + he had defeated his own purpose, thanks to his own brutish incapability of + bridling himself in the pursuit of it. Whether he was now discouraged + under these circumstances, or whether he was simply resigned to bide his + time till his time came, it was impossible, judging by outward + appearances, to say. With a heavy dropping at the corners of his mouth, + with a stolid indifference staring dull in his eyes, there he sat, a man + forearmed, in his own obstinate neutrality, against all temptation to + engage in the conflict of opinions that was to come. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick took up the newspaper which he had brought in from the garden, + and looked once more to see if the surgeon was attending to him. + </p> + <p> + No! The surgeon’s attention was absorbed in his own subject. There he was + in the same position, with his mind still hard at work on something in + Geoffrey which at once interested and puzzled it! “That man,” he was + thinking to himself, “has come here this morning after traveling from + London all night. Does any ordinary fatigue explain what I see in his + face? No!” + </p> + <p> + “Our little discussion in the garden,” resumed Sir Patrick, answering + Blanche’s inquiring look as she bent over him, “began, my dear, in a + paragraph here announcing Mr. Delamayn’s forthcoming appearance in a + foot-race in the neighborhood of London. I hold very unpopular opinions as + to the athletic displays which are so much in vogue in England just now. + And it is possible that I may have expressed those opinions a little too + strongly, in the heat of discussion, with gentlemen who are opposed to me—I + don’t doubt, conscientiously opposed—on this question.” + </p> + <p> + A low groan of protest rose from One, Two, and Three, in return for the + little compliment which Sir Patrick had paid to them. “How about rowing + and running ending in the Old Bailey and the gallows? You said that, Sir—you + know you did!” + </p> + <p> + The two choral gentlemen looked at each other, and agreed with the + prevalent sentiment. “It came to that, I think, Smith.” “Yes, Jones, it + certainly came to that.” + </p> + <p> + The only two men who still cared nothing about it were Geoffrey and the + surgeon. There sat the first, stolidly neutral—indifferent alike to + the attack and the defense. There stood the second, pursuing his + investigation—with the growing interest in it of a man who was + beginning to see his way to the end. + </p> + <p> + “Hear my defense, gentlemen,” continued Sir Patrick, as courteously as + ever. “You belong, remember, to a nation which especially claims to + practice the rules of fair play. I must beg to remind you of what I said + in the garden. I started with a concession. I admitted—as every + person of the smallest sense must admit—that a man will, in the + great majority of cases, be all the fitter for mental exercise if he + wisely combines physical exercise along with it. The whole question + between the two is a question of proportion and degree, and my complaint + of the present time is that the present time doesn’t see it. Popular + opinion in England seems to me to be, not only getting to consider the + cultivation of the muscles as of equal importance with the cultivation of + the mind, but to be actually extending—in practice, if not in theory—to + the absurd and dangerous length of putting bodily training in the first + place of importance, and mental training in the second. To take a case in + point: I can discover no enthusiasm in the nation any thing like so + genuine and any thing like so general as the enthusiasm excited by your + University boat-race. Again: I see this Athletic Education of yours made a + matter of public celebration in schools and colleges; and I ask any + unprejudiced witness to tell me which excites most popular enthusiasm, and + which gets the most prominent place in the public journals—the + exhibition, indoors (on Prize-day), of what the boys can do with their + minds? or the exhibition, out of doors (on Sports-day), of what the boys + can do with their bodies? You know perfectly well which performance + excites the loudest cheers, which occupies the prominent place in the + newspapers, and which, as a necessary consequence, confers the highest + social honors on the hero of the day.” + </p> + <p> + Another murmur from One, Two, and Three. “We have nothing to say to that, + Sir; have it all your own way, so far.” + </p> + <p> + Another ratification of agreement with the prevalent opinion between Smith + and Jones. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick. “We are all of one mind as to which way + the public feeling sets. If it is a feeling to be respected and + encouraged, show me the national advantage which has resulted from it. + Where is the influence of this modern outburst of manly enthusiasm on the + serious concerns of life? and how has it improved the character of the + people at large? Are we any of us individually readier than we ever were + to sacrifice our own little private interests to the public good? Are we + dealing with the serious social questions of our time in a conspicuously + determined, downright, and definite way? Are we becoming a visibly and + indisputably purer people in our code of commercial morals? Is there a + healthier and higher tone in those public amusements which faithfully + reflect in all countries the public taste? Produce me affirmative answers + to these questions, which rest on solid proof, and I’ll accept the present + mania for athletic sports as something better than an outbreak of our + insular boastfulness and our insular barbarity in a new form.” + </p> + <p> + “Question! question!” in a general cry, from One, Two, and Three. + </p> + <p> + “Question! question!” in meek reverberation, from Smith and Jones. + </p> + <p> + “That is the question,” rejoined Sir Patrick. “You admit the existence of + the public feeling and I ask, what good does it do?” + </p> + <p> + “What harm does it do?” from One, Two, and Three. + </p> + <p> + “Hear! hear!” from Smith and Jones. + </p> + <p> + “That’s a fair challenge,” replied Sir Patrick. “I am bound to meet you on + that new ground. I won’t point, gentlemen, by way of answer, to the + coarseness which I can see growing on our national manners, or to the + deterioration which appears to me to be spreading more and more widely in + our national tastes. You may tell me with perfect truth that I am too old + a man to be a fair judge of manners and tastes which have got beyond my + standards. We will try the issue, as it now stands between us, on its + abstract merits only. I assert that a state of public feeling which does + practically place physical training, in its estimation, above moral and + mental training, is a positively bad and dangerous state of feeling in + this, that it encourages the inbred reluctance in humanity to submit to + the demands which moral and mental cultivation must inevitably make on it. + Which am I, as a boy, naturally most ready to do—to try how high I + can jump? or to try how much I can learn? Which training comes easiest to + me as a young man? The training which teaches me to handle an oar? or the + training which teaches me to return good for evil, and to love my neighbor + as myself? Of those two experiments, of those two trainings, which ought + society in England to meet with the warmest encouragement? And which does + society in England practically encourage, as a matter of fact?” + </p> + <p> + “What did you say yourself just now?” from One, Two, and Three. + </p> + <p> + “Remarkably well put!” from Smith and Jones. + </p> + <p> + “I said,” admitted Sir Patrick, “that a man will go all the better to his + books for his healthy physical exercise. And I say that again—provided + the physical exercise be restrained within fit limits. But when public + feeling enters into the question, and directly exalts the bodily exercises + above the books—then I say public feeling is in a dangerous extreme. + The bodily exercises, in that case, will be uppermost in the youth’s + thoughts, will have the strongest hold on his interest, will take the + lion’s share of his time, and will, by those means—barring the few + purely exceptional instances—slowly and surely end in leaving him, + to all good moral and mental purpose, certainly an uncultivated, and, + possibly, a dangerous man.” + </p> + <p> + A cry from the camp of the adversaries: “He’s got to it at last! A man who + leads an out-of-door life, and uses the strength that God has given to + him, is a dangerous man. Did any body ever hear the like of that?” + </p> + <p> + Cry reverberated, with variations, by the two human echoes: “No! Nobody + ever heard the like of that!” + </p> + <p> + “Clear your minds of cant, gentlemen,” answered Sir Patrick. “The + agricultural laborer leads an out-of-door life, and uses the strength that + God has given to him. The sailor in the merchant service does the name. + Both are an uncultivated, a shamefully uncultivated, class—and see + the result! Look at the Map of Crime, and you will find the most hideous + offenses in the calendar, committed—not in the towns, where the + average man doesn’t lead an out-of-door life, doesn’t as a rule, use his + strength, but is, as a rule, comparatively cultivated—not in the + towns, but in the agricultural districts. As for the English sailor—except + when the Royal Navy catches and cultivates him—ask Mr. Brinkworth, + who has served in the merchant navy, what sort of specimen of the moral + influence of out-of-door life and muscular cultivation <i>he</i> is.” + </p> + <p> + “In nine cases out of ten,” said Arnold, “he is as idle and vicious as + ruffian as walks the earth.” + </p> + <p> + Another cry from the Opposition: “Are <i>we</i> agricultural laborers? Are + <i>we</i> sailors in the merchant service?” + </p> + <p> + A smart reverberation from the human echoes: “Smith! am I a laborer?” + “Jones! am I a sailor?” + </p> + <p> + “Pray let us not be personal, gentlemen,” said Sir Patrick. “I am speaking + generally, and I can only meet extreme objections by pushing my argument + to extreme limits. The laborer and the sailor have served my purpose. If + the laborer and the sailor offend you, by all means let them walk off the + stage! I hold to the position which I advanced just now. A man may be well + born, well off, well dressed, well fed—but if he is an uncultivated + man, he is (in spite of all those advantages) a man with special + capacities for evil in him, on that very account. Don’t mistake me! I am + far from saving that the present rage for exclusively muscular + accomplishments must lead inevitably downward to the lowest deep of + depravity. Fortunately for society, all special depravity is more or less + certainly the result, in the first instance, of special temptation. The + ordinary mass of us, thank God, pass through life without being exposed to + other than ordinary temptations. Thousands of the young gentlemen, devoted + to the favorite pursuits of the present time, will get through existence + with no worse consequences to themselves than a coarse tone of mind and + manners, and a lamentable incapability of feeling any of those higher and + gentler influences which sweeten and purify the lives of more cultivated + men. But take the other case (which may occur to any body), the case of a + special temptation trying a modern young man of your prosperous class and + of mine. And let me beg Mr. Delamayn to honor with his attention what I + have now to say, because it refers to the opinion which I did really + express—as distinguished from the opinion which he affects to agree + with, and which I never advanced.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s indifference showed no signs of giving way. “Go on!” he said—and + still sat looking straight before him, with heavy eyes, which noticed + nothing, and expressed nothing. + </p> + <p> + “Take the example which we have now in view,” pursued Sir Patrick—“the + example of an average young gentleman of our time, blest with every + advantage that physical cultivation can bestow on him. Let this man be + tried by a temptation which insidiously calls into action, in his own + interests, the savage instincts latent in humanity—the instincts of + self-seeking and cruelty which are at the bottom of all crime. Let this + man be placed toward some other person, guiltless of injuring him, in a + position which demands one of two sacrifices: the sacrifice of the other + person, or the sacrifice of his own interests and his own desires. His + neighbor’s happiness, or his neighbor’s life, stands, let us say, between + him and the attainment of something that he wants. He can wreck the + happiness, or strike down the life, without, to his knowledge, any fear of + suffering for it himself. What is to prevent him, being the man he is, + from going straight to his end, on those conditions? Will the skill in + rowing, the swiftness in running, the admirable capacity and endurance in + other physical exercises, which he has attained, by a strenuous + cultivation in this kind that has excluded any similarly strenuous + cultivation in other kinds—will these physical attainments help him + to win a purely moral victory over his own selfishness and his own + cruelty? They won’t even help him to see that it <i>is</i> selfishness, + and that it <i>is</i> cruelty. The essential principle of his rowing and + racing (a harmless principle enough, if you can be sure of applying it to + rowing and racing only) has taught him to take every advantage of another + man that his superior strength and superior cunning can suggest. There has + been nothing in his training to soften the barbarous hardness in his + heart, and to enlighten the barbarous darkness in his mind. Temptation + finds this man defenseless, when temptation passes his way. I don’t care + who he is, or how high he stands accidentally in the social scale—he + is, to all moral intents and purposes, an Animal, and nothing more. If my + happiness stands in his way—and if he can do it with impunity to + himself—he will trample down my happiness. If my life happens to be + the next obstacle he encounters—and if he can do it with impunity to + himself—he will trample down my life. Not, Mr. Delamayn, in the + character of a victim to irresistible fatality, or to blind chance; but in + the character of a man who has sown the seed, and reaps the harvest. That, + Sir, is the case which I put as an extreme case only, when this discussion + began. As an extreme case only—but as a perfectly possible case, at + the same time—I restate it now.” + </p> + <p> + Before the advocates of the other side of the question could open their + lips to reply, Geoffrey suddenly flung off his indifference, and started + to his feet. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” he cried, threatening the others, in his fierce impatience to + answer for himself, with his clenched fist. + </p> + <p> + There was a general silence. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey turned and looked at Sir Patrick, as if Sir Patrick had + personally insulted him. + </p> + <p> + “Who is this anonymous man, who finds his way to his own ends, and pities + nobody and sticks at nothing?” he asked. “Give him a name!” + </p> + <p> + “I am quoting an example,” said Sir Patrick. “I am not attacking a man.” + </p> + <p> + “What right have you,” cried Geoffrey—utterly forgetful, in the + strange exasperation that had seized on him, of the interest that he had + in controlling himself before Sir Patrick—“what right have you to + pick out an example of a rowing man who is an infernal scoundrel—when + it’s quite as likely that a rowing man may be a good fellow: ay! and a + better fellow, if you come to that, than ever stood in your shoes!” + </p> + <p> + “If the one case is quite as likely to occur as the other (which I readily + admit),” answered Sir Patrick, “I have surely a right to choose which case + I please for illustration. (Wait, Mr. Delamayn! These are the last words I + have to say and I mean to say them.) I have taken the example—not of + a specially depraved man, as you erroneously suppose—but of an + average man, with his average share of the mean, cruel, and dangerous + qualities, which are part and parcel of unreformed human nature—as + your religion tells you, and as you may see for yourself, if you choose to + look at your untaught fellow-creatures any where. I suppose that man to be + tried by a temptation to wickedness, out of the common; and I show, to the + best of my ability, how completely the moral and mental neglect of + himself, which the present material tone of public feeling in England has + tacitly encouraged, leaves him at the mercy of all the worst instincts in + his nature; and how surely, under those conditions, he <i>must</i> go down + (gentleman as he is) step by step—as the lowest vagabond in the + streets goes down under <i>his</i> special temptation—from the + beginning in ignorance to the end in crime. If you deny my right to take + such an example as that, in illustration of the views I advocate, you must + either deny that a special temptation to wickedness can assail a man in + the position of a gentleman, or you must assert that gentlemen who are + naturally superior to all temptation are the only gentlemen who devote + themselves to athletic pursuits. There is my defense. In stating my case, + I have spoken out of my own sincere respect for the interests of virtue + and of learning; out of my own sincere admiration for those young men + among us who are resisting the contagion of barbarism about them. In <i>their</i> + future is the future hope of England. I have done.” + </p> + <p> + Angrily ready with a violent personal reply, Geoffrey found himself + checked, in his turn by another person with something to say, and with a + resolution to say it at that particular moment. + </p> + <p> + For some little time past the surgeon had discontinued his steady + investigation of Geoffrey’s face, and had given all his attention to the + discussion, with the air of a man whose self-imposed task had come to an + end. As the last sentence fell from the last speaker’s lips, he interposed + so quickly and so skillfully between Geoffrey and Sir Patrick, that + Geoffrey himself was taken by surprise, + </p> + <p> + “There is something still wanting to make Sir Patrick’s statement of the + case complete,” he said. “I think I can supply it, from the result of my + own professional experience. Before I say what I have to say, Mr. Delamayn + will perhaps excuse me, if I venture on giving him a caution to control + himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Are <i>you</i> going to make a dead set at me, too?” inquired Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “I am recommending you to keep your temper—nothing more. There are + plenty of men who can fly into a passion without doing themselves any + particular harm. You are not one of them.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think the state of your health, Mr. Delamayn, is quite so + satisfactory as you may be disposed to consider it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey turned to his admirers and adherents with a roar of derisive + laughter. The admirers and adherents all echoed him together. Arnold and + Blanche smiled at each other. Even Sir Patrick looked as if he could + hardly credit the evidence of his own ears. There stood the modern + Hercules, self-vindicated as a Hercules, before all eyes that looked at + him. And there, opposite, stood a man whom he could have killed with one + blow of his fist, telling him, in serious earnest, that he was not in + perfect health! + </p> + <p> + “You are a rare fellow!” said Geoffrey, half in jest and half in anger. + “What’s the matter with me?” + </p> + <p> + “I have undertaken to give you, what I believe to be, a necessary + caution,” answered the surgeon. “I have <i>not</i> undertaken to tell you + what I think is the matter with you. That may be a question for + consideration some little time hence. In the meanwhile, I should like to + put my impression about you to the test. Have you any objection to answer + a question on a matter of no particular importance relating to yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Let’s hear the question first.” + </p> + <p> + “I have noticed something in your behavior while Sir Patrick was speaking. + You are as much interested in opposing his views as any of those gentlemen + about you. I don’t understand your sitting in silence, and leaving it + entirely to the others to put the case on your side—until Sir + Patrick said something which happened to irritate you. Had you, all the + time before that, no answer ready in your own mind?” + </p> + <p> + “I had as good answers in my mind as any that have been made here to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet you didn’t give them?” + </p> + <p> + “No; I didn’t give them.” + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you felt—though you knew your objections to be good ones—that + it was hardly worth while to take the trouble of putting them into words? + In short, you let your friends answer for you, rather than make the effort + of answering for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked at his medical adviser with a sudden curiosity and a + sudden distrust. + </p> + <p> + “I say,” he asked, “how do you come to know what’s going on in my mind—without + my telling you of it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is my business to find out what is going on in people’s bodies—and + to do that it is sometimes necessary for me to find out (if I can) what is + going on in their minds. If I have rightly interpreted what was going on + in <i>your</i> mind, there is no need for me to press my question. You + have answered it already.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to Sir Patrick next + </p> + <p> + “There is a side to this subject,” he said, “which you have not touched on + yet. There is a Physical objection to the present rage for muscular + exercises of all sorts, which is quite as strong, in its way, as the Moral + objection. You have stated the consequences as they <i>may</i> affect the + mind. I can state the consequences as they <i>do</i> affect the body.” + </p> + <p> + “From your own experience?” + </p> + <p> + “From my own experience. I can tell you, as a medical man, that a + proportion, and not by any means a small one, of the young men who are now + putting themselves to violent athletic tests of their strength and + endurance, are taking that course to the serious and permanent injury of + their own health. The public who attend rowing-matches, foot-races, and + other exhibitions of that sort, see nothing but the successful results of + muscular training. Fathers and mothers at home see the failures. There are + households in England—miserable households, to be counted, Sir + Patrick, by more than ones and twos—in which there are young men who + have to thank the strain laid on their constitutions by the popular + physical displays of the present time, for being broken men, and invalided + men, for the rest of their lives.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you hear that?” said Sir Patrick, looking at Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey carelessly nodded his head. His irritation had had time to + subside; the stolid indifference had got possession of him again. He had + resumed his chair—he sat, with outstretched legs, staring stupidly + at the pattern on the carpet. “What does it matter to Me?” was the + sentiment expressed all over him, from head to foot. + </p> + <p> + The surgeon went on. + </p> + <p> + “I can see no remedy for this sad state of things,” he said, “as long as + the public feeling remains what the public feeling is now. A fine + healthy-looking young man, with a superb muscular development, longs + (naturally enough) to distinguish himself like others. The + training-authorities at his college, or elsewhere, take him in hand + (naturally enough again) on the strength of outward appearances. And + whether they have been right or wrong in choosing him is more than they + can say, until the experiment has been tried, and the mischief has been, + in many cases, irretrievably done. How many of them are aware of the + important physiological truth, that the muscular power of a man is no fair + guarantee of his vital power? How many of them know that we all have (as a + great French writer puts it) two lives in us—the surface life of the + muscles, and the inner life of the heart, lungs, and brain? Even if they + did know this—even with medical men to help them—it would be + in the last degree doubtful, in most cases, whether any previous + examination would result in any reliable discovery of the vital fitness of + the man to undergo the stress of muscular exertion laid on him. Apply to + any of my brethren; and they will tell you, as the result of their own + professional observation, that I am, in no sense, overstating this serious + evil, or exaggerating the deplorable and dangerous consequences to which + it leads. I have a patient at this moment, who is a young man of twenty, + and who possesses one of the finest muscular developments I ever saw in my + life. If that young man had consulted me, before he followed the example + of the other young men about him, I can not honestly say that I could have + foreseen the results. As things are, after going through a certain amount + of muscular training, after performing a certain number of muscular feats, + he suddenly fainted one day, to the astonishment of his family and + friends. I was called in and I have watched the case since. He will + probably live, but he will never recover. I am obliged to take precautions + with this youth of twenty which I should take with an old man of eighty. + He is big enough and muscular enough to sit to a painter as a model for + Samson—and only last week I saw him swoon away like a young girl, in + his mother’s arms.” + </p> + <p> + “Name!” cried Geoffrey’s admirers, still fighting the battle on their + side, in the absence of any encouragement from Geoffrey himself. + </p> + <p> + “I am not in the habit of mentioning my patients’ names,” replied the + surgeon. “But if you insist on my producing an example of a man broken by + athletic exercises, I can do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it! Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “You all know him perfectly well.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he in the doctor’s hands?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is he?” + </p> + <p> + “There!” + </p> + <p> + In a pause of breathless silence—with the eyes of every person in + the room eagerly fastened on him—the surgeon lifted his hand and + pointed to Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0020" id="link2HCH0020"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTIETH. + </h2> + <h3> + TOUCHING IT. + </h3> + <p> + As soon as the general stupefaction was allayed, the general incredulity + asserted itself as a matter of course. + </p> + <p> + The man who first declared that “seeing” was “believing” laid his finger + (whether he knew it himself or not) on one of the fundamental follies of + humanity. The easiest of all evidence to receive is the evidence that + requires no other judgment to decide on it than the judgment of the eye—and + it will be, on that account, the evidence which humanity is most ready to + credit, as long as humanity lasts. The eyes of every body looked at + Geoffrey; and the judgment of every body decided, on the evidence there + visible, that the surgeon must be wrong. Lady Lundie herself (disturbed + over her dinner invitations) led the general protest. “Mr. Delamayn in + broken health!” she exclaimed, appealing to the better sense of her + eminent medical guest. “Really, now, you can’t expect us to believe that!” + </p> + <p> + Stung into action for the second time by the startling assertion of which + he had been made the subject, Geoffrey rose, and looked the surgeon, + steadily and insolently, straight in the face. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean what you say?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You point me out before all these people—” + </p> + <p> + “One moment, Mr. Delamayn. I admit that I may have been wrong in directing + the general attention to you. You have a right to complain of my having + answered too publicly the public challenge offered to me by your friends. + I apologize for having done that. But I don’t retract a single word of + what I have said on the subject of your health.” + </p> + <p> + “You stick to it that I’m a broken-down man?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you were twenty years younger, Sir!” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “I’d ask you to step out on the lawn there and I’d show you whether I’m a + broken-down man or not.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie looked at her brother-in-law. Sir Patrick instantly + interfered. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn,” he said, “you were invited here in the character of a + gentleman, and you are a guest in a lady’s house.” + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” said the surgeon, good humoredly. “Mr. Delamayn is using a + strong argument, Sir Patrick—and that is all. If I <i>were</i> + twenty years younger,” he went on, addressing himself to Geoffrey, “and if + I <i>did</i> step out on the lawn with you, the result wouldn’t affect the + question between us in the least. I don’t say that the violent bodily + exercises in which you are famous have damaged your muscular power. I + assert that they have damaged your vital power. In what particular way + they have affected it I don’t consider myself bound to tell you. I simply + give you a warning, as a matter of common humanity. You will do well to be + content with the success you have already achieved in the field of + athletic pursuits, and to alter your mode of life for the future. Accept + my excuses, once more, for having said this publicly instead of privately—and + don’t forget my warning.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to move away to another part of the room. Geoffrey fairly forced + him to return to the subject. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a bit,” he said. “You have had your innings. My turn now. I can’t + give it words as you do; but I can come to the point. And, by the Lord, + I’ll fix you to it! In ten days or a fortnight from this I’m going into + training for the Foot-Race at Fulham. Do you say I shall break down?” + </p> + <p> + “You will probably get through your training.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I get through the race?” + </p> + <p> + “You may <i>possibly</i> get through the race. But if you do—” + </p> + <p> + “If I do?” + </p> + <p> + “You will never run another.” + </p> + <p> + “And never row in another match?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “I have been asked to row in the Race, next spring; and I have said I + will. Do you tell me, in so many words, that I sha’n’t be able to do it?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—in so many words.” + </p> + <p> + “Positively?” + </p> + <p> + “Positively.” + </p> + <p> + “Back your opinion!” cried Geoffrey, tearing his betting-book out of his + pocket. “I lay you an even hundred I’m in fit condition to row in the + University Match next spring.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t bet, Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + With that final reply the surgeon walked away to the other end of the + library. Lady Lundie (taking Blanche in custody) withdrew, at the same + time, to return to the serious business of her invitations for the dinner. + Geoffrey turned defiantly, book in hand, to his college friends about him. + The British blood was up; and the British resolution to bet, which + successfully defies common decency and common-law from one end of the + country to the other, was not to be trifled with. + </p> + <p> + “Come on!” cried Geoffrey. “Back the doctor, one of you!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick rose in undisguised disgust, and followed the surgeon. One, + Two, and Three, invited to business by their illustrious friend, shook + their thick heads at him knowingly, and answered with one accord, in one + eloquent word—“Gammon!” + </p> + <p> + “One of <i>you</i> back him!” persisted Geoffrey, appealing to the two + choral gentlemen in the back-ground, with his temper fast rising to fever + heat. The two choral gentlemen compared notes, as usual. “We weren’t born + yesterday, Smith?” “Not if we know it, Jones.” + </p> + <p> + “Smith!” said Geoffrey, with a sudden assumption of politeness ominous of + something unpleasant to come. + </p> + <p> + Smith said “Yes?”—with a smile. + </p> + <p> + “Jones!” + </p> + <p> + Jones said “Yes?”—with a reflection of Smith. + </p> + <p> + “You’re a couple of infernal cads—and you haven’t got a hundred + pound between you!” + </p> + <p> + “Come! come!” said Arnold, interfering for the first time. “This is + shameful, Geoffrey!” + </p> + <p> + “Why the”—(never mind what!)—“won’t they any of them take the + bet?” + </p> + <p> + “If you must be a fool,” returned Arnold, a little irritably on his side, + “and if nothing else will keep you quiet, <i>I’ll</i> take the bet.” + </p> + <p> + “An even hundred on the doctor!” cried Geoffrey. “Done with you!” + </p> + <p> + His highest aspirations were satisfied; his temper was in perfect order + again. He entered the bet in his book; and made his excuses to Smith and + Jones in the heartiest way. “No offense, old chaps! Shake hands!” The two + choral gentlemen were enchanted with him. “The English aristocracy—eh, + Smith?” “Blood and breeding—ah, Jones!” + </p> + <p> + As soon as he had spoken, Arnold’s conscience reproached him: not for + betting (who is ashamed of <i>that</i> form of gambling in England?) but + for “backing the doctor.” With the best intention toward his friend, he + was speculating on the failure of his friend’s health. He anxiously + assured Geoffrey that no man in the room could be more heartily persuaded + that the surgeon was wrong than himself. “I don’t cry off from the bet,” + he said. “But, my dear fellow, pray understand that I only take it to + please <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Bother all that!” answered Geoffrey, with the steady eye to business, + which was one of the choicest virtues in his character. “A bet’s a bet—and + hang your sentiment!” He drew Arnold by the arm out of ear-shot of the + others. “I say!” he asked, anxiously. “Do you think I’ve set the old + fogy’s back up?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey nodded, and went on. + </p> + <p> + “I haven’t put that little matter to him yet—about marrying in + Scotland, you know. Suppose he cuts up rough with me if I try him now?” + His eye wandered cunningly, as he put the question, to the farther end of + the room. The surgeon was looking over a port-folio of prints. The ladies + were still at work on their notes of invitation. Sir Patrick was alone at + the book-shelves immersed in a volume which he had just taken down. + </p> + <p> + “Make an apology,” suggested Arnold. “Sir Patrick may be a little + irritable and bitter; but he’s a just man and a kind man. Say you were not + guilty of any intentional disrespect toward him—and you will say + enough.” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick, deep in an old Venetian edition of The Decameron, found + himself suddenly recalled from medieval Italy to modern England, by no + less a person than Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” he asked, coldly. + </p> + <p> + “I want to make an apology,” said Geoffrey. “Let by-gones be by-gones—and + that sort of thing. I wasn’t guilty of any intentional disrespect toward + you. Forgive and forget. Not half a bad motto, Sir—eh?” + </p> + <p> + It was clumsily expressed—but still it was an apology. Not even + Geoffrey could appeal to Sir Patrick’s courtesy and Sir Patrick’s + consideration in vain. + </p> + <p> + “Not a word more, Mr. Delamayn!” said the polite old man. “Accept my + excuses for any thing which I may have said too sharply, on my side; and + let us by all means forget the rest.” + </p> + <p> + Having met the advance made to him, in those terms, he paused, expecting + Geoffrey to leave him free to return to the Decameron. To his unutterable + astonishment, Geoffrey suddenly stooped over him, and whispered in his + ear, “I want a word in private with you.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started back, as if Geoffrey had tried to bite him. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Mr. Delamayn—what did you say?” + </p> + <p> + “Could you give me a word in private?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick put back the Decameron; and bowed in freezing silence. The + confidence of the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn was the last confidence in + the world into which he desired to be drawn. “This is the secret of the + apology!” he thought. “What can he possibly want with Me?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s about a friend of mine,” pursued Geoffrey; leading the way toward + one of the windows. “He’s in a scrape, my friend is. And I want to ask + your advice. It’s strictly private, you know.” There he came to a full + stop—and looked to see what impression he had produced, so far. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick declined, either by word or gesture, to exhibit the slightest + anxiety to hear a word more. + </p> + <p> + “Would you mind taking a turn in the garden?” asked Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick pointed to his lame foot. “I have had my allowance of walking + this morning,” he said. “Let my infirmity excuse me.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked about him for a substitute for the garden, and led the way + back again toward one of the convenient curtained recesses opening out of + the inner wall of the library. “We shall be private enough here,” he said. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick made a final effort to escape the proposed conference—an + undisguised effort, this time. + </p> + <p> + “Pray forgive me, Mr. Delamayn. Are you quite sure that you apply to the + right person, in applying to <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “You’re a Scotch lawyer, ain’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “And you understand about Scotch marriages—eh?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s manner suddenly altered. + </p> + <p> + “Is <i>that</i> the subject you wish to consult me on?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “It’s not me. It’s my friend.” + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, then?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. It’s a scrape with a woman. Here in Scotland. My friend don’t know + whether he’s married to her or not.” + </p> + <p> + “I am at your service, Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + To Geoffrey’s relief—by no means unmixed with surprise—Sir + Patrick not only showed no further reluctance to be consulted by him, but + actually advanced to meet his wishes, by leading the way to the recess + that was nearest to them. The quick brain of the old lawyer had put + Geoffrey’s application to him for assistance, and Blanche’s application to + him for assistance, together; and had built its own theory on the basis + thus obtained. “Do I see a connection between the present position of + Blanche’s governess, and the present position of Mr. Delamayn’s ‘friend?’” + thought Sir Patrick. “Stranger extremes than <i>that</i> have met me in my + experience. Something may come out of this.” + </p> + <p> + The two strangely-assorted companions seated themselves, one on each side + of a little table in the recess. Arnold and the other guests had idled out + again on to the lawn. The surgeon with his prints, and the ladies with + their invitations, were safely absorbed in a distant part of the library. + The conference between the two men, so trifling in appearance, so terrible + in its destined influence, not over Anne’s future only, but over the + future of Arnold and Blanche, was, to all practical purposes, a conference + with closed doors. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Sir Patrick, “what is the question?” + </p> + <p> + “The question,” said Geoffrey, “is whether my friend is married to her or + not?” + </p> + <p> + “Did he mean to marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “He being a single man, and she being a single woman, at the time? And + both in Scotland?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. Now tell me the circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey hesitated. The art of stating circumstances implies the + cultivation of a very rare gift—the gift of arranging ideas. No one + was better acquainted with this truth than Sir Patrick. He was purposely + puzzling Geoffrey at starting, under the firm conviction that his client + had something to conceal from him. The one process that could be depended + on for extracting the truth, under those circumstances, was the process of + interrogation. If Geoffrey was submitted to it, at the outset, his cunning + might take the alarm. Sir Patrick’s object was to make the man himself + invite interrogation. Geoffrey invited it forthwith, by attempting to + state the circumstances, and by involving them in the usual confusion. Sir + Patrick waited until he had thoroughly lost the thread of his narrative—and + then played for the winning trick. + </p> + <p> + “Would it be easier to you if I asked a few questions?” he inquired, + innocently. + </p> + <p> + “Much easier.” + </p> + <p> + “I am quite at your service. Suppose we clear the ground to begin with? + Are you at liberty to mention names?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Places?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Dates?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to be particular?” + </p> + <p> + “Be as particular as you can.” + </p> + <p> + “Will it do, if I say the present year?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Were your friend and the lady—at some time in the present year—traveling + together in Scotland?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Living together in Scotland?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What <i>were</i> they doing together in Scotland?” + </p> + <p> + “Well—they were meeting each other at an inn.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? They were meeting each other at an inn. Which was first at the + rendezvous?” + </p> + <p> + “The woman was first. Stop a bit! We are getting to it now.” He produced + from his pocket the written memorandum of Arnold’s proceedings at Craig + Fernie, which he had taken down from Arnold’s own lips. “I’ve got a bit of + note here,” he went on. “Perhaps you’d like to have a look at it?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick took the note—read it rapidly through to himself—then + re-read it, sentence by sentence, to Geoffrey; using it as a text to speak + from, in making further inquiries. + </p> + <p> + “‘He asked for her by the name of his wife, at the door,’” read Sir + Patrick. “Meaning, I presume, the door of the inn? Had the lady previously + given herself out as a married woman to the people of the inn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “How long had she been at the inn before the gentleman joined her?” + </p> + <p> + “Only an hour or so.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she give a name?” + </p> + <p> + “I can’t be quite sure—I should say not.” + </p> + <p> + “Did the gentleman give a name?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I’m certain <i>he</i> didn’t.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick returned to the memorandum. + </p> + <p> + “‘He said at dinner, before the landlady and the waiter, I take these + rooms for my wife. He made <i>her</i> say he was her husband, at the same + time.’ Was that done jocosely, Mr. Delamayn—either by the lady or + the gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “No. It was done in downright earnest.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean it was done to look like earnest, and so to deceive the landlady + and the waiter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick returned to the memorandum. + </p> + <p> + “‘After that, he stopped all night.’ Stopped in the rooms he had taken for + himself and his wife?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And what happened the next day?” + </p> + <p> + “He went away. Wait a bit! Said he had business for an excuse.” + </p> + <p> + “That is to say, he kept up the deception with the people of the inn? and + left the lady behind him, in the character of his wife?” + </p> + <p> + “That’s it.” + </p> + <p> + “Did he go back to the inn?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “How long did the lady stay there, after he had gone?” + </p> + <p> + “She staid—well, she staid a few days.” + </p> + <p> + “And your friend has not seen her since?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Are your friend and the lady English or Scotch?” + </p> + <p> + “Both English.” + </p> + <p> + “At the time when they met at the inn, had they either of them arrived in + Scotland, from the place in which they were previously living, within a + period of less than twenty-one days?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey hesitated. There could be no difficulty in answering for Anne. + Lady Lundie and her domestic circle had occupied Windygates for a much + longer period than three weeks before the date of the lawn-party. The + question, as it affected Arnold, was the only question that required + reflection. After searching his memory for details of the conversation + which had taken place between them, when he and Arnold had met at the + lawn-party, Geoffrey recalled a certain reference on the part of his + friend to a performance at the Edinburgh theatre, which at once decided + the question of time. Arnold had been necessarily detained in Edinburgh, + before his arrival at Windygates, by legal business connected with his + inheritance; and he, like Anne, had certainly been in Scotland, before + they met at Craig Fernie, for a longer period than a period of three weeks + He accordingly informed Sir Patrick that the lady and gentleman had been + in Scotland for more than twenty-one days—and then added a question + on his own behalf: “Don’t let me hurry you, Sir—but, shall you soon + have done?” + </p> + <p> + “I shall have done, after two more questions,” answered Sir Patrick. “Am I + to understand that the lady claims, on the strength of the circumstances + which you have mentioned to me, to be your friend’s wife?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey made an affirmative reply. The readiest means of obtaining Sir + Patrick’s opinion was, in this case, to answer, Yes. In other words, to + represent Anne (in the character of “the lady”) as claiming to be married + to Arnold (in the character of “his friend”). + </p> + <p> + Having made this concession to circumstances, he was, at the same time, + quite cunning enough to see that it was of vital importance to the purpose + which he had in view, to confine himself strictly to this one perversion + of the truth. There could be plainly no depending on the lawyer’s opinion, + unless that opinion was given on the facts exactly a s they had occurred + at the inn. To the facts he had, thus far, carefully adhered; and to the + facts (with the one inevitable departure from them which had been just + forced on him) he determined to adhere to the end. + </p> + <p> + “Did no letters pass between the lady and gentleman?” pursued Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “None that I know of,” answered Geoffrey, steadily returning to the truth. + </p> + <p> + “I have done, Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “Well? and what’s your opinion?” + </p> + <p> + “Before I give my opinion I am bound to preface it by a personal statement + which you are not to take, if you please, as a statement of the law. You + ask me to decide—on the facts with which you have supplied me—whether + your friend is, according to the law of Scotland, married or not?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey nodded. “That’s it!” he said, eagerly. + </p> + <p> + “My experience, Mr. Delamayn, is that any single man, in Scotland, may + marry any single woman, at any time, and under any circumstances. In + short, after thirty years’ practice as a lawyer, I don’t know what is <i>not</i> + a marriage in Scotland.” + </p> + <p> + “In plain English,” said Geoffrey, “you mean she’s his wife?” + </p> + <p> + In spite of his cunning; in spite of his self-command, his eyes brightened + as he said those words. And the tone in which he spoke—though too + carefully guarded to be a tone of triumph—was, to a fine ear, + unmistakably a tone of relief. + </p> + <p> + Neither the look nor the tone was lost on Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + His first suspicion, when he sat down to the conference, had been the + obvious suspicion that, in speaking of “his friend,” Geoffrey was speaking + of himself. But, like all lawyers, he habitually distrusted first + impressions, his own included. His object, thus far, had been to solve the + problem of Geoffrey’s true position and Geoffrey’s real motive. He had set + the snare accordingly, and had caught his bird. + </p> + <p> + It was now plain to his mind—first, that this man who was consulting + him, was, in all probability, really speaking of the case of another + person: secondly, that he had an interest (of what nature it was + impossible yet to say) in satisfying his own mind that “his friend” was, + by the law of Scotland, indisputably a married man. Having penetrated to + that extent the secret which Geoffrey was concealing from him, he + abandoned the hope of making any further advance at that present sitting. + The next question to clear up in the investigation, was the question of + who the anonymous “lady” might be. And the next discovery to make was, + whether “the lady” could, or could not, be identified with Anne Silvester. + Pending the inevitable delay in reaching that result, the straight course + was (in Sir Patrick’s present state of uncertainty) the only course to + follow in laying down the law. He at once took the question of the + marriage in hand—with no concealment whatever, as to the legal + bearings of it, from the client who was consulting him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t rush to conclusions, Mr. Delamayn,” he said. “I have only told you + what my general experience is thus far. My professional opinion on the + special case of your friend has not been given yet.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s face clouded again. Sir Patrick carefully noted the new change + in it. + </p> + <p> + “The law of Scotland,” he went on, “so far as it relates to Irregular + Marriages, is an outrage on common decency and common-sense. If you think + my language in thus describing it too strong—I can refer you to the + language of a judicial authority. Lord Deas delivered a recent judgment of + marriage in Scotland, from the bench, in these words: ‘Consent makes + marriage. No form or ceremony, civil or religious; no notice before, or + publication after; no cohabitation, no writing, no witnesses even, are + essential to the constitution of this, the most important contract which + two persons can enter into.’—There is a Scotch judge’s own statement + of the law that he administers! Observe, at the same time, if you please, + that we make full legal provision in Scotland for contracts affecting the + sale of houses and lands, horses and dogs. The only contract which we + leave without safeguards or precautions of any sort is the contract that + unites a man and a woman for life. As for the authority of parents, and + the innocence of children, our law recognizes no claim on it either in the + one case or in the other. A girl of twelve and a boy of fourteen have + nothing to do but to cross the Border, and to be married—without the + interposition of the slightest delay or restraint, and without the + slightest attempt to inform their parents on the part of the Scotch law. + As to the marriages of men and women, even the mere interchange of consent + which, as you have just heard, makes them man and wife, is not required to + be directly proved: it may be proved by inference. And, more even than + that, whatever the law for its consistency may presume, men and women are, + in point of fact, held to be married in Scotland where consent has never + been interchanged, and where the parties do not even know that they are + legally held to be married persons. Are you sufficiently confused about + the law of Irregular Marriages in Scotland by this time, Mr. Delamayn? And + have I said enough to justify the strong language I used when I undertook + to describe it to you?” + </p> + <p> + “Who’s that ‘authority’ you talked of just now?” inquired Geoffrey. + “Couldn’t I ask <i>him?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “You might find him flatly contradicted, if you did ask him by another + authority equally learned and equally eminent,” answered Sir Patrick. “I + am not joking—I am only stating facts. Have you heard of the Queen’s + Commission?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then listen to this. In March, ‘sixty-five, the Queen appointed a + Commission to inquire into the Marriage-Laws of the United Kingdom. The + Report of that Commission is published in London; and is accessible to any + body who chooses to pay the price of two or three shillings for it. One of + the results of the inquiry was, the discovery that high authorities were + of entirely contrary opinions on one of the vital questions of Scottish + marriage-law. And the Commissioners, in announcing that fact, add that the + question of which opinion is right is still disputed, and has never been + made the subject of legal decision. Authorities are every where at + variance throughout the Report. A haze of doubt and uncertainty hangs in + Scotland over the most important contract of civilized life. If no other + reason existed for reforming the Scotch marriage-law, there would be + reason enough afforded by that one fact. An uncertain marriage-law is a + national calamity.” + </p> + <p> + “You can tell me what you think yourself about my friend’s case—can’t + you?” said Geoffrey, still holding obstinately to the end that he had in + view. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. Now that I have given you due warning of the danger of + implicitly relying on any individual opinion, I may give my opinion with a + clear conscience. I say that there has not been a positive marriage in + this case. There has been evidence in favor of possibly establishing a + marriage—nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + The distinction here was far too fine to be appreciated by Geoffrey’s + mind. He frowned heavily, in bewilderment and disgust. + </p> + <p> + “Not married!” he exclaimed, “when they said they were man and wife, + before witnesses?” + </p> + <p> + “That is a common popular error,” said Sir Patrick. “As I have already + told you, witnesses are not legally necessary to make a marriage in + Scotland. They are only valuable—as in this case—to help, at + some future time, in proving a marriage that is in dispute.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey caught at the last words. + </p> + <p> + “The landlady and the waiter <i>might</i> make it out to be a marriage, + then?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. And, remember, if you choose to apply to one of my professional + colleagues, he might possibly tell you they were married already. A state + of the law which allows the interchange of matrimonial consent to be + proved by inference leaves a wide door open to conjecture. Your friend + refers to a certain lady, in so many words, as his wife. The lady refers + to your friend, in so many words, as her husband. In the rooms which they + have taken, as man and wife, they remain, as man and wife, till the next + morning. Your friend goes away, without undeceiving any body. The lady + stays at the inn, for some days after, in the character of his wife. And + all these circumstances take place in the presence o f competent + witnesses. Logically—if not legally—there is apparently an + inference of the interchange of matrimonial consent here. I stick to my + own opinion, nevertheless. Evidence in proof of a marriage (I say)—nothing + more.” + </p> + <p> + While Sir Patrick had been speaking, Geoffrey had been considering with + himself. By dint of hard thinking he had found his way to a decisive + question on his side. + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” he said, dropping his heavy hand down on the table. “I want + to bring you to book, Sir! Suppose my friend had another lady in his eye?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “As things are now—would you advise him to marry her?” + </p> + <p> + “As things are now—certainly not!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey got briskly on his legs, and closed the interview. + </p> + <p> + “That will do,” he said, “for him and for me.” + </p> + <p> + With those words he walked back, without ceremony, into the main + thoroughfare of the room. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know who your friend is,” thought Sir Patrick, looking after him. + “But if your interest in the question of his marriage is an honest and a + harmless interest, I know no more of human nature than the babe unborn!” + </p> + <p> + Immediately on leaving Sir Patrick, Geoffrey was encountered by one of the + servants in search of him. + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir,” began the man. “The groom from the Honorable Mr. + Delamayn’s—” + </p> + <p> + “Yes? The fellow who brought me a note from my brother this morning?” + </p> + <p> + “He’s expected back, Sir—he’s afraid he mustn’t wait any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “Come here, and I’ll give you the answer for him.” + </p> + <p> + He led the way to the writing-table, and referred to Julius’s letter + again. He ran his eye carelessly over it, until he reached the final + lines: “Come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs. Glenarm.” For a while + he paused, with his eye fixed on that sentence; and with the happiness of + three people—of Anne, who had loved him; of Arnold, who had served + him; of Blanche, guiltless of injuring him—resting on the decision + that guided his movements for the next day. After what had passed that + morning between Arnold and Blanche, if he remained at Lady Lundie’s, he + had no alternative but to perform his promise to Anne. If he returned to + his brother’s house, he had no alternative but to desert Anne, on the + infamous pretext that she was Arnold’s wife. + </p> + <p> + He suddenly tossed the letter away from him on the table, and snatched a + sheet of note-paper out of the writing-case. “Here goes for Mrs. Glenarm!” + he said to himself; and wrote back to his brother, in one line: “Dear + Julius, Expect me to-morrow. G. D.” The impassible man-servant stood by + while he wrote, looking at his magnificent breadth of chest, and thinking + what a glorious “staying-power” was there for the last terrible mile of + the coming race. + </p> + <p> + “There you are!” he said, and handed his note to the man. + </p> + <p> + “All right, Geoffrey?” asked a friendly voice behind him. + </p> + <p> + He turned—and saw Arnold, anxious for news of the consultation with + Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he said. “All right.” + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + —————— NOTE.—There are certain readers who feel a + disposition to doubt Facts, when they meet with them in a work of + fiction. Persons of this way of thinking may be profitably + referred to the book which first suggested to me the idea of + writing the present Novel. The book is the Report of the Royal + Commissioners on The Laws of Marriage. Published by the Queen’s + Printers For her Majesty’s Stationery Office. (London, 1868.) + What Sir Patrick says professionally of Scotch Marriages in this + chapter is taken from this high authority. What the lawyer (in + the Prologue) says professionally of Irish Marriages is also + derived from the same source. It is needless to encumber these + pages with quotations. But as a means of satisfying my readers + that they may depend on me, I subjoin an extract from my list of + references to the Report of the Marriage Commission, which any + persons who may be so inclined can verify for themselves. + + <i>Irish Marriages</i> (In the Prologue).—See Report, pages XII., + XIII., XXIV. + + <i>Irregular Marriages in Scotland.</i>—Statement of the law by Lord + Deas. Report, page XVI.—Marriages of children of tender years. + Examination of Mr. Muirhead by Lord Chelmsford (Question + 689).—Interchange of consent, established by inference. + Examination of Mr. Muirhead by the Lord Justice Clerk (Question + 654)—Marriage where consent has never been interchanged. + Observations of Lord Deas. Report, page XIX.—Contradiction of + opinions between authorities. Report, pages XIX., XX.—Legal + provision for the sale of horses and dogs. No legal provision for + the marriage of men and women. Mr. Seeton’s Remarks. Report, page + XXX.—Conclusion of the Commissioners. In spite of the arguments + advanced before them in favor of not interfering with Irregular + Marriages in Scotland, the Commissioners declare their opinion + that “Such marriages ought not to continue.” (Report, page + XXXIV.) + + In reference to the arguments (alluded to above) in favor of + allowing the present disgraceful state of things to continue, I + find them resting mainly on these grounds: That Scotland doesn’t + like being interfered with by England (!). That Irregular + Marriages cost nothing (!!). That they are diminishing in number, + and may therefore be trusted, in course of time, to exhaust + themselves (!!!). That they act, on certain occasions, in the + capacity of a moral trap to catch a profligate man (!!!!). Such + is the elevated point of view from which the Institution of + Marriage is regarded by some of the most pious and learned men in + Scotland. A legal enactment providing for the sale of your wife, + when you have done with her, or of your husband; when you “really + can’t put up with him any longer,” appears to be all that is + wanting to render this North British estimate of the “Estate of + Matrimony” practically complete. It is only fair to add that, of + the witnesses giving evidence—oral and written—before the + Commissioners, fully one-half regard the Irregular Marriages of + Scotland from the Christian and the civilized point of view, and + entirely agree with the authoritative conclusion already + cited—that such marriages ought to be abolished. + + W. C. +</pre> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0021" id="link2HCH0021"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIRST. + </h2> + <h3> + DONE! + </h3> + <p> + ARNOLD was a little surprised by the curt manner in which Geoffrey + answered him. + </p> + <p> + “Has Sir Patrick said any thing unpleasant?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick has said just what I wanted him to say.” + </p> + <p> + “No difficulty about the marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “None.” + </p> + <p> + “No fear of Blanche—” + </p> + <p> + “She won’t ask you to go to Craig Fernie—I’ll answer for that!” He + said the words with a strong emphasis on them, took his brother’s letter + from the table, snatched up his hat, and went out. + </p> + <p> + His friends, idling on the lawn, hailed him. He passed by them quickly + without answering, without so much as a glance at them over his shoulder. + Arriving at the rose-garden, he stopped and took out his pipe; then + suddenly changed his mind, and turned back again by another path. There + was no certainty, at that hour of the day, of his being left alone in the + rose-garden. He had a fierce and hungry longing to be by himself; he felt + as if he could have been the death of any body who came and spoke to him + at that moment. With his head down and his brows knit heavily, he followed + the path to see what it ended in. It ended in a wicket-gate which led into + a kitchen-garden. Here he was well out of the way of interruption: there + was nothing to attract visitors in the kitchen-garden. He went on to a + walnut-tree planted in the middle of the inclosure, with a wooden bench + and a broad strip of turf running round it. After first looking about him, + he seated himself and lit his pipe. + </p> + <p> + “I wish it was done!” he said. + </p> + <p> + He sat, with his elbows on his knees, smoking and thinking. Before long + the restlessness that had got possession of him forced him to his feet + again. He rose, and paced round and round the strip of greensward under + the walnut-tree, like a wild beast in a cage. + </p> + <p> + What was the meaning of this disturbance in the inner man? Now that he had + committed himself to the betrayal of the friend who had trusted and served + him, was he torn by remorse? + </p> + <p> + He was no more torn by remorse than you are while your eye is passing over + this sentence. He was simply in a raging fever of impatience to see + himself safely la nded at the end which he had in view. + </p> + <p> + Why should he feel remorse? All remorse springs, more or less directly, + from the action of two sentiments, which are neither of them inbred in the + natural man. The first of these sentiments is the product of the respect + which we learn to feel for ourselves. The second is the product of the + respect which we learn to feel for others. In their highest + manifestations, these two feelings exalt themselves, until the first he + comes the love of God, and the second the love of Man. I have injured you, + and I repent of it when it is done. Why should I repent of it if I have + gained something by it for my own self and if you can’t make me feel it by + injuring Me? I repent of it because there has been a sense put into me + which tells me that I have sinned against Myself, and sinned against You. + No such sense as that exists among the instincts of the natural man. And + no such feelings as these troubled Geoffrey Delamayn; for Geoffrey + Delamayn was the natural man. + </p> + <p> + When the idea of his scheme had sprung to life in his mind, the novelty of + it had startled him—the enormous daring of it, suddenly + self-revealed, had daunted him. The signs of emotion which he had betrayed + at the writing-table in the library were the signs of mere mental + perturbation, and of nothing more. + </p> + <p> + That first vivid impression past, the idea had made itself familiar to + him. He had become composed enough to see such difficulties as it + involved, and such consequences as it implied. These had fretted him with + a passing trouble; for these he plainly discerned. As for the cruelty and + the treachery of the thing he meditated doing—that consideration + never crossed the limits of his mental view. His position toward the man + whose life he had preserved was the position of a dog. The “noble animal” + who has saved you or me from drowning will fly at your throat or mine, + under certain conditions, ten minutes afterward. Add to the dog’s + unreasoning instinct the calculating cunning of a man; suppose yourself to + be in a position to say of some trifling thing, “Curious! at such and such + a time I happened to pick up such and such an object; and now it turns out + to be of some use to me!”—and there you have an index to the state + of Geoffrey’s feeling toward his friend when he recalled the past or when + he contemplated the future. When Arnold had spoken to him at the critical + moment, Arnold had violently irritated him; and that was all. + </p> + <p> + The same impenetrable insensibility, the same primitively natural + condition of the moral being, prevented him from being troubled by the + slightest sense of pity for Anne. “She’s out of my way!” was his first + thought. “She’s provided for, without any trouble to Me!” was his second. + He was not in the least uneasy about her. Not the slightest doubt crossed + his mind that, when once she had realized her own situation, when once she + saw herself placed between the two alternatives of facing her own ruin or + of claiming Arnold as a last resource, she would claim Arnold. She would + do it as a matter of course; because <i>he</i> would have done it in her + place. + </p> + <p> + But he wanted it over. He was wild, as he paced round and round the + walnut-tree, to hurry on the crisis and be done with it. Give me my + freedom to go to the other woman, and to train for the foot-race—that’s + what I want. <i>They</i> injured? Confusion to them both! It’s I who am + injured by them. They are the worst enemies I have! They stand in my way. + </p> + <p> + How to be rid of them? There was the difficulty. He had made up his mind + to be rid of them that day. How was he to begin? + </p> + <p> + There was no picking a quarrel with Arnold, and so beginning with <i>him.</i> + This course of proceeding, in Arnold’s position toward Blanche, would lead + to a scandal at the outset—a scandal which would stand in the way of + his making the right impression on Mrs. Glenarm. The woman—lonely + and friendless, with her sex and her position both against her if <i>she</i> + tried to make a scandal of it—the woman was the one to begin with. + Settle it at once and forever with Anne; and leave Arnold to hear of it + and deal with it, sooner or later, no matter which. + </p> + <p> + How was he to break it to her before the day was out? + </p> + <p> + By going to the inn and openly addressing her to her face as Mrs. Arnold + Brinkworth? No! He had had enough, at Windygates, of meeting her face to + face. The easy way was to write to her, and send the letter, by the first + messenger he could find, to the inn. She might appear afterward at + Windygates; she might follow him to his brother’s; she might appeal to his + father. It didn’t matter; he had got the whip-hand of her now. “You are a + married woman.” There was the one sufficient answer, which was strong + enough to back him in denying any thing! + </p> + <p> + He made out the letter in his own mind. “Something like this would do,” he + thought, as he went round and round the walnut-tree: “You may be surprised + not to have seen me. You have only yourself to thank for it. I know what + took place between you and him at the inn. I have had a lawyer’s advice. + You are Arnold Brinkworth’s wife. I wish you joy, and good-by forever.” + Address those lines: “To Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth;” instruct the messenger + to leave the letter late that night, without waiting for an answer; start + the first thing the next morning for his brother’s house; and behold, it + was done! + </p> + <p> + But even here there was an obstacle—one last exasperating obstacle—still + in the way. + </p> + <p> + If she was known at the inn by any name at all, it was by the name of Mrs. + Silvester. A letter addressed to “Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth” would probably + not be taken in at the door; or if it was admitted and if it was actually + offered to her, she might decline to receive it, as a letter not addressed + to herself. A man of readier mental resources would have seen that the + name on the outside of the letter mattered little or nothing, so long as + the contents were read by the person to whom they were addressed. But + Geoffrey’s was the order of mind which expresses disturbance by attaching + importance to trifles. He attached an absurd importance to preserving + absolute consistency in his letter, outside and in. If he declared her to + be Arnold Brinkworth’s wife, he must direct to her as Arnold Brinkworth’s + wife; or who could tell what the law might say, or what scrape he might + not get himself into by a mere scratch of the pen! The more he thought of + it, the more persuaded he felt of his own cleverness here, and the hotter + and the angrier he grew. + </p> + <p> + There is a way out of every thing. And there was surely a way out of this, + if he could only see it. + </p> + <p> + He failed to see it. After dealing with all the great difficulties, the + small difficulty proved too much for him. It struck him that he might have + been thinking too long about it—considering that he was not + accustomed to thinking long about any thing. Besides, his head was getting + giddy, with going mechanically round and round the tree. He irritably + turned his back on the tree and struck into another path: resolved to + think of something else, and then to return to his difficulty, and see it + with a new eye. + </p> + <p> + Leaving his thoughts free to wander where they liked, his thoughts + naturally busied themselves with the next subject that was uppermost in + his mind, the subject of the Foot-Race. In a week’s time his arrangements + ought to be made. Now, as to the training, first. + </p> + <p> + He decided on employing two trainers this time. One to travel to Scotland, + and begin with him at his brother’s house. The other to take him up, with + a fresh eye to him, on his return to London. He turned over in his mind + the performances of the formidable rival against whom he was to be + matched. That other man was the swiftest runner of the two. The betting in + Geoffrey’s favor was betting which calculated on the unparalleled length + of the race, and on Geoffrey’s prodigious powers of endurance. How long he + should “wait on” the man? Whereabouts it would be safe to “pick the man + up?” How near the end to calculate the man’s exhaustion to a nicety, and + “put on the spurt,” and pass him? These were nice points to decide. The + deliberations of a pedestrian-privy-council would be required to help him + under this heavy responsibility. What men could he trust? He could trust + A. and B.—both of them authorities: both of them stanch. Query about + C.? As an authority, unexceptionable; as a man, doubtful. The problem + relating to C. brought him to a standstill—and declined to be + solved, even then. Never mind! he could always take the advice of A. and + B. In the mean time devote C. to the infernal regions; and, thus + dismissing him, try and think of something else. What else? Mrs. Glenarm? + Oh, bother the women! one of them is the same as another. They all waddle + when they run; and they all fill their stomachs before dinner with sloppy + tea. That’s the only difference between women and men—the rest is + nothing but a weak imitation of Us. Devote the women to the infernal + regions; and, so dismissing <i>them,</i> try and think of something else. + Of what? Of something worth thinking of, this time—of filling + another pipe. + </p> + <p> + He took out his tobacco-pouch; and suddenly suspended operations at the + moment of opening it. + </p> + <p> + What was the object he saw, on the other side of a row of dwarf + pear-trees, away to the right? A woman—evidently a servant by her + dress—stooping down with her back to him, gathering something: herbs + they looked like, as well as he could make them out at the distance. + </p> + <p> + What was that thing hanging by a string at the woman’s side? A slate? Yes. + What the deuce did she want with a slate at her side? He was in search of + something to divert his mind—and here it was found. “Any thing will + do for me,” he thought. “Suppose I ‘chaff’ her a little about her slate?” + </p> + <p> + He called to the woman across the pear-trees. “Hullo!” + </p> + <p> + The woman raised herself, and advanced toward him slowly—looking at + him, as she came on, with the sunken eyes, the sorrow-stricken face, the + stony tranquillity of Hester Dethridge. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey was staggered. He had not bargained for exchanging the dullest + producible vulgarities of human speech (called in the language of slang, + “Chaff”) with such a woman as this. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that slate for?” he asked, not knowing what else to say, to begin + with. + </p> + <p> + The woman lifted her hand to her lips—touched them—and shook + her head. + </p> + <p> + “Dumb?” + </p> + <p> + The woman bowed her head. + </p> + <p> + “Who are you?” + </p> + <p> + The woman wrote on her slate, and handed it to him over the pear-trees. He + read:—“I am the cook.” + </p> + <p> + “Well, cook, were you born dumb?” + </p> + <p> + The woman shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “What struck you dumb?” + </p> + <p> + The woman wrote on her slate:—“A blow.” + </p> + <p> + “Who gave you the blow?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + She shook her head again. + </p> + <p> + Her eyes had rested on his face while he was questioning her; staring at + him, cold, dull, and changeless as the eyes of a corpse. Firm as his + nerves were—dense as he was, on all ordinary occasions, to any thing + in the shape of an imaginative impression—the eyes of the dumb cook + slowly penetrated him with a stealthy inner chill. Something crept at the + marrow of his back, and shuddered under the roots of his hair. He felt a + sudden impulse to get away from her. It was simple enough; he had only to + say good-morning, and go on. He did say good-morning—but he never + moved. He put his hand into his pocket, and offered her some money, as a + way of making <i>her</i> go. She stretched out her hand across the + pear-trees to take it—and stopped abruptly, with her arm suspended + in the air. A sinister change passed over the deathlike tranquillity of + her face. Her closed lips slowly dropped apart. Her dull eyes slowly + dilated; looked away, sideways, from <i>his</i> eyes; stopped again; and + stared, rigid and glittering, over his shoulder—stared as if they + saw a sight of horror behind him. “What the devil are you looking at?” he + asked—and turned round quickly, with a start. There was neither + person nor thing to be seen behind him. He turned back again to the woman. + The woman had left him, under the influence of some sudden panic. She was + hurrying away from him—running, old as she was—flying the + sight of him, as if the sight of him was the pestilence. + </p> + <p> + “Mad!” he thought—and turned his back on the sight of her. + </p> + <p> + He found himself (hardly knowing how he had got there) under the + walnut-tree once more. In a few minutes his hardy nerves had recovered + themselves—he could laugh over the remembrance of the strange + impression that had been produced on him. “Frightened for the first time + in my life,” he thought—“and that by an old woman! It’s time I went + into training again, when things have come to this!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at his watch. It was close on the luncheon hour up at the house; + and he had not decided yet what to do about his letter to Anne. He + resolved to decide, then and there. + </p> + <p> + The woman—the dumb woman, with the stony face and the horrid eyes—reappeared + in his thoughts, and got in the way of his decision. Pooh! some crazed old + servant, who might once have been cook; who was kept out of charity now. + Nothing more important than that. No more of her! no more of her! + </p> + <p> + He laid himself down on the grass, and gave his mind to the serious + question. How to address Anne as “Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth?” and how to make + sure of her receiving the letter? + </p> + <p> + The dumb old woman got in his way again. + </p> + <p> + He closed his eyes impatiently, and tried to shut her out in a darkness of + his own making. + </p> + <p> + The woman showed herself through the darkness. He saw her, as if he had + just asked her a question, writing on her slate. What she wrote he failed + to make out. It was all over in an instant. He started up, with a feeling + of astonishment at himself—and, at the same moment his brain cleared + with the suddenness of a flash of light. He saw his way, without a + conscious effort on his own part, through the difficulty that had troubled + him. Two envelopes, of course: an inner one, unsealed, and addressed to + “Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth;” an outer one, sealed, and addressed to “Mrs. + Silvester:” and there was the problem solved! Surely the simplest problem + that had ever puzzled a stupid head. + </p> + <p> + Why had he not seen it before? Impossible to say. + </p> + <p> + How came he to have seen it now? + </p> + <p> + The dumb old woman reappeared in his thoughts—as if the answer to + the question lay in something connected with <i>her.</i> + </p> + <p> + He became alarmed about himself, for the first time in his life. Had this + persistent impression, produced by nothing but a crazy old woman, any + thing to do with the broken health which the surgeon had talked about? Was + his head on the turn? Or had he smoked too much on an empty stomach, and + gone too long (after traveling all night) without his customary drink of + ale? + </p> + <p> + He left the garden to put that latter theory to the test forthwith. The + betting would have gone dead against him if the public had seen him at + that moment. He looked haggard and anxious—and with good reason too. + His nervous system had suddenly forced itself on his notice, without the + slightest previous introduction, and was saying (in an unknown tongue), + Here I am! + </p> + <p> + Returning to the purely ornamental part of the grounds, Geoffrey + encountered one of the footmen giving a message to one of the gardeners. + He at once asked for the butler—as the only safe authority to + consult in the present emergency. + </p> + <p> + Conducted to the butler’s pantry, Geoffrey requested that functionary to + produce a jug of his oldest ale, with appropriate solid nourishment in the + shape of “a hunk of bread and cheese.” + </p> + <p> + The butler stared. As a form of condescension among the upper classes this + was quite new to him. + </p> + <p> + “Luncheon will be ready directly, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “What is there for lunch?” + </p> + <p> + The butler ran over an appetizing list of good dishes and rare wines. + </p> + <p> + “The devil take your kickshaws!” said Geoffrey. “Give me my old ale, and + my hunk of bread and cheese.” + </p> + <p> + “Where will you take them, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Here, to be sure! And the sooner the better.” + </p> + <p> + The butler issued the necessary orders with all needful alacrity. He + spread the simple refreshment demanded, before his distinguished guest, in + a state of blank bewilderment. Here was a nobleman’s son, and a public + celebrity into the bargain, filling himself with bread and cheese and ale, + in at once the most voracious and the most unpretending manner, at <i>his</i> + table! The butler ventured on a little complimentary familiarity. He + smiled, and touched the betting-book in his breast-pocket. “I’ve put six + pound on you, Sir, for the Race.” “All right, old boy! you shall win your + money!” With those noble words the honorable gentleman clapped him on the + back, and held out his tumbler for some more ale. The butler felt trebly + an Englishman as he filled the foaming glass. Ah! foreign nations may have + their revolutions! foreign aristocracies may tumble down! The British + aristocracy lives in the hearts of the people, and lives forever! + </p> + <p> + “Another!” said Geoffrey, presenting his empty glass. “Here’s luck!” He + tossed off his liquor at a draught, and nodded to the butler, and went + out. + </p> + <p> + Had the experiment succeeded? Had he proved his own theory about himself + to be right? Not a doubt of it! An empty stomach, and a determination of + tobacco to the head—these were the true causes of that strange state + of mind into which he had fallen in the kitchen-garden. The dumb woman + with the stony face vanished as if in a mist. He felt nothing now but a + comfortable buzzing in his head, a genial warmth all over him, and an + unlimited capacity for carrying any responsibility that could rest on + mortal shoulders. Geoffrey was himself again. + </p> + <p> + He went round toward the library, to write his letter to Anne—and so + have done with that, to begin with. The company had collected in the + library waiting for the luncheon-bell. All were idly talking; and some + would be certain, if he showed himself, to fasten on <i>him.</i> He turned + back again, without showing himself. The only way of writing in peace and + quietness would be to wait until they were all at luncheon, and then + return to the library. The same opportunity would serve also for finding a + messenger to take the letter, without exciting attention, and for going + away afterward, unseen, on a long walk by himself. An absence of two or + three hours would cast the necessary dust in Arnold’s eyes; for it would + be certainly interpreted by him as meaning absence at an interview with + Anne. + </p> + <p> + He strolled idly through the grounds, farther and farther away from the + house. + </p> + <p> + The talk in the library—aimless and empty enough, for the most part—was + talk to the purpose, in one corner of the room, in which Sir Patrick and + Blanche were sitting together. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle! I have been watching you for the last minute or two.” + </p> + <p> + “At my age, Blanche? that is paying me a very pretty compliment.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know what I have seen?” + </p> + <p> + “You have seen an old gentleman in want of his lunch.” + </p> + <p> + “I have seen an old gentleman with something on his mind. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Suppressed gout, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “That won’t do! I am not to be put off in that way. Uncle! I want to know—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop there, Blanche! A young lady who says she ‘wants to know,’ expresses + very dangerous sentiments. Eve ‘wanted to know’—and see what it led + to. Faust ‘wanted to know’—and got into bad company, as the + necessary result.” + </p> + <p> + “You are feeling anxious about something,” persisted Blanche. “And, what + is more, Sir Patrick, you behaved in a most unaccountable manner a little + while since.” + </p> + <p> + “When?” + </p> + <p> + “When you went and hid yourself with Mr. Delamayn in that snug corner + there. I saw you lead the way in, while I was at work on Lady Lundie’s + odious dinner-invitations.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you call that being at work, do you? I wonder whether there was ever + a woman yet who could give the whole of her mind to any earthly thing that + she had to do?” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind the women! What subject in common could you and Mr. Delamayn + possibly have to talk about? And why do I see a wrinkle between your + eyebrows, now you have done with him?—a wrinkle which certainly + wasn’t there before you had that private conference together?” + </p> + <p> + Before answering, Sir Patrick considered whether he should take Blanche + into his confidence or not. The attempt to identify Geoffrey’s unnamed + “lady,” which he was determined to make, would lead him to Craig Fernie, + and would no doubt end in obliging him to address himself to Anne. + Blanche’s intimate knowledge of her friend might unquestionably be made + useful to him under these circumstances; and Blanche’s discretion was to + be trusted in any matter in which Miss Silvester’s interests were + concerned. On the other hand, caution was imperatively necessary, in the + present imperfect state of his information—and caution, in Sir + Patrick’s mind, carried the day. He decided to wait and see what came + first of his investigation at the inn. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn consulted me on a dry point of law, in which a friend of his + was interested,” said Sir Patrick. “You have wasted your curiosity, my + dear, on a subject totally unworthy of a lady’s notice.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s penetration was not to be deceived on such easy terms as these. + “Why not say at once that you won’t tell me?” she rejoined. “<i>You</i> + shutting yourself up with Mr. Delamayn to talk law! <i>You</i> looking + absent and anxious about it afterward! I am a very unhappy girl!” said + Blanche, with a little, bitter sigh. “There is something in me that seems + to repel the people I love. Not a word in confidence can I get from Anne. + And not a word in confidence can I get from you. And I do so long to + sympathize! It’s very hard. I think I shall go to Arnold.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick took his niece’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Stop a minute, Blanche. About Miss Silvester? Have you heard from her + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I am more unhappy about her than words can say.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose somebody went to Craig Fernie and tried to find out the cause of + Miss Silvester’s silence? Would you believe that somebody sympathized with + you then?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s face flushed brightly with pleasure and surprise. She raised Sir + Patrick’s hand gratefully to her lips. + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” she exclaimed. “You don’t mean that <i>you</i> would do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certainly the last person who ought to do it—seeing that you + went to the inn in flat rebellion against my orders, and that I only + forgave you, on your own promise of amendment, the other day. It is a + miserably weak proceeding on the part of ‘the head of the family’ to be + turning his back on his own principles, because his niece happens to be + anxious and unhappy. Still (if you could lend me your little carriage), I + <i>might</i> take a surly drive toward Craig Fernie, all by myself, and I + <i>might</i> stumble against Miss Silvester—in case you have any + thing to say.” + </p> + <p> + “Any thing to say?” repeated Blanche. She put her arm round her uncle’s + neck, and whispered in his ear one of the most interminable messages that + ever was sent from one human being to another. Sir Patrick listened, with + a growing interest in the inquiry on which he was secretly bent. “The + woman must have some noble qualities,” he thought, “who can inspire such + devotion as this.” + </p> + <p> + While Blanche was whispering to her uncle, a second private conference—of + the purely domestic sort—was taking place between Lady Lundie and + the butler, in the hall outside the library door. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to say, my lady, Hester Dethridge has broken out again.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “She was all right, my lady, when she went into the kitchen-garden, some + time since. She’s taken strange again, now she has come back. Wants the + rest of the day to herself, your ladyship. Says she’s overworked, with all + the company in the house—and, I must say, does look like a person + troubled and worn out in body and mind.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk nonsense, Roberts! The woman is obstinate and idle and + insolent. She is now in the house, as you know, under a month’s notice to + leave. If she doesn’t choose to do her duty for that month I shall refuse + to give her a character. Who is to cook the dinner to-day if I give Hester + Dethridge leave to go out?” + </p> + <p> + “Any way, my lady, I am afraid the kitchen-maid will have to do her best + to-day. Hester is very obstinate, when the fit takes her—as your + ladyship says.” + </p> + <p> + “If Hester Dethridge leaves the kitchen-maid to cook the dinner, Roberts, + Hester Dethridge leaves my service to-day. I want no more words about it. + If she persists in setting my orders at defiance, let her bring her + account-book into the library, while we are at lunch, and lay it out my + desk. I shall be back in the library after luncheon—and if I see the + account-book I shall know what it means. In that case, you will receive my + directions to settle with her and send her away. Ring the luncheon-bell.” + </p> + <p> + The luncheon-bell rang. The guests all took the direction of the dining + -room; Sir Patrick following, from the far end of the library, with + Blanche on his arm. Arrived at the dining-room door, Blanche stopped, and + asked her uncle to excuse her if she left him to go in by himself. + </p> + <p> + “I will be back directly,” she said. “I have forgotten something up + stairs.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick went in. The dining-room door closed; and Blanche returned + alone to the library. Now on one pretense, and now on another, she had, + for three days past, faithfully fulfilled the engagement she had made at + Craig Fernie to wait ten minutes after luncheon-time in the library, on + the chance of seeing Anne. On this, the fourth occasion, the faithful girl + sat down alone in the great room, and waited with her eyes fixed on the + lawn outside. + </p> + <p> + Five minutes passed, and nothing living appeared but the birds hopping + about the grass. + </p> + <p> + In less than a minute more Blanche’s quick ear caught the faint sound of a + woman’s dress brushing over the lawn. She ran to the nearest window, + looked out, and clapped her hands with a cry of delight. There was the + well-known figure, rapidly approaching her! Anne was true to their + friendship—Anne had kept her engagement at last! + </p> + <p> + Blanche hurried out, and drew her into the library in triumph. “This makes + amends, love for every thing! You answer my letter in the best of all ways—you + bring me your own dear self.” + </p> + <p> + She placed Anne in a chair, and, lifting her veil, saw her plainly in the + brilliant mid-day light. + </p> + <p> + The change in the whole woman was nothing less than dreadful to the loving + eyes that rested on her. She looked years older than her real age. There + was a dull calm in her face, a stagnant, stupefied submission to any + thing, pitiable to see. Three days and nights of solitude and grief, three + days and nights of unresting and unpartaken suspense, had crushed that + sensitive nature, had frozen that warm heart. The animating spirit was + gone—the mere shell of the woman lived and moved, a mockery of her + former self. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Anne! Anne! What <i>can</i> have happened to you? Are you frightened? + There’s not the least fear of any body disturbing us. They are all at + luncheon, and the servants are at dinner. We have the room entirely to + ourselves. My darling! you look so faint and strange! Let me get you + something.” + </p> + <p> + Anne drew Blanche’s head down and kissed her. It was done in a dull, slow + way—without a word, without a tear, without a sigh. + </p> + <p> + “You’re tired—I’m sure you’re tired. Have you walked here? You + sha’n’t go back on foot; I’ll take care of that!” + </p> + <p> + Anne roused herself at those words. She spoke for the first time. The tone + was lower than was natural to her; sadder than was natural to her—but + the charm of her voice, the native gentleness and beauty of it, seemed to + have survived the wreck of all besides. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go back, Blanche. I have left the inn.” + </p> + <p> + “Left the inn? With your husband?” + </p> + <p> + She answered the first question—not the second. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t go back,” she said. “The inn is no place for me. A curse seems to + follow me, Blanche, wherever I go. I am the cause of quarreling and + wretchedness, without meaning it, God knows. The old man who is + head-waiter at the inn has been kind to me, my dear, in his way, and he + and the landlady had hard words together about it. A quarrel, a shocking, + violent quarrel. He has lost his place in consequence. The woman, his + mistress, lays all the blame of it to my door. She is a hard woman; and + she has been harder than ever since Bishopriggs went away. I have missed a + letter at the inn—I must have thrown it aside, I suppose, and + forgotten it. I only know that I remembered about it, and couldn’t find it + last night. I told the landlady, and she fastened a quarrel on me almost + before the words were out of my mouth. Asked me if I charged her with + stealing my letter. Said things to me—I can’t repeat them. I am not + very well, and not able to deal with people of that sort. I thought it + best to leave Craig Fernie this morning. I hope and pray I shall never see + Craig Fernie again.” + </p> + <p> + She told her little story with a total absence of emotion of any sort, and + laid her head back wearily on the chair when it was done. + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s eyes filled with tears at the sight of her. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t tease you with questions, Anne,” she said, gently. “Come up + stairs and rest in my room. You’re not fit to travel, love. I’ll take care + that nobody comes near us.” + </p> + <p> + The stable-clock at Windygates struck the quarter to two. Anne raised + herself in the chair with a start. + </p> + <p> + “What time was that?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Blanche told her. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t stay,” she said. “I have come here to find something out if I + can. You won’t ask me questions? Don’t, Blanche, don’t! for the sake of + old times.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche turned aside, heart-sick. “I will do nothing, dear, to annoy you,” + she said, and took Anne’s hand, and hid the tears that were beginning to + fall over her cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “I want to know something, Blanche. Will you tell me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Who are the gentlemen staying in the house?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked round at her again, in sudden astonishment and alarm. A + vague fear seized her that Anne’s mind had given way under the heavy + weight of trouble laid on it. Anne persisted in pressing her strange + request. + </p> + <p> + “Run over their names, Blanche. I have a reason for wishing to know who + the gentlemen are who are staying in the house.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche repeated the names of Lady Lundie’s guests, leaving to the last + the guests who had arrived last. + </p> + <p> + “Two more came back this morning,” she went on. “Arnold Brinkworth and + that hateful friend of his, Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s head sank back once more on the chair. She had found her way + without exciting suspicion of the truth, to the one discovery which she + had come to Windygates to make. He was in Scotland again, and he had only + arrived from London that morning. There was barely time for him to have + communicated with Craig Fernie before she left the inn—he, too, who + hated letter-writing! The circumstances were all in his favor: there was + no reason, there was really and truly no reason, so far, to believe that + he had deserted her. The heart of the unhappy woman bounded in her bosom, + under the first ray of hope that had warmed it for four days past. Under + that sudden revulsion of feeling, her weakened frame shook from head to + foot. Her face flushed deep for a moment—then turned deadly pale + again. Blanche, anxiously watching her, saw the serious necessity for + giving some restorative to her instantly. + </p> + <p> + “I am going to get you some wine—you will faint, Anne, if you don’t + take something. I shall be back in a moment; and I can manage it without + any body being the wiser.” + </p> + <p> + She pushed Anne’s chair close to the nearest open window—a window at + the upper end of the library—and ran out. + </p> + <p> + Blanche had barely left the room, by the door that led into the hall, when + Geoffrey entered it by one of the lower windows opening from the lawn. + </p> + <p> + With his mind absorbed in the letter that he was about to write, he slowly + advanced up the room toward the nearest table. Anne, hearing the sound of + footsteps, started, and looked round. Her failing strength rallied in an + instant, under the sudden relief of seeing him again. She rose and + advanced eagerly, with a faint tinge of color in her cheeks. He looked up. + The two stood face to face together—alone. + </p> + <p> + “Geoffrey!” + </p> + <p> + He looked at her without answering—without advancing a step, on his + side. There was an evil light in his eyes; his silence was the brute + silence that threatens dumbly. He had made up his mind never to see her + again, and she had entrapped him into an interview. He had made up his + mind to write, and there she stood forcing him to speak. The sum of her + offenses against him was now complete. If there had ever been the faintest + hope of her raising even a passing pity in his heart, that hope would have + been annihilated now. + </p> + <p> + She failed to understand the full meaning of his silence. She made her + excuses, poor soul, for venturing back to Windygates—her excuses to + the man whose purpose at that moment was to throw her helpless on the + world. + </p> + <p> + “Pray forgive me for coming here,” she said. “I have done nothing to + compromise you, Geoffrey. Nobody but Blanche knows I am at Windygates. And + I have contrived to make my inquiries about you without allowing her to + suspect our secret.” She stopped, and began to tremble. She saw something + more in his face than she had read in it at first. “I got your letter,” + she went on, rallying her sinking courage. “I don’t complain of its being + so short: you don’t like letter-writing, I know. But you promised I should + hear from you again. And I have never heard. And oh, Geoffrey, it was so + lonely at the inn!” + </p> + <p> + She stopped again, and supported herself by resting her hand on the table. + The faintness was stealing back on her. She tried to go on again. It was + useless—she could only look at him now. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want?” he asked, in the tone of a man who was putting an + unimportant question to a total stranger. + </p> + <p> + A last gleam of her old energy flickered up in her face, like a dying + flame. + </p> + <p> + “I am broken by what I have gone through,” she said. “Don’t insult me by + making me remind you of your promise.” + </p> + <p> + “What promise?”’ + </p> + <p> + “For shame, Geoffrey! for shame! Your promise to marry me.” + </p> + <p> + “You claim my promise after what you have done at the inn?” + </p> + <p> + She steadied herself against the table with one hand, and put the other + hand to her head. Her brain was giddy. The effort to think was too much + for her. She said to herself, vacantly, “The inn? What did I do at the + inn?” + </p> + <p> + “I have had a lawyer’s advice, mind! I know what I am talking about.” + </p> + <p> + She appeared not to have heard him. She repeated the words, “What did I do + at the inn?” and gave it up in despair. Holding by the table, she came + close to him and laid her hand on his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Do you refuse to marry me?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + He saw the vile opportunity, and said the vile words. + </p> + <p> + “You’re married already to Arnold Brinkworth.” + </p> + <p> + Without a cry to warn him, without an effort to save herself, she dropped + senseless at his feet; as her mother had dropped at his father’s feet in + the by-gone time. + </p> + <p> + He disentangled himself from the folds of her dress. “Done!” he said, + looking down at her as she lay on the floor. + </p> + <p> + As the word fell from his lips he was startled by a sound in the inner + part of the house. One of the library doors had not been completely + closed. Light footsteps were audible, advancing rapidly across the hall. + </p> + <p> + He turned and fled, leaving the library, as he had entered it, by the open + window at the lower end of the room. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0022" id="link2HCH0022"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SECOND. + </h2> + <h3> + GONE. + </h3> + <p> + BLANCHE came in, with a glass of wine in her hand, and saw the swooning + woman on the floor. + </p> + <p> + She was alarmed, but not surprised, as she knelt by Anne, and raised her + head. Her own previous observation of her friend necessarily prevented her + from being at any loss to account for the fainting fit. The inevitable + delay in getting the wine was—naturally to her mind—alone to + blame for the result which now met her view. + </p> + <p> + If she had been less ready in thus tracing the effect to the cause, she + might have gone to the window to see if any thing had happened, + out-of-doors, to frighten Anne—might have seen Geoffrey before he + had time to turn the corner of the house—and, making that one + discovery, might have altered the whole course of events, not in her + coming life only, but in the coming lives of others. So do we shape our + own destinies, blindfold. So do we hold our poor little tenure of + happiness at the capricious mercy of Chance. It is surely a blessed + delusion which persuades us that we are the highest product of the great + scheme of creation, and sets us doubting whether other planets are + inhabited, because other planets are not surrounded by an atmosphere which + <i>we</i> can breathe! + </p> + <p> + After trying such simple remedies as were within her reach, and trying + them without success, Blanche became seriously alarmed. Anne lay, to all + outward appearance, dead in her arms. She was on the point of calling for + help—come what might of the discovery which would ensue—when + the door from the hall opened once more, and Hester Dethridge entered the + room. + </p> + <p> + The cook had accepted the alternative which her mistress’s message had + placed before her, if she insisted on having her own time at her own sole + disposal for the rest of that day. Exactly as Lady Lundie had desired, she + intimated her resolution to carry her point by placing her account-book on + the desk in the library. It was only when this had been done that Blanche + received any answer to her entreaties for help. Slowly and deliberately + Hester Dethridge walked up to the spot where the young girl knelt with + Anne’s head on her bosom, and looked at the two without a trace of human + emotion in her stern and stony face. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you see what’s happened?” cried Blanche. “Are you alive or dead? + Oh, Hester, I can’t bring her to! Look at her! look at her!” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge looked at her, and shook her head. Looked again, thought + for a while and wrote on her slate. Held out the slate over Anne’s body, + and showed what she had written: + </p> + <p> + “Who has done it?” + </p> + <p> + “You stupid creature!” said Blanche. “Nobody has done it.” + </p> + <p> + The eyes of Hester Dethridge steadily read the worn white face, telling + its own tale of sorrow mutely on Blanche’s breast. The mind of Hester + Dethridge steadily looked back at her own knowledge of her own miserable + married life. She again returned to writing on her slate—again + showed the written words to Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “Brought to it by a man. Let her be—and God will take her.” + </p> + <p> + “You horrid unfeeling woman! how dare you write such an abominable thing!” + With this natural outburst of indignation, Blanche looked back at Anne; + and, daunted by the death-like persistency of the swoon, appealed again to + the mercy of the immovable woman who was looking down at her. “Oh, Hester! + for Heaven’s sake help me!” + </p> + <p> + The cook dropped her slate at her side and bent her head gravely in sign + that she submitted. She motioned to Blanche to loosen Anne’s dress, and + then—kneeling on one knee—took Anne to support her while it + was being done. + </p> + <p> + The instant Hester Dethridge touched her, the swooning woman gave signs of + life. + </p> + <p> + A faint shudder ran through her from head to foot—her eyelids + trembled—half opened for a moment—and closed again. As they + closed, a low sigh fluttered feebly from her lips. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge put her back in Blanche’s arms—considered a little + with herself—returned to writing on her slate—and held out the + written words once more: + </p> + <p> + “Shivered when I touched her. That means I have been walking over her + grave.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche turned from the sight of the slate, and from the sight of the + woman, in horror. “You frighten me!” she said. “You will frighten <i>her</i> + if she sees you. I don’t mean to offend you; but—leave us, please + leave us.” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge accepted her dismissal, as she accepted every thing else. + She bowed her head in sign that she understood—looked for the last + time at Anne—dropped a stiff courtesy to her young mistress—and + left the room. + </p> + <p> + An hour later the butler had paid her, and she had left the house. + </p> + <p> + Blanche breathed more freely when she found herself alone. She could feel + the relief now of seeing Anne revive. + </p> + <p> + “Can you hear me, darling?” she whispered. “Can you let me leave you for a + moment?” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s eyes slowly opened and looked round her—in that torment and + terror of reviving life which marks the awful protest of humanity against + its recall to existence when mortal mercy has dared to wake it in the arms + of Death. + </p> + <p> + Blanche rested Anne’s head against the nearest chair, and ran to the table + upon which she had placed the wine on entering the room. + </p> + <p> + After swallowing the first few drops Anne begun to feel the effect of the + stimulant. Blanche persisted in making her empty the glass, and refrained + from asking or answering questions until her recovery under the influence + of the wine was complete. + </p> + <p> + “You have overexerted yourself this morning,” she said, as soon as it + seemed safe to speak. “Nobody has seen you, darling—nothing has + happened. Do you feel like yourself again?” + </p> + <p> + Anne made an attempt to rise and leave the library; Blanche placed her + gently in the chair, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “There is not the least need to stir. We have another quarter of an hour + to ourselves before any body is at all likely to disturb us. I have + something to say, Anne—a little proposal to make. Will you listen to + me?” + </p> + <p> + Anne took Blanche’s hand, and p ressed it gratefully to her lips. She made + no other reply. Blanche proceeded: + </p> + <p> + “I won’t ask any questions, my dear—I won’t attempt to keep you here + against your will—I won’t even remind you of my letter yesterday. + But I can’t let you go, Anne, without having my mind made easy about you + in some way. You will relieve all my anxiety, if you will do one thing—one + easy thing for my sake.” + </p> + <p> + “What is it, Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + She put that question with her mind far away from the subject before her. + Blanche was too eager in pursuit of her object to notice the absent tone, + the purely mechanical manner, in which Anne had spoken to her. + </p> + <p> + “I want you to consult my uncle,” she answered. “Sir Patrick is interested + in you; Sir Patrick proposed to me this very day to go and see you at the + inn. He is the wisest, the kindest, the dearest old man living—and + you can trust him as you could trust nobody else. Will you take my uncle + into your confidence, and be guided by his advice?” + </p> + <p> + With her mind still far away from the subject, Anne looked out absently at + the lawn, and made no answer. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” said Blanche. “One word isn’t much to say. Is it Yes or No?” + </p> + <p> + Still looking out on the lawn—still thinking of something else—Anne + yielded, and said “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche was enchanted. “How well I must have managed it!” she thought. + “This is what my uncle means, when my uncle talks of ‘putting it + strongly.’” + </p> + <p> + She bent down over Anne, and gayly patted her on the shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “That’s the wisest ‘Yes,’ darling, you ever said in your life. Wait here—and + I’ll go in to luncheon, or they will be sending to know what has become of + me. Sir Patrick has kept my place for me, next to himself. I shall + contrive to tell him what I want; and <i>he</i> will contrive (oh, the + blessing of having to do with a clever man; these are so few of them!)—he + will contrive to leave the table before the rest, without exciting any + body’s suspicions. Go away with him at once to the summer-house (we have + been at the summer-house all the morning; nobody will go back to it now), + and I will follow you as soon as I have satisfied Lady Lundie by eating + some lunch. Nobody will be any the wiser but our three selves. In five + minutes or less you may expect Sir Patrick. Let me go! We haven’t a moment + to lose!” + </p> + <p> + Anne held her back. Anne’s attention was concentrated on her now. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Are you going on happily with Arnold, Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + “Arnold is nicer than ever, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the day fixed for your marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “The day will be ages hence. Not till we are back in town, at the end of + the autumn. Let me go, Anne!” + </p> + <p> + “Give me a kiss, Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche kissed her, and tried to release her hand. Anne held it as if she + was drowning, as if her life depended on not letting it go. + </p> + <p> + “Will you always love me, Blanche, as you love me now?” + </p> + <p> + “How can you ask me!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>I</i> said Yes just now. <i>You</i> say Yes too.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche said it. Anne’s eyes fastened on her face, with one long, yearning + look, and then Anne’s hand suddenly dropped hers. + </p> + <p> + She ran out of the room, more agitated, more uneasy, than she liked to + confess to herself. Never had she felt so certain of the urgent necessity + of appealing to Sir Patrick’s advice as she felt at that moment. + </p> + <p> + The guests were still safe at the luncheon-table when Blanche entered the + dining-room. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie expressed the necessary surprise, in the properly graduated + tone of reproof, at her step-daughter’s want of punctuality. Blanche made + her apologies with the most exemplary humility. She glided into her chair + by her uncle’s side, and took the first thing that was offered to her. Sir + Patrick looked at his niece, and found himself in the company of a model + young English Miss—and marveled inwardly what it might mean. + </p> + <p> + The talk, interrupted for the moment (topics, Politics and Sport—and + then, when a change was wanted, Sport and Politics), was resumed again all + round the table. Under cover of the conversation, and in the intervals of + receiving the attentions of the gentlemen, Blanche whispered to Sir + Patrick, “Don’t start, uncle. Anne is in the library.” (Polite Mr. Smith + offered some ham. Gratefully declined.) “Pray, pray, pray go to her; she + is waiting to see you—she is in dreadful trouble.” (Gallant Mr. + Jones proposed fruit tart and cream. Accepted with thanks.) “Take her to + the summer-house: I’ll follow you when I get the chance. And manage it at + once, uncle, if you love me, or you will be too late.” + </p> + <p> + Before Sir Patrick could whisper back a word in reply, Lady Lundie, + cutting a cake of the richest Scottish composition, at the other end of + the table, publicly proclaimed it to be her “own cake,” and, as such, + offered her brother-in-law a slice. The slice exhibited an eruption of + plums and sweetmeats, overlaid by a perspiration of butter. It has been + said that Sir Patrick had reached the age of seventy—it is, + therefore, needless to add that he politely declined to commit an + unprovoked outrage on his own stomach. + </p> + <p> + “MY cake!” persisted Lady Lundie, elevating the horrible composition on a + fork. “Won’t that tempt you?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick saw his way to slipping out of the room under cover of a + compliment to his sister-in-law. He summoned his courtly smile, and laid + his hand on his heart. + </p> + <p> + “A fallible mortal,” he said, “is met by a temptation which he can not + possibly resist. If he is a wise mortal, also, what does he do?” + </p> + <p> + “He eats some of My cake,” said the prosaic Lady Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “No!” said Sir Patrick, with a look of unutterable devotion directed at + his sister-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “He flies temptation, dear lady—as I do now.” He bowed, and escaped, + unsuspected, from the room. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie cast down her eyes, with an expression of virtuous indulgence + for human frailty, and divided Sir Patrick’s compliment modestly between + herself and her cake. + </p> + <p> + Well aware that his own departure from the table would be followed in a + few minutes by the rising of the lady of the house, Sir Patrick hurried to + the library as fast as his lame foot would let him. Now that he was alone, + his manner became anxious, and his face looked grave. He entered the room. + </p> + <p> + Not a sign of Anne Silvester was to be seen any where. The library was a + perfect solitude. + </p> + <p> + “Gone!” said Sir Patrick. “This looks bad.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment’s reflection he went back into the hall to get his hat. It + was possible that she might have been afraid of discovery if she staid in + the library, and that she might have gone on to the summer-house by + herself. + </p> + <p> + If she was not to be found in the summer-house, the quieting of Blanche’s + mind and the clearing up of her uncle’s suspicions alike depended on + discovering the place in which Miss Silvester had taken refuge. In this + case time would be of importance, and the capacity of making the most of + it would be a precious capacity at starting. Arriving rapidly at these + conclusions, Sir Patrick rang the bell in the hall which communicated with + the servants’ offices, and summoned his own valet—a person of tried + discretion and fidelity, nearly as old as himself. + </p> + <p> + “Get your hat, Duncan,” he said, when the valet appeared, “and come out + with me.” + </p> + <p> + Master and servant set forth together silently on their way through the + grounds. Arrived within sight of the summer-house, Sir Patrick ordered + Duncan to wait, and went on by himself. + </p> + <p> + There was not the least need for the precaution that he had taken. The + summer-house was as empty as the library. He stepped out again and looked + about him. Not a living creature was visible. Sir Patrick summoned his + servant to join him. + </p> + <p> + “Go back to the stables, Duncan,” he said, “and say that Miss Lundie lends + me her pony-carriage to-day. Let it be got ready at once and kept in the + stable-yard. I want to attract as little notice as possible. You are to go + with me, and nobody else. Provide yourself with a railway time-table. Have + you got any money?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you happen to see the governess (Miss Silvester) on the day when we + came here—the day of the lawn-party?” + </p> + <p> + “I did, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Should you know her again?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought her a very distinguished-looking person, Sir Patrick. I should + certainly know her again.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any reason to think she noticed you?” + </p> + <p> + “She never even looked at me, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. Put a change of linen into your bag, Duncan—I may + possibly want you to take a journey by railway. Wait for me in the + stable-yard. This is a matter in which every thing is trusted to my + discretion, and to yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + With that acknowledgment of the compliment which had been just paid to + him, Duncan gravely went his way to the stables; and Duncan’s master + returned to the summer-house, to wait there until he was joined by + Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick showed signs of failing patience during the interval of + expectation through which he was now condemned to pass. He applied + perpetually to the snuff-box in the knob of his cane. He fidgeted + incessantly in and out of the summer-house. Anne’s disappearance had + placed a serious obstacle in the way of further discovery; and there was + no attacking that obstacle, until precious time had been wasted in waiting + to see Blanche. + </p> + <p> + At last she appeared in view, from the steps of the summer-house; + breathless and eager, hasting to the place of meeting as fast as her feet + would take her to it. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick considerately advanced, to spare her the shock of making the + inevitable discovery. “Blanche,” he said. “Try to prepare yourself, my + dear, for a disappointment. I am alone.” + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean that you have let her go?” + </p> + <p> + “My poor child! I have never seen her at all.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche pushed by him, and ran into the summer-house. Sir Patrick followed + her. She came out again to meet him, with a look of blank despair. “Oh, + uncle! I did so truly pity her! And see how little pity she has for <i>me!</i>” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick put his arm round his niece, and softly patted the fair young + head that dropped on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t let us judge her harshly, my dear: we don’t know what serious + necessity may not plead her excuse. It is plain that she can trust nobody—and + that she only consented to see me to get you out of the room and spare you + the pain of parting. Compose yourself, Blanche. I don’t despair of + discovering where she has gone, if you will help me.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche lifted her head, and dried her tears bravely. + </p> + <p> + “My father himself wasn’t kinder to me than you are,” she said. “Only tell + me, uncle, what I can do!” + </p> + <p> + “I want to hear exactly what happened in the library,” said Sir Patrick. + “Forget nothing, my dear child, no matter how trifling it may be. Trifles + are precious to us, and minutes are precious to us, now.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche followed her instructions to the letter, her uncle listening with + the closest attention. When she had completed her narrative, Sir Patrick + suggested leaving the summer-house. “I have ordered your chaise,” he said; + “and I can tell you what I propose doing on our way to the stable-yard.” + </p> + <p> + “Let me drive you, uncle!” + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me, my dear, for saying No to that. Your step-mother’s suspicions + are very easily excited—and you had better not be seen with me if my + inquiries take me to the Craig Fernie inn. I promise, if you will remain + here, to tell you every thing when I come back. Join the others in any + plan they have for the afternoon—and you will prevent my absence + from exciting any thing more than a passing remark. You will do as I tell + you? That’s a good girl! Now you shall hear how I propose to search for + this poor lady, and how your little story has helped me.” + </p> + <p> + He paused, considering with himself whether he should begin by telling + Blanche of his consultation with Geoffrey. Once more, he decided that + question in the negative. Better to still defer taking her into his + confidence until he had performed the errand of investigation on which he + was now setting forth. + </p> + <p> + “What you have told me, Blanche, divides itself, in my mind, into two + heads,” began Sir Patrick. “There is what happened in the library before + your own eyes; and there is what Miss Silvester told you had happened at + the inn. As to the event in the library (in the first place), it is too + late now to inquire whether that fainting-fit was the result, as you say, + of mere exhaustion—or whether it was the result of something that + occurred while you were out of the room.” + </p> + <p> + “What could have happened while I was out of the room?” + </p> + <p> + “I know no more than you do, my dear. It is simply one of the + possibilities in the case, and, as such, I notice it. To get on to what + practically concerns us; if Miss Silvester is in delicate health it is + impossible that she could get, unassisted, to any great distance from + Windygates. She may have taken refuge in one of the cottages in our + immediate neighborhood. Or she may have met with some passing vehicle from + one of the farms on its way to the station, and may have asked the person + driving to give her a seat in it. Or she may have walked as far as she + can, and may have stopped to rest in some sheltered place, among the lanes + to the south of this house.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll inquire at the cottages, uncle, while you are gone.” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child, there must be a dozen cottages, at least, within a circle + of one mile from Windygates! Your inquiries would probably occupy you for + the whole afternoon. I won’t ask what Lady Lundie would think of your + being away all that time by yourself. I will only remind you of two + things. You would be making a public matter of an investigation which it + is essential to pursue as privately as possible; and, even if you happened + to hit on the right cottage your inquiries would be completely baffled, + and you would discover nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “I know the Scottish peasant better than you do, Blanche. In his + intelligence and his sense of self-respect he is a very different being + from the English peasant. He would receive you civilly, because you are a + young lady; but he would let you see, at the same time, that he considered + you had taken advantage of the difference between your position and his + position to commit an intrusion. And if Miss Silvester had appealed, in + confidence, to his hospitality, and if he had granted it, no power on + earth would induce him to tell any person living that she was under his + roof—without her express permission.” + </p> + <p> + “But, uncle, if it’s of no use making inquiries of any body, how are we to + find her?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t say that nobody will answer our inquiries, my dear—I only + say the peasantry won’t answer them, if your friend has trusted herself to + their protection. The way to find her is to look on, beyond what Miss + Silvester may be doing at the present moment, to what Miss Silvester + contemplates doing—let us say, before the day is out. We may assume, + I think (after what has happened), that, as soon as she can leave this + neighborhood, she assuredly will leave it. Do you agree, so far?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes! Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. She is a woman, and she is (to say the least of it) not + strong. She can only leave this neighborhood either by hiring a vehicle or + by traveling on the railway. I propose going first to the station. At the + rate at which your pony gets over the ground, there is a fair chance, in + spite of the time we have lost, of my being there as soon as she is—assuming + that she leaves by the first train, up or down, that passes.” + </p> + <p> + “There is a train in half an hour, uncle. She can never get there in time + for that.” + </p> + <p> + “She may be less exhausted than we think; or she may get a lift; or she + may not be alone. How do we know but somebody may have been waiting in the + lane—her husband, if there is such a person—to help her? No! I + shall assume she is now on her way to the station; and I shall get there + as fast as possible—” + </p> + <p> + “And stop her, if you find her there?” + </p> + <p> + “What I do, Blanche, must be left to my discretion. If I find her there, I + must act for the best. If I don’t find her there, I shall leave Duncan + (who goes with me) on the watch for the remaining trains, until the last + to-night. He knows Miss Silvester by sight, and he is sure that <i>she</i> + has never noticed <i>him.</i> Whether she goes north or south, early or + late, Duncan will have my orders to follow her. He is thoroughly to be + relied on. If she takes the railway, I answer for it we shall know where + she goes.” + </p> + <p> + “How clever of you to think of Duncan!” + </p> + <p> + “Not in the least, my dear. Duncan is my factotum; and the course I am + taking is the obvious course which would have occurred to any body. Let us + get to the re ally difficult part of it now. Suppose she hires a + carriage?” + </p> + <p> + “There are none to be had, except at the station.” + </p> + <p> + “There are farmers about here—and farmers have light carts, or + chaises, or something of the sort. It is in the last degree unlikely that + they would consent to let her have them. Still, women break through + difficulties which stop men. And this is a clever woman, Blanche—a + woman, you may depend on it, who is bent on preventing you from tracing + her. I confess I wish we had somebody we could trust lounging about where + those two roads branch off from the road that leads to the railway. I must + go in another direction; <i>I</i> can’t do it.” + </p> + <p> + “Arnold can do it!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked a little doubtful. “Arnold is an excellent fellow,” he + said. “But can we trust to his discretion?” + </p> + <p> + “He is, next to you, the most perfectly discreet person I know,” rejoined + Blanche, in a very positive manner; “and, what is more, I have told him + every thing about Anne, except what has happened to-day. I am afraid I + shall tell him <i>that,</i> when I feel lonely and miserable, after you + have gone. There is something in Arnold—I don’t know what it is—that + comforts me. Besides, do you think he would betray a secret that I gave + him to keep? You don’t know how devoted he is to me!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear Blanche, I am not the cherished object of his devotion; of course + I don’t know! You are the only authority on that point. I stand corrected. + Let us have Arnold, by all means. Caution him to be careful; and send him + out by himself, where the roads meet. We have now only one other place + left in which there is a chance of finding a trace of her. I undertake to + make the necessary investigation at the Craig Fernie inn.” + </p> + <p> + “The Craig Fernie inn? Uncle! you have forgotten what I told you.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little, my dear. Miss Silvester herself has left the inn, I grant + you. But (if we should unhappily fail in finding her by any other means) + Miss Silvester has left a trace to guide us at Craig Fernie. That trace + must be picked up at once, in case of accidents. You don’t seem to follow + me? I am getting over the ground as fast as the pony gets over it. I have + arrived at the second of those two heads into which your story divides + itself in my mind. What did Miss Silvester tell you had happened at the + inn?” + </p> + <p> + “She lost a letter at the inn.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly. She lost a letter at the inn; that is one event. And + Bishopriggs, the waiter, has quarreled with Mrs. Inchbare, and has left + his situation; that is another event. As to the letter first. It is either + really lost, or it has been stolen. In either case, if we can lay our + hands on it, there is at least a chance of its helping us to discover + something. As to Bishopriggs, next—” + </p> + <p> + “You’re not going to talk about the waiter, surely?” + </p> + <p> + “I am! Bishopriggs possesses two important merits. He is a link in my + chain of reasoning; and he is an old friend of mine.” + </p> + <p> + “A friend of yours?” + </p> + <p> + “We live in days, my dear, when one workman talks of another workman as + ‘that gentleman.’—I march with the age, and feel bound to mention my + clerk as my friend. A few years since Bishopriggs was employed in the + clerks’ room at my chambers. He is one of the most intelligent and most + unscrupulous old vagabonds in Scotland; perfectly honest as to all average + matters involving pounds, shillings, and pence; perfectly unprincipled in + the pursuit of his own interests, where the violation of a trust lies on + the boundary-line which marks the limit of the law. I made two unpleasant + discoveries when I had him in my employment. I found that he had contrived + to supply himself with a duplicate of my seal; and I had the strongest + reason to suspect him of tampering with some papers belonging to two of my + clients. He had done no actual mischief, so far; and I had no time to + waste in making out the necessary case against him. He was dismissed from + my service, as a man who was not to be trusted to respect any letters or + papers that happened to pass through his hands.” + </p> + <p> + “I see, uncle! I see!” + </p> + <p> + “Plain enough now—isn’t it? If that missing letter of Miss + Silvester’s is a letter of no importance, I am inclined to believe that it + is merely lost, and may be found again. If, on the other hand, there is + any thing in it that could promise the most remote advantage to any person + in possession of it, then, in the execrable slang of the day, I will lay + any odds, Blanche, that Bishopriggs has got the letter!” + </p> + <p> + “And he has left the inn! How unfortunate!” + </p> + <p> + “Unfortunate as causing delay—nothing worse than that. Unless I am + very much mistaken, Bishopriggs will come back to the inn. The old rascal + (there is no denying it) is a most amusing person. He left a terrible + blank when he left my clerks’ room. Old customers at Craig Fernie + (especially the English), in missing Bishopriggs, will, you may rely on + it, miss one of the attractions of the inn. Mrs. Inchbare is not a woman + to let her dignity stand in the way of her business. She and Bishopriggs + will come together again, sooner or later, and make it up. When I have put + certain questions to her, which may possibly lead to very important + results, I shall leave a letter for Bishopriggs in Mrs. Inchbare’s hands. + The letter will tell him I have something for him to do, and will contain + an address at which he can write to me. I shall hear of him, Blanche and, + if the letter is in his possession, I shall get it.” + </p> + <p> + “Won’t he be afraid—if he has stolen the letter—to tell you he + has got it?” + </p> + <p> + “Very well put, my child. He might hesitate with other people. But I have + my own way of dealing with him—and I know how to make him tell Me.—Enough + of Bishopriggs till his time comes. There is one other point, in regard to + Miss Silvester. I may have to describe her. How was she dressed when she + came here? Remember, I am a man—and (if an Englishwoman’s dress <i>can</i> + be described in an Englishwoman’s language) tell me, in English, what she + had on.” + </p> + <p> + “She wore a straw hat, with corn-flowers in it, and a white veil. + Corn-flowers at one side uncle, which is less common than cornflowers in + front. And she had on a light gray shawl. And a <i>Pique;</i>—” + </p> + <p> + “There you go with your French! Not a word more! A straw hat, with a white + veil, and with corn-flowers at one side of the hat. And a light gray + shawl. That’s as much as the ordinary male mind can take in; and that will + do. I have got my instructions, and saved precious time. So far so good. + Here we are at the end of our conference—in other words, at the gate + of the stable-yard. You understand what you have to do while I am away?” + </p> + <p> + “I have to send Arnold to the cross-roads. And I have to behave (if I can) + as if nothing had happened.” + </p> + <p> + “Good child! Well put again! you have got what I call grasp of mind, + Blanche. An invaluable faculty! You will govern the future domestic + kingdom. Arnold will be nothing but a constitutional husband. Those are + the only husbands who are thoroughly happy. You shall hear every thing, my + love, when I come lack. Got your bag, Duncan? Good. And the time-table? + Good. You take the reins—I won’t drive. I want to think. Driving is + incompatible with intellectual exertion. A man puts his mind into his + horse, and sinks to the level of that useful animal—as a necessary + condition of getting to his destination without being upset. God bless + you, Blanche! To the station, Duncan! to the station!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0023" id="link2HCH0023"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD. + </h2> + <h3> + TRACED. + </h3> + <p> + THE chaise rattled our through the gates. The dogs barked furiously. Sir + Patrick looked round, and waved his hand as he turned the corner of the + road. Blanche was left alone in the yard. + </p> + <p> + She lingered a little, absently patting the dogs. They had especial claims + on her sympathy at that moment; they, too, evidently thought it hard to be + left behind at the house. After a while she roused herself. Sir Patrick + had left the responsibility of superintending the crossroads on her + shoulders. There was something to be done yet before the arrangements for + tracing Anne were complete. Blanche left the yard to do it. + </p> + <p> + On her way back to the house she met Arnold, dispatched by Lady Lundie in + search of her. + </p> + <p> + The plan of occupation for the afternoon had been settled during Blanche’s + absence. Some demon had whispered to Lady Lundie to cultivate a taste for + feudal antiquities, and to insist on spreading that taste among her + guests. She had proposed an excursion to an old baronial castle among the + hills—far to the westward (fortunately for Sir Patrick’s chance of + escaping discovery) of the hills at Craig Fernie. Some of the guests were + to ride, and some to accompany their hostess in the open carriage. Looking + right and left for proselytes, Lady Lundie had necessarily remarked the + disappearance of certain members of her circle. Mr. Delamayn had vanished, + nobody knew where. Sir Patrick and Blanche had followed his example. Her + ladyship had observed, upon this, with some asperity, that if they were + all to treat each other in that unceremonious manner, the sooner + Windygates was turned into a Penitentiary, on the silent system, the + fitter the house would be for the people who inhabited it. Under these + circumstances, Arnold suggested that Blanche would do well to make her + excuses as soon as possible at head-quarters, and accept the seat in the + carriage which her step-mother wished her to take. “We are in for the + feudal antiquities, Blanche; and we must help each other through as well + as we can. If you will go in the carriage, I’ll go too.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “There are serious reasons for <i>my</i> keeping up appearances,” she + said. “I shall go in the carriage. You mustn’t go at all.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold naturally looked a little surprised, and asked to be favored with + an explanation. + </p> + <p> + Blanche took his arm and hugged it close. Now that Anne was lost, Arnold + was more precious to her than ever. She literally hungered to hear at that + moment, from his own lips, how fond he was of her. It mattered nothing + that she was already perfectly satisfied on this point. It was so nice + (after he had said it five hundred times already) to make him say it once + more! + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I had no explanation to give?” she said. “Would you stay behind + by yourself to please me?” + </p> + <p> + “I would do any thing to please you!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you really love me as much as that?” + </p> + <p> + They were still in the yard; and the only witnesses present were the dogs. + Arnold answered in the language without words—which is nevertheless + the most expressive language in use, between men and women, all over the + world. + </p> + <p> + “This is not doing my duty,” said Blanche, penitently. “But, oh Arnold, I + am so anxious and so miserable! And it <i>is</i> such a consolation to + know that <i>you</i> won’t turn your back on me too!” + </p> + <p> + With that preface she told him what had happened in the library. Even + Blanche’s estimate of her lover’s capacity for sympathizing with her was + more than realized by the effect which her narrative produced on Arnold. + He was not merely surprised and sorry for her. His face showed plainly + that he felt genuine concern and distress. He had never stood higher in + Blanche’s opinion than he stood at that moment. + </p> + <p> + “What is to be done?” he asked. “How does Sir Patrick propose to find + her?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche repeated Sir Patrick’s instructions relating to the crossroads, + and also to the serious necessity of pursuing the investigation in the + strictest privacy. Arnold (relieved from all fear of being sent back to + Craig Fernie) undertook to do every thing that was asked of him, and + promised to keep the secret from every body. + </p> + <p> + They went back to the house, and met with an icy welcome from Lady Lundie. + Her ladyship repeated her remark on the subject of turning Windygates into + a Penitentiary for Blanche’s benefit. She received Arnold’s petition to be + excused from going to see the castle with the barest civility. “Oh, take + your walk by all means! You may meet your friend, Mr. Delamayn—who + appears to have such a passion for walking that he can’t even wait till + luncheon is over. As for Sir Patrick—Oh! Sir Patrick has borrowed + the pony-carriage? and gone out driving by himself?—I’m sure I never + meant to offend my brother-in-law when I offered him a slice of my poor + little cake. Don’t let me offend any body else. Dispose of your afternoon, + Blanche, without the slightest reference to me. Nobody seems inclined to + visit the ruins—the most interesting relic of feudal times in + Perthshire, Mr. Brinkworth. It doesn’t matter—oh, dear me, it + doesn’t matter! I can’t force my guests to feel an intelligent curiosity + on the subject of Scottish Antiquities. No! no! my dear Blanche!—it + won’t be the first time, or the last, that I have driven out alone. I + don’t at all object to being alone. ‘My mind to me a kingdom is,’ as the + poet says.” So Lady Lundie’s outraged self-importance asserted its + violated claims on human respect, until her distinguished medical guest + came to the rescue and smoothed his hostess’s ruffled plumes. The surgeon + (he privately detested ruins) begged to go. Blanche begged to go. Smith + and Jones (profoundly interested in feudal antiquities) said they would + sit behind, in the “rumble”—rather than miss this unexpected treat. + One, Two, and Three caught the infection, and volunteered to be the escort + on horseback. Lady Lundie’s celebrated “smile” (warranted to remain + unaltered on her face for hours together) made its appearance once more. + She issued her orders with the most charming amiability. “We’ll take the + guidebook,” said her ladyship, with the eye to mean economy, which is only + to be met with in very rich people, “and save a shilling to the man who + shows the ruins.” With that she went up stairs to array herself for the + drive, and looked in the glass; and saw a perfectly virtuous, fascinating, + and accomplished woman, facing her irresistibly in a new French bonnet! + </p> + <p> + At a private signal from Blanche, Arnold slipped out and repaired to his + post, where the roads crossed the road that led to the railway. + </p> + <p> + There was a space of open heath on one side of him, and the stonewall and + gates of a farmhouse inclosure on the other. Arnold sat down on the soft + heather—and lit a cigar—and tried to see his way through the + double mystery of Anne’s appearance and Anne’s flight. + </p> + <p> + He had interpreted his friend’s absence exactly as his friend had + anticipated: he could only assume that Geoffrey had gone to keep a private + appointment with Anne. Miss Silvester’s appearance at Windygates alone, + and Miss Silvester’s anxiety to hear the names of the gentlemen who were + staying in the house, seemed, under these circumstances, to point to the + plain conclusion that the two had, in some way, unfortunately missed each + other. But what could be the motive of her flight? Whether she knew of + some other place in which she might meet Geoffrey? or whether she had gone + back to the inn? or whether she had acted under some sudden impulse of + despair?—were questions which Arnold was necessarily quite + incompetent to solve. There was no choice but to wait until an opportunity + offered of reporting what had happened to Geoffrey himself. + </p> + <p> + After the lapse of half an hour, the sound of some approaching vehicle—the + first sound of the sort that he had heard—attracted Arnold’s + attention. He started up, and saw the pony-chaise approaching him along + the road from the station. Sir Patrick, this time, was compelled to drive + himself—Duncan was not with him. On discovering Arnold, he stopped + the pony. + </p> + <p> + “So! so!” said the old gentleman. “You have heard all about it, I see? You + understand that this is to be a secret from every body, till further + notice? Very good, Has any thing happened since you have been here?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing. Have you made any discoveries, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “None. I got to the station before the train. No signs of Miss Silvester + any where. I have left Duncan on the watch—with orders not to stir + till the last train has passed to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think she will turn up at the station,” said Arnold. “I fancy she + has gone back to Craig Fernie.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite possible. I am now on my way to Craig Fernie, to make inquiries + about her. I don’t know how long I may be detained, or what it may lead + to. If you see Blanche before I do tell her I have instructed the + station-master to let me know (if Miss Silvester does take the railway) + what place she books for. Thanks to that arrangement, we sha’n’t have to + wait for news till Duncan can telegraph that he has seen her to her + journey’s end. In the mean time, you understand what you are wanted to do + here?” + </p> + <p> + “Blanche has explained every thing to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Stick to your post, and make good use of your eyes. You were accustomed + to that, you know, when you were at sea. It’s no great hardship to pass a + few hours in this delicious summer air. I see you have contracted the vile + modern habit of smoking—that will be occupation enough to amuse you, + no doubt! Keep the roads in view; and, if she does come your way, don’t + attempt to stop her—you can’t do that. Speak to her (quite + innocently, mind!), by way of getting time enough to notice the face of + the man who is driving her, and the name (if there is one) on his cart. Do + that, and you will do enough. Pah! how that cigar poisons the air! What + will have become of your stomach when you get to my age?” + </p> + <p> + “I sha’n’t complain, Sir Patrick, if I can eat as good a dinner as you + do.” + </p> + <p> + “That reminds me! I met somebody I knew at the station. Hester Dethridge + has left her place, and gone to London by the train. We may feed at + Windygates—we have done with dining now. It has been a final quarrel + this time between the mistress and the cook. I have given Hester my + address in London, and told her to let me know before she decides on + another place. A woman who <i>can’t</i> talk, and a woman who <i>can</i> + cook, is simply a woman who has arrived at absolute perfection. Such a + treasure shall not go out of the family, if I can help it. Did you notice + the Bechamel sauce at lunch? Pooh! a young man who smokes cigars doesn’t + know the difference between Bechamel sauce and melted butter. Good + afternoon! good afternoon!” + </p> + <p> + He slackened the reins, and away he went to Craig Fernie. Counting by + years, the pony was twenty, and the pony’s driver was seventy. Counting by + vivacity and spirit, two of the most youthful characters in Scotland had + got together that afternoon in the same chaise. + </p> + <p> + An hour more wore itself slowly out; and nothing had passed Arnold on the + cross-roads but a few stray foot-passengers, a heavy wagon, and a gig with + an old woman in it. He rose again from the heather, weary of inaction, and + resolved to walk backward and forward, within view of his post, for a + change. At the second turn, when his face happened to be set toward the + open heath, he noticed another foot-passenger—apparently a man—far + away in the empty distance. Was the person coming toward him? + </p> + <p> + He advanced a little. The stranger was doubtless advancing too, so rapidly + did his figure now reveal itself, beyond all doubt, as the figure of a + man. A few minutes more and Arnold fancied he recognized it. Yet a little + longer, and he was quite sure. There was no mistaking the lithe strength + and grace of <i>that</i> man, and the smooth easy swiftness with which he + covered his ground. It was the hero of the coming foot-race. It was + Geoffrey on his way back to Windygates House. + </p> + <p> + Arnold hurried forward to meet him. Geoffrey stood still, poising himself + on his stick, and let the other come up. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard what has happened at the house?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + He instinctively checked the next question as it rose to his lips. There + was a settled defiance in the expression of Geoffrey’s face, which Arnold + was quite at a loss to understand. He looked like a man who had made up + his mind to confront any thing that could happen, and to contradict any + body who spoke to him. + </p> + <p> + “Something seems to have annoyed you?” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “What’s up at the house?” returned Geoffrey, with his loudest voice and + his hardest look. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester has been at the house.” + </p> + <p> + “Who saw her?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody but Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, she was miserably weak and ill, so ill that she fainted, poor + thing, in the library. Blanche brought her to.” + </p> + <p> + “And what then?” + </p> + <p> + “We were all at lunch at the time. Blanche left the library, to speak + privately to her uncle. When she went back Miss Silvester was gone, and + nothing has been seen of her since.” + </p> + <p> + “A row at the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows of it at the house, except Blanche—” + </p> + <p> + “And you? And how many besides?” + </p> + <p> + “And Sir Patrick. Nobody else.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody else? Any thing more?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold remembered his promise to keep the investigation then on foot a + secret from every body. Geoffrey’s manner made him—unconsciously to + himself—readier than he might otherwise have been to consider + Geoffrey as included in the general prohibition. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing more,” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey dug the point of his stick deep into the soft, sandy ground. He + looked at the stick, then suddenly pulled it out of the ground and looked + at Arnold. “Good-afternoon!” he said, and went on his way again by + himself. + </p> + <p> + Arnold followed, and stopped him. For a moment the two men looked at each + other without a word passing on either side. Arnold spoke first. + </p> + <p> + “You’re out of humor, Geoffrey. What has upset you in this way? Have you + and Miss Silvester missed each other?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey was silent. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her since she left Windygates?” + </p> + <p> + No reply. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where Miss Silvester is now?” + </p> + <p> + Still no reply. Still the same mutely-insolent defiance of look and + manner. Arnold’s dark color began to deepen. + </p> + <p> + “Why don’t you answer me?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Because I have had enough of it.” + </p> + <p> + “Enough of what?” + </p> + <p> + “Enough of being worried about Miss Silvester. Miss Silvester’s my + business—not yours.” + </p> + <p> + “Gently, Geoffrey! Don’t forget that I have been mixed up in that business—without + seeking it myself.” + </p> + <p> + “There’s no fear of my forgetting. You have cast it in my teeth often + enough.” + </p> + <p> + “Cast it in your teeth?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! Am I never to hear the last of my obligation to you? The devil take + the obligation! I’m sick of the sound of it.” + </p> + <p> + There was a spirit in Arnold—not easily brought to the surface, + through the overlying simplicity and good-humor of his ordinary character—which, + once roused, was a spirit not readily quelled. Geoffrey had roused it at + last. + </p> + <p> + “When you come to your senses,” he said, “I’ll remember old times—and + receive your apology. Till you <i>do</i> come to your senses, go your way + by yourself. I have no more to say to you.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey set his teeth, and came one step nearer. Arnold’s eyes met his, + with a look which steadily and firmly challenged him—though he was + the stronger man of the two—to force the quarrel a step further, if + he dared. The one human virtue which Geoffrey respected and understood was + the virtue of courage. And there it was before him—the undeniable + courage of the weaker man. The callous scoundrel was touched on the one + tender place in his whole being. He turned, and went on his way in + silence. + </p> + <p> + Left by himself, Arnold’s head dropped on his breast. The friend who had + saved his life—the one friend he possessed, who was associated with + his earliest and happiest remembrances of old days—had grossly + insulted him: and had left him deliberately, without the slightest + expression of regret. Arnold’s affectionate nature—simple, loyal, + clinging where it once fastened—was wounded to the quick. Geoffrey’s + fast-retreating figure, in the open view before him, became blurred and + indistinct. He put his hand over his eyes, and hid, with a boyish shame, + the hot tears that told of the heartache, and that honored the man who + shed them. + </p> + <p> + He was still struggling with the emotion which had overpowered him, when + something happened at the place where the roads met. + </p> + <p> + The four roads pointed as nearly as might be toward the four points of the + compass. Arnold was now on the road to the eastward, having advanced in + that direction to meet Geoffrey, between two and three hundred yards from + the farm-house inclosure before which he had kept his watch. The road to + the westward, curving away behind the farm, led to the nearest + market-town. The road to the south was the way to the station. And the + road to the north led back to Windygates House. + </p> + <p> + While Geoffrey was still fifty yards from the turning which would take him + back to Windygates—while the tears were still standing thickly in + Arnold’s eyes—the gate of the farm inclosure opened. A light + four-wheel chaise came out with a man driving, and a woman sitting by his + side. The woman was Anne Silvester, and the man was the owner of the farm. + </p> + <p> + Instead of taking the way which led to the station, the chaise pursued the + westward road to the market-town. Proceeding in this direction, the backs + of the persons in the vehicle were necessarily turned on Geoffrey, + advancing behind them from the eastward. He just carelessly noticed the + shabby little chaise, and then turned off north on his way to Windygates. + </p> + <p> + By the time Arnold was composed enough to look round him, the chaise had + taken the curve in the road which wound behind the farmhouse. He returned—faithful + to the engagement which he had undertaken—to his post before the + inclosure. The chaise was then a speck in the distance. In a minute more + it was a speck out of sight. + </p> + <p> + So (to use Sir Patrick’s phrase) had the woman broken through difficulties + which would have stopped a man. So, in her sore need, had Anne Silvester + won the sympathy which had given her a place, by the farmer’s side, in the + vehicle that took him on his own business to the market-town. And so, by a + hair’s-breadth, did she escape the treble risk of discovery which + threatened her—from Geoffrey, on his way back; from Arnold, at his + post; and from the valet, on the watch for her appearance at the station. + </p> + <p> + The afternoon wore on. The servants at Windygates, airing themselves in + the grounds—in the absence of their mistress and her guests—were + disturbed, for the moment, by the unexpected return of one of “the + gentlefolks.” Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn reappeared at the house alone; went + straight to the smoking-room; and calling for another supply of the old + ale, settled himself in an arm-chair with the newspaper, and began to + smoke. + </p> + <p> + He soon tired of reading, and fell into thinking of what had happened + during the latter part of his walk. + </p> + <p> + The prospect before him had more than realized the most sanguine + anticipations that he could have formed of it. He had braced himself—after + what had happened in the library—to face the outbreak of a serious + scandal, on his return to the house. And here—when he came back—was + nothing to face! Here were three people (Sir Patrick, Arnold, and Blanche) + who must at least know that Anne was in some serious trouble keeping the + secret as carefully as if they felt that his interests were at stake! And, + more wonderful still, here was Anne herself—so far from raising a + hue and cry after him—actually taking flight without saying a word + that could compromise him with any living soul! + </p> + <p> + What in the name of wonder did it mean? He did his best to find his way to + an explanation of some sort; and he actually contrived to account for the + silence of Blanche and her uncle, and Arnold. It was pretty clear that + they must have all three combined to keep Lady Lundie in ignorance of her + runaway governess’s return to the house. + </p> + <p> + But the secret of Anne’s silence completely baffled him. + </p> + <p> + He was simply incapable of conceiving that the horror of seeing herself + set up as an obstacle to Blanche’s marriage might have been vivid enough + to overpower all sense of her own wrongs, and to hurry her away, resolute, + in her ignorance of what else to do, never to return again, and never to + let living eyes rest on her in the character of Arnold’s wife. “It’s clean + beyond <i>my</i> making out,” was the final conclusion at which Geoffrey + arrived. “If it’s her interest to hold her tongue, it’s my interest to + hold mine, and there’s an end of it for the present!” + </p> + <p> + He put up his feet on a chair, and rested his magnificent muscles after + his walk, and filled another pipe, in thorough contentment with himself. + No interference to dread from Anne, no more awkward questions (on the + terms they were on now) to come from Arnold. He looked back at the quarrel + on the heath with a certain complacency—he did his friend justice; + though they <i>had</i> disagreed. “Who would have thought the fellow had + so much pluck in him!” he said to himself as he struck the match and lit + his second pipe. + </p> + <p> + An hour more wore on; and Sir Patrick was the next person who returned. + </p> + <p> + He was thoughtful, but in no sense depressed. Judging by appearances, his + errand to Craig Fernie had certainly not ended in disappointment. The old + gentleman hummed his favorite little Scotch air—rather absently, + perhaps—and took his pinch of snuff from the knob of his ivory cane + much as usual. He went to the library bell and summoned a servant. + </p> + <p> + “Any body been here for me?”—“No, Sir Patrick.”—“No letters?”—“No, + Sir Patrick.”—“Very well. Come up stairs to my room, and help me on + with my dressing-gown.” The man helped him to his dressing-gown and + slippers “Is Miss Lundie at home?”—“No, Sir Patrick. They’re all + away with my lady on an excursion.”—“Very good. Get me a cup of + coffee; and wake me half an hour before dinner, in case I take a nap.” The + servant went out. Sir Patrick stretched himself on the sofa. “Ay! ay! a + little aching in the back, and a certain stiffness in the legs. I dare say + the pony feels just as I do. Age, I suppose, in both cases? Well! well! + well! let’s try and be young at heart. ‘The rest’ (as Pope says) ‘is + leather and prunella.’” He returned resignedly to his little Scotch air. + The servant came in with the coffee. And then the room was quiet, except + for the low humming of insects and the gentle rustling of the creepers at + the window. For five minutes or so Sir Patrick sipped his coffee, and + meditated—by no means in the character of a man who was depressed by + any recent disappointment. In five minutes more he was asleep. + </p> + <p> + A little later, and the party returned from the ruins. + </p> + <p> + With the one exception of their lady-leader, the whole expedition was + depressed—Smith and Jones, in particular, being quite speechless. + Lady Lundie alone still met feudal antiquities with a cheerful front. She + had cheated the man who showed the ruins of his shilling, and she was + thoroughly well satisfied with herself. Her voice was flute-like in its + melody, and the celebrated “smile” had never been in better order. “Deeply + interesting!” said her ladyship, descending from the carriage with + ponderous grace, and addressing herself to Geoffrey, lounging under the + portico of the house. “You have had a loss, Mr. Delamayn. The next time + you go out for a walk, give your hostess a word of warning, and you won’t + repent it.” Blanche (looking very weary and anxious) questioned the + servant, the moment she got in, about Arnold and her uncle. Sir Patrick + was invisible up stairs. Mr. Brinkworth had not come back. It wanted only + twenty minutes of dinner-time; and full evening-dress was insisted on at + Windygates. Blanche, nevertheless, still lingered in the hall in the hope + of seeing Arnold before she went up stairs. The hope was realized. As the + clock struck the quarter he came in. And he, too, was out of spirits like + the rest! + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen her?” asked Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said Arnold, in the most perfect good faith. “The way she has + escaped by is not the way by the cross-roads—I answer for that.” + </p> + <p> + They separated to dress. When the party assembled again, in the library, + before dinner, Blanche found her way, the moment he entered the room, to + Sir Patrick’s side. + </p> + <p> + “News, uncle! I’m dying for news.” + </p> + <p> + “Good news, my dear—so far.” + </p> + <p> + “You have found Anne?” + </p> + <p> + “Not exactly that.” + </p> + <p> + “You have heard of her at Craig Fernie?” + </p> + <p> + “I have made some important discoveries at Craig Fernie, Blanche. Hush! + here’s your step-mother. Wait till after dinner, and you may hear more + than I can tell you now. There may be news from the station between this + and then.” + </p> + <p> + The dinner was a wearisome ordeal to at least two other persons present + besides Blanche. Arnold, sitting opposite to Geoffrey, without exchanging + a word with him, felt the altered relations between his former friend and + himself very painfully. Sir Patrick, missing the skilled hand of Hester + Dethridge in every dish that was offered to him, marked the dinner among + the wasted opportunities of his life, and resented his sister-in-law’s + flow of spirits as something simply inhuman under present circumstances. + Blanche followed Lady Lundie into the drawing-room in a state of burning + impatience for the rising of the gentlemen from their wine. Her + step-mother—mapping out a new antiquarian excursion for the next + day, and finding Blanche’s ears closed to her occasional remarks on + baronial Scotland five hundred years since—lamented, with satirical + emphasis, the absence of an intelligent companion of her own sex; and + stretched her majestic figure on the sofa to wait until an audience worthy + of her flowed in from the dining-room. Before very long—so soothing + is the influence of an after-dinner view of feudal antiquities, taken + through the medium of an approving conscience—Lady Lundie’s eyes + closed; and from Lady Lundie’s nose there poured, at intervals, a sound, + deep like her ladyship’s learning; regular, like her ladyship’s habits—a + sound associated with nightcaps and bedrooms, evoked alike by Nature, the + leveler, from high and low—the sound (oh, Truth what enormities find + publicity in thy name!)—the sound of a Snore. + </p> + <p> + Free to do as she pleased, Blanche left the echoes of the drawing-room in + undisturbed enjoyment of Lady Lundie’s audible repose. + </p> + <p> + She went into the library, and turned over the novels. Went out again, and + looked across the hall at the dining-room door. Would the men never have + done talking their politics and drinking their wine? She went up to her + own room, and changed her ear-rings, and scolded her maid. Descended once + more—and made an alarming discovery in a dark corner of the hall. + </p> + <p> + Two men were standing there, hat in hand whispering to the butler. The + butler, leaving them, went into the dining-room—came out again with + Sir Patrick—and said to the two men, “Step this way, please.” The + two men came out into the light. Murdoch, the station-master; and Duncan, + the valet! News of Anne! + </p> + <p> + “Oh, uncle, let me stay!” pleaded Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick hesitated. It was impossible to say—as matters stood at + that moment—what distressing intelligence the two men might not have + brought of the missing woman. Duncan’s return, accompanied by the + station-master, looked serious. Blanche instantly penetrated the secret of + her uncle’s hesitation. She turned pale, and caught him by the arm. “Don’t + send me away,” she whispered. “I can bear any thing but suspense.” + </p> + <p> + “Out with it!” said Sir Patrick, holding his niece’s hand. “Is she found + or not?” + </p> + <p> + “She’s gone by the up-train,” said the station-master. “And we know + where.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick breathed freely; Blanche’s color came back. In different ways, + the relief to both of them was equally great. + </p> + <p> + “You had my orders to follow her,” said Sir Patrick to Duncan. “Why have + you come back?” + </p> + <p> + “Your man is not to blame, Sir,” interposed the station-master. “The lady + took the train at Kirkandrew.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started and looked at the station-master. “Ay? ay? The next + station—the market-town. Inexcusably stupid of me. I never thought + of that.” + </p> + <p> + “I took the liberty of telegraphing your description of the lady to + Kirkandrew, Sir Patrick, in case of accidents.” + </p> + <p> + “I stand corrected, Mr. Murdoch. Your head, in this matter, has been the + sharper head of the two. Well?” + </p> + <p> + “There’s the answer, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick and Blanche read the telegram together. + </p> + <p> + “Kirkandrew. Up train. 7.40 P.M. Lady as described. No luggage. Bag in her + hand. Traveling alone. Ticket—second-class. Place—Edinburgh.” + </p> + <p> + “Edinburgh!” repeated Blanche. “Oh, uncle! we shall lose her in a great + place like that!” + </p> + <p> + “We shall find her, my dear; and you shall see how. Duncan, get me pen, + ink, and paper. Mr. Murdoch, you are going back to the station, I + suppose?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “I will give you a telegram, to be sent at once to Edinburgh.” + </p> + <p> + He wrote a carefully-worded telegraphic message, and addressed it to The + Sheriff of Mid-Lothian. + </p> + <p> + “The Sheriff is an old friend of mine,” he explained to his niece. “And he + is now in Edinburgh. Long before the train gets to the terminus he will + receive this personal description of Miss Silvester, with my request to + have all her movements carefully watched till further notice. The police + are entirely at his disposal; and the best men will be selected for the + purpose. I have asked for an answer by telegraph. Keep a special messenger + ready for it at the station, Mr. Murdoch. Thank you; good-evening. Duncan, + get your supper, and make yourself comfortable. Blanche, my dear, go back + to the drawing-room, and expect us in to tea immediately. You will know + where your friend is before you go to bed to-night.” + </p> + <p> + With those comforting words he returned to the gentlemen. In ten minutes + more they all appeared in the drawing-room; and Lady Lundie (firmly + persuaded that she had never closed her eyes) was back again in baronial + Scotland five hundred years since. + </p> + <p> + Blanche, watching her opportunity, caught her uncle alone. + </p> + <p> + “Now for your promise,” she said. “You have made some important + discoveries at Craig Fernie. What are they?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s eye turned toward Geoffrey, dozing in an arm-chair in a + corner of the room. He showed a certain disposition to trifle with the + curiosity of his niece. + </p> + <p> + “After the discovery we have already made,” he said, “can’t you wait, my + dear, till we get the telegram from Edinburgh?” + </p> + <p> + “That is just what it’s impossible for me to do! The telegram won’t come + for hours yet. I want something to go on with in the mean time.” + </p> + <p> + She seated herself on a sofa in the corner opposite Geoffrey, and pointed + to the vacant place by her side. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick had promised—Sir Patrick had no choice but to keep his + word. After another look at Geoffrey, he took the vacant place by his + niece. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0024" id="link2HCH0024"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH. + </h2> + <h3> + BACKWARD. + </h3> + <p> + “WELL?” whispered Blanche, taking her uncle confidentially by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Well,” said Sir Patrick, with a spark of his satirical humor flashing out + at his niece, “I am going to do a very rash thing. I am going to place a + serious trust in the hands of a girl of eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + “The girl’s hands will keep it, uncle—though she <i>is</i> only + eighteen.” + </p> + <p> + “I must run the risk, my dear; your intimate knowledge of Miss Silvester + may be of the greatest assistance to me in the next step I take. You shall + know all that I can tell you, but I must warn you first. I can only admit + you into my confidence by startling you with a great surprise. Do you + follow me, so far?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” + </p> + <p> + “If you fail to control yourself, you place an obstacle in the way of my + being of some future use to Miss Silvester. Remember that, and now prepare + for the surprise. What did I tell you before dinner?” + </p> + <p> + “You said you had made discoveries at Craig Fernie. What have you found + out?” + </p> + <p> + “I have found out that there is a certain person who is in full possession + of the information which Miss Silvester has concealed from you and from + me. The person is within our reach. The person is in this neighborhood. + The person is in this room!” + </p> + <p> + He caught up Blanche’s hand, resting on his arm, and pressed it + significantly. She looked at him with the cry of surprise suspended on her + lips—waited a little with her eyes fixed on Fir Patrick’s face—struggled + resolutely, and composed herself. + </p> + <p> + “Point the person out.” She said the words with a self-possession which + won her uncle’s hearty approval. Blanche had done wonders for a girl in + her teens. + </p> + <p> + “Look!” said Sir Patrick; “and tell me what you see.” + </p> + <p> + “I see Lady Lundie, at the other end of the room, with the map of + Perthshire and the Baronial Antiquities of Scotland on the table. And I + see every body but you and me obliged to listen to her.” + </p> + <p> + “Every body?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked carefully round the room, and noticed Geoffrey in the + opposite corner; fast asleep by this time in his arm-chair. + </p> + <p> + “Uncle! you don’t mean—?” + </p> + <p> + “There is the man.” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn—!” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn knows every thing.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche held mechanically by her uncle’s arm, and looked at the sleeping + man as if her eyes could never see enough of him. + </p> + <p> + “You saw me in the library in private consultation with Mr. Delamayn,” + resumed Sir Patrick. “I have to acknowledge, my dear, that you were quite + right in thinking this a suspicious circumstance, And I am now to justify + myself for having purposely kept you in the dark up to the present time.” + </p> + <p> + With those introductory words, he briefly reverted to the earlier + occurrences of the day, and then added, by way of commentary, a statement + of the conclusions which events had suggested to his own mind. + </p> + <p> + The events, it may be remembered, were three in number. First, Geoffrey’s + private conference with Sir Patrick on the subject of Irregular Marriages + in Scotland. Secondly, Anne Silvester’s appearance at Windygates. Thirdly, + Anne’s flight. + </p> + <p> + The conclusions which had thereupon suggested themselves to Sir Patrick’s + mind were six in number. + </p> + <p> + First, that a connection of some sort might possibly exist between + Geoffrey’s acknowledged difficulty about his friend, and Miss Silvester’s + presumed difficulty about herself. Secondly, that Geoffrey had really put + to Sir Patrick—not his own case—but the case of a friend. + Thirdly, that Geoffrey had some interest (of no harmless kind) in + establishing the fact of his friend’s marriage. Fourthly, that Anne’s + anxiety (as described by Blanche) to hear the names of the gentlemen who + were staying at Windygates, pointed, in all probability, to Geoffrey. + Fifthly, that this last inference disturbed the second conclusion, and + reopened the doubt whether Geoffrey had not been stating his own case, + after all, under pretense of stating the case of a friend. Sixthly, that + the one way of obtaining any enlightenment on this point, and on all the + other points involved in mystery, was to go to Craig Fernie, and consult + Mrs. Inchbare’s experience during the period of Anne’s residence at the + inn. Sir Patrick’s apology for keeping all this a secret from his niece + followed. He had shrunk from agitating her on the subject until he could + be sure of proving his conclusions to be true. The proof had been + obtained; and he was now, therefore, ready to open his mind to Blanche + without reserve. + </p> + <p> + “So much, my dear,” proceeded Sir Patrick, “for those necessary + explanations which are also the necessary nuisances of human intercourse. + You now know as much as I did when I arrived at Craig Fernie—and you + are, therefore, in a position to appreciate the value of my discoveries at + the inn. Do you understand every thing, so far?” + </p> + <p> + “Perfectly!” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. I drove up to the inn; and—behold me closeted with Mrs. + Inchbare in her own private parlor! (My reputation may or may not suffer, + but Mrs. Inchbare’s bones are above suspicion!) It was a long business, + Blanche. A more sour-tempered, cunning, and distrustful witness I never + examined in all my experience at the Bar. She would have upset the temper + of any mortal man but a lawyer. We have such wonderful tempers in our + profession; and we can be so aggravating when we like! In short, my dear, + Mrs. Inchbare was a she-cat, and I was a he-cat—and I clawed the + truth out of her at last. The result was well worth arriving at, as you + shall see. Mr. Delamayn had described to me certain remarkable + circumstances as taking place between a lady and a gentleman at an inn: + the object of the parties being to pass themselves off at the time as man + and wife. Every one of those circumstances, Blanche, occurred at Craig + Fernie, between a lady and a gentleman, on the day when Miss Silvester + disappeared from this house And—wait!—being pressed for her + name, after the gentleman had left her behind him at the inn, the name the + lady gave was, ‘Mrs. Silvester.’ What do you think of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Think! I’m bewildered—I can’t realize it.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a startling discovery, my dear child—there is no denying that. + Shall I wait a little, and let you recover yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “No! no! Go on! The gentleman, uncle? The gentleman who was with Anne? Who + is he? Not Mr. Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “Not Mr. Delamayn,” said Sir Patrick. “If I have proved nothing else, I + have proved that.” + </p> + <p> + “What need was there to prove it? Mr. Delamayn went to London on the day + of the lawn-party. And Arnold—” + </p> + <p> + “And Arnold went with him as far as the second station from this. Quite + true! But how was I to know what Mr. Delamayn might have done after Arnold + had left him? I could only make sure that he had not gone back privately + to the inn, by getting the proof from Mrs. Inchbare.” + </p> + <p> + “How did you get it?” + </p> + <p> + “I asked her to describe the gentleman who was with Miss Silvester. Mrs. + Inchbare’s description (vague as you will presently find it to be) + completely exonerates that man,” said Sir Patrick, pointing to Geoffrey + still asleep in his chair. “<i>He</i> is not the person who passed Miss + Silvester off as his wife at Craig Fernie. He spoke the truth when he + described the case to me as the case of a friend.” + </p> + <p> + “But who is the friend?” persisted Blanche. “That’s what I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “That’s what I want to know, too.” + </p> + <p> + “Tell me exactly, uncle, what Mrs. Inchbare said. I have lived with Anne + all my life. I <i>must</i> have seen the man somewhere.” + </p> + <p> + “If you can identify him by Mrs. Inchbare’s description,” returned Sir + Patrick, “you will be a great deal cleverer than I am. Here is the picture + of the man, as painted by the landlady: Young; middle-sized; dark hair, + eyes, and complexion; nice temper, pleasant way of speaking. Leave out + ‘young,’ and the rest is the exact contrary of Mr. Delamayn. So far, Mrs. + Inchbare guides us plainly enough. But how are we to apply her description + to the right person? There must be, at the lowest computation, five + hundred thousand men in England who are young, middle-sized, dark, + nice-tempered, and pleasant spoken. One of the footmen here answers that + description in every particular.” + </p> + <p> + “And Arnold answers it,” said Blanche—as a still stronger instance + of the provoking vagueness of the description. + </p> + <p> + “And Arnold answers it,” repeated Sir Patrick, quite agreeing with her. + </p> + <p> + They had barely said those words when Arnold himself appeared, approaching + Sir Patrick with a pack of cards in his hand. + </p> + <p> + There—at the very moment when they had both guessed the truth, + without feeling the slightest suspicion of it in their own minds—there + stood Discovery, presenting itself unconsciously to eyes incapable of + seeing it, in the person of the man who had passed Anne Silvester off as + his wife at the Craig Fernie inn! The terrible caprice of Chance, the + merciless irony of Circumstance, could go no further than this. The three + had their feet on the brink of the precipice at that moment. And two of + them were smiling at an odd coincidence; and one of them was shuffling a + pack of cards! + </p> + <p> + “We have done with the Antiquities at last!” said Arnold; “and we are + going to play at Whist. Sir Patrick, will you choose a card?” + </p> + <p> + “Too soon after dinner, my good fellow, for <i>me</i>. Play the first + rubber, and then give me another chance. By-the-way,” he added “Miss + Silvester has been traced to Kirkandrew. How is it that you never saw her + go by?” + </p> + <p> + “She can’t have gone my way, Sir Patrick, or I must have seen her.” + </p> + <p> + Having justified himself in those terms, he was recalled to the other end + of the room by the whist-party, impatient for the cards which he had in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “What were we talking of when he interrupted us?” said Sir Patrick to + Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “Of the man, uncle, who was with Miss Silvester at the inn.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s useless to pursue that inquiry, my dear, with nothing better than + Mrs. Inchbare’s description to help us.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked round at the sleeping Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “And <i>he</i> knows!” she said. “It’s maddening, uncle, to look at the + brute snoring in his chair!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick held up a warning hand. Before a word more could be said + between them they were silenced again by another interruption. + </p> + <p> + The whist-party comprised Lady Lundie and the surgeon, playing as partners + against Smith and Jones. Arnold sat behind the surgeon, taking a lesson in + the game. One, Two, and Three, thus left to their own devices, naturally + thought of the billiard-table; and, detecting Geoffrey asleep in his + corner, advanced to disturb his slumbers, under the all-sufficing apology + of “Pool.” Geoffrey roused himself, and rubbed his eyes, and said, + drowsily, “All right.” As he rose, he looked at the opposite corner in + which Sir Patrick and his niece were sitting. Blanche’s self-possession, + resolutely as she struggled to preserve it, was not strong enough to keep + her eyes from turning toward Geoffrey with an expression which betrayed + the reluctant interest that she now felt in him. He stopped, noticing + something entirely new in the look with which the young lady was regarding + him. + </p> + <p> + “Beg your pardon,” said Geoffrey. “Do you wish to speak to me?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s face flushed all over. Her uncle came to the rescue. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Lundie and I hope you have slept well Mr. Delamayn,” said Sir + Patrick, jocosely. “That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? That’s all?” said Geoffrey still looking at Blanche. “Beg your pardon + again. Deuced long walk, and deuced heavy dinner. Natural consequence—a + nap.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick eyed him closely. It was plain that he had been honestly + puzzled at finding himself an object of special attention on Blanche’s + part. “See you in the billiard-room?” he said, carelessly, and followed + his companions out of the room—as usual, without waiting for an + answer. + </p> + <p> + “Mind what you are about,” said Sir Patrick to his niece. “That man is + quicker than he looks. We commit a serious mistake if we put him on his + guard at starting.” + </p> + <p> + “It sha’n’t happen again, uncle,” said Blanche. “But think of <i>his</i> + being in Anne’s confidence, and of <i>my</i> being shut out of it!” + </p> + <p> + “In his friend’s confidence, you mean, my dear; and (if we only avoid + awakening his suspicion) there is no knowing how soon he may say or do + something which may show us who his friend is.” + </p> + <p> + “But he is going back to his brother’s to-morrow—he said so at + dinner-time.” + </p> + <p> + “So much the better. He will be out of the way of seeing strange things in + a certain young lady’s face. His brother’s house is within easy reach of + this; and I am his legal adviser. My experience tells me that he has not + done consulting me yet—and that he will let out something more next + time. So much for our chance of seeing the light through Mr. Delamayn—if + we can’t see it in any other way. And that is not our only chance, + remember. I have something to tell you about Bishopriggs and the lost + letter.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it found?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I satisfied myself about that—I had it searched for, under my + own eye. The letter is stolen, Blanche; and Bishopriggs has got it. I have + left a line for him, in Mrs. Inchbare’s care. The old rascal is missed + already by the visitors at the inn, just as I told you he would be. His + mistress is feeling the penalty of having been fool enough to vent her ill + temper on her head-waiter. She lays the whole blame of the quarrel on Miss + Silvester, of course. Bishopriggs neglected every body at the inn to wait + on Miss Silvester. Bishopriggs was insolent on being remonstrated with, + and Miss Silvester encouraged him—and so on. The result will be—now + Miss Silvester has gone—that Bishopriggs will return to Craig Fernie + before the autumn is over. We are sailing with wind and tide, my dear. + Come, and learn to play whist.” + </p> + <p> + He rose to join the card-players. Blanche detained him. + </p> + <p> + “You haven’t told me one thing yet,” she said. “Whoever the man may be, is + Anne married to him?” + </p> + <p> + “Whoever the man may be,” returned Sir Patrick, “he had better not attempt + to marry any body else.” + </p> + <p> + So the niece unconsciously put the question, and so the uncle + unconsciously gave the answer on which depended the whole happiness of + Blanche’s life to come, The “man!” How lightly they both talked of the + “man!” Would nothing happen to rouse the faintest suspicion—in their + minds or in Arnold’s mind—that Arnold was the “man” himself? + </p> + <p> + “You mean that she <i>is</i> married?” said Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go as far as that.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that she is <i>not</i> married?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t go so far as <i>that.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! the law!” + </p> + <p> + “Provoking, isn’t it, my dear? I can tell you, professionally, that (in my + opinion) she has grounds to go on if she claims to be the man’s wife. That + is what I meant by my answer; and, until we know more, that is all I can + say.” + </p> + <p> + “When shall we know more? When shall we get the telegram?” + </p> + <p> + “Not for some hours yet. Come, and learn to play whist.” + </p> + <p> + “I think I would rather talk to Arnold, uncle, if you don’t mind.” + </p> + <p> + “By all means! But don’t talk to him about what I have been telling you + to-night. He and Mr. Delamayn are old associates, remember; and he might + blunder into telling his friend what his friend had better not know. Sad + (isn’t it?) for me to be instilling these lessons of duplicity into the + youthful mind. A wise person once said, ‘The older a man gets the worse he + gets.’ That wise person, my dear, had me in his eye, and was perfectly + right.” + </p> + <p> + He mitigated the pain of that confession with a pinch of snuff, and went + to the whist table to wait until the end of the rubber gave him a place at + the game. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0025" id="link2HCH0025"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH. + </h2> + <h3> + FORWARD. + </h3> + <p> + BLANCHE found her lover as attentive as usual to her slightest wish, but + not in his customary good spirits. He pleaded fatigue, after his long + watch at the cross-roads, as an excuse for his depression. As long as + there was any hope of a reconciliation with Geoffrey, he was unwilling to + tell Blanche what had happened that afternoon. The hope grew fainter and + fainter as the evening advanced. Arnold purposely suggested a visit to the + billiard-room, and joined the game, with Blanche, to give Geoffrey an + opportunity of saying the few gracious words which would have made them + friends again. Geoffrey never spoke the words; he obstinately ignored + Arnold’s presence in the room. + </p> + <p> + At the card-table the whist went on interminably. Lady Lundie, Sir + Patrick, and the surgeon, were all inveterate players, evenly matched. + Smith and Jones (joining the game alternately) were aids to whist, exactly + as they were aids to conversation. The same safe and modest mediocrity of + style distinguished the proceedings of these two gentlemen in all the + affairs of life. + </p> + <p> + The time wore on to midnight. They went to bed late and they rose late at + Windygates House. Under that hospitable roof, no intrusive hints, in the + shape of flat candlesticks exhibiting themselves with ostentatious virtue + on side-tables, hurried the guest to his room; no vile bell rang him + ruthlessly out of bed the next morning, and insisted on his breakfasting + at a given hour. Life has surely hardships enough that are inevitable + without gratuitously adding the hardship of absolute government, + administered by a clock? + </p> + <p> + It was a quarter past twelve when Lady Lundie rose blandly from the + whist-table, and said that she supposed somebody must set the example of + going to bed. Sir Patrick and Smith, the surgeon and Jones, agreed on a + last rubber. Blanche vanished while her stepmother’s eye was on her; and + appeared again in the drawing-room, when Lady Lundie was safe in the hands + of her maid. Nobody followed the example of the mistress of the house but + Arnold. He left the billiard-room with the certainty that it was all over + now between Geoffrey and himself. Not even the attraction of Blanche + proved strong enough to detain him that night. He went his way to bed. + </p> + <p> + It was past one o’clock. The final rubber was at an end, the accounts were + settled at the card-table; the surgeon had strolled into the + billiard-room, and Smith and Jones had followed him, when Duncan came in, + at last, with the telegram in his hand. + </p> + <p> + Blanche turned from the broad, calm autumn moonlight which had drawn her + to the window, and looked over her uncle’s shoulder while he opened the + telegram. + </p> + <p> + She read the first line—and that was enough. The whole scaffolding + of hope built round that morsel of paper fell to the ground in an instant. + The train from Kirkandrew had reached Edinburgh at the usual time. Every + passenger in it had passed under the eyes of the police, and nothing had + been seen of any person who answered the description given of Anne! + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick pointed to the two last sentences in the telegram: “Inquiries + telegraphed to Falkirk. If with any result, you shall know.” + </p> + <p> + “We must hope for the best, Blanche. They evidently suspect her of having + got out at the junction of the two railways for the purpose of giving the + telegraph the slip. There is no help for it. Go to bed, child—go to + bed.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche kissed her uncle in silence and went away. The bright young face + was sad with the first hopeless sorrow which the old man had yet seen in + it. His niece’s parting look dwelt painfully on his mind when he was up in + his room, with the faithful Duncan getting him ready for his bed. + </p> + <p> + “This is a bad business, Duncan. I don’t like to say so to Miss Lundie; + but I greatly fear the governess has baffled us.” + </p> + <p> + “It seems likely, Sir Patrick. The poor young lady looks quite + heart-broken about it.” + </p> + <p> + “You noticed that too, did you? She has lived all her life, you see, with + Miss Silvester; and there is a very strong attachment between them. I am + uneasy about my niece, Duncan. I am afraid this disappointment will have a + serious effect on her.” + </p> + <p> + “She’s young, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my friend, she’s young; but the young (when they are good for any + thing) have warm hearts. Winter hasn’t stolen on <i>them,</i> Duncan! And + they feel keenly.” + </p> + <p> + “I think there’s reason to hope, Sir, that Miss Lundie may get over it + more easily than you suppose.” + </p> + <p> + “What reason, pray?” + </p> + <p> + “A person in my position can hardly venture to speak freely, Sir, on a + delicate matter of this kind.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s temper flashed out, half-seriously, half-whimsically, as + usual. + </p> + <p> + “Is that a snap at Me, you old dog? If I am not your friend, as well as + your master, who is? Am <i>I</i> in the habit of keeping any of my + harmless fellow-creatures at a distance? I despise the cant of modern + Liberalism; but it’s not the less true that I have, all my life, protested + against the inhuman separation of classes in England. We are, in that + respect, brag as we may of our national virtue, the most unchristian + people in the civilized world.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon, Sir Patrick—” + </p> + <p> + “God help me! I’m talking polities at this time of night! It’s your fault, + Duncan. What do you mean by casting my station in my teeth, because I + can’t put my night-cap on comfortably till you have brushed my hair? I + have a good mind to get up and brush yours. There! there! I’m uneasy about + my niece—nervous irritability, my good fellow, that’s all. Let’s + hear what you have to say about Miss Lundie. And go on with my hair. And + don’t be a humbug.” + </p> + <p> + “I was about to remind you, Sir Patrick, that Miss Lundie has another + interest in her life to turn to. If this matter of Miss Silvester ends + badly—and I own it begins to look as if it would—I should + hurry my niece’s marriage, Sir, and see if <i>that</i> wouldn’t console + her.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started under the gentle discipline of the hair-brush in + Duncan’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “That’s very sensibly put,” said the old gentleman. “Duncan! you are, what + I call, a clear-minded man. Well worth thinking of, old Truepenny! If the + worst comes to the worst, well worth thinking of!” + </p> + <p> + It was not the first time that Duncan’s steady good sense had struck + light, under the form of a new thought, in his master’s mind. But never + yet had he wrought such mischief as the mischief which he had innocently + done now. He had sent Sir Patrick to bed with the fatal idea of hastening + the marriage of Arnold and Blanche. + </p> + <p> + The situation of affairs at Windygates—now that Anne had apparently + obliterated all trace of herself—was becoming serious. The one + chance on which the discovery of Arnold’s position depended, was the + chance that accident might reveal the truth in the lapse of time. In this + posture of circumstances, Sir Patrick now resolved—if nothing + happened to relieve Blanche’s anxiety in the course of the week—to + advance the celebration of the marriage from the end of the autumn (as + originally contemplated) to the first fortnight of the ensuing month. As + dates then stood, the change led (so far as free scope for the development + of accident was concerned) to this serious result. It abridged a lapse of + three months into an interval of three weeks. + </p> + <p> + The next morning came; and Blanche marked it as a memorable morning, by + committing an act of imprudence, which struck away one more of the chances + of discovery that had existed, before the arrival of the Edinburgh + telegram on the previous day. + </p> + <p> + She had passed a sleepless night; fevered in mind and body; thinking, hour + after hour, of nothing but Anne. At sunrise she could endure it no longer. + Her power to control herself was completely exhausted; her own impulses + led her as they pleased. She got up, determined not to let Geoffrey leave + the house without risking an effort to make him reveal what he knew about + Anne. It was nothing less than downright treason to Sir Patrick to act on + her own responsibility in this way. She knew it was wrong; she was + heartily ashamed of herself for doing it. But the demon that possesses + women with a recklessness all their own, at the critical moments of their + lives, had got her—and she did it. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey had arranged overnight, to breakfast early, by himself, and to + walk the ten miles to his brother’s house; sending a servant to fetch his + luggage later in the day. + </p> + <p> + He had got on his hat; he was standing in the hall, searching his pocket + for his second self, the pipe—when Blanche suddenly appeared from + the morning-room, and placed herself between him and the house door. + </p> + <p> + “Up early—eh?” said Geoffrey. “I’m off to my brother’s.” + </p> + <p> + She made no reply. He looked at her closer. The girl’s eyes were trying to + read his face, with an utter carelessness of concealment, which forbade + (even to his mind) all unworthy interpretation of her motive for stopping + him on his way out. + </p> + <p> + “Any commands for me?” he inquired + </p> + <p> + This time she answered him. “I have something to ask you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + He smiled graciously, and opened his tobacco-pouch. He was fresh and + strong after his night’s sleep—healthy and handsome and + good-humored. The house-maids had had a peep at him that morning, and had + wished—like Desdemona, with a difference—that “Heaven had made + all three of them such a man.” + </p> + <p> + “Well,” he said, “what is it?” + </p> + <p> + She put her question, without a single word of preface—purposely to + surprise him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn,” she said, “do you know where Anne Silvester is this + morning?” + </p> + <p> + He was filling his pipe as she spoke, and he dropped some of the tobacco + on the floor. Instead of answering before he picked up the tobacco he + answered after—in surly self-possession, and in one word—“No.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know nothing about her?” + </p> + <p> + He devoted himself doggedly to the filling of his pipe. “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “On your word of honor, as a gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “On my word of honor, as a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + He put back his tobacco-pouch in his pocket. His handsome face was as hard + as stone. His clear blue eyes defied all the girls in England put together + to see into <i>his</i> mind. “Have you done, Miss Lundie?” he asked, + suddenly changing to a bantering politeness of tone and manner. + </p> + <p> + Blanche saw that it was hopeless—saw that she had compromised her + own interests by her own headlong act. Sir Patrick’s warning words came + back reproachfully to her now when it was too late. “We commit a serious + mistake if we put him on his guard at starting.” + </p> + <p> + There was but one course to take now. “Yes,” she said. “I have done.” + </p> + <p> + “My turn now,” rejoined Geoffrey. “You want to know where Miss Silvester + is. Why do you ask Me?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche did all that could be done toward repairing the error that she had + committed. She kept Geoffrey as far away as Geoffrey had kept <i>her</i> + from the truth. + </p> + <p> + “I happen to know,” she replied “that Miss Silvester left the place at + which she had been staying about the time when you went out walking + yesterday. And I thought you might have seen her.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh? That’s the reason—is it?” said Geoffrey, with a smile. + </p> + <p> + The smile stung Blanche’s sensitive temper to the quick. She made a final + effort to control herself, before her indignation got the better of her. + </p> + <p> + “I have no more to say, Mr. Delamayn.” With that reply she turned her back + on him, and closed the door of the morning-room between them. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey descended the house steps and lit his pipe. He was not at the + slightest loss, on this occasion, to account for what had happened. He + assumed at once that Arnold had taken a mean revenge on him after his + conduct of the day before, and had told the whole secret of his errand at + Craig Fernie to Blanche. The thing would get next, no doubt, to Sir + Patrick’s ears; and Sir Patrick would thereupon be probably the first + person who revealed to Arnold the position in which he had placed himself + with Anne. All right! Sir Patrick would be an excellent witness to appeal + to, when the scandal broke out, and when the time came for repudiating + Anne’s claim on him as the barefaced imposture of a woman who was married + already to another man. He puffed away unconcernedly at his pipe, and + started, at his swinging, steady pace, for his brother’s house. + </p> + <p> + Blanche remained alone in the morning-room. The prospect of getting at the + truth, by means of what Geoffrey might say on the next occasion when he + consulted Sir Patrick, was a prospect that she herself had closed from + that moment. She sat down in despair by the window. It commanded a view of + the little side-terrace which had been Anne’s favorite walk at Windygates. + With weary eyes and aching heart the poor child looked at the familiar + place; and asked herself, with the bitter repentance that comes too late, + if she had destroyed the last chance of finding Anne! + </p> + <p> + She sat passively at the window, while the hours of the morning wore on, + until the postman came. Before the servant could take the letter bag she + was in the hall to receive it. Was it possible to hope that the bag had + brought tidings of Anne? She sorted the letters; and lighted suddenly on a + letter to herself. It bore the Kirkandrew postmark, and It was addressed + to her in Anne’s handwriting. + </p> + <p> + She tore the letter open, and read these lines: + </p> + <p> + “I have left you forever, Blanche. God bless and reward you! God make you + a happy woman in all your life to come! Cruel as you will think me, love, + I have never been so truly your sister as I am now. I can only tell you + this—I can never tell you more. Forgive me, and forget me, our lives + are parted lives from this day.” + </p> + <p> + Going down to breakfast about his usual hour, Sir Patrick missed Blanche, + whom he was accustomed to see waiting for him at the table at that time. + The room was empty; the other members of the household having all finished + their morning meal. Sir Patrick disliked breakfasting alone. He sent + Duncan with a message, to be given to Blanche’s maid. + </p> + <p> + The maid appeared in due time Miss Lundie was unable to leave her room. + She sent a letter to her uncle, with her love—and begged he would + read it. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick opened the letter and saw what Anne had written to Blanche. + </p> + <p> + He waited a little, reflecting, with evident pain and anxiety, on what he + had read—then opened his own letters, and hurriedly looked at the + signatures. There was nothing for him from his friend, the sheriff, at + Edinburgh, and no communication from the railway, in the shape of a + telegram. He had decided, overnight, on waiting till the end of the week + before he interfered in the matter of Blanche’s marriage. The events of + the morning determined him on not waiting another day. Duncan returned to + the breakfast-room to pour out his master’s coffee. Sir Patrick sent him + away again with a second message, + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where Lady Lundie is, Duncan?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “My compliments to her ladyship. If she is not otherwise engaged, I shall + be glad to speak to her privately in an hour’s time.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0026" id="link2HCH0026"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH. + </h2> + <h3> + DROPPED. + </h3> + <p> + SIR PATRICK made a bad breakfast. Blanche’s absence fretted him, and Anne + Silvester’s letter puzzled him. + </p> + <p> + He read it, short as it was, a second time, and a third. If it meant any + thing, it meant that the motive at the bottom of Anne’s flight was to + accomplish the sacrifice of herself to the happiness of Blanche. She had + parted for life from his niece for his niece’s sake! What did this mean? + And how was it to be reconciled with Anne’s position—as described to + him by Mrs. Inchbare during his visit to Craig Fernie? + </p> + <p> + All Sir Patrick’s ingenuity, and all Sir Patrick’s experience, failed to + find so much as the shadow of an answer to that question. + </p> + <p> + While he was still pondering over the letter, Arnold and the surgeon + entered the breakfast-room together. + </p> + <p> + “Have you heard about Blanche?” asked Arnold, excitedly. “She is in no + danger, Sir Patrick—the worst of it is over now.” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon interposed before Sir Patrick could appeal to him. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Brinkworth’s interest in the young lady a little exaggerates the + state of the case,” he said. “I have seen her, at Lady Lundie’s request; + and I can assure you that there is not the slightest reason for any + present alarm. Miss Lundie has had a nervous attack, which has yielded to + the simplest domestic remedies. The only anxiety you need feel is + connected with the management of her in the future. She is suffering from + some mental distress, which it is not for me, but for her friends, to + alleviate and remove. If you can turn her thoughts from the painful + subject—whatever it may be—on which they are dwelling now, you + will do all that needs to be done.” He took up a newspaper from the table, + and strolled out into the garden, leaving Sir Patrick and Arnold together. + </p> + <p> + “You heard that?” said Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Is he right, do you think?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Right? Do you suppose a man gets <i>his</i> reputation by making + mistakes? You’re one of the new generation, Master Arnold. You can all of + you stare at a famous man; but you haven’t an atom of respect for his + fame. If Shakspeare came to life again, and talked of playwriting, the + first pretentious nobody who sat opposite at dinner would differ with him + as composedly as he might differ with you and me. Veneration is dead among + us; the present age has buried it, without a stone to mark the place. So + much for that! Let’s get back to Blanche. I suppose you can guess what the + painful subject is that’s dwelling on her mind? Miss Silvester has baffled + me, and baffled the Edinburgh police. Blanche discovered that we had + failed last night and Blanche received that letter this morning.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed Anne’s letter across the breakfast-table. + </p> + <p> + Arnold read it, and handed it back without a word. Viewed by the new light + in which he saw Geoffrey’s character after the quarrel on the heath, the + letter conveyed but one conclusion to his mind. Geoffrey had deserted her. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Sir Patrick. “Do you understand what it means?” + </p> + <p> + “I understand Blanche’s wretchedness when she read it.” + </p> + <p> + He said no more than that. It was plain that no information which he could + afford—even if he had considered himself at liberty to give it—would + be of the slightest use in assisting Sir Patrick to trace Miss Silvester, + under present circumstances, There was—unhappily—no temptation + to induce him to break the honorable silence which he had maintained thus + far. And—more unfortunately still—assuming the temptation to + present itself, Arnold’s capacity to resist it had never been so strong a + capacity as it was now. + </p> + <p> + To the two powerful motives which had hitherto tied his tongue—respect + for Anne’s reputation, and reluctance to reveal to Blanche the deception + which he had been compelled to practice on her at the inn—to these + two motives there was now added a third. The meanness of betraying the + confidence which Geoffrey had reposed in him would be doubled meanness if + he proved false to his trust after Geoffrey had personally insulted him. + The paltry revenge which that false friend had unhesitatingly suspected + him of taking was a revenge of which Arnold’s nature was simply incapable. + Never had his lips been more effectually sealed than at this moment—when + his whole future depended on Sir Patrick’s discovering the part that he + had played in past events at Craig Fernie. + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” resumed Sir Patrick, impatiently. “Blanche’s distress is + intelligible enough. But here is my niece apparently answerable for this + unhappy woman’s disappearance. Can you explain what my niece has got to do + with it?” + </p> + <p> + “I! Blanche herself is completely mystified. How should <i>I</i> know?” + </p> + <p> + Answering in those terms, he spoke with perfect sincerity. Anne’s vague + distrust of the position in which they had innocently placed themselves at + the inn had produced no corresponding effect on Arnold at the time. He had + not regarded it; he had not even understood it. As a necessary result, not + the faintest suspicion of the motive under which Anne was acting existed + in his mind now. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick put the letter into his pocket-book, and abandoned all further + attempt at interpreting the meaning of it in despair. + </p> + <p> + “Enough, and more than enough, of groping in the dark,” he said. “One + point is clear to me after what has happened up stairs this morning. We + must accept the position in which Miss Silvester has placed us. I shall + give up all further effort to trace her from this moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely that will be a dreadful disappointment to Blanche, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t deny it. We must face that result.” + </p> + <p> + “If you are sure there is nothing else to be done, I suppose we must.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not sure of anything of the sort, Master Arnold! There are two + chances still left of throwing light on this matter, which are both of + them independent of any thing that Miss Silvester can do to keep it in the + dark.” + </p> + <p> + “Then why not try them, Sir? It seems hard to drop Miss Silvester when she + is in trouble.” + </p> + <p> + “We can’t help her against her own will,” rejoined Sir Patrick. “And we + can’t run the risk, after that nervous attack this morning, of subjecting + Blanche to any further suspense. I have thought of my niece’s interests + throughout this business; and if I now change my mind, and decline to + agitate her by more experiments, ending (quite possibly) in more failures, + it is because I am thinking of her interests still. I have no other + motive. However numerous my weaknesses may be, ambition to distinguish + myself as a detective policeman is not one of them. The case, from the + police point of view, is by no means a lost case. I drop it, nevertheless, + for Blanche’s sake. Instead of encouraging her thoughts to dwell on this + melancholy business, we must apply the remedy suggested by our medical + friend.” + </p> + <p> + “How is that to be done?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + The sly twist of humor began to show itself in Sir Patrick’s face. + </p> + <p> + “Has she nothing to think of in the future, which is a pleasanter subject + of reflection than the loss of her friend?” he asked. “You are interested, + my young gentleman, in the remedy that is to cure Blanche. You are one of + the drugs in the moral prescription. Can you guess what it is?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started to his feet, and brightened into a new being. + </p> + <p> + “Perhaps you object to be hurried?” said Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Object! If Blanche will only consent, I’ll take her to church as soon as + she comes down stairs!” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you!” said Sir Patrick, dryly. “Mr. Arnold Brinkworth, may you + always be as ready to take Time by the forelock as you are now! Sit down + again; and don’t talk nonsense. It is just possible—if Blanche + consents (as you say), and if we can hurry the lawyers—that you may + be married in three weeks’ or a month’s time.” + </p> + <p> + “What have the lawyers got to do with it?” + </p> + <p> + “My good fellow, this is not a marriage in a novel! This is the most + unromantic affair of the sort that ever happened. Here are a young + gentleman and a young lady, both rich people; both well matched in birth + and character; one of age, and the other marrying with the full consent + and approval of her guardian. What is the consequence of this purely + prosaic state of things? Lawyers and settlements, of course!” + </p> + <p> + “Come into the library, Sir Patrick; and I’ll soon settle the settlements! + A bit of paper, and a dip of ink. ‘I hereby give every blessed farthing I + have got in the world to my dear Blanche.’ Sign that; stick a wafer on at + the side; clap your finger on the wafer; ‘I deliver this as my act and + deed;’ and there it is—done!” + </p> + <p> + “Is it, really? You are a born legislator. You create and codify your own + system all in a breath. Moses-Justinian-Mahomet, give me your arm! There + is one atom of sense in what you have just said. ‘Come into the library’—is + a suggestion worth attending to. Do you happen, among your other + superfluities, to have such a thing as a lawyer about you?” + </p> + <p> + “I have got two. One in London, and one in Edinburgh.” + </p> + <p> + “We will take the nearest of the two, because we are in a hurry. Who is + the Edinburgh lawyer? Pringle of Pitt Street? Couldn’t be a better man. + Come and write to him. You have given me your abstract of a marriage + settlement with the brevity of an ancient Roman. I scorn to be outdone by + an amateur lawyer. Here is <i>my</i> abstract: You are just and generous + to Blanche; Blanche is just and generous to you; and you both combine to + be just and generous together to your children. There is a model + settlement! and there are your instructions to Pringle of Pitt Street! Can + you do it by yourself? No; of course you can’t. Now don’t be + slovenly-minded! See the points in their order as they come. You are going + to be married; you state to whom, you add that I am the lady’s guardian; + you give the name and address of my lawyer in Edinburgh; you write your + instructions plainly in the fewest words, and leave details to your legal + adviser; you refer the lawyers to each other; you request that the draft + settlements be prepared as speedily as possible, and you give your address + at this house. There are the heads. Can’t you do it now? Oh, the rising + generation! Oh, the progress we are making in these enlightened modern + times! There! there! you can marry Blanche, and make her happy, and + increase the population—and all without knowing how to write the + English language. One can only say with the learned Bevorskius, looking + out of his window at the illimitable loves of the sparrows, ‘How merciful + is Heaven to its creatures!’ Take up the pen. I’ll dictate! I’ll dictate!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick read the letter over, approved of it, and saw it safe in the + box for the post. This done, he peremptorily forbade Arnold to speak to + his niece on the subject of the marriage without his express permission. + “There’s somebody else’s consent to be got,” he said, “besides Blanche’s + consent and mine.” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Lundie?” + </p> + <p> + “Lady Lundie. Strictly speaking, I am the only authority. But my + sister-in-law is Blanche’s step-mother, and she is appointed guardian in + the event of my death. She has a right to be consulted—in courtesy, + if not in law. Would you like to do it?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s face fell. He looked at Sir Patrick in silent dismay. + </p> + <p> + “What! you can’t even speak to such a perfectly pliable person as Lady + Lundie? You may have been a very useful fellow at sea. A more helpless + young man I never met with on shore. Get out with you into the garden + among the other sparrows! Somebody must confront her ladyship. And if you + won’t—I must.” + </p> + <p> + He pushed Arnold out of the library, and applied meditatively to the knob + of his cane. His gayety disappeared, now that he was alone. His experience + of Lady Lundie’s character told him that, in attempting to win her + approval to any scheme for hurrying Blanche’s marriage, he was undertaking + no easy task. “I suppose,” mused Sir Patrick, thinking of his late brother—“I + suppose poor Tom had some way of managing her. How did he do it, I wonder? + If she had been the wife of a bricklayer, she is the sort of woman who + would have been kept in perfect order by a vigorous and regular + application of her husband’s fist. But Tom wasn’t a bricklayer. I wonder + how Tom did it?” After a little hard thinking on this point Sir Patrick + gave up the problem as beyond human solution. “It must be done,” he + concluded. “And my own mother-wit must help me to do it.” + </p> + <p> + In that resigned frame of mind he knocked at the door of Lady Lundie’s + boudoir. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0027" id="link2HCH0027"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + OUTWITTED. + </h3> + <p> + SIR PATRICK found his sister-in-law immersed in domestic business. Her + ladyship’s correspondence and visiting list, her ladyship’s household + bills and ledgers; her ladyship’s Diary and Memorandum-book (bound in + scarlet morocco); her ladyship’s desk, envelope-case, match-box, and taper + candlestick (all in ebony and silver); her ladyship herself, presiding + over her responsibilities, and wielding her materials, equal to any calls + of emergency, beautifully dressed in correct morning costume, blessed with + perfect health both of the secretions and the principles; absolutely void + of vice, and formidably full of virtue, presented, to every + properly-constituted mind, the most imposing spectacle known to humanity—the + British Matron on her throne, asking the world in general, When will you + produce the like of Me? + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I disturb you,” said Sir Patrick. “I am a perfectly idle + person. Shall I look in a little later?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie put her hand to her head, and smiled faintly. + </p> + <p> + “A little pressure <i>here,</i> Sir Patrick. Pray sit down. Duty finds me + earnest; Duty finds me cheerful; Duty finds me accessible. From a poor, + weak woman, Duty must expect no more. Now what is it?” (Her ladyship + consulted her scarlet memorandum-book.) “I have got it here, under its + proper head, distinguished by initial letters. P.—the poor. No. H.M.—heathen + missions. No. V.T.A.—Visitors to arrive. No. P. I. P.—Here it + is: private interview with Patrick. Will you forgive me the little + harmless familiarity of omitting your title? Thank you! You are always so + good. I am quite at your service when you like to begin. If it’s any thing + painful, pray don’t hesitate. I am quite prepared.” + </p> + <p> + With that intimation her ladyship threw herself back in her chair, with + her elbows on the arms, and her fingers joined at the tips, as if she was + receiving a deputation. “Yes?” she said, interrogatively. Sir Patrick paid + a private tribute of pity to his late brother’s memory, and entered on his + business. + </p> + <p> + “We won’t call it a painful matter,” he began. “Let us say it’s a matter + of domestic anxiety. Blanche—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie emitted a faint scream, and put her hand over her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “<i>Must</i> you?” cried her ladyship, in a tone of touching remonstrance. + “Oh, Sir Patrick, <i>must</i> you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I must.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s magnificent eyes looked up at that hidden court of human + appeal which is lodged in the ceiling. The hidden court looked down at + Lady Lundie, and saw—Duty advertising itself in the largest capital + letters. + </p> + <p> + “Go on, Sir Patrick. The motto of woman is Self-sacrifice. You sha’n’t see + how you distress me. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick went on impenetrably—without betraying the slightest + expression of sympathy or surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I was about to refer to the nervous attack from which Blanche has + suffered this morning,” he said. “May I ask whether you have been informed + of the cause to which the attack is attributable?” + </p> + <p> + “There!” exclaimed Lady Lundie with a sudden bound in her chair, and a + sudden development of vocal power to correspond. “The one thing I shrank + from speaking of! the cruel, cruel, cruel behavior I was prepared to pass + over! And Sir Patrick hints on it! Innocently—don’t let me do an + injustice—innocently hints on it!” + </p> + <p> + “Hints on what, my dear Madam?” + </p> + <p> + “Blanche’s conduct to me this morning. Blanche’s heartless secrecy. + Blanche’s undutiful silence. I repeat the words: Heartless secrecy. + Undutiful silence.” + </p> + <p> + “Allow me for one moment, Lady Lundie—” + </p> + <p> + “Allow <i>me,</i> Sir Patrick! Heaven knows how unwilling I am to speak of + it. Heaven knows that not a word of reference to it escaped <i>my</i> + lips. But you leave me no choice now. As mistress of the household, as a + Christian woman, as the widow of your dear brother, as a mother to this + misguided girl, I must state the facts. I know you mean well; I know you + wish to spare me. Quite useless! I must state the facts.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick bowed, and submitted. (If he had only been a bricklayer! and + if Lady Lundie had not been, what her ladyship unquestionably was, the + strongest person of the two!) + </p> + <p> + “Permit me to draw a veil, for your sake,” said Lady Lundie, “over the + horrors—I can not, with the best wish to spare you, conscientiously + call them by any other name—the horrors that took place up stairs. + The moment I heard that Blanche was ill I was at my post. Duty will always + find me ready, Sir Patrick, to my dying day. Shocking as the whole thing + was, I presided calmly over the screams and sobs of my step-daughter. I + closed my ears to the profane violence of her language. I set the + necessary example, as an English gentlewoman at the head of her household. + It was only when I distinctly heard the name of a person, never to be + mentioned again in my family circle, issue (if I may use the expression) + from Blanche’s lips that I began to be really alarmed. I said to my maid: + ‘Hopkins, this is not Hysteria. This is a possession of the devil. Fetch + the chloroform.’” + </p> + <p> + Chloroform, applied in the capacity of an exorcism, was entirely new to + Sir Patrick. He preserved his gravity with considerable difficulty. Lady + Lundie went on: + </p> + <p> + “Hopkins is an excellent person—but Hopkins has a tongue. She met + our distinguished medical guest in the corridor, and told him. He was so + good as to come to the door. I was shocked to trouble him to act in his + professional capacity while he was a visitor, an honored visitor, in my + house. Besides, I considered it more a case for a clergyman than for a + medical man. However, there was no help for it after Hopkins’s tongue. I + requested our eminent friend to favor us with—I think the exact + scientific term is—a Prognosis. He took the purely material view + which was only to be expected from a person in his profession. He + prognosed—<i>am</i> I right? Did he prognose? or did he diagnose? A + habit of speaking correctly is <i>so</i> important, Sir Patrick! and I + should be <i>so</i> grieved to mislead you!” + </p> + <p> + “Never mind, Lady Lundie! I have heard the medical report. Don’t trouble + yourself to repeat it.” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t trouble myself to repeat it?” echoed Lady Lundie—with her + dignity up in arms at the bare prospect of finding her remarks abridged. + “Ah, Sir Patrick! that little constitutional impatience of yours!—Oh, + dear me! how often you must have given way to it, and how often you must + have regretted it, in your time!” + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady! if you wish to repeat the report, why not say so, in plain + words? Don’t let me hurry you. Let us have the prognosis, by all means.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie shook her head compassionately, and smiled with angelic + sadness. “Our little besetting sins!” she said. “What slaves we are to our + little besetting sins! Take a turn in the room—do!” + </p> + <p> + Any ordinary man would have lost his temper. But the law (as Sir Patrick + had told his niece) has a special temper of its own. Without exhibiting + the smallest irritation, Sir Patrick dextrously applied his + sister-in-law’s blister to his sister-in-law herself. + </p> + <p> + “What an eye you have!” he said. “I was impatient. I <i>am</i> impatient. + I am dying to know what Blanche said to you when she got better?” + </p> + <p> + The British Matron froze up into a matron of stone on the spot. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing!” answered her ladyship, with a vicious snap of her teeth, as if + she had tried to bite the word before it escaped her. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing!” exclaimed Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing,” repeated Lady Lundie, with her most formidable emphasis of look + and tone. “I applied all the remedies with my own hands; I cut her laces + with my own scissors, I completely wetted her head through with cold + water; I remained with her until she was quite exhausted—I took her + in my arms, and folded her to my bosom; I sent every body out of the room; + I said, ‘Dear child, confide in me.’ And how were my advances—my + motherly advances—met? I have already told you. By heartless + secrecy. By undutiful silence.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick pressed the blister a little closer to the skin. “She was + probably afraid to speak,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Afraid? Oh!” cried Lady Lundie, distrusting the evidence of her own + senses. “You can’t have said that? I have evidently misapprehended you. + You didn’t really say, afraid?” + </p> + <p> + “I said she was probably afraid—” + </p> + <p> + “Stop! I can’t be told to my face that I have failed to do my duty by + Blanche. No, Sir Patrick! I can bear a great deal; but I can’t bear that. + After having been more than a mother to your dear brother’s child; after + having been an elder sister to Blanche; after having toiled—I say <i>toiled,</i> + Sir Patrick!—to cultivate her intelligence (with the sweet lines of + the poet ever present to my memory: ‘Delightful task to rear the tender + mind, and teach the young idea how to shoot!’); after having done all I + have done—a place in the carriage only yesterday, and a visit to the + most interesting relic of feudal times in Perthshire—after having + sacrificed all I have sacrificed, to be told that I have behaved in such a + manner to Blanche as to frighten her when I ask her to confide in me, is a + little too cruel. I have a sensitive—an unduly sensitive nature, + dear Sir Patrick. Forgive me for wincing when I am wounded. Forgive me for + feeling it when the wound is dealt me by a person whom I revere.” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship put her handkerchief to her eyes. Any other man would have + taken off the blister. Sir Patrick pressed it harder than ever. + </p> + <p> + “You quite mistake me,” he replied. “I meant that Blanche was afraid to + tell you the true cause of her illness. The true cause is anxiety about + Miss Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie emitted another scream—a loud scream this time—and + closed her eyes in horror. + </p> + <p> + “I can run out of the house,” cried her ladyship, wildly. “I can fly to + the uttermost corners of the earth; but I can <i>not</i> hear that + person’s name mentioned! No, Sir Patrick! not in my presence! not in my + room! not while I am mistress at Windygates House!” + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to say any thing that is disagreeable to you, Lady Lundie. But + the nature of my errand here obliges me to touch—as lightly as + possible—on something which has happened in your house without your + knowledge.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie suddenly opened her eyes, and became the picture of attention. + A casual observer might have supposed her ladyship to be not wholly + inaccessible to the vulgar emotion of curiosity. + </p> + <p> + “A visitor came to Windygates yesterday, while we were all at lunch,” + proceeded Sir Patrick. “She—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie seized the scarlet memorandum-book, and stopped her + brother-in-law, before he could get any further. Her ladyship’s next words + escaped her lips spasmodically, like words let at intervals out of a trap. + </p> + <p> + “I undertake—as a woman accustomed to self-restraint, Sir Patrick—I + undertake to control myself, on one condition. I won’t have the name + mentioned. I won’t have the sex mentioned. Say, ‘The Person,’ if you + please. ‘The Person,’” continued Lady Lundie, opening her memorandum-book + and taking up her pen, “committed an audacious invasion of my premises + yesterday?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick bowed. Her ladyship made a note—a fiercely-penned note + that scratched the paper viciously—and then proceeded to examine her + brother-in-law, in the capacity of witness. + </p> + <p> + “What part of my house did ‘The Person’ invade? Be very careful, Sir + Patrick! I propose to place myself under the protection of a justice of + the peace; and this is a memorandum of my statement. The library—did + I understand you to say? Just so—the library.” + </p> + <p> + “Add,” said Sir Patrick, with another pressure on the blister, “that The + Person had an interview with Blanche in the library.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s pen suddenly stuck in the paper, and scattered a little + shower of ink-drops all round it. “The library,” repeated her ladyship, in + a voice suggestive of approaching suffocation. “I undertake to control + myself, Sir Patrick! Any thing missing from the library?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing missing, Lady Lundie, but The Person herself. She—” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir Patrick! I won’t have it! In the name of my own sex, I won’t have + it!” + </p> + <p> + “Pray pardon me—I forgot that ‘she’ was a prohibited pronoun on the + present occasion. The Person has written a farewell letter to Blanche, and + has gone nobody knows where. The distress produced by these events is + alone answerable for what has happened to Blanche this morning. If you + bear that in mind—and if you remember what your own opinion is of + Miss Silvester—you will understand why Blanche hesitated to admit + you into her confidence.” + </p> + <p> + There he waited for a reply. Lady Lundie was too deeply absorbed in + completing her memorandum to be conscious of his presence in the room. + </p> + <p> + “‘Carriage to be at the door at two-thirty,’” said Lady Lundie, repeating + the final words of the memorandum while she wrote them. “‘Inquire for the + nearest justice of the peace, and place the privacy of Windygates under + the protection of the law.’—I beg your pardon!” exclaimed her + ladyship, becoming conscious again of Sir Patrick’s presence. “Have I + missed any thing particularly painful? Pray mention it if I have!” + </p> + <p> + “You have missed nothing of the slightest importance,” returned Sir + Patrick. “I have placed you in possession of facts which you had a right + to know; and we have now only to return to our medical friend’s report on + Blanche’s health. You were about to favor me, I think, with the + Prognosis?” + </p> + <p> + “Diagnosis!” said her ladyship, spitefully. “I had forgotten at the time—I + remember now. Prognosis is entirely wrong.” + </p> + <p> + “I sit corrected, Lady Lundie. Diagnosis.” + </p> + <p> + “You have informed me, Sir Patrick, that you were already acquainted with + the Diagnosis. It is quite needless for me to repeat it now.” + </p> + <p> + “I was anxious to correct my own impression, my dear lady, by comparing it + with yours.” + </p> + <p> + “You are very good. You are a learned man. I am only a poor ignorant + woman. Your impression can not possibly require correcting by mine.” + </p> + <p> + “My impression, Lady Lundie, was that our so friend recommended moral, + rather than medical, treatment for Blanche. If we can turn her thoughts + from the painful subject on which they are now dwelling, we shall do all + that is needful. Those were his own words, as I remember them. Do you + confirm me?” + </p> + <p> + “Can <i>I</i> presume to dispute with you, Sir Patrick? You are a master + of refined irony, I know. I am afraid it’s all thrown away on poor me.” + </p> + <p> + (The law kept its wonderful temper! The law met the most exasperating of + living women with a counter-power of defensive aggravation all its own!) + </p> + <p> + “I take that as confirming me, Lady Lundie. Thank you. Now, as to the + method of carrying out our friend’s advice. The method seems plain. All we + can do to divert Blanche’s mind is to turn Blanche’s attention to some + other subject of reflection less painful than the subject which occupies + her now. Do you agree, so far?” + </p> + <p> + “Why place the whole responsibility on my shoulders?” inquired Lady + Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “Out of profound deference for your opinion,” answered Sir Patrick. + “Strictly speaking, no doubt, any serious responsibility rests with me. I + am Blanche’s guardian—” + </p> + <p> + “Thank God!” cried Lady Lundie, with a perfect explosion of pious fervor. + </p> + <p> + “I hear an outburst of devout thankfulness,” remarked Sir Patrick. “Am I + to take it as expressing—let me say—some little doubt, on your + part, as to the prospect of managing Blanche successfully, under present + circumstances?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s temper began to give way again—exactly as her + brother-in-law had anticipated. + </p> + <p> + “You are to take it,” she said, “as expressing my conviction that I + saddled myself with the charge of an incorrigibly heartless, obstinate and + perverse girl, when I undertook the care of Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you say ‘incorrigibly?’” + </p> + <p> + “I said ‘incorrigibly.’” + </p> + <p> + “If the case is as hopeless as that, my dear Madam—as Blanche’s + guardian, I ought to find means to relieve you of the charge of Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody shall relieve <i>me</i> of a duty that I have once undertaken!” + retorted Lady Lundie. “Not if I die at my post!” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose it was consistent with your duty,” pleaded Sir Patrick, “to be + relieved at your post? Suppose it was in harmony with that + ‘self-sacrifice’ which is ‘the motto of women?’” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t understand you, Sir Patrick. Be so good as to explain yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick assumed a new character—the character of a hesitating + man. He cast a look of respectful inquiry at his sister-in-law, sighed, + and shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “No!” he said. “It would be asking too much. Even with your high standard + of duty, it would be asking too much.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing which you can ask me in the name of duty is too much.” + </p> + <p> + “No! no! Let me remind you. Human nature has its limits.” + </p> + <p> + “A Christian gentlewoman’s sense of duty knows no limits.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, surely yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick! after what I have just said your perseverance in doubting me + amounts to something like an insult!” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t say that! Let me put a case. Let’s suppose the future interests of + another person depend on your saying, Yes—when all your own most + cherished ideas and opinions urge you to say, No. Do you really mean to + tell me that you could trample your own convictions under foot, if it + could be shown that the purely abstract consideration of duty was involved + in the sacrifice?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” cried Lady Lundie, mounting the pedestal of her virtue on the spot. + “Yes—without a moment’s hesitation!” + </p> + <p> + “I sit corrected, Lady Lundie. You embolden me to proceed. Allow me to ask + (after what I just heard)—whether it is not your duty to act on + advice given for Blanche’s benefit, by one the highest medical authorities + in England?” Her ladyship admitted that it was her duty; pending a more + favorable opportunity for contradicting her brother-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick. “Assuming that Blanche is like most + other human beings, and has some prospect of happiness to contemplate, if + she could only be made to see it—are we not bound to make her see + it, by our moral obligation to act on the medical advice?” He cast a + courteously-persuasive look at her ladyship, and paused in the most + innocent manner for a reply. + </p> + <p> + If Lady Lundie had not been bent—thanks to the irritation fomented + by her brother-in-law—on disputing the ground with him, inch by + inch, she must have seen signs, by this time, of the snare that was being + set for her. As it was, she saw nothing but the opportunity of disparaging + Blanche and contradicting Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “If my step-daughter had any such prospect as you describe,” she answered, + “I should of course say, Yes. But Blanche’s is an ill-regulated mind. An + ill-regulated mind has no prospect of happiness.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” said Sir Patrick. “Blanche <i>has</i> a prospect of + happiness. In other words, Blanche has a prospect of being married. And + what is more, Arnold Brinkworth is ready to marry her as soon as the + settlements can be prepared.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie started in her chair—turned crimson with rage—and + opened her lips to speak. Sir Patrick rose to his feet, and went on before + she could utter a word. + </p> + <p> + “I beg to relieve you, Lady Lundie—by means which you have just + acknowledged it to be your duty to accept—of all further charge of + an incorrigible girl. As Blanche’s guardian, I have the honor of proposing + that her marriage be advanced to a day to be hereafter named in the first + fortnight of the ensuing month.” + </p> + <p> + In those words he closed the trap which he had set for his sister-in-law, + and waited to see what came of it. + </p> + <p> + A thoroughly spiteful woman, thoroughly roused, is capable of + subordinating every other consideration to the one imperative necessity of + gratifying her spite. There was but one way now of turning the tables on + Sir Patrick—and Lady Lundie took it. She hated him, at that moment, + so intensely, that not even the assertion of her own obstinate will + promised her more than a tame satisfaction, by comparison with the + priceless enjoyment of beating her brother-in-law with his own weapons. + </p> + <p> + “My dear Sir Patrick!” she said, with a little silvery laugh, “you have + wasted much precious time and many eloquent words in trying to entrap me + into giving my consent, when you might have had it for the asking. I think + the idea of hastening Blanche’s marriage an excellent one. I am charmed to + transfer the charge of such a person as my step-daughter to the + unfortunate young man who is willing to take her off my hands. The less he + sees of Blanche’s character the more satisfied I shall feel of his + performing his engagement to marry her. Pray hurry the lawyers, Sir + Patrick, and let it be a week sooner rather than a week later, if you wish + to please Me.” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship rose in her grandest proportions, and made a courtesy which + was nothing less than a triumph of polite satire in dumb show. Sir Patrick + answered by a profound bow and a smile which said, eloquently, “I believe + every word of that charming answer. Admirable woman—adieu!” + </p> + <p> + So the one person in the family circle, whose opposition might have forced + Sir Patrick to submit to a timely delay, was silenced by adroit management + of the vices of her own character. So, in despite of herself, Lady Lundie + was won over to the project for hurrying the marriage of Arnold and + Blanche. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0028" id="link2HCH0028"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH. + </h2> + <h3> + STIFLED. + </h3> + <p> + IT is the nature of Truth to struggle to the light. In more than one + direction, the truth strove to pierce the overlying darkness, and to + reveal itself to view, during the interval between the date of Sir + Patrick’s victory and the date of the wedding-day. + </p> + <p> + Signs of perturbation under the surface, suggestive of some hidden + influence at work, were not wanting, as the time passed on. The one thing + missing was the prophetic faculty that could read those signs aright at + Windygates House. + </p> + <p> + On the very day when Sir Patrick’s dextrous treatment of his sister-in-law + had smoothed the way to the hastening of the marriage, an obstacle was + raised to the new arrangement by no less a person than Blanche herself. + She had sufficiently recovered, toward noon, to be able to receive Arnold + in her own little sitting-room. It proved to be a very brief interview. A + quarter of an hour later, Arnold appeared before Sir Patrick—while + the old gentleman was sunning himself in the garden—with a face of + blank despair. Blanche had indignantly declined even to think of such a + thing as her marriage, at a time when she was heart-broken by the + discovery that Anne had left her forever. + </p> + <p> + “You gave me leave to mention it, Sir Patrick—didn’t you?” said + Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick shifted round a little, so as to get the sun on his back, and + admitted that he had given leave. + </p> + <p> + “If I had only known, I would rather have cut my tongue out than have said + a word about it. What do you think she did? She burst out crying, and + ordered me to leave the room.” + </p> + <p> + It was a lovely morning—a cool breeze tempered the heat of the sun; + the birds were singing; the garden wore its brightest look. Sir Patrick + was supremely comfortable. The little wearisome vexations of this mortal + life had retired to a respectful distance from him. He positively declined + to invite them to come any nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Here is a world,” said the old gentleman, getting the sun a little more + broadly on his back, “which a merciful Creator has filled with lovely + sights, harmonious sounds, delicious scents; and here are creatures with + faculties expressly made for enjoyment of those sights, sounds, and scents—to + say nothing of Love, Dinner, and Sleep, all thrown into the bargain. And + these same creatures hate, starve, toss sleepless on their pillows, see + nothing pleasant, hear nothing pleasant, smell nothing pleasant—cry + bitter tears, say hard words, contract painful illnesses; wither, sink, + age, die! What does it mean, Arnold? And how much longer is it all to go + on?” + </p> + <p> + The fine connecting link between the blindness of Blanche to the advantage + of being married, and the blindness of humanity to the advantage of being + in existence, though sufficiently perceptible no doubt to venerable + Philosophy ripening in the sun, was absolutely invisible to Arnold. He + deliberately dropped the vast question opened by Sir Patrick; and, + reverting to Blanche, asked what was to be done. + </p> + <p> + “What do you do with a fire, when you can’t extinguish it?” said Sir + Patrick. “You let it blaze till it goes out. What do you do with a woman + when you can’t pacify her? Let <i>her</i> blaze till she goes out.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold failed to see the wisdom embodied in that excellent advice. “I + thought you would have helped me to put things right with Blanche,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “I <i>am</i> helping you. Let Blanche alone. Don’t speak of the marriage + again, the next time you see her. If she mentions it, beg her pardon, and + tell her you won’t press the question any more. I shall see her in an hour + or two, and I shall take exactly the same tone myself. You have put the + idea into her mind—leave it there to ripen. Give her distress about + Miss Silvester nothing to feed on. Don’t stimulate it by contradiction; + don’t rouse it to defend itself by disparagement of her lost friend. Leave + Time to edge her gently nearer and nearer to the husband who is waiting + for her—and take my word for it, Time will have her ready when the + settlements are ready.” + </p> + <p> + Toward the luncheon hour Sir Patrick saw Blanche, and put in practice the + principle which he had laid down. She was perfectly tranquil before her + uncle left her. A little later, Arnold was forgiven. A little later still, + the old gentleman’s sharp observation noted that his niece was unusually + thoughtful, and that she looked at Arnold, from time to time, with an + interest of a new kind—an interest which shyly hid itself from + Arnold’s view. Sir Patrick went up to dress for dinner, with a comfortable + inner conviction that the difficulties which had beset him were settled at + last. Sir Patrick had never been more mistaken in his life. + </p> + <p> + The business of the toilet was far advanced. Duncan had just placed the + glass in a good light; and Duncan’s master was at that turning point in + his daily life which consisted in attaining, or not attaining, absolute + perfection in the tying of his white cravat—when some outer + barbarian, ignorant of the first principles of dressing a gentleman’s + throat, presumed to knock at the bedroom door. Neither master nor servant + moved or breathed until the integrity of the cravat was placed beyond the + reach of accident. Then Sir Patrick cast the look of final criticism in + the glass, and breathed again when he saw that it was done. + </p> + <p> + “A little labored in style, Duncan. But not bad, considering the + interruption?” + </p> + <p> + “By no means, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “See who it is.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan went to the door; and returned, to his master, with an excuse for + the interruption, in the shape of a telegram! + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started at the sight of that unwelcome message. “Sign the + receipt, Duncan,” he said—and opened the envelope. Yes! Exactly as + he had anticipated! News of Miss Silvester, on the very day when he had + decided to abandon all further attempt at discovering her. The telegram + ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “Message received from Falkirk this morning. Lady, as described, left the + train at Falkirk last night. Went on, by the first train this morning, to + Glasgow. Wait further instructions.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the messenger to take any thing back, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “No. I must consider what I am to do. If I find it necessary I will send + to the station. Here is news of Miss Silvester, Duncan,” continued Sir + Patrick, when the messenger had gone. “She has been traced to Glasgow.” + </p> + <p> + “Glasgow is a large place, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Even if they have telegraphed on and had her watched (which doesn’t + appear), she may escape us again at Glasgow. I am the last man in the + world, I hope, to shrink from accepting my fair share of any + responsibility. But I own I would have given something to have kept this + telegram out of the house. It raises the most awkward question I have had + to decide on for many a long day past. Help me on with my coat. I must + think of it! I must think of it!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick went down to dinner in no agreeable frame of mind. The + unexpected recovery of the lost trace of Miss Silvester—there is no + disguising it—seriously annoyed him. + </p> + <p> + The dinner-party that day, assembling punctually at the stroke of the + bell, had to wait a quarter of an hour before the hostess came down + stairs. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s apology, when she entered the library, informed her guests + that she had been detained by some neighbors who had called at an + unusually late hour. Mr. and Mrs. Julius Delamayn, finding themselves near + Windygates, had favored her with a visit, on their way home, and had left + cards of invitation for a garden-party at their house. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie was charmed with her new acquaintances. They had included + every body who was staying at Windygates in their invitation. They had + been as pleasant and easy as old friends. Mrs. Delamayn had brought the + kindest message from one of her guests—Mrs. Glenarm—to say + that she remembered meeting Lady Lundie in London, in the time of the late + Sir Thomas, and was anxious to improve the acquaintance. Mr. Julius + Delamayn had given a most amusing account of his brother. Geoffrey had + sent to London for a trainer; and the whole household was on the tip-toe + of expectation to witness the magnificent spectacle of an athlete + preparing himself for a foot-race. The ladies, with Mrs. Glenarm at their + head, were hard at work, studying the profound and complicated question of + human running—the muscles employed in it, the preparation required + for it, the heroes eminent in it. The men had been all occupied that + morning in assisting Geoffrey to measure a mile, for his + exercising-ground, in a remote part of the park—where there was an + empty cottage, which was to be fitted with all the necessary appliances + for the reception of Geoffrey and his trainer. “You will see the last of + my brother,” Julius had said, “at the garden-party. After that he retires + into athletic privacy, and has but one interest in life—the interest + of watching the disappearance of his own superfluous flesh.” Throughout + the dinner Lady Lundie was in oppressively good spirits, singing the + praises of her new friends. Sir Patrick, on the other hand, had never been + so silent within the memory of mortal man. He talked with an effort; and + he listened with a greater effort still. To answer or not to answer the + telegram in his pocket? To persist or not to persist in his resolution to + leave Miss Silvester to go her own way? Those were the questions which + insisted on coming round to him as regularly as the dishes themselves came + round in the orderly progression of the dinner. + </p> + <p> + Blanche—-who had not felt equal to taking her place at the table—appeared + in the drawing-room afterward. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick came in to tea, with the gentlemen, still uncertain as to the + right course to take in the matter of the telegram. One look at Blanche’s + sad face and Blanche’s altered manner decided him. What would be the + result if he roused new hopes by resuming the effort to trace Miss + Silvester, and if he lost the trace a second time? He had only to look at + his niece and to see. Could any consideration justify him in turning her + mind back on the memory of the friend who had left her at the moment when + it was just beginning to look forward for relief to the prospect of her + marriage? Nothing could justify him; and nothing should induce him to do + it. + </p> + <p> + Reasoning—soundly enough, from his own point of view—on that + basis, Sir Patrick determined on sending no further instructions to his + friend at Edinburgh. That night he warned Duncan to preserve the strictest + silence as to the arrival of the telegram. He burned it, in case of + accidents, with his own hand, in his own room. + </p> + <p> + Rising the next day and looking out of his window, Sir Patrick saw the two + young people taking their morning walk at a moment when they happened to + cross the open grassy space which separated the two shrubberies at + Windygates. Arnold’s arm was round Blanche’s waist, and they were talking + confidentially with their heads close together. “She is coming round + already!” thought the old gentleman, as the two disappeared again in the + second shrubbery from view. “Thank Heaven! things are running smoothly at + last!” + </p> + <p> + Among the ornaments of Sir Patrick’s bed room there was a view (taken from + above) of one of the Highland waterfalls. If he had looked at the picture + when he turned away from his window, he might have remarked that a river + which is running with its utmost smoothness at one moment may be a river + which plunges into its most violent agitation at another; and he might + have remembered, with certain misgivings, that the progress of a stream of + water has been long since likened, with the universal consent of humanity, + to the progress of the stream of life. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0037" id="link2H_4_0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIFTH SCENE.—GLASGOW. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0029" id="link2HCH0029"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH. + </h2> + <h3> + ANNE AMONG THE LAWYERS. + </h3> + <p> + ON the day when Sir Patrick received the second of the two telegrams sent + to him from Edinburgh, four respectable inhabitants of the City of Glasgow + were startled by the appearance of an object of interest on the monotonous + horizon of their daily lives. + </p> + <p> + The persons receiving this wholesome shock were—Mr. and Mrs. + Karnegie of the Sheep’s Head Hotel—and Mr. Camp, and Mr. Crum, + attached as “Writers” to the honorable profession of the Law. + </p> + <p> + It was still early in the day when a lady arrived, in a cab from the + railway, at the Sheep’s Head Hotel. Her luggage consisted of a black box, + and of a well-worn leather bag which she carried in her hand. The name on + the box (recently written on a new luggage label, as the color of the ink + and paper showed) was a very good name in its way, common to a very great + number of ladies, both in Scotland and England. It was “Mrs. Graham.” + </p> + <p> + Encountering the landlord at the entrance to the hotel, “Mrs. Graham” + asked to be accommodated with a bedroom, and was transferred in due course + to the chamber-maid on duty at the time. Returning to the little room + behind the bar, in which the accounts were kept, Mr. Karnegie surprised + his wife by moving more briskly, and looking much brighter than usual. + Being questioned, Mr. Karnegie (who had cast the eye of a landlord on the + black box in the passage) announced that one “Mrs. Graham” had just + arrived, and was then and there to be booked as inhabiting Room Number + Seventeen. Being informed (with considerable asperity of tone and manner) + that this answer failed to account for the interest which appeared to have + been inspired in him by a total stranger, Mr. Karnegie came to the point, + and confessed that “Mrs. Graham” was one of the sweetest-looking women he + had seen for many a long day, and that he feared she was very seriously + out of health. + </p> + <p> + Upon that reply the eyes of Mrs. Karnegie developed in size, and the color + of Mrs. Karnegie deepened in tint. She got up from her chair and said that + it might be just as well if she personally superintended the installation + of “Mrs. Graham” in her room, and personally satisfied herself that “Mrs. + Graham” was a fit inmate to be received at the Sheep’s Head Hotel. Mr. + Karnegie thereupon did what he always did—he agreed with his wife. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Karnegie was absent for some little time. On her return her eyes had + a certain tigerish cast in them when they rested on Mr. Karnegie. She + ordered tea and some light refreshment to be taken to Number Seventeen. + This done—without any visible provocation to account for the remark—she + turned upon her husband, and said, “Mr. Karnegie you are a fool.” Mr. + Karnegie asked, “Why, my dear?” Mrs. Karnegie snapped her fingers, and + said, “<i>That</i> for her good looks! You don’t know a good-looking woman + when you see her.” Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife. + </p> + <p> + Nothing more was said until the waiter appeared at the bar with his tray. + Mrs. Karnegie, having first waived the tray off, without instituting her + customary investigation, sat down suddenly with a thump, and said to her + husband (who had not uttered a word in the interval), “Don’t talk to Me + about her being out of health! <i>That</i> for her health! It’s trouble on + her mind.” Mr. Karnegie said, “Is it now?” Mrs. Karnegie replied, “When I + have said, It is, I consider myself insulted if another person says, Is + it?” Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife. + </p> + <p> + There was another interval. Mrs. Karnegie added up a bill, with a face of + disgust. Mr. Karnegie looked at her with a face of wonder. Mrs. Karnegie + suddenly asked him why he wasted his looks on <i>her</i>, when he would + have “Mrs. Graham” to look at before long. Mr. Karnegie, upon that, + attempted to compromise the matter by looking, in the interim, at his own + boots. Mrs. Karnegie wished to know whether after twenty years of married + life, she was considered to be not worth answering by her own husband. + Treated with bare civility (she expected no more), she might have gone on + to explain that “Mrs. Graham” was going out. She might also have been + prevailed on to mention that “Mrs. Graham” had asked her a very remarkable + question of a business nature, at the interview between them up stairs. As + it was, Mrs. Karnegie’s lips were sealed, and let Mr. Karnegie deny if he + dared, that he richly deserved it. Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife. + </p> + <p> + In half an hour more, “Mrs. Graham” came down stairs; and a cab was sent + for. Mr. Karnegie, in fear of the consequences if he did otherwise, kept + in a corner. Mrs. Karnegie followed him into the corner, and asked him how + he dared act in that way? Did he presume to think, after twenty years of + married life, that his wife was jealous? “Go, you brute, and hand Mrs. + Graham into the cab!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Karnegie obeyed. He asked, at the cab window, to what part of Glasgow + he should tell the driver to go. The reply informed him that the driver + was to take “Mrs. Graham” to the office of Mr. Camp, the lawyer. Assuming + “Mrs. Graham” to be a stranger in Glasgow, and remembering that Mr. Camp + was Mr. Karnegie’s lawyer, the inference appeared to be, that “Mrs. + Graham’s” remarkable question, addressed to the landlady, had related to + legal business, and to the discovery of a trust-worthy person capable of + transacting it for her. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the bar, Mr. Karnegie found his eldest daughter in charge of + the books, the bills, and the waiters. Mrs. Karnegie had retired to her + own room, justly indignant with her husband for his infamous conduct in + handing “Mrs. Graham” into the cab before her own eyes. “It’s the old + story, Pa,” remarked Miss Karnegie, with the most perfect composure. “Ma + told you to do it, of course; and then Ma says you’ve insulted her before + all the servants. I wonder how you bear it?” Mr. Karnegie looked at his + boots, and answered, “I wonder, too, my dear.” Miss Karnegie said, “You’re + not going to Ma, are you?” Mr. Karnegie looked up from his boots, and + answered, “I must, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Camp sat in his private room, absorbed over his papers. Multitudinous + as those documents were, they appeared to be not sufficiently numerous to + satisfy Mr. Camp. He rang his bell, and ordered more. + </p> + <p> + The clerk appearing with a new pile of papers, appeared also with a + message. A lady, recommended by Mrs. Karnegie, of the Sheep’s Head, wished + to consult Mr. Camp professionally. Mr. Camp looked at his watch, counting + out precious time before him, in a little stand on the table, and said, + “Show the lady in, in ten minutes.” + </p> + <p> + In ten minutes the lady appeared. She took the client’s chair and lifted + her veil. The same effect which had been produced on Mr. Karnegie was once + more produced on Mr. Camp. For the first time, for many a long year past, + he felt personally interested in a total stranger. It might have been + something in her eyes, or it might have been something in her manner. + Whatever it was, it took softly hold of him, and made him, to his own + exceeding surprise, unmistakably anxious to hear what she had to say! + </p> + <p> + The lady announced—in a low sweet voice touched with a quiet sadness—that + her business related to a question of marriage (as marriage is understood + by Scottish law), and that her own peace of mind, and the happiness of a + person very dear to her, were concerned alike in the opinion which Mr. + Camp might give when he had been placed in possession of the facts. + </p> + <p> + She then proceeded to state the facts, without mentioning names: relating + in every particular precisely the same succession of events which Geoffrey + Delamayn had already related to Sir Patrick Lundie—with this one + difference, that she acknowledged herself to be the woman who was + personally concerned in knowing whether, by Scottish law, she was now held + to be a married woman or not. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Camp’s opinion given upon this, after certain questions had been asked + and answered, differed from Sir Patrick’s opinion, as given at Windygates. + He too quoted the language used by the eminent judge—Lord Deas—but + he drew an inference of his own from it. “In Scotland, consent makes + marriage,” he said; “and consent may be proved by inference. I see a plain + inference of matrimonial consent in the circumstances which you have + related to me and I say you are a married woman.” + </p> + <p> + The effect produced on the lady, when sentence was pronounced on her in + those terms, was so distressing that Mr. Camp sent a message up stairs to + his wife; and Mrs. Camp appeared in her husband’s private room, in + business hours, for the first time in her life. When Mrs. Camp’s services + had in some degree restored the lady to herself, Mr. Camp followed with a + word of professional comfort. He, like Sir Patrick, acknowledged the + scandalous divergence of opinions produced by the confusion and + uncertainty of the marriage-law of Scotland. He, like Sir Patrick, + declared it to be quite possible that another lawyer might arrive at + another conclusion. “Go,” he said, giving her his card, with a line of + writing on it, “to my colleague, Mr. Crum; and say I sent you.” + </p> + <p> + The lady gratefully thanked Mr. Camp and his wife, and went next to the + office of Mr. Crum. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Crum was the older lawyer of the two, and the harder lawyer of the + two; but he, too, felt the influence which the charm that there was in + this woman exercised, more or less, over every man who came in contact + with her. He listened with a patience which was rare with him: he put his + questions with a gentleness which was rarer still; and when <i>he</i> was + in possession of the circumstances—-behold, <i>his</i> opinion + flatly contradicted the opinion of Mr. Camp! + </p> + <p> + “No marriage, ma’am,” he said, positively. “Evidence in favor of perhaps + establishing a marriage, if you propose to claim the man. But that, as I + understand it, is exactly what you don’t wish to do.” + </p> + <p> + The relief to the lady, on hearing this, almost overpowered her. For some + minutes she was unable to speak. Mr. Crum did, what he had never done yet + in all his experience as a lawyer. He patted a client on the shoulder, + and, more extraordinary still, he gave a client permission to waste his + time. “Wait, and compose yourself,” said Mr. Crum—administering the + law of humanity. The lady composed herself. “I must ask you some + questions, ma’am,” said Mr. Crum—administering the law of the land. + The lady bowed, and waited for him to begin. + </p> + <p> + “I know, thus far, that you decline to claim the gentleman,” said Mr. + Cram. “I want to know now whether the gentleman is likely to claim <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + The answer to this was given in the most positive terms. The gentleman was + not even aware of the position in which he stood. And, more yet, he was + engaged to be married to the dearest friend whom the lady had in the + world. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Crum opened his eyes—considered—and put another question + as delicately as he could. “Would it be painful to you to tell me how the + gentleman came to occupy the awkward position in which he stands now?” + </p> + <p> + The lady acknowledged that it would be indescribably painful to her to + answer that question. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Crum offered a suggestion under the form of an inquiry: + </p> + <p> + “Would it be painful to you to reveal the circumstances—in the + interests of the gentleman’s future prospects—to some discreet + person (a legal person would be best) who is not, what I am, a stranger to + you both?” + </p> + <p> + The lady declared herself willing to make any sacrifice, on those + conditions—no matter how painful it might be—for her friend’s + sake. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Crum considered a little longer, and then delivered his word of + advice: + </p> + <p> + “At the present stage of the affair,” he said, “I need only tell you what + is the first step that you ought to take under the circumstances. Inform + the gentleman at once—either by word of mouth or by writing—of + the position in which he stands: and authorize him to place the case in + the hands of a person known to you both, who is competent to decide on + what you are to do next. Do I understand that you know of such a person so + qualified?” + </p> + <p> + The lady answered that she knew of such a person. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Crum asked if a day had been fixed for the gentleman’s marriage. + </p> + <p> + The lady answered that she had made this inquiry herself on the last + occasion when she had seen the gentleman’s betrothed wife. The marriage + was to take place, on a day to be hereafter chosen, at the end of the + autumn. + </p> + <p> + “That,” said Mr. Crum, “is a fortunate circumstance. You have time before + you. Time is, here, of very great importance. Be careful not to waste it.” + </p> + <p> + The lady said she would return to her hotel and write by that night’s + post, to warn the gentleman of the position in which he stood, and to + authorize him to refer the matter to a competent and trust-worthy friend + known to them both. + </p> + <p> + On rising to leave the room she was seized with giddiness, and with some + sudden pang of pain, which turned her deadly pale and forced her to drop + back into her chair. Mr. Crum had no wife; but he possessed a housekeeper—and + he offered to send for her. The lady made a sign in the negative. She + drank a little water, and conquered the pain. “I am sorry to have alarmed + you,” she said. “It’s nothing—I am better now.” Mr. Crum gave her + his arm, and put her into the cab. She looked so pale and faint that he + proposed sending his housekeeper with her. No: it was only five minutes’ + drive to the hotel. The lady thanked him—and went her way back by + herself. + </p> + <p> + “The letter!” she said, when she was alone. “If I can only live long + enough to write the letter!” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0030" id="link2HCH0030"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH. + </h2> + <h3> + ANNE IN THE NEWSPAPERS. + </h3> + <p> + MRS. KARNEGIE was a woman of feeble intelligence and violent temper; + prompt to take offense, and not, for the most part, easy to appease. But + Mrs. Karnegie being—as we all are in our various degrees—a + compound of many opposite qualities, possessed a character with more than + one side to it, and had her human merits as well as her human faults. + Seeds of sound good feeling were scattered away in the remoter corners of + her nature, and only waited for the fertilizing occasion that was to help + them to spring up. The occasion exerted that benign influence when the cab + brought Mr. Crum’s client back to the hotel. The face of the weary, + heart-sick woman, as she slowly crossed the hall, roused all that was + heartiest and best in Mrs. Karnegie’s nature, and said to her, as if in + words, “Jealous of this broken creature? Oh, wife and mother is there no + appeal to your common womanhood <i>here?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid you have overtired yourself, ma’am. Let me send you something + up stairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Send me pen, ink, and paper,” was the answer. “I must write a letter. I + must do it at once.” + </p> + <p> + It was useless to remonstrate with her. She was ready to accept any thing + proposed, provided the writing materials were supplied first. Mrs. + Karnegie sent them up, and then compounded a certain mixture of eggs and + hot wine for which The Sheep’s Head was famous, with her own hands. In + five minutes or so it was ready—and Miss Karnegie was dispatched by + her mother (who had other business on hand at the time) to take it up + stairs. + </p> + <p> + After the lapse of a few moments a cry of alarm was heard from the upper + landing. Mrs. Karnegie recognized her daughter’s voice, and hastened to + the bedroom floor. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, mamma! Look at her! look at her!” + </p> + <p> + The letter was on the table with the first lines written. The woman was on + the sofa with her handkerchief twisted between her set teeth, and her + tortured face terrible to look at. Mrs. Karnegie raised her a little, + examined her closely—then suddenly changed color, and sent her + daughter out of the room with directions to dispatch a messenger instantly + for medical help. + </p> + <p> + Left alone with the sufferer, Mrs. Karnegie carried her to her bed. As she + was laid down her left hand fell helpless over the side of the bed. Mrs. + Karnegie suddenly checked the word of sympathy as it rose to her lips—suddenly + lifted the hand, and looked, with a momentary sternness of scrutiny, at + the third finger. There was a ring on it. Mrs. Karnegie’s face softened on + the instant: the word of pity that had been suspended the moment before + passed her lips freely now. “Poor soul!” said the respectable landlady, + taking appearances for granted. “Where’s your husband, dear? Try and tell + me.” + </p> + <p> + The doctor made his appearance, and went up to the patient. + </p> + <p> + Time passed, and Mr. Karnegie and his daughter, carrying on the business + of the hotel, received a message from up stairs which was ominous of + something out of the common. The message gave the name and address of an + experienced nurse—with the doctor’s compliments, and would Mr. + Karnegie have the kindness to send for her immediately. + </p> + <p> + The nurse was found and sent up stairs. + </p> + <p> + Time went on, and the business of the hotel went on, and it was getting to + be late in the evening, when Mrs. Karnegie appeared at last in the parlor + behind the bar. The landlady’s face was grave, the landlady’s manner was + subdued. “Very, very ill,” was the only reply she made to her daughter’s + inquiries. When she and her husband were together, a little later, she + told the news from up stairs in greater detail. “A child born dead,” said + Mrs. Karnegie, in gentler tones than were customary with her. “And the + mother dying, poor thing, so far as <i>I</i> can see.” + </p> + <p> + A little later the doctor came down. Dead? No.—Likely to live? + Impossible to say. The doctor returned twice in the course of the night. + Both times he had but one answer. “Wait till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + The next day came. She rallied a little. Toward the afternoon she began to + speak. She expressed no surprise at seeing strangers by her bedside: her + mind wandered. She passed again into insensibility. Then back to delirium + once more. The doctor said, “This may last for weeks. Or it may end + suddenly in death. It’s time you did something toward finding her + friends.” + </p> + <p> + (Her friends! She had left the one friend she had forever!) + </p> + <p> + Mr. Camp was summoned to give his advice. The first thing he asked for was + the unfinished letter. + </p> + <p> + It was blotted, it was illegible in more places than one. With pains and + care they made out the address at the beginning, and here and there some + fragments of the lines that followed. It began: “Dear Mr. Brinkworth.” + Then the writing got, little by little, worse and worse. To the eyes of + the strangers who looked at it, it ran thus: “I should ill requite * * * + Blanche’s interests * * * For God’s sake! * * * don’t think of <i>me</i> * + * *” There was a little more, but not so much as one word, in those last + lines, was legible. + </p> + <p> + The names mentioned in the letter were reported by the doctor and the + nurse to be also the names on her lips when she spoke in her wanderings. + “Mr. Brinkworth” and “Blanche”—her mind ran incessantly on those two + persons. The one intelligible thing that she mentioned in connection with + them was the letter. She was perpetually trying, trying, trying to take + that unfinished letter to the post; and she could never get there. + Sometimes the post was across the sea. Sometimes it was at the top of an + inaccessible mountain. Sometimes it was built in by prodigious walls all + round it. Sometimes a man stopped her cruelly at the moment when she was + close at the post, and forced her back thousands of miles away from it. + She once or twice mentioned this visionary man by his name. They made it + out to be “Geoffrey.” + </p> + <p> + Finding no clew to her identity either in the letter that she had tried to + write or in the wild words that escaped her from time to time, it was + decided to search her luggage, and to look at the clothes which she had + worn when she arrived at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + Her black box sufficiently proclaimed itself as recently purchased. On + opening it the address of a Glasgow trunk-maker was discovered inside. The + linen was also new, and unmarked. The receipted shop-bill was found with + it. The tradesmen, sent for in each case and questioned, referred to their + books. It was proved that the box and the linen had both been purchased on + the day when she appeared at the hotel. + </p> + <p> + Her black bag was opened next. A sum of between eighty and ninety pounds + in Bank of England notes; a few simple articles belonging to the toilet; + materials for needle-work; and a photographic portrait of a young lady, + inscribed, “To Anne, from Blanche,” were found in the bag—but no + letters, and nothing whatever that could afford the slightest clew by + which the owner could be traced. The pocket in her dress was searched + next. It contained a purse, an empty card-case, and a new handkerchief + unmarked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Camp shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “A woman’s luggage without any letters in it,” he said, “suggests to my + mind a woman who has a motive of her own for keeping her movements a + secret. I suspect she has destroyed her letters, and emptied her + card-case, with that view.” Mrs. Karnegie’s report, after examining the + linen which the so-called “Mrs. Graham” had worn when she arrived at the + inn, proved the soundness of the lawyer’s opinion. In every case the marks + had been cut out. Mrs. Karnegie began to doubt whether the ring which she + had seen on the third finger of the lady’s left hand had been placed there + with the sanction of the law. + </p> + <p> + There was but one chance left of discovering—or rather of attempting + to discover—her friends. Mr. Camp drew out an advertisement to be + inserted in the Glasgow newspapers. If those newspapers happened to be + seen by any member of her family, she would, in all probability, be + claimed. In the contrary event there would be nothing for it but to wait + for her recovery or her death—with the money belonging to her sealed + up, and deposited in the landlord’s strongbox. + </p> + <p> + The advertisement appeared. They waited for three days afterward, and + nothing came of it. No change of importance occurred, during the same + period, in the condition of the suffering woman. Mr. Camp looked in, + toward evening, and said, “We have done our best. There is no help for it + but to wait.” + </p> + <p> + Far away in Perthshire that third evening was marked as a joyful occasion + at Windygates House. Blanche had consented at last to listen to Arnold’s + entreaties, and had sanctioned the writing of a letter to London to order + her wedding-dress. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0040" id="link2H_4_0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SIXTH SCENE.—SWANHAVEN LODGE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0031" id="link2HCH0031"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST + </h2> + <h3> + SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (FIRST SOWING). + </h3> + <p> + “NOT SO large as Windygates. But—shall we say snug, Jones?” + </p> + <p> + “And comfortable, Smith. I quite agree with you.” + </p> + <p> + Such was the judgment pronounced by the two choral gentlemen on Julius + Delamayn’s house in Scotland. It was, as usual with Smith and Jones, a + sound judgment—as far as it went. Swanhaven Lodge was not half the + size of Windygates; but it had been inhabited for two centuries when the + foundations of Windygates were first laid—and it possessed the + advantages, without inheriting the drawbacks, of its age. There is in an + old house a friendly adaptation to the human character, as there is in an + old hat a friendly adaptation to the human head. The visitor who left + Swanhaven quitted it with something like a sense of leaving home. Among + the few houses not our own which take a strong hold on our sympathies this + was one. The ornamental grounds were far inferior in size and splendor to + the grounds at Windygates. But the park was beautiful—less carefully + laid out, but also less monotonous than an English park. The lake on the + northern boundary of the estate, famous for its breed of swans, was one of + the curiosities of the neighborhood; and the house had a history, + associating it with more than one celebrated Scottish name, which had been + written and illustrated by Julius Delamayn. Visitors to Swanhaven Lodge + were invariably presented with a copy of the volume (privately printed). + One in twenty read it. The rest were “charmed,” and looked at the + pictures. + </p> + <p> + The day was the last day of August, and the occasion was the garden-party + given by Mr. and Mrs. Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + Smith and Jones—following, with the other guests at Windygates, in + Lady Lundie’s train—exchanged their opinions on the merits of the + house, standing on a terrace at the back, near a flight of steps which led + down into the garden. They formed the van-guard of the visitors, appearing + by twos and threes from the reception rooms, and all bent on going to see + the swans before the amusements of the day began. Julius Delamayn came out + with the first detachment, recruited Smith and Jones, and other wandering + bachelors, by the way, and set forth for the lake. An interval of a minute + or two passed—and the terrace remained empty. Then two ladies—at + the head of a second detachment of visitors—appeared under the old + stone porch which sheltered the entrance on that side of the house. One of + the ladies was a modest, pleasant little person, very simply dressed. The + other was of the tall and formidable type of “fine women,” clad in + dazzling array. The first was Mrs. Julius Delamayn. The second was Lady + Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “Exquisite!” cried her ladyship, surveying the old mullioned windows of + the house, with their framing of creepers, and the grand stone buttresses + projecting at intervals from the wall, each with its bright little circle + of flowers blooming round the base. “I am really grieved that Sir Patrick + should have missed this.” + </p> + <p> + “I think you said, Lady Lundie, that Sir Patrick had been called to + Edinburgh by family business?” + </p> + <p> + “Business, Mrs. Delamayn, which is any thing but agreeable to me, as one + member of the family. It has altered all my arrangements for the autumn. + My step-daughter is to be married next week.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it so near as that? May I ask who the gentleman is?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Arnold Brinkworth.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely I have some association with that name?” + </p> + <p> + “You have probably heard of him, Mrs. Delamayn, as the heir to Miss + Brinkworth’s Scotch property?” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! Have you brought Mr. Brinkworth here to-day?” + </p> + <p> + “I bring his apologies, as well as Sir Patrick’s. They went to Edinburgh + together the day before yesterday. The lawyers engage to have the + settlements ready in three or four days more, if a personal consultation + can be managed. Some formal question, I believe, connected with + title-deeds. Sir Patrick thought the safest way and the speediest way + would be to take Mr. Brinkworth with him to Edinburgh—to get the + business over to-day—and to wait until we join them, on our way + south, to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “You leave Windygates, in this lovely weather?” + </p> + <p> + “Most unwillingly! The truth is, Mrs. Delamayn, I am at my step-daughter’s + mercy. Her uncle has the authority, as her guardian—and the use he + makes of it is to give her her own way in every thing. It was only on + Friday last that she consented to let the day be fixed—and even then + she made it a positive condition that the marriage was not to take place + in Scotland. Pure willfulness! But what can I do? Sir Patrick submits; and + Mr. Brinkworth submits. If I am to be present at the marriage I must + follow their example. I feel it my duty to be present—and, as a + matter of course, I sacrifice myself. We start for London to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Miss Lundie to be married in London at this time of year?” + </p> + <p> + “No. We only pass through, on our way to Sir Patrick’s place in Kent—the + place that came to him with the title; the place associated with the last + days of my beloved husband. Another trial for <i>me!</i> The marriage is + to be solemnized on the scene of my bereavement. My old wound is to be + reopened on Monday next—simply because my step-daughter has taken a + dislike to Windygates.” + </p> + <p> + “This day week, then, is the day of the marriage?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. This day week. There have been reasons for hurrying it which I need + not trouble you with. No words can say how I wish it was over.—But, + my dear Mrs. Delamayn, how thoughtless of me to assail <i>you</i> with my + family worries! You are so sympathetic. That is my only excuse. Don’t let + me keep you from your guests. I could linger in this sweet place forever! + Where is Mrs. Glenarm?” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t know. I missed her when we came out on the terrace. She + will very likely join us at the lake. Do you care about seeing the lake, + Lady Lundie?” + </p> + <p> + “I adore the beauties of Nature, Mrs. Delamayn—especially lakes!” + </p> + <p> + “We have something to show you besides; we have a breed of swans on the + lake, peculiar to the place. My husband has gone on with some of our + friends; and I believe we are expected to follow, as soon as the rest of + the party—in charge of my sister—have seen the house.” + </p> + <p> + “And what a house, Mrs. Delamayn! Historical associations in every corner + of it! It is <i>such</i> a relief to my mind to take refuge in the past. + When I am far away from this sweet place I shall people Swanhaven with its + departed inmates, and share the joys and sorrows of centuries since.” + </p> + <p> + As Lady Lundie announced, in these terms, her intention of adding to the + population of the past, the last of the guests who had been roaming over + the old house appeared under the porch. Among the members forming this + final addition to the garden-party were Blanche, and a friend of her own + age whom she had met at Swanhaven. The two girls lagged behind the rest, + talking confidentially, arm in arm—the subject (it is surely + needless to add) being the coming marriage. + </p> + <p> + “But, dearest Blanche, why are you not to be married at Windygates?” + </p> + <p> + “I detest Windygates, Janet. I have the most miserable associations with + the place. Don’t ask me what they are! The effort of my life is not to + think of them now. I long to see the last of Windygates. As for being + married there, I have made it a condition that I am not to be married in + Scotland at all.” + </p> + <p> + “What has poor Scotland done to forfeit your good opinion, my dear?” + </p> + <p> + “Poor Scotland, Janet, is a place where people don’t know whether they are + married or not. I have heard all about it from my uncle. And I know + somebody who has been a victim—an innocent victim—to a Scotch + marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Absurd, Blanche! You are thinking of runaway matches, and making Scotland + responsible for the difficulties of people who daren’t own the truth!” + </p> + <p> + “I am not at all absurd. I am thinking of the dearest friend I have. If + you only knew—” + </p> + <p> + “My dear! <i>I</i> am Scotch, remember! You can be married just as well—I + really must insist on that—in Scotland as in England.” + </p> + <p> + “I hate Scotland!” + </p> + <p> + “Blanche!” + </p> + <p> + “I never was so unhappy in my life as I have been in Scotland. I never + want to see it again. I am determined to be married in England—from + the dear old house where I used to live when I was a little girl. My uncle + is quite willing. <i>He</i> understands me and feels for me.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that as much as to say that <i>I</i> don’t understand you and feel for + you? Perhaps I had better relieve you of my company, Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + “If you are going to speak to me in that way, perhaps you had!” + </p> + <p> + “Am I to hear my native country run down and not to say a word in defense + of it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! you Scotch people make such a fuss about your native country!” + </p> + <p> + “<i>We</i> Scotch people! you are of Scotch extraction yourself, and you + ought to be ashamed to talk in that way. I wish you good-morning!” + </p> + <p> + “I wish you a better temper!” + </p> + <p> + A minute since the two young ladies had been like twin roses on one stalk. + Now they parted with red cheeks and hostile sentiments and cutting words. + How ardent is the warmth of youth! how unspeakably delicate the fragility + of female friendship! + </p> + <p> + The flock of visitors followed Mrs. Delamayn to the shores of the lake. + For a few minutes after the terrace was left a solitude. Then there + appeared under the porch a single gentleman, lounging out with a flower in + his mouth and his hands in his pockets. This was the strongest man at + Swanhaven—otherwise, Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + After a moment a lady appeared behind him, walking softly, so as not to be + heard. She was superbly dressed after the newest and the most costly + Parisian design. The brooch on her bosom was a single diamond of + resplendent water and great size. The fan in her hand was a master-piece + of the finest Indian workmanship. She looked what she was, a person + possessed of plenty of superfluous money, but not additionally blest with + plenty of superfluous intelligence to correspond. This was the childless + young widow of the great ironmaster—otherwise, Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + The rich woman tapped the strong man coquettishly on the shoulder with her + fan. “Ah! you bad boy!” she said, with a slightly-labored archness of look + and manner. “Have I found you at last?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey sauntered on to the terrace—keeping the lady behind him + with a thoroughly savage superiority to all civilized submission to the + sex—and looked at his watch. + </p> + <p> + “I said I’d come here when I’d got half an hour to myself,” he mumbled, + turning the flower carelessly between his teeth. “I’ve got half an hour, + and here I am.” + </p> + <p> + “Did you come for the sake of seeing the visitors, or did you come for the + sake of seeing Me?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey smiled graciously, and gave the flower another turn in his teeth. + “You. Of course.” + </p> + <p> + The iron-master’s widow took his arm, and looked up at him—as only a + young woman would have dared to look up—with the searching summer + light streaming in its full brilliancy on her face. + </p> + <p> + Reduced to the plain expression of what it is really worth, the average + English idea of beauty in women may be summed up in three words—youth, + health, plumpness. The more spiritual charm of intelligence and vivacity, + the subtler attraction of delicacy of line and fitness of detail, are + little looked for and seldom appreciated by the mass of men in this + island. It is impossible otherwise to account for the extraordinary + blindness of perception which (to give one instance only) makes nine + Englishmen out of ten who visit France come back declaring that they have + not seen a single pretty Frenchwoman, in or out of Paris, in the whole + country. Our popular type of beauty proclaims itself, in its fullest + material development, at every shop in which an illustrated periodical is + sold. The same fleshy-faced girl, with the same inane smile, and with no + other expression whatever, appears under every form of illustration, week + after week, and month after month, all the year round. Those who wish to + know what Mrs. Glenarm was like, have only to go out and stop at any + bookseller’s or news-vendor’s shop, and there they will see her in the + first illustration, with a young woman in it, which they discover in the + window. The one noticeable peculiarity in Mrs. Glenarm’s purely + commonplace and purely material beauty, which would have struck an + observant and a cultivated man, was the curious girlishness of her look + and manner. No stranger speaking to this woman—who had been a wife + at twenty, and who was now a widow at twenty-four—would ever have + thought of addressing her otherwise than as “Miss.” + </p> + <p> + “Is that the use you make of a flower when I give it to you?” she said to + Geoffrey. “Mumbling it in your teeth, you wretch, as if you were a horse!” + </p> + <p> + “If you come to that,” returned Geoffrey, “I’m more a horse than a man. + I’m going to run in a race, and the public are betting on me. Haw! haw! + Five to four.” + </p> + <p> + “Five to four! I believe he thinks of nothing but betting. You great heavy + creature, I can’t move you. Don’t you see I want to go like the rest of + them to the lake? No! you’re not to let go of my arm! You’re to take me.” + </p> + <p> + “Can’t do it. Must be back with Perry in half an hour.” + </p> + <p> + (Perry was the trainer from London. He had arrived sooner than he had been + expected, and had entered on his functions three days since.) + </p> + <p> + “Don’t talk to me about Perry! A little vulgar wretch. Put him off. You + won’t? Do you mean to say you are such a brute that you would rather be + with Perry than be with me?” + </p> + <p> + “The betting’s at five to four, my dear. And the race comes off in a month + from this.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! go away to your beloved Perry! I hate you. I hope you’ll lose the + race. Stop in your cottage. Pray don’t come back to the house. And—mind + this!—don’t presume to say ‘my dear’ to me again.” + </p> + <p> + “It ain’t presuming half far enough, is it? Wait a bit. Give me till the + race is run—and then I’ll presume to marry you.” + </p> + <p> + “You! You will be as old as Methuselah, if you wait till I am your wife. I + dare say Perry has got a sister. Suppose you ask him? She would be just + the right person for you.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey gave the flower another turn in his teeth, and looked as if he + thought the idea worth considering. + </p> + <p> + “All right,” he said. “Any thing to be agreeable to you. I’ll ask Perry.” + </p> + <p> + He turned away, as if he was going to do it at once. Mrs. Glenarm put out + a little hand, ravishingly clothed in a blush-colored glove, and laid it + on the athlete’s mighty arm. She pinched those iron muscles (the pride and + glory of England) gently. “What a man you are!” she said. “I never met + with any body like you before!” + </p> + <p> + The whole secret of the power that Geoffrey had acquired over her was in + those words. + </p> + <p> + They had been together at Swanhaven for little more than ten days; and in + that time he had made the conquest of Mrs. Glenarm. On the day before the + garden-party—in one of the leisure intervals allowed him by Perry—he + had caught her alone, had taken her by the arm, and had asked her, in so + many words, if she would marry him. Instances on record of women who have + been wooed and won in ten days are—to speak it with all possible + respect—not wanting. But an instance of a woman willing to have it + known still remains to be discovered. The iron-master’s widow exacted a + promise of secrecy before the committed herself When Geoffrey had pledged + his word to hold his tongue in public until she gave him leave to speak, + Mrs. Glenarm, without further hesitation, said Yes—having, be it + observed, said No, in the course of the last two years, to at least half a + dozen men who were Geoffrey’s superiors in every conceivable respect, + except personal comeliness and personal strength. + </p> + <p> + There is a reason for every thing; and there was a reason for this. + </p> + <p> + However persistently the epicene theorists of modern times may deny it, it + is nevertheless a truth plainly visible in the whole past history of the + sexes that the natural condition of a woman is to find her master in a + man. Look in the face of any woman who is in no direct way dependent on a + man: and, as certainly as you see the sun in a cloudless sky, you see a + woman who is not happy. The want of a master is their great unknown want; + the possession of a master is—unconsciously to themselves—the + only possible completion of their lives. In ninety-nine cases out of a + hundred this one primitive instinct is at the bottom of the otherwise + inexplicable sacrifice, when we see a woman, of her own free will, throw + herself away on a man who is unworthy of her. This one primitive instinct + was at the bottom of the otherwise inexplicable facility of self-surrender + exhibited by Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + Up to the time of her meeting with Geoffrey, the young widow had gathered + but one experience in her intercourse with the world—the experience + of a chartered tyrant. In the brief six months of her married life with + the man whose grand-daughter she might have been—and ought to have + been—she had only to lift her finger to be obeyed. The doting old + husband was the willing slave of the petulant young wife’s slightest + caprice. At a later period, when society offered its triple welcome to her + birth, her beauty, and her wealth—go where she might, she found + herself the object of the same prostrate admiration among the suitors who + vied with each other in the rivalry for her hand. For the first time in + her life she encountered a man with a will of his own when she met + Geoffrey Delamayn at Swanhaven Lodge. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s occupation of the moment especially favored the conflict + between the woman’s assertion of her influence and the man’s assertion of + his will. + </p> + <p> + During the days that had intervened between his return to his brother’s + house and the arrival of the trainer, Geoffrey had submitted himself to + all needful preliminaries of the physical discipline which was to prepare + him for the race. He knew, by previous experience, what exercise he ought + to take, what hours he ought to keep, what temptations at the table he was + bound to resist. Over and over again Mrs. Glenarm tried to lure him into + committing infractions of his own discipline—and over and over again + the influence with men which had never failed her before failed her now. + Nothing she could say, nothing she could do, would move <i>this</i> man. + Perry arrived; and Geoffrey’s defiance of every attempted exercise of the + charming feminine tyranny, to which every one else had bowed, grew more + outrageous and more immovable than ever. Mrs. Glenarm became as jealous of + Perry as if Perry had been a woman. She flew into passions; she burst into + tears; she flirted with other men; she threatened to leave the house. All + quite useless! Geoffrey never once missed an appointment with Perry; never + once touched any thing to eat or drink that she could offer him, if Perry + had forbidden it. No other human pursuit is so hostile to the influence of + the sex as the pursuit of athletic sports. No men are so entirely beyond + the reach of women as the men whose lives are passed in the cultivation of + their own physical strength. Geoffrey resisted Mrs. Glenarm without the + slightest effort. He casually extorted her admiration, and undesignedly + forced her respect. She clung to him, as a hero; she recoiled from him, as + a brute; she struggled with him, submitted to him, despised him, adored + him, in a breath. And the clew to it all, confused and contradictory as it + seemed, lay in one simple fact—Mrs. Glenarm had found her master. + </p> + <p> + “Take me to the lake, Geoffrey!” she said, with a little pleading pressure + of the blush-colored hand. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked at his watch. “Perry expects me in twenty minutes,” he + said. + </p> + <p> + “Perry again!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm raised her fan, in a sudden outburst of fury, and broke it + with one smart blow on Geoffrey’s face. + </p> + <p> + “There!” she cried, with a stamp of her foot. “My poor fan broken! You + monster, all through you!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey coolly took the broken fan and put it in his pocket. “I’ll write + to London,” he said, “and get you another. Come along! Kiss, and make it + up.” + </p> + <p> + He looked over each shoulder, to make sure that they were alone then + lifted her off the ground (she was no light weight), held her up in the + air like a baby, and gave her a rough loud-sounding kiss on each cheek. + “With kind compliments from yours truly!” he said—and burst out + laughing, and put her down again. + </p> + <p> + “How dare you do that?” cried Mrs. Glenarm. “I shall claim Mrs. Delamayn’s + protection if I am to be insulted in this way! I will never forgive you, + Sir!” As she said those indignant words she shot a look at him which + flatly contradicted them. The next moment she was leaning on his arm, and + was looking at him wonderingly, for the thousandth time, as an entire + novelty in her experience of male human kind. “How rough you are, + Geoffrey!” she said, softly. He smiled in recognition of that artless + homage to the manly virtue of his character. She saw the smile, and + instantly made another effort to dispute the hateful supremacy of Perry. + “Put him off!” whispered the daughter of Eve, determined to lure Adam into + taking a bite of the apple. “Come, Geoffrey, dear, never mind Perry, this + once. Take me to the lake!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked at his watch. “Perry expects me in a quarter of an hour,” + he said. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm’s indignation assumed a new form. She burst out crying. + Geoffrey surveyed her for a moment with a broad stare of surprise—and + then took her by both arms, and shook her! + </p> + <p> + “Look here!” he said, impatiently. “Can you coach me through my training?” + </p> + <p> + “I would if I could!” + </p> + <p> + “That’s nothing to do with it! Can you turn me out, fit, on the day of the + race? Yes? or No?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Then dry your eyes and let Perry do it.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm dried her eyes, and made another effort. + </p> + <p> + “I’m not fit to be seen,” she said. “I’m so agitated, I don’t know what to + do. Come indoors, Geoffrey—and have a cup of tea.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey shook his head. “Perry forbids tea,” he said, “in the middle of + the day.” + </p> + <p> + “You brute!” cried Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + “Do you want me to lose the race?” retorted Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “Yes!” + </p> + <p> + With that answer she left him at last, and ran back into the house. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey took a turn on the terrace—considered a little—stopped—and + looked at the porch under which the irate widow had disappeared from his + view. “Ten thousand a year,” he said, thinking of the matrimonial prospect + which he was placing in peril. “And devilish well earned,” he added, going + into the house, under protest, to appease Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + The offended lady was on a sofa, in the solitary drawing-room. Geoffrey + sat down by her. She declined to look at him. “Don’t be a fool!” said + Geoffrey, in his most persuasive manner. Mrs. Glenarm put her handkerchief + to her eyes. Geoffrey took it away again without ceremony. Mrs. Glenarm + rose to leave the room. Geoffrey stopped her by main force. Mrs. Glenarm + threatened to summon the servants. Geoffrey said, “All right! I don’t care + if the whole house knows I’m fond of you!” Mrs. Glenarm looked at the + door, and whispered “Hush! for Heaven’s sake!” Geoffrey put her arm in + his, and said, “Come along with me: I’ve got something to say to you.” + Mrs. Glenarm drew back, and shook her head. Geoffrey put his arm round her + waist, and walked her out of the room, and out of the house—taking + the direction, not of the terrace, but of a fir plantation on the opposite + side of the grounds. Arrived among the trees, he stopped and held up a + warning forefinger before the offended lady’s face. “You’re just the sort + of woman I like,” he said; “and there ain’t a man living who’s half as + sweet on you as I am. You leave off bullying me about Perry, and I’ll tell + you what I’ll do—I’ll let you see me take a Sprint.” + </p> + <p> + He drew back a step, and fixed his big blue eyes on her, with a look which + said, “You are a highly-favored woman, if ever there was one yet!” + Curiosity instantly took the leading place among the emotions of Mrs. + Glenarm. “What’s a Sprint, Geoffrey?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “A short run, to try me at the top of my speed. There ain’t another living + soul in all England that I’d let see it but you. <i>Now</i> am I a brute?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm was conquered again, for the hundredth time at least. She + said, softly, “Oh, Geoffrey, if you could only be always like this!” Her + eyes lifted themselves admiringly to his. She took his arm again of her + own accord, and pressed it with a loving clasp. Geoffrey prophetically + felt the ten thousand a year in his pocket. “Do you really love me?” + whispered Mrs. Glenarm. “Don’t I!” answered the hero. The peace was made, + and the two walked on again. + </p> + <p> + They passed through the plantation, and came out on some open ground, + rising and falling prettily, in little hillocks and hollows. The last of + the hillocks sloped down into a smooth level plain, with a fringe of + sheltering trees on its farther side—with a snug little stone + cottage among the trees—and with a smart little man, walking up and + down before the cottage, holding his hands behind him. The level plain was + the hero’s exercising ground; the cottage was the hero’s retreat; and the + smart little man was the hero’s trainer. + </p> + <p> + If Mrs. Glenarm hated Perry, Perry (judging by appearances) was in no + danger of loving Mrs. Glenarm. As Geoffrey approached with his companion, + the trainer came to a stand-still, and stared silently at the lady. The + lady, on her side, declined to observe that any such person as the trainer + was then in existence, and present in bodily form on the scene. + </p> + <p> + “How about time?” said Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + Perry consulted an elaborate watch, constructed to mark time to the fifth + of a second, and answered Geoffrey, with his eye all the while on Mrs. + Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + “You’ve got five minutes to spare.” + </p> + <p> + “Show me where you run, I’m dying to see it!” said the eager widow, taking + possession of Geoffrey’s arm with both hands. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey led her back to a place (marked by a sapling with a little flag + attached to it) at some short distance from the cottage. She glided along + by his side, with subtle undulations of movement which appeared to + complete the exasperation of Perry. He waited until she was out of hearing—and + then he invoked (let us say) the blasts of heaven on the + fashionably-dressed head of Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + “You take your place there,” said Geoffrey, posting her by the sapling. + “When I pass you—” He stopped, and surveyed her with a good-humored + masculine pity. “How the devil am I to make you understand it?” he went + on. “Look here! when I pass you, it will be at what you would call (if I + was a horse) full gallop. Hold your tongue—I haven’t done yet. + You’re to look on after me as I leave you, to where the edge of the + cottage wall cuts the trees. When you have lost sight of me behind the + wall, you’ll have seen me run my three hundred yards from this flag. + You’re in luck’s way! Perry tries me at the long Sprint to-day. You + understand you’re to stop here? Very well then—let me go and get my + toggery on.” + </p> + <p> + “Sha’n’t I see you again, Geoffrey?” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t I just told you that you’ll see me run?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—but after that?” + </p> + <p> + “After that, I’m sponged and rubbed down—and rest in the cottage.” + </p> + <p> + “You’ll come to us this evening?” + </p> + <p> + He nodded, and left her. The face of Perry looked unutterable things when + he and Geoffrey met at the door of the cottage. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a question to ask you, Mr. Delamayn,” said the trainer. “Do you + want me? or don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course I want you.” + </p> + <p> + “What did I say when I first come here?” proceeded Perry, sternly. “I + said, ‘I won’t have nobody a looking on at a man I’m training. These here + ladies and gentlemen may all have made up their minds to see you. I’ve + made up my mind not to have no lookers-on. I won’t have you timed at your + work by nobody but me. I won’t have every blessed yard of ground you cover + put in the noospapers. I won’t have a living soul in the secret of what + you can do, and what you can’t, except our two selves.’—Did I say + that, Mr. Delamayn? or didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “All right!” + </p> + <p> + “Did I say it? or didn’t I?” + </p> + <p> + “Of course you did!” + </p> + <p> + “Then don’t you bring no more women here. It’s clean against rules. And I + won’t have it.” + </p> + <p> + Any other living creature adopting this tone of remonstrance would + probably have had reason to repent it. But Geoffrey himself was afraid to + show his temper in the presence of Perry. In view of the coming race, the + first and foremost of British trainers was not to be trifled with, even by + the first and foremost of British athletes. + </p> + <p> + “She won’t come again,” said Geoffrey. “She’s going away from Swanhaven in + two days’ time.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ve put every shilling I’m worth in the world on you,” pursued Perry, + relapsing into tenderness. “And I tell you I felt it! It cut me to the + heart when I see you coming along with a woman at your heels. It’s a fraud + on his backers, I says to myself—that’s what it is, a fraud on his + backers!” + </p> + <p> + “Shut up!” said Geoffrey. “And come and help me to win your money.” He + kicked open the door of the cottage—and athlete and trainer + disappeared from view. + </p> + <p> + After waiting a few minutes by the little flag, Mrs. Glenarm saw the two + men approaching her from the cottage. Dressed in a close-fitting costume, + light and elastic, adapting itself to every movement, and made to answer + every purpose required by the exercise in which he was abo ut to engage, + Geoffrey’s physical advantages showed themselves in their best and bravest + aspect. His head sat proud and easy on his firm, white throat, bared to + the air. The rising of his mighty chest, as he drew in deep draughts of + the fragrant summer breeze; the play of his lithe and supple loins; the + easy, elastic stride of his straight and shapely legs, presented a triumph + of physical manhood in its highest type. Mrs. Glenarm’s eyes devoured him + in silent admiration. He looked like a young god of mythology—like a + statue animated with color and life. “Oh, Geoffrey!” she exclaimed, + softly, as he went by. He neither answered, nor looked: he had other + business on hand than listening to soft nonsense. He was gathering himself + up for the effort; his lips were set; his fists were lightly clenched. + Perry posted himself at his place, grim and silent, with the watch in his + hand. Geoffrey walked on beyond the flag, so as to give himself start + enough to reach his full speed as he passed it. “Now then!” said Perry. In + an instant more, he flew by (to Mrs. Glenarm’s excited imagination) like + an arrow from a bow. His action was perfect. His speed, at its utmost rate + of exertion, preserved its rare underlying elements of strength and + steadiness. Less and less and less he grew to the eyes that followed his + course; still lightly flying over the ground, still firmly keeping the + straight line. A moment more, and the runner vanished behind the wall of + the cottage, and the stop-watch of the trainer returned to its place in + his pocket. + </p> + <p> + In her eagerness to know the result, Mrs. Glenarm forget her jealousy of + Perry. + </p> + <p> + “How long has he been?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “There’s a good many besides you would be glad to know that,” said Perry. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn will tell me, you rude man!” + </p> + <p> + “That depends, ma’am, on whether <i>I</i> tell <i>him.</i>” + </p> + <p> + With this reply, Perry hurried back to the cottage. + </p> + <p> + Not a word passed while the trainer was attending to his man, and while + the man was recovering his breath. When Geoffrey had been carefully rubbed + down, and clothed again in his ordinary garments, Perry pulled a + comfortable easy-chair out of a corner. Geoffrey fell into the chair, + rather than sat down in it. Perry started, and looked at him attentively. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Geoffrey. “How about the time? Long? short? or middling?” + </p> + <p> + “Very good time,” said Perry. + </p> + <p> + “How long?” + </p> + <p> + “When did you say the lady was going, Mr. Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “In two days.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well, Sir. I’ll tell you ‘how long’ when the lady’s gone.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey made no attempt to insist on an immediate reply. He smiled + faintly. After an interval of less than ten minutes he stretched out his + legs and closed his eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Going to sleep?” said Perry. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey opened his eyes with an effort. “No,” he said. The word had + hardly passed his lips before his eyes closed again. + </p> + <p> + “Hullo!” said Perry, watching him. “I don’t like that.” + </p> + <p> + He went closer to the chair. There was no doubt about it. The man was + asleep. + </p> + <p> + Perry emitted a long whistle under his breath. He stooped and laid two of + his fingers softly on Geoffrey’s pulse. The beat was slow, heavy, and + labored. It was unmistakably the pulse of an exhausted man. + </p> + <p> + The trainer changed color, and took a turn in the room. He opened a + cupboard, and produced from it his diary of the preceding year. The + entries relating to the last occasion on which he had prepared Geoffrey + for a foot-race included the fullest details. He turned to the report of + the first trial, at three hundred yards, full speed. The time was, by one + or two seconds, not so good as the time on this occasion. But the result, + afterward, was utterly different. There it was, in Perry’s own words: + “Pulse good. Man in high spirits. Ready, if I would have let him, to run + it over again.” + </p> + <p> + Perry looked round at the same man, a year afterward—utterly worn + out, and fast asleep in the chair. + </p> + <p> + He fetched pen, ink, and paper out of the cupboard, and wrote two letters—both + marked “Private.” The first was to a medical man, a great authority among + trainers. The second was to Perry’s own agent in London, whom he knew he + could trust. The letter pledged the agent to the strictest secrecy, and + directed him to back Geoffrey’s opponent in the Foot-Race for a sum equal + to the sum which Perry had betted on Geoffrey himself. “If you have got + any money of your own on him,” the letter concluded, “do as I do. ‘Hedge’—and + hold your tongue.” + </p> + <p> + “Another of ‘em gone stale!” said the trainer, looking round again at the + sleeping man. “He’ll lose the race.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0032" id="link2HCH0032"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND. + </h2> + <h3> + SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (SECOND SOWING). + </h3> + <p> + AND what did the visitors say of the Swans? + </p> + <p> + They said, “Oh, what a number of them!”—which was all that was to be + said by persons ignorant of the natural history of aquatic birds. + </p> + <p> + And what did the visitors say of the lake? + </p> + <p> + Some of them said, “How solemn!” Some of them said, “How romantic!” Some + of them said nothing—but privately thought it a dismal scene. + </p> + <p> + Here again the popular sentiment struck the right note at starting. The + lake was hidden in the centre of a fir wood. Except in the middle, where + the sunlight reached them, the waters lay black under the sombre shadow of + the trees. The one break in the plantation was at the farther end of the + lake. The one sign of movement and life to be seen was the ghostly gliding + of the swans on the dead-still surface of the water. It was solemn—as + they said; it was romantic—as they said. It was dismal—as they + thought. Pages of description could express no more. Let pages of + description be absent, therefore, in this place. + </p> + <p> + Having satiated itself with the swans, having exhausted the lake, the + general curiosity reverted to the break in the trees at the farther end—remarked + a startlingly artificial object, intruding itself on the scene, in the + shape of a large red curtain, which hung between two of the tallest firs, + and closed the prospect beyond from view—requested an explanation of + the curtain from Julius Delamayn—and received for answer that the + mystery should be revealed on the arrival of his wife with the tardy + remainder of the guests who had loitered about the house. + </p> + <p> + On the appearance of Mrs. Delamayn and the stragglers, the united party + coasted the shore of the lake, and stood assembled in front of the + curtain. Pointing to the silken cords hanging at either side of it, Julius + Delamayn picked out two little girls (children of his wife’s sister), and + sent them to the cords, with instructions to pull, and see what happened. + The nieces of Julius pulled with the eager hands of children in the + presence of a mystery—the curtains parted in the middle, and a cry + of universal astonishment and delight saluted the scene revealed to view. + </p> + <p> + At the end of a broad avenue of firs a cool green glade spread its grassy + carpet in the midst of the surrounding plantation. The ground at the + farther end of the glade rose; and here, on the lower slopes, a bright + little spring of water bubbled out between gray old granite rocks. + </p> + <p> + Along the right-hand edge of the turf ran a row of tables, arrayed in + spotless white, and covered with refreshments waiting for the guests. On + the opposite side was a band of music, which burst into harmony at the + moment when the curtains were drawn. Looking back through the avenue, the + eye caught a distant glimpse of the lake, where the sunlight played on the + water, and the plumage of the gliding swans flashed softly in brilliant + white. Such was the charming surprise which Julius Delamayn had arranged + for his friends. It was only at moments like these—or when he and + his wife were playing Sonatas in the modest little music-room at Swanhaven—that + Lord Holchester’s eldest son was really happy. He secretly groaned over + the duties which his position as a landed gentleman imposed upon him; and + he suffered under some of the highest privileges of his rank and station + as under social martyrdom in its cruelest form. + </p> + <p> + “We’ll dine first,” said Julius, “and dance afterward. There is the + programme!” + </p> + <p> + He led the way to the tables, with the two ladies nearest to him—utterly + careless whether they were or were not among the ladies of the highest + rank then present. To Lady Lundie’s astonishment he took the first seat he + came to, without appearing to care what place he occupied at his own + feast. The guests, following his example, sat where they pleased, reckless + of precedents and dignities. Mrs. Delamayn, feeling a special interest in + a young lady who was shortly to be a bride, took Blanche’s arm. Lady + Lundie attached herself resolutely to her hostess on the other side. The + three sat together. Mrs. Delamayn did her best to encourage Blanche to + talk, and Blanche did her best to meet the advances made to her. The + experiment succeeded but poorly on either side. Mrs. Delamayn gave it up + in despair, and turned to Lady Lundie, with a strong suspicion that some + unpleasant subject of reflection was preying privately on the bride’s + mind. The conclusion was soundly drawn. Blanche’s little outbreak of + temper with her friend on the terrace, and Blanche’s present deficiency of + gayety and spirit, were attributable to the same cause. She hid it from + her uncle, she hid it from Arnold—but she was as anxious as ever, + and as wretched as ever, about Anne; and she was still on the watch (no + matter what Sir Patrick might say or do) to seize the first opportunity of + renewing the search for her lost friend. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile the eating, the drinking, and the talking went merrily on. The + band played its liveliest melodies; the servants kept the glasses + constantly filled: round all the tables gayety and freedom reigned + supreme. The one conversation in progress, in which the talkers were not + in social harmony with each other, was the conversation at Blanche’s side, + between her step-mother and Mrs. Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + Among Lady Lundie’s other accomplishments the power of making disagreeable + discoveries ranked high. At the dinner in the glade she had not failed to + notice—what every body else had passed over—the absence at the + festival of the hostess’s brother-in-law; and more remarkable still, the + disappearance of a lady who was actually one of the guests staying in the + house: in plainer words, the disappearance of Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + “Am I mistaken?” said her ladyship, lifting her eye-glass, and looking + round the tables. “Surely there is a member of our party missing? I don’t + see Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “Geoffrey promised to be here. But he is not particularly attentive, as + you may have noticed, to keeping engagements of this sort. Every thing is + sacrificed to his training. We only see him at rare intervals now.” + </p> + <p> + With that reply Mrs. Delamayn attempted to change the subject. Lady Lundie + lifted her eye-glass, and looked round the tables for the second time. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” persisted her ladyship—“but is it possible that I have + discovered another absentee? I don’t see Mrs. Glenarm. Yet surely she must + be here! Mrs. Glenarm is not training for a foot-race. Do you see her? <i>I</i> + don’t.” + </p> + <p> + “I missed her when we went out on the terrace, and I have not seen her + since.” + </p> + <p> + “Isn’t it very odd, dear Mrs. Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “Our guests at Swanhaven, Lady Lundie, have perfect liberty to do as they + please.” + </p> + <p> + In those words Mrs. Delamayn (as she fondly imagined) dismissed the + subject. But Lady Lundie’s robust curiosity proved unassailable by even + the broadest hint. Carried away, in all probability, by the infection of + merriment about her, her ladyship displayed unexpected reserves of + vivacity. The mind declines to realize it; but it is not the less true + that this majestic woman actually simpered! + </p> + <p> + “Shall we put two and two together?” said Lady Lundie, with a ponderous + playfulness wonderful to see. “Here, on the one hand, is Mr. Geoffrey + Delamayn—a young single man. And here, on the other, is Mrs. Glenarm—a + young widow. Rank on the side of the young single man; riches on the side + of the young widow. And both mysteriously absent at the same time, from + the same pleasant party. Ha, Mrs. Delamayn! should I guess wrong, if I + guessed that <i>you</i> will have a marriage in the family, too, before + long?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Delamayn looked a little annoyed. She had entered, with all her + heart, into the conspiracy for making a match between Geoffrey and Mrs. + Glenarm. But she was not prepared to own that the lady’s facility had (in + spite of all attempts to conceal it from discovery) made the conspiracy + obviously successful in ten days’ time. + </p> + <p> + “I am not in the secrets of the lady and gentleman whom you mention,” she + replied, dryly. + </p> + <p> + A heavy body is slow to acquire movement—and slow to abandon + movement, when once acquired. The playfulness of Lady Lundie, being + essentially heavy, followed the same rule. She still persisted in being as + lively as ever. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, what a diplomatic answer!” exclaimed her ladyship. “I think I can + interpret it, though, for all that. A little bird tells me that I shall + see a Mrs. Geoffrey Delamayn in London, next season. And I, for one, shall + not be surprised to find myself congratulating Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + “If you persist in letting your imagination run away with you, Lady + Lundie, I can’t possibly help it. I can only request permission to keep + the bridle on <i>mine.</i>” + </p> + <p> + This time, even Lady Lundie understood that it would be wise to say no + more. She smiled and nodded, in high private approval of her own + extraordinary cleverness. If she had been asked at that moment who was the + most brilliant Englishwoman living, she would have looked inward on + herself—and would have seen, as in a glass brightly, Lady Lundie, of + Windygates. + </p> + <p> + From the moment when the talk at her side entered on the subject of + Geoffrey Delamayn and Mrs. Glenarm—and throughout the brief period + during which it remained occupied with that topic—Blanche became + conscious of a strong smell of some spirituous liquor wafted down on her, + as she fancied, from behind and from above. Finding the odor grow stronger + and stronger, she looked round to see whether any special manufacture of + grog was proceeding inexplicably at the back of her chair. The moment she + moved her head, her attention was claimed by a pair of tremulous gouty old + hands, offering her a grouse pie, profusely sprinkled with truffles. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, my bonny Miss!” whispered a persuasive voice at her ear, “ye’re joost + stairving in a land o’ plenty. Tak’ my advice, and ye’ll tak’ the best + thing at tebble—groose-poy, and trufflers.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche looked up. + </p> + <p> + There he was—the man of the canny eye, the fatherly manner, and the + mighty nose—Bishopriggs—preserved in spirits and ministering + at the festival at Swanhaven Lodge! + </p> + <p> + Blanche had only seen him for a moment on the memorable night of the + storm, when she had surprised Anne at the inn. But instants passed in the + society of Bishopriggs were as good as hours spent in the company of + inferior men. Blanche instantly recognized him; instantly called to mind + Sir Patrick’s conviction that he was in possession of Anne’s lost letter; + instantly rushed to the conclusion that, in discovering Bishopriggs, she + had discovered a chance of tracing Anne. Her first impulse was to claim + acquaintance with him on the spot. But the eyes of her neighbors were on + her, warning her to wait. She took a little of the pie, and looked hard at + Bishopriggs. That discreet man, showing no sign of recognition on his + side, bowed respectfully, and went on round the table. + </p> + <p> + “I wonder whether he has got the letter about him?” thought Blanche. + </p> + <p> + He had not only got the letter about him—but, more than that, he was + actually then on the look-out for the means of turning the letter to + profitable pecuniary account. + </p> + <p> + The domestic establishment of Swanhaven Lodge included no formidable array + of servants. When Mrs. Delamayn gave a large party, she depended for such + additional assistance as was needed partly on the contributions of her + friends, partly on the resources of the principal inn at Kirkandrew. Mr. + Bishopriggs, serving at the time (in the absence of any better employment) + as a supernumerary at the inn, made one among the waiters who could be + spared to assist at the garden-party. The name of the gentleman by whom he + was to be employed for the day had struck him, when he first heard it, as + having a familiar sound. He had made his inquiries; and had then betaken + himself for additional information, to the letter which he had picked up + from the parlor floor at Craig Fernie. + </p> + <p> + The sheet of note-paper, lost by Anne, contained, it may be remembered, + two letters—one signed by herself; the other signed by Geoffrey—and + both suggestive, to a stranger’s eye, of relations between the writers + which they were interested in concealing from the public view. + </p> + <p> + Thinking it just possible—if he kept his eyes and ears well open at + Swanhaven—that he might improve his prospect of making a marketable + commodity of the stolen correspondence, Mr. Bishopriggs had put the letter + in his pocket when he left Kirkandrew. He had recognized Blanche, as a + friend of the lady at the inn—and as a person who might perhaps be + turned to account, in that capacity. And he had, moreover, heard every + word of the conversation between Lady Lundie and Mrs. Delamayn on the + subject of Geoffrey and Mrs. Glenarm. There were hours to be passed before + the guests would retire, and before the waiters would be dismissed. The + conviction was strong in the mind of Mr. Bishopriggs that he might find + good reason yet for congratulating himself on the chance which had + associated him with the festivities at Swanhaven Lodge. + </p> + <p> + It was still early in the afternoon when the gayety at the dinner-table + began, in certain quarters, to show signs of wearing out. + </p> + <p> + The younger members of the party—especially the ladies—grew + restless with the appearance of the dessert. One after another they looked + longingly at the smooth level of elastic turf in the middle of the glade. + One after another they beat time absently with their fingers to the waltz + which the musicians happened to be playing at the moment. Noticing these + symptoms, Mrs. Delamayn set the example of rising; and her husband sent a + message to the band. In ten minutes more the first quadrille was in + progress on the grass; the spectators were picturesquely grouped round, + looking on; and the servants and waiters, no longer wanted, had retired + out of sight, to a picnic of their own. + </p> + <p> + The last person to leave the deserted tables was the venerable + Bishopriggs. He alone, of the men in attendance, had contrived to combine + a sufficient appearance of waiting on the company with a clandestine + attention to his own personal need of refreshment. Instead of hurrying + away to the servants’ dinner with the rest, he made the round of the + tables, apparently clearing away the crumbs—actually, emptying the + wine-glasses. Immersed in this occupation, he was startled by a lady’s + voice behind him, and, turning as quickly as he could, found himself face + to face with Miss Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “I want some cold water,” said Blanche. “Be so good as to get me some from + the spring.” + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the bubbling rivulet at the farther end of the glade. + </p> + <p> + Bishopriggs looked unaffectedly shocked. + </p> + <p> + “Lord’s sake, miss,” he exclaimed “d’ye relly mean to offend yer stomach + wi’ cauld water—when there’s wine to be had for the asking!” + </p> + <p> + Blanche gave him a look. Slowness of perception was not on the list of the + failings of Bishopriggs. He took up a tumbler, winked with his one + available eye, and led the way to the rivulet. There was nothing + remarkable in the spectacle of a young lady who wanted a glass of + spring-water, or of a waiter who was getting it for her. Nobody was + surprised; and (with the band playing) nobody could by any chance overhear + what might be said at the spring-side. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember me at the inn on the night of the storm?” asked Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Bishopriggs had his reasons (carefully inclosed in his pocketbook) for + not being too ready to commit himself with Blanche at starting. + </p> + <p> + “I’m no’ saying I canna remember ye, miss. Whar’s the man would mak’ sic + an answer as that to a bonny young leddy like you?” + </p> + <p> + By way of assisting his memory Blanche took out her purse. Bishopriggs + became absorbed in the scenery. He looked at the running water with the + eye of a man who thoroughly distrusted it, viewed as a beverage. + </p> + <p> + “There ye go,” he said, addressing himself to the rivulet, “bubblin’ to + yer ain annihilation in the loch yonder! It’s little I know that’s gude + aboot ye, in yer unconvairted state. Ye’re a type o’ human life, they say. + I tak’ up my testimony against <i>that.</i> Ye’re a type o’ naething at + all till ye’re heated wi’ fire, and sweetened wi’ sugar, and strengthened + wi’ whusky; and then ye’re a type o’ toddy—and human life (I grant + it) has got something to say to ye in that capacity!” + </p> + <p> + “I have heard more about you, since I was at the inn,” proceeded Blanche, + “than you may suppose.” (She opened her purse: Mr. Bishopriggs became the + picture of attention.) “You were very, very kind to a lady who was staying + at Craig Fernie,” she went on, earnestly. “I know that you have lost your + place at the inn, because you gave all your attention to that lady. She is + my dearest friend, Mr. Bishopriggs. I want to thank you. I do thank you. + Please accept what I have got here?” + </p> + <p> + All the girl’s heart was in her eyes and in her voice as she emptied her + purse into the gouty (and greedy) old hand of Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + A young lady with a well-filled purse (no matter how rich the young lady + may be) is a combination not often witnessed in any country on the + civilized earth. Either the money is always spent, or the money has been + forgotten on the toilet-table at home. Blanche’s purse contained a + sovereign and some six or seven shillings in silver. As pocket-money for + an heiress it was contemptible. But as a gratuity to Bishopriggs it was + magnificent. The old rascal put the money into his pocket with one hand, + and dashed away the tears of sensibility, which he had <i>not</i> shed, + with the other. + </p> + <p> + “Cast yer bread on the waters,” cried Mr. Bishopriggs, with his one eye + raised devotionally to the sky, “and ye sall find it again after monny + days! Heeh! hech! didna I say when I first set eyes on that puir leddy, ‘I + feel like a fether to ye?’ It’s seemply mairvelous to see hoo a man’s ain + gude deeds find him oot in this lower warld o’ ours. If ever I heard the + voice o’ naitural affection speaking in my ain breast,” pursued Mr. + Bishopriggs, with his eye fixed in uneasy expectation on Blanche, “it + joost spak’ trumpet-tongued when that winsome creature first lookit at me. + Will it be she now that told ye of the wee bit sairvice I rendered to her + in the time when I was in bondage at the hottle?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—she told me herself.” + </p> + <p> + “Might I mak’ sae bauld as to ask whar’ she may be at the present time?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know, Mr. Bishopriggs. I am more miserable about it than I can + say. She has gone away—and I don’t know where.” + </p> + <p> + “Ow! ow! that’s bad. And the bit husband-creature danglin’ at her + petticoat’s tail one day, and awa’ wi’ the sunrise next mornin’—have + they baith taken leg-bail together?” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing of him; I never saw him. You saw him. Tell me—what + was he like?” + </p> + <p> + “Eh! he was joost a puir weak creature. Didn’t know a glass o’ good + sherry-wine when he’d got it. Free wi’ the siller—that’s a’ ye can + say for him—free wi’ the siller!” + </p> + <p> + Finding it impossible to extract from Mr. Bishopriggs any clearer + description of the man who had been with Anne at the inn than this, + Blanche approached the main object of the interview. Too anxious to waste + time in circumlocution, she turned the conversation at once to the + delicate and doubtful subject of the lost letter. + </p> + <p> + “There is something else that I want to say to you,” she resumed. “My + friend had a loss while she was staying at the inn.” + </p> + <p> + The clouds of doubt rolled off the mind of Mr. Bishopriggs. The lady’s + friend knew of the lost letter. And, better still, the lady’s friend + looked as if she wanted it! + </p> + <p> + “Ay! ay!” he said, with all due appearance of carelessness. “Like eneugh. + From the mistress downward, they’re a’ kittle cattle at the inn since I’ve + left ‘em. What may it ha’ been that she lost?” + </p> + <p> + “She lost a letter.” + </p> + <p> + The look of uneasy expectation reappeared in the eye of Mr. Bishopriggs. + It was a question—and a serious question, from his point of view—whether + any suspicion of theft was attached to the disappearance of the letter. + </p> + <p> + “When ye say ‘lost,’” he asked, “d’ye mean stolen?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche was quite quick enough to see the necessity of quieting his mind + on this point. + </p> + <p> + “Oh no!” she answered. “Not stolen. Only lost. Did you hear about it?” + </p> + <p> + “Wherefore suld <i>I</i> ha’ heard aboot it?” He looked hard at Blanche—and + detected a momentary hesitation in her face. “Tell me this, my young + leddy,” he went on, advancing warily near to the point. “When ye’re + speering for news o’ your friend’s lost letter—what sets ye on + comin’ to <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + Those words were decisive. It is hardly too much to say that Blanche’s + future depended on Blanche’s answer to that question. + </p> + <p> + If she could have produced the money; and if she had said, boldly, “You + have got the letter, Mr. Bishopriggs: I pledge my word that no questions + shall be asked, and I offer you ten pounds for it”—in all + probability the bargain would have been struck; and the whole course of + coming events would, in that case, have been altered. But she had no money + left; and there were no friends, in the circle at Swanhaven, to whom she + could apply, without being misinterpreted, for a loan of ten pounds, to be + privately intrusted to her on the spot. Under stress of sheer necessity + Blanche abandoned all hope of making any present appeal of a pecuniary + nature to the confidence of Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + The one other way of attaining her object that she could see was to arm + herself with the influence of Sir Patrick’s name. A man, placed in her + position, would have thought it mere madness to venture on such a risk as + this. But Blanche—with one act of rashness already on her conscience—rushed, + woman-like, straight to the commission of another. The same headlong + eagerness to reach her end, which had hurried her into questioning + Geoffrey before he left Windygates, now drove her, just as recklessly, + into taking the management of Bishopriggs out of Sir Patrick’s skilled and + practiced hands. The starving sisterly love in her hungered for a trace of + Anne. Her heart whispered, Risk it! And Blanche risked it on the spot. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick set me on coming to you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The opening hand of Mr. Bishopriggs—ready to deliver the letter, and + receive the reward—closed again instantly as she spoke those words. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Paitrick?” he repeated “Ow! ow! ye’ve een tauld Sir Paitrick aboot + it, have ye? There’s a chiel wi’ a lang head on his shouthers, if ever + there was ane yet! What might Sir Paitrick ha’ said?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche noticed a change in his tone. Blanche was rigidly careful (when it + was too late) to answer him in guarded terms. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick thought you might have found the letter,” she said, “and + might not have remembered about it again until after you had left the + inn.” + </p> + <p> + Bishopriggs looked back into his own personal experience of his old master—and + drew the correct conclusion that Sir Patrick’s view of his connection with + the disappearance of the letter was not the purely unsuspicious view + reported by Blanche. “The dour auld deevil,” he thought to himself, “knows + me better than <i>that!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” asked Blanche, impatiently. “Is Sir Patrick right?” + </p> + <p> + “Richt?” rejoined Bishopriggs, briskly. “He’s as far awa’ from the truth + as John o’ Groat’s House is from Jericho.” + </p> + <p> + “You know nothing of the letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Deil a bit I know o’ the letter. The first I ha’ heard o’ it is what I + hear noo.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s heart sank within her. Had she defeated her own object, and cut + the ground from under Sir Patrick’s feet, for the second time? Surely not! + There was unquestionably a chance, on this occasion, that the man might be + prevailed upon to place the trust in her uncle which he was too cautious + to confide to a stranger like herself. The one wise thing to do now was to + pave the way for the exertion of Sir Patrick’s superior influence, and Sir + Patrick’s superior skill. She resumed the conversation with that object in + view. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to hear that Sir Patrick has guessed wrong,” she resumed. “My + friend was anxious to recover the letter when I last saw her; and I hoped + to hear news of it from you. However, right or wrong, Sir Patrick has some + reasons for wishing to see you—and I take the opportunity of telling + you so. He has left a letter to wait for you at the Craig Fernie inn.” + </p> + <p> + “I’m thinking the letter will ha’ lang eneugh to wait, if it waits till I + gae back for it to the hottle,” remarked Bishopriggs. + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” said Blanche, promptly, “you had better give me an address + at which Sir Patrick can write to you. You wouldn’t, I suppose, wish me to + say that I had seen you here, and that you refused to communicate with + him?” + </p> + <p> + “Never think it!” cried Bishopriggs, fervently. “If there’s ain thing mair + than anither that I’m carefu’ to presairve intact, it’s joost the + respectful attention that I owe to Sir Paitrick. I’ll make sae bauld, + miss, au to chairge ye wi’ that bit caird. I’m no’ settled in ony place + yet (mair’s the pity at my time o’ life!), but Sir Paitrick may hear o’ + me, when Sir Paitrick has need o’ me, there.” He handed a dirty little + card to Blanche containing the name and address of a butcher in Edinburgh. + “Sawmuel Bishopriggs,” he went on, glibly. “Care o’ Davie Dow, flesher; + Cowgate; Embro. My Patmos in the weelderness, miss, for the time being.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche received the address with a sense of unspeakable relief. If she + had once more ventured on taking Sir Patrick’s place, and once more failed + in justifying her rashness by the results, she had at least gained some + atoning advantage, this time, by opening a means of communication between + her uncle and Bishopriggs. “You will hear from Sir Patrick,” she said, and + nodded kindly, and returned to her place among the guests. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll hear from Sir Paitrick, wull I?” repeated Bishopriggs when he was + left by himself. “Sir Paitrick will wark naething less than a meeracle if + he finds Sawmuel Bishopriggs at the Cowgate, Embro!” + </p> + <p> + He laughed softly over his own cleverness; and withdrew to a lonely place + in the plantation, in which he could consult the stolen correspondence + without fear of being observed by any living creature. Once more the truth + had tried to struggle into light, before the day of the marriage, and once + more Blanche had innocently helped the darkness to keep it from view. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0033" id="link2HCH0033"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD. + </h2> + <h3> + SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (THIRD SOWING). + </h3> + <p> + AFTER a new and attentive reading of Anne’s letter to Geoffrey, and of + Geoffrey’s letter to Anne, Bishopriggs laid down comfortably under a tree, + and set himself the task of seeing his position plainly as it was at that + moment. + </p> + <p> + The profitable disposal of the correspondence to Blanche was no longer + among the possibilities involved in the case. As for treating with Sir + Patrick, Bishopriggs determined to keep equally dear of the Cowgate, + Edinburgh, and of Mrs. Inchbare’s inn, so long as there was the faintest + chance of his pushing his own interests in any other quarter. No person + living would be capable of so certainly extracting the correspondence from + him, on such ruinously cheap terms as his old master. “I’ll no’ put myself + under Sir Paitrick’s thumb,” thought Bishopriggs, “till I’ve gane my ain + rounds among the lave o’ them first.” + </p> + <p> + Rendered into intelligible English, this resolution pledged him to hold no + communication with Sir Patrick—until he had first tested his success + in negotiating with other persons, who might be equally interested in + getting possession of the correspondence, and more liberal in giving + hush-money to the thief who had stolen it. + </p> + <p> + Who were the “other persons” at his disposal, under these circumstances? + </p> + <p> + He had only to recall the conversation which he had overheard between Lady + Lundie and Mrs. Delamayn to arrive at the discovery of one person, to + begin with, who was directly interested in getting possession of his own + letter. Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn was in a fair way of being married to a lady + named Mrs. Glenarm. And here was this same Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn in + matrimonial correspondence, little more than a fortnight since, with + another lady—who signed herself “Anne Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + Whatever his position between the two women might be, his interest in + possessing himself of the correspondence was plain beyond all doubt. It + was equally clear that the first thing to be done by Bishopriggs was to + find the means of obtaining a personal interview with him. If the + interview led to nothing else, it would decide one important question + which still remained to be solved. The lady whom Bishopriggs had waited on + at Craig Fernie might well be “Anne Silvester.” Was Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn, + in that case, the gentleman who had passed as her husband at the inn? + </p> + <p> + Bishopriggs rose to his gouty feet with all possible alacrity, and hobbled + away to make the necessary inquiries, addressing himself, not to the + men-servants at the dinner-table, who would be sure to insist on his + joining them, but to the women-servants left in charge of the empty house. + </p> + <p> + He easily obtained the necessary directions for finding the cottage. But + he was warned that Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn’s trainer allowed nobody to see + his patron at exercise, and that he would certainly be ordered off again + the moment he appeared on the scene. + </p> + <p> + Bearing this caution in mind, Bishopriggs made a circuit, on reaching the + open ground, so as to approach the cottage at the back, under shelter of + the trees behind it. One look at Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn was all that he + wanted in the first instance. They were welcome to order him off again, as + long as he obtained that. + </p> + <p> + He was still hesitating at the outer line of the trees, when he heard a + loud, imperative voice, calling from the front of the cottage, “Now, Mr. + Geoffrey! Time’s up!” Another voice answered, “All right!” and, after an + interval, Geoffrey Delamayn appeared on the open ground, proceeding to the + point from which he was accustomed to walk his measured mile. + </p> + <p> + Advancing a few steps to look at his man more closely, Bishopriggs was + instantly detected by the quick eye of the trainer. “Hullo!” cried Perry, + “what do you want here?” Bishopriggs opened his lips to make an excuse. + “Who the devil are you?” roared Geoffrey. The trainer answered the + question out of the resources of his own experience. “A spy, Sir—sent + to time you at your work.” Geoffrey lifted his mighty fist, and sprang + forward a step. Perry held his patron back. “You can’t do that, Sir,” he + said; “the man’s too old. No fear of his turning up again—you’ve + scared him out of his wits.” The statement was strictly true. The terror + of Bishopriggs at the sight of Geoffrey’s fist restored to him the + activity of his youth. He ran for the first time for twenty years; and + only stopped to remember his infirmities, and to catch his breath, when he + was out of sight of the cottage, among the trees. + </p> + <p> + He sat down to rest and recover himself, with the comforting inner + conviction that, in one respect at least, he had gained his point. The + furious savage, with the eyes that darted fire and the fist that + threatened destruction, was a total stranger to him. In other words, <i>not</i> + the man who had passed as the lady’s husband at the inn. + </p> + <p> + At the same time it was equally certain that he <i>was</i> the man + involved in the compromising correspondence which Bishopriggs possessed. + To appeal, however, to his interest in obtaining the letter was entirely + incompatible (after the recent exhibition of his fist) with the strong + regard which Bishopriggs felt for his own personal security. There was no + alternative now but to open negotiations with the one other person + concerned in the matter (fortunately, on this occasion, a person of the + gentler sex), who was actually within reach. Mrs. Glenarm was at + Swanhaven. She had a direct interest in clearing up the question of a + prior claim to Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn on the part of another woman. And she + could only do that by getting the correspondence into her own hands. + </p> + <p> + “Praise Providence for a’ its mercies!” said Bishopriggs, getting on his + feet again. “I’ve got twa strings, as they say, to my boo. I trow the + woman’s the canny string o’ the twa—and we’ll een try the twanging + of her.” + </p> + <p> + He set forth on his road back again, to search among the company at the + lake for Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + The dance had reached its climax of animation when Bishopriggs reappeared + on the scene of his duties; and the ranks of the company had been + recruited, in his absence, by the very person whom it was now his foremost + object to approach. + </p> + <p> + Receiving, with supple submission, a reprimand for his prolonged absence + from the chief of the servants, Bishopriggs—keeping his one + observant eye carefully on the look-out—busied himself in promoting + the circulation of ices and cool drinks. + </p> + <p> + While he was thus occupied, his attention was attracted by two persons + who, in very different ways, stood out prominently as marked characters + among the rank and file of the guests. + </p> + <p> + The first person was a vivacious, irascible old gentleman, who persisted + in treating the undeniable fact of his age on the footing of a scandalous + false report set afloat by Time. He was superbly strapped and padded. His + hair, his teeth, and his complexion were triumphs of artificial youth. + When he was not occupied among the youngest women present—which was + very seldom—he attached himself exclusively to the youngest men. He + insisted on joining every dance. Twice he measured his length upon the + grass, but nothing daunted him. He was waltzing again, with another young + woman, at the next dance, as if nothing had happened. Inquiring who this + effervescent old gentleman might be, Bishopriggs discovered that he was a + retired officer in the navy; commonly known (among his inferiors) as “The + Tartar;” more formally described in society as Captain Newenden, the last + male representative of one of the oldest families in England. + </p> + <p> + The second person, who appeared to occupy a position of distinction at the + dance in the glade, was a lady. + </p> + <p> + To the eye of Bishopriggs, she was a miracle of beauty, with a small + fortune for a poor man carried about her in silk, lace, and jewelry. No + woman present was the object of such special attention among the men as + this fascinating and priceless creature. She sat fanning herself with a + matchless work of art (supposed to be a handkerchief) representing an + island of cambric in the midst of an ocean of lace. She was surrounded by + a little court of admirers, who fetched and carried at her slightest nod, + like well-trained dogs. Sometimes they brought refreshments, which she had + asked for, only to decline taking them when they came. Sometimes they + brought information of what was going on among the dancers, which the lady + had been eager to receive when they went away, and in which she had ceased + to feel the smallest interest when they came back. Every body burst into + ejaculations of distress when she was asked to account for her absence + from the dinner, and answered, “My poor nerves.” Every body said, “What + should we have done without you!”—when she doubted if she had done + wisely in joining the party at all. Inquiring who this favored lady might + be, Bishopriggs discovered that she was the niece of the indomitable old + gentleman who <i>would</i> dance—or, more plainly still, no less a + person than his contemplated customer, Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + With all his enormous assurance Bishopriggs was daunted when he found + himself facing the question of what he was to do next. + </p> + <p> + To open negotiations with Mrs. Glenarm, under present circumstances, was, + for a man in his position, simply impossible. But, apart from this, the + prospect of profitably addressing himself to that lady in the future was, + to say the least of it, beset with difficulties of no common kind. + </p> + <p> + Supposing the means of disclosing Geoffrey’s position to her to be found—what + would she do, when she received her warning? She would in all probability + apply to one of two formidable men, both of whom were interested in the + matter. If she went straight to the man accused of attempting to marry + her, at a time when he was already engaged to another woman—Bishopriggs + would find himself confronted with the owner of that terrible fist, which + had justly terrified him even on a distant and cursory view. If, on the + other hand she placed her interests in the care of her uncle—Bishopriggs + had only to look at the captain, and to calculate his chance of imposing + terms on a man who owed Life a bill of more than sixty years’ date, and + who openly defied time to recover the debt. + </p> + <p> + With these serious obstacles standing in the way, what was to be done? The + only alternative left was to approach Mrs. Glenarm under shelter of the + dark. + </p> + <p> + Reaching this conclusion, Bishopriggs decided to ascertain from the + servants what the lady’s future movements might be; and, thus informed, to + startle her by anonymous warnings, conveyed through the post, and claiming + their answer through the advertising channel of a newspaper. Here was the + certainty of alarming her, coupled with the certainty of safety to + himself! Little did Mrs. Glenarm dream, when she capriciously stopped a + servant going by with some glasses of lemonade, that the wretched old + creature who offered the tray contemplated corresponding with her before + the week was out, in the double character of her “Well-Wisher” and her + “True Friend.” + </p> + <p> + The evening advanced. The shadows lengthened. The waters of the lake grew + pitchy black. The gliding of the ghostly swans became rare and more rare. + The elders of the party thought of the drive home. The juniors (excepting + Captain Newenden) began to flag at the dance. Little by little the + comfortable attractions of the house—tea, coffee, and candle-light + in snug rooms—resumed their influence. The guests abandoned the + glade; and the fingers and lungs of the musicians rested at last. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie and her party were the first to send for the carriage and say + farewell; the break-up of the household at Windygates on the next day, and + the journey south, being sufficient apologies for setting the example of + retreat. In an hour more the only visitors left were the guests staying at + Swanhaven Lodge. + </p> + <p> + The company gone, the hired waiters from Kirkandrew were paid and + dismissed. + </p> + <p> + On the journey back the silence of Bishopriggs created some surprise among + his comrades. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got my ain concerns to think of,” was the only answer he vouchsafed + to the remonstrances addressed to him. The “concerns” alluded to, + comprehended, among other changes of plan, his departure from Kirkandrew + the next day—with a reference, in case of inquiries, to his + convenient friend at the Cowgate, Edinburgh. His actual destination—to + be kept a secret from every body—was Perth. The neighborhood of this + town—as stated on the authority of her own maid—was the part + of Scotland to which the rich widow contemplated removing when she left + Swanhaven in two days’ time. At Perth, Bishopriggs knew of more than one + place in which he could get temporary employment—and at Perth he + determined to make his first anonymous advances to Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + The remainder of the evening passed quietly enough at the Lodge. + </p> + <p> + The guests were sleepy and dull after the excitement of the day. Mrs. + Glenarm retired early. At eleven o’clock Julius Delamayn was the only + person left up in the house. He was understood to be in his study, + preparing an address to the electors, based on instructions sent from + London by his father. He was actually occupied in the music-room—now + that there was nobody to discover him—playing exercises softly on + his beloved violin. + </p> + <p> + At the trainer’s cottage a trifling incident occured, that night, which + afforded materials for a note in Perry’s professional diary. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey had sustained the later trial of walking for a given time and + distance, at his full speed, without showing any of those symptoms of + exhaustion which had followed the more serious experiment of running, to + which he had been subjected earlier in the day. Perry, honestly bent—though + he had privately hedged his own bets—on doing his best to bring his + man in good order to the post on the day of the race, had forbidden + Geoffrey to pay his evening visit to the house, and had sent him to bed + earlier than usual. The trainer was alone, looking over his own written + rules, and considering what modifications he should introduce into the + diet and exercises of the next day, when he was startled by a sound of + groaning from the bedroom in which his patron lay asleep. + </p> + <p> + He went in, and found Geoffrey rolling to and fro on the pillow, with his + face contorted, with his hands clenched, and with the perspiration + standing thick on his forehead—suffering evidently under the nervous + oppression produced by the phantom-terrors of a dream. + </p> + <p> + Perry spoke to him, and pulled him up in the bed. He woke with a scream. + He stared at his trainer in vacant terror, and spoke to his trainer in + wild words. “What are your horrid eyes looking at over my shoulder?” he + cried out. “Go to the devil—and take your infernal slate with you!” + Perry spoke to him once more. “You’ve been dreaming of somebody, Mr. + Delamayn. What’s to do about a slate?” Geoffrey looked eagerly round the + room, and heaved a heavy breath of relief. “I could have sworn she was + staring at me over the dwarf pear-trees,” he said. “All right, I know + where I am now.” Perry (attributing the dream to nothing more important + than a passing indigestion) administered some brandy and water, and left + him to drop off again to sleep. He fretfully forbade the extinguishing of + the light. “Afraid of the dark?” said Perry, with a laugh. No. He was + afraid of dreaming again of the dumb cook at Windygates House. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0044" id="link2H_4_0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SEVENTH SCENE.—HAM FARM. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0034" id="link2HCH0034"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE NIGHT BEFORE. + </h3> + <p> + THE time was the night before the marriage. The place was Sir Patrick’s + house in Kent. + </p> + <p> + The lawyers had kept their word. The settlements had been forwarded, and + had been signed two days since. + </p> + <p> + With the exception of the surgeon and one of the three young gentlemen + from the University, who had engagements elsewhere, the visitors at + Windygates had emigrated southward to be present at the marriage. Besides + these gentlemen, there were some ladies among the guests invited by Sir + Patrick—all of them family connections, and three of them appointed + to the position of Blanche’s bridesmaids. Add one or two neighbors to be + invited to the breakfast—and the wedding-party would be complete. + </p> + <p> + There was nothing architecturally remarkable about Sir Patrick’s house. + Ham Farm possessed neither the splendor of Windygates nor the picturesque + antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was a perfectly commonplace + English country seat, surrounded by perfectly commonplace English scenery. + Snug monotony welcomed you when you went in, and snug monotony met you + again when you turned to the window and looked out. + </p> + <p> + The animation and variety wanting at Ham Farm were far from being supplied + by the company in the house. It was remembered, at an after-period, that a + duller wedding-party had never been assembled together. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick, having no early associations with the place, openly admitted + that his residence in Kent preyed on his spirits, and that he would have + infinitely preferred a room at the inn in the village. The effort to + sustain his customary vivacity was not encouraged by persons and + circumstances about him. Lady Lundie’s fidelity to the memory of the late + Sir Thomas, on the scene of his last illness and death, persisted in + asserting itself, under an ostentation of concealment which tried even the + trained temper of Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed by her + private anxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to look gayly at + the last memorable days of her maiden life. Arnold, sacrificed—by + express stipulation on the part of Lady Lundie—to the prurient + delicacy which forbids the bridegroom, before marriage, to sleep in the + same house with the bride, found himself ruthlessly shut out from Sir + Patrick’s hospitality, and exiled every night to a bedroom at the inn. He + accepted his solitary doom with a resignation which extended its sobering + influence to his customary flow of spirits. As for the ladies, the elder + among them existed in a state of chronic protest against Lady Lundie, and + the younger were absorbed in the essentially serious occupation of + considering and comparing their wedding-dresses. The two young gentlemen + from the University performed prodigies of yawning, in the intervals of + prodigies of billiard playing. Smith said, in despair, “There’s no making + things pleasant in this house, Jones.” And Jones sighed, and mildly agreed + with him. + </p> + <p> + On the Sunday evening—which was the evening before the marriage—the + dullness, as a matter of course, reached its climax. + </p> + <p> + But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on week days are + regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinately anti-Christian tone of + feeling which prevails in this matter among the Anglo-Saxon race. It is + not sinful to wrangle in religious controversy; and it is not sinful to + slumber over a religious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the pious + observance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sex wrangled in + Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sex slumbered over Sunday + books. As for the men, it is unnecessary to say that the young ones smoked + when they were not yawning, and yawned when they were not smoking. Sir + Patrick staid in the library, sorting old letters and examining old + accounts. Every person in the house felt the oppression of the senseless + social prohibitions which they had imposed on themselves. And yet every + person in the house would have been scandalized if the plain question had + been put: You know this is a tyranny of your own making, you know you + don’t really believe in it, you know you don’t really like it—why do + you submit? The freest people on the civilized earth are the only people + on the civilized earth who dare not face that question. + </p> + <p> + The evening dragged its slow length on; the welcome time drew nearer and + nearer for oblivion in bed. Arnold was silently contemplating, for the + last time, his customary prospects of banishment to the inn, when he + became aware that Sir Patrick was making signs to him. He rose and + followed his host into the empty dining-room. Sir Patrick carefully closed + the door. What did it mean? + </p> + <p> + It meant—so far as Arnold was concerned—that a private + conversation was about to diversify the monotony of the long Sunday + evening at Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + “I have a word to say to you, Arnold,” the old gentleman began, “before + you become a married man. Do you remember the conversation at dinner + yesterday, about the dancing-party at Swanhaven Lodge?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember what Lady Lundie said while the topic was on the table?” + </p> + <p> + “She told me, what I can’t believe, that Geoffrey Delamayn was going to be + married to Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + “Exactly! I observed that you appeared to be startled by what my + sister-in-law had said; and when you declared that appearances must + certainly have misled her, you looked and spoke (to my mind) like a man + animated by a strong feeling of indignation. Was I wrong in drawing that + conclusion?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir Patrick. You were right.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you any objection to tell me why you felt indignant?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “You are probably at a loss to know what interest <i>I</i> can feel in the + matter?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold admitted it with his customary frankness. + </p> + <p> + “In that case,” rejoined Sir Patrick, “I had better go on at once with the + matter in hand—leaving you to see for yourself the connection + between what I am about to say, and the question that I have just put. + When I have done, you shall then reply to me or not, exactly as you think + right. My dear boy, the subject on which I want to speak to you is—Miss + Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started. Sir Patrick looked at him with a moment’s attention, and + went on: + </p> + <p> + “My niece has her faults of temper and her failings of judgment,” he said. + “But she has one atoning quality (among many others) which ought to make—and + which I believe will make—the happiness of your married life. In the + popular phrase, Blanche is as true as steel. Once her friend, always her + friend. Do you see what I am coming to? She has said nothing about it, + Arnold; but she has not yielded one inch in her resolution to reunite + herself to Miss Silvester. One of the first questions you will have to + determine, after to-morrow, will be the question of whether you do, or + not, sanction your wife in attempting to communicate with her lost + friend.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold answered without the slightest reserve + </p> + <p> + “I am heartily sorry for Blanche’s lost friend, Sir Patrick. My wife will + have my full approval if she tries to bring Miss Silvester back—and + my best help too, if I can give it.” + </p> + <p> + Those words were earnestly spoken. It was plain that they came from his + heart. + </p> + <p> + “I think you are wrong,” said Sir Patrick. “I, too, am sorry for Miss + Silvester. But I am convinced that she has not left Blanche without a + serious reason for it. And I believe you will be encouraging your wife in + a hopeless effort, if you encourage her to persist in the search for her + lost friend. However, it is your affair, and not mine. Do you wish me to + offer you any facilities for tracing Miss Silvester which I may happen to + possess?” + </p> + <p> + “If you <i>can</i> help us over any obstacles at starting, Sir Patrick, it + will be a kindness to Blanche, and a kindness to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Very good. I suppose you remember what I said to you, one morning, when + we were talking of Miss Silvester at Windygates?” + </p> + <p> + “You said you had determined to let her go her own way.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right! On the evening of the day when I said that I received + information that Miss Silvester had been traced to Glasgow. You won’t + require me to explain why I never mentioned this to you or to Blanche. In + mentioning it now, I communicate to you the only positive information, on + the subject of the missing woman, which I possess. There are two other + chances of finding her (of a more speculative kind) which can only be + tested by inducing two men (both equally difficult to deal with) to + confess what they know. One of those two men is—a person named + Bishopriggs, formerly waiter at the Craig Fernie inn.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started, and changed color. Sir Patrick (silently noticing him) + stated the circumstances relating to Anne’s lost letter, and to the + conclusion in his own mind which pointed to Bishopriggs as the person in + possession of it. + </p> + <p> + “I have to add,” he proceeded, “that Blanche, unfortunately, found an + opportunity of speaking to Bishopriggs at Swanhaven. When she and Lady + Lundie joined us at Edinburgh she showed me privately a card which had + been given to her by Bishopriggs. He had described it as the address at + which he might be heard of—and Blanche entreated me, before we + started for London, to put the reference to the test. I told her that she + had committed a serious mistake in attempting to deal with Bishopriggs on + her own responsibility; and I warned her of the result in which I was + firmly persuaded the inquiry would end. She declined to believe that + Bishopriggs had deceived her. I saw that she would take the matter into + her own hands again unless I interfered; and I went to the place. Exactly + as I had anticipated, the person to whom the card referred me had not + heard of Bishopriggs for years, and knew nothing whatever about his + present movements. Blanche had simply put him on his guard, and shown him + the propriety of keeping out of the way. If you should ever meet with him + in the future—say nothing to your wife, and communicate with me. I + decline to assist you in searching for Miss Silvester; but I have no + objection to assist in recovering a stolen letter from a thief. So much + for Bishopriggs.—Now as to the other man.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “Your friend, Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold sprang to his feet in ungovernable surprise. + </p> + <p> + “I appear to astonish you,” remarked Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + Arnold sat down again, and waited, in speechless suspense, to hear what + was coming next. + </p> + <p> + “I have reason to know,” said Sir Patrick, “that Mr. Delamayn is + thoroughly well acquainted with the nature of Miss Silvester’s present + troubles. What his actual connection is with them, and how he came into + possession of his information, I have not found out. My discovery begins + and ends with the simple fact that he has the information.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask one question, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “How did you find out about Geoffrey Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “It would occupy a long time,” answered Sir Patrick, “to tell you how—and + it is not at all necessary to our purpose that you should know. My present + obligation merely binds me to tell you—in strict confidence, mind!—that + Miss Silvester’s secrets are no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I leave to your + discretion the use you may make of that information. You are now entirely + on a par with me in relation to your knowledge of the case of Miss + Silvester. Let us return to the question which I asked you when we first + came into the room. Do you see the connection, now, between that question, + and what I have said since?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running on Sir + Patrick’s discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted to Mrs. Inchb + are’s incomplete description of him for his own escape from detection, he + was wondering how it had happened that <i>he</i> had remained unsuspected, + while Geoffrey’s position had been (in part at least) revealed to view. + </p> + <p> + “I asked you,” resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, “why the mere + report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarm roused your + indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer. Do you hesitate + still?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of the report takes + its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr. Delamayn’s private + affairs, which the rest of us don’t possess.—Is that conclusion + correct?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite correct.” + </p> + <p> + “Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thing that you + know about Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question, Sir + Patrick’s suspicions would have been aroused, and Sir Patrick’s resolution + would have forced a full disclosure from him before he left the house. + </p> + <p> + It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-day was at + hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle into light. The dark + Phantoms of Trouble and Terror to come were waiting near them both at that + moment. Arnold hesitated again—hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick + paused for his answer. The clock in the hall struck the quarter to twelve. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t tell you!” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Is it a secret?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Committed to your honor?” + </p> + <p> + “Doubly committed to my honor.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me into his + confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence after that.” + </p> + <p> + “Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily in the face. + </p> + <p> + “I have felt an inveterate distrust of Mr. Delamayn from the first,” he + said. “Answer me this. Have you any reason to think—since we first + talked about your friend in the summer-house at Windygates—that my + opinion of him might have been the right one after all?” + </p> + <p> + “He has bitterly disappointed me,” answered Arnold. “I can say no more.” + </p> + <p> + “You have had very little experience of the world,” proceeded Sir Patrick. + “And you have just acknowledged that you have had reason to distrust your + experience of your friend. Are you quite sure that you are acting wisely + in keeping his secret from <i>me?</i> Are you quite sure that you will not + repent the course you are taking to-night?” He laid a marked emphasis on + those last words. “Think, Arnold,” he added, kindly. “Think before you + answer.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel bound in honor to keep his secret,” said Arnold. “No thinking can + alter that.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end. + </p> + <p> + “There is nothing more to be said.” With those words he gave Arnold his + hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished him good-night. + </p> + <p> + Going out into the hall, Arnold found Blanche alone, looking at the + barometer. + </p> + <p> + “The glass is at Set Fair, my darling,” he whispered. “Good-night for the + last time!” + </p> + <p> + He took her in his arms, and kissed her. At the moment when he released + her Blanche slipped a little note into his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Read it,” she whispered, “when you are alone at the inn.” + </p> + <p> + So they parted on the eve of their wedding day. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0035" id="link2HCH0035"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE DAY. + </h3> + <p> + THE promise of the weather-glass was fulfilled. The sun shone on Blanche’s + marriage. + </p> + <p> + At nine in the morning the first of the proceedings of the day began. It + was essentially of a clandestine nature. The bride and bridegroom evaded + the restraints of lawful authority, and presumed to meet together + privately, before they were married, in the conservatory at Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + “You have read my letter, Arnold?” + </p> + <p> + “I have come here to answer it, Blanche. But why not have told me? Why + write?” + </p> + <p> + “Because I put off telling you so long; and because I didn’t know how you + might take it; and for fifty other reasons. Never mind! I’ve made my + confession. I haven’t a single secret now which is not your secret too. + There’s time to say No, Arnold, if you think I ought to have no room in my + heart for any body but you. My uncle tells me I am obstinate and wrong in + refusing to give Anne up. If you agree with him, say the word, dear, + before you make me your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Shall I tell you what I said to Sir Patrick last night?” + </p> + <p> + “About <i>this?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The confession (as you call it) which you make in your pretty note, + is the very thing that Sir Patrick spoke to me about in the dining-room + before I went away. He told me your heart was set on finding Miss + Silvester. And he asked me what I meant to do about it when we were + married.” + </p> + <p> + “And you said—?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold repeated his answer to Sir Patrick, with fervid embellishments of + the original language, suitable to the emergency. Blanche’s delight + expressed itself in the form of two unblushing outrages on propriety, + committed in close succession. She threw her arms round Arnold’s neck; and + she actually kissed him three hours before the consent of State and Church + sanctioned her in taking that proceeding. Let us shudder—but let us + not blame her. These are the consequences of free institutions. + </p> + <p> + “Now,” said Arnold, “it’s my turn to take to pen and ink. I have a letter + to write before we are married as well as you. Only there’s this + difference between us—I want you to help me.” + </p> + <p> + “Who are you going to write to?” + </p> + <p> + “To my lawyer in Edinburgh. There will be no time unless I do it now. We + start for Switzerland this afternoon—don’t we?’ + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Very well. I want to relieve your mind, my darling before we go. Wouldn’t + you like to know—while we are away—that the right people are + on the look-out for Miss Silvester? Sir Patrick has told me of the last + place that she has been traced to—and my lawyer will set the right + people at work. Come and help me to put it in the proper language, and the + whole thing will be in train.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Arnold! can I ever love you enough to reward you for this!” + </p> + <p> + “We shall see, Blanche—in Switzerland.” + </p> + <p> + They audaciously penetrated, arm in arm, into Sir Patrick’s own study—entirely + at their disposal, as they well knew, at that hour of the morning. With + Sir Patrick’s pens and Sir Patrick’s paper they produced a letter of + instructions, deliberately reopening the investigation which Sir Patrick’s + superior wisdom had closed. Neither pains nor money were to be spared by + the lawyer in at once taking measures (beginning at Glasgow) to find Anne. + The report of the result was to be addressed to Arnold, under cover to Sir + Patrick at Ham Farm. By the time the letter was completed the morning had + advanced to ten o’clock. Blanche left Arnold to array herself in her + bridal splendor—after another outrage on propriety, and more + consequences of free institutions. + </p> + <p> + The next proceedings were of a public and avowable nature, and strictly + followed the customary precedents on such occasions. + </p> + <p> + Village nymphs strewed flowers on the path to the church door (and sent in + the bill the same day). Village swains rang the joy-bells (and got drunk + on their money the same evening). There was the proper and awful pause + while the bridegroom was kept waiting at the church. There was the proper + and pitiless staring of all the female spectators when the bride was led + to the altar. There was the clergyman’s preliminary look at the license—which + meant official caution. And there was the clerk’s preliminary look at the + bridegroom—which meant official fees. All the women appeared to be + in their natural element; and all the men appeared to be out of it. + </p> + <p> + Then the service began—rightly-considered, the most terrible, + surely, of all mortal ceremonies—the service which binds two human + beings, who know next to nothing of each other’s natures, to risk the + tremendous experiment of living together till death parts them—the + service which says, in effect if not in words, Take your leap in the dark: + we sanctify, but we don’t insure, it! + </p> + <p> + The ceremony went on, without the slightest obstacle to mar its effect. + There were no unforeseen interruptions. There were no ominous mistakes. + </p> + <p> + The last words were spoken, and the book was closed. They signed their + names on the register; the husband was congratulated; the wife was + embraced. They went back aga in to the house, with more flowers strewn at + their feet. The wedding-breakfast was hurried; the wedding-speeches were + curtailed: there was no time to be wasted, if the young couple were to + catch the tidal train. + </p> + <p> + In an hour more the carriage had whirled them away to the station, and the + guests had given them the farewell cheer from the steps of the house. + Young, happy, fondly attached to each other, raised securely above all the + sordid cares of life, what a golden future was theirs! Married with the + sanction of the Family and the blessing of the Church—who could + suppose that the time was coming, nevertheless, when the blighting + question would fall on them, in the spring-time of their love: Are you Man + and Wife? + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0036" id="link2HCH0036"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE TRUTH AT LAST. + </h3> + <p> + Two days after the marriage—on Wednesday, the ninth of September a + packet of letters, received at Windygates, was forwarded by Lady Lundie’s + steward to Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + With one exception, the letters were all addressed either to Sir Patrick + or to his sister-in-law. The one exception was directed to “Arnold + Brinkworth, Esq., care of Lady Lundie, Windygates House, Perthshire”—and + the envelope was specially protected by a seal. + </p> + <p> + Noticing that the post-mark was “Glasgow,” Sir Patrick (to whom the letter + had been delivered) looked with a certain distrust at the handwriting on + the address. It was not known to him—but it was obviously the + handwriting of a woman. Lady Lundie was sitting opposite to him at the + table. He said, carelessly, “A letter for Arnold”—and pushed it + across to her. Her ladyship took up the letter, and dropped it, the + instant she looked at the handwriting, as if it had burned her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “The Person again!” exclaimed Lady Lundie. “The Person, presuming to + address Arnold Brinkworth, at My house!” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester?” asked Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “No,” said her ladyship, shutting her teeth with a snap. “The Person may + insult me by addressing a letter to my care. But the Person’s name shall + not pollute my lips. Not even in your house, Sir Patrick. Not even to + please <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick was sufficiently answered. After all that had happened—after + her farewell letter to Blanche—here was Miss Silvester writing to + Blanche’s husband, of her own accord! It was unaccountable, to say the + least of it. He took the letter back, and looked at it again. Lady + Lundie’s steward was a methodical man. He had indorsed each letter + received at Windygates with the date of its delivery. The letter addressed + to Arnold had been delivered on Monday, the seventh of September—on + Arnold’s wedding day. + </p> + <p> + What did it mean? + </p> + <p> + It was pure waste of time to inquire. Sir Patrick rose to lock the letter + up in one of the drawers of the writing-table behind him. Lady Lundie + interfered (in the interest of morality). + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you consider it your duty to open that letter?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear lady! what can you possibly be thinking of?” + </p> + <p> + The most virtuous of living women had her answer ready on the spot. + </p> + <p> + “I am thinking,” said Lady Lundie, “of Arnold’s moral welfare.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick smiled. On the long list of those respectable disguises under + which we assert our own importance, or gratify our own love of meddling in + our neighbor’s affairs, a moral regard for the welfare of others figures + in the foremost place, and stands deservedly as number one. + </p> + <p> + “We shall probably hear from Arnold in a day or two,” said Sir Patrick, + locking the letter up in the drawer. “He shall have it as soon as I know + where to send it to him.” + </p> + <p> + The next morning brought news of the bride and bridegroom. + </p> + <p> + They reported themselves to be too supremely happy to care where they + lived, so long as they lived together. Every question but the question of + Love was left in the competent hands of their courier. This sensible and + trust-worthy man had decided that Paris was not to be thought of as a + place of residence by any sane human being in the month of September. He + had arranged that they were to leave for Baden—on their way to + Switzerland—on the tenth. Letters were accordingly to be addressed + to that place, until further notice. If the courier liked Baden, they + would probably stay there for some time. If the courier took a fancy for + the mountains, they would in that case go on to Switzerland. In the mean + while nothing mattered to Arnold but Blanche—and nothing mattered to + Blanche but Arnold. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick re-directed Anne Silvester’s letter to Arnold, at the Poste + Restante, Baden. A second letter, which had arrived that morning + (addressed to Arnold in a legal handwriting, and bearing the post-mark of + Edinburgh), was forwarded in the same way, and at the same time. + </p> + <p> + Two days later Ham Farm was deserted by the guests. Lady Lundie had gone + back to Windygates. The rest had separated in their different directions. + Sir Patrick, who also contemplated returning to Scotland, remained behind + for a week—a solitary prisoner in his own country house. Accumulated + arrears of business, with which it was impossible for his steward to deal + single-handed, obliged him to remain at his estates in Kent for that time. + To a man without a taste for partridge-shooting the ordeal was a trying + one. Sir Patrick got through the day with the help of his business and his + books. In the evening the rector of a neighboring parish drove over to + dinner, and engaged his host at the noble but obsolete game of Piquet. + They arranged to meet at each other’s houses on alternate days. The rector + was an admirable player; and Sir Patrick, though a born Presbyterian, + blessed the Church of England from the bottom of his heart. + </p> + <p> + Three more days passed. Business at Ham Farm began to draw to an end. The + time for Sir Patrick’s journey to Scotland came nearer. The two partners + at Piquet agreed to meet for a final game, on the next night, at the + rector’s house. But (let us take comfort in remembering it) our superiors + in Church and State are as completely at the mercy of circumstances as the + humblest and the poorest of us. That last game of Piquet between the + baronet and the parson was never to be played. + </p> + <p> + On the afternoon of the fourth day Sir Patrick came in from a drive, and + found a letter from Arnold waiting for him, which had been delivered by + the second post. + </p> + <p> + Judged by externals only, it was a letter of an unusually perplexing—possibly + also of an unusually interesting—kind. Arnold was one of the last + persons in the world whom any of his friends would have suspected of being + a lengthy correspondent. Here, nevertheless, was a letter from him, of + three times the customary bulk and weight—and, apparently, of more + than common importance, in the matter of news, besides. At the top the + envelope was marked “<i>Immediate.</i>.” And at one side (also underlined) + was the ominous word, “<i>Private.</i>.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing wrong, I hope?” thought Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + He opened the envelope. + </p> + <p> + Two inclosures fell out on the table. He looked at them for a moment. They + were the two letters which he had forwarded to Baden. The third letter + remaining in his hand and occupying a double sheet, was from Arnold + himself. Sir Patrick read Arnold’s letter first. It was dated “Baden,” and + it began as follows: + </p> + <p> + “My Dear Sir Patrick,—Don’t be alarmed, if you can possibly help it. + I am in a terrible mess.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked up for a moment from the letter. Given a young man who + dates from “Baden,” and declares himself to be in “a terrible mess,” as + representing the circumstances of the case—what is the + interpretation to be placed on them? Sir Patrick drew the inevitable + conclusion. Arnold had been gambling. + </p> + <p> + He shook his head, and went on with the letter. + </p> + <p> + “I must say, dreadful as it is, that I am not to blame—nor she + either, poor thing.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick paused again. “She?” Blanche had apparently been gambling too? + Nothing was wanting to complete the picture but an announcement in the + next sentence, presenting the courier as carried away, in his turn, by the + insatiate passion for play. Sir Patrick resumed: + </p> + <p> + “You can not, I am sure, expect <i>me</i> to have known the law. And as + for poor Miss Silvester—” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester?” What had Miss Silvester to do with it? And what could be + the meaning of the reference to “the law?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick had re ad the letter, thus far, standing up. A vague distrust + stole over him at the appearance of Miss Silvester’s name in connection + with the lines which had preceded it. He felt nothing approaching to a + clear prevision of what was to come. Some indescribable influence was at + work in him, which shook his nerves, and made him feel the infirmities of + his age (as it seemed) on a sudden. It went no further than that. He was + obliged to sit down: he was obliged to wait a moment before he went on. + </p> + <p> + The letter proceeded, in these words: + </p> + <p> + “And, as for poor Miss Silvester, though she felt, as she reminds me, some + misgivings—still, she never could have foreseen, being no lawyer + either, how it was to end. I hardly know the best way to break it to you. + I can’t, and won’t, believe it myself. But even if it should be true, I am + quite sure you will find a way out of it for us. I will stick at nothing, + and Miss Silvester (as you will see by her letter) will stick at nothing + either, to set things right. Of course, I have not said one word to my + darling Blanche, who is quite happy, and suspects nothing. All this, dear + Sir Patrick, is very badly written, I am afraid, but it is meant to + prepare you, and to put the best side on matters at starting. However, the + truth must be told—and shame on the Scotch law is what <i>I</i> say. + This it is, in short: Geoffrey Delamayn is even a greater scoundrel than + you think him; and I bitterly repent (as things have turned out) having + held my tongue that night when you and I had our private talk at Ham Farm. + You will think I am mixing two things up together. But I am not. Please to + keep this about Geoffrey in your mind, and piece it together with what I + have next to say. The worst is still to come. Miss Silvester’s letter + (inclosed) tells me this terrible thing. You must know that I went to her + privately, as Geoffrey’s messenger, on the day of the lawn-party at + Windygates. Well—how it could have happened, Heaven only knows—but + there is reason to fear that I married her, without being aware of it + myself, in August last, at the Craig Fernie inn.” + </p> + <p> + The letter dropped from Sir Patrick’s hand. He sank back in the chair, + stunned for the moment, under the shock that had fallen on him. + </p> + <p> + He rallied, and rose bewildered to his feet. He took a turn in the room. + He stopped, and summoned his will, and steadied himself by main force. He + picked up the letter, and read the last sentence again. His face flushed. + He was on the point of yielding himself to a useless out burst of anger + against Arnold, when his better sense checked him at the last moment. “One + fool in the family is, enough,” he said. “<i>My</i> business in this + dreadful emergency is to keep my head clear for Blanche’s sake.” + </p> + <p> + He waited once more, to make sure of his own composure—and turned + again to the letter, to see what the writer had to say for himself, in the + way of explanation and excuse. + </p> + <p> + Arnold had plenty to say—with the drawback of not knowing how to say + it. It was hard to decide which quality in his letter was most marked—the + total absence of arrangement, or the total absence of reserve. Without + beginning, middle, or end, he told the story of his fatal connection with + the troubles of Anne Silvester, from the memorable day when Geoffrey + Delamayn sent him to Craig Fernie, to the equally memorable night when Sir + Patrick had tried vainly to make him open his lips at Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + “I own I have behaved like a fool,” the letter concluded, “in keeping + Geoffrey Delamayn’s secret for him—as things have turned out. But + how could I tell upon him without compromising Miss Silvester? Read her + letter, and you will see what she says, and how generously she releases + me. It’s no use saying I am sorry I wasn’t more cautious. The mischief is + done. I’ll stick at nothing—as I have said before—to undo it. + Only tell me what is the first step I am to take; and, as long as it don’t + part me from Blanche, rely on my taking it. Waiting to hear from you, I + remain, dear Sir Patrick, yours in great perplexity, Arnold Brinkworth.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick folded the letter, and looked at the two inclosures lying on + the table. His eye was hard, his brow was frowning, as he put his hand to + take up Anne’s letter. The letter from Arnold’s agent in Edinburgh lay + nearer to him. As it happened, he took that first. + </p> + <p> + It was short enough, and clearly enough written, to invite a reading + before he put it down again. The lawyer reported that he had made the + necessary inquiries at Glasgow, with this result. Anne had been traced to + The Sheep’s Head Hotel. She had lain there utterly helpless, from illness, + until the beginning of September. She had been advertised, without result, + in the Glasgow newspapers. On the 5th of September she had sufficiently + recovered to be able to leave the hotel. She had been seen at the railway + station on the same day—but from that point all trace of her had + been lost once more. The lawyer had accordingly stopped the proceedings, + and now waited further instructions from his client. + </p> + <p> + This letter was not without its effect in encouraging Sir Patrick to + suspend the harsh and hasty judgment of Anne, which any man, placed in his + present situation, must have been inclined to form. Her illness claimed + its small share of sympathy. Her friendless position—so plainly and + so sadly revealed by the advertising in the newspapers—pleaded for + merciful construction of faults committed, if faults there were. Gravely, + but not angrily, Sir Patrick opened her letter—the letter that cast + a doubt on his niece’s marriage. + </p> + <p> + Thus Anne Silvester wrote: + </p> + <p> + “GLASGOW, <i>September</i> 5. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR MR. BRINKWORTH,—Nearly three weeks since I attempted to write + to you from this place. I was seized by sudden illness while I was engaged + over my letter; and from that time to this I have laid helpless in bed—very + near, as they tell me, to death. I was strong enough to be dressed, and to + sit up for a little while yesterday and the day before. To-day, I have + made a better advance toward recovery. I can hold my pen and control my + thoughts. The first use to which I put this improvement is to write these + lines. + </p> + <p> + “I am going (so far as I know) to surprise—possibly to alarm—you. + There is no escaping from it, for you or for me; it must be done. + </p> + <p> + “Thinking of how best to introduce what I am now obliged to say, I can + find no better way than this. I must ask you to take your memory back to a + day which we have both bitter reason to regret—the day when Geoffrey + Delamayn sent you to see me at the inn at Craig Fernie. + </p> + <p> + “You may possibly not remember—it unhappily produced no impression + on you at the time—that I felt, and expressed, more than once on + that occasion, a very great dislike to your passing me off on the people + of the inn as your wife. It was necessary to my being permitted to remain + at Craig Fernie that you should do so. I knew this; but still I shrank + from it. It was impossible for me to contradict you, without involving you + in the painful consequences, and running the risk of making a scandal + which might find its way to Blanche’s ears. I knew this also; but still my + conscience reproached me. It was a vague feeling. I was quite unaware of + the actual danger in which you were placing yourself, or I would have + spoken out, no matter what came of it. I had what is called a presentiment + that you were not acting discreetly—nothing more. As I love and + honor my mother’s memory—as I trust in the mercy of God—this + is the truth. + </p> + <p> + “You left the inn the next morning, and we have not met since. + </p> + <p> + “A few days after you went away my anxieties grew more than I could bear + alone. I went secretly to Windygates, and had an interview with Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “She was absent for a few minutes from the room in which we had met. In + that interval I saw Geoffrey Delamayn for the first time since I had left + him at Lady Lundie’s lawn-party. He treated me as if I was a stranger. He + told me that he had found out all that had passed between us at the inn. + He said he had taken a lawyer’s opinion. Oh, Mr. Brinkworth! how can I + break it to you? how can I write the words which repeat what he said to me + next? It must be done. Cruel as it is, it must be done. He refused to my + face to marr y me. He said I was married already. He said I was your wife. + </p> + <p> + “Now you know why I have referred you to what I felt (and confessed to + feeling) when we were together at Craig Fernie. If you think hard + thoughts, and say hard words of me, I can claim no right to blame you. I + am innocent—and yet it is my fault. + </p> + <p> + “My head swims, and the foolish tears are rising in spite of me. I must + leave off, and rest a little. + </p> + <p> + “I have been sitting at the window, and watching the people in the street + as they go by. They are all strangers. But, somehow, the sight of them + seems to rest my mind. The hum of the great city gives me heart, and helps + me to go on. + </p> + <p> + “I can not trust myself to write of the man who has betrayed us both. + Disgraced and broken as I am, there is something still left in me which + lifts me above <i>him.</i> If he came repentant, at this moment, and + offered me all that rank and wealth and worldly consideration can give, I + would rather be what I am now than be his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Let me speak of you; and (for Blanche’s sake) let me speak of myself. + </p> + <p> + “I ought, no doubt, to have waited to see you at Windygates, and to have + told you at once of what had happened. But I was weak and ill and the + shock of hearing what I heard fell so heavily on me that I fainted. After + I came to myself I was so horrified, when I thought of you and Blanche + that a sort of madness possessed me. I had but one idea—the idea of + running away and hiding myself. + </p> + <p> + “My mind got clearer and quieter on the way to this place; and, arrived + here, I did what I hope and believe was the best thing I could do. I + consulted two lawyers. They differed in opinion as to whether we were + married or not—according to the law which decides on such things in + Scotland. The first said Yes. The second said No—but advised me to + write immediately and tell you the position in which you stood. I + attempted to write the same day, and fell ill as you know. + </p> + <p> + “Thank God, the delay that has happened is of no consequence. I asked + Blanche, at Windygates, when you were to be married—and she told me + not until the end of the autumn. It is only the fifth of September now. + You have plenty of time before you. For all our sakes, make good use of + it. + </p> + <p> + “What are you to do? + </p> + <p> + “Go at once to Sir Patrick Lundie, and show him this letter. Follow his + advice—no matter how it may affect <i>me.</i> I should ill requite + your kindness, I should be false indeed to the love I bear to Blanche, if + I hesitated to brave any exposure that may now be necessary in your + interests and in hers. You have been all that is generous, all that is + delicate, all that is kind in this matter. You have kept my disgraceful + secret—I am quite sure of it—with the fidelity of an honorable + man who has had a woman’s reputation placed in his charge. I release you, + with my whole heart, dear Mr. Brinkworth, from your pledge. I entreat you, + on my knees, to consider yourself free to reveal the truth. I will make + any acknowledgment, on my side, that is needful under the circumstances—no + matter how public it may be. Release yourself at any price; and then, and + not till then, give back your regard to the miserable woman who has laden + you with the burden of her sorrow, and darkened your life for a moment + with the shadow of her shame. + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t think there is any painful sacrifice involved in this. The + quieting of my own mind is involved in it—and that is all. + </p> + <p> + “What has life left for <i>me?</i> Nothing but the barren necessity of + living. When I think of the future now, my mind passes over the years that + may be left to me in this world. Sometimes I dare to hope that the Divine + Mercy of Christ—which once pleaded on earth for a woman like me—may + plead, when death has taken me, for my spirit in Heaven. Sometimes I dare + to hope that I may see my mother, and Blanche’s mother, in the better + world. Their hearts were bound together as the hearts of sisters while + they were here; and they left to their children the legacy of their love. + Oh, help me to say, if we meet again, that not in vain I promised to be a + sister to Blanche! The debt I owe to her is the hereditary debt of my + mother’s gratitude. And what am I now? An obstacle in the way of the + happiness of her life. Sacrifice me to that happiness, for God’s sake! It + is the one thing I have left to live for. Again and again I say it—I + care nothing for myself. I have no right to be considered; I have no wish + to be considered. Tell the whole truth about me, and call me to bear + witness to it as publicly as you please! + </p> + <p> + “I have waited a little, once more, trying to think, before I close my + letter, what there may be still left to write. + </p> + <p> + “I can not think of any thing left but the duty of informing you how you + may find me if you wish to write—or if it is thought necessary that + we should meet again. + </p> + <p> + “One word before I tell you this. + </p> + <p> + “It is impossible for me to guess what you will do, or what you will be + advised to do by others, when you get my letter. I don’t even know that + you may not already have heard of what your position is from Geoffrey + Delamayn himself. In this event, or in the event of your thinking it + desirable to take Blanche into your confidence, I venture to suggest that + you should appoint some person whom you can trust to see me on your behalf—or, + if you can not do this that you should see me in the presence of a third + person. The man who has not hesitated to betray us both, will not hesitate + to misrepresent us in the vilest way, if he can do it in the future. For + your own sake, let us be careful to give lying tongues no opportunity of + assailing your place in Blanche’s estimation. Don’t act so as to risk + putting yourself in a false position <i>again!</i> Don’t let it be + possible that a feeling unworthy of her should be roused in the loving and + generous nature of your future wife! + </p> + <p> + “This written, I may now tell you how to communicate with me after I have + left this place. + </p> + <p> + “You will find on the slip of paper inclosed the name and address of the + second of the two lawyers whom I consulted in Glasgow. It is arranged + between us that I am to inform him, by letter, of the next place to which + I remove, and that he is to communicate the information either to you or + to Sir Patrick Lundie, on your applying for it personally or by writing. I + don’t yet know myself where I may find refuge. Nothing is certain but that + I can not, in my present state of weakness, travel far. + </p> + <p> + “If you wonder why I move at all until I am stronger, I can only give a + reason which may appear fanciful and overstrained. + </p> + <p> + “I have been informed that I was advertised in the Glasgow newspapers + during the time when I lay at this hotel, a stranger at the point of + death. Trouble has perhaps made me morbidly suspicious. I am afraid of + what may happen if I stay here, after my place of residence has been made + publicly known. So, as soon as I can move, I go away in secret. It will be + enough for me, if I can find rest and peace in some quiet place, in the + country round Glasgow. You need feel no anxiety about my means of living. + I have money enough for all that I need—and, if I get well again, I + know how to earn my bread. + </p> + <p> + “I send no message to Blanche—I dare not till this is over. Wait + till she is your happy wife; and then give her a kiss, and say it comes + from Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Try and forgive me, dear Mr. Brinkworth. I have said all. Yours + gratefully, + </p> + <p> + “ANNE SILVESTER.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick put the letter down with unfeigned respect for the woman who + had written it. + </p> + <p> + Something of the personal influence which Anne exercised more or less over + all the men with whom she came in contact seemed to communicate itself to + the old lawyer through the medium of her letter. His thoughts perversely + wandered away from the serious and pressing question of his niece’s + position into a region of purely speculative inquiry relating to Anne. + What infatuation (he asked himself) had placed that noble creature at the + mercy of such a man as Geoffrey Delamayn? + </p> + <p> + We have all, at one time or another in our lives, been perplexed as Sir + Patrick was perplexed now. + </p> + <p> + If we know any thing by experience, we know that women cast themselves + away impulsively on unworthy men, and that men ruin themselves headlong + for unworthy w omen. We have the institution of Divorce actually among us, + existing mainly because the two sexes are perpetually placing themselves + in these anomalous relations toward each other. And yet, at every fresh + instance which comes before us, we persist in being astonished to find + that the man and the woman have not chosen each other on rational and + producible grounds! We expect human passion to act on logical principles; + and human fallibility—with love for its guide—to be above all + danger of making a mistake! Ask the wisest among Anne Silvester’s sex what + they saw to rationally justify them in choosing the men to whom they have + given their hearts and their lives, and you will be putting a question to + those wise women which they never once thought of putting to themselves. + Nay, more still. Look into your own experience, and say frankly, Could you + justify your own excellent choice at the time when you irrevocably made + it? Could you have put your reasons on paper when you first owned to + yourself that you loved him? And would the reasons have borne critical + inspection if you had? + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick gave it up in despair. The interests of his niece were at + stake. He wisely determined to rouse his mind by occupying himself with + the practical necessities of the moment. It was essential to send an + apology to the rector, in the first place, so as to leave the evening at + his disposal for considering what preliminary course of conduct he should + advise Arnold to pursue. + </p> + <p> + After writing a few lines of apology to his partner at Piquet—assigning + family business as the excuse for breaking his engagement—Sir + Patrick rang the bell. The faithful Duncan appeared, and saw at once in + his master s face that something had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Send a man with this to the Rectory,” said Sir Patrick. “I can’t dine out + to-day. I must have a chop at home.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, Sir Patrick—if I may be excused for remarking it—you + have had some bad news?” + </p> + <p> + “The worst possible news, Duncan. I can’t tell you about it now. Wait + within hearing of the bell. In the mean time let nobody interrupt me. If + the steward himself comes I can’t see him.” + </p> + <p> + After thinking it over carefully, Sir Patrick decided that there was no + alternative but to send a message to Arnold and Blanche, summoning them + back to England in the first place. The necessity of questioning Arnold, + in the minutest detail, as to every thing that had happened between Anne + Silvester and himself at the Craig Fernie inn, was the first and foremost + necessity of the case. + </p> + <p> + At the same time it appeared to be desirable, for Blanche’s sake, to keep + her in ignorance, for the present at least, of what had happened. Sir + Patrick met this difficulty with characteristic ingenuity and readiness of + resource. + </p> + <p> + He wrote a telegram to Arnold, expressed in the following terms: + </p> + <p> + “Your letter and inclosures received. Return to Ham Farm as soon as you + conveniently can. Keep the thing still a secret from Blanche. Tell her, as + the reason for coming back, that the lost trace of Anne Silvester has been + recovered, and that there may be reasons for her returning to England + before any thing further can be done.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan having been dispatched to the station with this message, Duncan’s + master proceeded to calculate the question of time. + </p> + <p> + Arnold would in all probability receive the telegram at Baden, on the next + day, September the seventeenth. In three days more he and Blanche might be + expected to reach Ham Farm. During the interval thus placed at his + disposal Sir Patrick would have ample time in which to recover himself, + and to see his way to acting for the best in the alarming emergency that + now confronted him. + </p> + <p> + On the nineteenth Sir Patrick received a telegram informing him that he + might expect to see the young couple late in the evening on the twentieth. + </p> + <p> + Late in the evening the sound of carriage-wheels was audible on the drive; + and Sir Patrick, opening the door of his room, heard the familiar voices + in the hall. + </p> + <p> + “Well!” cried Blanche, catching sight of him at the door, “is Anne found?” + </p> + <p> + “Not just yet, my dear.” + </p> + <p> + “Is there news of her?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I in time to be of use?” + </p> + <p> + “In excellent time. You shall hear all about it to-morrow. Go and take off + your traveling-things, and come down again to supper as soon as you can.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche kissed him, and went on up stairs. She had, as her uncle thought + in the glimpse he had caught of her, been improved by her marriage. It had + quieted and steadied her. There were graces in her look and manner which + Sir Patrick had not noticed before. Arnold, on his side, appeared to less + advantage. He was restless and anxious; his position with Miss Silvester + seemed to be preying on his mind. As soon as his young wife’s back was + turned, he appealed to Sir Patrick in an eager whisper. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly dare ask you what I have got it on my mind to say,” he began. “I + must bear it if you are angry with me, Sir Patrick. But—only tell me + one thing. Is there a way out of it for us? Have you thought of that?” + </p> + <p> + “I can not trust myself to speak of it clearly and composedly to-night,” + said Sir Patrick. “Be satisfied if I tell you that I have thought it all + out—and wait for the rest till to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Other persons concerned in the coming drama had had past difficulties to + think out, and future movements to consider, during the interval occupied + by Arnold and Blanche on their return journey to England. Between the + seventeenth and the twentieth of September Geoffrey Delamayn had left + Swanhaven, on the way to his new training quarters in the neighborhood in + which the Foot-Race at Fulham was to be run. Between the same dates, also, + Captain Newenden had taken the opportunity, while passing through London + on his way south, to consult his solicitors. The object of the conference + was to find means of discovering an anonymous letter-writer in Scotland, + who had presumed to cause serious annoyance to Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + Thus, by ones and twos, converging from widely distant quarters, they were + now beginning to draw together, in the near neighborhood of the great city + which was soon destined to assemble them all, for the first and the last + time in this world, face to face. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0037" id="link2HCH0037"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE WAY OUT. + </h3> + <p> + BREAKFAST was just over. Blanche, seeing a pleasantly-idle morning before + her, proposed to Arnold to take a stroll in the grounds. + </p> + <p> + The garden was blight with sunshine, and the bride was bright with + good-humor. She caught her uncle’s eye, looking at her admiringly, and + paid him a little compliment in return. “You have no idea,” she said, “how + nice it is to be back at Ham Farm!” + </p> + <p> + “I am to understand then,” rejoined Sir Patrick, “that I am forgiven for + interrupting the honey-moon?” + </p> + <p> + “You are more than forgiven for interrupting it,” said Blanche—“you + are thanked. As a married woman,” she proceeded, with the air of a matron + of at least twenty years’ standing, “I have been thinking the subject + over; and I have arrived at the conclusion that a honey-moon which takes + the form of a tour on the Continent, is one of our national abuses which + stands in need of reform. When you are in love with each other (consider a + marriage without love to be no marriage at all), what do you want with the + excitement of seeing strange places? Isn’t it excitement enough, and isn’t + it strange enough, to a newly-married woman to see such a total novelty as + a husband? What is the most interesting object on the face of creation to + a man in Arnold’s position? The Alps? Certainly not! The most interesting + object is the wife. And the proper time for a bridal tour is the time—say + ten or a dozen years later—when you are beginning (not to get tired + of each other, that’s out of the question) but to get a little too well + used to each other. Then take your tour to Switzerland—and you give + the Alps a chance. A succession of honey-moon trips, in the autumn of + married life—there is my proposal for an improvement on the present + state of things! Come into the garden, Arnold; and let us calculate how + long it will be before we get weary of each other, and want the beauties + of nature to keep us company.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold looked appealingly to Sir Patrick. Not a word had passed between + them, as yet, on the serious subject of Anne Silvester’s letter. Sir + Patrick undertook the responsibility of making the necessary excuses to + Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” he said, “if I ask leave to interfere with your monopoly of + Arnold for a little while. I have something to say to him about his + property in Scotland. Will you leave him with me, if I promise to release + him as soon as possible?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche smiled graciously. “You shall have him as long as you like, uncle. + There’s your hat,” she added, tossing it to her husband, gayly. “I brought + it in for you when I got my own. You will find me on the lawn.” + </p> + <p> + She nodded, and went out. + </p> + <p> + “Let me hear the worst at once, Sir Patrick,” Arnold began. “Is it + serious? Do you think I am to blame?” + </p> + <p> + “I will answer your last question first,” said Sir Patrick. “Do I think + you are to blame? Yes—in this way. You committed an act of + unpardonable rashness when you consented to go, as Geoffrey Delamayn’s + messenger, to Miss Silvester at the inn. Having once placed yourself in + that false position, you could hardly have acted, afterward, otherwise + than you did. You could not be expected to know the Scotch law. And, as an + honorable man, you were bound to keep a secret confided to you, in which + the reputation of a woman was concerned. Your first and last error in this + matter, was the fatal error of involving yourself in responsibilities + which belonged exclusively to another man.” + </p> + <p> + “The man had saved my life.” pleaded Arnold—“and I believed I was + giving service for service to my dearest friend.” + </p> + <p> + “As to your other question,” proceeded Sir Patrick. “Do I consider your + position to be a serious one? Most assuredly, I do! So long as we are not + absolutely certain that Blanche is your lawful wife, the position is more + than serious: it is unendurable. I maintain the opinion, mind, out of + which (thanks to your honorable silence) that scoundrel Delamayn contrived + to cheat me. I told him, what I now tell you—that your sayings and + doings at Craig Fernie, do <i>not</i> constitute a marriage, according to + Scottish law. But,” pursued Sir Patrick, holding up a warning forefinger + at Arnold, “you have read it in Miss Silvester’s letter, and you may now + take it also as a result of my experience, that no individual opinion, in + a matter of this kind, is to be relied on. Of two lawyers, consulted by + Miss Silvester at Glasgow, one draws a directly opposite conclusion to + mine, and decides that you and she are married. I believe him to be wrong, + but in our situation, we have no other choice than to boldly encounter the + view of the case which he represents. In plain English, we must begin by + looking the worst in the face.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold twisted the traveling hat which Blanche had thrown to him, + nervously, in both hands. “Supposing the worst comes to the worst,” he + asked, “what will happen?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick shook his head. + </p> + <p> + “It is not easy to tell you,” he said, “without entering into the legal + aspect of the case. I shall only puzzle you if I do that. Suppose we look + at the matter in its social bearings—I mean, as it may possibly + affect you and Blanche, and your unborn children?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold gave the hat a tighter twist than ever. “I never thought of the + children,” he said, with a look of consternation. + </p> + <p> + “The children may present themselves,” returned Sir Patrick, dryly, “for + all that. Now listen. It may have occurred to your mind that the plain way + out of our present dilemma is for you and Miss Silvester, respectively, to + affirm what we know to be the truth—namely, that you never had the + slightest intention of marrying each other. Beware of founding any hopes + on any such remedy as that! If you reckon on it, you reckon without + Geoffrey Delamayn. He is interested, remember, in proving you and Miss + Silvester to be man and wife. Circumstances may arise—I won’t waste + time in guessing at what they may be—which will enable a third + person to produce the landlady and the waiter at Craig Fernie in evidence + against you—and to assert that your declaration and Miss Silvester’s + declaration are the result of collusion between you two. Don’t start! Such + things have happened before now. Miss Silvester is poor; and Blanche is + rich. You may be made to stand in the awkward position of a man who is + denying his marriage with a poor woman, in order to establish his marriage + with an heiress: Miss Silvester presumably aiding the fraud, with two + strong interests of her own as inducements—the interest of asserting + the claim to be the wife of a man of rank, and the interest of earning her + reward in money for resigning you to Blanche. There is a case which a + scoundrel might set up—and with some appearance of truth too—in + a court of justice!” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, the law wouldn’t allow him to do that?” + </p> + <p> + “The law will argue any thing, with any body who will pay the law for the + use of its brains and its time. Let that view of the matter alone now. + Delamayn can set the case going, if he likes, without applying to any + lawyer to help him. He has only to cause a report to reach Blanche’s ears + which publicly asserts that she is not your lawful wife. With her temper, + do you suppose she would leave us a minute’s peace till the matter was + cleared up? Or take it the other way. Comfort yourself, if you will, with + the idea that this affair will trouble nobody in the present. How are we + to know it may not turn up in the future under circumstances which may + place the legitimacy of your children in doubt? We have a man to deal with + who sticks at nothing. We have a state of the law which can only be + described as one scandalous uncertainty from beginning to end. And we have + two people (Bishopriggs and Mrs. Inchbare) who can, and will, speak to + what took place between you and Anne Silvester at the inn. For Blanche’s + sake, and for the sake of your unborn children, we must face this matter + on the spot—and settle it at once and forever. The question before + us now is this. Shall we open the proceedings by communicating with Miss + Silvester or not?” + </p> + <p> + At that important point in the conversation they were interrupted by the + reappearance of Blanche. Had she, by any accident, heard what they had + been saying? + </p> + <p> + No; it was the old story of most interruptions. Idleness that considers + nothing, had come to look at Industry that bears every thing. It is a law + of nature, apparently, that the people in this world who have nothing to + do can not support the sight of an uninterrupted occupation in the hands + of their neighbors. Blanche produced a new specimen from Arnold’s + collection of hats. “I have been thinking about it in the garden,” she + said, quite seriously. “Here is the brown one with the high crown. You + look better in this than in the white one with the low crown. I have come + to change them, that’s all.” She changed the hats with Arnold, and went + on, without the faintest suspicion that she was in the way. “Wear the + brown one when you come out—and come soon, dear. I won’t stay an + instant longer, uncle—I wouldn’t interrupt you for the world.” She + kissed her hand to Sir Patrick, and smiled at her husband, and went out. + </p> + <p> + “What were we saying?” asked Arnold. “It’s awkward to be interrupted in + this way, isn’t it?” + </p> + <p> + “If I know any thing of female human nature,” returned Sir Patrick, + composedly, “your wife will be in and out of the room, in that way, the + whole morning. I give her ten minutes, Arnold, before she changes her mind + again on the serious and weighty subject of the white hat and the brown. + These little interruptions—otherwise quite charming—raised a + doubt in my mind. Wouldn’t it be wise (I ask myself), if we made a virtue + of necessity, and took Blanche into the conversation? What do you say to + calling her back and telling her the truth?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold started, and changed color. + </p> + <p> + “There are difficulties in the way,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “My good fellow! at every step of this business there are difficulties in + the way. Sooner or later, your wife must know what has happened. The time + for telling her is, no doubt, a matter for your decision, not mine. All I + say is this. Consider whether the disclosure won’t come from you with a + better grace, if you make it before you are fairly driven to the wall, and + obliged to open your lips.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold rose to his fee t—took a turn in the room—sat down + again—and looked at Sir Patrick, with the expression of a thoroughly + bewildered and thoroughly helpless man. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what to do,” he said. “It beats me altogether. The truth is, + Sir Patrick, I was fairly forced, at Craig Fernie, into deceiving Blanche—in + what might seem to her a very unfeeling, and a very unpardonable way.” + </p> + <p> + “That sounds awkward! What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll try and tell you. You remember when you went to the inn to see Miss + Silvester? Well, being there privately at the time, of course I was + obliged to keep out of your way.” + </p> + <p> + “I see! And, when Blanche came afterward, you were obliged to hide from + Blanche, exactly as you had hidden from me?” + </p> + <p> + “Worse even than that! A day or two later, Blanche took me into her + confidence. She spoke to me of her visit to the inn, as if I was a perfect + stranger to the circumstances. She told me to my face, Sir Patrick, of the + invisible man who had kept so strangely out of her way—without the + faintest suspicion that I was the man. And I never opened my lips to set + her right! I was obliged to be silent, or I must have betrayed Miss + Silvester. What will Blanche think of me, if I tell her now? That’s the + question!” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s name had barely passed her husband’s lips before Blanche herself + verified Sir Patrick’s prediction, by reappearing at the open French + window, with the superseded white hat in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you done yet!” she exclaimed. “I am shocked, uncle, to interrupt + you again—but these horrid hats of Arnold’s are beginning to weigh + upon my mind. On reconsideration, I think the white hat with the low crown + is the most becoming of the two. Change again, dear. Yes! the brown hat is + hideous. There’s a beggar at the gate. Before I go quite distracted, I + shall give him the brown hat, and have done with the difficulty in that + manner. Am I very much in the way of business? I’m afraid I must appear + restless? Indeed, I <i>am</i> restless. I can’t imagine what is the matter + with me this morning.” + </p> + <p> + “I can tell you,” said Sir Patrick, in his gravest and dryest manner. “You + are suffering, Blanche, from a malady which is exceedingly common among + the young ladies of England. As a disease it is quite incurable—and + the name of it is Nothing-to-Do.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche dropped her uncle a smart little courtesy. “You might have told me + I was in the way in fewer words than that.” She whisked round, kicked the + disgraced brown hat out into the veranda before her, and left the two + gentlemen alone once more. + </p> + <p> + “Your position with your wife, Arnold,” resumed Sir Patrick, returning + gravely to the matter in hand, “is certainly a difficult one.” He paused, + thinking of the evening when he and Blanche had illustrated the vagueness + of Mrs. Inchbare’s description of the man at the inn, by citing Arnold + himself as being one of the hundreds of innocent people who answered to + it! “Perhaps,” he added, “the situation is even more difficult than you + suppose. It would have been certainly easier for <i>you</i>—and it + would have looked more honorable in <i>her</i> estimation—if you had + made the inevitable confession before your marriage. I am, in some degree, + answerable for your not having done this—as well as for the far more + serious dilemma with Miss Silvester in which you now stand. If I had not + innocently hastened your marriage with Blanche, Miss Silvester’s admirable + letter would have reached us in ample time to prevent mischief. It’s + useless to dwell on that now. Cheer up, Arnold! I am bound to show you the + way out of the labyrinth, no matter what the difficulties may be—and, + please God, I will do it!” + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a table at the other end of the room, on which writing + materials were placed. “I hate moving the moment I have had my breakfast,” + he said. “We won’t go into the library. Bring me the pen and ink here.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to write to Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + “That is the question before us which we have not settled yet. Before I + decide, I want to be in possession of the facts—down to the smallest + detail of what took place between you and Miss Silvester at the inn. There + is only one way of getting at those facts. I am going to examine you as if + I had you before me in the witness-box in court.” + </p> + <p> + With that preface, and with Arnold’s letter from Baden in his hand as a + brief to speak from, Sir Patrick put his questions in clear and endless + succession; and Arnold patiently and faithfully answered them all. + </p> + <p> + The examination proceeded uninterruptedly until it had reached that point + in the progress of events at which Anne had crushed Geoffrey Delamayn’s + letter in her hand, and had thrown it from her indignantly to the other + end of the room. There, for the first time, Sir Patrick dipped his pen in + the ink, apparently intending to take a note. “Be very careful here,” he + said; “I want to know every thing that you can tell me about that letter.” + </p> + <p> + “The letter is lost,” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “The letter has been stolen by Bishopriggs,” returned Sir Patrick, “and is + in the possession of Bishopriggs at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you know more about it than I do!” exclaimed Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “I sincerely hope not. I don’t know what was inside the letter. Do you?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Part of it at least.” + </p> + <p> + “Part of it?” + </p> + <p> + “There were two letters written, on the same sheet of paper,” said Arnold. + “One of them was written by Geoffrey Delamayn—and that is the one I + know about.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started. His face brightened; he made a hasty note. “Go on,” + he said, eagerly. “How came the letters to be written on the same sheet? + Explain that!” + </p> + <p> + Arnold explained that Geoffrey, in the absence of any thing else to write + his excuses on to Anne, had written to her on the fourth or blank page of + a letter which had been addressed to him by Anne herself. + </p> + <p> + “Did you read that letter?” asked Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “I might have read it if I had liked.” + </p> + <p> + “And you didn’t read it?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Out of delicacy.” + </p> + <p> + Even Sir Patrick’s carefully trained temper was not proof against this. + “That is the most misplaced act of delicacy I ever heard of in my life!” + cried the old gentleman, warmly. “Never mind! it’s useless to regret it + now. At any rate, you read Delamayn’s answer to Miss Silvester’s letter?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—I did.” + </p> + <p> + “Repeat it—as nearly as you can remember at this distance of time.” + </p> + <p> + “It was so short,” said Arnold, “that there is hardly any thing to repeat. + As well as I remember, Geoffrey said he was called away to London by his + father’s illness. He told Miss Silvester to stop where she was; and he + referred her to me, as messenger. That’s all I recollect of it now.” + </p> + <p> + “Cudgel your brains, my good fellow! this is very important. Did he make + no allusion to his engagement to marry Miss Silvester at Craig Fernie? + Didn’t he try to pacify her by an apology of some sort?” + </p> + <p> + The question roused Arnold’s memory to make another effort. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” he answered. “Geoffrey said something about being true to his + engagement, or keeping his promise or words to that effect.” + </p> + <p> + “You’re sure of what you say now?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick made another note. + </p> + <p> + “Was the letter signed?” he asked, when he had done. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “And dated?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” Arnold’s memory made a second effort, after he had given his second + affirmative answer. “Wait a little,” he said. “I remember something else + about the letter. It was not only dated. The time of day at which it was + written was put as well.” + </p> + <p> + “How came he to do that?” + </p> + <p> + “I suggested it. The letter was so short I felt ashamed to deliver it as + it stood. I told him to put the time—so as to show her that he was + obliged to write in a hurry. He put the time when the train started; and + (I think) the time when the letter was written as well.” + </p> + <p> + “And you delivered that letter to Miss Silvester, with your own hand, as + soon as you saw her at the inn?” + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick made a third note, and pushed the paper away from him with an + air of supreme satisfaction. + </p> + <p> + “I always suspected that lost letter to be an important document,” he said—“or + Bishopriggs would never have stolen it. We must get possession of it, + Arnold, at any sacrifice. The first thing to be done (exactly as I + anticipated), is to write to the Glasgow lawyer, and find Miss Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a little!” cried a voice at the veranda. “Don’t forget that I have + come back from Baden to help you!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick and Arnold both looked up. This time Blanche had heard the + last words that had passed between them. She sat down at the table by Sir + Patrick’s side, and laid her hand caressingly on his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “You are quite right, uncle,” she said. “I <i>am</i> suffering this + morning from the malady of having nothing to do. Are you going to write to + Anne? Don’t. Let me write instead.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick declined to resign the pen. + </p> + <p> + “The person who knows Miss Silvester’s address,” he said, “is a lawyer in + Glasgow. I am going to write to the lawyer. When he sends us word where + she is—then, Blanche, will be the time to employ your good offices + in winning back your friend.” + </p> + <p> + He drew the writing materials once more with in his reach, and, suspending + the remainder of Arnold’s examination for the present, began his letter to + Mr. Crum. + </p> + <p> + Blanche pleaded hard for an occupation of some sort. “Can nobody give me + something to do?” she asked. “Glasgow is such a long way off, and waiting + is such weary work. Don’t sit there staring at me, Arnold! Can’t you + suggest something?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold, for once, displayed an unexpected readiness of resource. + </p> + <p> + “If you want to write,” he said, “you owe Lady Lundie a letter. It’s three + days since you heard from her—and you haven’t answered her yet.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick paused, and looked up quickly from his writing-desk. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Lundie?” he muttered, inquiringly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Blanche. “It’s quite true; I owe her a letter. And of course I + ought to tell her we have come back to England. She will be finely + provoked when she hears why!” + </p> + <p> + The prospect of provoking Lady Lundie seemed to rouse Blanche s dormant + energies. She took a sheet of her uncle’s note-paper, and began writing + her answer then and there. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick completed his communication to the lawyer—after a look + at Blanche, which expressed any thing rather than approval of her present + employment. Having placed his completed note in the postbag, he silently + signed to Arnold to follow him into the garden. They went out together, + leaving Blanche absorbed over her letter to her step-mother. + </p> + <p> + “Is my wife doing any thing wrong?” asked Arnold, who had noticed the look + which Sir Patrick had cast on Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “Your wife is making mischief as fast as her fingers can spread it.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold stared. “She must answer Lady Lundie’s letter,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “Unquestionably.” + </p> + <p> + “And she must tell Lady Lundie we have come back.” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t deny it.” + </p> + <p> + “Then what is the objection to her writing?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick took a pinch of snuff—and pointed with his ivory cane to + the bees humming busily about the flower-beds in the sunshine of the + autumn morning. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll show you the objection,” he said. “Suppose Blanche told one of those + inveterately intrusive insects that the honey in the flowers happens, + through an unexpected accident, to have come to an end—do you think + he would take the statement for granted? No. He would plunge head-foremost + into the nearest flower, and investigate it for himself.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Well—there is Blanche in the breakfast-room telling Lady Lundie + that the bridal tour happens, through an unexpected accident, to have come + to an end. Do you think Lady Lundie is the sort of person to take the + statement for granted? Nothing of the sort! Lady Lundie, like the bee, + will insist on investigating for herself. How it will end, if she + discovers the truth—and what new complications she may not introduce + into a matter which, Heaven knows, is complicated enough already—I + leave you to imagine. <i>My</i> poor powers of prevision are not equal to + it.” + </p> + <p> + Before Arnold could answer, Blanche joined them from the breakfast-room. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve done it,” she said. “It was an awkward letter to write—and + it’s a comfort to have it over.” + </p> + <p> + “You have done it, my dear,” remarked Sir Patrick, quietly. “And it may be + a comfort. But it’s not over.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “I think, Blanche, we shall hear from your step-mother by return of post.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0038" id="link2HCH0038"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE NEWS FROM GLASGOW. + </h3> + <p> + THE letters to Lady Lundie and to Mr. Crum having been dispatched on + Monday, the return of the post might be looked for on Wednesday afternoon + at Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick and Arnold held more than one private consultation, during the + interval, on the delicate and difficult subject of admitting Blanche to a + knowledge of what had happened. The wise elder advised and the + inexperienced junior listened. “Think of it,” said Sir Patrick; “and do + it.” And Arnold thought of it—and left it undone. + </p> + <p> + Let those who feel inclined to blame him remember that he had only been + married a fortnight. It is hard, surely, after but two weeks’ possession + of your wife, to appear before her in the character of an offender on + trial—and to find that an angel of retribution has been thrown into + the bargain by the liberal destiny which bestowed on you the woman whom + you adore! + </p> + <p> + They were all three at home on the Wednesday afternoon, looking out for + the postman. + </p> + <p> + The correspondence delivered included (exactly as Sir Patrick had + foreseen) a letter from Lady Lundie. Further investigation, on the far + more interesting subject of the expected news from Glasgow, revealed—nothing. + The lawyer had not answered Sir Patrick’s inquiry by return of post. + </p> + <p> + “Is that a bad sign?” asked Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “It is a sign that something has happened,” answered her uncle. “Mr. Crum + is possibly expecting to receive some special information, and is waiting + on the chance of being able to communicate it. We must hope, my dear, in + to-morrow’s post.” + </p> + <p> + “Open Lady Lundie’s letter in the mean time,” said Blanche. “Are you sure + it is for you—and not for me?” + </p> + <p> + There was no doubt about it. Her ladyship’s reply was ominously addressed + to her ladyship’s brother-in-law. “I know what that means.” said Blanche, + eying her uncle eagerly while he was reading the letter. “If you mention + Anne’s name you insult my step-mother. I have mentioned it freely. Lady + Lundie is mortally offended with me.” + </p> + <p> + Rash judgment of youth! A lady who takes a dignified attitude, in a family + emergency, is never mortally offended—she is only deeply grieved. + Lady Lundie took a dignified attitude. “I well know,” wrote this estimable + and Christian woman, “that I have been all along regarded in the light of + an intruder by the family connections of my late beloved husband. But I + was hardly prepared to find myself entirely shut out from all domestic + confidence, at a time when some serious domestic catastrophe has but too + evidently taken place. I have no desire, dear Sir Patrick, to intrude. + Feeling it, however, to be quite inconsistent with a due regard for my own + position—after what has happened—to correspond with Blanche, I + address myself to the head of the family, purely in the interests of + propriety. Permit me to ask whether—under circumstances which appear + to be serious enough to require the recall of my step-daughter and her + husband from their wedding tour—you think it DECENT to keep the + widow of the late Sir Thomas Lundie entirely in the dark? Pray consider + this—not at all out of regard for Me!—but out of regard for + your own position with Society. Curiosity is, as you know, foreign to my + nature. But when this dreadful scandal (whatever it may be) comes out—which, + dear Sir Patrick, it can not fail to do—what will the world think, + when it asks for Lady Lundie’s, opinion, and hears that Lady Lundie knew + nothing about it? Whichever way you may decide I shall take no offense. I + may possibly be wounded—but that won’t matter. My little round of + duties will find me still earnest, still cheerful. And even if you shut me + out, my best wishes will find their way, nevertheless, to Ham Farm. May I + add—without encountering a sneer—that the prayers of a lonely + woman are offered for the welfare of all?” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” said Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “You have your step-mother’s best wishes, my dear.” Having answered in + those terms, he bowed to his niece with his best grace, and walked out of + the room. + </p> + <p> + “Do I think it decent,” he repeated to himself, as he closed the door, “to + leave the widow of the late Sir Thomas Lundie in the dark? When a lady’s + temper is a little ruffled, I think it more than decent, I think it + absolutely desirable, to let that lady have the last word.” He went into + the library, and dropped his sister-in-law’s remonstrance into a box, + labeled “Unanswered Letters.” Having got rid of it in that way, he hummed + his favorite little Scotch air—and put on his hat, and went out to + sun himself in the garden. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile, Blanche was not quite satisfied with Sir Patrick’s reply. She + appealed to her husband. “There is something wrong,” she said—“and + my uncle is hiding it from me.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold could have desired no better opportunity than she had offered to + him, in those words, for making the long-deferred disclosure to her of the + truth. He lifted his eyes to Blanche’s face. By an unhappy fatality she + was looking charmingly that morning. How would she look if he told her the + story of the hiding at the inn? Arnold was still in love with her—and + Arnold said nothing. + </p> + <p> + The next day’s post brought not only the anticipated letter from Mr. Crum, + but an unexpected Glasgow newspaper as well. + </p> + <p> + This time Blanche had no reason to complain that her uncle kept his + correspondence a secret from her. After reading the lawyer’s letter, with + an interest and agitation which showed that the contents had taken him by + surprise, he handed it to Arnold and his niece. “Bad news there,” he said. + “We must share it together.” + </p> + <p> + After acknowledging the receipt of Sir Patrick’s letter of inquiry, Mr. + Crum began by stating all that he knew of Miss Silvester’s movements—dating + from the time when she had left the Sheep’s Head Hotel. About a fortnight + since he had received a letter from her informing him that she had found a + suitable place of residence in a village near Glasgow. Feeling a strong + interest in Miss Silvester, Mr. Crum had visited her some few days + afterward. He had satisfied himself that she was lodging with respectable + people, and was as comfortably situated as circumstances would permit. For + a week more he had heard nothing from the lady. At the expiration of that + time he had received a letter from her, telling him that she had read + something in a Glasgow newspaper, of that day’s date, which seriously + concerned herself, and which would oblige her to travel northward + immediately as fast as her strength would permit. At a later period, when + she would be more certain of her own movements, she engaged to write + again, and let Mr. Crum know where he might communicate with her if + necessary. In the mean time, she could only thank him for his kindness, + and beg him to take care of any letters or messages which might be left + for her. Since the receipt of this communication the lawyer had heard + nothing further. He had waited for the morning’s post in the hope of being + able to report that he had received some further intelligence. The hope + had not been realized. He had now stated all that he knew himself thus far—and + he had forwarded a copy of the newspaper alluded to by Miss Silvester, on + the chance that an examination of it by Sir Patrick might possibly lead to + further discoveries. In conclusion, he pledged himself to write again the + moment he had any information to send. + </p> + <p> + Blanche snatched up the newspaper, and opened it. “Let me look!” she said. + “I can find what Anne saw here if any body can!” + </p> + <p> + She ran her eye eagerly over column after column and page after page—and + dropped the newspaper on her lap with a gesture of despair. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing!” she exclaimed. “Nothing any where, that I can see, to interest + Anne. Nothing to interest any body—except Lady Lundie,” she went on, + brushing the newspaper off her lap. “It turns out to be all true, Arnold, + at Swanhaven. Geoffrey Delamayn is going to marry Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + “What!” cried Arnold; the idea instantly flashing on him that this was the + news which Anne had seen. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick gave him a warning look, and picked up the newspaper from the + floor. + </p> + <p> + “I may as well run through it, Blanche, and make quite sure that you have + missed nothing,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The report to which Blanche had referred was among the paragraphs arranged + under the heading of “Fashionable News.” “A matrimonial alliance” (the + Glasgow journal announced) “was in prospect between the Honorable Geoffrey + Delamayn and the lovely and accomplished relict of the late Mathew + Glenarm, Esq., formerly Miss Newenden.” The marriage would, in all + probability, “be solemnized in Scotland, before the end of the present + autumn;” and the wedding breakfast, it was whispered, “would collect a + large and fashionable party at Swanhaven Lodge.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick handed the newspaper silently to Arnold. It was plain to any + one who knew Anne Silvester’s story that those were the words which had + found their fatal way to her in her place of rest. The inference that + followed seemed to be hardly less clear. But one intelligible object, in + the opinion of Sir Patrick, could be at the end of her journey to the + north. The deserted woman had rallied the last relics of her old energy—and + had devoted herself to the desperate purpose of stopping the marriage of + Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + Blanche was the first to break the silence. + </p> + <p> + “It seems like a fatality,” she said. “Perpetual failure! Perpetual + disappointment! Are Anne and I doomed never to meet again?” + </p> + <p> + She looked at her uncle. Sir Patrick showed none of his customary + cheerfulness in the face of disaster. + </p> + <p> + “She has promised to write to Mr. Crum,” he said. “And Mr. Crum has + promised to let us know when he hears from her. That is the only prospect + before us. We must accept it as resignedly as we can.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche wandered out listlessly among the flowers in the conservatory. Sir + Patrick made no secret of the impression produced upon him by Mr. Crum’s + letter, when he and Arnold were left alone. + </p> + <p> + “There is no denying,” he said, “that matters have taken a very serious + turn. My plans and calculations are all thrown out. It is impossible to + foresee what new mischief may not come of it, if those two women meet; or + what desperate act Delamayn may not commit, if he finds himself driven to + the wall. As things are, I own frankly I don’t know what to do next. A + great light of the Presbyterian Church,” he added, with a momentary + outbreak of his whimsical humor, “once declared, in my hearing, that the + invention of printing was nothing more or less than a proof of the + intellectual activity of the Devil. Upon my honor, I feel for the first + time in my life inclined to agree with him.” + </p> + <p> + He mechanically took up the Glasgow journal, which Arnold had laid aside, + while he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “What’s this!” he exclaimed, as a name caught his eye in the first line of + the newspaper at which he happened to look. “Mrs. Glenarm again! Are they + turning the iron-master’s widow into a public character?” + </p> + <p> + There the name of the widow was, unquestionably; figuring for the second + time in type, in a letter of the gossiping sort, supplied by an + “Occasional Correspondent,” and distinguished by the title of “Sayings and + Doings in the North.” After tattling pleasantly of the prospects of the + shooting season, of the fashions from Paris, of an accident to a tourist, + and of a scandal in the Scottish Kirk, the writer proceeded to the + narrative of a case of interest, relating to a marriage in the sphere + known (in the language of footmen) as the sphere of “high life.” + </p> + <p> + Considerable sensation (the correspondent announced) had been caused in + Perth and its neighborhood, by the exposure of an anonymous attempt at + extortion, of which a lady of distinction had lately been made the object. + As her name had already been publicly mentioned in an application to the + magistrates, there could be no impropriety in stating that the lady in + question was Mrs. Glenarm—whose approaching union with the Honorable + Geoffrey Delamayn was alluded to in another column of the journal. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm had, it appeared, received an anonymous letter, on the first + day of her arrival as guest at the house of a friend, residing in the + neighborhood of Perth. The letter warned her that there was an obstacle, + of which she was herself probably not aware, in the way of her projected + marriage with Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. That gentleman had seriously + compromised himself with another lady; and the lady would oppose his + marriage to Mrs. Glenarm, with proof in writing to produce in support of + her claim. The proof was contained in two letters exchanged between the + parties, and signed by their names; and the correspondence was placed at + Mrs. Glenarm’s disposal, on two conditions, as follows: + </p> + <p> + First, that she should offer a sufficiently liberal price to induce the + present possessor of the letters to part with them. Secondly, that she + should consent to adopt such a method of paying the money as should + satisfy the person that he was in no danger of finding himself brought + within reach of the law. The answer to these two proposals was directed to + be made through the medium of an advertisement in the local newspaper—distinguished + by this address, “To a Friend in the Dark.” + </p> + <p> + Certain turns of expression, and one or two mistakes in spelling, pointed + to this insolent letter as being, in all probability, the production of a + Scotchman, in the lower ranks of life. Mrs. Glenarm had at once shown it + to her nearest relative, Captain Newenden. The captain had sought legal + advice in Perth. It had been decided, after due consideration, to insert + the advertisement demanded, and to take measures to entrap the writer of + the letter into revealing himself—without, it is needless to add, + allowing the fellow really to profit by his attempted act of extortion. + </p> + <p> + The cunning of the “Friend in the Dark” (whoever he might be) had, on + trying the proposed experiment, proved to be more than a match for the + lawyers. He had successfully eluded not only the snare first set for him, + but others subsequently laid. A second, and a third, anonymous letter, one + more impudent than the other had been received by Mrs. Glenarm, assuring + that lady and the friends who were acting for her that they were only + wasting time and raising the price which would be asked for the + correspondence, by the course they were taking. Captain Newenden had + thereupon, in default of knowing what other course to pursue, appealed + publicly to the city magistrates, and a reward had been offered, under the + sanction of the municipal authorities, for the discovery of the man. This + proceeding also having proved quite fruitless, it was understood that the + captain had arranged, with the concurrence of his English solicitors, to + place the matter in the hands of an experienced officer of the London + police. + </p> + <p> + Here, so far as the newspaper correspondent was aware, the affair rested + for the present. + </p> + <p> + It was only necessary to add, that Mrs. Glenarm had left the neighborhood + of Perth, in order to escape further annoyance; and had placed herself + under the protection of friends in another part of the county. Mr. + Geoffrey Delamayn, whose fair fame had been assailed (it was needless, the + correspondent added in parenthesis, to say how groundlessly), was + understood to have expressed, not only the indignation natural under the + circumstances but also his extreme regret at not finding himself in a + position to aid Captain Newenden’s efforts to bring the anonymous + slanderer to justice. The honorable gentleman was, as the sporting public + were well aware, then in course of strict training for his forthcoming + appearance at the Fulham Foot-Race. So important was it considered that + his mind should not be harassed by annoyances, in his present responsible + position, that his trainer and his principal backers had thought it + desirable to hasten his removal to the neighborhood of Fulham—where + the exercises which were to prepare him for the race were now being + continued on the spot. + </p> + <p> + “The mystery seems to thicken,” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Quite the contrary,” returned Sir Patrick, briskly. “The mystery is + clearing fast—thanks to the Glasgow newspaper. I shall be spared the + trouble of dealing with Bishopriggs for the stolen letter. Miss Silvester + has gone to Perth, to recover her correspondence with Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think she would recognize it,” said Arnold, pointing to the + newspaper, “in the account given of it here?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly! And she could hardly fail, in my opinion, to get a step + farther than that. Unless I am entirely mistaken, the authorship of the + anonymous letters has not mystified <i>her.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “How could she guess at that?” + </p> + <p> + “In this way, as I think. Whatever she may have previously thought, she + must suspect, by this time, that the missing correspondence has been + stolen, and not lost. Now, there are only two persons whom she can think + of, as probably guilty of the theft—Mrs. Inchbare or Bishopriggs. + The newspaper description of the style of the anonymous letters declares + it to be the style of a Scotchman in the lower ranks of life—in + other words, points plainly to Bishopriggs. You see that? Very well. Now + suppose she recovers the stolen property. What is likely to happen then? + She will be more or less than woman if she doesn’t make her way next, + provided with her proofs in writing, to Mrs. Glenarm. She may innocently + help, or she may innocently frustrate, the end we have in view—either + way, our course is clear before us again. Our interest in communicating + with Miss Silvester remains precisely the same interest that it was before + we received the Glasgow newspaper. I propose to wait till Sunday, on the + chance that Mr. Crum may write again. If we don’t hear from him, I shall + start for Scotland on Monday morning, and take my chance of finding my way + to Miss Silvester, through Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + “Leaving me behind?” + </p> + <p> + “Leaving you behind. Somebody must stay with Blanche. After having only + been a fortnight married, must I remind you of that?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t you think Mr. Crum will write before Monday?” + </p> + <p> + “It will be such a fortunate circumstance for us, if he does write, that I + don’t venture to anticipate it.” + </p> + <p> + “You are down on our luck, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I detest slang, Arnold. But slang, I own, expresses my state of mind, in + this instance, with an accuracy which almost reconciles me to the use of + it—for once in a way.” + </p> + <p> + “Every body’s luck turns sooner or later,” persisted Arnold. “I can’t help + thinking our luck is on the turn at last. Would you mind taking a bet, Sir + Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + “Apply at the stables. I leave betting, as I leave cleaning the horses, to + my groom.” + </p> + <p> + With that crabbed answer he closed the conversation for the day. + </p> + <p> + The hours passed, and time brought the post again in due course—and + the post decided in Arnold’s favor! Sir Patrick’s want of confidence in + the favoring patronage of Fortune was practically rebuked by the arrival + of a second letter from the Glasgow lawyer on the next day. + </p> + <p> + “I have the pleasure of announcing” (Mr. Crum wrote) “that I have heard + from Miss Silvester, by the next postal delivery ensuing, after I had + dispatched my letter to Ham Farm. She writes, very briefly, to inform me + that she has decided on establishing her next place of residence in + London. The reason assigned for taking this step—which she certainly + did not contemplate when I last saw her—is that she finds herself + approaching the end of her pecuniary resources. Having already decided on + adopting, as a means of living, the calling of a concert-singer, she has + arranged to place her interests in the hands of an old friend of her late + mother (who appears to have belonged also to the musical profession): a + dramatic and musical agent long established in the metropolis, and well + known to her as a trustworthy and respectable man. She sends me the name + and address of this person—a copy of which you will find on the + inclosed slip of paper—in the event of my having occasion to write + to her, before she is settled in London. This is the whole substance of + her letter. I have only to add, that it does not contain the slightest + allusion to the nature of the errand on which she left Glasgow.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick happened to be alone when he opened Mr. Crum’s letter. + </p> + <p> + His first proceeding, after reading it, was to consult the railway + time-table hanging in the hall. Having done this, he returned to the + library—wrote a short note of inquiry, addressed to the musical + agent—and rang the bell. + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester is expected in London, Duncan. I want a discreet person to + communicate with her. You are the person.” + </p> + <p> + Duncan bowed. Sir Pa trick handed him the note. + </p> + <p> + “If you start at once you will be in time to catch the train. Go to that + address, and inquire for Miss Silvester. If she has arrived, give her my + compliments, and say I will have the honor of calling on her (on Mr. + Brinkworth’s behalf) at the earliest date which she may find it convenient + to appoint. Be quick about it—and you will have time to get back + before the last train. Have Mr. and Mrs. Brinkworth returned from their + drive?” + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + Pending the return of Arnold and Blanche, Sir Patrick looked at Mr. Crum’s + letter for the second time. + </p> + <p> + He was not quite satisfied that the pecuniary motive was really the motive + at the bottom of Anne’s journey south. Remembering that Geoffrey’s + trainers had removed him to the neighborhood of London, he was inclined to + doubt whether some serious quarrel had not taken place between Anne and + Mrs. Glenarm—and whether some direct appeal to Geoffrey himself + might not be in contemplation as the result. In that event, Sir Patrick’s + advice and assistance would be placed, without scruple, at Miss + Silvester’s disposal. By asserting her claim, in opposition to the claim + of Mrs. Glenarm, she was also asserting herself to be an unmarried woman, + and was thus serving Blanche’s interests as well as her own. “I owe it to + Blanche to help her,” thought Sir Patrick. “And I owe it to myself to + bring Geoffrey Delamayn to a day of reckoning if I can.” + </p> + <p> + The barking of the dogs in the yard announced the return of the carriage. + Sir Patrick went out to meet Arnold and Blanche at the gate, and tell them + the news. + </p> + <p> + Punctual to the time at which he was expected, the discreet Duncan + reappeared with a note from the musical agent. + </p> + <p> + Miss Silvester had not yet reached London; but she was expected to arrive + not later than Tuesday in the ensuing week. The agent had already been + favored with her instructions to pay the strictest attention to any + commands received from Sir Patrick Lundie. He would take care that Sir + Patrick’s message should be given to Miss Silvester as soon as she + arrived. + </p> + <p> + At last, then, there was news to be relied on! At last there was a + prospect of seeing her! Blanche was radiant with happiness, Arnold was in + high spirits for the first time since his return from Baden. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick tried hard to catch the infection of gayety from his young + friends; but, to his own surprise, not less than to theirs, the effort + proved fruitless. With the tide of events turning decidedly in his favor—relieved + of the necessity of taking a doubtful journey to Scotland; assured of + obtaining his interview with Anne in a few days’ time—he was out of + spirits all through the evening. + </p> + <p> + “Still down on our luck!” exclaimed Arnold, as he and his host finished + their last game of billiards, and parted for the night. “Surely, we + couldn’t wish for a more promising prospect than <i>our</i> prospect next + week?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick laid his hand on Arnold’s shoulder. + </p> + <p> + “Let us look indulgently together,” he said, in his whimsically grave way, + “at the humiliating spectacle of an old man’s folly. I feel, at this + moment, Arnold, as if I would give every thing that I possess in the world + to have passed over next week, and to be landed safely in the time beyond + it.” + </p> + <p> + “But why?” + </p> + <p> + “There is the folly! I can’t tell why. With every reason to be in better + spirits than usual, I am unaccountably, irrationally, invincibly + depressed. What are we to conclude from that? Am I the object of a + supernatural warning of misfortune to come? Or am I the object of a + temporary derangement of the functions of the liver? There is the + question. Who is to decide it? How contemptible is humanity, Arnold, + rightly understood! Give me my candle, and let’s hope it’s the liver.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0050" id="link2H_4_0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EIGHTH SCENE—THE PANTRY. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0039" id="link2HCH0039"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH. + </h2> + <h3> + ANNE WINS A VICTORY. + </h3> + <p> + ON a certain evening in the month of September (at that period of the + month when Arnold and Blanche were traveling back from Baden to Ham Farm) + an ancient man—with one eye filmy and blind, and one eye moist and + merry—sat alone in the pantry of the Harp of Scotland Inn, Perth, + pounding the sugar softly in a glass of whisky-punch. He has hitherto been + personally distinguished in these pages as the self-appointed father of + Anne Silvester and the humble servant of Blanche at the dance at Swanhaven + Lodge. He now dawns on the view in amicable relations with a third lady—and + assumes the mystic character of Mrs. Glenarm’s “Friend in the Dark.” + </p> + <p> + Arriving in Perth the day after the festivities at Swanhaven, Bishopriggs + proceeded to the Harp of Scotland—at which establishment for the + reception of travelers he possessed the advantage of being known to the + landlord as Mrs. Inchbare’s right-hand man, and of standing high on the + head-waiter’s list of old and intimate friends. + </p> + <p> + Inquiring for the waiter first by the name of Thomas (otherwise Tammy) + Pennyquick, Bishopriggs found his friend in sore distress of body and + mind. Contending vainly against the disabling advances of rheumatism, + Thomas Pennyquick ruefully contemplated the prospect of being laid up at + home by a long illness—with a wife and children to support, and with + the emoluments attached to his position passing into the pockets of the + first stranger who could be found to occupy his place at the inn. + </p> + <p> + Hearing this doleful story, Bishopriggs cunningly saw his way to serving + his own private interests by performing the part of Thomas Pennyquick’s + generous and devoted friend. + </p> + <p> + He forthwith offered to fill the place, without taking the emoluments, of + the invalided headwaiter—on the understanding, as a matter of + course, that the landlord consented to board and lodge him free of expense + at the inn. The landlord having readily accepted this condition, Thomas + Pennyquick retired to the bosom of his family. And there was Bishopriggs, + doubly secured behind a respectable position and a virtuous action against + all likelihood of suspicion falling on him as a stranger in Perth—in + the event of his correspondence with Mrs. Glenarm being made the object of + legal investigation on the part of her friends! + </p> + <p> + Having opened the campaign in this masterly manner, the same sagacious + foresight had distinguished the operations of Bishopriggs throughout. + </p> + <p> + His correspondence with Mrs. Glenarm was invariably written with the left + hand—the writing thus produced defying detection, in all cases, as + bearing no resemblance of character whatever to writing produced by + persons who habitually use the other hand. A no less far-sighted cunning + distinguished his proceedings in answering the advertisements which the + lawyers duly inserted in the newspaper. He appointed hours at which he was + employed on business-errands for the inn, and places which lay on the way + to those errands, for his meetings with Mrs. Glenarm’s representatives: a + pass-word being determined on, as usual in such cases, by exchanging which + the persons concerned could discover each other. However carefully the + lawyers might set the snare—whether they had their necessary + “witness” disguised as an artist sketching in the neighborhood, or as an + old woman selling fruit, or what not—the wary eye of Bishopriggs + detected it. He left the pass-word unspoken; he went his way on his + errand; he was followed on suspicion; and he was discovered to be only “a + respectable person,” charged with a message by the landlord of the Harp of + Scotland Inn! + </p> + <p> + To a man intrenched behind such precautions as these, the chance of being + detected might well be reckoned among the last of all the chances that + could possibly happen. + </p> + <p> + Discovery was, nevertheless, advancing on Bishopriggs from a quarter which + had not been included in his calculations. Anne Silvester was in Perth; + forewarned by the newspaper (as Sir Patrick had guessed) that the letters + offered to Mrs. Glenarm were the letters between Geoffrey and herself, + which she had lost at Craig Fernie, and bent on clearing up the suspicion + which pointed to Bishopriggs as the person who was trying to turn the + correspondence to pecuniary account. The inquiries made for him, at Anne’s + request, as soon as she arrived in the town, openly described his name, + and his former position as headwaiter at Craig Fernie—and thu s led + easily to the discovery of him, in his publicly avowed character of Thomas + Pennyquick’s devoted friend. Toward evening, on the day after she reached + Perth, the news came to Anne that Bishopriggs was in service at the inn + known as the Harp of Scotland. The landlord of the hotel at which she was + staying inquired whether he should send a message for her. She answered, + “No, I will take my message myself. All I want is a person to show me the + way to the inn.” + </p> + <p> + Secluded in the solitude of the head-waiter’s pantry, Bishopriggs sat + peacefully melting the sugar in his whisky-punch. + </p> + <p> + It was the hour of the evening at which a period of tranquillity generally + occurred before what was called “the night-business” of the house began. + Bishopriggs was accustomed to drink and meditate daily in this interval of + repose. He tasted the punch, and smiled contentedly as he set down his + glass. The prospect before him looked fairly enough. He had outwitted the + lawyers in the preliminary negotiations thus far. All that was needful now + was to wait till the terror of a public scandal (sustained by occasional + letters from her “Friend in the Dark”) had its due effect on Mrs. Glenarm, + and hurried her into paying the purchase-money for the correspondence with + her own hand. “Let it breed in the brain,” he thought, “and the siller + will soon come out o’ the purse.” + </p> + <p> + His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of a slovenly + maid-servant, with a cotton handkerchief tied round her head, and an + uncleaned sauce-pan in her hand. + </p> + <p> + “Eh, Maister Bishopriggs,” cried the girl, “here’s a braw young leddy + speerin’ for ye by yer ain name at the door.” + </p> + <p> + “A leddy?” repeated Bishopriggs, with a look of virtuous disgust. “Ye + donnert ne’er-do-weel, do you come to a decent, ‘sponsible man like me, + wi’ sic a Cyprian overture as that? What d’ye tak’ me for? Mark Antony + that lost the world for love (the mair fule he!)? or Don Jovanny that + counted his concubines by hundreds, like the blessed Solomon himself? Awa’ + wi’ ye to yer pots and pans; and bid the wandering Venus that sent ye go + spin!” + </p> + <p> + Before the girl could answer she was gently pulled aside from the doorway, + and Bishopriggs, thunder-struck, saw Anne Silvester standing in her place. + </p> + <p> + “You had better tell the servant I am no stranger to you,” said Anne, + looking toward the kitchen-maid, who stood in the passage staring at her + in stolid amazement. + </p> + <p> + “My ain sister’s child!” cried Bishopriggs, lying with his customary + readiness. “Go yer ways, Maggie. The bonny lassie’s my ain kith and kin. + The tongue o’ scandal, I trow, has naething to say against that.—Lord + save us and guide us!” he added In another tone, as the girl closed the + door on them, “what brings ye here?” + </p> + <p> + “I have something to say to you. I am not very well; I must wait a little + first. Give me a chair.” + </p> + <p> + Bishopriggs obeyed in silence. His one available eye rested on Anne, as he + produced the chair, with an uneasy and suspicious attention. “I’m wanting + to know one thing,” he said. “By what meeraiculous means, young madam, do + ye happen to ha’ fund yer way to this inn?” + </p> + <p> + Anne told him how her inquiries had been made and what the result had + been, plainly and frankly. The clouded face of Bishopriggs began to clear + again. + </p> + <p> + “Hech! hech!” he exclaimed, recovering all his native impudence, “I hae + had occasion to remark already, to anither leddy than yersel’, that it’s + seemply mairvelous hoo a man’s ain gude deeds find him oot in this lower + warld o’ ours. I hae dune a gude deed by pure Tammy Pennyquick, and here’s + a’ Pairth ringing wi the report o’ it; and Sawmuel Bishopriggs sae weel + known that ony stranger has only to ask, and find him. Understand, I + beseech ye, that it’s no hand o’ mine that pets this new feather in my + cap. As a gude Calvinist, my saul’s clear o’ the smallest figment o’ + belief in Warks. When I look at my ain celeebrity I joost ask, as the + Psawmist asked before me, ‘Why do the heathen rage, and the people imagine + a vain thing?’ It seems ye’ve something to say to me,” he added, suddenly + reverting to the object of Anne’s visit. “Is it humanly possible that ye + can ha’ come a’ the way to Pairth for naething but that?” + </p> + <p> + The expression of suspicion began to show itself again in his face. + Concealing as she best might the disgust that he inspired in her, Anne + stated her errand in the most direct manner, and in the fewest possible + words. + </p> + <p> + “I have come here to ask you for something,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Ay? ay? What may it be ye’re wanting of me?” + </p> + <p> + “I want the letter I lost at Craig Fernie.” + </p> + <p> + Even the solidly-founded self-possession of Bishopriggs himself was shaken + by the startling directness of that attack on it. His glib tongue was + paralyzed for the moment. “I dinna ken what ye’re drivin’ at,” he said, + after an interval, with a sullen consciousness that he had been all but + tricked into betraying himself. + </p> + <p> + The change in his manner convinced Anne that she had found in Bishopriggs + the person of whom she was in search. + </p> + <p> + “You have got my letter,” she said, sternly insisting on the truth. “And + you are trying to turn it to a disgraceful use. I won’t allow you to make + a market of my private affairs. You have offered a letter of mine for sale + to a stranger. I insist on your restoring it to me before I leave this + room!” + </p> + <p> + Bishopriggs hesitated again. His first suspicion that Anne had been + privately instructed by Mrs. Glenarm’s lawyers returned to his mind as a + suspicion confirmed. He felt the vast importance of making a cautious + reply. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll no’ waste precious time,” he said, after a moment’s consideration + with himself, “in brushing awa’ the fawse breath o’ scandal, when it + passes my way. It blaws to nae purpose, my young leddy, when it blaws on + an honest man like me. Fie for shame on ye for saying what ye’ve joost + said—to me that was a fether to ye at Craig Fernie! Wha’ set ye on + to it? Will it be man or woman that’s misca’ed me behind my back?” + </p> + <p> + Anne took the Glasgow newspaper from the pocket of her traveling cloak, + and placed it before him, open at the paragraph which described the act of + extortion attempted on Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + “I have found there,” she said, “all that I want to know.” + </p> + <p> + “May a’ the tribe o’ editors, preenters, paper-makers, news-vendors, and + the like, bleeze together in the pit o’ Tophet!” With this devout + aspiration—internally felt, not openly uttered—Bishopriggs put + on his spectacles, and read the passage pointed out to him. “I see + naething here touching the name o’ Sawmuel Bishopriggs, or the matter o’ + ony loss ye may or may not ha’ had at Craig Fernie,” he said, when he had + done; still defending his position, with a resolution worthy of a better + cause. + </p> + <p> + Anne’s pride recoiled at the prospect of prolonging the discussion with + him. She rose to her feet, and said her last words. + </p> + <p> + “I have learned enough by this time,” she answered, “to know that the one + argument that prevails with you is the argument of money. If money will + spare me the hateful necessity of disputing with you—poor as I am, + money you shall have. Be silent, if you please. You are personally + interested in what I have to say next.” + </p> + <p> + She opened her purse, and took a five-pound note from it. + </p> + <p> + “If you choose to own the truth, and produce the letter,” she resumed, “I + will give you this, as your reward for finding, and restoring to me, + something that I had lost. If you persist in your present prevarication, I + can, and will, make that sheet of note-paper you have stolen from me + nothing but waste paper in your hands. You have threatened Mrs. Glenarm + with my interference. Suppose I go to Mrs. Glenarm? Suppose I interfere + before the week is out? Suppose I have other letters of Mr. Delamayn’s in + my possession, and produce them to speak for me? What has Mrs. Glenarm to + purchase of you <i>then?</i> Answer me that!” + </p> + <p> + The color rose on her pale face. Her eyes, dim and weary when she entered + the room, looked him brightly through and through in immeasurable + contempt. “Answer me that!” she repeated, with a burst of her old energy + which revealed the fire and passion of the woman’s nature, not quenched + even yet! + </p> + <p> + If Bishopriggs had a merit, it was a rare merit, as men go, of knowing + when he was beaten. If he had an accomplishment, it was the accomplishment + of retiring defeated, with all the honors of war. + </p> + <p> + “Mercy presairve us!” he exclaimed, in the most innocent manner. “Is it + even You Yersel’ that writ the letter to the man ca’ed Jaffray Delamayn, + and got the wee bit answer in pencil on the blank page? Hoo, in Heeven’s + name, was I to know <i>that</i> was the letter ye were after when ye cam’ + in here? Did ye ever tell me ye were Anne Silvester, at the hottle? Never + ance! Was the puir feckless husband-creature ye had wi’ ye at the inn, + Jaffray Delamayn? Jaffray wad mak’ twa o’ him, as my ain eyes ha’ seen. + Gi’ ye back yer letter? My certie! noo I know it is yer letter, I’ll gi’ + it back wi’ a’ the pleasure in life!” + </p> + <p> + He opened his pocket-book, and took it out, with an alacrity worthy of the + honestest man in Christendom—and (more wonderful still) he looked + with a perfectly assumed expression of indifference at the five-pound note + in Anne’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Hoot! toot!” he said, “I’m no’ that clear in my mind that I’m free to + tak’ yer money. Eh, weel! weel! I’ll een receive it, if ye like, as a bit + Memento o’ the time when I was o’ some sma’ sairvice to ye at the hottle. + Ye’ll no’ mind,” he added, suddenly returning to business, “writin’ me + joost a line—in the way o’ receipt, ye ken—to clear me o’ ony + future suspicion in the matter o’ the letter?” + </p> + <p> + Anne threw down the bank-note on the table near which they were standing, + and snatched the letter from him. + </p> + <p> + “You need no receipt,” she answered. “There shall be no letter to bear + witness against you!” + </p> + <p> + She lifted her other hand to tear it in pieces. Bishopriggs caught her by + both wrists, at the same moment, and held her fast. + </p> + <p> + “Bide a wee!” he said. “Ye don’t get the letter, young madam, without the + receipt. It may be a’ the same to <i>you,</i> now ye’ve married the other + man, whether Jaffray Delamayn ance promised ye fair in the by-gone time, + or no. But, my certie! it’s a matter o’ some moment to <i>me,</i> that + ye’ve chairged wi’ stealin’ the letter, and making a market o’t, and Lord + knows what besides, that I suld hae yer ain acknowledgment for it in black + and white. Gi’ me my bit receipt—and een do as ye will with yer + letter after that!” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s hold of the letter relaxed. She let Bishopriggs repossess himself + of it as it dropped on the floor between them, without making an effort to + prevent him. + </p> + <p> + “It may be a’ the same to <i>you,</i> now ye’ve married the other man, + whether Jaffray Delamayn ance promised ye fair in the by-gone time, or + no.” Those words presented Anne’s position before her in a light in which + she had not seen it yet. She had truly expressed the loathing that + Geoffrey now inspired in her, when she had declared, in her letter to + Arnold, that, even if he offered her marriage, in atonement for the past, + she would rather be what she was than be his wife. It had never occurred + to her, until this moment, that others would misinterpret the sensitive + pride which had prompted the abandonment of her claim on the man who had + ruined her. It had never been brought home to her until now, that if she + left him contemptuously to go his own way, and sell himself to the first + woman who had money enough to buy him, her conduct would sanction the + false conclusion that she was powerless to interfere, because she was + married already to another man. The color that had risen in her face + vanished, and left it deadly pale again. She began to see that the purpose + of her journey to the north was not completed yet. + </p> + <p> + “I will give you your receipt,” she said. “Tell me what to write, and it + shall be written.” + </p> + <p> + Bishopriggs dictated the receipt. She wrote and signed it. He put it in + his pocket-book with the five-pound note, and handed her the letter in + exchange. + </p> + <p> + “Tear it if ye will,” he said. “It matters naething to <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + For a moment she hesitated. A sudden shuddering shook her from head to + foot—the forewarning, it might be, of the influence which that + letter, saved from destruction by a hair’s-breadth, was destined to + exercise on her life to come. She recovered herself, and folded her cloak + closer to her, as if she had felt a passing chill. + </p> + <p> + “No,” she said; “I will keep the letter.” + </p> + <p> + She folded it and put it in the pocket of her dress. Then turned to go—and + stopped at the door. + </p> + <p> + “One thing more,” she added. “Do you know Mrs. Glenarm’s present address?” + </p> + <p> + “Ye’re no’ reely going to Mistress Glenarm?” + </p> + <p> + “That is no concern of yours. You can answer my question or not, as you + please.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh, my leddy! yer temper’s no’ what it used to be in the auld times at + the hottle. Aweel! aweel! ye ha’ gi’en me yer money, and I’ll een gi’ ye + back gude measure for it, on my side. Mistress Glenarm’s awa’ in private—incog, + as they say—to Jaffray Delamayn’s brither at Swanhaven Lodge. Ye may + rely on the information, and it’s no’ that easy to come at either. They’ve + keepit it a secret as they think from a’ the warld. Hech! hech! Tammy + Pennyquick’s youngest but twa is page-boy at the hoose where the leddy’s + been veesitin’, on the outskirts o’ Pairth. Keep a secret if ye can frae + the pawky ears o’ yer domestics in the servants’ hall!—Eh! she’s + aff, without a word at parting!” he exclaimed, as Anne left him without + ceremony in the middle of his dissertation on secrets and servants’ halls. + “I trow I ha’ gaen out for wool, and come back shorn,” he added, + reflecting grimly on the disastrous overthrow of the promising speculation + on which he had embarked. “My certie! there was naething left for’t, when + madam’s fingers had grippit me, but to slip through them as cannily as I + could. What’s Jaffray’s marrying, or no’ marrying, to do wi’ <i>her?</i>” + he wondered, reverting to the question which Anne had put to him at + parting. “And whar’s the sense o’ her errand, if she’s reely bent on + finding her way to Mistress Glenarm?” + </p> + <p> + Whatever the sense of her errand might be, Anne’s next proceeding proved + that she was really bent on it. After resting two days, she left Perth by + the first train in the morning, for Swanhaven Lodge. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0052" id="link2H_4_0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + NINTH SCENE.—THE MUSIC-ROOM. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0040" id="link2HCH0040"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTIETH. + </h2> + <h3> + JULIUS MAKES MISCHIEF. + </h3> + <p> + JULIUS DELAMAYN was alone, idly sauntering to and fro, with his violin in + his hand, on the terrace at Swanhaven Lodge. + </p> + <p> + The first mellow light of evening was in the sky. It was the close of the + day on which Anne Silvester had left Perth. + </p> + <p> + Some hours earlier, Julius had sacrificed himself to the duties of his + political position—as made for him by his father. He had submitted + to the dire necessity of delivering an oration to the electors, at a + public meeting in the neighboring town of Kirkandrew. A detestable + atmosphere to breathe; a disorderly audience to address; insolent + opposition to conciliate; imbecile inquiries to answer; brutish + interruptions to endure; greedy petitioners to pacify; and dirty hands to + shake: these are the stages by which the aspiring English gentleman is + compelled to travel on the journey which leads him from the modest + obscurity of private life to the glorious publicity of the House of + Commons. Julius paid the preliminary penalties of a political first + appearance, as exacted by free institutions, with the necessary patience; + and returned to the welcome shelter of home, more indifferent, if + possible, to the attractions of Parliamentary distinction than when he set + out. The discord of the roaring “people” (still echoing in his ears) had + sharpened his customary sensibility to the poetry of sound, as composed by + Mozart, and as interpreted by piano and violin. Possessing himself of his + beloved instrument, he had gone out on the terrace to cool himself in the + evening air, pending the arrival of the servant whom he had summoned by + the music-room bell. The man appeared at the glass door which led into the + room; and reported, in answer to his master’s inquiry, that Mrs. Julius + Delamayn was out paying visits, and was not expected to return for another + hour at least. + </p> + <p> + Julius groaned in spirit. The finest music which Mozart has written for + the violin associates that instrument with the piano. Without the wife to + help him, the husband was mute. After an instant’s consideration, Julius + hit on an idea which promised, in some degree, to remedy the disaster of + Mrs. Delamayn’s absence from home. + </p> + <p> + “Has Mrs. Glenarm gone out, too?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “No, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “My compliments. If Mrs. Glenarm has nothing else to do, will she be so + kind as to come to me in the music-room?” + </p> + <p> + The servant went away with his message. Julius seated himself on one of + the terrace-benches, and began to tune his violin. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm—rightly reported by Bishopriggs as having privately + taken refuge from her anonymous correspondent at Swanhaven Lodge—was, + musically speaking, far from being an efficient substitute for Mrs. + Delamayn. Julius possessed, in his wife, one of the few players on the + piano-forte under whose subtle touch that shallow and soulless instrument + becomes inspired with expression not its own, and produces music instead + of noise. The fine organization which can work this miracle had not been + bestowed on Mrs. Glenarm. She had been carefully taught; and she was to be + trusted to play correctly—and that was all. Julius, hungry for + music, and reigned to circumstances, asked for no more. + </p> + <p> + The servant returned with his answer. Mrs. Glenarm would join Mr. Delamayn + in the music-room in ten minutes’ time. + </p> + <p> + Julius rose, relieved, and resumed his sauntering walk; now playing little + snatches of music, now stopping to look at the flowers on the terrace, + with an eye that enjoyed their beauty, and a hand that fondled them with + caressing touch. If Imperial Parliament had seen him at that moment, + Imperial Parliament must have given notice of a question to his + illustrious father: Is it possible, my lord, that <i>you</i> can have + begotten such a Member as this? + </p> + <p> + After stopping for a moment to tighten one of the strings of his violin, + Julius, raising his head from the instrument, was surprised to see a lady + approaching him on the terrace. Advancing to meet her, and perceiving that + she was a total stranger to him, he assumed that she was, in all + probability, a visitor to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Have I the honor of speaking to a friend of Mrs. Delamayn’s?” he asked. + “My wife is not at home, I am sorry to say.” + </p> + <p> + “I am a stranger to Mrs. Delamayn,” the lady answered. “The servant + informed me that she had gone out; and that I should find Mr. Delamayn + here.” + </p> + <p> + Julius bowed—and waited to hear more. + </p> + <p> + “I must beg you to forgive my intrusion,” the stranger went on. “My object + is to ask permission to see a lady who is, I have been informed, a guest + in your house.” + </p> + <p> + The extraordinary formality of the request rather puzzled Julius. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Mrs. Glenarm?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t think any permission necessary. A friend of Mrs. Glenarm’s may + take her welcome for granted in this house.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not a friend of Mrs. Glenarm. I am a total stranger to her.” + </p> + <p> + This made the ceremonious request preferred by the lady a little more + intelligible—but it left the lady’s object in wishing to speak to + Mrs. Glenarm still in the dark. Julius politely waited, until it pleased + her to proceed further, and explain herself The explanation did not appear + to be an easy one to give. Her eyes dropped to the ground. She hesitated + painfully. + </p> + <p> + “My name—if I mention it,” she resumed, without looking up, “may + possibly inform you—” She paused. Her color came and went. She + hesitated again; struggled with her agitation, and controlled it. “I am + Anne Silvester,” she said, suddenly raising her pale face, and suddenly + steadying her trembling voice. + </p> + <p> + Julius started, and looked at her in silent surprise. + </p> + <p> + The name was doubly known to him. Not long since, he had heard it from his + father’s lips, at his father’s bedside. Lord Holchester had charged him, + had earnestly charged him, to bear that name in mind, and to help the + woman who bore it, if the woman ever applied to him in time to come. + Again, he had heard the name, more lately, associated scandalously with + the name of his brother. On the receipt of the first of the anonymous + letters sent to her, Mrs. Glenarm had not only summoned Geoffrey himself + to refute the aspersion cast upon him, but had forwarded a private copy of + the letter to his relatives at Swanhaven. Geoffrey’s defense had not + entirely satisfied Julius that his brother was free from blame. As he now + looked at Anne Silvester, the doubt returned upon him strengthened—almost + confirmed. Was this woman—so modest, so gentle, so simply and + unaffectedly refined—the shameless adventuress denounced by + Geoffrey, as claiming him on the strength of a foolish flirtation; knowing + herself, at the time, to be privately married to another man? Was this + woman—with the voice of a lady, the look of a lady, the manner of a + lady—in league (as Geoffrey had declared) with the illiterate + vagabond who was attempting to extort money anonymously from Mrs. Glenarm? + Impossible! Making every allowance for the proverbial deceitfulness of + appearances, impossible! + </p> + <p> + “Your name has been mentioned to me,” said Julius, answering her after a + momentary pause. His instincts, as a gentleman, made him shrink from + referring to the association of her name with the name of his brother. “My + father mentioned you,” he added, considerately explaining his knowledge of + her in <i>that</i> way, “when I last saw him in London.” + </p> + <p> + “Your father!” She came a step nearer, with a look of distrust as well as + a look of astonishment in her face. “Your father is Lord Holchester—is + he not?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “What made him speak of <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “He was ill at the time,” Julius answered. “And he had been thinking of + events in his past life with which I am entirely unacquainted. He said he + had known your father and mother. He desired me, if you were ever in want + of any assistance, to place my services at your disposal. When he + expressed that wish, he spoke very earnestly—he gave me the + impression that there was a feeling of regret associated with the + recollections on which he had been dwelling.” + </p> + <p> + Slowly, and in silence, Anne drew back to the low wall of the terrace + close by. She rested one hand on it to support herself. Julius had said + words of terrible import without a suspicion of what he had done. Never + until now had Anne Silvester known that the man who had betrayed her was + the son of that other man whose discovery of the flaw in the marriage had + ended in the betrayal of her mother before her. She felt the shock of the + revelation with a chill of superstitious dread. Was the chain of a + fatality wound invisibly round her? Turn which way she might was she still + going darkly on, in the track of her dead mother, to an appointed and + hereditary doom? Present things passed from her view as the awful doubt + cast its shadow over her mind. She lived again for a moment in the time + when she was a child. She saw the face of her mother once more, with the + wan despair on it of the bygone days when the title of wife was denied + her, and the social prospect was closed forever. + </p> + <p> + Julius approached, and roused her. + </p> + <p> + “Can I get you any thing?” he asked. “You are looking very ill. I hope I + have said nothing to distress you?” + </p> + <p> + The question failed to attract her attention. She put a question herself + instead of answering it. + </p> + <p> + “Did you say you were quite ignorant of what your father was thinking of + when he spoke to you about me?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite ignorant.” + </p> + <p> + “Is your brother likely to know more about it than you do?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not.” + </p> + <p> + She paused, absorbed once more in her own thoughts. Startled, on the + memorable day when they had first met, by Geoffrey’s family name, she had + put the question to him whether there had not been some acquaintance + between their parents in the past time. Deceiving her in all else, he had + not deceived in this. He had spoken in good faith, when he had declared + that he had never heard her father or her mother mentioned at home. + </p> + <p> + The curiosity of Julius was aroused. He attempted to lead her on into + saying more. + </p> + <p> + “You appear to know what my father was thinking of when he spoke to me,” + he resumed. “May I ask—” + </p> + <p> + She interrupted him with a gesture of entreaty. + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t ask! It’s past and over—it can have no interest for you—it + has nothing to do with my errand here. I must return,” she went on, + hurriedly, “to my object in trespassing on your kindness. Have you heard + me mentioned, Mr. Delamayn, by another member of your family besides your + father?” + </p> + <p> + Julius had not anticipated that sh e would approach, of her own accord, + the painful subject on which he had himself forborne to touch. He was a + little disappointed. He had expected more delicacy of feeling from her + than she had shown. + </p> + <p> + “Is it necessary,” he asked, coldly, “to enter on that?” + </p> + <p> + The blood rose again in Anne’s cheeks. + </p> + <p> + “If it had not been necessary,” she answered, “do you think I could have + forced myself to mention it to <i>you?</i> Let me remind you that I am + here on sufferance. If I don’t speak plainly (no matter at what sacrifice + to my own feelings), I make my situation more embarrassing than it is + already. I have something to tell Mrs. Glenarm relating to the anonymous + letters which she has lately received. And I have a word to say to her, + next, about her contemplated marriage. Before you allow me to do this, you + ought to know who I am. (I have owned it.) You ought to have heard the + worst that can be said of my conduct. (Your face tells me you have heard + the worst.) After the forbearance you have shown to me, as a perfect + stranger, I will not commit the meanness of taking you by surprise. + Perhaps, Mr. Delamayn, you understand, <i>now,</i> why I felt myself + obliged to refer to your brother. Will you trust me with permission to + speak to Mrs. Glenarm?” + </p> + <p> + It was simply and modestly said—with an unaffected and touching + resignation of look and manner. Julius gave her back the respect and the + sympathy which, for a moment, he had unjustly withheld from her. + </p> + <p> + “You have placed a confidence in me,” he said “which most persons in your + situation would have withheld. I feel bound, in return to place confidence + in you. I will take it for granted that your motive in this matter is one + which it is my duty to respect. It will be for Mrs. Glenarm to say whether + she wishes the interview to take place or not. All that I can do is to + leave you free to propose it to her. You <i>are</i> free.” + </p> + <p> + As he spoke the sound of the piano reached them from the music-room. + Julius pointed to the glass door which opened on to the terrace. + </p> + <p> + “You have only to go in by that door,” he said, “and you will find Mrs. + Glenarm alone.” + </p> + <p> + Anne bowed, and left him. Arrived at the short flight of steps which led + up to the door, she paused to collect her thoughts before she went in. + </p> + <p> + A sudden reluctance to go on and enter the room took possession of her, as + she waited with her foot on the lower step. The report of Mrs. Glenarm’s + contemplated marriage had produced no such effect on her as Sir Patrick + had supposed: it had found no love for Geoffrey left to wound, no latent + jealousy only waiting to be inflamed. Her object in taking the journey to + Perth was completed when her correspondence with Geoffrey was in her own + hands again. The change of purpose which had brought her to Swanhaven was + due entirely to the new view of her position toward Mrs. Glenarm which the + coarse commonsense of Bishopriggs had first suggested to her. If she + failed to protest against Mrs. Glenarm’s marriage, in the interests of the + reparation which Geoffrey owed to her, her conduct would only confirm + Geoffrey’s audacious assertion that she was a married woman already. For + her own sake she might still have hesitated to move in the matter. But + Blanche’s interests were concerned as well as her own; and, for Blanche’s + sake, she had resolved on making the journey to Swanhaven Lodge. + </p> + <p> + At the same time, feeling toward Geoffrey as she felt now—conscious + as she was of not really desiring the reparation on which she was about to + insist—it was essential to the preservation of her own self-respect + that she should have some purpose in view which could justify her to her + own conscience in assuming the character of Mrs. Glenarm’s rival. + </p> + <p> + She had only to call to mind the critical situation of Blanche—and + to see her purpose before her plainly. Assuming that she could open the + coming interview by peaceably proving that her claim on Geoffrey was + beyond dispute, she might then, without fear of misconception, take the + tone of a friend instead of an enemy, and might, with the best grace, + assure Mrs. Glenarm that she had no rivalry to dread, on the one easy + condition that she engaged to make Geoffrey repair the evil that he had + done. “Marry him without a word against it to dread from <i>me</i>—so + long as he unsays the words and undoes the deeds which have thrown a doubt + on the marriage of Arnold and Blanche.” If she could but bring the + interview to this end—there was the way found of extricating Arnold, + by her own exertions, from the false position in which she had innocently + placed him toward his wife! Such was the object before her, as she now + stood on the brink of her interview with Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + Up to this moment, she had firmly believed in her capacity to realize her + own visionary project. It was only when she had her foot on the step that + a doubt of the success of the coming experiment crossed her mind. For the + first time, she saw the weak point in her own reasoning. For the first + time, she felt how much she had blindly taken for granted, in assuming + that Mrs. Glenarm would have sufficient sense of justice and sufficient + command of temper to hear her patiently. All her hopes of success rested + on her own favorable estimate of a woman who was a total stranger to her! + What if the first words exchanged between them proved the estimate to be + wrong? + </p> + <p> + It was too late to pause and reconsider the position. Julius Delamayn had + noticed her hesitation, and was advancing toward her from the end of the + terrace. There was no help for it but to master her own irresolution, and + to run the risk boldly. “Come what may, I have gone too far to stop <i>here.</i>” + With that desperate resolution to animate her, she opened the glass door + at the top of the steps, and went into the room. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm rose from the piano. The two women—one so richly, the + other so plainly dressed; one with her beauty in its full bloom, the other + worn and blighted; one with society at her feet, the other an outcast + living under the bleak shadow of reproach—the two women stood face + to face, and exchanged the cold courtesies of salute between strangers, in + silence. + </p> + <p> + The first to meet the trivial necessities of the situation was Mrs. + Glenarm. She good-humoredly put an end to the embarrassment—which + the shy visitor appeared to feel acutely—by speaking first. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid the servants have not told you?” she said. “Mrs. Delamayn has + gone out.” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your pardon—I have not called to see Mrs. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm looked a little surprised. She went on, however, as amiably + as before. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn, perhaps?” she suggested. “I expect him here every moment.” + </p> + <p> + Anne explained again. “I have just parted from Mr. Delamayn.” Mrs. Glenarm + opened her eyes in astonishment. Anne proceeded. “I have come here, if you + will excuse the intrusion—” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated—at a loss how to end the sentence. Mrs. Glenarm, + beginning by this time to feel a strong curiosity as to what might be + coming next, advanced to the rescue once more. + </p> + <p> + “Pray don’t apologize,” she said. “I think I understand that you are so + good as to have come to see <i>me.</i> You look tired. Won’t you take a + chair?” + </p> + <p> + Anne could stand no longer. She took the offered chair. Mrs. Glenarm + resumed her place on the music-stool, and ran her fingers idly over the + keys of the piano. “Where did you see Mr. Delamayn?” she went on. “The + most irresponsible of men, except when he has got his fiddle in his hand! + Is he coming in soon? Are we going to have any music? Have you come to + play with us? Mr. Delamayn is a perfect fanatic in music, isn’t he? Why + isn’t he here to introduce us? I suppose you like the classical style, + too? Did you know that I was in the music-room? Might I ask your name?” + </p> + <p> + Frivolous as they were, Mrs. Glenarm’s questions were not without their + use. They gave Anne time to summon her resolution, and to feel the + necessity of explaining herself. + </p> + <p> + “I am speaking, I believe, to Mrs. Glenarm?” she began. + </p> + <p> + The good-humored widow smiled and bowed graciously. + </p> + <p> + “I have come here, Mrs. Glenarm—by Mr. Delamayn’s permission—to + ask leave to speak to you on a matter in which you are interested.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm’s many-ringed fingers paused over the keys of the piano. Mrs. + Gle narm’s plump face turned on the stranger with a dawning expression of + surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Indeed? I am interested in so many matters. May I ask what <i>this</i> + matter is?” + </p> + <p> + The flippant tone of the speaker jarred on Anne. If Mrs. Glenarm’s nature + was as shallow as it appeared to be on the surface, there was little hope + of any sympathy establishing itself between them. + </p> + <p> + “I wished to speak to you,” she answered, “about something that happened + while you were paying a visit in the neighborhood of Perth.” + </p> + <p> + The dawning surprise in Mrs. Glenarm’s face became intensified into an + expression of distrust. Her hearty manner vanished under a veil of + conventional civility, drawn over it suddenly. She looked at Anne. “Never + at the best of times a beauty,” she thought. “Wretchedly out of health + now. Dressed like a servant, and looking like a lady. What <i>does</i> it + mean?” + </p> + <p> + The last doubt was not to be borne in silence by a person of Mrs. + Glenarm’s temperament. She addressed herself to the solution of it with + the most unblushing directness—dextrously excused by the most + winning frankness of manner. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” she said. “My memory for faces is a bad one; and I don’t + think you heard me just now, when I asked for your name. Have we ever met + before?” + </p> + <p> + “Never.” + </p> + <p> + “And yet—if I understand what you are referring to—you wish to + speak to me about something which is only interesting to myself and my + most intimate friends.” + </p> + <p> + “You understand me quite correctly,” said Anne. “I wish to speak to you + about some anonymous letters—” + </p> + <p> + “For the third time, will you permit me to ask for your name?” + </p> + <p> + “You shall hear it directly—if you will first allow me to finish + what I wanted to say. I wish—if I can—to persuade you that I + come here as a friend, before I mention my name. You will, I am sure, not + be very sorry to hear that you need dread no further annoyance—” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me once more,” said Mrs. Glenarm, interposing for the second time. + “I am at a loss to know to what I am to attribute this kind interest in my + affairs on the part of a total stranger.” + </p> + <p> + This time, her tone was more than politely cold—it was politely + impertinent. Mrs. Glenarm had lived all her life in good society, and was + a perfect mistress of the subtleties of refined insolence in her + intercourse with those who incurred her displeasure. + </p> + <p> + Anne’s sensitive nature felt the wound—but Anne’s patient courage + submitted. She put away from her the insolence which had tried to sting, + and went on, gently and firmly, as if nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + “The person who wrote to you anonymously,” she said, “alluded to a + correspondence. He is no longer in possession of it. The correspondence + has passed into hands which may be trusted to respect it. It will be put + to no base use in the future—I answer for that.” + </p> + <p> + “You answer for that?” repeated Mrs. Glenarm. She suddenly leaned forward + over the piano, and fixed her eyes in unconcealed scrutiny on Anne’s face. + The violent temper, so often found in combination with the weak nature, + began to show itself in her rising color, and her lowering brow. “How do + <i>you</i> know what the person wrote?” she asked. “How do <i>you</i> know + that the correspondence has passed into other hands? Who are you?” Before + Anne could answer her, she sprang to her feet, electrified by a new idea. + “The man who wrote to me spoke of something else besides a correspondence. + He spoke of a woman. I have found you out!” she exclaimed, with a burst of + jealous fury. “<i>You</i> are the woman!” + </p> + <p> + Anne rose on her side, still in firm possession of her self-control. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Glenarm,” she said, calmly, “I warn—no, I entreat you—not + to take that tone with me. Compose yourself; and I promise to satisfy you + that you are more interested than you are willing to believe in what I + have still to say. Pray bear with me for a little longer. I admit that you + have guessed right. I own that I am the miserable woman who has been + ruined and deserted by Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s false!” cried Mrs. Glenarm. “You wretch! Do you come to <i>me</i> + with your trumped-up story? What does Julius Delamayn mean by exposing me + to this?” Her indignation at finding herself in the same room with Anne + broke its way through, not the restraints only, but the common decencies + of politeness. “I’ll ring for the servants!” she said. “I’ll have you + turned out of the house.” + </p> + <p> + She tried to cross the fire-place to ring the bell. Anne, who was standing + nearest to it, stepped forward at the same moment. Without saying a word, + she motioned with her hand to the other woman to stand back. There was a + pause. The two waited, with their eyes steadily fixed on one another—each + with her resolution laid bare to the other’s view. In a moment more, the + finer nature prevailed. Mrs. Glenarm drew back a step in silence. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” said Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to you?” repeated Mrs. Glenarm. “You have no right to be in this + house. You have no right to force yourself in here. Leave the room!” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s patience—so firmly and admirably preserved thus far—began + to fail her at last. + </p> + <p> + “Take care, Mrs. Glenarm!” she said, still struggling with herself. “I am + not naturally a patient woman. Trouble has done much to tame my temper—but + endurance has its limits. You have reached the limits of mine. I have a + claim to be heard—and after what you have said to me, I <i>will</i> + be heard!” + </p> + <p> + “You have no claim! You shameless woman, you are married already. I know + the man’s name. Arnold Brinkworth.” + </p> + <p> + “Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?” + </p> + <p> + “I decline to answer a woman who speaks of Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn in that + familiar way.” + </p> + <p> + Anne advanced a step nearer. + </p> + <p> + “Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?” she repeated. + </p> + <p> + There was a light in her eyes, there was a ring in her voice, which showed + that she was roused at last. Mrs. Glenarm answered her, this time. + </p> + <p> + “He did tell me.” + </p> + <p> + “He lied!” + </p> + <p> + “He did <i>not!</i> He knew. I believe <i>him.</i> I don’t believe <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “If he told you that I was any thing but a single woman—if he told + you that Arnold Brinkworth was married to any body but Miss Lundie of + Windygates—I say again he lied!” + </p> + <p> + “I say again—I believe <i>him,</i> and not you.” + </p> + <p> + “You believe I am Arnold Brinkworth’s wife?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it.” + </p> + <p> + “You tell me that to my face?” + </p> + <p> + “I tell you to your face—you may have been Geoffrey Delamayn’s + mistress; you are Arnold Brinkworth’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + At those words the long restrained anger leaped up in Anne—all the + more hotly for having been hitherto so steadily controlled. In one + breathless moment the whirlwind of her indignation swept away, not only + all remembrance of the purpose which had brought her to Swanhaven, but all + sense even of the unpardonable wrong which she had suffered at Geoffrey’s + hands. If he had been there, at that moment, and had offered to redeem his + pledge, she would have consented to marry him, while Mrs. Glenarm s eye + was on her—no matter whether she destroyed herself in her first cool + moment afterward or not. The small sting had planted itself at last in the + great nature. The noblest woman is only a woman, after all! + </p> + <p> + “I forbid your marriage to Geoffrey Delamayn! I insist on his performing + the promise he gave me, to make me his wife! I have got it here in his own + words, in his own writing. On his soul, he swears it to me—he will + redeem his pledge. His mistress, did you say? His wife, Mrs. Glenarm, + before the week is out!” + </p> + <p> + In those wild words she cast back the taunt—with the letter held in + triumph in her hand. + </p> + <p> + Daunted for the moment by the doubt now literally forced on her, that Anne + might really have the claim on Geoffrey which she advanced, Mrs. Glenarm + answered nevertheless with the obstinacy of a woman brought to bay—with + a resolution not to be convinced by conviction itself. + </p> + <p> + “I won’t give him up!” she cried. “Your letter is a forgery. You have no + proof. I won’t, I won’t, I won’t give him up!” she repeated, with the + impotent iteration of an angry child. + </p> + <p> + Anne pointed disdainfully to the letter that she held. “Here is his + pledged and written word,” she said. “While I live, you will never be his + wife.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall be his wife the day after the race. I am going to him in London—to + warn him against You!” + </p> + <p> + “You will find me in London, before you—with this in my hand. Do you + know his writing?” + </p> + <p> + She held up the letter, open. Mrs. Glenarm’s hand flew out with the + stealthy rapidity of a cat’s paw, to seize and destroy it. Quick as she + was, her rival was quicker still. For an instant they faced each other + breathless—one with the letter held behind her; one with her hand + still stretched out. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment—before a word more had passed between them—the + glass door opened; and Julius Delamayn appeared in the room. + </p> + <p> + He addressed himself to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “We decided, on the terrace,” he said, quietly, “that you should speak to + Mrs. Glenarm, if Mrs. Glenarm wished it. Do you think it desirable that + the interview should be continued any longer?” + </p> + <p> + Anne’s head drooped on her breast. The fiery anger in her was quenched in + an instant. + </p> + <p> + “I have been cruelly provoked, Mr. Delamayn,” she answered. “But I have no + right to plead that.” She looked up at him for a moment. The hot tears of + shame gathered in her eyes, and fell slowly over her cheeks. She bent her + head again, and hid them from him. “The only atonement I can make,” she + said, “is to ask your pardon, and to leave the house.” + </p> + <p> + In silence, she turned away to the door. In silence, Julius Delamayn paid + her the trifling courtesy of opening it for her. She went out. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm’s indignation—suspended for the moment—transferred + itself to Julius. + </p> + <p> + “If I have been entrapped into seeing that woman, with your approval,” she + said, haughtily, “I owe it to myself, Mr. Delamayn, to follow her example, + and to leave your house.” + </p> + <p> + “I authorized her to ask you for an interview, Mrs. Glenarm. If she has + presumed on the permission that I gave her, I sincerely regret it, and I + beg you to accept my apologies. At the same time, I may venture to add, in + defense of my conduct, that I thought her—and think her still—a + woman to be pitied more than to be blamed.” + </p> + <p> + “To be pitied did you say?” asked Mrs. Glenarm, doubtful whether her ears + had not deceived her. + </p> + <p> + “To be pitied,” repeated Julius. + </p> + <p> + “<i>You</i> may find it convenient, Mr. Delamayn, to forget what your + brother has told us about that person. <i>I</i> happen to remember it.” + </p> + <p> + “So do I, Mrs. Glenarm. But, with my experience of Geoffrey—” He + hesitated, and ran his fingers nervously over the strings of his violin. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t believe him?” said Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + Julius declined to admit that he doubted his brother’s word, to the lady + who was about to become his brother’s wife. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t quite go that length,” he said. “I find it difficult to reconcile + what Geoffrey has told us, with Miss Silvester’s manner and appearance—” + </p> + <p> + “Her appearance!” cried Mrs. Glenarm, in a transport of astonishment and + disgust. “<i>Her</i> appearance! Oh, the men! I beg your pardon—I + ought to have remembered that there is no accounting for tastes. Go on—pray + go on!” + </p> + <p> + “Shall we compose ourselves with a little music?” suggested Julius. + </p> + <p> + “I particularly request you will go on,” answered Mrs. Glenarm, + emphatically. “You find it ‘impossible to reconcile’—” + </p> + <p> + “I said ‘difficult.’” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, very well. Difficult to reconcile what Geoffrey told us, with Miss + Silvester’s manner and appearance. What next? You had something else to + say, when I was so rude as to interrupt you. What was it?” + </p> + <p> + “Only this,” said Julius. “I don’t find it easy to understand Sir Patrick + Lundie’s conduct in permitting Mr. Brinkworth to commit bigamy with his + niece.” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute! The marriage of that horrible woman to Mr. Brinkworth was + a private marriage. Of course, Sir Patrick knew nothing about it!” + </p> + <p> + Julius owned that this might be possible, and made a second attempt to + lead the angry lady back to the piano. Useless, once more! Though she + shrank from confessing it to herself, Mrs. Glenarm’s belief in the + genuineness of her lover’s defense had been shaken. The tone taken by + Julius—moderate as it was—revived the first startling + suspicion of the credibility of Geoffrey’s statement which Anne’s language + and conduct had forced on Mrs. Glenarm. She dropped into the nearest + chair, and put her handkerchief to her eyes. “You always hated poor + Geoffrey,” she said, with a burst of tears. “And now you’re defaming him + to me!” + </p> + <p> + Julius managed her admirably. On the point of answering her seriously, he + checked himself. “I always hated poor Geoffrey,” he repeated, with a + smile. “You ought to be the last person to say that, Mrs. Glenarm! I + brought him all the way from London expressly to introduce him to <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Then I wish you had left him in London!” retorted Mrs. Glenarm, shifting + suddenly from tears to temper. “I was a happy woman before I met your + brother. I can’t give him up!” she burst out, shifting back again from + temper to tears. “I don’t care if he <i>has</i> deceived me. I won’t let + another woman have him! I <i>will</i> be his wife!” She threw herself + theatrically on her knees before Julius. “Oh, <i>do</i> help me to find + out the truth!” she said. “Oh, Julius, pity me! I am so fond of him!” + </p> + <p> + There was genuine distress in her face, there was true feeling in her + voice. Who would have believed that there were reserves of merciless + insolence and heartless cruelty in this woman—and that they had been + lavishly poured out on a fallen sister not five minutes since? + </p> + <p> + “I will do all I can,” said Julius, raising her. “Let us talk of it when + you are more composed. Try a little music,” he repeated, “just to quiet + your nerves.” + </p> + <p> + “Would <i>you</i> like me to play?” asked Mrs. Glenarm, becoming a model + of feminine docility at a moment’s notice. + </p> + <p> + Julius opened the Sonatas of Mozart, and shouldered his violin. + </p> + <p> + “Let’s try the Fifteenth,” he said, placing Mrs. Glenarm at the piano. “We + will begin with the Adagio. If ever there was divine music written by + mortal man, there it is!” + </p> + <p> + They began. At the third bar Mrs. Glenarm dropped a note—and the bow + of Julius paused shuddering on the strings. + </p> + <p> + “I can’t play!” she said. “I am so agitated; I am so anxious. How <i>am</i> + I to find out whether that wretch is really married or not? Who can I ask? + I can’t go to Geoffrey in London—the trainers won’t let me see him. + I can’t appeal to Mr. Brinkworth himself—I am not even acquainted + with him. Who else is there? Do think, and tell me!” + </p> + <p> + There was but one chance of making her return to the Adagio—the + chance of hitting on a suggestion which would satisfy and quiet her. + Julius laid his violin on the piano, and considered the question before + him carefully. + </p> + <p> + “There are the witnesses,” he said. “If Geoffrey’s story is to be depended + on, the landlady and the waiter at the inn can speak to the facts.” + </p> + <p> + “Low people!” objected Mrs. Glenarm. “People I don’t know. People who + might take advantage of my situation, and be insolent to me.” + </p> + <p> + Julius considered once more; and made another suggestion. With the fatal + ingenuity of innocence, he hit on the idea of referring Mrs. Glenarm to no + less a person than Lady Lundie herself! + </p> + <p> + “There is our good friend at Windygates,” he said. “Some whisper of the + matter may have reached Lady Lundie’s ears. It may be a little awkward to + call on her (if she <i>has</i> heard any thing) at the time of a serious + family disaster. You are the best judge of that, however. All I can do is + to throw out the notion. Windygates isn’t very far off—and something + might come of it. What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + Something might come of it! Let it be remembered that Lady Lundie had been + left entirely in the dark—that she had written to Sir Patrick in a + tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem was wounded and her + suspicion roused—and that her first intimation of the serious + dilemma in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was now likely, thanks to Julius + Delamayn, to reach her from the lips of a mere acquaintance. Let this be + remembered; and then let the estimate be formed of what might come of it—not + at Windygates only, but also at Ham Farm! + </p> + <p> + “What do you think?” asked Julius. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm was enchanted. “The very person to go to!” she said. “If I am + not let in I can easily write—and explain my object as an apology. + Lady Lundie is so right-minded, so sympathetic. If she sees no one else—I + have only to confide my anxieties to her, and I am sure she will see me. + You will lend me a carriage, won’t you? I’ll go to Windygates to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + Julius took his violin off the pi ano. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t think me very troublesome,” he said coaxingly. “Between this and + to-morrow we have nothing to do. And it is <i>such</i> music, if you once + get into the swing of it! Would you mind trying again?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm was willing to do any thing to prove her gratitude, after the + invaluable hint which she had just received. At the second trial the fair + pianist’s eye and hand were in perfect harmony. The lovely melody which + the Adagio of Mozart’s Fifteenth Sonata has given to violin and piano + flowed smoothly at last—and Julius Delamayn soared to the seventh + heaven of musical delight. + </p> + <p> + The next day Mrs. Glenarm and Mrs. Delamayn went together to Windygates + House. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0054" id="link2H_4_0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TENTH SCENE—THE BEDROOM. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0041" id="link2HCH0041"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST. + </h2> + <h3> + LADY LUNDIE DOES HER DUTY. + </h3> + <p> + THE scene opens on a bedroom—and discloses, in broad daylight, a + lady in bed. + </p> + <p> + Persons with an irritable sense of propriety, whose self-appointed duty it + is to be always crying out, are warned to pause before they cry out on + this occasion. The lady now presented to view being no less a person than + Lady Lundie herself, it follows, as a matter of course, that the utmost + demands of propriety are, by the mere assertion of that fact, abundantly + and indisputably satisfied. To say that any thing short of direct moral + advantage could, by any possibility, accrue to any living creature by the + presentation of her ladyship in a horizontal, instead of a perpendicular + position, is to assert that Virtue is a question of posture, and that + Respectability ceases to assert itself when it ceases to appear in morning + or evening dress. Will any body be bold enough to say that? Let nobody cry + out, then, on the present occasion. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie was in bed. + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship had received Blanche’s written announcement of the sudden + stoppage of the bridal tour; and had penned the answer to Sir Patrick—the + receipt of which at Ham Farm has been already described. This done, Lady + Lundie felt it due to herself to take a becoming position in her own + house, pending the possible arrival of Sir Patrick’s reply. What does a + right-minded woman do, when she has reason to believe that she is cruelly + distrusted by the members of her own family? A right-minded woman feels it + so acutely that she falls ill. Lady Lundie fell ill accordingly. + </p> + <p> + The case being a serious one, a medical practitioner of the highest grade + in the profession was required to treat it. A physician from the + neighboring town of Kirkandrew was called in. + </p> + <p> + The physician came in a carriage and pair, with the necessary bald head, + and the indispensable white cravat. He felt her ladyship’s pulse, and put + a few gentle questions. He turned his back solemnly, as only a great + doctor can, on his own positive internal conviction that his patient had + nothing whatever the matter with her. He said, with every appearance of + believing in himself, “Nerves, Lady Lundie. Repose in bed is essentially + necessary. I will write a prescription.” He prescribed, with perfect + gravity: Aromatic Spirits of Ammonia—16 drops. Spirits of Red + Lavender—10 drops. Syrup of Orange Peel—2 drams. Camphor Julep—1 + ounce. When he had written, Misce fiat Hanstus (instead of Mix a Draught)—when + he had added, Ter die Sumendus (instead of To be taken Three times a day)—and + when he had certified to his own Latin, by putting his initials at the + end, he had only to make his bow; to slip two guineas into his pocket; and + to go his way, with an approving professional conscience, in the character + of a physician who had done his duty. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie was in bed. The visible part of her ladyship was perfectly + attired, with a view to the occasion. A fillet of superb white lace + encircled her head. She wore an adorable invalid jacket of white cambric, + trimmed with lace and pink ribbons. The rest was—bed-clothes. On a + table at her side stood the Red Lavender Draught—in color soothing + to the eye; in flavor not unpleasant to the taste. A book of devotional + character was near it. The domestic ledgers, and the kitchen report for + the day, were ranged modestly behind the devout book. (Not even her + ladyship’s nerves, observe, were permitted to interfere with her + ladyship’s duty.) A fan, a smelling-bottle, and a handkerchief lay within + reach on the counterpane. The spacious room was partially darkened. One of + the lower windows was open, affording her ladyship the necessary cubic + supply of air. The late Sir Thomas looked at his widow, in effigy, from + the wall opposite the end of the bed. Not a chair was out of its place; + not a vestige of wearing apparel dared to show itself outside the sacred + limits of the wardrobe and the drawers. The sparkling treasures of the + toilet-table glittered in the dim distance, The jugs and basins were of a + rare and creamy white; spotless and beautiful to see. Look where you + might, you saw a perfect room. Then look at the bed—and you saw a + perfect woman, and completed the picture. + </p> + <p> + It was the day after Anne’s appearance at Swanhaven—toward the end + of the afternoon. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s own maid opened the door noiselessly, and stole on tip-toe + to the bedside. Her ladyship’s eyes were closed. Her ladyship suddenly + opened them. + </p> + <p> + “Not asleep, Hopkins. Suffering. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Hopkins laid two cards on the counterpane. “Mrs. Delamayn, my lady—and + Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + “They were told I was ill, of course?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm sent for me. She went into the library, and + wrote this note.” Hopkins produced the note, neatly folded in + three-cornered form. + </p> + <p> + “Have they gone?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm told me Yes or No would do for answer, if you + could only have the goodness to read this.” + </p> + <p> + “Thoughtless of Mrs. Glenarm—at a time when the doctor insists on + perfect repose,” said Lady Lundie. “It doesn’t matter. One sacrifice more + or less is of very little consequence.” + </p> + <p> + She fortified herself by an application of the smelling-bottle, and opened + the note. It ran thus: + </p> + <p> + “So grieved, dear Lady Lundie, to hear that you are a prisoner in your + room! I had taken the opportunity of calling with Mrs. Delamayn, in the + hope that I might be able to ask you a question. Will your inexhaustible + kindness forgive me if I ask it in writing? Have you had any unexpected + news of Mr. Arnold Brinkworth lately? I mean, have you heard any thing + about him, which has taken you very much by surprise? I have a serious + reason for asking this. I will tell you what it is, the moment you are + able to see me. Until then, one word of answer is all I expect. Send word + down—Yes, or No. A thousand apologies—and pray get better + soon!” + </p> + <p> + The singular question contained in this note suggested one of two + inferences to Lady Lundie’s mind. Either Mrs. Glenarm had heard a report + of the unexpected return of the married couple to England—or she was + in the far more interesting and important position of possessing a clew to + the secret of what was going on under the surface at Ham Farm. The phrase + used in the note, “I have a serious reason for asking this,” appeared to + favor the latter of the two interpretations. Impossible as it seemed to be + that Mrs. Glenarm could know something about Arnold of which Lady Lundie + was in absolute ignorance, her ladyship’s curiosity (already powerfully + excited by Blanche’s mysterious letter) was only to be quieted by + obtaining the necessary explanation forthwith, at a personal interview. + </p> + <p> + “Hopkins,” she said, “I must see Mrs. Glenarm.” + </p> + <p> + Hopkins respectfully held up her hands in horror. Company in the bedroom + in the present state of her ladyship’s health! + </p> + <p> + “A matter of duty is involved in this, Hopkins. Give me the glass.” + </p> + <p> + Hopkins produced an elegant little hand-mirror. Lady Lundie carefully + surveyed herself in it down to the margin of the bedclothes. Above + criticism in every respect? Yes—even when the critic was a woman. + </p> + <p> + “Show Mrs. Glenarm up here.” + </p> + <p> + In a minute or two more the iron-master’s widow fluttered into the room—a + little over-dressed as usual; and a little profuse in expressions of + gratitude for her ladyship’s kindness, and of anxiety about her ladyship’s + health. Lady Lundie endured it as long as she could—then stopped it + with a gesture of polite remonstrance, and came to the point. + </p> + <p> + “Now, my dear—about this question in your note? Is it possible you + have heard already that Arnold Brinkworth and his wife have come back from + Baden?” Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in astonishment. Lady Lundie put it + more plainly. “They were to have gone on to Switzerland, you know, for + their wedding tour, and they suddenly altered their minds, and came back + to England on Sunday last.” + </p> + <p> + “Dear Lady Lundie, it’s not that! Have you heard nothing about Mr. + Brinkworth except what you have just told me?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + There was a pause. Mrs. Glenarm toyed hesitatingly with her parasol. Lady + Lundie leaned forward in the bed, and looked at her attentively. + </p> + <p> + “What have <i>you</i> heard about him?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm was embarrassed. “It’s so difficult to say,” she began. + </p> + <p> + “I can bear any thing but suspense,” said Lady Lundie. “Tell me the + worst.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm decided to risk it. “Have you never heard,” she asked, “that + Mr. Brinkworth might possibly have committed himself with another lady + before he married Miss Lundie?” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship first closed her eyes in horror and then searched blindly on + the counterpane for the smelling-bottle. Mrs. Glenarm gave it to her, and + waited to see how the invalid bore it before she said any more. + </p> + <p> + “There are things one <i>must</i> hear,” remarked Lady Lundie. “I see an + act of duty involved in this. No words can describe how you astonish me. + Who told you?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn told me.” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship applied for the second time to the smelling-bottle. “Arnold + Brinkworth’s most intimate friend!” she exclaimed. “He ought to know if + any body does. This is dreadful. Why should Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn tell <i>you?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I am going to marry him,” answered Mrs. Glenarm. “That is my excuse, dear + Lady Lundie, for troubling you in this matter.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie partially opened her eyes in a state of faint bewilderment. “I + don’t understand,” she said. “For Heaven’s sake explain yourself!” + </p> + <p> + “Haven’t you heard about the anonymous letters?” asked Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + Yes. Lady Lundie had heard about the letters. But only what the public in + general had heard. The name of the lady in the background not mentioned; + and Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn assumed to be as innocent as the babe unborn. + Any mistake in that assumption? “Give me your hand, my poor dear, and + confide it all to <i>me!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “He is not quite innocent,” said Mrs. Glenarm. “He owned to a foolish + flirtation—all <i>her</i> doing, no doubt. Of course, I insisted on + a distinct explanation. Had she really any claim on him? Not the shadow of + a claim. I felt that I only had his word for that—and I told him so. + He said he could prove it—he said he knew her to be privately + married already. Her husband had disowned and deserted her; she was at the + end of her resources; she was desperate enough to attempt any thing. I + thought it all very suspicious—until Geoffrey mentioned the man’s + name. <i>That</i> certainly proved that he had cast off his wife; for I + myself knew that he had lately married another person.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie suddenly started up from her pillow—honestly agitated; + genuinely alarmed by this time. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn told you the man’s name?” she said, breathlessly. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do I know it?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t ask me!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie fell back on the pillow. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm rose to ring for help. Before she could touch the bell, her + ladyship had rallied again. + </p> + <p> + “Stop!” she cried. “I can confirm it! It’s true, Mrs. Glenarm! it’s true! + Open the silver box on the toilet-table—you will find the key in it. + Bring me the top letter. Here! Look at it. I got this from Blanche. Why + have they suddenly given up their bridal tour? Why have they gone back to + Sir Patrick at Ham Farm? Why have they put me off with an infamous + subterfuge to account for it? I felt sure something dreadful had happened. + Now I know what it is!” She sank back again, with closed eyes, and + repeated the words, in a fierce whisper, to herself. “Now I know what it + is!” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm read the letter. The reason given for the suspiciously sudden + return of the bride and bridegroom was palpably a subterfuge—and, + more remarkable still, the name of Anne Silvester was connected with it. + Mrs. Glenarm became strongly agitated on her side. + </p> + <p> + “This <i>is</i> a confirmation,” she said. “Mr. Brinkworth has been found + out—the woman <i>is</i> married to him—Geoffrey is free. Oh, + my dear friend, what a load of anxiety you have taken off my mind! That + vile wretch—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie suddenly opened her eyes. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean,” she asked, “the woman who is at the bottom of all the + mischief?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. I saw her yesterday. She forced herself in at Swanhaven. She called + him Geoffrey Delamayn. She declared herself a single woman. She claimed + him before my face in the most audacious manner. She shook my faith, Lady + Lundie—she shook my faith in Geoffrey!” + </p> + <p> + “Who is she?” + </p> + <p> + “Who?” echoed Mrs. Glenarm. “Don’t you even know that? Why her name is + repeated half a dozen times in this letter!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie uttered a scream that rang through the room. Mrs. Glenarm + started to her feet. The maid appeared at the door in terror. Her ladyship + motioned to the woman to withdraw again instantly, and then pointed to + Mrs. Glenarm’s chair. + </p> + <p> + “Sit down,” she said. “Let me have a minute or two of quiet. I want + nothing more.” + </p> + <p> + The silence in the room was unbroken until Lady Lundie spoke again. She + asked for Blanche’s letter. After reading it carefully, she laid it aside, + and fell for a while into deep thought. + </p> + <p> + “I have done Blanche an injustice!” she exclaimed. “My poor Blanche!” + </p> + <p> + “You think she knows nothing about it?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it! You forget, Mrs. Glenarm, that this horrible + discovery casts a doubt on my step-daughter’s marriage. Do you think, if + she knew the truth, she would write of a wretch who has mortally injured + her as she writes here? They have put her off with the excuse that she + innocently sends to <i>me.</i> I see it as plainly as I see you! Mr. + Brinkworth and Sir Patrick are in league to keep us both in the dark. Dear + child! I owe her an atonement. If nobody else opens her eyes, I will do + it. Sir Patrick shall find that Blanche has a friend in Me!” + </p> + <p> + A smile—the dangerous smile of an inveterately vindictive woman + thoroughly roused—showed itself with a furtive suddenness on her + face. Mrs. Glenarm was a little startled. Lady Lundie below the surface—as + distinguished from Lady Lundie <i>on</i> the surface—was not a + pleasant object to contemplate. + </p> + <p> + “Pray try to compose yourself,” said Mrs. Glenarm. “Dear Lady Lundie, you + frighten me!” + </p> + <p> + The bland surface of her ladyship appeared smoothly once more; drawn back, + as it were, over the hidden inner self, which it had left for the moment + exposed to view. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me for feeling it!” she said, with the patient sweetness which so + eminently distinguished her in times of trial. “It falls a little heavily + on a poor sick woman—innocent of all suspicion, and insulted by the + most heartless neglect. Don’t let me distress you. I shall rally, my dear; + I shall rally! In this dreadful calamity—this abyss of crime and + misery and deceit—I have no one to depend on but myself. For + Blanche’s sake, the whole thing must be cleared up—probed, my dear, + probed to the depths. Blanche must take a position that is worthy of her. + Blanche must insist on her rights, under My protection. Never mind what I + suffer, or what I sacrifice. There is a work of justice for poor weak Me + to do. It shall be done!” said her ladyship, fanning herself with an + aspect of illimitable resolution. “It shall be done!” + </p> + <p> + “But, Lady Lundie what can you do? They are all away in the south. And as + for that abominable woman—” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie touched Mrs. Glenarm on the shoulder with her fan. + </p> + <p> + “I have my surprise in store, dear friend, as well as you. That abominable + woman was employed as Blanche’s governess in this house. Wait! that is not + all. She left us suddenly—ran away—on the pretense of being + privately married. I know where she went. I can trace what she did. I can + find out who was with her. I can follow Mr. Brinkworth’s proceedings, + behind Mr. Brinkworth’s back. I can search out the truth, without + depending on people compromised in this black business, whose interest it + is to deceive me. And I will do it to-day!” She closed the fan with a + sharp snap of triumph, and settled herself on the pillow in placid + enjoyment of her dear friend’s surprise. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm drew confidentially closer to the bedside. “How can you + manage it?” she asked, eagerly. “Don’t think me curious. I have my + interest, too, in getting at the truth. Don’t leave me out of it, pray!” + </p> + <p> + “Can you come back to-morrow, at this time?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes! yes!” + </p> + <p> + “Come, then—and you shall know.” + </p> + <p> + “Can I be of any use?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at present.” + </p> + <p> + “Can my uncle be of any use?” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know where to communicate with Captain Newenden?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—he is staying with some friends in Sussex.” + </p> + <p> + “We may possibly want his assistance. I can’t tell yet. Don’t keep Mrs. + Delamayn waiting any longer, my dear. I shall expect you to-morrow.” + </p> + <p> + They exchanged an affectionate embrace. Lady Lundie was left alone. + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship resigned herself to meditation, with frowning brow and + close-shut lips. She looked her full age, and a year or two more, as she + lay thinking, with her head on her hand, and her elbow on the pillow. + After committing herself to the physician (and to the red lavender + draught) the commonest regard for consistency made it necessary that she + should keep her bed for that day. And yet it was essential that the + proposed inquiries should be instantly set on foot. On the one hand, the + problem was not an easy one to solve; on the other, her ladyship was not + an easy one to beat. How to send for the landlady at Craig Fernie, without + exciting any special suspicion or remark—was the question before + her. In less than five minutes she had looked back into her memory of + current events at Windygates—and had solved it. + </p> + <p> + Her first proceeding was to ring the bell for her maid. + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid I frightened you, Hopkins. The state of my nerves. Mrs. + Glenarm was a little sudden with some news that surprised me. I am better + now—and able to attend to the household matters. There is a mistake + in the butcher’s account. Send the cook here.” + </p> + <p> + She took up the domestic ledger and the kitchen report; corrected the + butcher; cautioned the cook; and disposed of all arrears of domestic + business before Hopkins was summoned again. Having, in this way, + dextrously prevented the woman from connecting any thing that her mistress + said or did, after Mrs. Glenarm’s departure, with any thing that might + have passed during Mrs. Glenarm’s visit, Lady Lundie felt herself at + liberty to pave the way for the investigation on which she was determined + to enter before she slept that night. + </p> + <p> + “So much for the indoor arrangements,” she said. “You must be my prime + minister, Hopkins, while I lie helpless here. Is there any thing wanted by + the people out of doors? The coachman? The gardener?” + </p> + <p> + “I have just seen the gardener, my lady. He came with last week’s + accounts. I told him he couldn’t see your ladyship to-day.” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right. Had he any report to make?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “Surely, there was something I wanted to say to him—or to somebody + else? My memorandum-book, Hopkins. In the basket, on that chair. Why + wasn’t the basket placed by my bedside?” + </p> + <p> + Hopkins brought the memorandum-book. Lady Lundie consulted it (without the + slightest necessity), with the same masterly gravity exhibited by the + doctor when he wrote her prescription (without the slightest necessity + also). + </p> + <p> + “Here it is,” she said, recovering the lost remembrance. “Not the + gardener, but the gardener’s wife. A memorandum to speak to her about Mrs. + Inchbare. Observe, Hopkins, the association of ideas. Mrs. Inchbare is + associated with the poultry; the poultry are associated with the + gardener’s wife; the gardener’s wife is associated with the gardener—and + so the gardener gets into my head. Do you see it? I am always trying to + improve your mind. You do see it? Very well. Now about Mrs. Inchbare? Has + she been here again?” + </p> + <p> + “No, my lady.” + </p> + <p> + “I am not at all sure, Hopkins, that I was right in declining to consider + the message Mrs. Inchbare sent to me about the poultry. Why shouldn’t she + offer to take any fowls that I can spare off my hands? She is a + respectable woman; and it is important to me to live on good terms with al + my neighbors, great and small. Has she got a poultry-yard of her own at + Craig Fernie?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. And beautifully kept, I am told.” + </p> + <p> + “I really don’t see—on reflection, Hopkins—why I should + hesitate to deal with Mrs. Inchbare. (I don’t think it beneath me to sell + the game killed on my estate to the poulterer.) What was it she wanted to + buy? Some of my black Spanish fowls?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, my lady. Your ladyship’s black Spaniards are famous all round the + neighborhood. Nobody has got the breed. And Mrs. Inchbare—” + </p> + <p> + “Wants to share the distinction of having the breed with me,” said Lady + Lundie. “I won’t appear ungracious. I will see her myself, as soon as I am + a little better, and tell her that I have changed my mind. Send one of the + men to Craig Fernie with a message. I can’t keep a trifling matter of this + sort in my memory—send him at once, or I may forget it. He is to say + I am willing to see Mrs. Inchbare, about the fowls, the first time she + finds it convenient to come this way.” + </p> + <p> + “I am afraid, my lady—Mrs. Inchbare’s heart is so set on the black + Spaniards—she will find it convenient to come this way at once as + fast as her feet can carry her.” + </p> + <p> + “In that case, you must take her to the gardener’s wife. Say she is to + have some eggs—on condition, of course, of paying the price for + them. If she does come, mind I hear of it.” + </p> + <p> + Hopkins withdrew. Hopkins’s mistress reclined on her comfortable pillows + and fanned herself gently. The vindictive smile reappeared on her face. “I + fancy I shall be well enough to see Mrs. Inchbare,” she thought to + herself. “And it is just possible that the conversation may get beyond the + relative merits of her poultry-yard and mine.” + </p> + <p> + A lapse of little more than two hours proved Hopkins’s estimate of the + latent enthusiasm in Mrs. Inchbare’s character to have been correctly + formed. The eager landlady appeared at Windygates on the heels of the + returning servant. Among the long list of human weaknesses, a passion for + poultry seems to have its practical advantages (in the shape of eggs) as + compared with the more occult frenzies for collecting snuff-boxes and + fiddles, and amassing autographs and old postage-stamps. When the mistress + of Craig Fernie was duly announced to the mistress of Windygates, Lady + Lundie developed a sense of humor for the first time in her life. Her + ladyship was feebly merry (the result, no doubt, of the exhilarating + properties of the red lavender draught) on the subject of Mrs. Inchbare + and the Spanish fowls. + </p> + <p> + “Most ridiculous, Hopkins! This poor woman must be suffering from a + determination of poultry to the brain. Ill as I am, I should have thought + that nothing could amuse me. But, really, this good creature starting up, + and rushing here, as you say, as fast as her feet can carry her—it’s + impossible to resist it! I positively think I must see Mrs. Inchbare. With + my active habits, this imprisonment to my room is dreadful. I can neither + sleep nor read. Any thing, Hopkins, to divert my mind from myself: It’s + easy to get rid of her if she is too much for me. Send her up.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Inchbare made her appearance, courtesying deferentially; amazed at + the condescension which admitted her within the hallowed precincts of Lady + Lundie’s room. + </p> + <p> + “Take a chair,” said her ladyship, graciously. “I am suffering from + illness, as you perceive.” + </p> + <p> + “My certie! sick or well, yer leddyship’s a braw sight to see!” returned + Mrs. Inchbare profoundly impressed by the elegant costume which illness + assumes when illness appears in the regions of high life. + </p> + <p> + “I am far from being in a fit state to receive any body,” proceeded Lady + Lundie. “But I had a motive for wishing to speak to you when you next came + to my house. I failed to treat a proposal you made to me, a short time + since, in a friendly and neighborly way. I beg you to understand that I + regret having forgotten the consideration due from a person in my position + to a person in yours. I am obliged to say this under very unusual + circumstances,” added her ladyship, with a glance round her magnificent + bedroom, “through your unexpected promptitude in favoring me with a call. + You have lost no time, Mrs. Inchbare, in profiting by the message which I + had the pleasure of sending to you.” + </p> + <p> + “Eh, my leddy, I wasna’ that sure (yer leddyship having ance changed yer + mind) but that ye might e’en change again if I failed to strike, as they + say, while the iron’s het. I crave yer pardon, I’m sure, if I ha’ been + ower hasty. The pride o’ my hairt’s in my powltry—and the black + Spaniards’ (as they ca’ them) are a sair temptation to me to break the + tenth commandment, sae lang as they’re a’ in yer leddyship’s possession, + and nane o’ them in mine.” + </p> + <p> + “I am shocked to hear that I have been the innocent cause of your falling + into temptation, Mrs. Inchbare! Make your proposal—and I shall be + happy to meet it, if I can.” + </p> + <p> + “I must e’en be content wi’ what yer leddyship will condescend on. A + haitch o’ eggs if I can come by naething else.” + </p> + <p> + “There is something else you would prefer to a hatch of eggs?” + </p> + <p> + “I wad prefer,” said Mrs. Inchbare, modestly, “a cock and twa pullets.” + </p> + <p> + “Open the case on the table behind you,” said Lady Lundie, “and you will + find some writing paper inside. Give me a sheet of it—and the pencil + out of the tray.” + </p> + <p> + Eagerly watched by Mrs. Inchbare, she wrote an order to the poultry-woman, + and held it out with a gracious smile. + </p> + <p> + “Take that to the gardener’s wife. If you agree with her about the price, + you can have the cock and the two pullets.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Inchbare opened her lips—no doubt to express the utmost + extremity of human gratitude. Before she had said three words, Lady + Lundie’s impatience to reach the end which she had kept in view from the + time when Mrs. Glenarm had left the house burst the bounds which had + successfully restrained it thus far. Stopping the landlady without + ceremony, she fairly forced the conversation to the subject of Anne + Silvester’s proceedings at the Craig Fernie inn. + </p> + <p> + “How are you getting on at the hotel, Mrs. Inchbare? Plenty of tourists, I + suppose, at this time of year?” + </p> + <p> + “Full, my leddy (praise Providence), frae the basement to the ceiling.” + </p> + <p> + “You had a visitor, I think, some time since of whom I know something? A + person—” She paused, and put a strong constraint on herself. There + was no alternative but to yield to the hard necessity of making her + inquiry intelligible. “A lady,” she added, “who came to you about the + middle of last month.” + </p> + <p> + “Could yer leddyship condescend on her name?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie put a still stronger constraint on herself. “Silvester,” she + said, sharply. + </p> + <p> + “Presairve us a’!” cried Mrs. Inchbare. “It will never be the same that + cam’ driftin’ in by hersel’—wi’ a bit bag in her hand, and a husband + left daidling an hour or mair on the road behind her?” + </p> + <p> + “I have no doubt it is the same.” + </p> + <p> + “Will she be a freend o’ yer leddyship’s?” asked Mrs. Inchbare, feeling + her ground cautiously. + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not!” said Lady Lundie. “I felt a passing curiosity about her—nothing + more.” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Inchbare looked relieved. “To tell ye truth, my leddy, there was nae + love lost between us. She had a maisterfu’ temper o’ her ain—and I + was weel pleased when I’d seen the last of her.” + </p> + <p> + “I can quite understand that, Mrs. Inchbare—I know something of her + temper myself. Did I understand you to say that she came to your hotel + alone, and that her husband joined her shortly afterward?” + </p> + <p> + “E’en sae, yer leddyship. I was no’ free to gi’ her house-room in the + hottle till her husband daidled in at her heels and answered for her.” + </p> + <p> + “I fancy I must have seen her husband,” said Lady Lundie. “What sort of a + man was he?” + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Inchbare replied in much the same words which she had used in + answering the similar question put by Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Eh! he was ower young for the like o’ <i>her.</i> A pratty man, my leddy—betwixt + tall and short; wi’ bonny brown eyes and cheeks, and fine coal-blaik hair. + A nice douce-spoken lad. I hae naething to say against him—except + that he cam’ late one day, and took leg-bail betimes the next morning, and + left madam behind, a load on my hands.” + </p> + <p> + The answer produced precisely the same effect on Lady Lundie which it had + produced on Sir Patrick. She, also, felt that it was too vaguely like too + many young men of no uncommon humor and complexion to be relied on. But + her ladyship possessed one immense advantage over her brother-in-law in + attempting to arrive at the truth. <i>She</i> suspected Arnold—and + it was possible, in her case, to assist Mrs. Inchbare’s memory by hints + contributed from her own superior resources of experience and observation. + </p> + <p> + “Had he any thing about him of the look and way of a sailor?” she asked. + “And did you notice, when you spoke to him, that he had a habit of playing + with a locket on his watch-chain?” + </p> + <p> + “There he is, het aff to a T!” cried Mrs. Inchbare. “Yer leddyship’s weel + acquented wi’ him—there’s nae doot o’ that.” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I had seen him,” said Lady Lundie. “A modest, well-behaved + young man, Mrs. Inchbare, as you say. Don’t let me keep you any longer + from the poultry-yard. I am transgressing the doctor’s orders in seeing + any body. We quite understand each other now, don’t we? Very glad to have + seen you. Good-evening.” + </p> + <p> + So she dismissed Mrs. Inchbare, when Mrs. Inchbare had served her purpose. + </p> + <p> + Most women, in her position, would have been content with the information + which she had now obtained. But Lady Lundie—having a man like Sir + Patrick to deal with—determined to be doubly sure of her facts + before she ventured on interfering at Ham Farm. She had learned from Mrs. + Inchbare that the so-called husband of Anne Silvester had joined her at + Craig Fernie on the day when she arrived at the inn, and had left her + again the next morning. Anne had made her escape from Windygates on the + occasion of the lawn-party—that is to say, on the fourteenth of + August. On the same day Arnold Brinkworth had taken his departure for the + purpose of visiting the Scotch property left to him by his aunt. If Mrs. + Inchbare was to be depended on, he must have gone to Craig Fernie instead + of going to his appointed destination—and must, therefore, have + arrived to visit his house and lands one day later than the day which he + had originally set apart for that purpose. If this fact could be proved, + on the testimony of a disinterested witness, the case against Arnold would + be strengthened tenfold; and Lady Lundie might act on her discovery with + something like a certainty that her information was to be relied on. + </p> + <p> + After a little consideration she decided on sending a messenger with a + note of inquiry addressed to Arnold’s steward. The apology she invented to + excuse and account for the strangeness of the proposed question, referred + it to a little family discussion as to the exact date of Arnold’s arrival + at his estate, and to a friendly wager in which the difference of opinion + had ended. If the steward could state whether his employer had arrived on + the fourteenth or on the fifteenth of August, that was all that would be + wanted to decide the question in dispute. + </p> + <p> + Having written in those terms, Lady Lundie gave the necessary directions + for having the note delivered at the earliest possible hour on the next + morning; the messenger being ordered to make his way back to Windygates by + the first return train on the same day. + </p> + <p> + This arranged, her ladyship was free to refresh herself with another dose + of the red lavender draught, and to sleep the sleep of the just who close + their eyes with the composing conviction that they have done their duty. + </p> + <p> + The events of the next day at Windygates succeeded each other in due + course, as follows: + </p> + <p> + The post arrived, and brought no reply from Sir Patrick. Lady Lundie + entered that incident on her mental register of debts owed by her + brother-in-law—to be paid, with interest, when the day of reckoning + came. + </p> + <p> + Next in order occurred the return of the messenger with the steward’s + answer. + </p> + <p> + He had referred to his Diary; and he had discovered that Mr. Brinkworth + had written beforehand to announce his arrival at his estate for the + fourteenth of August—but that he had not actually appeared until the + fifteenth. The one discovery needed to substantiate Mrs. Inchbare’s + evidence being now in Lady Lundie’s possession, she decided to allow + another day to pass—on the chance that Sir Patrick might al ter his + mind, and write to her. If no letter arrived, and if nothing more was + received from Blanche, she resolved to leave Windygates by the next + morning’s train, and to try the bold experiment of personal interference + at Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + The third in the succession of events was the appearance of the doctor to + pay his professional visit. + </p> + <p> + A severe shock awaited him. He found his patient cured by the draught! It + was contrary to all rule and precedent; it savored of quackery—the + red lavender had no business to do what the red lavender had done—but + there she was, nevertheless, up and dressed, and contemplating a journey + to London on the next day but one. “An act of duty, doctor, is involved in + this—whatever the sacrifice, I must go!” No other explanation could + be obtained. The patient was plainly determined—nothing remained for + the physician but to retreat with unimpaired dignity and a paid fee. He + did it. “Our art,” he explained to Lady Lundie in confidence, “is nothing, + after all, but a choice between alternatives. For instance. I see you—not + cured, as you think—but sustained by abnormal excitement. I have to + ask which is the least of the two evils—to risk letting you travel, + or to irritate you by keeping you at home. With your constitution, we must + risk the journey. Be careful to keep the window of the carriage up on the + side on which the wind blows. Let the extremities be moderately warm, and + the mind easy—and pray don’t omit to provide yourself with a second + bottle of the Mixture before you start.” He made his bow, as before—he + slipped two guineas into his pocket, as before—and he went his way, + as before, with an approving conscience, in the character of a physician + who had done his duty. (What an enviable profession is Medicine! And why + don’t we all belong to it?) + </p> + <p> + The last of the events was the arrival of Mrs. Glenarm. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” she began, eagerly, “what news?” + </p> + <p> + The narrative of her ladyship’s discoveries—recited at full length; + and the announcement of her ladyship’s resolution—declared in the + most uncompromising terms—raised Mrs. Glenarm’s excitement to the + highest pitch. + </p> + <p> + “You go to town on Saturday?” she said. “I will go with you. Ever since + that woman declared she should be in London before me, I have been dying + to hasten my journey—and it is such an opportunity to go with you! I + can easily manage it. My uncle and I were to have met in London, early + next week, for the foot-race. I have only to write and tell him of my + change of plans.—By-the-by, talking of my uncle, I have heard, since + I saw you, from the lawyers at Perth.” + </p> + <p> + “More anonymous letters?” + </p> + <p> + “One more—received by the lawyers this time. My unknown + correspondent has written to them to withdraw his proposal, and to + announce that he has left Perth. The lawyers recommended me to stop my + uncle from spending money uselessly in employing the London police. I have + forwarded their letter to the captain; and he will probably be in town to + see his solicitors as soon as I get there with you. So much for what <i>I</i> + have done in this matter. Dear Lady Lundie—when we are at our + journey’s end, what do <i>you</i> mean to do?” + </p> + <p> + “My course is plain,” answered her ladyship, calmly. “Sir Patrick will + hear from me, on Sunday morning next, at Ham Farm.” + </p> + <p> + “Telling him what you have found out?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly not! Telling him that I find myself called to London by + business, and that I propose paying him a short visit on Monday next.” + </p> + <p> + “Of course, he must receive you?” + </p> + <p> + “I think there is no doubt of that. Even <i>his</i> hatred of his + brother’s widow can hardly go to the length—after leaving my letter + unanswered—of closing his doors against me next.” + </p> + <p> + “How will you manage it when you get there?” + </p> + <p> + “When I get there, my dear, I shall be breathing an atmosphere of + treachery and deceit; and, for my poor child’s sake (abhorrent as all + dissimulation is to me), I must be careful what I do. Not a word will + escape my lips until I have first seen Blanche in private. However painful + it may be, I shall not shrink from my duty, if my duty compels me to open + her eyes to the truth. Sir Patrick and Mr. Brinkworth will have somebody + else besides an inexperienced young creature to deal with on Monday next. + I shall be there.” + </p> + <p> + With that formidable announcement, Lady Lundie closed the conversation; + and Mrs. Glenarm rose to take her leave. + </p> + <p> + “We meet at the Junction, dear Lady Lundie?” + </p> + <p> + “At the Junction, on Saturday.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0056" id="link2H_4_0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + ELEVENTH SCENE.—SIR PATRICK’S HOUSE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0042" id="link2HCH0042"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SMOKING-ROOM WINDOW. + </h3> + <p> + “I CAN’T believe it! I won’t believe it! You’re trying to part me from my + husband—you’re trying to set me against my dearest friend. It’s + infamous. It’s horrible. What have I done to you? Oh, my head! my head! + Are you trying to drive me mad?” + </p> + <p> + Pale and wild; her hands twisted in her hair; her feet hurrying her + aimlessly to and fro in the room—so Blanche answered her + step-mother, when the object of Lady Lundie’s pilgrimage had been + accomplished, and the cruel truth had been plainly told. + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship sat, superbly composed, looking out through the window at the + placid landscape of woods and fields which surrounded Ham Farm. + </p> + <p> + “I was prepared for this outbreak,” she said, sadly. “These wild words + relieve your over-burdened heart, my poor child. I can wait, Blanche—I + can wait!” + </p> + <p> + Blanche stopped, and confronted Lady Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “You and I never liked each other,” she said. “I wrote you a pert letter + from this place. I have always taken Anne’s part against you. I have shown + you plainly—rudely, I dare say—that I was glad to be married + and get away from you. This is not your revenge, is it?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Blanche, Blanche, what thoughts to think! what words to say! I can + only pray for you.” + </p> + <p> + “I am mad, Lady Lundie. You bear with mad people. Bear with me. I have + been hardly more than a fortnight married. I love <i>him</i>—I love + <i>her</i>—with all my heart. Remember what you have told me about + them. Remember! remember! remember!” + </p> + <p> + She reiterated the words with a low cry of pain. Her hands went up to her + head again; and she returned restlessly to pacing this way and that in the + room. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie tried the effect of a gentle remonstrance. “For your own + sake,” she said, “don’t persist in estranging yourself from me. In this + dreadful trial, I am the only friend you have.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche came back to her step-mother’s chair; and looked at her steadily, + in silence. Lady Lundie submitted to inspection—and bore it + perfectly. + </p> + <p> + “Look into my heart,” she said. “Blanche! it bleeds for you!” + </p> + <p> + Blanche heard, without heeding. Her mind was painfully intent on its own + thoughts. “You are a religious woman,” she said, abruptly. “Will you swear + on your Bible, that what you told me is true?” + </p> + <p> + “<i>My</i> Bible!” repeated Lady Lundie with sorrowful emphasis. “Oh, my + child! have <i>you</i> no part in that precious inheritance? Is it not <i>your</i> + Bible, too?” + </p> + <p> + A momentary triumph showed itself in Blanche’s face. “You daren’t swear + it!” she said. “That’s enough for me!” + </p> + <p> + She turned away scornfully. Lady Lundie caught her by the hand, and drew + her sharply back. The suffering saint disappeared, and the woman who was + no longer to be trifled with took her place. + </p> + <p> + “There must be an end to this,” she said. “You don’t believe what I have + told you. Have you courage enough to put it to the test?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche started, and released her hand. She trembled a little. There was a + horrible certainty of conviction expressed in Lady Lundie’s sudden change + of manner. + </p> + <p> + “How?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “You shall see. Tell me the truth, on your side, first. Where is Sir + Patrick? Is he really out, as his servant told me?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. He is out with the farm bailiff. You have taken us all by surprise. + You wrote that we were to expect you by the next train.” + </p> + <p> + “When does the next train arrive? It is eleven o’clock now.” + </p> + <p> + “Between one and two.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick will not be back till then?” + </p> + <p> + “Not till then.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is Mr. Brinkworth?” + </p> + <p> + “My husband?” + </p> + <p> + “Your husband—if you like. Is he out, too?” + </p> + <p> + “He is in the smoking-room.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean the long room, built out from the back of the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Come down stairs at once with me.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche advanced a step—and drew back. “What do you want of me?” she + asked, inspired by a sudden distrust. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie turned round, and looked at her impatiently. + </p> + <p> + “Can’t you see yet,” she said, sharply, “that your interest and my + interest in this matter are one? What have I told you?” + </p> + <p> + “Don’t repeat it!” + </p> + <p> + “I must repeat it! I have told you that Arnold Brinkworth was privately at + Craig Fernie, with Miss Silvester, in the acknowledged character of her + husband—when we supposed him to be visiting the estate left him by + his aunt. You refuse to believe it—and I am about to put it to the + proof. Is it your interest or is it not, to know whether this man deserves + the blind belief that you place in him?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche trembled from head to foot, and made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “I am going into the garden, to speak to Mr. Brinkworth through the + smoking-room window,” pursued her ladyship. “Have you the courage to come + with me; to wait behind out of sight; and to hear what he says with his + own lips? I am not afraid of putting it to that test. Are you?” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which she asked the question roused Blanche’s spirit. + </p> + <p> + “If I believed him to be guilty,” she said, resolutely, “I should <i>not</i> + have the courage. I believe him to be innocent. Lead the way, Lady Lundie, + as soon as you please.” + </p> + <p> + They left the room—Blanche’s own room at Ham Farm—and + descended to the hall. Lady Lundie stopped, and consulted the railway + time-table hanging near the house-door. + </p> + <p> + “There is a train to London at a quarter to twelve,” she said. “How long + does it take to walk to the station?” + </p> + <p> + “Why do you ask?” + </p> + <p> + “You will soon know. Answer my question.” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a walk of twenty minutes to the station.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie referred to her watch. “There will be just time,” she said. + </p> + <p> + “Time for what?” + </p> + <p> + “Come into the garden.” + </p> + <p> + With that answer, she led the way out + </p> + <p> + The smoking-room projected at right angles from the wall of the house, in + an oblong form—with a bow-window at the farther end, looking into + the garden. Before she turned the corner, and showed herself within the + range of view from the window Lady Lundie looked back, and signed to + Blanche to wait behind the angle of the wall. Blanche waited. + </p> + <p> + The next instant she heard the voices in conversation through the open + window. Arnold’s voice was the first that spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Lundie! Why, we didn’t expect you till luncheon time!” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie was ready with her answer. + </p> + <p> + “I was able to leave town earlier than I had anticipated. Don’t put out + your cigar; and don’t move. I am not coming in.” + </p> + <p> + The quick interchange of question and answer went on; every word being + audible in the perfect stillness of the place. Arnold was the next to + speak. + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + “Blanche is getting ready to go out with me. We mean to have a walk + together. I have many things to say to her. Before we go, I have something + to say to <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Is it any thing very serious?” + </p> + <p> + “It is most serious.” + </p> + <p> + “About me?” + </p> + <p> + “About you. I know where you went on the evening of my lawn-party at + Windygates—you went to Craig Fernie.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! how did you find out—?” + </p> + <p> + “I know whom you went to meet—Miss Silvester. I know what is said of + you and of her—you are man and wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Hush! don’t speak so loud. Somebody may hear you!” + </p> + <p> + “What does it matter if they do? I am the only person whom you have kept + out of the secret. You all of you know it here.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing of the sort! Blanche doesn’t know it.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Neither you nor Sir Patrick has told Blanche of the situation you + stand in at this moment?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. Sir Patrick leaves it to me. I haven’t been able to bring myself + to do it. Don’t say a word, I entreat you. I don’t know how Blanche may + interpret it. Her friend is expected in London to-morrow. I want to wait + till Sir Patrick can bring them together. Her friend will break it to her + better than I can. It’s <i>my</i> notion. Sir Patrick thinks it a good + one. Stop! you’re not going away already?” + </p> + <p> + “She will be here to look for me if I stay any longer.” + </p> + <p> + “One word! I want to know—” + </p> + <p> + “You shall know later in the day.” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship appeared again round the angle of the wall. The next words + that passed were words spoken in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + “Are you satisfied now, Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + “Have you mercy enough left, Lady Lundie, to take me away from this + house?” + </p> + <p> + “My dear child! Why else did I look at the time-table in the hall?” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0043" id="link2HCH0043"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD. + </h2> + <h3> + THE EXPLOSION. + </h3> + <p> + ARNOLD’S mind was far from easy when he was left by himself again in the + smoking-room. + </p> + <p> + After wasting some time in vainly trying to guess at the source from which + Lady Lundie had derived her information, he put on his hat, and took the + direction which led to Blanche’s favorite walk at Ham Farm. Without + absolutely distrusting her ladyship’s discretion, the idea had occurred to + him that he would do well to join his wife and her step-mother. By making + a third at the interview between them, he might prevent the conversation + from assuming a perilously confidential turn. + </p> + <p> + The search for the ladies proved useless. They had not taken the direction + in which he supposed them to have gone. + </p> + <p> + He returned to the smoking-room, and composed himself to wait for events + as patiently as he might. In this passive position—with his thoughts + still running on Lady Lundie—his memory reverted to a brief + conversation between Sir Patrick and himself, occasioned, on the previous + day, by her ladyship’s announcement of her proposed visit to Ham Farm. Sir + Patrick had at once expressed his conviction that his sister-in-law’s + journey south had some acknowledged purpose at the bottom of it. + </p> + <p> + “I am not at all sure, Arnold” (he had said), “that I have done wisely in + leaving her letter unanswered. And I am strongly disposed to think that + the safest course will be to take her into the secret when she comes + to-morrow. We can’t help the position in which we are placed. It was + impossible (without admitting your wife to our confidence) to prevent + Blanche from writing that unlucky letter to her—and, even if we had + prevented it, she must have heard in other ways of your return to England. + I don’t doubt my own discretion, so far; and I don’t doubt the convenience + of keeping her in the dark, as a means of keeping her from meddling in + this business of yours, until I have had time to set it right. But she + may, by some unlucky accident, discover the truth for herself—and, + in that case, I strongly distrust the influence which she might attempt to + exercise on Blanche’s mind.” + </p> + <p> + Those were the words—and what had happened on the day after they had + been spoken? Lady Lundie <i>had</i> discovered the truth; and she was, at + that moment, alone somewhere with Blanche. Arnold took up his hat once + more, and set forth on the search for the ladies in another direction. + </p> + <p> + The second expedition was as fruitless as the first. Nothing was to be + seen, and nothing was to be heard, of Lady Lundie and Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s watch told him that it was not far from the time when Sir Patrick + might be expected to return. In all probability, while he had been looking + for them, the ladies had gone back by some other way to the house. He + entered the rooms on the ground-floor, one after another. They were all + empty. He went up stairs, and knocked at the door of Blanche’s room. There + was no answer. He opened the door and looked in. The room was empty, like + the rooms down stairs. But, close to the entrance, there was a trifling + circumstance to attract notice, in the shape of a note lying on the + carpet. He picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to him in the + handwriting of his wife. + </p> + <p> + He opened it. The note began, without the usual form of address, in these + words: + </p> + <p> + “I know the abominable secret that you and my uncle have hidden from me. I + know <i>your</i> infamy, and <i>her</i> infamy, and the position in which, + thanks to you and to her, I now stand. Reproaches would be wasted words, + addressed to such a man as you are. I write these lines to tell you that I + have placed myself under my step-mother’s protection in London. It is + useless to attempt to follow me. Others will find out whether the ceremony + of marriage which you went through with me is binding on you or not. For + myself, I know enough already. I have gone, never to come back, and never + to let you see me again.—Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + Hurrying headlong down the stairs with but one clear idea in his mind—the + idea of instantly following his wife—Arnold encountered Sir Patrick, + standing by a table in the hall, on which cards and notes left by visitors + were usually placed, with an open letter in his hand. Seeing in an instant + what had happened, he threw one of his arms round Arnold, and stopped him + at the house-door. + </p> + <p> + “You are a man,” he said, firmly. “Bear it like a man.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s head fell on the shoulder of his kind old friend. He burst into + tears. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick let the irrepressible outbreak of grief have its way. In those + first moments, silence was mercy. He said nothing. The letter which he had + been reading (from Lady Lundie, it is needless to say), dropped unheeded + at his feet. + </p> + <p> + Arnold lifted his head, and dashed away the tears. + </p> + <p> + “I am ashamed of myself,” he said. “Let me go.” + </p> + <p> + “Wrong, my poor fellow—doubly wrong!” returned Sir Patrick. “There + is no shame in shedding such tears as those. And there is nothing to be + done by leaving <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I must and will see her!” + </p> + <p> + “Read that,” said Sir Patrick, pointing to the letter on the floor. “See + your wife? Your wife is with the woman who has written those lines. Read + them.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold read them. + </p> + <p> + “DEAR SIR PATRICK,—If you had honored me with your confidence, I + should have been happy to consult you before I interfered to rescue + Blanche from the position in which Mr. Brinkworth has placed her. As it + is, your late brother’s child is under my protection at my house in + London. If <i>you</i> attempt to exercise your authority, it must be by + main force—I will submit to nothing less. If Mr. Brinkworth attempts + to exercise <i>his</i> authority, he shall establish his right to do so + (if he can) in a police-court. + </p> + <p> + “Very truly yours, JULIA LUNDIE.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold’s resolution was not to be shaken even by this. “What do I care,” + he burst out, hotly, “whether I am dragged through the streets by the + police or not! I <i>will</i> see my wife. I <i>will</i> clear myself of + the horrible suspicion she has about me. You have shown me your letter. + Look at mine!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s clear sense saw the wild words that Blanche had written in + their true light. + </p> + <p> + “Do you hold your wife responsible for that letter?” he asked. “I see her + step-mother in every line of it. You descend to something unworthy of you, + if you seriously defend yourself against <i>this!</i> You can’t see it? + You persist in holding to your own view? Write, then. You can’t get to her—your + letter may. No! When you leave this house, you leave it with me. I have + conceded something on my side, in allowing you to write. I insist on your + conceding something, on your side, in return. Come into the library! I + answer for setting things right between you and Blanche, if you will place + your interests in my hands. Do you trust me or not?” + </p> + <p> + Arnold yielded. They went into the library together. Sir Patrick pointed + to the writing-table. “Relieve your mind there,” he said. “And let me find + you a reasonable man again when I come back.” + </p> + <p> + When he returned to the library the letter was written; and Arnold’s mind + was so far relieved—for the time at least. + </p> + <p> + “I shall take your letter to Blanche myself,” said Sir Patrick, “by the + train that leaves for London in half an hour’s time.” + </p> + <p> + “You will let me go with you?” + </p> + <p> + “Not to-day. I shall be back this evening to dinner. You shall hear all + that has happened; and you shall accompany me to London to-morrow—if + I find it necessary to make any lengthened stay there. Between this and + then, after the shock that you have suffered, you will do well to be quiet + here. Be satisfied with my assurance that Blanche shall have your letter. + I will force my authority on her step-mother to that extent (if her + step-mother resists) without scruple. The respect in which I hold the sex + only lasts as long as the sex deserves it—and does <i>not</i> extend + to Lady Lundie. There is no advantage that a man can take of a woman which + I am not fully prepared to take of my sister-in-law.” + </p> + <p> + With that characteristic farewell, he shook hands with Arnold, and + departed for the station. + </p> + <p> + At seven o’clock the dinner was on the table. At seven o’clock Sir Patrick + came down stairs to eat it, as perfectly dressed as usual, and as composed + as if nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + “She has got your letter,” he whispered, as he took Arnold’s arm, and led + him into the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “Did she say any thing?” + </p> + <p> + “Not a word.” + </p> + <p> + “How did she look?” + </p> + <p> + “As she ought to look—sorry for what she has done.” + </p> + <p> + The dinner began. As a matter of necessity, the subject of Sir Patrick’s + expedition was dropped while the servants were in the room—to be + regularly taken up again by Arnold in the intervals between the courses. + He began when the soup was taken away. + </p> + <p> + “I confess I had hoped to see Blanche come back with you!” he said, sadly + enough. + </p> + <p> + “In other words,” returned Sir Patrick, “you forgot the native obstinacy + of the sex. Blanche is beginning to feel that she has been wrong. What is + the necessary consequence? She naturally persists in being wrong. Let her + alone, and leave your letter to have its effect. The serious difficulties + in our way don’t rest with Blanche. Content yourself with knowing that.” + </p> + <p> + The fish came in, and Arnold was silenced—until his next opportunity + came with the next interval in the course of the dinner. + </p> + <p> + “What are the difficulties?” he asked + </p> + <p> + “The difficulties are my difficulties and yours,” answered Sir Patrick. + “My difficulty is, that I can’t assert my authority, as guardian, if I + assume my niece (as I do) to be a married woman. Your difficulty is, that + you can’t assert your authority as her husband, until it is distinctly + proved that you and Miss Silvester are not man and wife. Lady Lundie was + perfectly aware that she would place us in that position, when she removed + Blanche from this house. She has cross-examined Mrs. Inchbare; she has + written to your steward for the date of your arrival at your estate; she + has done every thing, calculated every thing, and foreseen every thing—except + my excellent temper. The one mistake she has made, is in thinking she + could get the better of <i>that.</i> No, my dear boy! My trump card is my + temper. I keep it in my hand, Arnold—I keep it in my hand!” + </p> + <p> + The next course came in—and there was an end of the subject again. + Sir Patrick enjoyed his mutton, and entered on a long and interesting + narrative of the history of some rare white Burgundy on the table imported + by himself. Arnold resolutely resumed the discussion with the departure of + the mutton. + </p> + <p> + “It seems to be a dead lock,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “No slang!” retorted Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “For Heaven’s sake, Sir, consider my anxiety, and tell me what you propose + to do!” + </p> + <p> + “I propose to take you to London with me to-morrow, on this condition—that + you promise me, on your word of honor, not to attempt to see your wife + before Saturday next.” + </p> + <p> + “I shall see her then?” + </p> + <p> + “If you give me your promise.” + </p> + <p> + “I do! I do!” + </p> + <p> + The next course came in. Sir Patrick entered on the question of the merits + of the partridge, viewed as an eatable bird, “By himself, Arnold—plainly + roasted, and tested on his own merits—an overrated bird. Being too + fond of shooting him in this country, we become too fond of eating him + next. Properly understood, he is a vehicle for sauce and truffles—nothing + more. Or no—that is hardly doing him justice. I am bound to add that + he is honorably associated with the famous French receipt for cooking an + olive. Do you know it?” + </p> + <p> + There was an end of the bird; there was an end of the jelly. Arnold got + his next chance—and took it. + </p> + <p> + “What is to be done in London to-morrow?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “To-morrow,” answered Sir Patrick, “is a memorable day in our calendar. + To-morrow is Tuesday—the day on which I am to see Miss Silvester.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold set down the glass of wine which he was just raising to his lips. + </p> + <p> + “After what has happened,” he said, “I can hardly bear to hear her name + mentioned. Miss Silvester has parted me from my wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Miss Silvester may atone for that, Arnold, by uniting you again.” + </p> + <p> + “She has been the ruin of me so far.” + </p> + <p> + “She may be the salvation of you yet.” + </p> + <p> + The cheese came in; and Sir Patrick returned to the Art of Cookery. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know the receipt for cooking an olive, Arnold?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “What <i>does</i> the new generation know? It knows how to row, how to + shoot, how to play at cricket, and how to bat. When it has lost its muscle + and lost its money—that is to say, when it has grown old—what + a generation it will be! It doesn’t matter: I sha’n’t live to see it. Are + you listening, Arnold?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “How to cook an olive! Put an olive into a lark, put a lark into a quail; + put a quail into a plover; put a plover into a partridge; put a partridge + into a pheasant; put a pheasant into a turkey. Good. First, partially + roast, then carefully stew—until all is thoroughly done down to the + olive. Good again. Next, open the window. Throw out the turkey, the + pheasant, the partridge, the plover, the quail, and the lark. <i>Then, eat + the olive.</i> The dish is expensive, but (we have it on the highest + authority) well worth the sacrifice. The quintessence of the flavor of six + birds, concentrated in one olive. Grand idea! Try another glass of the + white Burgundy, Arnold.” + </p> + <p> + At last the servants left them—with the wine and dessert on the + table. + </p> + <p> + “I have borne it as long as I can, Sir,” said Arnold. “Add to all your + kindness to me by telling me at once what happened at Lady Lundie’s.” + </p> + <p> + It was a chilly evening. A bright wood fire was burning in the room. Sir + Patrick drew his chair to the fire. + </p> + <p> + “This is exactly what happened,” he said. “I found company at Lady + Lundie’s, to begin with. Two perfect strangers to me. Captain Newenden, + and his niece, Mrs. Glenarm. Lady Lundie offered to see me in another + room; the two strangers offered to withdraw. I declined both proposals. + First check to her ladyship! She has reckoned throughout, Arnold, on our + being afraid to face public opinion. I showed her at starting that we were + as ready to face it as she was. ‘I always accept what the French call + accomplished facts,’ I said. ‘You have brought matters to a crisis, Lady + Lundie. So let it be. I have a word to say to my niece (in your presence, + if you like); and I have another word to say to you afterward—without + presuming to disturb your guests.’ The guests sat down again (both + naturally devoured by curiosity). Could her ladyship decently refuse me an + interview with my own niece, while two witnesses were looking on? + Impossible. I saw Blanche (Lady Lundie being present, it is needless to + say) in the back drawing-room. I gave her your letter; I said a good word + for you; I saw that she was sorry, though she wouldn’t own it—and + that was enough. We went back into the front drawing-room. I had not + spoken five words on our side of the question before it appeared, to my + astonishment and delight, that Captain Newenden was in the house on the + very question that had brought me into the house—the question of you + and Miss Silvester. My business, in the interests of <i>my</i> niece, was + to deny your marriage to the lady. His business, in the interests of <i>his</i> + niece, was to assert your marriage to the lady. To the unutterable disgust + of the two women, we joined issue, in the most friendly manner, on the + spot. ‘Charmed to have the pleasure of meeting you, Captain Newenden.’—‘Delighted + to have the honor of making your acquaintance, Sir Patrick.’—‘I + think we can settle this in two minutes?’—‘My own idea perfectly + expressed.’—‘State your position, Captain.’—‘With the greatest + pleasure. Here is my niece, Mrs. Glenarm, engaged to marry Mr. Geoffrey + Delamayn. All very well, but there happens to be an obstacle—in the + shape of a lady. Do I put it plainly?’—‘You put it admirably, + Captain; but for the loss to the British navy, you ought to have been a + lawyer. Pray, go on.’—‘You are too good, Sir Patrick. I resume. Mr. + Delamayn asserts that this person in the back-ground has no claim on him, + and backs his assertion by declaring that she is married already to Mr. + Arnold Brinkworth. Lady Lundie and my niece assure me, on evidence which + satisfies <i>them,</i> that the assertion is true. The evidence does not + satisfy <i>me.</i> ‘I hope, Sir Patrick, I don’t strike you as being an + excessively obstinate man?’—‘My dear Sir, you impress me with the + highest opinion of your capacity for sifting human testimony! May I ask, + next, what course you mean to take?’—‘The very thing I was going to + mention, Sir Patrick! This is my course. I refuse to sanction my niece’s + engagement to Mr. Delamayn, until Mr. Delamayn has actually proved his + statement by appeal to witnesses of the lady’s marriage. He refers me to + two witnesses; but declines acting at once in the matter for himself, on + the ground that he is in training for a foot-race. I admit that that is an + obstacle, and consent to arrange for bringing the two witnesses to London + myself. By this post I have written to my lawyers in Perth to look the + witnesses up; to offer them the necessary terms (at Mr. Delamayn’s + expense) for the use of their time; and to produce them by the end of the + week. The footrace is on Thursday next. Mr. Delamayn will be able to + attend after that, and establish his own assertion by his own witnesses. + What do you say, Sir Patrick, to Saturday next (with Lady Lundie’s + permission) in this room?’—There is the substance of the captain’s + statement. He is as old as I am and is dressed to look like thirty; but a + very pleasant fellow for all that. I struck my sister-in-law dumb by + accepting the proposal without a moment’s hesitation. Mrs. Glenarm and + Lady Lundie looked at each other in mute amazement. Here was a difference + about which two women would have mortally quarreled; and here were two men + settling it in the friendliest possible manner. I wish you had seen Lady + Lundie’s face, when I declared myself deeply indebted to Captain Newenden + for rendering any prolonged interview with her ladyship quite unnecessary. + ‘Thanks to the captain,’ I said to her, in the most cordial manner, ‘we + have absolutely nothing to discuss. I shall catch the next train, and set + Arnold Brinkworth’s mind quite at ease.’ To come back to serious things, I + have engaged to produce you, in the presence of every body—your wife + included—on Saturday next. I put a bold face on it before the + others. But I am bound to tell <i>you</i> that it is by no means easy to + say—situated as we are now—what the result of Saturday’s + inquiry will be. Every thing depends on the issue of my interview with + Miss Silvester to-morrow. It is no exaggeration to say, Arnold, that your + fate is in her hands.” + </p> + <p> + “I wish to heaven I had never set eyes on her!” said Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “Lay the saddle on the right horse,” returned Sir Patrick. “Wish you had + never set eyes on Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Arnold hung his head. Sir Patrick’s sharp tongue had got the better of him + once more. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0059" id="link2H_4_0059"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + TWELFTH SCENE.—DRURY LANE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0044" id="link2HCH0044"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE LETTER AND THE LAW. + </h3> + <p> + THE many-toned murmur of the current of London life—flowing through + the murky channel of Drury Lane—found its muffled way from the front + room to the back. Piles of old music lumbered the dusty floor. Stage masks + and weapons, and portraits of singers and dancers, hung round the walls. + An empty violin case in one corner faced a broken bust of Rossini in + another. A frameless print, representing the Trial of Queen Caroline, was + pasted over the fireplace. The chairs were genuine specimens of ancient + carving in oak. The table was an equally excellent example of dirty modern + deal. A small morsel of drugget was on the floor; and a large deposit of + soot was on the ceiling. The scene thus presented, revealed itself in the + back drawing-room of a house in Drury Lane, devoted to the transaction of + musical and theatrical business of the humbler sort. It was late in the + afternoon, on Michaelmas-day. Two persons were seated together in the + room: they were Anne Silvester and Sir Patrick Lundie. + </p> + <p> + The opening conversation between them—comprising, on one side, the + narrative of what had happened at Perth and at Swanhaven; and, on the + other, a statement of the circumstances attending the separation of Arnold + and Blanche—had come to an end. It rested with Sir Patrick to lead + the way to the next topic. He looked at his companion, and hesitated. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel strong enough to go on?” he asked. “If you would prefer to + rest a little, pray say so.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you, Sir Patrick. I am more than ready, I am eager to go on. No + words can say how anxious I feel to be of some use to you, if I can. It + rests entirely with your experience to show me how.” + </p> + <p> + “I can only do that, Miss Silvester, by asking you without ceremony for + all the information that I want. Had you any object in traveling to + London, which you have not mentioned to me yet? I mean, of course, any + object with which I have a claim (as Arnold Brinkworth’s representative) + to be acquainted?” + </p> + <p> + “I had an object, Sir Patrick. And I have failed to accomplish it.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask what it was?” + </p> + <p> + “It was to see Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started. “You have attempted to see <i>him!</i> When?” + </p> + <p> + “This morning.” + </p> + <p> + “Why, you only arrived in London last night!” + </p> + <p> + “I only arrived,” said Anne, “after waiting many days on the journey. I + was obliged to rest at Edinburgh, and again at York—and I was afraid + I had given Mrs. Glenarm time enough to get to Geoffrey Delamayn before + me.” + </p> + <p> + “Afraid?” repeated Sir Patrick. “I understood that you had no serious + intention of disputing the scoundrel with Mrs. Glenarm. What motive could + possibly have taken you <i>his</i> way?” + </p> + <p> + “The same motive which took me to Swanhaven.” + </p> + <p> + “What! the idea that it rested with Delamayn to set things right? and that + you might bribe him to do it, by consenting to release him, so far as your + claims were concerned?” + </p> + <p> + “Bear with my folly, Sir Patrick, as patiently as you can! I am always + alone now; and I get into a habit of brooding over things. I have been + brooding over the position in which my misfortunes have placed Mr. + Brinkworth. I have been obstinate—unreasonably obstinate—in + believing that I could prevail with Geoffrey Delamayn, after I had failed + with Mrs. Glenarm. I am obstinate about it still. If he would only have + heard me, my madness in going to Fulham might have had its excuse.” She + sighed bitterly, and said no more. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick took her hand. + </p> + <p> + “It <i>has</i> its excuse,” he said, kindly. “Your motive is beyond + reproach. Let me add—to quiet your mind—that, even if Delamayn + had been willing to hear you, and had accepted the condition, the result + would still have been the same. You are quite wrong in supposing that he + has only to speak, and to set this matter right. It has passed entirely + beyond his control. The mischief was done when Arnold Brinkworth spent + those unlucky hours with you at Craig Fernie.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Sir Patrick, if I had only known that, before I went to Fulham this + morning!” + </p> + <p> + She shuddered as she said the words. Something was plainly associated with + her visit to Geoffrey, the bare remembrance of which shook her nerves. + What was it? Sir Patrick resolved to obtain an answer to that question, + before he ventured on proceeding further with the main object of the + interview. + </p> + <p> + “You have told me your reason for going to Fulham,” he said. “But I have + not heard what happened there yet.” + </p> + <p> + Anne hesitated. “Is it necessary for me to trouble you about that?” she + asked—with evident reluctance to enter on the subject. + </p> + <p> + “It is absolutely necessary,” answered Sir Patrick, “because Delamayn is + concerned in it.” + </p> + <p> + Anne summoned her resolution, and entered on her narrative in these words: + </p> + <p> + “The person who carries on the business here discovered the address for + me,” she began. “I had some difficulty, however, in finding the house. It + is little more than a cottage; and it is quite lost in a great garden, + surrounded by high walls. I saw a carriage waiting. The coachman was + walking his horses up and down—and he showed me the door. It was a + high wooden door in the wall, with a grating in it. I rang the bell. A + servant-girl opened the grating, and looked at me. She refused to let me + in. Her mistress had ordered her to close the door on all strangers—especially + strangers who were women. I contrived to pass some money to her through + the grating, and asked to speak to her mistress. After waiting some time, + I saw another face behind the bars—and it struck me that I + recognized it. I suppose I was nervous. It startled me. I said, ‘I think + we know each other.’ There was no answer. The door was suddenly opened—and + who do you think stood before me?” + </p> + <p> + “Was it somebody I know?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Man? or woman?” + </p> + <p> + “It was Hester Dethridge.” + </p> + <p> + “Hester Dethridge!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Dressed just as usual, and looking just as usual—with her + slate hanging at her side.” + </p> + <p> + “Astonishing! Where did I last see her? At the Windygates station, to be + sure—going to London, after she had left my sister-in-law’s service. + Has she accepted another place—without letting me know first, as I + told her?” + </p> + <p> + “She is living at Fulham.” + </p> + <p> + “In service?” + </p> + <p> + “No. As mistress of her own house.” + </p> + <p> + “What! Hester Dethridge in possession of a house of her own? Well! well! + why shouldn’t she have a rise in the world like other people? Did she let + you in?” + </p> + <p> + “She stood for some time looking at me, in that dull strange way that she + has. The servants at Windygates always said she was not in her right mind—and + you will say, Sir Patrick, when you hear what happened, that the servants + were not mistaken. She must be mad. I said, ‘Don’t you remember me?’ She + lifted her slate, and wrote, ‘I remember you, in a dead swoon at + Windygates House.’ I was quite unaware that she had been present when I + fainted in the library. The discovery startled me—or that dreadful, + dead-cold look that she has in her eyes startled me—I don’t know + which. I couldn’t speak to her just at first. She wrote on her slate again—the + strangest question—in these words: ‘I said, at the time, brought to + it by a man. Did I say true?’ If the question had been put in the usual + way, by any body else, I should have considered it too insolent to be + noticed. Can you understand my answering it, Sir Patrick? I can’t + understand it myself, now—and yet I did answer. She forced me to it + with her stony eyes. I said ‘yes.’” + </p> + <p> + “Did all this take place at the door?” + </p> + <p> + “At the door.” + </p> + <p> + “When did she let you in?” + </p> + <p> + “The next thing she did was to let me in. She took me by the arm, in a + rough way, and drew me inside the door, and shut it. My nerves are broken; + my courage is gone. I crept with cold when she touched me. She dropped my + arm. I stood like a child, waiting for what it pleased her to say or do + next. She rested her two hands on her sides, and took a long look at me. + She made a horrid dumb sound—not as if she was angry; more, if such + a thing could be, as if she was satisfied—pleased even, I should + have said, if it had been any body but Hester Dethridge. Do you understand + it?” + </p> + <p> + “Not yet. Let me get nearer to understanding it by asking something before + you go on. Did she show any attachment to you, when you were both at + Windygates?” + </p> + <p> + “Not the least. She appeared to be incapable of attachment to me, or to + any body.” + </p> + <p> + “Did she write any more questions on her slate?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. She wrote another question under what she had written just before. + Her mind was still running on my fainting fit, and on the ‘man’ who had + ‘brought me to it.’ She held up the slate; and the words were these: ‘Tell + me how he served you, did he knock you down?’ Most people would have + laughed at the question. <i>I</i> was startled by it. I told her, No. She + shook her head as if she didn’t believe me. She wrote on her slate, ‘We + are loth to own it when they up with their fists and beat us—ain’t + we?’ I said, ‘You are quite wrong.’ She went on obstinately with her + writing. ‘Who is the man?’—was her next question. I had control + enough over myself to decline telling her that. She opened the door, and + pointed to me to go out. I made a sign entreating her to wait a little. + She went back, in her impenetrable way, to the writing on the slate—still + about the ‘man.’ This time, the question was plainer still. She had + evidently placed her own interpretation of my appearance at the house. She + wrote, ‘Is it the man who lodges here?’ I saw that she would close the + door on me if I didn’t answer. My only chance with her was to own that she + had guessed right. I said ‘Yes. I want to see him.’ She took me by the + arm, as roughly as before—and led me into the house.” + </p> + <p> + “I begin to understand her,” said Sir Patrick. “I remember hearing, in my + brother’s time, that she had been brutally ill-used by her husband. The + association of id eas, even in <i>her</i> confused brain, becomes plain, + if you bear that in mind. What is her last remembrance of you? It is the + remembrance of a fainting woman at Windygates.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “She makes you acknowledge that she has guessed right, in guessing that a + man was, in some way, answerable for the condition in which she found you. + A swoon produced by a shock indicted on the mind, is a swoon that she + doesn’t understand. She looks back into her own experience, and associates + it with the exercise of actual physical brutality on the part of the man. + And she sees, in you, a reflection of her own sufferings and her own case. + It’s curious—to a student of human nature. And it explains, what is + otherwise unintelligible—her overlooking her own instructions to the + servant, and letting you into the house. What happened next?” + </p> + <p> + “She took me into a room, which I suppose was her own room. She made + signs, offering me tea. It was done in the strangest way—without the + least appearance of kindness. After what you have just said to me, I think + I can in some degree interpret what was going on in her mind. I believe + she felt a hard-hearted interest in seeing a woman whom she supposed to be + as unfortunate as she had once been herself. I declined taking any tea, + and tried to return to the subject of what I wanted in the house. She paid + no heed to me. She pointed round the room; and then took me to a window, + and pointed round the garden—and then made a sign indicating + herself. ‘My house; and my garden’—that was what she meant. There + were four men in the garden—and Geoffrey Delamayn was one of them. I + made another attempt to tell her that I wanted to speak to him. But, no! + She had her own idea in her mind. After beckoning to me to leave the + window, she led the way to the fire-place, and showed me a sheet of paper + with writing on it, framed and placed under a glass, and hung on the wall. + She seemed, I thought, to feel some kind of pride in her framed + manuscript. At any rate, she insisted on my reading it. It was an extract + from a will.” + </p> + <p> + “The will under which she had inherited the house?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Her brother’s will. It said, that he regretted, on his death-bed, + his estrangement from his only sister, dating from the time when she had + married in defiance of his wishes and against his advice. As a proof of + his sincere desire to be reconciled with her, before he died, and as some + compensation for the sufferings that she had endured at the hands of her + deceased husband, he left her an income of two hundred pounds a year, + together with the use of his house and garden, for her lifetime. That, as + well as I remember, was the substance of what it said.” + </p> + <p> + “Creditable to her brother, and creditable to herself,” said Sir Patrick. + “Taking her odd character into consideration, I understand her liking it + to be seen. What puzzles me, is her letting lodgings with an income of her + own to live on.” + </p> + <p> + “That was the very question which I put to her myself. I was obliged to be + cautious, and to begin by asking about the lodgers first—the men + being still visible out in the garden, to excuse the inquiry. The rooms to + let in the house had (as I understood her) been taken by a person acting + for Geoffrey Delamayn—his trainer, I presume. He had surprised + Hester Dethridge by barely noticing the house, and showing the most + extraordinary interest in the garden.” + </p> + <p> + “That is quite intelligible, Miss Silvester. The garden you have described + would be just the place he wanted for the exercises of his employer—plenty + of space, and well secured from observation by the high walls all round. + What next?” + </p> + <p> + “Next, I got to the question of why she should let her house in lodgings + at all. When I asked her that, her face turned harder than ever. She + answered me on her slate in these dismal words: ‘I have not got a friend + in the world. I dare not live alone.’ There was her reason! Dreary and + dreadful, Sir Patrick, was it not?” + </p> + <p> + “Dreary indeed! How did it end? Did you get into the garden?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes—at the second attempt. She seemed suddenly to change her mind; + she opened the door for me herself. Passing the window of the room in + which I had left her, I looked back. She had taken her place, at a table + before the window, apparently watching for what might happen. There was + something about her, as her eyes met mine (I can’t say what), which made + me feel uneasy at the time. Adopting your view, I am almost inclined to + think now, horrid as the idea is, that she had the expectation of seeing + me treated as <i>she</i> had been treated in former days. It was actually + a relief to me—though I knew I was going to run a serious risk—to + lose sight of her. As I got nearer to the men in the garden, I heard two + of them talking very earnestly to Geoffrey Delamayn. The fourth person, an + elderly gentleman, stood apart from the rest at some little distance. I + kept as far as I could out of sight, waiting till the talk was over. It + was impossible for me to help hearing it. The two men were trying to + persuade Geoffrey Delamayn to speak to the elderly gentleman. They pointed + to him as a famous medical man. They reiterated over and over again, that + his opinion was well worth having—” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick interrupted her. “Did they mention his name?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. They called him Mr. Speedwell.” + </p> + <p> + “The man himself! This is even more interesting, Miss Silvester, than you + suppose. I myself heard Mr. Speedwell warn Delamayn that he was in broken + health, when we were visiting together at Windygates House last month. Did + he do as the other men wished him? Did he speak to the surgeon?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He sulkily refused—he remembered what you remember. He said, + ‘See the man who told me I was broken down?—not I!’ After confirming + it with an oath, he turned away from the others. Unfortunately, he took + the direction in which I was standing, and discovered me. The bare sight + of me seemed to throw him instantly into a state of frenzy. He—it is + impossible for me to repeat the language that he used: it is bad enough to + have heard it. I believe, Sir Patrick, but for the two men, who ran up and + laid hold of him, that Hester Dethridge would have seen what she expected + to see. The change in him was so frightful—even to me, well as I + thought I knew him in his fits of passion—I tremble when I think of + it. One of the men who had restrained him was almost as brutal, in his + way. He declared, in the foulest language, that if Delamayn had a fit, he + would lose the race, and that I should be answerable for it. But for Mr. + Speedwell, I don’t know what I should have done. He came forward directly. + ‘This is no place either for you, or for me,’ he said—and gave me + his arm, and led me back to the house. Hester Dethridge met us in the + passage, and lifted her hand to stop me. Mr. Speedwell asked her what she + wanted. She looked at me, and then looked toward the garden, and made the + motion of striking a blow with her clenched fist. For the first time in my + experience of her—I hope it was my fancy—I thought I saw her + smile. Mr. Speedwell took me out. ‘They are well matched in that house,’ + he said. ‘The woman is as complete a savage as the men.’ The carriage + which I had seen waiting at the door was his. He called it up, and + politely offered me a place in it. I said I would only trespass on his + kindness as far as to the railway station. While we were talking, Hester + Dethridge followed us to the door. She made the same motion again with her + clenched hand, and looked back toward the garden—and then looked at + me, and nodded her head, as much as to say, ‘He will do it yet!’ No words + can describe how glad I was to see the last of her. I hope and trust I + shall never set eyes on her again!” + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear how Mr. Speedwell came to be at the house? Had he gone of + his own accord? or had he been sent for?” + </p> + <p> + “He had been sent for. I ventured to speak to him about the persons whom I + had seen in the garden. Mr. Speedwell explained everything which I was not + able of myself to understand, in the kindest manner. One of the two + strange men in the garden was the trainer; the other was a doctor, whom + the trainer was usually in the habit of consulting. It seems that the real + reason for their bringing Geof frey Delamayn away from Scotland when they + did, was that the trainer was uneasy, and wanted to be near London for + medical advice. The doctor, on being consulted, owned that he was at a + loss to understand the symptoms which he was asked to treat. He had + himself fetched the great surgeon to Fulham, that morning. Mr. Speedwell + abstained from mentioning that he had foreseen what would happen, at + Windygates. All he said was, ‘I had met Mr. Delamayn in society, and I + felt interest enough in the case to pay him a visit—with what + result, you have seen yourself.’” + </p> + <p> + “Did he tell you any thing about Delamayn’s health?” + </p> + <p> + “He said that he had questioned the doctor on the way to Fulham, and that + some of the patient’s symptoms indicated serious mischief. What the + symptoms were I did not hear. Mr. Speedwell only spoke of changes for the + worse in him which a woman would be likely to understand. At one time, he + would be so dull and heedless that nothing could rouse him. At another, he + flew into the most terrible passions without any apparent cause. The + trainer had found it almost impossible (in Scotland) to keep him to the + right diet; and the doctor had only sanctioned taking the house at Fulham, + after being first satisfied, not only of the convenience of the garden, + but also that Hester Dethridge could be thoroughly trusted as a cook. With + her help, they had placed him on an entirely new diet. But they had found + an unexpected difficulty even in doing that. When the trainer took him to + the new lodgings, it turned out that he had seen Hester Dethridge at + Windygates, and had taken the strongest prejudice against her. On seeing + her again at Fulham, he appeared to be absolutely terrified.” + </p> + <p> + “Terrified? Why?” + </p> + <p> + “Nobody knows why. The trainer and the doctor together could only prevent + his leaving the house, by threatening to throw up the responsibility of + preparing him for the race, unless he instantly controlled himself, and + behaved like a man instead of a child. Since that time, he has become + reconciled, little by little, to his new abode—partly through Hester + Dethridge’s caution in keeping herself always out of his way; and partly + through his own appreciation of the change in his diet, which Hester’s + skill in cookery has enabled the doctor to make. Mr. Speedwell mentioned + some things which I have forgotten. I can only repeat, Sir Patrick, the + result at which he has arrived in his own mind. Coming from a man of his + authority, the opinion seems to me to be startling in the last degree. If + Geoffrey Delamayn runs in the race on Thursday next, he will do it at the + risk of his life.” + </p> + <p> + “At the risk of dying on the ground?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s face became thoughtful. He waited a little before he spoke + again. + </p> + <p> + “We have not wasted our time,” he said, “in dwelling on what happened + during your visit to Fulham. The possibility of this man’s death suggests + to my mind serious matter for consideration. It is very desirable, in the + interests of my niece and her husband, that I should be able to foresee, + if I can, how a fatal result of the race might affect the inquiry which is + to be held on Saturday next. I believe you may be able to help me in + this.” + </p> + <p> + “You have only to tell me how, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “I may count on your being present on Saturday?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “You thoroughly understand that, in meeting Blanche, you will meet a + person estranged from you, for the present—a friend and sister who + has ceased (under Lady Lundie’s influence mainly) to feel as a friend and + sister toward you now?” + </p> + <p> + “I was not quite unprepared, Sir Patrick, to hear that Blanche had + misjudged me. When I wrote my letter to Mr. Brinkworth, I warned him as + delicately as I could, that his wife’s jealousy might be very easily + roused. You may rely on my self-restraint, no matter how hardly it may be + tried. Nothing that Blanche can say or do will alter my grateful + remembrance of the past. While I live, I love her. Let that assurance + quiet any little anxiety that you may have felt as to my conduct—and + tell me how I can serve those interests which I have at heart as well as + you.” + </p> + <p> + “You can serve them, Miss Silvester, in this way. You can make me + acquainted with the position in which you stood toward Delamayn at the + time when you went to the Craig Fernie inn.” + </p> + <p> + “Put any questions to me that you think right, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean that?” + </p> + <p> + “I mean it.” + </p> + <p> + “I will begin by recalling something which you have already told me. + Delamayn has promised you marriage—” + </p> + <p> + “Over and over again!” + </p> + <p> + “In words?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “In writing?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you see what I am coming to?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly yet.” + </p> + <p> + “You referred, when we first met in this room, to a letter which you + recovered from Bishopriggs, at Perth. I have ascertained from Arnold + Brinkworth that the sheet of note-paper stolen from you contained two + letters. One was written by you to Delamayn—the other was written by + Delamayn to you. The substance of this last Arnold remembered. Your letter + he had not read. It is of the utmost importance, Miss Silvester, to let me + see that correspondence before we part to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Anne made no answer. She sat with her clasped hands on her lap. Her eyes + looked uneasily away from Sir Patrick’s face, for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Will it not be enough,” she asked, after an interval, “if I tell you the + substance of my letter, without showing it?” + </p> + <p> + “It will <i>not</i> be enough,” returned Sir Patrick, in the plainest + manner. “I hinted—if you remember—at the propriety of my + seeing the letter, when you first mentioned it, and I observed that you + purposely abstained from understanding me, I am grieved to put you, on + this occasion, to a painful test. But if you <i>are</i> to help me at this + serious crisis, I have shown you the way.” + </p> + <p> + Anne rose from her chair, and answered by putting the letter into Sir + Patrick’s hands. “Remember what he has done, since I wrote that,” she + said. “And try to excuse me, if I own that I am ashamed to show it to you + now.” + </p> + <p> + With those words she walked aside to the window. She stood there, with her + hand pressed on her breast, looking out absently on the murky London view + of house roof and chimney, while Sir Patrick opened the letter. + </p> + <p> + It is necessary to the right appreciation of events, that other eyes + besides Sir Patrick’s should follow the brief course of the correspondence + in this place. + </p> + <p> + 1. <i>From Anne Silvester to Geoffrey Delamayn.</i> + </p> + <p> + WINDYGATES HOUSE. <i>August</i> 19, 1868. + </p> + <p> + “GEOFFREY DELAMAYN,—I have waited in the hope that you would ride + over from your brother’s place, and see me—and I have waited in + vain. Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear it no longer. + Consider! in your own interests, consider—before you drive the + miserable woman who has trusted you to despair. You have promised me + marriage by all that is sacred. I claim your promise. I insist on nothing + less than to be what you vowed I should be—what I have waited all + this weary time to be—what I <i>am,</i> in the sight of Heaven, your + wedded wife. Lady Lundie gives a lawn-party here on the 14th. I know you + have been asked. I expect you to accept her invitation. If I don’t see + you, I won’t answer for what may happen. My mind is made up to endure this + suspense no longer. Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past! Be faithful—be + just—to your loving wife, + </p> + <p> + “ANNE SILVESTER.” + </p> + <p> + 2. <i>From Geoffrey Delamayn to Anne Silvester.</i> + </p> + <p> + “DEAR ANNE,—Just called to London to my father. They have + telegraphed him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I will write you. + Trust the bearer. Upon my soul, I’ll keep my promise. Your loving husband + that is to be, + </p> + <p> + “GEOFFREY DELAMAYN. + </p> + <p> + “WINDYGATES HOUSE <i>Augt.</i> 14, 4 P. M. + </p> + <p> + “In a mortal hurry. The train starts 4.30.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick read the correspondence with breathless attention to the end. + At the last lines of the last letter he did what he had not done for + twenty years past—he sprang to his feet at a bound, and he crossed a + room without the help of his ivory cane. + </p> + <p> + Anne started; and turning round from the window, looked at him in silent + surprise. He was under the influence of strong emotion; his face, his + voice, his manner, all showed it. + </p> + <p> + “How long had you been in Scotland, when you wrote this?” He pointed to + Anne’s letter as he asked the question, put ting it so eagerly that he + stammered over the first words. “More than three weeks?” he added, with + his bright black eyes fixed in absorbing interest on her face. + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure of that?” + </p> + <p> + “I am certain of it.” + </p> + <p> + “You can refer to persons who have seen you?” + </p> + <p> + “Easily.” + </p> + <p> + He turned the sheet of note-paper, and pointed to Geoffrey’s penciled + letter on the fourth page. + </p> + <p> + “How long had <i>he</i> been in Scotland, when <i>he</i> wrote this? More + than three weeks, too?” + </p> + <p> + Anne considered for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “For God’s sake, be careful!” said Sir Patrick. “You don’t know what + depends on this, If your memory is not clear about it, say so.” + </p> + <p> + “My memory was confused for a moment. It is clear again now. He had been + at his brother’s in Perthshire three weeks before he wrote that. And + before he went to Swanhaven, he spent three or four days in the valley of + the Esk.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you sure again?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite sure!” + </p> + <p> + “Do you know of any one who saw him in the valley of the Esk?” + </p> + <p> + “I know of a person who took a note to him, from me.” + </p> + <p> + “A person easily found?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite easily.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick laid aside the letter, and seized in ungovernable agitation on + both her hands. + </p> + <p> + “Listen to me,” he said. “The whole conspiracy against Arnold Brinkworth + and you falls to the ground before that correspondence. When you and he + met at the inn—” + </p> + <p> + He paused, and looked at her. Her hands were beginning to tremble in his. + </p> + <p> + “When you and Arnold Brinkworth met at the inn,” he resumed, “the law of + Scotland had made you a married woman. On the day, and at the hour, when + he wrote those lines at the back of your letter to him, you were <i>Geoffrey + Delamayn’s wedded wife!</i>” + </p> + <p> + He stopped, and looked at her again. + </p> + <p> + Without a word in reply, without the slightest movement in her from head + to foot, she looked back at him. The blank stillness of horror was in her + face. The deadly cold of horror was in her hands. + </p> + <p> + In silence, on his side, Sir Patrick drew back a step, with a faint + reflection of <i>her</i> dismay in his face. Married—to the villain + who had not hesitated to calumniate the woman whom he had ruined, and then + to cast her helpless on the world. Married—to the traitor who had + not shrunk from betraying Arnold’s trust in him, and desolating Arnold’s + home. Married—to the ruffian who would have struck her that morning, + if the hands of his own friends had not held him back. And Sir Patrick had + never thought of it! Absorbed in the one idea of Blanche’s future, he had + never thought of it, till that horror-stricken face looked at him, and + said, Think of <i>my</i> future, too! + </p> + <p> + He came back to her. He took her cold hand once more in his. + </p> + <p> + “Forgive me,” he said, “for thinking first of Blanche.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche’s name seemed to rouse her. The life came back to her face; the + tender brightness began to shine again in her eyes. He saw that he might + venture to speak more plainly still: he went on. + </p> + <p> + “I see the dreadful sacrifice as <i>you</i> see it. I ask myself, have I + any right, has Blanche any right—” + </p> + <p> + She stopped him by a faint pressure of his hand. + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” she said, softly, “if Blanche’s happiness depends on it.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0061" id="link2H_4_0061"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + THIRTEENTH SCENE.—FULHAM. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0045" id="link2HCH0045"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE FOOT-RACE. + </h3> + <p> + A SOLITARY foreigner, drifting about London, drifted toward Fulham on the + day of the Foot-Race. + </p> + <p> + Little by little, he found himself involved in the current of a throng of + impetuous English people, all flowing together toward one given point, and + all decorated alike with colors of two prevailing hues—pink and + yellow. He drifted along with the stream of passengers on the pavement + (accompanied by a stream of carriages in the road) until they stopped with + one accord at a gate—and paid admission money to a man in office—and + poured into a great open space of ground which looked like an uncultivated + garden. + </p> + <p> + Arrived here, the foreign visitor opened his eyes in wonder at the scene + revealed to view. He observed thousands of people assembled, composed + almost exclusively of the middle and upper classes of society. They were + congregated round a vast inclosure; they were elevated on amphitheatrical + wooden stands, and they were perched on the roofs of horseless carriages, + drawn up in rows. From this congregation there rose such a roar of eager + voices as he had never heard yet from any assembled multitude in these + islands. Predominating among the cries, he detected one everlasting + question. It began with, “Who backs—?” and it ended in the alternate + pronouncing of two British names unintelligible to foreign ears. Seeing + these extraordinary sights, and hearing these stirring sounds, he applied + to a policeman on duty; and said, in his best producible English, “If you + please, Sir, what is this?” + </p> + <p> + The policeman answered, “North against South—Sports.” + </p> + <p> + The foreigner was informed, but not satisfied. He pointed all round the + assembly with a circular sweep of his hand; and said, “Why?” + </p> + <p> + The policeman declined to waste words on a man who could ask such a + question as that. He lifted a large purple forefinger, with a broad white + nail at the end of it, and pointed gravely to a printed Bill, posted on + the wall behind him. The drifting foreigner drifted to the Bill. + </p> + <p> + After reading it carefully, from top to bottom, he consulted a polite + private individual near at hand, who proved to be far more communicative + than the policeman. The result on his mind, as a person not thoroughly + awakened to the enormous national importance of Athletic Sports, was much + as follows: + </p> + <p> + The color of North is pink. The color of South is yellow. North produces + fourteen pink men, and South produces thirteen yellow men. The meeting of + pink and yellow is a solemnity. The solemnity takes its rise in an + indomitable national passion for hardening the arms and legs, by throwing + hammers and cricket-balls with the first, and running and jumping with the + second. The object in view is to do this in public rivalry. The ends + arrived at are (physically) an excessive development of the muscles, + purchased at the expense of an excessive strain on the heart and the lungs—(morally), + glory; conferred at the moment by the public applause; confirmed the next + day by a report in the newspapers. Any person who presumes to see any + physical evil involved in these exercises to the men who practice them, or + any moral obstruction in the exhibition itself to those civilizing + influences on which the true greatness of all nations depends, is a person + without a biceps, who is simply incomprehensible. Muscular England + develops itself, and takes no notice of him. + </p> + <p> + The foreigner mixed with the assembly, and looked more closely at the + social spectacle around him. + </p> + <p> + He had met with these people before. He had seen them (for instance) at + the theatre, and observed their manners and customs with considerable + curiosity and surprise. When the curtain was down, they were so little + interested in what they had come to see, that they had hardly spirit + enough to speak to each other between the acts. When the curtain was up, + if the play made any appeal to their sympathy with any of the higher and + nobler emotions of humanity, they received it as something wearisome, or + sneered at it as something absurd. The public feeling of the countrymen of + Shakespeare, so far as they represented it, recognized but two duties in + the dramatist—the duty of making them laugh, and the duty of getting + it over soon. The two great merits of a stage proprietor, in England + (judging by the rare applause of his cultivated customers), consisted in + spending plenty of money on his scenery, and in hiring plenty of + brazen-faced women to exhibit their bosoms and their legs. Not at theatres + only; but among other gatherings, in other places, the foreigner had + noticed the same stolid languor where any effort was exacted from genteel + English brains, and the same stupid contempt where any appeal was made to + genteel English hearts. Preserve us from enjoying any thing but jokes and + scandal! Preserve us from respecting any thing but rank and money! There + were the social aspirations of these insular ladies and gentlemen, as + expressed under other circumstances, and as betrayed amidst other scenes. + Here, all was changed. Here was the strong feeling, the breathless + interest, the hearty enthusiasm, not visible elsewhere. Here were the + superb gentlemen who were too weary to speak, when an Art was addressing + them, shouting themselves hoarse with burst on burst of genuine applause. + Here were the fine ladies who yawned behind their fans, at the bare idea + of being called on to think or to feel, waving their handkerchiefs in + honest delight, and actually flushing with excitement through their powder + and their paint. And all for what? All for running and jumping—all + for throwing hammers and balls. + </p> + <p> + The foreigner looked at it, and tried, as a citizen of a civilized + country, to understand it. He was still trying—when there occurred a + pause in the performances. + </p> + <p> + Certain hurdles, which had served to exhibit the present satisfactory + state of civilization (in jumping) among the upper classes, were removed. + The privileged persons who had duties to perform within the inclosure, + looked all round it; and disappeared one after another. A great hush of + expectation pervaded the whole assembly. Something of no common interest + and importance was evidently about to take place. On a sudden, the silence + was broken by a roar of cheering from the mob in the road outside the + grounds. People looked at each other excitedly, and said, “One of them has + come.” The silence prevailed again—and was a second time broken by + another roar of applause. People nodded to each other with an air of + relief and said, “Both of them have come.” Then the great hush fell on the + crowd once more, and all eyes looked toward one particular point of the + ground, occupied by a little wooden pavilion, with the blinds down over + the open windows, and the door closed. + </p> + <p> + The foreigner was deeply impressed by the silent expectation of the great + throng about him. He felt his own sympathies stirred, without knowing why. + He believed himself to be on the point of understanding the English + people. + </p> + <p> + Some ceremony of grave importance was evidently in preparation. Was a + great orator going to address the assembly? Was a glorious anniversary to + be commemorated? Was a religious service to be performed? He looked round + him to apply for information once more. Two gentlemen—who contrasted + favorably, so far as refinement of manner was concerned, with most of the + spectators present—were slowly making their way, at that moment, + through the crowd near him. He respectfully asked what national solemnity + was now about to take place. They informed him that a pair of strong young + men were going to run round the inclosure for a given number of turns, + with the object of ascertaining which could run the fastest of the two. + </p> + <p> + The foreigner lifted his hands and eyes to heaven. Oh, multifarious + Providence! who would have suspected that the infinite diversities of thy + creation included such beings as these! With that aspiration, he turned + his back on the race-course, and left the place. + </p> + <p> + On his way out of the grounds he had occasion to use his handkerchief, and + found that it was gone. He felt next for his purse. His purse was missing + too. When he was back again in his own country, intelligent inquiries were + addressed to him on the subject of England. He had but one reply to give. + “The whole nation is a mystery to me. Of all the English people I only + understand the English thieves!” + </p> + <p> + In the mean time the two gentlemen, making their way through the crowd, + reached a wicket-gate in the fence which surrounded the inclosure. + </p> + <p> + Presenting a written order to the policeman in charge of the gate, they + were forthwith admitted within the sacred precincts The closely packed + spectators, regarding them with mixed feelings of envy and curiosity, + wondered who they might be. Were they referees appointed to act at the + coming race? or reporters for the newspapers? or commissioners of police? + They were neither the one nor the other. They were only Mr. Speedwell, the + surgeon, and Sir Patrick Lundie. + </p> + <p> + The two gentlemen walked into the centre of the inclosure, and looked + round them. + </p> + <p> + The grass on which they were standing was girdled by a broad smooth path, + composed of finely-sifted ashes and sand—and this again was + surrounded by the fence and by the spectators ranked behind it. Above the + lines thus formed rose on one side the amphitheatres with their tiers of + crowded benches, and on the other the long rows of carriages with the + sight-seers inside and out. The evening sun was shining brightly, the + light and shade lay together in grand masses, the varied colors of objects + blended softly one with the other. It was a splendid and an inspiriting + scene. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick turned from the rows of eager faces all round him to his + friend the surgeon. + </p> + <p> + “Is there one person to be found in this vast crowd,” he asked, “who has + come to see the race with the doubt in his mind which has brought <i>us</i> + to see it?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell shook his head. “Not one of them knows or cares what the + struggle may cost the men who engage in it.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked round him again. “I almost wish I had not come to see + it,” he said. “If this wretched man—” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon interposed. “Don’t dwell needlessly, Sir Patrick, on the + gloomy view,” he rejoined. “The opinion I have formed has, thus far, no + positive grounds to rest on. I am guessing rightly, as I believe, but at + the same time I am guessing in the dark. Appearances <i>may</i> have + misled me. There may be reserves of vital force in Mr. Delamayn’s + constitution which I don’t suspect. I am here to learn a lesson—not + to see a prediction fulfilled. I know his health is broken, and I believe + he is going to run this race at his own proper peril. Don’t feel too sure + beforehand of the event. The event may prove me to be wrong.” + </p> + <p> + For the moment Sir Patrick dropped the subject. He was not in his usual + spirits. + </p> + <p> + Since his interview with Anne had satisfied him that she was Geoffrey’s + lawful wife, the conviction had inevitably forced itself on his mind that + the one possible chance for her in the future, was the chance of + Geoffrey’s death. Horrible as it was to him, he had been possessed by that + one idea—go where he might, do what he might, struggle as he might + to force his thoughts in other directions. He looked round the broad ashen + path on which the race was to be run, conscious that he had a secret + interest in it which it was unutterably repugnant to him to feel. He tried + to resume the conversation with his friend, and to lead it to other + topics. The effort was useless. In despite of himself, he returned to the + one fatal subject of the struggle that was now close at hand. + </p> + <p> + “How many times must they go round this inclosure,” he inquired, “before + the race is ended?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell turned toward a gentleman who was approaching them at the + moment. “Here is somebody coming who can tell us,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You know him?” + </p> + <p> + “He is one of my patients.” + </p> + <p> + “Who is he?” + </p> + <p> + “After the two runners he is the most important personage on the ground. + He is the final authority—the umpire of the race.” + </p> + <p> + The person thus described was a middle-aged man, with a prematurely + wrinkled face, with prematurely white hair and with something of a + military look about him—brief in speech, and quick in manner. + </p> + <p> + “The path measures four hundred and forty yards round,” he said, when the + surgeon had repeated Sir Patrick’s question to him. “In plainer words, and + not to put you to your arithmetic once round it is a quarter of a mile. + Each round is called a ‘Lap.’ The men must run sixteen Laps to finish the + race. Not to put you to your arithmetic again, they must run four miles—the + longest race of this kind which it is customary to attempt at Sports like + these.” + </p> + <p> + “Professional pedestrians exceed that limit, do they not?” + </p> + <p> + “Considerably—on certain occasions.” + </p> + <p> + “Are they a long-lived race?” + </p> + <p> + “Far from it. They are exceptions when they live to be old men.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell looked at Sir Patrick. Sir Patrick put a question to the + umpire. + </p> + <p> + “You have just told us,” he said, “that the two young men who appear + to-day are going to run the longest distance yet attempted in their + experience. Is it generally thought, by persons who understand such + things, that they are both fit to bear the exertion demanded of them?” + </p> + <p> + “You can judge for yourself, Sir. Here is one of them.” + </p> + <p> + He pointed toward the pavilion. At the same moment there rose a mighty + clapping of hands from the great throng of spectators. Fleetwood, champion + of the North, decorated in his pink colors, descended the pavilion steps + and walked into the arena. + </p> + <p> + Young, lithe, and elegant, with supple strength expressed in every + movement of his limbs, with a bright smile on his resolute young face, the + man of the north won the women’s hearts at starting. The murmur of eager + talk rose among them on all sides. The men were quieter—especially + the men who understood the subject. It was a serious question with these + experts whether Fleetwood was not “a little too fine.” Superbly trained, + it was admitted—but, possibly, a little over-trained for a four-mile + race. + </p> + <p> + The northern hero was followed into the inclosure by his friends and + backers, and by his trainer. This last carried a tin can in his hand. + “Cold water,” the umpire explained. “If he gets exhausted, his trainer + will pick him up with a dash of it as he goes by.” + </p> + <p> + A new burst of hand-clapping rattled all round the arena. Delamayn, + champion of the South, decorated in his yellow colors, presented himself + to the public view. + </p> + <p> + The immense hum of voices rose louder and louder as he walked into the + centre of the great green space. Surprise at the extraordinary contrast + between the two men was the prevalent emotion of the moment. Geoffrey was + more than a head taller than his antagonist, and broader in full + proportion. The women who had been charmed with the easy gait and + confident smile of Fleetwood, were all more or less painfully impressed by + the sullen strength of the southern man, as he passed before them slowly, + with his head down and his brows knit, deaf to the applause showered on + him, reckless of the eyes that looked at him; speaking to nobody; + concentrated in himself; biding his time. He held the men who understood + the subject breathless with interest. There it was! the famous “staying + power” that was to endure in the last terrible half-mile of the race, when + the nimble and jaunty Fleetwood was run off his legs. Whispers had been + spread abroad hinting at something which had gone wrong with Delamayn in + his training. And now that all eyes could judge him, his appearance + suggested criticism in some quarters. It was exactly the opposite of the + criticism passed on his antagonist. The doubt as to Delamayn was whether + he had been sufficiently trained. Still the solid strength of the man, the + slow, panther-like smoothness of his movements—and, above all, his + great reputation in the world of muscle and sport—had their effect. + The betting which, with occasional fluctuations, had held steadily in his + favor thus far, held, now that he was publicly seen, steadily in his favor + still. + </p> + <p> + “Fleetwood for shorter distances, if you like; but Delamayn for a + four-mile race.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think he sees us?” whispered Sir Patrick to the surgeon. + </p> + <p> + “He sees nobody.” + </p> + <p> + “Can you judge of the condition he is in, at this distance?” + </p> + <p> + “He has twice the muscular strength of the other man. His trunk and limbs + are magnificent. It is useless to ask me more than that about his + condition. We are too far from him to see his face plainly.” + </p> + <p> + The conversation among the audience began to flag again; and the silent + expectation set in among them once more. One by one, the different persons + officially connected with the race gathered together on the grass. The + trainer Perry was among them, with his can of water in his hand, in + anxious whispering conversation with his principal—giving him the + last words of advice before the start. The trainer’s doctor, leaving them + together, came up to pay his respects to his illustrious colleague. + </p> + <p> + “How has he got on since I was at Fulham?” asked Mr. Speedwell. + </p> + <p> + “First-rate, Sir! It was one of his bad days when you saw him. He has done + wonders in the last eight-and-forty hours.” + </p> + <p> + “Is he going to win the race?” + </p> + <p> + Privately the doctor had done what Perry had done before him—he had + backed Geoffrey’s antagonist. Publicly he was true to his colors. He cast + a disparaging look at Fleetwood—and answered Yes, without the + slightest hesitation. + </p> + <p> + At that point, the conversation was suspended by a sudden movement in the + inclosure. The runners were on their way to the starting-place. The moment + of the race had come. + </p> + <p> + Shoulder to shoulder, the two men waited—each with his foot touching + the mark. The firing of a pistol gave the signal for the start. At the + instant when the report sounded they were off. + </p> + <p> + Fleetwood at once took the lead, Delamayn following, at from two to three + yards behind him. In that order they ran the first round, the second, and + the third—both reserving their strength; both watched with + breathless interest by every soul in the place. The trainers, with their + cans in their hands, ran backward and forward over the grass, meeting + their men at certain points, and eying them narrowly, in silence. The + official persons stood together in a group; their eyes following the + runners round and round with the closest attention. The trainer’s doctor, + still attached to his illustrious colleague, offered the necessary + explanations to Mr. Speedwell and his friend. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing much to see for the first mile, Sir, except the ‘style’ of the + two men.” + </p> + <p> + “You mean they are not really exerting themselves yet?” + </p> + <p> + “No. Getting their wind, and feeling their legs. Pretty runner, Fleetwood—if + you notice Sir? Gets his legs a trifle better in front, and hardly lifts + his heels quite so high as our man. His action’s the best of the two; I + grant that. But just look, as they come by, which keeps the straightest + line. There’s where Delamayn has him! It’s a steadier, stronger, truer + pace; and you’ll see it tell when they’re half-way through.” So, for the + first three rounds, the doctor expatiated on the two contrasted “styles”—in + terms mercifully adapted to the comprehension of persons unacquainted with + the language of the running ring. + </p> + <p> + At the fourth round—in other words, at the round which completed the + first mile, the first change in the relative position of the runners + occurred. Delamayn suddenly dashed to the front. Fleetwood smiled as the + other passed him. Delamayn held the lead till they were half way through + the fifth round—when Fleetwood, at a hint from his trainer, forced + the pace. He lightly passed Delamayn in an instant; and led again to the + completion of the sixth round. + </p> + <p> + At the opening of the seventh, Delamayn forced the pace on his side. For a + few moments, they ran exactly abreast. Then Delamayn drew away inch by + inch; and recovered the lead. The first burst of applause (led by the + south) rang out, as the big man beat Fleetwood at his own tactics, and + headed him at the critical moment when the race was nearly half run. + </p> + <p> + “It begins to look as if Delamayn <i>was</i> going to win!” said Sir + Patrick. + </p> + <p> + The trainer’s doctor forgot himself. Infected by the rising excitement of + every body about him, he let out the truth. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a bit!” he said. “Fleetwood has got directions to let him pass—Fleetwood + is waiting to see what he can do.” + </p> + <p> + “Cunning, you see, Sir Patrick, is one of the elements in a manly sport,” + said Mr. Speedwell, quietly. + </p> + <p> + At the end of the seventh round, Fleetwood proved the doctor to be right. + He shot past Delamayn like an arrow from a bow. At the end of the eight + round, he was leading by two yards. Half the race had then been run. Time, + ten minutes and thirty-three seconds. + </p> + <p> + Toward the end of the ninth round, the pace slackened a little; and + Delamayn was in front again. He kept ahead, until the opening of the + eleventh round. At that point, Fleetwood flung up one hand in the air with + a gesture of triumph; and bounded past Delamayn with a shout of “Hooray + for the North!” The shout was echoed by the spectators. In proportion as + the exertion began to tell upon the men, so the excitement steadily rose + among the people looking at them. + </p> + <p> + At the twelfth round, Fleetwood was leading by six yards. Cries of triumph + rose among the adherents of the north, met by counter-cries of defiance + from the south. At the next turn Delamayn resolutely lessened the distance + between his antagonist and himself. At the opening of the fourteenth + round, they were coming sid e by side. A few yards more, and Delamayn was + in front again, amidst a roar of applause from the whole public voice. Yet + a few yards further, and Fleetwood neared him, passed him, dropped behind + again, led again, and was passed again at the end of the round. The + excitement rose to its highest pitch, as the runners—gasping for + breath; with dark flushed faces, and heaving breasts—alternately + passed and repassed each other. Oaths were heard now as well as cheers. + Women turned pale and men set their teeth, as the last round but one + began. + </p> + <p> + At the opening of it, Delamayn was still in advance. Before six yards more + had been covered, Fleetwood betrayed the purpose of his running in the + previous round, and electrified the whole assembly, by dashing past his + antagonist—for the first time in the race at the top of his speed. + Every body present could see, now, that Delamayn had been allowed to lead + on sufferance—had been dextrously drawn on to put out his whole + power—and had then, and not till then, been seriously deprived of + the lead. He made another effort, with a desperate resolution that roused + the public enthusiasm to frenzy. While the voices were roaring; while the + hats and handkerchiefs were waving round the course; while the actual + event of the race was, for one supreme moment, still in doubt—Mr. + Speedwell caught Sir Patrick by the arm. + </p> + <p> + “Prepare yourself!” he whispered. “It’s all over.” + </p> + <p> + As the words passed his lips, Delamayn swerved on the path. His trainer + dashed water over him. He rallied, and ran another step or two—swerved + again—staggered—lifted his arm to his mouth with a hoarse cry + of rage—fastened his own teeth in his flesh like a wild beast—and + fell senseless on the course. + </p> + <p> + A Babel of sounds arose. The cries of alarm in some places, mingling with + the shouts of triumph from the backers of Fleetwood in others—as + their man ran lightly on to win the now uncontested race. Not the + inclosure only, but the course itself was invaded by the crowd. In the + midst of the tumult the fallen man was drawn on to the grass—with + Mr. Speedwell and the trainer’s doctor in attendance on him. At the + terrible moment when the surgeon laid his hand on the heart, Fleetwood + passed the spot—a passage being forced for him through the people by + his friends and the police—running the sixteenth and last round of + the race. + </p> + <p> + Had the beaten man fainted under it, or had he died under it? Every body + waited, with their eyes riveted on the surgeon’s hand. + </p> + <p> + The surgeon looked up from him, and called for water to throw over his + face, for brandy to put into his mouth. He was coming to life again—he + had survived the race. The last shout of applause which hailed Fleetwood’s + victory rang out as they lifted him from the ground to carry him to the + pavilion. Sir Patrick (admitted at Mr. Speedwell’s request) was the one + stranger allowed to pass the door. At the moment when he was ascending the + steps, some one touched his arm. It was Captain Newenden. + </p> + <p> + “Do the doctors answer for his life?” asked the captain. “I can’t get my + niece to leave the ground till she is satisfied of that.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell heard the question and replied to it briefly from the top of + the pavilion steps. + </p> + <p> + “For the present—yes,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The captain thanked him, and disappeared. + </p> + <p> + They entered the pavilion. The necessary restorative measures were taken + under Mr. Speedwell’s directions. There the conquered athlete lay: + outwardly an inert mass of strength, formidable to look at, even in its + fall; inwardly, a weaker creature, in all that constitutes vital force, + than the fly that buzzed on the window-pane. By slow degrees the + fluttering life came back. The sun was setting; and the evening light was + beginning to fail. Mr. Speedwell beckoned to Perry to follow him into an + unoccupied corner of the room. + </p> + <p> + “In half an hour or less he will be well enough to be taken home. Where + are his friends? He has a brother—hasn’t he?” + </p> + <p> + “His brother’s in Scotland, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “His father?” + </p> + <p> + Perry scratched his head. “From all I hear, Sir, he and his father don’t + agree.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell applied to Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Do you know any thing of his family affairs?” + </p> + <p> + “Very little. I believe what the man has told you to be the truth.” + </p> + <p> + “Is his mother living?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I will write to her myself. In the mean time, somebody must take him + home. He has plenty of friends here. Where are they?” + </p> + <p> + He looked out of the window as he spoke. A throng of people had gathered + round the pavilion, waiting to hear the latest news. Mr. Speedwell + directed Perry to go out and search among them for any friends of his + employer whom he might know by sight. Perry hesitated, and scratched his + head for the second time. + </p> + <p> + “What are you waiting for?” asked the surgeon, sharply. “You know his + friends by sight, don’t you?” + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think I shall find them outside,” said Perry. + </p> + <p> + “Why not?” + </p> + <p> + “They backed him heavily, Sir—and they have all lost.” + </p> + <p> + Deaf to this unanswerable reason for the absence of friends, Mr. Speedwell + insisted on sending Perry out to search among the persons who composed the + crowd. The trainer returned with his report. “You were right, Sir. There + are some of his friends outside. They want to see him.” + </p> + <p> + “Let two or three of them in.” + </p> + <p> + Three came in. They stared at him. They uttered brief expressions of pity + in slang. They said to Mr. Speedwell, “We wanted to see him. What is it—eh?” + </p> + <p> + “It’s a break-down in his health.” + </p> + <p> + “Bad training?” + </p> + <p> + “Athletic Sports.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh! Thank you. Good-evening.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell’s answer drove them out like a flock of sheep before a dog. + There was not even time to put the question to them as to who was to take + him home. + </p> + <p> + “I’ll look after him, Sir,” said Perry. “You can trust me.” + </p> + <p> + “I’ll go too,” added the trainer’s doctor; “and see him littered down for + the night.” + </p> + <p> + (The only two men who had “hedged” their bets, by privately backing his + opponent, were also the only two men who volunteered to take him home!) + </p> + <p> + They went back to the sofa on which he was lying. His bloodshot eyes were + rolling heavily and vacantly about him, on the search for something. They + rested on the doctor—and looked away again. They turned to Mr. + Speedwell—and stopped, riveted on his face. The surgeon bent over + him, and said, “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + He answered with a thick accent and laboring breath—uttering a word + at a time: “Shall—I—die?” + </p> + <p> + “I hope not.” + </p> + <p> + “Sure?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + He looked round him again. This time his eyes rested on the trainer. Perry + came forward. + </p> + <p> + “What can I do for you, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + The reply came slowly as before. “My—coat—pocket.” + </p> + <p> + “This one, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “No.” + </p> + <p> + “This?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes. Book.” + </p> + <p> + The trainer felt in the pocket, and produced a betting-book. + </p> + <p> + “What’s to be done with this. Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Read.” + </p> + <p> + The trainer held the book before him; open at the last two pages on which + entries had been made. He rolled his head impatiently from side to side of + the sofa pillow. It was plain that he was not yet sufficiently recovered + to be able to read what he had written. + </p> + <p> + “Shall I read for you, Sir?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + The trainer read three entries, one after another, without result; they + had all been honestly settled. At the fourth the prostrate man said, + “Stop!” This was the first of the entries which still depended on a future + event. It recorded the wager laid at Windygates, when Geoffrey had backed + himself (in defiance of the surgeon’s opinion) to row in the University + boat-race next spring—and had forced Arnold Brinkworth to bet + against him. + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir? What’s to be done about this?” + </p> + <p> + He collected his strength for the effort; and answered by a word at a + time. + </p> + <p> + “Write—brother—Julius. Pay—Arnold—wins.” + </p> + <p> + His lifted hand, solemnly emphasizing what he said, dropped at his side. + He closed his eyes; and fell into a heavy stertorous sleep. Give him his + due. Scoundrel as he was, give him his due. The awful moment, when his + life was trembling in the balance, found him true to the last living faith + left among the men of his tribe and time—the faith of the + betting-book. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick and Mr. Speedwell quitted the race-ground together; Geoffrey + having been previously removed to his lodgings hard by. They met Arnold + Brinkworth at the gate. He had, by his own desire, kept out of view among + the crowd; and he decided on walking back by himself. The separation from + Blanche had changed him in all his habits. He asked but two favors during + the interval which was to elapse before he saw his wife again—to be + allowed to bear it in his own way, and to be left alone. + </p> + <p> + Relieved of the oppression which had kept him silent while the race was in + progress, Sir Patrick put a question to the surgeon as they drove home, + which had been in his mind from the moment when Geoffrey had lost the day. + </p> + <p> + “I hardly understand the anxiety you showed about Delamayn,” he said, + “when you found that he had only fainted under the fatigue. Was it + something more than a common fainting fit?” + </p> + <p> + “It is useless to conceal it now,” replied Mr. Speedwell. “He has had a + narrow escape from a paralytic stroke.” + </p> + <p> + “Was that what you dreaded when you spoke to him at Windygates?” + </p> + <p> + “That was what I saw in his face when I gave him the warning. I was right, + so far. I was wrong in my estimate of the reserve of vital power left in + him. When he dropped on the race-course, I firmly believed we should find + him a dead man.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it hereditary paralysis? His father’s last illness was of that sort.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell smiled. “Hereditary paralysis?” he repeated. “Why the man is + (naturally) a phenomenon of health and strength—in the prime of his + life. Hereditary paralysis might have found him out thirty years hence. + His rowing and his running, for the last four years, are alone answerable + for what has happened to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick ventured on a suggestion. + </p> + <p> + “Surely,” he said, “with your name to compel attention to it, you ought to + make this public—as a warning to others?” + </p> + <p> + “It would be quite useless. Delamayn is far from being the first man who + has dropped at foot-racing, under the cruel stress laid on the vital + organs. The public have a happy knack of forgetting these accidents. They + would be quite satisfied when they found the other man (who happens to + have got through it) produced as a sufficient answer to me.” + </p> + <p> + Anne Silvester’s future was still dwelling on Sir Patrick’s mind. His next + inquiry related to the serious subject of Geoffrey’s prospect of recovery + in the time to come. + </p> + <p> + “He will never recover,” said Mr. Speedwell. “Paralysis is hanging over + him. How long he may live it is impossible for me to say. Much depends on + himself. In his condition, any new imprudence, any violent emotion, may + kill him at a moment’s notice.” + </p> + <p> + “If no accident happens,” said Sir Patrick, “will he be sufficiently + himself again to leave his bed and go out?” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly.” + </p> + <p> + “He has an appointment that I know of for Saturday next. Is it likely that + he will be able to keep it?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite likely.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick said no more. Anne’s face was before him again at the + memorable moment when he had told her that she was Geoffrey’s wife. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0063" id="link2H_4_0063"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FOURTEENTH SCENE.—PORTLAND PLACE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0046" id="link2HCH0046"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-SIXTH. + </h2> + <h3> + A SCOTCH MARRIAGE. + </h3> + <p> + IT was Saturday, the third of October—the day on which the assertion + of Arnold’s marriage to Anne Silvester was to be put to the proof. + </p> + <p> + Toward two o’clock in the afternoon Blanche and her step-mother entered + the drawing-room of Lady Lundie’s town house in Portland Place. + </p> + <p> + Since the previous evening the weather had altered for the worse. The + rain, which had set in from an early hour that morning, still fell. Viewed + from the drawing-room windows, the desolation of Portland Place in the + dead season wore its aspect of deepest gloom. The dreary opposite houses + were all shut up; the black mud was inches deep in the roadway; the soot, + floating in tiny black particles, mixed with the falling rain, and + heightened the dirty obscurity of the rising mist. Foot-passengers and + vehicles, succeeding each other at rare intervals, left great gaps of + silence absolutely uninterrupted by sound. Even the grinders of organs + were mute; and the wandering dogs of the street were too wet to bark. + Looking back from the view out of Lady Lundie’s state windows to the view + in Lady Lundie’s state room, the melancholy that reigned without was more + than matched by the melancholy that reigned within. The house had been + shut up for the season: it had not been considered necessary, during its + mistress’s brief visit, to disturb the existing state of things. Coverings + of dim brown hue shrouded the furniture. The chandeliers hung invisible in + enormous bags. The silent clocks hibernated under extinguishers dropped + over them two months since. The tables, drawn up in corners—loaded + with ornaments at other times—had nothing but pen, ink, and paper + (suggestive of the coming proceedings) placed on them now. The smell of + the house was musty; the voice of the house was still. One melancholy maid + haunted the bedrooms up stairs, like a ghost. One melancholy man, + appointed to admit the visitors, sat solitary in the lower regions—the + last of the flunkies, mouldering in an extinct servants’ hall. Not a word + passed, in the drawing-room, between Lady Lundie and Blanche. Each waited + the appearance of the persons concerned in the coming inquiry, absorbed in + her own thoughts. Their situation at the moment was a solemn burlesque of + the situation of two ladies who are giving an evening party, and who are + waiting to receive their guests. Did neither of them see this? Or, seeing + it, did they shrink from acknowledging it? In similar positions, who does + not shrink? The occasions are many on which we have excellent reason to + laugh when the tears are in our eyes; but only children are bold enough to + follow the impulse. So strangely, in human existence, does the mockery of + what is serious mingle with the serious reality itself, that nothing but + our own self-respect preserves our gravity at some of the most important + emergencies in our lives. The two ladies waited the coming ordeal together + gravely, as became the occasion. The silent maid flitted noiseless up + stairs. The silent man waited motionless in the lower regions. Outside, + the street was a desert. Inside, the house was a tomb. + </p> + <p> + The church clock struck the hour. Two. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment the first of the persons concerned in the investigation + arrived. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie waited composedly for the opening of the drawing-room door. + Blanche started, and trembled. Was it Arnold? Was it Anne? + </p> + <p> + The door opened—and Blanche drew a breath of relief. The first + arrival was only Lady Lundie’s solicitor—invited to attend the + proceedings on her ladyship’s behalf. He was one of that large class of + purely mechanical and perfectly mediocre persons connected with the + practice of the law who will probably, in a more advanced state of + science, be superseded by machinery. He made himself useful in altering + the arrangement of the tables and chairs, so as to keep the contending + parties effectually separated from each other. He also entreated Lady + Lundie to bear in mind that he knew nothing of Scotch law, and that he was + there in the capacity of a friend only. This done, he sat down, and looked + out with silent interest at the rain—as if it was an operation of + Nature which he had never had an opportunity of inspecting before. + </p> + <p> + The next knock at the door heralded the arrival of a visitor of a totally + different order. The melancholy man-servant announced Captain Newenden. + </p> + <p> + Possibly, in deference to the occasion, possibly, in defiance of the + weather, the captain had taken another backward step toward the days of + his youth. He was painted and padded, wigged and dressed, to represent the + abstract idea of a male human being of five-and twenty in robust health. + There might have been a little stiffness in the region of the waist, and a + slight want of firmness in the eyelid and the chin. Otherwise there was + the fiction of five-and twenty, founded in appearance on the fact of + five-and-thirty—with the truth invisible behind it, counting seventy + years! Wearing a flower in his buttonhole, and carrying a jaunty little + cane in his hand—brisk, rosy, smiling, perfumed—the captain’s + appearance brightened the dreary room. It was pleasantly suggestive of a + morning visit from an idle young man. He appeared to be a little surprised + to find Blanche present on the scene of approaching conflict. Lady Lundie + thought it due to herself to explain. “My step-daughter is here in direct + defiance of my entreaties and my advice. Persons may present themselves + whom it is, in my opinion, improper she should see. Revelations will take + place which no young woman, in her position, should hear. She insists on + it, Captain Newenden—and I am obliged to submit.” + </p> + <p> + The captain shrugged his shoulders, and showed his beautiful teeth. + </p> + <p> + Blanche was far too deeply interested in the coming ordeal to care to + defend herself: she looked as if she had not even heard what her + step-mother had said of her. The solicitor remained absorbed in the + interesting view of the falling rain. Lady Lundie asked after Mrs. + Glenarm. The captain, in reply, described his niece’s anxiety as something—something—something, + in short, only to be indicated by shaking his ambrosial curls and waving + his jaunty cane. Mrs. Delamayn was staying with her until her uncle + returned with the news. And where was Julius? Detained in Scotland by + election business. And Lord and Lady Holchester? Lord and Lady Holchester + knew nothing about it. + </p> + <p> + There was another knock at the door. Blanche’s pale face turned paler + still. Was it Arnold? Was it Anne? After a longer delay than usual, the + servant announced Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn and Mr. Moy. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey, slowly entering first, saluted the two ladies in silence, and + noticed no one else. The London solicitor, withdrawing himself for a + moment from the absorbing prospect of the rain, pointed to the places + reserved for the new-comer and for the legal adviser whom he had brought + with him. Geoffrey seated himself, without so much as a glance round the + room. Leaning his elbows on his knees, he vacantly traced patterns on the + carpet with his clumsy oaken walking-stick. Stolid indifference expressed + itself in his lowering brow and his loosely-hanging mouth. The loss of the + race, and the circumstances accompanying it, appeared to have made him + duller than usual and heavier than usual—and that was all. + </p> + <p> + Captain Newenden, approaching to speak to him, stopped half-way, + hesitated, thought better of it—and addressed himself to Mr. Moy. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s legal adviser—a Scotchman of the ruddy, ready, and + convivial type—cordially met the advance. He announced, in reply to + the captain’s inquiry, that the witnesses (Mrs. Inchbare and Bishopriggs) + were waiting below until they were wanted, in the housekeeper’s room. Had + there been any difficulty in finding them? Not the least. Mrs. Inchbare + was, as a matter of course, at her hotel. Inquiries being set on foot for + Bishopriggs, it appeared that he and the landlady had come to an + understanding, and that he had returned to his old post of headwaiter at + the inn. The captain and Mr. Moy kept up the conversation between them, + thus begun, with unflagging ease and spirit. Theirs were the only voices + heard in the trying interval that elapsed before the next knock was heard + at the door. + </p> + <p> + At last it came. There could be no doubt now as to the persons who might + next be expected to enter the room. Lady Lundie took her step-daughter + firmly by the hand. She was not sure of what Blanche’s first impulse might + lead her to do. For the first time in her life, Blanche left her hand + willingly in her step-mother’s grasp. + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and they came in. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick Lundie entered first, with Anne Silvester on his arm. Arnold + Brinkworth followed them. + </p> + <p> + Both Sir Patrick and Anne bowed in silence to the persons assembled. Lady + Lundie ceremoniously returned her brother-in-law’s salute—and + pointedly abstained from noticing Anne’s presence in the room. Blanche + never looked up. Arnold advanced to her, with his hand held out. Lady + Lundie rose, and motioned him back. “Not <i>yet,</i> Mr. Brinkworth!” she + said, in her most quietly merciless manner. Arnold stood, heedless of her, + looking at his wife. His wife lifted her eyes to his; the tears rose in + them on the instant. Arnold’s dark complexion turned ashy pale under the + effort that it cost him to command himself. “I won’t distress you,” he + said, gently—and turned back again to the table at which Sir Patrick + and Anne were seated together apart from the rest. Sir Patrick took his + hand, and pressed it in silent approval. + </p> + <p> + The one person who took no part, even as spectator, in the events that + followed the appearance of Sir Patrick and his companions in the room—was + Geoffrey. The only change visible in him was a change in the handling of + his walking-stick. Instead of tracing patterns on the carpet, it beat a + tattoo. For the rest, there he sat with his heavy head on his breast and + his brawny arms on his knees—weary of it by anticipation before it + had begun. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick broke the silence. He addressed himself to his sister-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “Lady Lundie, are all the persons present whom you expected to see here + to-day?” + </p> + <p> + The gathered venom in Lady Lundie seized the opportunity of planting its + first sting. + </p> + <p> + “All whom I expected are here,” she answered. “And more than I expected,” + she added, with a look at Anne. + </p> + <p> + The look was not returned—was not even seen. From the moment when + she had taken her place by Sir Patrick, Anne’s eyes had rested on Blanche. + They never moved—they never for an instant lost their tender sadness—when + the woman who hated her spoke. All that was beautiful and true in that + noble nature seemed to find its one sufficient encouragement in Blanche. + As she looked once more at the sister of the unforgotten days of old, its + native beauty of expression shone out again in her worn and weary face. + Every man in the room (but Geoffrey) looked at her; and every man (but + Geoffrey) felt for her. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick addressed a second question to his sister-in-law. + </p> + <p> + “Is there any one here to represent the interests of Mr. Geoffrey + Delamayn?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie referred Sir Patrick to Geoffrey himself. Without looking up, + Geoffrey motioned with his big brown hand to Mr. Moy, sitting by his side. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy (holding the legal rank in Scotland which corresponds to the rank + held by solicitors in England) rose and bowed to Sir Patrick, with the + courtesy due to a man eminent in his time at the Scottish Bar. + </p> + <p> + “I represent Mr. Delamayn,” he said. “I congratulate myself, Sir Patrick, + on having your ability and experience to appeal to in the conduct of the + pending inquiry.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick returned the compliment as well as the bow. + </p> + <p> + “It is I who should learn from you,” he answered. “<i>I</i> have had time, + Mr. Moy, to forget what I once knew.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie looked from one to the other with unconcealed impatience as + these formal courtesies were exchanged between the lawyers. “Allow me to + remind you, gentlemen, of the suspense that we are suffering at this end + of the room,” she said. “And permit me to ask when you propose to begin?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked invitingly at Mr. Moy. Mr. Moy looked invitingly at Sir + Patrick. More formal courtesies! a polite contest this time as to which of + the two learned gentlemen should permit the other to speak first! Mr. + Moy’s modesty proving to be quite immovable, Sir Patrick ended it by + opening the proceedings. + </p> + <p> + “I am here,” he said, “to act on behalf of my friend, Mr. Arnold + Brinkworth. I beg to present him to you, Mr. Moy as the husband of my + niece—to whom he was lawfully married on the seventh of September + last, at the Church of Saint Margaret, in the parish of Hawley, Kent. I + have a copy of the marriage certificate here—if you wish to look at + it.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy’s modesty declined to look at it. + </p> + <p> + “Quite needless, Sir Patrick! I admit that a marriage ceremony took place + on the date named, between the persons named; but I contend that it was + not a valid marriage. I say, on behalf of my client here present (Mr. + Geoffrey Delamayn), that Arnold Brinkworth was married at a date prior to + the seventh of September last—namely, on the fourteenth of August in + this year, and at a place called Craig Fernie, in Scotland—to a lady + named Anne Silvester, now living, and present among us (as I understand) + at this moment.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick presented Anne. “This is the lady, Mr. Moy.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy bowed, and made a suggestion. “To save needless formalities, Sir + Patrick, shall we take the question of identity as established on both + sides?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick agreed with his learned friend. Lad y Lundie opened and shut + her fan in undisguised impatience. The London solicitor was deeply + interested. Captain Newenden, taking out his handkerchief, and using it as + a screen, yawned behind it to his heart’s content. Sir Patrick resumed. + </p> + <p> + “You assert the prior marriage,” he said to his colleague. “It rests with + you to begin.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy cast a preliminary look round him at the persons assembled. + </p> + <p> + “The object of our meeting here,” he said, “is, if I am not mistaken, of a + twofold nature. In the first place, it is thought desirable, by a person + who has a special interest in the issue of this inquiry” (he glanced at + the captain—the captain suddenly became attentive), “to put my + client’s assertion, relating to Mr. Brinkworth’s marriage, to the proof. + In the second place, we are all equally desirous—whatever difference + of opinion may otherwise exist—to make this informal inquiry a + means, if possible, of avoiding the painful publicity which would result + from an appeal to a Court of Law.” + </p> + <p> + At those words the gathered venom in Lady Lundie planted its second sting—under + cover of a protest addressed to Mr. Moy. + </p> + <p> + “I beg to inform you, Sir, on behalf of my step-daughter,” she said, “that + we have nothing to dread from the widest publicity. We consent to be + present at, what you call, ‘this informal inquiry,’ reserving our right to + carry the matter beyond the four walls of this room. I am not referring + now to Mr. Brinkworth’s chance of clearing himself from an odious + suspicion which rests upon him, and upon another Person present. That is + an after-matter. The object immediately before us—so far as a woman + can pretend to understand it—is to establish my step-daughter’s + right to call Mr. Brinkworth to account in the character of his wife. If + the result, so far, fails to satisfy us in that particular, we shall not + hesitate to appeal to a Court of Law.” She leaned back in her chair, and + opened her fan, and looked round her with the air of a woman who called + society to witness that she had done her duty. + </p> + <p> + An expression of pain crossed Blanche’s face while her step-mother was + speaking. Lady Lundie took her hand for the second time. Blanche + resolutely and pointedly withdrew it—Sir Patrick noticing the action + with special interest. Before Mr. Moy could say a word in answer, Arnold + centred the general attention on himself by suddenly interfering in the + proceedings. Blanche looked at him. A bright flash of color appeared on + her face—and left it again. Sir Patrick noted the change of color—and + observed her more attentively than ever. Arnold’s letter to his wife, with + time to help it, had plainly shaken her ladyship’s influence over Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “After what Lady Lundie has said, in my wife’s presence,” Arnold burst + out, in his straightforward, boyish way, “I think I ought to be allowed to + say a word on my side. I only want to explain how it was I came to go to + Craig Fernie at all—and I challenge Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn to deny + it, if he can.” + </p> + <p> + His voice rose at the last words, and his eyes brightened with indignation + as he looked at Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy appealed to his learned friend. + </p> + <p> + “With submission, Sir Patrick, to your better judgment,” he said, “this + young gentleman’s proposal seems to be a little out of place at the + present stage of the proceedings.” + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me,” answered Sir Patrick. “You have yourself described the + proceedings as representing an informal inquiry. An informal proposal—with + submission to <i>your</i> better judgment, Mr. Moy—is hardly out of + place, under those circumstances, is it?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy’s inexhaustible modesty gave way, without a struggle. The answer + which he received had the effect of puzzling him at the outset of the + investigation. A man of Sir Patrick’s experience must have known that + Arnold’s mere assertion of his own innocence could be productive of + nothing but useless delay in the proceedings. And yet he sanctioned that + delay. Was he privately on the watch for any accidental circumstance which + might help him to better a case that he knew to be a bad one? + </p> + <p> + Permitted to speak, Arnold spoke. The unmistakable accent of truth was in + every word that he uttered. He gave a fairly coherent account of events, + from the time when Geoffrey had claimed his assistance at the lawn-party + to the time when he found himself at the door of the inn at Craig Fernie. + There Sir Patrick interfered, and closed his lips. He asked leave to + appeal to Geoffrey to confirm him. Sir Patrick amazed Mr. Moy by + sanctioning this irregularity also. Arnold sternly addressed himself to + Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “Do you deny that what I have said is true?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy did his duty by his client. “You are not bound to answer,” he + said, “unless you wish it yourself.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey slowly lifted his heavy head, and confronted the man whom he had + betrayed. + </p> + <p> + “I deny every word of it,” he answered—with a stolid defiance of + tone and manner. + </p> + <p> + “Have we had enough of assertion and counter-assertion, Sir Patrick, by + this time?” asked Mr. Moy, with undiminished politeness. + </p> + <p> + After first forcing Arnold—with some little difficulty—to + control himself, Sir Patrick raised Mr. Moy’s astonishment to the + culminating point. For reasons of his own, he determined to strengthen the + favorable impression which Arnold’s statement had plainly produced on his + wife before the inquiry proceeded a step farther. + </p> + <p> + “I must throw myself on your indulgence, Mr. Moy,” he said. “I have not + had enough of assertion and counter-assertion, even yet.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy leaned back in his chair, with a mixed expression of bewilderment + and resignation. Either his colleague’s intellect was in a failing state—or + his colleague had some purpose in view which had not openly asserted + itself yet. He began to suspect that the right reading of the riddle was + involved in the latter of those two alternatives. Instead of entering any + fresh protest, he wisely waited and watched. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick went on unblushingly from one irregularity to another. + </p> + <p> + “I request Mr. Moy’s permission to revert to the alleged marriage, on the + fourteenth of August, at Craig Fernie,” he said. “Arnold Brinkworth! + answer for yourself, in the presence of the persons here assembled. In all + that you said, and all that you did, while you were at the inn, were you + not solely influenced by the wish to make Miss Silvester’s position as + little painful to her as possible, and by anxiety to carry out the + instructions given to you by Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn? Is that the whole + truth?” + </p> + <p> + “That is the whole truth, Sir Patrick.” + </p> + <p> + “On the day when you went to Craig Fernie, had you not, a few hours + previously, applied for my permission to marry my niece?” + </p> + <p> + “I applied for your permission, Sir Patrick; and you gave it me.” + </p> + <p> + “From the moment when you entered the inn to the moment when you left it, + were you absolutely innocent of the slightest intention to marry Miss + Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + “No such thing as the thought of marrying Miss Silvester ever entered my + head.” + </p> + <p> + “And this you say, on your word of honor as a gentleman?” + </p> + <p> + “On my word of honor as a gentleman.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick turned to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Was it a matter of necessity, Miss Silvester, that you should appear in + the assumed character of a married woman—on the fourteenth of August + last, at the Craig Fernie inn?” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked away from Blanche for the first time. She replied to Sir + Patrick quietly, readily, firmly—Blanche looking at her, and + listening to her with eager interest. + </p> + <p> + “I went to the inn alone, Sir Patrick. The landlady refused, in the + plainest terms, to let me stay there, unless she was first satisfied that + I was a married woman.” + </p> + <p> + “Which of the two gentlemen did you expect to join you at the inn—Mr. + Arnold Brinkworth, or Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + “When Mr. Arnold Brinkworth came in his place and said what was necessary + to satisfy the scruples of the landlady, you understood that he was acting + in your interests, from motives of kindness only, and under the + instructions of Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “I understood that; and I objected as strongly as I could to Mr. + Brinkworth placing himself in a false position on my account.” + </p> + <p> + “Did your objection proceed from any knowledge of the Scottish law of + marriage, and of the position in which the peculiarities of that law might + place Mr. Brinkworth?” + </p> + <p> + “I had no knowledge of the Scottish law. I had a vague dislike and dread + of the deception which Mr. Brinkworth was practicing on the people of the + inn. And I feared that it might lead to some possible misinterpretation of + me on the part of a person whom I dearly loved.” + </p> + <p> + “That person being my niece?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “You appealed to Mr. Brinkworth (knowing of his attachment to my niece), + in her name, and for her sake, to leave you to shift for yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “I did.” + </p> + <p> + “As a gentleman who had given his promise to help and protect a lady, in + the absence of the person whom she had depended on to join her, he refused + to leave you to shift by yourself?” + </p> + <p> + “Unhappily, he refused on that account.” + </p> + <p> + “From first to last, you were absolutely innocent of the slightest + intention to marry Mr. Brinkworth?” + </p> + <p> + “I answer, Sir Patrick, as Mr. Brinkworth has answered. No such thing as + the thought of marrying him ever entered my head.” + </p> + <p> + “And this you say, on your oath as a Christian woman?” + </p> + <p> + “On my oath as a Christian woman.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick looked round at Blanche. Her face was hidden in her hands. Her + step-mother was vainly appealing to her to compose herself. + </p> + <p> + In the moment of silence that followed, Mr. Moy interfered in the + interests of his client. + </p> + <p> + “I waive my claim, Sir Patrick, to put any questions on my side. I merely + desire to remind you, and to remind the company present, that all that we + have just heard is mere assertion—on the part of two persons + strongly interested in extricating themselves from a position which + fatally compromises them both. The marriage which they deny I am now + waiting to prove—not by assertion, on my side, but by appeal to + competent witnesses.” + </p> + <p> + After a brief consultation with her own solicitor, Lady Lundie followed + Mr. Moy, in stronger language still. + </p> + <p> + “I wish you to understand, Sir Patrick, before you proceed any farther, + that I shall remove my step-daughter from the room if any more attempts + are made to harrow her feelings and mislead her judgment. I want words to + express my sense of this most cruel and unfair way of conducting the + inquiry.” + </p> + <p> + The London lawyer followed, stating his professional approval of his + client’s view. “As her ladyship’s legal adviser,” he said, “I support the + protest which her ladyship has just made.” + </p> + <p> + Even Captain Newenden agreed in the general disapproval of Sir Patrick’s + conduct. “Hear, hear!” said the captain, when the lawyer had spoken. + “Quite right. I must say, quite right.” + </p> + <p> + Apparently impenetrable to all due sense of his position, Sir Patrick + addressed himself to Mr. Moy, as if nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + “Do you wish to produce your witnesses at once?” he asked. “I have not the + least objection to meet your views—on the understanding that I am + permitted to return to the proceedings as interrupted at this point.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy considered. The adversary (there could be no doubt of it by this + time) had something in reserve—and the adversary had not yet shown + his hand. It was more immediately important to lead him into doing this + than to insist on rights and privileges of the purely formal sort. Nothing + could shake the strength of the position which Mr. Moy occupied. The + longer Sir Patrick’s irregularities delayed the proceedings, the more + irresistibly the plain facts of the case would assert themselves—with + all the force of contrast—out of the mouths of the witnesses who + were in attendance down stairs. He determined to wait. + </p> + <p> + “Reserving my right of objection, Sir Patrick,” he answered, “I beg you to + go on.” + </p> + <p> + To the surprise of every body, Sir Patrick addressed himself directly to + Blanche—quoting the language in which Lady Lundie had spoken to him, + with perfect composure of tone and manner. + </p> + <p> + “You know me well enough, my dear,” he said, “to be assured that I am + incapable of willingly harrowing your feelings or misleading your + judgment. I have a question to ask you, which you can answer or not, + entirely as you please.” + </p> + <p> + Before he could put the question there was a momentary contest between + Lady Lundie and her legal adviser. Silencing her ladyship (not without + difficulty), the London lawyer interposed. He also begged leave to reserve + the right of objection, so far as <i>his</i> client was concerned. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick assented by a sign, and proceeded to put his question to + Blanche. + </p> + <p> + “You have heard what Arnold Brinkworth has said, and what Miss Silvester + has said,” he resumed. “The husband who loves you, and the sisterly friend + who loves you, have each made a solemn declaration. Recall your past + experience of both of them; remember what they have just said; and now + tell me—do you believe they have spoken falsely?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche answered on the instant. + </p> + <p> + “I believe, uncle, they have spoken the truth!” + </p> + <p> + Both the lawyers registered their objections. Lady Lundie made another + attempt to speak, and was stopped once more—this time by Mr. Moy as + well as by her own adviser. Sir Patrick went on. + </p> + <p> + “Do you feel any doubt as to the entire propriety of your husband’s + conduct and your friend’s conduct, now you have seen them and heard them, + face to face?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche answered again, with the same absence of reserve. + </p> + <p> + “I ask them to forgive me,” she said. “I believe I have done them both a + great wrong.” + </p> + <p> + She looked at her husband first—then at Anne. Arnold attempted to + leave his chair. Sir Patrick firmly restrained him. “Wait!” he whispered. + “You don’t know what is coming.” Having said that, he turned toward Anne. + Blanche’s look had gone to the heart of the faithful woman who loved her. + Anne’s face was turned away—the tears were forcing themselves + through the worn weak hands that tried vainly to hide them. + </p> + <p> + The formal objections of the lawyers were registered once more. Sir + Patrick addressed himself to his niece for the last time. + </p> + <p> + “You believe what Arnold Brinkworth has said; you believe what Miss + Silvester has said. You know that not even the thought of marriage was in + the mind of either of them, at the inn. You know—whatever else may + happen in the future—that there is not the most remote possibility + of either of them consenting to acknowledge that they ever have been, or + ever can be, Man and Wife. Is that enough for you? Are you willing, before + this inquiry proceeds any farther to take your husband’s hand; to return + to your husband’s protection; and to leave the rest to me—satisfied + with my assurance that, on the facts as they happened, not even the Scotch + Law can prove the monstrous assertion of the marriage at Craig Fernie to + be true?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie rose. Both the lawyers rose. Arnold sat lost in astonishment. + Geoffrey himself—brutishly careless thus far of all that had passed—lifted + his head with a sudden start. In the midst of the profound impression thus + produced, Blanche, on whose decision the whole future course of the + inquiry now turned, answered in these words: + </p> + <p> + “I hope you will not think me ungrateful, uncle. I am sure that Arnold has + not, knowingly, done me any wrong. But I can’t go back to him until I am + first <i>certain</i> that I am his wife.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie embraced her step-daughter with a sudden outburst of + affection. “My dear child!” exclaimed her ladyship, fervently. “Well done, + my own dear child!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s head dropped on his breast. “Oh, Blanche! Blanche!” Arnold + heard him whisper to himself; “if you only knew what you are forcing me + to!” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy put in his word, on Blanche’s side of the question. + </p> + <p> + “I must most respectfully express my approval also of the course which the + young lady has taken,” he said. “A more dangerous compromise than the + compromise which we have just heard suggested it is difficult to imagine. + With all deference to Sir Patrick Lundie, his opinion of the impossibility + of proving the marriage at Craig Fernie remains to be confirmed as the + right one. My own professional opinion is opposed to it. The opinion of + another Scottish lawyer (in Glasgow) is, to my certain knowledge, opposed + to it. If the young lady had not acted with a wisdom and courage which do + her honor, she might have lived to see the day when her reputation would + have been destroyed, and her children declared illegitimate. Who is to say + that circumstances may not happen in the future which may force Mr. + Brinkworth or Miss Silvester—one or the other—to assert the + very marriage which they repudiate now? Who is to say that interested + relatives (property being concerned here) may not in the lapse of years, + discover motives of their own for questioning the asserted marriage in + Kent? I acknowledge that I envy the immense self-confidence which + emboldens Sir Patrick to venture, what he is willing to venture upon his + own individual opinion on an undecided point of law.” + </p> + <p> + He sat down amidst a murmur of approval, and cast a slyly-expectant look + at his defeated adversary. “If <i>that</i> doesn’t irritate him into + showing his hand,” thought Mr. Moy, “nothing will!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick slowly raised his head. There was no irritation—there + was only distress in his face—when he spoke next. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t propose, Mr. Moy, to argue the point with you,” he said, gently. + “I can understand that my conduct must necessarily appear strange and even + blameworthy, not in your eyes only, but in the eyes of others. My young + friend here will tell you” (he looked toward Arnold) “that the view which + you express as to the future peril involved in this case was once the view + in my mind too, and that in what I have done thus far I have acted in + direct contradiction to advice which I myself gave at no very distant + period. Excuse me, if you please, from entering (for the present at least) + into the motive which has influenced me from the time when I entered this + room. My position is one of unexampled responsibility and of indescribable + distress. May I appeal to that statement to stand as my excuse, if I plead + for a last extension of indulgence toward the last irregularity of which I + shall be guilty, in connection with these proceedings?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie alone resisted the unaffected and touching dignity with which + those words were spoken. + </p> + <p> + “We have had enough of irregularity,” she said sternly. “I, for one, + object to more.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick waited patiently for Mr. Moy’s reply. The Scotch lawyer and + the English lawyer looked at each other—and understood each other. + Mr. Moy answered for both. + </p> + <p> + “We don’t presume to restrain you, Sir Patrick, by other limits than those + which, as a gentleman, you impose on yourself. Subject,” added the + cautious Scotchman, “to the right of objection which we have already + reserved.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you object to my speaking to your client?” asked Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “To Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + All eyes turned on Geoffrey. He was sitting half asleep, as it seemed—with + his heavy hands hanging listlessly over his knees, and his chin resting on + the hooked handle of his stick. + </p> + <p> + Looking toward Anne, when Sir Patrick pronounced Geoffrey’s name, Mr. Moy + saw a change in her. She withdrew her hands from her face, and turned + suddenly toward her legal adviser. Was she in the secret of the carefully + concealed object at which his opponent had been aiming from the first? Mr. + Moy decided to put that doubt to the test. He invited Sir Patrick, by a + gesture, to proceed. Sir Patrick addressed himself to Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “You are seriously interested in this inquiry,” he said; “and you have + taken no part in it yet. Take a part in it now. Look at this lady.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey never moved. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve seen enough of her already,” he said, brutally. + </p> + <p> + “You may well be ashamed to look at her,” said Sir Patrick, quietly. “But + you might have acknowledged it in fitter words. Carry your memory back to + the fourteenth of August. Do you deny that you promised to many Miss + Silvester privately at the Craig Fernie inn?” + </p> + <p> + “I object to that question,” said Mr. Moy. “My client is under no sort of + obligation to answer it.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s rising temper—ready to resent any thing—resented + his adviser’s interference. “I shall answer if I like,” he retorted, + insolently. He looked up for a moment at Sir Patrick, without moving his + chin from the hook of his stick. Then he looked down again. “I do deny + it,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “You deny that you have promised to marry Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “I asked you just now to look at her—” + </p> + <p> + “And I told you I had seen enough of her already.” + </p> + <p> + “Look at <i>me.</i> In my presence, and in the presence of the other + persons here, do you deny that you owe this lady, by your own solemn + engagement, the reparation of marriage?” + </p> + <p> + He suddenly lifted his head. His eyes, after resting for an instant only + on Sir Patrick, turned, little by little; and, brightening slowly, fixed + themselves with a hideous, tigerish glare on Anne’s face. “I know what I + owe her,” he said. + </p> + <p> + The devouring hatred of his look was matched by the ferocious + vindictiveness of his tone, as he spoke those words. It was horrible to + see him; it was horrible to hear him. Mr. Moy said to him, in a whisper, + “Control yourself, or I will throw up your case.” + </p> + <p> + Without answering—without even listening—he lifted one of his + hands, and looked at it vacantly. He whispered something to himself; and + counted out what he was whispering slowly; in divisions of his own, on + three of his fingers in succession. He fixed his eyes again on Anne with + the same devouring hatred in their look, and spoke (this time directly + addressing himself to her) with the same ferocious vindictiveness in his + tone. “But for you, I should be married to Mrs. Glenarm. But for you, I + should be friends with my father. But for you, I should have won the race. + I know what I owe you.” His loosely hanging hands stealthily clenched + themselves. His head sank again on his broad breast. He said no more. + </p> + <p> + Not a soul moved—not a word was spoken. The same common horror held + them all speechless. Anne’s eyes turned once more on Blanche. Anne’s + courage upheld her, even at that moment. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick rose. The strong emotion which he had suppressed thus far, + showed itself plainly in his face—uttered itself plainly in his + voice. + </p> + <p> + “Come into the next room,” he said to Anne. “I must speak to you + instantly!” + </p> + <p> + Without noticing the astonishment that he caused; without paying the + smallest attention to the remonstrances addressed to him by his + sister-in-law and by the Scotch lawyer, he took Anne by the arm, opened + the folding-doors at one end of the room—entered the room beyond + with her—and closed the doors again. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie appealed to her legal adviser. Blanche rose—advanced a + few steps—and stood in breathless suspense, looking at the + folding-doors. Arnold advanced a step, to speak to his wife. The captain + approached Mr. Moy. + </p> + <p> + “What does this mean?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy answered, in strong agitation on his side. + </p> + <p> + “It means that I have not been properly instructed. Sir Patrick Lundie has + some evidence in his possession that seriously compromises Mr. Delamayn’s + case. He has shrunk from producing it hitherto—he finds himself + forced to produce it now. How is it,” asked the lawyer, turning sternly on + his client, “that you have left me in the dark?” + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing about it,” answered Geoffrey, without lifting his head. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie signed to Blanche to stand aside, and advanced toward the + folding-doors. Mr. Moy stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “I advise your ladyship to be patient. Interference is useless there.” + </p> + <p> + “Am I not to interfere, Sir, in my own house?” + </p> + <p> + “Unless I am entirely mistaken, madam, the end of the proceedings in your + house is at hand. You will damage your own interests by interfering. Let + us know what we are about at last. Let the end come.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie yielded, and returned to her place. They all waited in silence + for the opening of the doors. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick Lundie and Anne Silvester were alone in the room. + </p> + <p> + He took from the breast-pocket of his coat the sheet of note-paper which + contained Anne’s letter, and Geoffrey’s reply. His hand trembled as he + held it; his voice faltered as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “I have done all that can be done,” he said. “I have left nothing untried, + to prevent the necessity of producing this.” + </p> + <p> + “I feel your kindness gratefully, Sir Patrick. You must produce it now.” + </p> + <p> + The woman’s calmness presented a strange and touching contrast to the + man’s emotion. There was no shrinking in her face, there was no + unsteadiness in her voice as she answered him. He took her hand. Twice he + attempted to speak; and twice his own agitation overpowered him. He + offered the letter to her in silence. + </p> + <p> + In silence, on her side, she put the letter away from her, wondering what + he meant. + </p> + <p> + “Take it back,” he said. “I can’t produce it! I daren’t produce it! After + what my own eyes have seen, after what my own ears have heard, in the next + room—as God is my witness, I daren’t ask you to declare yourself + Geoffrey Delamayn’s wife!” + </p> + <p> + She answered him in one word. + </p> + <p> + “Blanche!” + </p> + <p> + He shook his head impatiently. “Not even in Blanche’s interests! Not even + for Blanche’s sake! If there is any risk, it is a risk I am ready to run. + I hold to my own opinion. I believe my own view to be right. Let it come + to an appeal to the law! I will fight the case, and win it.” + </p> + <p> + “Are you <i>sure</i> of winning it, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + Instead of replying, he pressed the letter on her. “Destroy it,” he + whispered. “And rely on my silence.” + </p> + <p> + She took the letter from him. + </p> + <p> + “Destroy it,” he repeated. “They may open the doors. They may come in at + any moment, and see it in your hand.” + </p> + <p> + “I have something to ask you, Sir Patrick, before I destroy it. Blanche + refuses to go back to her husband, unless she returns with the certain + assurance of being really his wife. If I produce this letter, she may go + back to him to-day. If I declare myself Geoffrey Delamayn’s wife, I clear + Arnold Brinkworth, at once and forever of all suspicion of being married + to me. Can you as certainly and effectually clear him in any other way? + Answer me that, as a man of honor speaking to a woman who implicitly + trusts him!” + </p> + <p> + She looked him full in the face. His eyes dropped before hers—he + made no reply. + </p> + <p> + “I am answered,” she said. + </p> + <p> + With those words, she passed him, and laid her hand on the door. + </p> + <p> + He checked her. The tears rose in his eyes as he drew her gently back into + the room. + </p> + <p> + “Why should we wait?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Wait,” he answered, “as a favor to <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + She seated herself calmly in the nearest chair, and rested her head on her + hand, thinking. + </p> + <p> + He bent over her, and roused her, impatiently, almost angrily. The steady + resolution in her face was terrible to him, when he thought of the man in + the next room. + </p> + <p> + “Take time to consider,” he pleaded. “Don’t be led away by your own + impulse. Don’t act under a false excitement. Nothing binds you to this + dreadful sacrifice of yourself.” + </p> + <p> + “Excitement! Sacrifice!” She smiled sadly as she repeated the words. “Do + you know, Sir Patrick, what I was thinking of a moment since? Only of old + times, when I was a little girl. I saw the sad side of life sooner than + most children see it. My mother was cruelly deserted. The hard marriage + laws of this country were harder on her than on me. She died + broken-hearted. But one friend comforted her at the last moment, and + promised to be a mother to her child. I can’t remember one unhappy day in + all the after-time when I lived with that faithful woman and her little + daughter—till the day that parted us. She went away with her + husband; and I and the little daughter were left behind. She said her last + words to me. Her heart was sinking under the dread of coming death. ‘I + promised your mother that you should be like my own child to me, and it + quieted her mind. Quiet <i>my</i> mind, Anne, before I go. Whatever + happens in years to come—promise me to be always what you are now, a + sister to Blanche.’ Where is the false excitement, Sir Patrick, in old + remembrances like these? And how can there be a sacrifice in any thing + that I do for Blanche?” + </p> + <p> + She rose, and offered him her hand. Sir Patrick lifted it to his lips in + silence. + </p> + <p> + “Come!” she said. “For both our sakes, let us not prolong this.” + </p> + <p> + He turned aside his head. It was no moment to let her see that she had + completely unmanned him. She waited for him, with her hand on the lock. He + rallied his courage—he forced himself to face the horror of the + situation calmly. She opened the door, and led the way back into the other + room. + </p> + <p> + Not a word was spoken by any of the persons present, as the two returned + to their places. The noise of a carriage passing in the street was + painfully audible. The chance banging of a door in the lower regions of + the house made every one start. + </p> + <p> + Anne’s sweet voice broke the dreary silence. + </p> + <p> + “Must I speak for myself, Sir Patrick? Or will you (I ask it as a last and + greatest favor) speak for me?” + </p> + <p> + “You insist on appealing to the letter in your hand?” + </p> + <p> + “I am resolved to appeal to it.” + </p> + <p> + “Will nothing induce you to defer the close of this inquiry—so far + as you are concerned—for four-and-twenty hours?” + </p> + <p> + “Either you or I, Sir Patrick, must say what is to be said, and do what is + to be done, before we leave this room.” + </p> + <p> + “Give me the letter.” + </p> + <p> + She gave it to him. Mr. Moy whispered to his client, “Do you know what + that is?” Geoffrey shook his head. “Do you really remember nothing about + it?” Geoffrey answered in one surly word, “Nothing!” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick addressed himself to the assembled company. + </p> + <p> + “I have to ask your pardon,” he said, “for abruptly leaving the room, and + for obliging Miss Silvester to leave it with me. Every body present, + except that man” (he pointed to Geoffrey), “will, I believe, understand + and forgive me, now that I am forced to make my conduct the subject of the + plainest and the fullest explanation. I shall address that explanation, + for reasons which will presently appear, to my niece.” + </p> + <p> + Blanche started. “To me!” she exclaimed. + </p> + <p> + “To you,” Sir Patrick answered. + </p> + <p> + Blanche turned toward Arnold, daunted by a vague sense of something + serious to come. The letter that she had received from her husband on her + departure from Ham Farm had necessarily alluded to relations between + Geoffrey and Anne, of which Blanche had been previously ignorant. Was any + reference coming to those relations? Was there something yet to be + disclosed which Arnold’s letter had not prepared her to hear? + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick resumed. + </p> + <p> + “A short time since,” he said to Blanche, “I proposed to you to return to + your husband’s protection—and to leave the termination of this + matter in my hands. You have refused to go back to him until you are first + certainly assured that you are his wife. Thanks to a sacrifice to your + interests and your happiness, on Miss Silvester’s part—which I tell + you frankly I have done my utmost to prevent—I am in a position to + prove positively that Arnold Brinkworth was a single man when he married + you from my house in Kent.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy’s experience forewarned him of what was coming. He pointed to the + letter in Sir Patrick’s hand. + </p> + <p> + “Do you claim on a promise of marriage?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick rejoined by putting a question on his side. + </p> + <p> + “Do you remember the famous decision at Doctors’ Commons, which + established the marriage of Captain Dalrymple and Miss Gordon?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy was answered. “I understand you, Sir Patrick,” he said. After a + moment’s pause, he addressed his next words to Anne. “And from the bottom + of my heart, madam, I respect <i>you.</i>” + </p> + <p> + It was said with a fervent sincerity of tone which wrought the interest of + the other persons, who were still waiting for enlightenment, to the + highest pitch. Lady Lundie and Captain Newenden whispered to each other + anxiously. Arnold turned pale. Blanche burst into tears. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick turned once more to his niece. + </p> + <p> + “Some little time since,” he said, “I had occasion to speak to you of the + scandalous uncertainty of the marriage laws of Scotland. But for that + uncertainty (entirely without parallel in any other civilized country in + Europe), Arnold Brinkworth would never have occupied the position in which + he stands here to-day—and these proceedings would never have taken + place. Bear that fact in mind. It is not only answerable for the mischief + that has been already done, but for the far more serious evil which is + still to come.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy took a note. Sir Patrick went on. + </p> + <p> + “Loose and reckless as the Scotch law is, there happens, however, to be + one case in which the action of it has been confirmed and settled by the + English Courts. A written promise of marriage exchanged between a man and + woman, in Scotland, marries that man and woman by Scotch law. An English + Court of Justice (sitting in judgment on the ease I have just mentioned to + Mr. Moy) has pronounced that law to be good—and the decision has + since been confirmed by the supreme authority of the House of Lords. Where + the persons therefore—living in Scotland at the time—have + promised each other marriage in writing, there is now no longer any doubt + they are certainly, and lawfully, Man and Wife.” He turned from his niece, + and appealed to Mr. Moy. “Am I right?” + </p> + <p> + “Quite right, Sir Patrick, as to the facts. I own, however, that your + commentary on them surprises me. I have the highest opinion of our + Scottish marriage law. A man who has betrayed a woman under a promise of + marriage is forced by that law (in the interests of public morality) to + acknowledge her as his wife.” + </p> + <p> + “The persons here present, Mr. Moy, are now about to see the moral merit + of the Scotch law of marriage (as approved by England) practically in + operation before their own eyes. They will judge for themselves of the + morality (Scotch or English) which first forces a deserted woman back on + the villain who has betrayed her, and then virtuously leaves her to bear + the consequences.” + </p> + <p> + With that answer, he turned to Anne, and showed her the letter, open in + his hand. + </p> + <p> + “For the last time,” he said, “do you insist on my appealing to this?” + </p> + <p> + She rose, and bowed her head gravely. + </p> + <p> + “It is my distressing duty,” said Sir Patrick, “to declare, in this lady’s + name, and on the faith of written promises of marriage exchanged between + the parties, then residing in Scotland, that she claims to be now—and + to have been on the afternoon of the fourteenth of August last—Mr. + Geoffrey Delamayn’s wedded wife.” + </p> + <p> + A cry of horror from Blanche, a low murmur of dismay from the rest, + followed the utterance of those words. + </p> + <p> + There was a pause of an instant. + </p> + <p> + Then Geoffrey rose slowly to his feet, and fixed his eyes on the wife who + had claimed him. + </p> + <p> + The spectators of the terrible scene turned with one accord toward the + sacrificed woman. The look which Geoffrey had cast on her—the words + which Geoffrey had spoken to her—were present to all their minds. + She stood, waiting by Sir Patrick’s side—her soft gray eyes resting + sadly and tenderly on Blanche’s face. To see that matchless courage and + resignation was to doubt the reality of what had happened. They were + forced to look back at the man to possess their minds with the truth. + </p> + <p> + The triumph of law and morality over him was complete. He never uttered a + word. His furious temper was perfectly and fearfully calm. With the + promise of merciless vengeance written in the Devil s writing on his + Devil-possessed face, he kept his eyes fixed on the hated woman whom he + had ruined—on the hated woman who was fastened to him as his wife. + </p> + <p> + His lawyer went over to the table at which Sir Patrick sat. Sir Patrick + handed him the sheet of note-paper. + </p> + <p> + He read the two letters contained in it with absorbed and deliberate + attention. The moments that passed before he lifted his head from his + reading seemed like hours. “Can you prove the handwritings?” he asked. + “And prove the residence?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick took up a second morsel of paper lying ready under his hand. + </p> + <p> + “There are the names of persons who can prove the writing, and prove the + residence,” he replied. “One of your two witnesses below stairs (otherwise + useless) can speak to the hour at which Mr. Brinkworth arrived at the inn, + and so can prove that the lady for whom he asked was, at that moment, Mrs. + Geoffrey Delamayn. The indorsement on the back of the note-paper, also + referring to the question of time, is in the handwriting of the same + witness—to whom I refer you, when it suits your convenience to + question him.” + </p> + <p> + “I will verify the references, Sir Patrick, as matter of form. In the mean + time, not to interpose needless and vexatious delay, I am bound to say + that I can not resist the evidence of the marriage.” + </p> + <p> + Having replied in those terms he addressed himself, with marked respect + and sympathy, to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “On the faith of the written promise of marriage exchanged between you in + Scotland,” he said, “you claim Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn as your husband?” + </p> + <p> + She steadily repented the words after him. + </p> + <p> + “I claim Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn as my husband.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy appealed to his client. Geoffrey broke silence at last. + </p> + <p> + “Is it settled?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “To all practical purposes, it is settled.” + </p> + <p> + He went on, still looking at nobody but Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Has the law of Scotland made her my wife?” + </p> + <p> + “The law of Scotland has made her your wife.” + </p> + <p> + He asked a third and last question. + </p> + <p> + “Does the law tell her to go where her husband goes?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + He laughed softly to himself, and beckoned to her to cross the room to the + place at which he was standing. + </p> + <p> + She obeyed. At the moment when she took the first step to approach him, + Sir Patrick caught her hand, and whispered to her, “Rely on me!” She + gently pressed his hand in token that she understood him, and advanced to + Geoffrey. At the same moment, Blanche rushed between them, and flung her + arms around Anne’s neck. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Anne! Anne!” + </p> + <p> + An hysterical passion of tears choked her utterance. Anne gently unwound + the arms that clung round her—gently lifted the head that lay + helpless on her bosom. + </p> + <p> + “Happier days are coming, my love,” she said. “Don’t think of <i>me.</i>” + </p> + <p> + She kissed her—looked at her—kissed her again—and placed + her in her husband’s arms. Arnold remembered her parting words at Craig + Fernie, when they had wished each other good-night. “You have not + befriended an ungrateful woman. The day may yet come when I shall prove + it.” Gratitude and admiration struggled in him which should utter itself + first, and held him speechless. + </p> + <p> + She bent her head gently in token that she understood him. Then she went + on, and stood before Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “I am here,” she said to him. “What do you wish me to do?” + </p> + <p> + A hideous smile parted his heavy lips. He offered her his arm. + </p> + <p> + “Mrs. Geoffrey Delamayn,” he said. “Come home.” + </p> + <p> + The picture of the lonely house, isolated amidst its high walls; the + ill-omened figure of the dumb woman with the stony eyes and the savage + ways—the whole scene, as Anne had pictured it to him but two days + since, rose vivid as reality before Sir Patrick’s mind. “No!” he cried + out, carried away by the generous impulse of the moment. “It shall <i>not</i> + be!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey stood impenetrable—waiting with his offered arm. Pale and + resolute, she lifted her noble head—called back the courage which + had faltered for a moment—and took his arm. He led her to the door. + “Don’t let Blanche fret about me,” she said, simply, to Arnold as they + went by. They passed Sir Patrick next. Once more his sympathy for her set + every other consideration at defiance. He started up to bar the way to + Geoffrey. Geoffrey paused, and looked at Sir Patrick for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “The law tells her to go with her husband,” he said. “The law forbids you + to part Man and Wife.” + </p> + <p> + True. Absolutely, undeniably true. The law sanctioned the sacrifice of her + as unanswerably as it had sanctioned the sacrifice of her mother before + her. In the name of Morality, let him take her! In the interests of + Virtue, let her get out of it if she can! + </p> + <p> + Her husband opened the door. Mr. Moy laid his hand on Sir Patrick’s arm. + Lady Lundie, Captain Newenden, the London lawyer, all left their places, + influenced, for once, by the same interest; feeling, for once, the same + suspense. Arnold followed them, supporting his wife. For one memorable + instant Anne looked back at them all. Then she and her husband crossed the + threshold. They descended the stairs together. The opening and closing of + the house door was heard. They were gone. + </p> + <p> + Done, in the name of Morality. Done, in the interests of Virtue. Done, in + an age of progress, and under the most perfect government on the face of + the earth. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0065" id="link2H_4_0065"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + FIFTEENTH SCENE.—HOLCHESTER HOUSE. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0047" id="link2HCH0047"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-SEVENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE LAST CHANCE. + </h3> + <p> + “HIS lordship is dangerously ill, Sir. Her ladyship can receive no + visitors.” + </p> + <p> + “Be so good as to take that card to Lady Holchester. It is absolutely + necessary that your mistress should be made acquainted—in the + interests of her younger son—with something which I can only mention + to her ladyship herself.” + </p> + <p> + The two persons speaking were Lord Holchester’s head servant and Sir + Patrick Lundie. At that time barely half an hour had passed since the + close of the proceedings at Portland Place. + </p> + <p> + The servant still hesitated with the card in his hand. “I shall forfeit my + situation,” he said, “if I do it.” + </p> + <p> + “You will most assuredly forfeit your situation if you <i>don’t</i> do + it,” returned Sir Patrick. “I warn you plainly, this is too serious a + matter to be trifled with.” + </p> + <p> + The tone in which those words were spoken had its effect. The man went up + stairs with his message. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick waited in the hall. Even the momentary delay of entering one + of the reception-rooms was more than he could endure at that moment. + Anne’s happiness was hopelessly sacrificed already. The preservation of + her personal safety—which Sir Patrick firmly believed to be in + danger—was the one service which it was possible to render to her + now. The perilous position in which she stood toward her husband—as + an immovable obstacle, while she lived, between Geoffrey and Mrs. Glenarm—was + beyond the reach of remedy. But it was still possible to prevent her from + becoming the innocent cause of Geoffrey’s pecuniary ruin, by standing in + the way of a reconciliation between father and son. + </p> + <p> + Resolute to leave no means untried of serving Anne’s interests, Sir + Patrick had allowed Arnold and Blanche to go to his own residence in + London, alone, and had not even waited to say a farewell word to any of + the persons who had taken part in the inquiry. “Her life may depend on + what I can do for her at Holchester House!” With that conviction in him, + he had left Portland Place. With that conviction in him, he had sent his + message to Lady Holchester, and was now waiting for the reply. + </p> + <p> + The servant appeared again on the stairs. Sir Patrick went up to meet him. + </p> + <p> + “Her ladyship will see you, Sir, for a few minutes.” + </p> + <p> + The door of an upper room was opened; and Sir Patrick found himself in the + presence of Geoffrey’s mother. There was only time to observe that she + possessed the remains of rare personal beauty, and that she received her + visitor with a grace and courtesy which implied (under the circumstances) + a considerate regard for <i>his</i> position at the expense of her own. + </p> + <p> + “You have something to say to me, Sir Patrick, on the subject of my second + son. I am in great affliction. If you bring me bad news, I will do my best + to bear it. May I trust to your kindness not to keep me in suspense?” + </p> + <p> + “It will help me to make my intrusion as little painful as possible to + your ladyship,” replied Sir Patrick, “if I am permitted to ask a question. + Have you heard of any obstacle to the contemplated marriage of Mr. + Geoffrey Delamayn and Mrs. Glenarm?” + </p> + <p> + Even that distant reference to Anne produced an ominous change for the + worse in Lady Holchester’s manner. + </p> + <p> + “I have heard of the obstacle to which you allude,” she said. “Mrs. + Glenarm is an intimate friend of mine. She has informed me that a person + named Silvester, an impudent adventuress—” + </p> + <p> + “I beg your ladyship’s pardon. You are doing a cruel wrong to the noblest + woman I have ever met with.” + </p> + <p> + “I can not undertake, Sir Patrick, to enter into your reasons for admiring + her. Her conduct toward my son has, I repeat, been the conduct of an + impudent adventuress.” + </p> + <p> + Those words showed Sir Patrick the utter hopelessness of shaking her + prejudice against Anne. He decided on proceeding at once to the disclosure + of the truth. + </p> + <p> + “I entreat you so say no more,” he answered. “Your ladyship is speaking of + your son’s wife.” + </p> + <p> + “My son has married Miss Silvester?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She turned deadly pale. It appeared, for an instant, as if the shock had + completely overwhelmed her. But the mother’s weakness was only momentary + The virtuous indignation of the great lady had taken its place before Sir + Patrick could speak again. She rose to terminate the interview. + </p> + <p> + “I presume,” she said, “that your errand here is as an end.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick rose, on his side, resolute to do the duty which had brought + him to the house. + </p> + <p> + “I am compelled to trespass on your ladyship’s attention for a few minutes + more,” he answered. “The circumstances attending the marriage of Mr. + Geoffrey Delamayn are of no common importance. I beg permission (in the + interests of his family) to state, very briefly, what they are.” + </p> + <p> + In a few clear sentences he narrated what had happened, that afternoon, in + Portland Place. Lady Holchester listened with the steadiest and coldest + attention. So far as outward appearances were concerned, no impression was + produced upon her. + </p> + <p> + “Do you expect me,” she asked, “to espouse the interests of a person who + has prevented my son from marrying the lady of his choice, and of mine?” + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn, unhappily, has that reason for resenting his + wife’s innocent interference with interests of considerable, importance to + him,” returned Sir Patrick. “I request your ladyship to consider whether + it is desirable—in view of your son’s conduct in the future—to + allow his wife to stand in the doubly perilous relation toward him of + being also a cause of estrangement between his father and himself.” + </p> + <p> + He had put it with scrupulous caution. But Lady Holchester understood what + he had refrained from saving as well as what he had actually said. She had + hitherto remained standing—she now sat down again. There was a + visible impression produced on her at last. + </p> + <p> + “In Lord Holchester’s critical state of health,” she answered, “I decline + to take the responsibility of telling him what you have just told me. My + own influence has been uniformly exerted in my son’s favor—as long + as my interference could be productive of any good result. The time for my + interference has passed. Lord Holchester has altered his will this + morning. I was not present; and I have not yet been informed of what has + been done. Even if I knew—” + </p> + <p> + “Your ladyship would naturally decline,” said Sir Patrick, “to communicate + the information to a stranger.” + </p> + <p> + “Certainly. At the same time, after what you have said, I do not feel + justified in deciding on this matter entirely by myself. One of Lord + Holchester’s executors is now in the house. There can be no impropriety in + your seeing him—if you wish it. You are at liberty to say, from me, + that I leave it entirely to his discretion to decide what ought to be + done.” + </p> + <p> + “I gladly accept your ladyship’s proposal.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Holchester rang the bell at her side. + </p> + <p> + “Take Sir Patrick Lundie to Mr. Marchwood,” she said to the servant. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick started. The name was familiar to him, as the name of a + friend. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Marchwood of Hurlbeck?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “The same.” + </p> + <p> + With that brief answer, Lady Holchester dismissed her visitor. Following + the servant to the other end of the corridor, Sir Patrick was conducted + into a small room—the ante-chamber to the bedroom in which Lord + Holchester lay. The door of communication was closed. A gentleman sat + writing at a table near the window. He rose, and held out his hand, with a + look of surprise, when the servant announced Sir Patrick’s name. This was + Mr. Marchwood. + </p> + <p> + After the first explanations had been given, Sir Patrick patiently + reverted to the object of his visit to Holchester House. On the first + occasion when he mentioned Anne’s name he observed that Mr. Marchwood + became, from that moment, specially interested in what he was saying. + </p> + <p> + “Do you happen to be acquainted with the lady?” he asked + </p> + <p> + “I only know her as the cause of a very strange proceeding, this morning, + in that room.” He pointed to Lord Holchester’s bedroom as he spoke. + </p> + <p> + “Are you at liberty to mention what the proceeding was?” + </p> + <p> + “Hardly—even to an old friend like you—unless I felt it a + matter of duty, on my part, to state the circumstances. Pray go on with + what you were saying to me. You were on the point of telling me what + brought you to this house.” + </p> + <p> + Without a word more of preface, Sir Patrick told him the news of + Geoffrey’s marriage to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “Married!” cried Mr. Marchwood. “Are you sure of what you say?” + </p> + <p> + “I am one of the witnesses of the marriage.” + </p> + <p> + “Good Heavens! And Lord Holchester’s lawyer has left the house!” + </p> + <p> + “Can I replace him? Have I, by any chance justified you in telling me what + happened this morning in the next room?” + </p> + <p> + “Justified me? You have left me no other alternative. The doctors are all + agreed in dreading apoplexy—his lordship may die at any moment. In + the lawyer’s absence, I must take it on myself. Here are the facts. There + is the codicil to Lord Holchester’s Will which is still unsigned.” + </p> + <p> + “Relating to his second son?” + </p> + <p> + “Relating to Geoffrey Delamayn, and giving him (when it is once executed) + a liberal provision for life.” + </p> + <p> + “What is the object in the way of his executing it?” + </p> + <p> + “The lady whom you have just mentioned to me.” + </p> + <p> + “Anne Silvester!” + </p> + <p> + “Anne Silvester—now (as you tell me) Mrs. Geoffrey Delamayn. I can + only explain the thing very imperfectly. There are certain painful + circumstances associated in his lordship’s memory with this lady, or with + some member of her family. We can only gather that he did something—in + the early part of his professional career—which was strictly within + the limits of his duty, but which apparently led to very sad results. Some + days since he unfortunately heard (either through Mrs. Glenarm or through + Mrs. Julius Delamayn) of Miss Silvester’s appearance at Swanhaven Lodge. + No remark on the subject escaped him at the time. It was only this + morning, when the codicil giving the legacy to Geoffrey was waiting to be + executed, that his real feeling in the matter came out. To our + astonishment, he refused to sign it. ‘Find Anne Silvester’ (was the only + answer we could get from him); ‘and bring her to my bedside. You all say + my son is guiltless of injuring her. I am lying on my death-bed. I have + serious reasons of my own—I owe it to the memory of the dead—to + assure myself of the truth. If Anne Silvester herself acquits him of + having wronged her, I will provide for Geoffrey. Not otherwise.’ We went + the length of reminding him that he might die before Miss Silvester could + be found. Our interference had but one result. He desired the lawyer to + add a second codicil to the Will—which he executed on the spot. It + directs his executors to inquire into the relations that have actually + existed between Anne Silvester and his younger son. If we find reason to + conclude that Geoffrey has gravely wronged her, we are directed to pay her + a legacy—provided that she is a single woman at the time.” + </p> + <p> + “And her marriage violates the provision!” exclaimed Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. The codicil actually executed is now worthless. And the other + codicil remains unsigned until the lawyer can produce Miss Silvester. He + has left the house to apply to Geoffrey at Fulham, as the only means at + our disposal of finding the lady. Some hours have passed—and he has + not yet returned.” + </p> + <p> + “It is useless to wait for him,” said Sir Patrick. “While the lawyer was + on his way to Fulham, Lord Holchester’s son was on his way to Portland + Place. This is even more serious than you suppose. Tell me, what under + less pressing circumstances I should have no right to ask. Apart from the + unexecuted codicil what is Geoffrey Delamayn’s position in the will?” + </p> + <p> + “He is not even mentioned in it.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you got the will?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Marchwood unlocked a drawer, and took it out. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick instantly rose from his chair. “No waiting for the lawyer!” he + repeated, vehemently. “This is a matter of life and death. Lady Holchester + bitterly resents her son’s marriage. She speaks and feels as a friend of + Mrs. Glenarm. Do you think Lord Holchester would take the same view if he + knew of it?” + </p> + <p> + “It depends entirely on the circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “Suppose I informed him—as I inform you in confidence—that his + son <i>has</i> gravely wronged Miss Silvester? And suppose I followed that + up by telling him that his son has made atonement by marrying her?” + </p> + <p> + “After the feeling that he has shown in the matter, I believe he would + sign the codicil.” + </p> + <p> + “Then, for God’s sake, let me see him!” + </p> + <p> + “I must speak to the doctor.” + </p> + <p> + “Do it instantly!” + </p> + <p> + With the will in his hand, Mr. Marchwood advanced to the bedroom door. It + was opened from within before he could get to it. The doctor appeared on + the threshold. He held up his hand warningly when Mr. Marchwood attempted + to speak to him. + </p> + <p> + “Go to Lady Holchester,” he said. “It’s all over.” + </p> + <p> + “Dead?” + </p> + <p> + “Dead.” + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_4_0067" id="link2H_4_0067"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + SIXTEENTH SCENE.—SALT PATCH. + </h2> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0048" id="link2HCH0048"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-EIGHTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE PLACE. + </h3> + <p> + EARLY in the present century it was generally reported among the neighbors + of one Reuben Limbrick that he was in a fair way to make a comfortable + little fortune by dealing in Salt. + </p> + <p> + His place of abode was in Staffordshire, on a morsel of freehold land of + his own—appropriately called Salt Patch. Without being absolutely a + miser, he lived in the humblest manner, saw very little company; + skillfully invested his money; and persisted in remaining a single man. + </p> + <p> + Toward eighteen hundred and forty he first felt the approach of the + chronic malady which ultimately terminated his life. After trying what the + medical men of his own locality could do for him, with very poor success, + he met by accident with a doctor living in the western suburbs of London, + who thoroughly understood his complaint. After some journeying backward + and forward to consult this gentleman, he decided on retiring from + business, and on taking up his abode within an easy distance of his + medical man. + </p> + <p> + Finding a piece of freehold land to be sold in the neighborhood of Fulham, + he bought it, and had a cottage residence built on it, under his own + directions. He surrounded the whole—being a man singularly jealous + of any intrusion on his retirement, or of any chance observation of his + ways and habits—with a high wall, which cost a large sum of money, + and which was rightly considered a dismal and hideous object by the + neighbors. When the new residence was completed, he called it after the + name of the place in Staffordshire where he had made his money, and where + he had lived during the happiest period of his life. His relatives, + failing to understand that a question of sentiment was involved in this + proceeding, appealed to hard facts, and reminded him that there were no + salt mines in the neighborhood. Reuben Limbrick answered, “So much the + worse for the neighborhood”—and persisted in calling his property, + “Salt Patch.” + </p> + <p> + The cottage was so small that it looked quite lost in the large garden all + round it. There was a ground-floor and a floor above it—and that was + all. + </p> + <p> + On either side of the passage, on the lower floor, were two rooms. At the + right-hand side, on entering by the front-door, there was a kitchen, with + its outhouses attached. The room next to the kitchen looked into the + garden. In Reuben Limbrick’s time it was called the study and contained a + small collection of books and a large store of fishing-tackle. On the + left-hand side of the passage there was a drawing-room situated at the + back of the house, and communicating with a dining-room in the front. On + the upper floor there were five bedrooms—two on one side of the + passage, corresponding in size with the dining-room and the drawing-room + below, but not opening into each other; three on the other side of the + passage, consisting of one larger room in front, and of two small rooms at + the back. All these were solidly and completely furnished. Money had not + been spared, and workmanship had not been stinted. It was all substantial—and, + up stairs and down stairs, it was all ugly. + </p> + <p> + The situation of Salt Patch was lonely. The lands of the market-gardeners + separated it from other houses. Jealously surrounded by its own high + walls, the cottage suggested, even to the most unimaginative persons, the + idea of an asylum or a prison. Reuben Limbrick’s relatives, occasionally + coming to stay with him, found the place prey on their spirits, and + rejoiced when the time came for going home again. They were never pressed + to stay against their will. Reuben Limbrick was not a hospitable or a + sociable man. He set very little value on human sympathy, in his attacks + of illness; and he bore congratulations impatiently, in his intervals of + health. “I care about nothing but fishing,” he used to say. “I find my dog + very good company. And I am quite happy as long as I am free from pain.” + </p> + <p> + On his death-bed, he divided his money justly enough among his relations. + The only part of his Will which exposed itself to unfavorable criticism, + was a clause conferring a legacy on one of his sisters (then a widow) who + had estranged herself from her family by marrying beneath her. The family + agreed in considering this unhappy person as undeserving of notice or + benefit. Her name was Hester Dethridge. It proved to be a great + aggravation of Hester’s offenses, in the eyes of Hester’s relatives, when + it was discovered that she possessed a life-interest in Salt Patch, and an + income of two hundred a year. + </p> + <p> + Not visited by the surviving members of her family, living, literally, by + herself in the world, Hester decided, in spite of her comfortable little + income, on letting lodgings. The explanation of this strange conduct which + she had written on her slate, in reply to an inquiry from Anne, was the + true one. “I have not got a friend in the world: I dare not live alone.” + In that desolate situation, and with that melancholy motive, she put the + house into an agent’s hands. The first person in want of lodgings whom the + agent sent to see the place was Perry the trainer; and Hester’s first + tenant was Geoffrey Delamayn. + </p> + <p> + The rooms which the landlady reserved for herself were the kitchen, the + room next to it, which had once been her brother’s “study,” and the two + small back bedrooms up stairs—one for herself, the other for the + servant-girl whom she employed to help her. The whole of the rest of the + cottage was to let. It was more than the trainer wanted; but Hester + Dethridge refused to dispose of her lodgings—either as to the rooms + occupied, or as to the period for which they were to be taken—on + other than her own terms. Perry had no alternative but to lose the + advantage of the garden as a private training-ground, or to submit. + </p> + <p> + Being only two in number, the lodgers had three bedrooms to choose from. + Geoffrey established himself in the back-room, over the drawing-room. + Perry chose the front-room, placed on the other side of the cottage, next + to the two smaller apartments occupied by Hester and her maid. Under this + arrangement, the front bedroom, on the opposite side of the passage—next + to the room in which Geoffrey slept—was left empty, and was called, + for the time being, the spare room. As for the lower floor, the athlete + and his trainer ate their meals in the dining-room; and left the + drawing-room, as a needless luxury, to take care of itself. + </p> + <p> + The Foot-Race once over, Perry’s business at the cottage was at an end. + His empty bedroom became a second spare room. The term for which the + lodgings had been taken was then still unexpired. On the day after the + race Geoffrey had to choose between sacrificing the money, or remaining in + the lodgings by himself, with two spare bedrooms on his hands, and with a + drawing-room for the reception of his visitors—who called with pipes + in their mouths, and whose idea of hospitality was a pot of beer in the + garden. + </p> + <p> + To use his own phrase, he was “out of sorts.” A sluggish reluctance to + face change of any kind possessed him. He decided on staying at Salt Patch + until his marriage to Mrs. Glenarm (which he then looked upon as a + certainty) obliged him to alter his habits completely, once for all. From + Fulham he had gone, the next day, to attend the inquiry in Portland Place. + And to Fulham he returned, when he brought the wife who had been forced + upon him to her “home.” + </p> + <p> + Such was the position of the tenant, and such were the arrangements of the + interior of the cottage, on the memorable evening when Anne Silvester + entered it as Geoffrey’s wife. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0049" id="link2HCH0049"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FORTY-NINTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE NIGHT. + </h3> + <p> + ON leaving Lady Lundie’s house, Geoffrey called the first empty cab that + passed him. He opened the door, and signed to Anne to enter the vehicle. + She obeyed him mechanically. He placed himself on the seat opposite to + her, and told the man to drive to Fulham. + </p> + <p> + The cab started on its journey; husband and wife preserving absolute + silence. Anne laid her head back wearily, and closed her eyes. Her + strength had broken down under the effort which had sustained her from the + beginning to the end of the inquiry. Her power of thinking was gone. She + felt nothing, knew nothing, feared nothing. Half in faintness, half in + slumber, she had lost all sense of her own terrible position before the + first five minutes of the journey to Fulham had come to an end. + </p> + <p> + Sitting opposite to her, savagely self-concentrated in his own thoughts, + Geoffrey roused himself on a sudden. An idea had sprung to life in his + sluggish brain. He put his head out of the window of the cab, and directed + the driver to turn back, and go to an hotel near the Great Northern + Railway. + </p> + <p> + Resuming his seat, he looked furtively at Anne. She neither moved nor + opened her eyes—she was, to all appearance, unconscious of what had + happened. He observed her attentively. Was she really ill? Was the time + coming when he would be freed from her? He pondered over that question—watching + her closely. Little by little the vile hope in him slowly died away, and a + vile suspicion took its place. What, if this appearance of illness was a + pretense? What, if she was waiting to throw him off his guard, and escape + from him at the first opportunity? He put his head out of the window + again, and gave another order to the driver. The cab diverged from the + direct route, and stopped at a public house in Holborn, kept (under an + assumed name) by Perry the trainer. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey wrote a line in pencil on his card, and sent it into the house by + the driver. After waiting some minutes, a lad appeared and touched his + hat. Geoffrey spoke to him, out of the window, in an under-tone. The lad + took his place on the box by the driver. The cab turned back, and took the + road to the hotel near the Great Northern Railway. + </p> + <p> + Arrived at the place, Geoffrey posted the lad close at the door of the + cab, and pointed to Anne, still reclining with closed eyes; still, as it + seemed, too weary to lift her head, too faint to notice any thing that + happened. “If she attempts to get out, stop her, and send for me.” With + those parting directions he entered the hotel, and asked for Mr. Moy. + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy was in the house; he had just returned from Portland Place. He + rose, and bowed coldly, when Geoffrey was shown into his sitting-room. + </p> + <p> + “What is your business with me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve had a notion come into my head,” said Geoffrey. “And I want to speak + to you about it directly.” + </p> + <p> + “I must request you to consult some one else. Consider me, if you please, + as having withdrawn from all further connection with your affairs.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked at him in stolid surprise. + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean to say you’re going to leave me in the lurch?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I mean to say that I will take no fresh step in any business of yours,” + answered Mr. Moy, firmly. “As to the future, I have ceased to be your + legal adviser. As to the past, I shall carefully complete the formal + duties toward you which remain to be done. Mrs. Inchbare and Bishopriggs + are coming here by appointment, at six this evening, to receive the money + due to them before they go back. I shall return to Scotland myself by the + night mail. The persons referred to, in the matter of the promise of + marriage, by Sir Patrick, are all in Scotland. I will take their evidence + as to the handwriting, and as to the question of residence in the North—and + I will send it to you in written form. That done, I shall have done all. I + decline to advise you in any future step which you propose to take.” + </p> + <p> + After reflecting for a moment, Geoffrey put a last question. + </p> + <p> + “You said Bishopriggs and the woman would be here at six this evening.” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where are they to be found before that?” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Moy wrote a few words on a slip of paper, and handed it to Geoffrey. + “At their lodgings,” he said. “There is the address.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey took the address, and left the room. Lawyer and client parted + without a word on either side. + </p> + <p> + Returning to the cab, Geoffrey found the lad steadily waiting at his post. + </p> + <p> + “Has any thing happened?” + </p> + <p> + “The lady hasn’t moved, Sir, since you left her.” + </p> + <p> + “Is Perry at the public house?” + </p> + <p> + “Not at this time, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “I want a lawyer. Do you know who Perry’s lawyer is?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “And where he is to be found?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Get up on the box, and tell the man where to drive to.” + </p> + <p> + The cab went on again along the Euston Road, and stopped at a house in a + side-street, with a professional brass plate on the door. The lad got + down, and came to the window. + </p> + <p> + “Here it is, Sir.” + </p> + <p> + “Knock at the door, and see if he is at home.” + </p> + <p> + He proved to be at home. Geoffrey entered the house, leaving his emissary + once more on the watch. The lad noticed that the lady moved this time. She + shivered as if she felt cold—opened her eyes for a moment wearily, + and looked out through the window—sighed, and sank back again in the + corner of the cab. + </p> + <p> + After an absence of more than half an hour Geoffrey came out again. His + interview with Perry’s lawyer appeared to have relieved his mind of + something that had oppressed it. He once more ordered the driver to go to + Fulham—opened the door to get into the cab—then, as it seemed, + suddenly recollected himself—and, calling the lad down from the box, + ordered him to get inside, and took his place by the driver. + </p> + <p> + As the cab started he looked over his shoulder at Anne through the front + window. “Well worth trying,” he said to himself. “It’s the way to be even + with her. And it’s the way to be free.” + </p> + <p> + They arrived at the cottage. Possibly, repose had restored Anne’s + strength. Possibly, the sight of the place had roused the instinct of + self-preservation in her at last. To Geoffrey’s surprise, she left the cab + without assistance. When he opened the wooden gate, with his own key, she + recoiled from it, and looked at him for the first time. + </p> + <p> + He pointed to the entrance. + </p> + <p> + “Go in,” he said. + </p> + <p> + “On what terms?” she asked, without stirring a step. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey dismissed the cab; and sent the lad in, to wait for further + orders. These things done, he answered her loudly and brutally the moment + they were alone: + </p> + <p> + “On any terms I please.” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing will induce me,” she said, firmly, “to live with you as your + wife. You may kill me—but you will never bend me to that.” + </p> + <p> + He advanced a step—opened his lips—and suddenly checked + himself. He waited a while, turning something over in his mind. When he + spoke again, it was with marked deliberation and constraint—with the + air of a man who was repeating words put into his lips, or words prepared + beforehand. + </p> + <p> + “I have something to tell you in the presence of witnesses,” he said. “I + don’t ask you, or wish you, to see me in the cottage alone.” + </p> + <p> + She started at the change in him. His sudden composure, and his sudden + nicety in the choice of words, tried her courage far more severely than it + had been tried by his violence of the moment before. + </p> + <p> + He waited her decision, still pointing through the gate. She trembled a + little—steadied herself again—and went in. The lad, waiting in + the front garden, followed her. + </p> + <p> + He threw open the drawing-room door, on the left-hand side of the passage. + She entered the room. The servant-girl appeared. He said to her, “Fetch + Mrs. Dethridge; and come back with her yourself.” Then he went into the + room; the lad, by his own directions, following him in; and the door being + left wide open. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge came out from the kitchen with the girl behind her. At + the sight of Anne, a faint and momentary change passed over the stony + stillness of her face. A dull light glimmered in her eyes. She slowly + nodded her head. A dumb sound, vaguely expressive of something like + exultation or relief, escaped her lips. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey spoke—once more, with marked deliberation and constraint; + once more, with the air of repeating something which had been prepared + beforehand. He pointed to Anne. + </p> + <p> + “This woman is my wife,” he said. “In the presence of you three, as + witnesses, I tell her that I don’t forgive her. I have brought her here—having + no other place in which I can trust her to be—to wait the issue of + proceedings, undertaken in defense of my own honor and good name. While + she stays here, she will live separate from me, in a room of her own. If + it is necessary for me to communicate with her, I shall only see her in + the presence of a third person. Do you all understand me?” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge bowed her head. The other two answered, “Yes”—and + turned to go out. + </p> + <p> + Anne rose. At a sign from Geoffrey, the servant and the lad waited in the + room to hear what she had to say. + </p> + <p> + “I know nothing in my conduct,” she said, addressing herself to Geoffrey, + “which justifies you in telling these people that you don’t forgive me. + Those words applied by you to me are an insult. I am equally ignorant of + what you mean when you speak of defending your good name. All I understand + is, that we are separate persons in this house, and that I am to have a + room of my own. I am grateful, whatever your motives may be, for the + arrangement that you have proposed. Direct one of these two women to show + me my room.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey turned to Hester Dethridge. + </p> + <p> + “Take her up stairs,” he said; “and let her pick which room she pleases. + Give her what she wants to eat or drink. Bring down the address of the + place where her luggage is. The lad here will go back by railway, and + fetch it. That’s all. Be off.” + </p> + <p> + Hester went out. Anne followed her up the stairs. In the passage on the + upper floor she stopped. The dull light flickered again for a moment in + her eyes. She wrote on her slate, and held it up to Anne, with these words + on it: “I knew you would come back. It’s not over yet between you and + him.” Anne made no reply. She went on writing, with something faintly like + a smile on her thin, colorless lips. “I know something of bad husbands. + Yours is as bad a one as ever stood in shoes. He’ll try you.” Anne made an + effort to stop her. “Don’t you see how tired I am?” she said, gently. + Hester Dethridge dropped the slate—looked with a steady and + uncompassionate attention in Anne’s face—nodded her head, as much as + to say, “I see it now”—and led the way into one of the empty rooms. + </p> + <p> + It was the front bedroom, over the drawing-room. The first glance round + showed it to be scrupulously clean, and solidly and tastelessly furnished. + The hideous paper on the walls, the hideous carpet on the floor, were both + of the best quality. The great heavy mahogany bedstead, with its curtains + hanging from a hook in the ceiling, and with its clumsily carved head and + foot on the same level, offered to the view the anomalous spectacle of + French design overwhelmed by English execution. The most noticeable thing + in the room was the extraordinary attention which had been given to the + defense of the door. Besides the usual lock and key, it possessed two + solid bolts, fastening inside at the top and the bottom. It had been one + among the many eccentric sides of Reuben Limbrick’s character to live in + perpetual dread of thieves breaking into his cottage at night. All the + outer doors and all the window shutters were solidly sheathed with iron, + and had alarm-bells attached to them on a new principle. Every one of the + bedrooms possessed its two bolts on the inner side of the door. And, to + crown all, on the roof of the cottage was a little belfry, containing a + bell large enough to make itself heard at the Fulham police station. In + Reuben Limbrick’s time the rope had communicated with his bedroom. It hung + now against the wall, in the passage outside. + </p> + <p> + Looking from one to the other of the objects around her, Anne’s eyes + rested on the partition wall which divided the room from the room next to + it. The wall was not broken by a door of communication, it had nothing + placed against it but a wash-hand-stand and two chairs. + </p> + <p> + “Who sleeps in the next room?” said Anne. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge pointed down to the drawing-room in which they had left + Geoffrey, Geoffrey slept in the room. + </p> + <p> + Anne led the way out again into the passage. + </p> + <p> + “Show me the second room,” she said. + </p> + <p> + The second room was also in front of the house. More ugliness (of + first-rate quality) in the paper and the carpet. Another heavy mahogany + bedstead; but, this time, a bedstead with a canopy attached to the head of + it—supporting its own curtains. Anticipating Anne’s inquiry, on this + occasion, Hester looked toward the next room, at the back of the cottage, + and pointed to herself. Anne at once decided on choosing the second room; + it was the farthest from Geoffrey. Hester waited while she wrote the + address at which her luggage would be found (at the house of the musical + agent), and then, having applied for, and received her directions as to + the evening meal which she should send up stairs, quitted the room. + </p> + <p> + Left alone, Anne secured the door, and threw herself on the bed. Still too + weary to exert her mind, still physically incapable of realizing the + helplessness and the peril of her position, she opened a locket that hung + from her neck, kissed the portrait of her mother and the portrait of + Blanche placed opposite to each other inside it, and sank into a deep and + dreamless sleep. + </p> + <p> + Meanwhile Geoffrey repeated his final orders to the lad, at the cottage + gate. + </p> + <p> + “When you have got the luggage, you are to go to the lawyer. If he can + come here to-night, you will show him the way. If he can’t come, you will + bring me a letter from him. Make any mistake in this, and it will be the + worst day’s work you ever did in your life. Away with you, and don’t lose + the train.” + </p> + <p> + The lad ran off. Geoffrey waited, looking after him, and turning over in + his mind what had been done up to that time. + </p> + <p> + “All right, so far,” he said to himself. “I didn’t ride in the cab with + her. I told her before witnesses I didn’t forgive her, and why I had her + in the house. I’ve put her in a room by herself. And if I <i>must</i> see + her, I see her with Hester Dethridge for a witness. My part’s done—let + the lawyer do his.” + </p> + <p> + He strolled round into the back garden, and lit his pipe. After a while, + as the twilight faded, he saw a light in Hester’s sitting-room on the + ground-floor. He went to the window. Hester and the servant-girl were both + there at work. “Well?” he asked. “How about the woman up stairs?” Hester’s + slate, aided by the girl’s tongue, told him all about “the woman” that was + to be told. They had taken up to her room tea and an omelet; and they had + been obliged to wake her from a sleep. She had eaten a little of the + omelet, and had drunk eagerly of the tea. They had gone up again to take + the tray down. She had returned to the bed. She was not asleep—only + dull and heavy. Made no remark. Looked clean worn out. We left her a + light; and we let her be. Such was the report. After listening to it, + without making any remark, Geoffrey filled a second pipe, and resumed his + walk. The time wore on. It began to feel chilly in the garden. The rising + wind swept audibly over the open lands round the cottage; the stars + twinkled their last; nothing was to be seen overhead but the black void of + night. More rain coming. Geoffrey went indoors. + </p> + <p> + An evening newspaper was on the dining-room table. The candles were lit. + He sat down, and tried to read. No! There was nothing in the newspaper + that he cared about. The time for hearing from the lawyer was drawing + nearer and nearer. Reading was of no use. Sitting still was of no use. He + got up, and went out in the front of the cottage—strolled to the + gate—opened it—and looked idly up and down the road. + </p> + <p> + But one living creature was visible by the light of the gas-lamp over the + gate. The creature came nearer, and proved to be the postman going his + last round, with the last delivery for the night. He came up to the gate + with a letter in his hand. + </p> + <p> + “The Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “All right.” + </p> + <p> + He took the letter from the postman, and went back into the dining-room. + Looking at the address by the light of the candles, he recognized the + handwriting of Mrs. Glenarm. “To congratulate me on my marriage!” he said + to himself, bitterly, and opened the letter. + </p> + <p> + Mrs. Glenarm’s congratulations were expressed in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “MY ADORED GEOFFREY,—I have heard all. My beloved one! my own! you + are sacrificed to the vilest wretch that walks the earth, and I have lost + you! How is it that I live after hearing it? How is it that I can think, + and write, with my brain on fire, and my heart broken! Oh, my angel, there + is a purpose that supports me—pure, beautiful, worthy of us both. I + live, Geoffrey—I live to dedicate myself to the adored idea of You. + My hero! my first, last, love! I will marry no other man. I will live and + die—I vow it solemnly on my bended knees—I will live and die + true to You. I am your Spiritual Wife. My beloved Geoffrey! <i>she</i> + can’t come between us, there—<i>she</i> can never rob you of my + heart’s unalterable fidelity, of my soul’s unearthly devotion. I am your + Spiritual Wife! Oh, the blameless luxury of writing those words! Write + back to me, beloved one, and say you feel it too. Vow it, idol of my + heart, as I have vowed it. Unalterable fidelity! unearthly devotion! + Never, never will I be the wife of any other man! Never, never will I + forgive the woman who has come between us! Yours ever and only; yours with + the stainless passion that burns on the altar of the heart; yours, yours, + yours—E. G.” + </p> + <p> + This outbreak of hysterical nonsense—in itself simply ridiculous—assumed + a serious importance in its effect on Geoffrey. It associated the direct + attainment of his own interests with the gratification of his vengeance on + Anne. Ten thousand a year self-dedicated to him—and nothing to + prevent his putting out his hand and taking it but the woman who had + caught him in her trap, the woman up stairs who had fastened herself on + him for life! + </p> + <p> + He put the letter into his pocket. “Wait till I hear from the lawyer,” he + said to himself. “The easiest way out of it is <i>that</i> way. And it’s + the law.” + </p> + <p> + He looked impatiently at his watch. As he put it back again in his pocket + there was a ring at the bell. Was it the lad bringing the luggage? Yes. + And, with it, the lawyer’s report? No. Better than that—the lawyer + himself. + </p> + <p> + “Come in!” cried Geoffrey, meeting his visitor at the door. + </p> + <p> + The lawyer entered the dining-room. The candle-light revealed to view a + corpulent, full-lipped, bright-eyed man—with a strain of negro blood + in his yellow face, and with unmistakable traces in his look and manner of + walking habitually in the dirtiest professional by-ways of the law. + </p> + <p> + “I’ve got a little place of my own in your neighborhood,” he said. “And I + thought I would look in myself, Mr. Delamayn, on my way home.” + </p> + <p> + “Have you seen the witnesses?” + </p> + <p> + “I have examined them both, Sir. First, Mrs. Inchbare and Mr. Bishopriggs + together. Next, Mrs. Inchbare and Mr. Bishopriggs separately.” + </p> + <p> + “Well?” + </p> + <p> + “Well, Sir, the result is unfavorable, I am sorry to say.” + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” + </p> + <p> + “Neither the one nor the other of them, Mr. Delamayn, can give the + evidence we want. I have made sure of that.” + </p> + <p> + “Made sure of that? You have made an infernal mess of it! You don’t + understand the case!” + </p> + <p> + The mulatto lawyer smiled. The rudeness of his client appeared only to + amuse him. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t I?” he said. “Suppose you tell me where I am wrong about it? Here + it is in outline only. On the fourteenth of August last your wife was at + an inn in Scotland. A gentleman named Arnold Brinkworth joined her there. + He represented himself to be her husband, and he staid with her till the + next morning. Starting from those facts, the object you have in view is to + sue for a Divorce from your wife. You make Mr. Arnold Brinkworth the + co-respondent. And you produce in evidence the waiter and the landlady of + the inn. Any thing wrong, Sir, so far?” + </p> + <p> + Nothing wrong. At one cowardly stroke to cast Anne disgraced on the world, + and to set himself free—there, plainly and truly stated, was the + scheme which he had devised, when he had turned back on the way to Fulham + to consult Mr. Moy. + </p> + <p> + “So much for the case,” resumed the lawyer. “Now for what I have done on + receiving your instructions. I have examined the witnesses; and I have had + an interview (not a very pleasant one) with Mr. Moy. The result of those + two proceedings is briefly this. First discovery: In assuming the + character of the lady’s husband Mr. Brinkworth was acting under your + directions—which tells dead against <i>you.</i> Second discovery: + Not the slightest impropriety of conduct, not an approach even to harmless + familiarity, was detected by either of the witnesses, while the lady and + gentleman were together at the inn. There is literally no evidence to + produce against them, except that they <i>were</i> together—in two + rooms. How are you to assume a guilty purpose, when you can’t prove an + approach to a guilty act? You can no more take such a case as that into + Court than you can jump over the roof of this cottage.” + </p> + <p> + He looked hard at his client, expecting to receive a violent reply. His + client agreeably disappointed him. A very strange impression appeared to + have been produced on this reckless and headstrong man. He got up quietly; + he spoke with perfect outward composure of face and manner when he said + his next words. + </p> + <p> + “Have you given up the case?” + </p> + <p> + “As things are at present, Mr. Delamayn, there is no case.” + </p> + <p> + “And no hope of my getting divorced from her?” + </p> + <p> + “Wait a moment. Have your wife and Mr. Brinkworth met nowhere since they + were together at the Scotch inn?” + </p> + <p> + “Nowhere.” + </p> + <p> + “As to the future, of course I can’t say. As to the past, there is no hope + of your getting divorced from her.” + </p> + <p> + “Thank you. Good-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Good-night, Mr. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + Fastened to her for life—and the law powerless to cut the knot. + </p> + <p> + He pondered over that result until he had thoroughly realized it and fixed + it in his mind. Then he took out Mrs. Glenarm’s letter, and read it + through again, attentively, from beginning to end. + </p> + <p> + Nothing could shake her devotion to him. Nothing would induce her to marry + another man. There she was—in her own words—dedicated to him: + waiting, with her fortune at her own disposal, to be his wife. There also + was his father, waiting (so far as <i>he</i> knew, in the absence of any + tidings from Holchester House) to welcome Mrs. Glenarm as a + daughter-in-law, and to give Mrs. Glenarm’s husband an income of his own. + As fair a prospect, on all sides, as man could desire. And nothing in the + way of it but the woman who had caught him in her trap—the woman up + stairs who had fastened herself on him for life. + </p> + <p> + He went out in the garden in the darkness of the night. + </p> + <p> + There was open communication, on all sides, between the back garden and + the front. He walked round and round the cottage—now appearing in a + stream of light from a window; now disappearing again in the darkness. The + wind blew refreshingly over his bare head. For some minutes he went round + and round, faster and faster, without a pause. When he stopped at last, it + was in front of the cottage. He lifted his head slowly, and looked up at + the dim light in the window of Anne’s room. + </p> + <p> + “How?” he said to himself. “That’s the question. How?” + </p> + <p> + He went indoors again, and rang the bell. The servant-girl who answered it + started back at the sight of him. His florid color was all gone. His eyes + looked at her without appearing to see her. The perspiration was standing + on his forehead in great heavy drops. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill, Sir?” said the girl. + </p> + <p> + He told her, with an oath, to hold her tongue and bring the brandy. When + she entered the room for the second time, he was standing with his back to + her, looking out at the night. He never moved when she put the bottle on + the table. She heard him muttering as if he was talking to himself. + </p> + <p> + The same difficulty which had been present to his mind in secret under + Anne’s window was present to his mind still. + </p> + <p> + How? That was the problem to solve. How? + </p> + <p> + He turned to the brandy, and took counsel of that. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0050" id="link2HCH0050"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTIETH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE MORNING. + </h3> + <p> + WHEN does the vain regret find its keenest sting? When is the doubtful + future blackened by its darkest cloud? When is life least worth having, + and death oftenest at the bedside? In the terrible morning hours, when the + sun is rising in its glory, and the birds are singing in the stillness of + the new-born day. + </p> + <p> + Anne woke in the strange bed, and looked round her, by the light of the + new morning, at the strange room. + </p> + <p> + The rain had all fallen in the night. The sun was master in the clear + autumn sky. She rose, and opened the window. The fresh morning air, keen + and fragrant, filled the room. Far and near, the same bright stillness + possessed the view. She stood at the window looking out. Her mind was + clear again—she could think, she could feel; she could face the one + last question which the merciless morning now forced on her—How will + it end? + </p> + <p> + Was there any hope?—hope for instance, in what she might do for + herself. What can a married woman do for herself? She can make her misery + public—provided it be misery of a certain kind—and can reckon + single-handed with Society when she has done it. Nothing more. + </p> + <p> + Was there hope in what others might do for her? Blanche might write to her—might + even come and see her—if her husband allowed it; and that was all. + Sir Patrick had pressed her hand at parting, and had told her to rely on + him. He was the firmest, the truest of friends. But what could he do? + There were outrages which her husband was privileged to commit, under the + sanction of marriage, at the bare thought of which her blood ran cold. + Could Sir Patrick protect her? Absurd! Law and Society armed her husband + with his conjugal rights. Law and Society had but one answer to give, if + she appealed to them—You are his wife. + </p> + <p> + No hope in herself; no hope in her friends; no hope any where on earth. + Nothing to be done but to wait for the end—with faith in the Divine + Mercy; with faith in the better world. + </p> + <p> + She took out of her trunk a little book of Prayers and Meditations—worn + with much use—which had once belonged to her mother. She sat by the + window reading it. Now and then she looked up from it—thinking. The + parallel between her mother’s position and her own position was now + complete. Both married to husbands 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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “The master wants you, ma’am, down stairs.” + </p> + <p> + She rose instantly and put away the little book. + </p> + <p> + “Is that all the message?” she asked, opening the door. + </p> + <p> + “Yes, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Won’t you shake hands with your husband,” he asked, “when your husband + asks you?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He pointed to a chair at the head of the table. + </p> + <p> + “Will you make the tea?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She had given him her hand mechanically; she advanced a step mechanically—and + then stopped. + </p> + <p> + “Would you prefer breakfasting by yourself?” he said. + </p> + <p> + “If you please,” she answered, faintly. + </p> + <p> + “Wait a minute. I have something to say before you go.” + </p> + <p> + She waited. He considered with himself; consulting his memory—visibly, + unmistakably, consulting it before he spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “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 inclinations. 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “Do you believe him?” + </p> + <p> + Anne pushed the slate away, and ran up stairs. She fastened the door—and + sank into a chair. + </p> + <p> + “He is plotting something against me,” she said to herself. “What?” + </p> + <p> + A sickening, physical sense of dread—entirely new in her experience + of herself—made her shrink from pursuing the question. The sinking + at her heart turned her faint. She went to get the air at the open window. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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: + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Anne signed to her to leave the room. She went out, pulling the door to, + but not closing it behind her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + His manner was as carefully subdued as ever. But the unacknowledged + distrust in him (when he looked at her) betrayed itself in his eye. + </p> + <p> + She glanced at the handwriting on the address. + </p> + <p> + “From Blanche,” she answered. + </p> + <p> + He softly put his foot between the door and the post—and waited + until she had opened and read Blanche’s letter. + </p> + <p> + “May I see it?” he asked—and put in his hand for it through the + door. + </p> + <p> + The spirit in Anne which would once have resisted him was dead in her now. + She handed him the open letter. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey handed it back, after first waiting a moment to think. + </p> + <p> + “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. + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 for the key. He has written to a + woman. Name outside the letter, Mrs. Glenarm. He has had more brandy. Like + my husband. Mind yourself.” + </p> + <p> + 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? + </p> + <p> + She went back mechanically to the window. The sight of the outer world, + the occasional view of a passing vehicle, helped to sustain her. + </p> + <p> + 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!” + </p> + <p> + The “books?” What “books?” Who wanted them? The slightest thing now roused + Anne’s suspicion. For hours afterward the books haunted her mind. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She heard voices in the dining-room through 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. + </p> + <p> + “Are you my son’s wife?” asked the lady. + </p> + <p> + “I am your son’s prisoner,” Anne answered. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What do you mean?” she asked, in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s heavy footsteps crossed the dining-room. There was no time to + explain. Anne whispered back, + </p> + <p> + “Tell my friends what I have told you.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey appeared at the dining-room door. + </p> + <p> + “Name one of your friends,” said Lady Holchester. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick Lundie.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey heard the answer. “What about Sir Patrick Lundie?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “I wish to see Sir Patrick Lundie,” said his mother. “And your wife can + tell me where to find him.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Anne returned to her room, sustained 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.” + </p> + <p> + A change <i>was</i> to come—with the coming night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0051" id="link2HCH0051"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FIRST. + </h2> + <h3> + THE PROPOSAL. + </h3> + <p> + TOWARD sunset, Lady Holchester’s carriage drew up before the gate of the + cottage. + </p> + <p> + Three persons occupied the carriage: Lady Holchester, her eldest son (now + Lord Holchester), and Sir Patrick Lundie. + </p> + <p> + “Will you wait in the carriage, Sir Patrick?” said Julius. “Or will you + come in?” + </p> + <p> + “I will wait. If I can be of the least use to <i>her,</i>, 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.” + </p> + <p> + The servant had rung the bell without producing any result. He rang again. + Lady Holchester put a question to Sir Patrick. + </p> + <p> + “If I have an opportunity of speaking to my son’s wife alone,” she said, + “have you any message to give?” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick produced a little note. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Geoffrey’s taste in literature!” he said, with a faint smile. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holchester signed to him to put the book back. + </p> + <p> + “You have seen Geoffrey’s wife already—have you not?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “I saw her when she came to Swanhaven,” said Julius. “I agree with Sir + Patrick in thinking her a very interesting person.” + </p> + <p> + “What did Sir Patrick say to you about Geoffrey this afternoon—while + I was out of the room?” + </p> + <p> + “Only what he said to <i>you.</i> He thought their position toward each + other here a very deplorable one. He considered that the reasons were + serious for our interfering immediately.” + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick’s own opinion, Julius, goes farther than that.” + </p> + <p> + “He has not acknowledged it, that I know of.” + </p> + <p> + “How <i>can</i> he acknowledge it—to us?” + </p> + <p> + The door opened, and Geoffrey entered the room. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said to his mother. “What brings you back?” + </p> + <p> + “Julius has a proposal to make to you,” Lady Holchester answered. “I + approve of it; and I have come with him.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey turned to his brother. + </p> + <p> + “What can a rich man like you want with a poor devil like me?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + “I’m not down for a half-penny in the will. I expected as much. Go on.” + </p> + <p> + “You are wrong—you <i>are</i> down in it. There is liberal provision + made for you in a codicil. Unhappily, my father died without signing it. + It is needless to say that I consider it binding on me for all that. I am + ready to do for you what your father would have done for you. And I only + ask for one concession in return.” + </p> + <p> + “What may that be?” + </p> + <p> + “You are living here very unhappily, Geoffrey, with your wife.” + </p> + <p> + “Who says so? I don’t, for one.” + </p> + <p> + Julius laid his hand kindly on his brother’s arm. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t trifle with such a serious matter as this,” he said. “Your marriage + is, in every sense of the word, a misfortune—not only to you but to + your wife. It is impossible that you can live together. I have come here + to ask you to consent to a separation. Do that—and the provision + made for you in the unsigned codicil is yours. What do you say?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey shook his brother’s hand off his arm. + </p> + <p> + “I say—No!” he answered. + </p> + <p> + Lady Holchester interfered for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Your brother’s generous offer deserves a better answer than that,” she + said. + </p> + <p> + “My answer,” reiterated Geoffrey, “is—No!” + </p> + <p> + He sat between them with his clenched fists resting on his knees—absolutely + impenetrable to any thing that either of them could say. + </p> + <p> + “In your situation,” said Julius, “a refusal is sheer madness. I won’t + accept it.” + </p> + <p> + “Do as you like about that. My mind’s made up. I won’t let my wife be + taken away from me. Here she stays.” + </p> + <p> + The brutal tone in which he had made that reply roused Lady Holchester’s + indignation. + </p> + <p> + “Take care!” she said. “You are not only behaving with the grossest + ingratitude toward your brother—you are forcing a suspicion into + your mother’s mind. You have some motive that you are hiding from us.” + </p> + <p> + He turned on his mother with a sudden ferocity which made Julius spring to + his feet. The next instant his eyes were on the ground, and the devil that + possessed him was quiet again. + </p> + <p> + “Some motive I’m hiding from you?” he repeated, with his head down, and + his utterance thicker than ever. “I’m ready to have my motive posted all + over London, if you like. I’m fond of her.” + </p> + <p> + He looked up as he said the last words. Lady Holchester turned away her + head—recoiling from her own son. So overwhelming was the shock + inflicted on her that even the strongly rooted prejudice which Mrs. + Glenarm had implanted in her mind yielded to it. At that moment she + absolutely pitied Anne! + </p> + <p> + “Poor creature!” said Lady Holchester. + </p> + <p> + He took instant offense at those two words. “I won’t have my wife pitied + by any body.” With that reply, he dashed into the passage; and called out, + “Anne! come down!” + </p> + <p> + Her soft voice answered; her light footfall was heard on the stairs. She + came into the room. Julius advanced, took her hand, and held it kindly in + his. “We are having a little family discussion,” he said, trying to give + her confidence. “And Geoffrey is getting hot over it, as usual.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey appealed sternly to his mother. + </p> + <p> + “Look at her!” he said. “Is she starved? Is she in rags? Is she covered + with bruises?” He turned to Anne. “They have come here to propose a + separation. They both believe I hate you. I don’t hate you. I’m a good + Christian. I owe it to you that I’m cut out of my father’s will. I forgive + you that. I owe it to you that I’ve lost the chance of marrying a woman + with ten thousand a year. I forgive you <i>that.</i> I’m not a man who + does things by halves. I said it should be my endeavor to make you a good + husband. I said it was my wish to make it up. Well! I am as good as my + word. And what’s the consequence? I am insulted. My mother comes here, and + my brother comes here—and they offer me money to part from you. + Money be hanged! I’ll be beholden to nobody. I’ll get my own living. Shame + on the people who interfere between man and wife! Shame!—that’s what + I say—shame!” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked, for an explanation, from her husband to her husband’s mother. + </p> + <p> + “Have you proposed a separation between us?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “Yes—on terms of the utmost advantage to my son; arranged with every + possible consideration toward you. Is there any objection on your side?” + </p> + <p> + “Oh, Lady Holchester! is it necessary to ask me? What does he say?” + </p> + <p> + “He has refused.” + </p> + <p> + “Refused!” + </p> + <p> + “Yes,” said Geoffrey. “I don’t go back from my word; I stick to what I + said this morning. It’s my endeavor to make you a good husband. It’s my + wish to make it up.” He paused, and then added his last reason: “I’m fond + of you.” + </p> + <p> + Their eyes met as he said it to her. Julius felt Anne’s hand suddenly + tighten round his. The desperate grasp of the frail cold fingers, the + imploring terror in the gentle sensitive face as it slowly turned his way, + said to him as if in words, “Don’t leave me friendless to-night!” + </p> + <p> + “If you both stop here till domesday,” said Geoffrey, “you’ll get nothing + more out of me. You have had my reply.” + </p> + <p> + With that, he seated himself doggedly in a corner of the room; waiting—ostentatiously + waiting—for his mother and his brother to take their leave. The + position was serious. To argue the matter with him that night was + hopeless. To invite Sir Patrick’s interference would only be to provoke + his savage temper to a new outbreak. On the other hand, to leave the + helpless woman, after what had passed, without another effort to befriend + her, was, in her situation, an act of downright inhumanity, and nothing + less. Julius took the one way out of the difficulty that was left—the + one way worthy of him as a compassionate and an honorable man. + </p> + <p> + “We will drop it for to-night, Geoffrey,” he said. “But I am not the less + resolved, in spite of all that you have said, to return to the subject + to-morrow. It would save me some inconvenience—a second journey here + from town, and then going back again to my engagements—if I staid + with you to-night. Can you give me a bed?” + </p> + <p> + A look flashed on him from Anne, which thanked him as no words could have + thanked him. + </p> + <p> + “Give you a bed?” repeated Geoffrey. He checked himself, on the point of + refusing. His mother was watching him; his wife was watching him—and + his wife knew that the room above them was a room to spare. “All right!” + he resumed, in another tone, with his eye on his mother. “There’s my empty + room up stairs. Have it, if you like. You won’t find I’ve changed my mind + to-morrow—but that’s your look-out. Stop here, if the fancy takes + you. I’ve no objection. It don’t matter to Me.—Will you trust his + lordship under my roof?” he added, addressing his mother. “I might have + some motive that I’m hiding from you, you know!” Without waiting for an + answer, he turned to Anne. “Go and tell old Dummy to put the sheets on the + bed. Say there’s a live lord in the house—she’s to send in something + devilish good for supper!” He burst fiercely into a forced laugh. Lady + Holchester rose at the moment when Anne was leaving the room. “I shall not + be here when you return,” she said. “Let me bid you good-night.” + </p> + <p> + She shook hands with Anne—giving her Sir Patrick’s note, unseen, at + the same moment. Anne left the room. Without addressing another word to + her second son, Lady Holchester beckoned to Julius to give her his arm. + “You have acted nobly toward your brother,” she said to him. “My one + comfort and my one hope, Julius, are in you.” They went out together to + the gate, Geoffrey following them with the key in his hand. “Don’t be too + anxious,” Julius whispered to his mother. “I will keep the drink out of + his way to-night—and I will bring you a better account of him + to-morrow. Explain every thing to Sir Patrick as you go home.” + </p> + <p> + He handed Lady Holchester into the carriage; and re-entered, leaving + Geoffrey to lock the gate. The brothers returned in silence to the + cottage. Julius had concealed it from his mother—but he was + seriously uneasy in secret. Naturally prone to look at all things on their + brighter side, he could place no hopeful interpretation on what Geoffrey + had said and done that night. The conviction that he was deliberately + acting a part, in his present relations with his wife, for some abominable + purpose of his own, had rooted itself firmly in Julius. For the first time + in his experience of his brother, the pecuniary consideration was not the + uppermost consideration in Geoffrey’s mind. They went back into the + drawing-room. “What will you have to drink?” said Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + “You won’t keep me company over a drop of brandy-and-water?” + </p> + <p> + “No. You have had enough brandy-and-water.” + </p> + <p> + After a moment of frowning self-consideration in the glass, Geoffrey + abruptly agreed with Julius “I look like it,” he said. “I’ll soon put that + right.” He disappeared, and returned with a wet towel tied round his head. + “What will you do while the women are getting your bed ready? Liberty Hall + here. I’ve taken to cultivating my mind—-I’m a reformed character, + you know, now I’m a married man. You do what you like. I shall read.” + </p> + <p> + He turned to the side-table, and, producing the volumes of the Newgate + Calendar, gave one to his brother. Julius handed it back again. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t cultivate your mind,” he said, “with such a book as that. Vile + actions recorded in vile English, make vile reading, Geoffrey, in every + sense of the word.” + </p> + <p> + “It will do for me. I don’t know good English when I see it.” + </p> + <p> + With that frank acknowledgment—to which the great majority of his + companions at school and college might have subscribed without doing the + slightest injustice to the present state of English education—Geoffrey + drew his chair to the table, and opened one of the volumes of his record + of crime. + </p> + <p> + The evening newspaper was lying on the sofa. Julius took it up, and seated + himself opposite to his brother. He noticed, with some surprise, that + Geoffrey appeared to have a special object in consulting his book. Instead + of beginning at the first page, he ran the leaves through his fingers, and + turned them down at certain places, before he entered on his reading. If + Julius had looked over his brother’s shoulder, instead of only looking at + him across the table, he would have seen that Geoffrey passed by all the + lighter crimes reported in the Calendar, and marked for his own private + reading the cases of murder only. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0052" id="link2HCH0052"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SECOND. + </h2> + <h3> + THE APPARITION. + </h3> + <p> + THE night had advanced. It was close on twelve o’clock when Anne heard the + servant’s voice, outside her bedroom door, asking leave to speak with her + for a moment. + </p> + <p> + “What is it?” + </p> + <p> + “The gentleman down stairs wishes to see you, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you mean Mr. Delamayn’s brother?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + “Where is Mr. Delamayn?” + </p> + <p> + “Out in the garden, ma’am.” + </p> + <p> + Anne went down stairs, and found Julius alone in the drawing-room. + </p> + <p> + “I am sorry to disturb you,” he said. “I am afraid Geoffrey is ill. The + landlady has gone to bed, I am told—and I don’t know where to apply + for medical assistance. Do you know of any doctor in the neighborhood?” + </p> + <p> + Anne, like Julius, was a perfect stranger to the neighborhood. She + suggested making inquiry of the servant. On speaking to the girl, it + turned out that she knew of a medical man, living within ten minutes’ walk + of the cottage. She could give plain directions enabling any person to + find the place—but she was afraid, at that hour of the night and in + that lonely neighborhood, to go out by herself. + </p> + <p> + “Is he seriously ill?” Anne asked. + </p> + <p> + “He is in such a state of nervous irritability,” said Julius, “that he + can’t remain still for two moments together in the same place. It began + with incessant restlessness while he was reading here. I persuaded him to + go to bed. He couldn’t lie still for an instant—he came down again, + burning with fever, and more restless than ever. He is out in the garden + in spite of every thing I could do to prevent him; trying, as he says, to + ‘run it off.’ It appears to be serious to <i>me.</i>. Come and judge for + yourself.” + </p> + <p> + He led Anne into the next room; and, opening the shutter, pointed to the + garden. + </p> + <p> + The clouds had cleared off; the night was fine. The clear starlight showed + Geoffrey, stripped to his shirt and drawers, running round and round the + garden. He apparently believed himself to be contending at the Fulham + foot-race. At times, as the white figure circled round and round in the + star-light, they heard him cheering for “the South.” The slackening thump + of his feet on the ground, the heavier and heavier gasps in which he drew + his breath, as he passed the window, gave warning that his strength was + failing him. Exhaustion, if it led to no worse consequences, would force + him to return to the house. In the state of his brain at that moment who + could say what the result might be, if medical help was not called in? + </p> + <p> + “I will go for the doctor,” said Julius, “if you don’t mind my leaving + you.” + </p> + <p> + It was impossible for Anne to set any apprehensions of her own against the + plain necessity for summoning assistance. They found the key of the gate + in the pocket of Geoffrey’s coat up stairs. Anne went with Julius to let + him out. “How can I thank you!” she said, gratefully. “What should I have + done without <i>you!</i>” + </p> + <p> + “I won’t be a moment longer than I can help,” he answered, and left her. + </p> + <p> + She secured the gate again, and went back to the cottage. The servant met + her at the door, and proposed calling up Hester Dethridge. + </p> + <p> + “We don’t know what the master may do while his brother’s away,” said the + girl. “And one more of us isn’t one too many, when we are only women in + the house.” + </p> + <p> + “You are quite right,” said Anne. “Wake your mistress.” + </p> + <p> + After ascending the stairs, they looked out into the garden, through the + window at the end of the passage on the upper floor. He was still going + round and round, but very slowly: his pace was fast slackening to a walk. + </p> + <p> + Anne went back to her room, and waited near the open door—ready to + close and fasten it instantly if any thing occurred to alarm her. “How + changed I am!” she thought to herself. “Every thing frightens me, now.” + </p> + <p> + The inference was the natural one—but not the true one. The change + was not in herself, but in the situation in which she was placed. Her + position during the investigation at Lady Lundie’s house had tried her + moral courage only. It had exacted from her one of those noble efforts of + self-sacrifice which the hidden forces in a woman’s nature are essentially + capable of making. Her position at the cottage tried her physical courage: + it called on her to rise superior to the sense of actual bodily danger—while + that danger was lurking in the dark. There, the woman’s nature sank under + the stress laid on it—there, her courage could strike no root in the + strength of her love—there, the animal instincts were the instincts + appealed to; and the firmness wanted was the firmness of a man. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge’s door opened. She walked straight into Anne’s room. + </p> + <p> + The yellow clay-cold color of her face showed a faint flush of warmth; its + deathlike stillness was stirred by a touch of life. The stony eyes, fixed + as ever in their gaze, shone strangely with a dim inner lustre. Her gray + hair, so neatly arranged at other times, was in disorder under her cap. + All her movements were quicker than usual. Something had roused the + stagnant vitality in the woman—it was working in her mind; it was + forcing itself outward into her face. The servants at Windygates, in past + times, had seen these signs, and had known them for a warning to leave + Hester Dethridge to herself. + </p> + <p> + Anne asked her if she had heard what had happened. + </p> + <p> + She bowed her head. + </p> + <p> + “I hope you don’t mind being disturbed?” + </p> + <p> + She wrote on her slate: “I’m glad to be disturbed. I have been dreaming + bad dreams. It’s good for me to be wakened, when sleep takes me backward + in my life. What’s wrong with you? Frightened?” + </p> + <p> + “Yes.” + </p> + <p> + She wrote again, and pointed toward the garden with one hand, while she + held the slate up with the other: “Frightened of <i>him?</i>” + </p> + <p> + “Terribly frightened.” + </p> + <p> + She wrote for the third time, and offered the slate to Anne with a ghastly + smile: “I have been through it all. I know. You’re only at the beginning + now. He’ll put the wrinkles in your face, and the gray in your hair. There + will come a time when you’ll wish yourself dead and buried. You will live + through it, for all that. Look at Me.” + </p> + <p> + As she read the last three words, Anne heard the garden door below opened + and banged to again. She caught Hester Dethridge by the arm, and listened. + The tramp of Geoffrey’s feet, staggering heavily in the passage, gave + token of his approach to the stairs. He was talking to himself, still + possessed by the delusion that he was at the foot-race. “Five to four on + Delamayn. Delamayn’s won. Three cheers for the South, and one cheer more. + Devilish long race. Night already! Perry! where’s Perry?” + </p> + <p> + He advanced, staggering from side to side of the passage. The stairs below + creaked as he set his foot on them. Hester Dethridge dragged herself free + from Anne, advanced, with her candle in her hand, and threw open + Geoffrey’s bedroom door; returned to the head of the stairs; and stood + there, firm as a rock, waiting for him. He looked up, as he set his foot + on the next stair, and met the view of Hester’s face, brightly illuminated + by the candle, looking down at him. On the instant he stopped, rooted to + the place on which he stood. “Ghost! witch! devil!” he cried out, “take + your eyes off me!” He shook his fist at her furiously, with an oath—sprang + back into the hall—and shut himself into the dining-room from the + sight of her. The panic which had seized him once already in the + kitchen-garden at Windygates, under the eyes of the dumb cook, had + fastened its hold on him once more. Frightened—absolutely frightened—of + Hester Dethridge! + </p> + <p> + The gate bell rang. Julius had returned with the doctor. + </p> + <p> + Anne gave the key to the girl to let them in. Hester wrote on her slate, + as composedly as if nothing had happened: “They’ll find me in the kitchen, + if they want me. I sha’n’t go back to my bedroom. My bedroom’s full of bad + dreams.” She descended the stairs. Anne waited in the upper passage, + looking over into the hall below. “Your brother is in the drawing-room,” + she called down to Julius. “The landlady is in the kitchen, if you want + her.” She returned to her room, and waited for what might happen next. + </p> + <p> + After a brief interval she heard the drawing-room door open, and the + voices of the men out side. There seemed to be some difficulty in + persuading Geoffrey to ascend the stairs; he persisted in declaring that + Hester Dethridge was waiting for him at the top of them. After a little + they persuaded him that the way was free. Anne heard them ascend the + stairs and close his bedroom door. + </p> + <p> + Another and a longer interval passed before the door opened again. The + doctor was going away. He said his parting words to Julius in the passage. + “Look in at him from time to time through the night, and give him another + dose of the sedative mixture if he wakes. There is nothing to b e alarmed + about in the restlessness and the fever. They are only the outward + manifestations of some serious mischief hidden under them. Send for the + medical man who has last attended him. Knowledge of the patient’s + constitution is very important knowledge in this case.” + </p> + <p> + As Julius returned from letting the doctor out, Anne met him in the hall. + She was at once struck by the worn look in his face, and by the fatigue + which expressed itself in all his movements. + </p> + <p> + “You want rest,” she said. “Pray go to your room. I have heard what the + doctor said to you. Leave it to the landlady and to me to sit up.” + </p> + <p> + Julius owned that he had been traveling from Scotland during the previous + night. But he was unwilling to abandon the responsibility of watching his + brother. “You are not strong enough, I am sure, to take my place,” he + said, kindly. “And Geoffrey has some unreasoning horror of the landlady + which makes it very undesirable that he should see her again, in his + present state. I will go up to my room, and rest on the bed. If you hear + any thing you have only to come and call me.” + </p> + <p> + An hour more passed. + </p> + <p> + Anne went to Geoffrey’s door and listened. He was stirring in his bed, and + muttering to himself. She went on to the door of the next room, which + Julius had left partly open. Fatigue had overpowered him; she heard, + within, the quiet breathing of a man in a sound sleep. Anne turned back + again resolved not to disturb him. + </p> + <p> + At the head of the stairs she hesitated—not knowing what to do. Her + horror of entering Geoffrey’s room, by herself, was insurmountable. But + who else was to do it? The girl had gone to bed. The reason which Julius + had given for not employing the assistance of Hester Dethridge was + unanswerable. She listened again at Geoffrey’s door. No sound was now + audible in the room to a person in the passage outside. Would it be well + to look in, and make sure that he had only fallen asleep again? She + hesitated once more—she was still hesitating, when Hester Dethridge + appeared from the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + She joined Anne at the top of the stairs—looked at her—and + wrote a line on her slate: “Frightened to go in? Leave it to Me.” + </p> + <p> + The silence in the room justified the inference that he was asleep. If + Hester looked in, Hester could do no harm now. Anne accepted the proposal. + </p> + <p> + “If you find any thing wrong,” she said, “don’t disturb his brother. Come + to me first.” + </p> + <p> + With that caution she withdrew. It was then nearly two in the morning. + She, like Julius, was sinking from fatigue. After waiting a little, and + hearing nothing, she threw herself on the sofa in her room. If any thing + happened, a knock at the door would rouse her instantly. + </p> + <p> + In the mean while Hester Dethridge opened Geoffrey’s bedroom door and went + in. + </p> + <p> + The movements and the mutterings which Anne had heard, had been movements + and mutterings in his sleep. The doctor’s composing draught, partially + disturbed in its operation for the moment only, had recovered its sedative + influence on his brain. Geoffrey was in a deep and quiet sleep. + </p> + <p> + Hester stood near the door, looking at him. She moved to go out again—stopped—and + fixed her eyes suddenly on one of the inner corners of the room. + </p> + <p> + The same sinister change which had passed over her once already in + Geoffrey’s presence, when they met in the kitchen-garden at Windygates, + now passed over her again. Her closed lips dropped apart. Her eyes slowly + dilated—moved, inch by inch from the corner, following something + along the empty wall, in the direction of the bed—stopped at the + head of the bed, exactly above Geoffrey’s sleeping face—stared, + rigid and glittering, as if they saw a sight of horror close over it. He + sighed faintly in his sleep. The sound, slight as it was, broke the spell + that held her. She slowly lifted her withered hands, and wrung them above + her head; fled back across the passage; and, rushing into her room, sank + on her knees at the bedside. + </p> + <p> + Now, in the dead of night, a strange thing happened. Now, in the silence + and the darkness, a hideous secret was revealed. + </p> + <p> + In the sanctuary of her own room—with all the other inmates of the + house sleeping round her—the dumb woman threw off the mysterious and + terrible disguise under which she deliberately isolated herself among her + fellow-creatures in the hours of the day. Hester Dethridge spoke. In low, + thick, smothered accents—in a wild litany of her own—she + prayed. She called upon the mercy of God for deliverance from herself; for + deliverance from the possession of the Devil; for blindness to fall on + her, for death to strike her, so that she might never see that unnamed + Horror more! Sobs shook the whole frame of the stony woman whom nothing + human moved at other times. Tears poured over those clay-cold cheeks. One + by one, the frantic words of her prayer died away on her lips. Fierce + shuddering fits shook her from head to foot. She started up from her knees + in the darkness. Light! light! light! The unnamed Horror was behind her in + his room. The unnamed Horror was looking at her through his open door. She + found the match-box, and lit the candle on her table—lit the two + other candles set for ornament only on the mantle piece—and looked + all round the brightly lighted little room. “Aha!” she said to herself, + wiping the cold sweat of her agony from her face. “Candles to other + people. God’s light to <i>me.</i> Nothing to be seen! nothing to be seen!” + Taking one of the candles in her hand, she crossed the passage, with her + head down, turned her back on Geoffrey’s open door, closed it quickly and + softly, stretching out her hand behind her, and retreated again to her own + room. She fastened the door, and took an ink-bottle and a pen from the + mantle-piece. After considering for a moment, she hung a handkerchief over + the keyhole, and laid an old shawl longwise at the bottom of the door, so + as to hide the light in her room from the observation of any one in the + house who might wake and come that way. This done, she opened the upper + part of her dress, and, slipping her fingers into a secret pocket hidden + in the inner side of her stays, produced from it some neatly folded leaves + of thin paper. Spread out on the table, the leaves revealed themselves—all + but the last—as closely covered with writing, in her own hand. + </p> + <p> + The first leaf was headed by this inscription: “My Confession. To be put + into my coffin, and to be buried with me when I die.” + </p> + <p> + She turned the manuscript over, so as to get at the last page. The greater + part of it was left blank. A few lines of writing, at the top, bore the + date of the day of the week and month on which Lady Lundie had dismissed + her from her situation at Windygates. The entry was expressed in these + terms: + </p> + <p> + “I have seen IT again to-day. The first time for two months past. In the + kitchen-garden. Standing behind the young gentleman whose name is + Delamayn. Resist the Devil, and he will flee from you. I have resisted. By + prayer. By meditation in solitude. By reading good books. I have left my + place. I have lost sight of the young gentleman for good. Who will IT + stand behind? and point to next? Lord have mercy upon me! Christ have + mercy upon me!” + </p> + <p> + Under this she now added the following lines, first carefully prefixing + the date: + </p> + <p> + “I have seen IT again to-night. I notice one awful change. IT has appeared + twice behind the same person. This has never happened before. This makes + the temptation more terrible than ever. To-night, in his bedroom, between + the bed-head and the wall, I have seen IT behind young Mr. Delamayn again. + The head just above his face, and the finger pointing downward at his + throat. Twice behind this one man. And never twice behind any other living + creature till now. If I see IT a third time behind him—Lord deliver + me! Christ deliver me! I daren’t think of it. He shall leave my cottage + to-morrow. I would fain have drawn back from the bargain, when the + stranger took the lodgings for his friend, and the friend proved to be Mr. + Delamayn. I didn’t like it, even then. After the warning to-night, my mind + is made up. He shall go. He may have his money back, if he likes. He shall + go. (Memorandum: Felt the temptation whispering this time, and the terror + tearing at me all the while, as I have never felt them yet. Resisted, as + before, by prayer. Am now going down stairs to meditate against it in + solitude—to fortify myself against it by good books. Lord be + merciful to me a sinner!)” + </p> + <p> + In those words she closed the entry, and put the manuscript back in the + secret pocket in her stays. + </p> + <p> + She went down to the little room looking on the garden, which had once + been her brother’s study. There she lit a lamp, and took some books from a + shelf that hung against the wall. The books were the Bible, a volume of + Methodist sermons, and a set of collected Memoirs of Methodist saints. + Ranging these last carefully round her, in an order of her own, Hester + Dethridge sat down with the Bible on her lap to watch out the night. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0053" id="link2HCH0053"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-THIRD. + </h2> + <h3> + WHAT had happened in the hours of darkness? + </h3> + <p> + This was Anne’s first thought, when the sunlight poured in at her window, + and woke her the next morning. + </p> + <p> + She made immediate inquiry of the servant. The girl could only speak for + herself. Nothing had occurred to disturb her after she had gone to bed. + Her master was still, she believed, in his room. Mrs. Dethridge was at her + work in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Anne went to the kitchen. Hester Dethridge was at her usual occupation at + that time—preparing the breakfast. The slight signs of animation + which Anne had noticed in her when they last met appeared no more. The + dull look was back again in her stony eyes; the lifeless torpor possessed + all her movements. Asked if any thing had happened in the night, she + slowly shook her stolid head, slowly made the sign with her hand which + signified, “Nothing.” + </p> + <p> + Leaving the kitchen, Anne saw Julius in the front garden. She went out and + joined him. + </p> + <p> + “I believe I have to thank your consideration for me for some hours of + rest,” he said. “It was five in the morning when I woke. I hope you had no + reason to regret having left me to sleep? I went into Geoffrey’s room, and + found him stirring. A second dose of the mixture composed him again. The + fever has gone. He looks weaker and paler, but in other respects like + himself. We will return directly to the question of his health. I have + something to say to you, first, about a change which may be coming in your + life here.” + </p> + <p> + “Has he consented to the separation?” + </p> + <p> + “No. He is as obstinate about it as ever. I have placed the matter before + him in every possible light. He still refuses, positively refuses, a + provision which would make him an independent man for life.” + </p> + <p> + “Is it the provision he might have had, Lord Holchester, if—?” + </p> + <p> + “If he had married Mrs. Glenarm? No. It is impossible, consistently with + my duty to my mother, and with what I owe to the position in which my + father’s death has placed me, that I can offer him such a fortune as Mrs. + Glenarm’s. Still, it is a handsome income which he is mad enough to + refuse. I shall persist in pressing it on him. He must and shall take it.” + </p> + <p> + Anne felt no reviving hope roused in her by his last words. She turned to + another subject. + </p> + <p> + “You had something to tell me,” she said. “You spoke of a change.” + </p> + <p> + “True. The landlady here is a very strange person; and she has done a very + strange thing. She has given Geoffrey notice to quit these lodgings.” + </p> + <p> + “Notice to quit?” Anne repeated, in amazement. + </p> + <p> + “Yes. In a formal letter. She handed it to me open, as soon as I was up + this morning. It was impossible to get any explanation from her. The poor + dumb creature simply wrote on her slate: ‘He may have his money back, if + he likes: he shall go!’ Greatly to my surprise (for the woman inspires him + with the strongest aversion) Geoffrey refuses to go until his term is up. + I have made the peace between them for to-day. Mrs. Dethridge very + reluctantly, consents to give him four-and-twenty hours. And there the + matter rests at present.” + </p> + <p> + “What can her motive be?” said Anne. + </p> + <p> + “It’s useless to inquire. Her mind is evidently off its balance. One thing + is clear, Geoffrey shall not keep you here much longer. The coming change + will remove you from this dismal place—which is one thing gained. + And it is quite possible that new scenes and new surroundings may have + their influence on Geoffrey for good. His conduct—otherwise quite + incomprehensible—may be the result of some latent nervous irritation + which medical help might reach. I don’t attempt to disguise from myself or + from you, that your position here is a most deplorable one. But before we + despair of the future, let us at least inquire whether there is any + explanation of my brother’s present behavior to be found in the present + state of my brother’s health. I have been considering what the doctor said + to me last night. The first thing to do is to get the best medical advice + on Geoffrey’s case which is to be had. What do you think?” + </p> + <p> + “I daren’t tell you what I think, Lord Holchester. I will try—it is + a very small return to make for your kindness—I will try to see my + position with your eyes, not with mine. The best medical advice that you + can obtain is the advice of Mr. Speedwell. It was he who first made the + discovery that your brother was in broken health.” + </p> + <p> + “The very man for our purpose! I will send him here to-day or to-morrow. + Is there any thing else I can do for you? I shall see Sir Patrick as soon + as I get to town. Have you any message for him?” + </p> + <p> + Anne hesitated. Looking attentively at her, Julius noticed that she + changed color when he mentioned Sir Patrick’s name. + </p> + <p> + “Will you say that I gratefully thank him for the letter which Lady + Holchester was so good us to give me last night,” she replied. “And will + you entreat him, from me, not to expose himself, on my account, to—” + she hesitated, and finished the sentence with her eyes on the ground—“to + what might happen, if he came here and insisted on seeing me.” + </p> + <p> + “Does he propose to do that?” + </p> + <p> + She hesitated again. The little nervous contraction of her lips at one + side of the mouth became more marked than usual. “He writes that his + anxiety is unendurable, and that he is resolved to see me,” she answered + softly. + </p> + <p> + “He is likely to hold to his resolution, I think,” said Julius. “When I + saw him yesterday, Sir Patrick spoke of you in terms of admiration—” + </p> + <p> + He stopped. The bright tears were glittering on Anne’s eyelashes; one of + her hands was toying nervously with something hidden (possibly Sir + Patrick’s letter) in the bosom of her dress. “I thank him with my whole + heart,” she said, in low, faltering tones. “But it is best that he should + not come here.” + </p> + <p> + “Would you like to write to him?” + </p> + <p> + “I think I should prefer your giving him my message.” + </p> + <p> + Julius understood that the subject was to proceed no further. Sir + Patrick’s letter had produced some impression on her, which the sensitive + nature of the woman seemed to shrink from acknowledging, even to herself. + They turned back to enter the cottage. At the door they were met by a + surprise. Hester Dethridge, with her bonnet on—dressed, at that hour + of the morning, to go out! + </p> + <p> + “Are you going to market already?” Anne asked. + </p> + <p> + Hester shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “When are you coming back?” + </p> + <p> + Hester wrote on her slate: “Not till the night-time.” + </p> + <p> + Without another word of explanation she pulled her veil down over her + face, and made for the gate. The key had been left in the dining-room by + Julius, after he had let the doctor out. Hester had it in her hand. She + opened he gate and closed the door after her, leaving the key in the lock. + At the moment when the door banged to Geoffrey appeared in the passage. + </p> + <p> + “Where’s the key?” he asked. “Who’s gone out?” + </p> + <p> + His brother answered the question. He looked backward and forward + suspiciously between Julius and Anne. “What does she go out for at his + time?” he said. “Has she left the house to avoid Me?” + </p> + <p> + Julius thought this the likely explanation. Geoffrey went down sulkily to + the gate to lock it, and returned to them, with the key in his pocket. + </p> + <p> + “I’m obliged to be careful of the gate,” he said. “The neighborhood swarms + with beggars and tramps. If you want to go out,” he added, turning + pointedly to Anne, “I’m at your service, as a good husband ought to be.” + </p> + <p> + After a hurried breakfast Julius took his departure. “I don’t accept your + refusal,” he said to his brother, before Anne. “You will see me here + again.” Geoffrey obstinately repeated the refusal. “If you come here every + day of your life,” he said, “it will be just the same.” + </p> + <p> + The gate closed on Julius. Anne returned again to the solitude of her own + chamber. Geoffrey entered the drawing-room, placed the volumes of the + Newgate Calendar on the table before him, and resumed the reading which he + had been unable to continue on the evening before. + </p> + <p> + Hour after hour he doggedly plodded through one case of murder after + another. He had read one good half of the horrid chronicle of crime before + his power of fixing his attention began to fail him. Then he lit his pipe, + and went out to think over it in the garden. However the atrocities of + which he had been reading might differ in other respects, there was one + terrible point of resemblance, which he had not anticipated, and in which + every one of the cases agreed. Sooner or later, there was the dead body + always certain to be found; always bearing its dumb witness, in the traces + of poison or in the marks of violence, to the crime committed on it. + </p> + <p> + He walked to and fro slowly, still pondering over the problem which had + first found its way into his mind when he had stopped in the front garden + and had looked up at Anne’s window in the dark. “How?” That had been the + one question before him, from the time when the lawyer had annihilated his + hopes of a divorce. It remained the one question still. There was no + answer to it in his own brain; there was no answer to it in the book which + he had been consulting. Every thing was in his favor if he could only find + out “how.” He had got his hated wife up stairs at his mercy—thanks + to his refusal of the money which Julius had offered to him. He was living + in a place absolutely secluded from public observation on all sides of it—thanks + to his resolution to remain at the cottage, even after his landlady had + insulted him by sending him a notice to quit. Every thing had been + prepared, every thing had been sacrificed, to the fulfillment of one + purpose—and how to attain that purpose was still the same + impenetrable mystery to him which it had been from the first! + </p> + <p> + What was the other alternative? To accept the proposal which Julius had + made. In other words, to give up his vengeance on Anne, and to turn his + back on the splendid future which Mrs. Glenarm’s devotion still offered to + him. + </p> + <p> + Never! He would go back to the books. He was not at the end of them. The + slightest hint in the pages which were still to be read might set his + sluggish brain working in the right direction. The way to be rid of her, + without exciting the suspicion of any living creature, in the house or out + of it, was a way that might be found yet. + </p> + <p> + Could a man, in his position of life, reason in this brutal manner? could + he act in this merciless way? Surely the thought of what he was about to + do must have troubled him this time! + </p> + <p> + Pause for a moment—and look back at him in the past. + </p> + <p> + Did he feel any remorse when he was plotting the betrayal of Arnold in the + garden at Windygates? The sense which feels remorse had not been put into + him. What he is now is the legitimate consequence of what he was then. A + far more serious temptation is now urging him to commit a far more serious + crime. How is he to resist? Will his skill in rowing (as Sir Patrick once + put it), his swiftness in running, his admirable capacity and endurance in + other physical exercises, help him to win a purely moral victory over his + own selfishness and his own cruelty? No! The moral and mental neglect of + himself, which the material tone of public feeling about him has tacitly + encouraged, has left him at the mercy of the worst instincts in his nature—of + all that is most vile and of all that is most dangerous in the composition + of the natural man. With the mass of his fellows, no harm out of the + common has come of this, because no temptation out of the common has + passed their way. But with <i>him,</i> the case is reversed. A temptation + out of the common has passed <i>his</i> way. How does it find him prepared + to meet it? It finds him, literally and exactly, what his training has + left him, in the presence of any temptation small or great—a + defenseless man. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey returned to the cottage. The servant stopped him in the passage, + to ask at what time he wished to dine. Instead of answering, he inquired + angrily for Mrs. Dethridge. Mrs. Dethridge not come back. + </p> + <p> + It was now late in the afternoon, and she had been out since the early + morning. This had never happened before. Vague suspicions of her, one more + monstrous than another, began to rise in Geoffrey’s mind. Between the + drink and the fever, he had been (as Julius had told him) wandering in his + mind during a part of the night. Had he let any thing out in that + condition? Had Hester heard it? And was it, by any chance, at the bottom + of her long absence and her notice to quit? He determined—without + letting her see that he suspected her—to clear up that doubt as soon + as his landlady returned to the house. + </p> + <p> + The evening came. It was past nine o’clock before there was a ring at the + bell. The servant came to ask for the key. Geoffrey rose to go to the gate + himself—and changed his mind before he left the room. <i>Her</i> + suspicions might be roused (supposing it to be Hester who was waiting for + admission) if he opened the gate to her when the servant was there to do + it. He gave the girl the key, and kept out of sight. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + “Dead tired!”—the servant said to herself, seeing her mistress by + the light of the lamp over the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Dead tired!”—Geoffrey said to himself, observing Hester + suspiciously as she passed him in the passage on her way up stairs to take + off her bonnet in her own room. + </p> + <p> + “Dead tired!”—Anne said to herself, meeting Hester on the upper + floor, and receiving from her a letter in Blanche’s handwriting, delivered + to the mistress of the cottage by the postman, who had met her at her own + gate. + </p> + <p> + Having given the letter to Anne, Hester Dethridge withdrew to her bedroom. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey closed the door of the drawing-room, in which the candles were + burning, and went into the dining-room, in which there was no light. + Leaving the door ajar, he waited to intercept his landlady on her way back + to her supper in the kitchen. + </p> + <p> + Hester wearily secured her door, wearily lit the candles, wearily put the + pen and ink on the table. For some minutes after this she was compelled to + sit down, and rally her strength and fetch her breath. After a little she + was able to remove her upper clothing. This done she took the manuscript + inscribed, “My Confession,” out of the secret pocket of her stays—turned + to the last leaf as before—and wrote another entry, under the entry + made on the previous night. + </p> + <p> + “This morning I gave him notice to quit, and offered him his money back if + he wanted it. He refuses to go. He shall go to-morrow, or I will burn the + place over his head. All through to-day I have avoided him by keeping out + of the house. No rest to ease my mind, and no sleep to close my eyes. I + humbly bear my cross as long as my strength will let me.” + </p> + <p> + At those words the pen dropped from her fingers. Her head nodded on her + breast. She roused herself with a start. Sleep was the enemy she dreaded: + sleep brought dreams. + </p> + <p> + She unfastened the window-shutters and looked out at the night. The + peaceful moonlight was shining over the garden. The clear depths of the + night sky were soothing and beautiful to look at. What! Fading already? + clouds? darkness? No! Nearly asleep once more. She roused herself again, + with a start. There was the moonlight, and there was the garden as bright + under it as ever. + </p> + <p> + Dreams or no dreams, it was useless to fight longer against the weariness + that overpowered her. She closed the shutters, and went back to the bed; + and put her Confession in its customary place at night, under her pillow. + </p> + <p> + She looked round the room—and shuddered. Every corner of it was + filled with the terrible memories of the past night. She might wake from + the torture of the dreams to find the terror of the Apparition watching at + her bedside. Was there no remedy? no blessed safeguard under which she + might tranquilly resign herself to sleep? A thought crossed her mind. The + good book—the Bible. If she slept with the Bible under her pillow, + there was hope in the good book—the hope of sleeping in peace. + </p> + <p> + It was not worth while to put on the gown and the stays which she had + taken off. Her shawl would cover her. It was equally needless to take the + candle. The lower shutters would not be closed at that hour; and if they + were, she could lay her hand on the Bible, in its place on the parlor + book-shelf, in the dark. + </p> + <p> + She removed the Confession from under the pillow. Not even for a minute + could she prevail on herself to leave it in one room while she was away + from it in another. With the manuscript folded up, and hidden in her hand, + she slowly descended the stairs again. Her knees trembled under her. She + was obliged to hold by the banister, with the hand that was free. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey observed her from the dining-room, on her way down the stairs. He + waited to see what she did, before he showed himself, and spoke to her. + Instead of going on into the kitchen, she stopped short, and entered the + parlor. Another suspicious circumstance! What did she want in the parlor, + without a candle, at that time of night? + </p> + <p> + She went to the book-case—her dark figure plainly visible in the + moonlight that flooded the little room. She staggered and put her hand to + her head; giddy, to all appearance, from extreme fatigue. She recovered + herself, and took a book from the shelf. She leaned against the wall after + she had possessed herself of the book. Too weary, as it seemed, to get up + stairs again without a little rest. Her arm-chair was near her. Better + rest, for a moment or two, to be had in that than could be got by leaning + against the wall. She sat down heavily in the chair, with the book on her + lap. One of her arms hung over the arm of the chair, with the hand closed, + apparently holding something. + </p> + <p> + Her head nodded on her breast—recovered itself—and sank gently + on the cushion at the back of the chair. Asleep? Fast asleep. + </p> + <p> + In less than a minute the muscles of the closed hand that hung over the + arm of the chair slowly relaxed. Something white slipped out of her hand, + and lay in the moonlight on the floor. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey took off his heavy shoes, and entered the room noiselessly in his + stockings. He picked up the white thing on the floor. It proved to be a + collection of several sheets of thin paper, neatly folded together, and + closely covered with writing. + </p> + <p> + Writing? As long as she was awake she had kept it hidden in her hand. Why + hide it? + </p> + <p> + Had he let out any thing to compromise himself when he was light-headed + with the fever the night before? and had she taken it down in writing to + produce against him? Possessed by guilty distrust, even that monstrous + doubt assumed a look of probability to Geoffrey’s mind. He left the parlor + as noiselessly as he had entered it, and made for the candle-light in the + drawing-room, determined to examine the manuscript in his hand. + </p> + <p> + After carefully smoothing out the folded leaves on the table, he turned to + the first page, and read these lines. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0054" id="link2HCH0054"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FOURTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE MANUSCRIPT. + </h3> + <p> + 1. + </p> + <p> + “MY Confession: To be put into my coffin; and to be buried with me when I + die. + </p> + <p> + “This is the history of what I did in the time of my married life. Here—known + to no other mortal creature, confessed to my Creator alone—is the + truth. + </p> + <p> + “At the great day of the Resurrection, we shall all rise again in our + bodies as we have lived. When I am called before the Judgment Seat I shall + have this in my hand. + </p> + <p> + “Oh, just and merciful Judge, Thou knowest what I have suffered. My trust + is in Thee.” + </p> + <p> + 2. + </p> + <p> + “I am the eldest of a large family, born of pious parents. We belonged to + the congregation of the Primitive Methodists. + </p> + <p> + “My sisters were all married before me. I remained for some years the only + one at home. At the latter part of the time my mother’s health failed; and + I managed the house in her place. Our spiritual pastor, good Mr. Bapchild, + used often to dine with us, on Sundays, between the services. He approved + of my management of the house, and, in particular, of my cooking. This was + not pleasant to my mother, who felt a jealousy of my being, as it were, + set over her in her place. My unhappiness at home began in this way. My + mother’s temper got worse as her health got worse. My father was much away + from us, traveling for his business. I had to bear it all. About this time + I began to think it would be well for me if I could marry as my sisters + had done; and have good Mr. Bapchild to dinner, between the services, in a + house of my own. + </p> + <p> + “In this frame of mind I made acquaintance with a young man who attended + service at our chapel. + </p> + <p> + “His name was Joel Dethridge. He had a beautiful voice. When we sang + hymns, he sang off the same book with me. By trade he was a paper-hanger. + We had much serious talk together. I walked with him on Sundays. He was a + good ten years younger than I was; and, being only a journeyman, his + worldly station was below mine. My mother found out the liking that had + grown up between us. She told my father the next time he was at home. Also + my married sisters and my brothers. They all joined together to stop + things from going further between me and Joel Dethridge. I had a hard time + of it. Mr. Bapchild expressed himself as feeling much grieved at the turn + things were taking. He introduced me into a sermon—not by name, but + I knew who it was meant for. Perhaps I might have given way if they had + not done one thing. They made inquiries of my young man’s enemies, and + brought wicked stories of him to me behind his back. This, after we had + sung off the same hymn-book, and walked together, and agreed one with the + other on religious subjects, was too much to bear. I was of age to judge + for myself. And I married Joel Dethridge.” + </p> + <p> + 3. + </p> + <p> + “My relations all turned their backs on me. Not one of them was present at + my marriage; my brother Reuben, in particular, who led the rest, saying + that they had done with me from that time forth. Mr. Bapchild was much + moved; shed tears, and said he would pray for me. + </p> + <p> + “I was married in London by a pastor who was a stranger; and we settled in + London with fair prospects. I had a little fortune of my own—my + share of some money left to us girls by our aunt Hester, whom I was named + after. It was three hundred pounds. Nearly one hundred of this I spent in + buying furniture to fit up the little house we took to live in. The rest I + gave to my husband to put into the bank against the time when he wanted it + to set up in business for himself. + </p> + <p> + “For three months, more or less, we got on nicely—except in one + particular. My husband never stirred in the matter of starting in business + for himself. + </p> + <p> + “He was once or twice cross with me when I said it seemed a pity to be + spending the money in the bank (which might be afterward wanted) instead + of earning more in business. Good Mr. Bapchild, happening about this time + to be in London, staid over Sunday, and came to dine with us between the + services. He had tried to make my peace with my relations—but he had + not succeeded. At my request he spoke to my husband about the necessity of + exerting himself. My husband took it ill. I then saw him seriously out of + temper for the first time. Good Mr. Bapchild said no more. He appeared to + be alarmed at what had happened, and he took his leave early. + </p> + <p> + “Shortly afterward my husband went out. I got tea ready for him—but + he never came back. I got supper ready for him—but he never came + back. It was past twelve at night before I saw him again. I was very much + startled by the state he came home in. He didn’t speak like himself, or + look like himself: he didn’t seem to know me—wandered in his mind, + and fell all in a lump like on our bed. I ran out and fetched the doctor + to him. + </p> + <p> + “The doctor pulled him up to the light, and looked at him; smelled his + breath, and dropped him down again on the bed; turned about, and stared at + me. ‘What’s the matter, Sir?’ I says. ‘Do you mean to tell me you don’t + know?’ says the doctor. ‘No, Sir,’ says I. ‘Why what sort of a woman are + you,’ says he, ‘not to know a drunken man when you see him!’ With that he + went away, and left me standing by the bedside, all in a tremble from head + to foot. + </p> + <p> + “This was how I first found out that I was the wife of a drunken man.” + </p> + <p> + 4. + </p> + <p> + “I have omitted to say any thing about my husband’s family. + </p> + <p> + “While we were keeping company together he told me he was an orphan—with + an uncle and aunt in Canada, and an only brother settled in Scotland. + Before we were married he gave me a letter from this brother. It was to + say that he was sorry he was not able to come to England, and be present + at my marriage, and to wish me joy and the rest of it. Good Mr. Bapchild + (to whom, in my distress, I wrote word privately of what had happened) + wrote back in return, telling me to wait a little, and see whether my + husband did it again. + </p> + <p> + “I had not long to wait. He was in liquor again the next day, and the + next. Hearing this, Mr. Bapchild instructed me to send him the letter from + my husband’s brother. He reminded me of some of the stories about my + husband which I had refused to believe in the time before I was married; + and he said it might be well to make inquiries. + </p> + <p> + “The end of the inquiries was this. The brother, at that very time, was + placed privately (by his own request) under a doctor’s care to get broken + of habits of drinking. The craving for strong liquor (the doctor wrote) + was in the family. They would be sober sometimes for months together, + drinking nothing stronger than tea. Then the fit would seize them; and + they would drink, drink, drink, for days together, like the mad and + miserable wretches that they were. + </p> + <p> + “This was the husband I was married to. And I had offended all my + relations, and estranged them from me, for his sake. Here was surely a sad + prospect for a woman after only a few months of wedded life! + </p> + <p> + “In a year’s time the money in the bank was gone; and my husband was out + of employment. He always got work—being a first-rate hand when he + was sober—and always lost it again when the drinking-fit seized him. + I was loth to leave our nice little house, and part with my pretty + furniture; and I proposed to him to let me try for employment, by the day, + as cook, and so keep things going while he was looking out again for work. + He was sober and penitent at the time; and he agreed to what I proposed. + And, more than that, he took the Total Abstinence Pledge, and promised to + turn over a new leaf. Matters, as I thought, began to look fairly again. + We had nobody but our two selves to think of. I had borne no child, and + had no prospect of bearing one. Unlike most women, I thought this a mercy + instead of a misfortune. In my situation (as I soon grew to know) my + becoming a mother would only have proved to be an aggravation of my hard + lot. + </p> + <p> + “The sort of employment I wanted was not to be got in a day. Good Mr. + Bapchild gave me a character; and our landlord, a worthy man (belonging, I + am sorry to say, to the Popish Church), spoke for me to the steward of a + club. Still, it took time to persuade people that I was the thorough good + cook I claimed to be. Nigh on a fortnight had passed before I got the + chance I had been looking out for. I went home in good spirits (for me) to + report what had happened, and found the brokers in the house carrying off + the furniture which I had bought with my own money for sale by auction. I + asked them how they dared touch it without my leave. They answered, + civilly enough I must own, that they were acting under my husband’s + orders; and they went on removing it before my own eyes, to the cart + outside. I ran up stairs, and found my husband on the landing. He was in + liquor again. It is useless to say what passed between us. I shall only + mention that this was the first occasion on which he lifted his fist, and + struck me.” + </p> + <p> + 5. + </p> + <p> + “Having a spirit of my own, I was resolved not to endure it. I ran out to + the Police Court, hard by. + </p> + <p> + “My money had not only bought the furniture—it had kept the house + going as well; paying the taxes which the Queen and the Parliament asked + for among other things. I now went to the magistrate to see what the Queen + and the Parliament, in return for the taxes, would do for <i>me.</i> + </p> + <p> + “‘Is your furniture settled on yourself?’ he says, when I told him what + had happened. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t understand what he meant. He turned to some person who was + sitting on the bench with him. ‘This is a hard case,’ he says. ‘Poor + people in this condition of life don’t even know what a marriage + settlement means. And, if they did, how many of them could afford to pay + the lawyer’s charges?’ Upon that he turned to me. ‘Yours is a common + case,’ he said. ‘In the present state of the law I can do nothing for + you.’ + </p> + <p> + “It was impossible to believe that. Common or not, I put my case to him + over again. + </p> + <p> + “‘I have bought the furniture with my own money, Sir,’ I says. ‘It’s mine, + honestly come by, with bill and receipt to prove it. They are taking it + away from me by force, to sell it against my will. Don’t tell me that’s + the law. This is a Christian country. It can’t be.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘My good creature,’ says he, ‘you are a married woman. The law doesn’t + allow a married woman to call any thing her own—unless she has + previously (with a lawyer’s help) made a bargain to that effect with her + husband before marrying him. You have made no bargain. Your husband has a + right to sell your furniture if he likes. I am sorry for you; I can’t + hinder him.’ + </p> + <p> + “I was obstinate about it. ‘Please to answer me this, Sir,’ I says. ‘I’ve + been told by wiser heads than mine that we all pay our taxes to keep the + Queen and the Parliament going; and that the Queen and the Parliament make + laws to protect us in return. I have paid my taxes. Why, if you please, is + there no law to protect me in return?’ + </p> + <p> + “‘I can’t enter into that,’ says he. ‘I must take the law as I find it; + and so must you. I see a mark there on the side of your face. Has your + husband been beating you? If he has, summon him here I can punish him for + <i>that.</i>’ + </p> + <p> + “‘How can you punish him, Sir?’ says I. + </p> + <p> + “‘I can fine him,’ says he. ‘Or I can send him to prison.’ + </p> + <p> + “‘As to the fine,’ says I, ‘he can pay that out of the money he gets by + selling my furniture. As to the prison, while he’s in it, what’s to become + of me, with my money spent by him, and my possessions gone; and when he’s + <i>out</i> of it, what’s to become of me again, with a husband whom I have + been the means of punishing, and who comes home to his wife knowing it? + It’s bad enough as it is, Sir,’ says I. ‘There’s more that’s bruised in me + than what shows in my face. I wish you good-morning.’” + </p> + <p> + 6. + </p> + <p> + “When I got back the furniture was gone, and my husband was gone. There + was nobody but the landlord in the empty house. He said all that could be + said—kindly enough toward me, so far as I was concerned. When he was + gone I locked my trunk, and got away in a cab after dark, and found a + lodging to lay my head in. If ever there was a lonely, broken-hearted + creature in the world, I was that creature that night. + </p> + <p> + “There was but one chance of earning my bread—to go to the + employment offered me (under a man cook, at a club). And there was but one + hope—the hope that I had lost sight of my husband forever. + </p> + <p> + “I went to my work—and prospered in it—and earned my first + quarter’s wages. But it’s not good for a woman to be situated as I was; + friendless and alone, with her things that she took a pride in sold away + from her, and with nothing to look forward to in her life to come. I was + regular in my attendance at chapel; but I think my heart began to get + hardened, and my mind to be overcast in secret with its own thoughts about + this time. There was a change coming. Two or three days after I had earned + the wages just mentioned my husband found me out. The furniture-money was + all spent. He made a disturbance at the club, I was only able to quiet him + by giving him all the money I could spare from my own necessities. The + scandal was brought before the committee. They said, if the circumstance + occurred again, they should be obliged to part with me. In a fortnight the + circumstance occurred again. It’s useless to dwell on it. They all said + they were sorry for me. I lost the place. My husband went back with me to + my lodgings. The next morning I caught him taking my purse, with the few + shillings I had in it, out of my trunk, which he had broken open. We + quarreled. And he struck me again—this time knocking me down. + </p> + <p> + “I went once more to the police court, and told my story—to another + magistrate this time. My only petition was to have my husband kept away + from me. ‘I don’t want to be a burden on others’ (I says) ‘I don’t want to + do any thing but what’s right. I don’t even complain of having been very + cruelly used. All I ask is to be let to earn an honest living. Will the + law protect me in the effort to do that?’ + </p> + <p> + “The answer, in substance, was that the law might protect me, provided I + had money to spend in asking some higher court to grant me a separation. + After allowing my husband to rob me openly of the only property I + possessed—namely, my furniture—the law turned round on me when + I called upon it in my distress, and held out its hand to be paid. I had + just three and sixpence left in the world—and the prospect, if I + earned more, of my husband coming (with permission of the law) and taking + it away from me. There was only one chance—namely, to get time to + turn round in, and to escape him again. I got a month’s freedom from him, + by charging him with knocking me down. The magistrate (happening to be + young, and new to his business) sent him to prison, instead of fining him. + This gave me time to get a character from the club, as well as a special + testimonial from good Mr. Bapchild. With the help of these, I obtained a + place in a private family—a place in the country, this time. + </p> + <p> + “I found myself now in a haven of peace. I was among worthy kind-hearted + people, who felt for my distresses, and treated me most indulgently. + Indeed, through all my troubles, I must say I have found one thing hold + good. In my experience, I have observed that people are oftener quick than + not to feel a human compassion for others in distress. Also, that they + mostly see plain enough what’s hard and cruel and unfair on them in the + governing of the country which they help to keep going. But once ask them + to get on from sitting down and grumbling about it, to rising up and + setting it right, and what do you find them? As helpless as a flock of + sheep—that’s what you find them. + </p> + <p> + “More than six months passed, and I saved a little money again. + </p> + <p> + “One night, just as we were going to bed, there was a loud ring at the + bell. The footman answered the door—and I heard my husband’s voice + in the hall. He had traced me, with the help of a man he knew in the + police; and he had come to claim his rights. I offered him all the little + money I had, to let me be. My good master spoke to him. It was all + useless. He was obstinate and savage. If—instead of my running off + from him—it had been all the other way and he had run off from me, + something might have been done (as I understood) to protect me. But he + stuck to his wife. As long as I could make a farthing, he stuck to his + wife. Being married to him, I had no right to have left him; I was bound + to go with my husband; there was no escape for me. I bade them good-by. + And I have never forgotten their kindness to me from that day to this. + </p> + <p> + “My husband took me back to London. + </p> + <p> + “As long as the money lasted, the drinking went on. When it was gone, I + was beaten again. Where was the remedy? There was no remedy, but to try + and escape him once more. Why didn’t I have him locked up? What was the + good of having him locked up? In a few weeks he would be out of prison; + sober and penitent, and promising amendment—and then when the fit + took him, there he would be, the same furious savage that he had been + often and often before. My heart got hard under the hopelessness of it; + and dark thoughts beset me, mostly at night. About this time I began to + say to myself, ‘There’s no deliverance from this, but in death—his + death or mine.’ + </p> + <p> + “Once or twice I went down to the bridges after dark and looked over at + the river. No. I wasn’t the sort of woman who ends her own wretchedness in + that way. Your blood must be in a fever, and your head in a flame—at + least I fancy so—you must be hurried into it, like, to go and make + away with yourself. My troubles never took that effect on me. I always + turned cold under them instead of hot. Bad for me, I dare say; but what + you are—you are. Can the Ethiopian change his skin, or the leopard + his spots? + </p> + <p> + “I got away from him once more, and found good employment once more. It + don’t matter how, and it don’t matter where. My story is always the same + thing, over and over again. Best get to the end. + </p> + <p> + “There was one change, however, this time. My employment was not in a + private family. I was also allowed to teach cookery to young women, in my + leisure hours. What with this, and what with a longer time passing on the + present occasion before my husband found me out, I was as comfortably off + as in my position I could hope to be. When my work was done, I went away + at night to sleep in a lodging of my own. It was only a bedroom; and I + furnished it myself—partly for the sake of economy (the rent being + not half as much as for a furnished room); and partly for the sake of + cleanliness. Through all my troubles I always liked things neat about me—neat + and shapely and good. + </p> + <p> + “Well, it’s needless to say how it ended. He found me out again—this + time by a chance meeting with me in the street. + </p> + <p> + “He was in rags, and half starved. But that didn’t matter now. All he had + to do was to put his hand into my pocket and take what he wanted. There is + no limit, in England, to what a bad husband may do—as long as he + sticks to his wife. On the present occasion, he was cunning enough to see + that he would be the loser if he disturbed me in my employment. For a + while things went on as smoothly as they could. I made a pretense that the + work was harder than usual; and I got leave (loathing the sight of him, I + honestly own) to sleep at the place where I was employed. This was not for + long. The fit took him again, in due course; and he came and made a + disturbance. As before, this was not to be borne by decent people. As + before, they were sorry to part with me. As before, I lost my place. + </p> + <p> + “Another woman would have gone mad under it. I fancy it just missed, by a + hair’s breadth, maddening Me. + </p> + <p> + “When I looked at him that night, deep in his drunken sleep, I thought of + Jael and Sisera (see the book of Judges; chapter 4th; verses 17 to 21). It + says, she ‘took a nail of the tent, and took a hammer in her hand, and + went softly unto him, and smote the nail into his temples, and fastened it + into the ground: for he was fast asleep and weary. So he died.’ She did + this deed to deliver her nation from Sisera. If there had been a hammer + and a nail in the room that night, I think I should have been Jael—with + this difference, that I should have done it to deliver myself. + </p> + <p> + “With the morning this passed off, for the time. I went and spoke to a + lawyer. + </p> + <p> + “Most people, in my place, would have had enough of the law already. But I + was one of the sort who drain the cup to the dregs. What I said to him + was, in substance, this. ‘I come to ask your advice about a madman. Mad + people, as I understand it, are people who have lost control over their + own minds. Sometimes this leads them to entertaining delusions; and + sometimes it leads them to committing actions hurtful to others or to + themselves. My husband has lost all control over his own craving for + strong drink. He requires to be kept from liquor, as other madmen require + to be kept from attempting their own lives, or the lives of those about + them. It’s a frenzy beyond his own control, with <i>him</i>—just as + it’s a frenzy beyond their own control, with <i>them.</i> There are + Asylums for mad people, all over the country, at the public disposal, on + certain conditions. If I fulfill those conditions, will the law deliver me + from the misery of being married to a madman, whose madness is drink?’—‘No,’ + says the lawyer. ‘The law of England declines to consider an incurable + drunkard as a fit object for restraint, the law of England leaves the + husbands and wives of such people in a perfectly helpless situation, to + deal with their own misery as they best can.’ + </p> + <p> + “I made my acknowledgments to the gentleman and left him. The last chance + was this chance—and this had failed me.” + </p> + <p> + 7. + </p> + <p> + “The thought that had once found its way into my mind already, now found + its way back again, and never altogether left me from that time forth. No + deliverance for me but in death—his death, or mine. + </p> + <p> + “I had it before me night and day; in chapel and out of chapel just the + same. I read the story of Jael and Sisera so often that the Bible got to + open of itself at that place. + </p> + <p> + “The laws of my country, which ought to have protected me as an honest + woman, left me helpless. In place of the laws I had no friend near to open + my heart to. I was shut up in myself. And I was married to that man. + Consider me as a human creature, and say, Was this not trying my humanity + very hardly? + </p> + <p> + “I wrote to good Mr. Bapchild. Not going into particulars; only telling + him I was beset by temptation, and begging him to come and help me. He was + confined to his bed by illness; he could only write me a letter of good + advice. To profit by good advice people must have a glimpse of happiness + to look forward to as a reward for exerting themselves. Religion itself is + obliged to hold out a reward, and to say to us poor mortals, Be good, and + you shall go to Heaven. I had no glimpse of happiness. I was thankful (in + a dull sort of way) to good Mr. Bapchild—and there it ended. + </p> + <p> + “The time had been when a word from my old pastor would have put me in the + right way again. I began to feel scared by myself. If the next ill usage I + received from Joel Dethridge found me an unchanged woman, it was borne in + strongly on my mind that I should be as likely as not to get my + deliverance from him by my own hand. + </p> + <p> + “Goaded to it, by the fear of this, I humbled myself before my relations + for the first time. I wrote to beg their pardon; to own that they had + proved to be right in their opinion of my husband; and to entreat them to + be friends with me again, so far as to let me visit them from time to + time. My notion was, that it might soften my heart if I could see the old + place, and talk the old talk, and look again at the well-remembered faces. + I am almost ashamed to own it—but, if I had had any thing to give, I + would have parted with it all, to be allowed to go back into mother’s + kitchen and cook the Sunday dinner for them once more. + </p> + <p> + “But this was not to be. Not long before my letter was received mother had + died. They laid it all at my door. She had been ailing for years past, and + the doctors had said it was hopeless from the first—but they laid it + all at my door. One of my sisters wrote to say that much, in as few words + as could possibly suffice for saying it. My father never answered my + letter at all.” + </p> + <p> + 8. + </p> + <p> + “Magistrates and lawyers; relations and friends; endurance of injuries, + patience, hope, and honest work—I had tried all these, and tried + them vainly. Look round me where I might, the prospect was closed on all + sides. + </p> + <p> + “At this time my husband had got a little work to do. He came home out of + temper one night, and I gave him a warning. ‘Don’t try me too far, Joel, + for your own sake,’ was all I said. It was one of his sober days; and, for + the first time, a word from me seemed to have an effect on him. He looked + hard at me for a minute or so. And then he went and sat down in a corner, + and held his peace. + </p> + <p> + “This was on a Tuesday in the week. On the Saturday he got paid, and the + drinking fit took him again. + </p> + <p> + “On Friday in the next week I happened to come back late—having had + a good stroke of work to do that day, in the way of cooking a public + dinner for a tavern-keeper who knew me. I found my husband gone, and the + bedroom stripped of the furniture which I had put into it. For the second + time he had robbed me of my own property, and had turned it into money to + be spent in drink. + </p> + <p> + “I didn’t say a word. I stood and looked round the empty room. What was + going on in me I hardly knew myself at the time, and can’t describe now. + All I remember is, that, after a little, I turned about to leave the + house. I knew the places where thy husband was likely to be found; and the + devil possessed me to go and find him. The landlady came out into the + passage and tried to stop me. She was a bigger and a stronger woman than I + was. But I shook her off like a child. Thinking over it now, I believe she + was in no condition to put out her strength. The sight of me frightened + her. + </p> + <p> + “I found him. I said—well, I said what a woman beside herself with + fury would be likely to say. It’s needless to tell how it ended. He + knocked me down. + </p> + <p> + “After that, there is a spot of darkness like in my memory. The next thing + I can call to mind, is coming back to my senses after some days. Three of + my teeth were knocked out—but that was not the worst of it. My head + had struck against something in falling, and some part of me (a nerve, I + think they said) was injured in such a way as to affect my speech. I don’t + mean that I was downright dumb—I only mean that, all of a sudden, it + had become a labor to me to speak. A long word was as serious an obstacle + as if I was a child again. They took me to the hospital. When the medical + gentlemen heard what it was, the medical gentlemen came crowding round me. + I appeared to lay hold of their interest, just as a story-book lays hold + of the interest of other people. The upshot of it was, that I might end in + being dumb, or I might get my speech again—the chances were about + equal. Only two things were needful. One of them was that I should live on + good nourishing diet. The other was, that I should keep my mind easy. + </p> + <p> + “About the diet it was not possible to decide. My getting good nourishing + food and drink depended on my getting money to buy the same. As to my + mind, there was no difficulty about <i>that.</i> If my husband came back + to me, my mind was made up to kill him. + </p> + <p> + “Horrid—I am well aware this is horrid. Nobody else, in my place, + would have ended as wickedly as that. All the other women in the world, + tried as I was, would have risen superior to the trial.” + </p> + <p> + 9. + </p> + <p> + “I have said that people (excepting my husband and my relations) were + almost always good to me. + </p> + <p> + “The landlord of the house which we had taken when we were married heard + of my sad case. He gave me one of his empty houses to look after, and a + little weekly allowance for doing it. Some of the furniture in the upper + rooms, not being wanted by the last tenant, was left to be taken at a + valuation if the next tenant needed it. Two of the servants’ bedrooms (in + the attics), one next to the other, had all that was wanted in them. So I + had a roof to cover me, and a choice of beds to lie on, and money to get + me food. All well again—but all too late. If that house could speak, + what tales that house would have to tell of me! + </p> + <p> + “I had been told by the doctors to exercise my speech. Being all alone, + with nobody to speak to, except when the landlord dropped in, or when the + servant next door said, ‘Nice day, ain’t it?’ or, ‘Don’t you feel lonely?’ + or such like, I bought the newspaper, and read it out loud to myself to + exercise my speech in that way. One day I came upon a bit about the wives + of drunken husbands. It was a report of something said on that subject by + a London coroner, who had held inquests on dead husbands (in the lower + ranks of life), and who had his reasons for suspecting the wives. + Examination of the body (he said) didn’t prove it; and witnesses didn’t + prove it; but he thought it, nevertheless, quite possible, in some cases, + that, when the woman could bear it no longer, she sometimes took a damp + towel, and waited till the husband (drugged with his own liquor) was sunk + in his sleep, and then put the towel over his nose and mouth, and ended it + that way without any body being the wiser. I laid down the newspaper; and + fell into thinking. My mind was, by this time, in a prophetic way. I said + to myself ‘I haven’t happened on this for nothing: this means that I shall + see my husband again.’ + </p> + <p> + “It was then just after my dinner-time—two o’clock. That same night, + at the moment when I had put out my candle, and laid me down in bed, I + heard a knock at the street door. Before I had lit my candle I says to + myself, ‘Here he is.’ + </p> + <p> + “I huddled on a few things, and struck a light, and went down stairs. I + called out through the door, ‘Who’s there?’ And his voice answered, ‘Let + me in.’ + </p> + <p> + “I sat down on a chair in the passage, and shook all over like a person + struck with palsy. Not from the fear of him—but from my mind being + in the prophetic way. I knew I was going to be driven to it at last. Try + as I might to keep from doing it, my mind told me I was to do it now. I + sat shaking on the chair in the passage; I on one side of the door, and he + on the other. + </p> + <p> + “He knocked again, and again, and again. I knew it was useless to try—and + yet I resolved to try. I determined not to let him in till I was forced to + it. I determined to let him alarm the neighborhood, and to see if the + neighborhood would step between us. I went up stairs and waited at the + open staircase window over the door. + </p> + <p> + “The policeman came up, and the neighbors came out. They were all for + giving him into custody. The policeman laid hands on him. He had but one + word to say; he had only to point up to me at the window, and to tell them + I was his wife. The neighbors went indoors again. The policeman dropped + hold of his arm. It was I who was in the wrong, and not he. I was bound to + let my husband in. I went down stairs again, and let him in. + </p> + <p> + “Nothing passed between us that night. I threw open the door of the + bedroom next to mine, and went and locked myself into my own room. He was + dead beat with roaming the streets, without a penny in his pocket, all day + long. The bed to lie on was all he wanted for that night. + </p> + <p> + “The next morning I tried again—tried to turn back on the way that I + was doomed to go; knowing beforehand that it would be of no use. I offered + him three parts of my poor weekly earnings, to be paid to him regularly at + the landlord’s office, if he would only keep away from me, and from the + house. He laughed in my face. As my husband, he could take all my earnings + if he chose. And as for leaving the house, the house offered him free + quarters to live in as long as I was employed to look after it. The + landlord couldn’t part man and wife. + </p> + <p> + “I said no more. Later in the day the landlord came. He said if we could + make it out to live together peaceably he had neither the right nor the + wish to interfere. If we made any disturbances, then he should be obliged + to provide himself with some other woman to look after the house. I had + nowhere else to go, and no other employment to undertake. If, in spite of + that, I had put on my bonnet and walked out, my husband would have walked + out after me. And all decent people would have patted him on the back, and + said, ‘Quite right, good man—quite right.’ + </p> + <p> + “So there he was by his own act, and with the approval of others, in the + same house with me. + </p> + <p> + “I made no remark to him or to the landlord. Nothing roused me now. I knew + what was coming; I waited for the end. There was some change visible in me + to others, as I suppose, though not noticeable by myself, which first + surprised my husband and then daunted him. When the next night came I + heard him lock the door softly in his own room. It didn’t matter to me. + When the time was ripe ten thousand locks wouldn’t lock out what was to + come. + </p> + <p> + “The next day, bringing my weekly payment, brought me a step nearer on the + way to the end. Getting the money, he could get the drink. This time he + began cunningly—in other words, he began his drinking by slow + degrees. The landlord (bent, honest man, on trying to keep the peace + between us) had given him some odd jobs to do, in the way of small + repairs, here and there about the house. ‘You owe this,’ he says, ‘to my + desire to do a good turn to your poor wife. I am helping you for her sake. + Show yourself worthy to be helped, if you can.’ + </p> + <p> + “He said, as usual, that he was going to turn over a new leaf. Too late! + The time had gone by. He was doomed, and I was doomed. It didn’t matter + what he said now. It didn’t matter when he locked his door again the last + thing at night. + </p> + <p> + “The next day was Sunday. Nothing happened. I went to chapel. Mere habit. + It did me no good. He got on a little with the drinking—but still + cunningly, by slow degrees. I knew by experience that this meant a long + fit, and a bad one, to come. + </p> + <p> + “Monday, there were the odd jobs about the house to be begun. He was by + this time just sober enough to do his work, and just tipsy enough to take + a spiteful pleasure in persecuting his wife. He went out and got the + things he wanted, and came back and called for me. A skilled workman like + he was (he said) wanted a journeyman under him. There were things which it + was beneath a skilled workman to do for himself. He was not going to call + in a man or a boy, and then have to pay them. He was going to get it done + for nothing, and he meant to make a journeyman of <i>me.</i> Half tipsy + and half sober, he went on talking like that, and laying out his things, + all quite right, as he wanted them. When they were ready he straightened + himself up, and he gave me his orders what I was to do. + </p> + <p> + “I obeyed him to the best of my ability. Whatever he said, and whatever he + did, I knew he was going as straight as man could go to his own death by + my hands. + </p> + <p> + “The rats and mice were all over the house, and the place generally was + out of repair. He ought to have begun on the kitchen-floor; but (having + sentence pronounced against him) he began in the empty parlors on the + ground-floor. + </p> + <p> + “These parlors were separated by what is called a ‘lath-and-plaster wall.’ + The rats had damaged it. At one part they had gnawed through and spoiled + the paper, at another part they had not got so far. The landlord’s orders + were to spare the paper, because he had some by him to match it. My + husband began at a place where the paper was whole. Under his directions I + mixed up—I won’t say what. With the help of it he got the paper + loose from the wall, without injuring it in any way, in a long hanging + strip. Under it was the plaster and the laths, gnawed away in places by + the rats. Though strictly a paperhanger by trade, he could be plasterer + too when he liked. I saw how he cut away the rotten laths and ripped off + the plaster; and (under his directions again) I mixed up the new plaster + he wanted, and handed him the new laths, and saw how he set them. I won’t + say a word about how this was done either. + </p> + <p> + “I have a reason for keeping silence here, which is, to my mind, a very + dreadful one. In every thing that my husband made me do that day he was + showing me (blindfold) the way to kill him, so that no living soul, in the + police or out of it, could suspect me of the deed. + </p> + <p> + “We finished the job on the wall just before dark. I went to my cup of + tea, and he went to his bottle of gin. + </p> + <p> + “I left him, drinking hard, to put our two bedrooms tidy for the night. + The place that his bed happened to be set in (which I had never remarked + particularly before) seemed, in a manner of speaking, to force itself on + my notice now. + </p> + <p> + “The head of the bedstead was set against the wall which divided his room + from mine. From looking at the bedstead I got to looking at the wall next. + Then to wondering what it was made of. Then to rapping against it with my + knuckles. The sound told me there was nothing but lath and plaster under + the paper. It was the same as the wall we had been at work on down stairs. + We had cleared our way so far through this last—in certain places + where the repairs were most needed—that we had to be careful not to + burst through the paper in the room on the other side. I found myself + calling to mind the caution my husband had given me while we were at this + part of the work, word for word as he had spoken it. <i>’Take care you + don’t find your hands in the next room.‘</i> That was what he had said + down in the parlor. Up in his bedroom I kept on repeating it in my own + mind—with my eyes all the while on the key, which he had moved to + the inner side of the door to lock himself in—till the knowledge of + what it meant burst on me like a flash of light. I looked at the wall, at + the bedhead, at my own two hands—and I shivered as if it was winter + time. + </p> + <p> + “Hours must have passed like minutes while I was up stairs that night. I + lost all count of time. When my husband came up from his drinking, he + found me in his room.” + </p> + <p> + 10. + </p> + <p> + “I leave the rest untold, and pass on purposely to the next morning. + </p> + <p> + “No mortal eyes but mine will ever see these lines. Still, there are + things a woman can’t write of even to herself. I shall only say this. I + suffered the last and worst of many indignities at my husband’s hands—at + the very time when I first saw, set plainly before me, the way to take his + life. He went out toward noon next day, to go his rounds among the public + houses; my mind being then strung up to deliver myself from him, for good + and all, when he came back at night. + </p> + <p> + “The things we had used on the previous day were left in the parlor. I was + all by myself in the house, free to put in practice the lesson he had + taught me. I proved myself an apt scholar. Before the lamps were lit in + the street I had my own way prepared (in my bedroom and in his) for laying + my own hands on him—after he had locked himself up for the night. + </p> + <p> + “I don’t remember feeling either fear or doubt through all those hours. I + sat down to my bit of supper with no better and no worse an appetite than + usual. The only change in me that I can call to mind was that I felt a + singular longing to have somebody with me to keep me company. Having no + friend to ask in, I went to the street door and stood looking at the + people passing this way and that. + </p> + <p> + “A stray dog, sniffing about, came up to me. Generally I dislike dogs and + beasts of all kinds. I called this one in and gave him his supper. He had + been taught (I suppose) to sit up on his hind-legs and beg for food; at + any rate, that was his way of asking me for more. I laughed—it seems + impossible when I look back at it now, but for all that it’s true—I + laughed till the tears ran down my cheeks, at the little beast on his + haunches, with his ears pricked up and his head on one side and his mouth + watering for the victuals. I wonder whether I was in my right senses? I + don’t know. + </p> + <p> + “When the dog had got all he could get he whined to be let out to roam the + streets again. + </p> + <p> + “As I opened the door to let the creature go his ways, I saw my husband + crossing the road to come in. ‘Keep out’ (I says to him); ‘to-night, of + all nights, keep out.’ He was too drunk to heed me; he passed by, and + blundered his way up stairs. I followed and listened. I heard him open his + door, and bang it to, and lock it. I waited a bit, and went up another + stair or two. I heard him drop down on to his bed. In a minute more he was + fast asleep and snoring. + </p> + <p> + “It had all happened as it was wanted to happen. In two minutes—without + doing one single thing to bring suspicion on myself—I could have + smothered him. I went into my own room. I took up the towel that I had + laid ready. I was within an inch of it—when there came a rush of + something up into my head. I can’t say what it was. I can only say the + horrors laid hold of me and hunted me then and there out of the house. + </p> + <p> + “I put on my bonnet, and slipped the key of the street door into my + pocket. It was only half past nine—or maybe a quarter to ten. If I + had any one clear notion in my head, it was the notion of running away, + and never allowing myself to set eyes on the house or the husband more. + </p> + <p> + “I went up the street—and came back. I went down the street—and + came back. I tried it a third time, and went round and round and round—and + came back. It was not to be done The house held me chained to it like a + dog to his kennel. I couldn’t keep away from it. For the life of me, I + couldn’t keep away from it. + </p> + <p> + “A company of gay young men and women passed me, just as I was going to + let myself in again. They were in a great hurry. ‘Step out,’ says one of + the men; ‘the theatre’s close by, and we shall be just in time for the + farce.’ I turned about and followed them. Having been piously brought up, + I had never been inside a theatre in my life. It struck me that I might + get taken, as it were, out of myself, if I saw something that was quite + strange to me, and heard something which would put new thoughts into my + mind. + </p> + <p> + “They went in to the pit; and I went in after them. + </p> + <p> + “The thing they called the farce had begun. Men and women came on to the + stage, turn and turn about, and talked, and went off again. Before long + all the people about me in the pit were laughing and clapping their hands. + The noise they made angered me. I don’t know how to describe the state I + was in. My eyes wouldn’t serve me, and my ears wouldn’t serve me, to see + and to hear what the rest of them were seeing and hearing. There must have + been something, I fancy, in my mind that got itself between me and what + was going on upon the stage. The play looked fair enough on the surface; + but there was danger and death at the bottom of it. The players were + talking and laughing to deceive the people—with murder in their + minds all the time. And nobody knew it but me—and my tongue was tied + when I tried to tell the others. I got up, and ran out. The moment I was + in the street my steps turned back of themselves on the way to the house. + I called a cab, and told the man to drive (as far as a shilling would take + me) the opposite way. He put me down—I don’t know where. Across the + street I saw an inscription in letters of flame over an open door. The man + said it was a dancing-place. Dancing was as new to me as play-going. I had + one more shilling left; and I paid to go in, and see what a sight of the + dancing would do for me. The light from the ceiling poured down in this + place as if it was all on fire. The crashing of the music was dreadful. + The whirling round and round of men and women in each other’s arms was + quite maddening to see. I don’t know what happened to me here. The great + blaze of light from the ceiling turned blood-red on a sudden. The man + standing in front of the musicians waving a stick took the likeness of + Satan, as seen in the picture in our family Bible at home. The whirling + men and women went round and round, with white faces like the faces of the + dead, and bodies robed in winding-sheets. I screamed out with the terror + of it; and some person took me by the arm and put me outside the door. The + darkness did me good: it was comforting and delicious—like a cool + hand laid on a hot head. I went walking on through it, without knowing + where; composing my mind with the belief that I had lost my way, and that + I should find myself miles distant from home when morning dawned. After + some time I got too weary to go on; and I sat me down to rest on a + door-step. I dozed a bit, and woke up. When I got on my feet to go on + again, I happened to turn my head toward the door of the house. The number + on it was the same number an as ours. I looked again. And behold, it was + our steps I had been resting on. The door was our door. + </p> + <p> + “All my doubts and all my struggles dropped out of my mind when I made + that discovery. There was no mistaking what this perpetual coming back to + the house meant. Resist it as I might, it was to be. + </p> + <p> + “I opened the street door and went up stairs, and heard him sleeping his + heavy sleep, exactly as I had heard him when I went out. I sat down on my + bed and took off my bonnet, quite quiet in myself, because I knew it was + to be. I damped the towel, and put it ready, and took a turn in the room. + </p> + <p> + “It was just the dawn of day. The sparrows were chirping among the trees + in the square hard by. + </p> + <p> + “I drew up my blind; the faint light spoke to me as if in words, ‘Do it + now, before I get brighter, and show too much.’ + </p> + <p> + “I listened. The friendly silence had a word for me too: ‘Do it now, and + trust the secret to Me.’ + </p> + <p> + “I waited till the church clock chimed before striking the hour. At the + first stroke—without touching the lock of his door, without setting + foot in his room—I had the towel over his face. Before the last + stroke he had ceased struggling. When the hum of the bell through the + morning silence was still and dead, <i>he</i> was still and dead with it.” + </p> + <p> + 11. + </p> + <p> + “The rest of this history is counted in my mind by four days—Wednesday, + Thursday, Friday, Saturday. After that it all fades off like, and the new + years come with a strange look, being the years of a new life. + </p> + <p> + “What about the old life first? What did I feel, in the horrid quiet of + the morning, when I had done it? + </p> + <p> + “I don’t know what I felt. I can’t remember it, or I can’t tell it, I + don’t know which. I can write the history of the four days, and that’s + all. + </p> + <p> + “Wednesday.—I gave the alarm toward noon. Hours before, I had put + things straight and fit to be seen. I had only to call for help, and to + leave the people to do as they pleased. The neighbors came in, and then + the police. They knocked, uselessly, at his door. Then they broke it open, + and found him dead in his bed. + </p> + <p> + “Not the ghost of a suspicion of me entered the mind of any one. There was + no fear of human justice finding me out: my one unutterable dread was + dread of an Avenging Providence. + </p> + <p> + “I had a short sleep that night, and a dream, in which I did the deed over + again. For a time my mind was busy with thoughts of confessing to the + police, and of giving myself up. If I had not belonged to a respectable + family, I should have done it. From generation to generation there had + been no stain on our good name. It would be death to my father, and + disgrace to all my family, if I owned what I had done, and suffered for it + on the public scaffold. I prayed to be guided; and I had a revelation, + toward morning, of what to do. + </p> + <p> + “I was commanded, in a vision, to open the Bible, and vow on it to set my + guilty self apart among my innocent fellow-creatures from that day forth; + to live among them a separate and silent life, to dedicate the use of my + speech to the language of prayer only, offered up in the solitude of my + own chamber when no human ear could hear me. Alone, in the morning, I saw + the vision, and vowed the vow. No human ear <i>has</i> heard me from that + time. No human ear <i>will</i> hear me, to the day of my death. + </p> + <p> + “Thursday.—The people came to speak to me, as usual. They found me + dumb. + </p> + <p> + “What had happened to me in the past, when my head had been hurt, and my + speech affected by it, gave a likelier look to my dumbness than it might + have borne in the case of another person. They took me back again to the + hospital. The doctors were divided in opinion. Some said the shock of what + had taken place in the house, coming on the back of the other shock, + might, for all they knew, have done the mischief. And others said, ‘She + got her speech again after the accident; there has been no new injury + since that time; the woman is shamming dumb, for some purpose of her own.’ + I let them dispute it as they liked. All human talk was nothing now to me. + I had set myself apart among my fellow-creatures; I had begun my separate + and silent life. + </p> + <p> + “Through all this time the sense of a coming punishment hanging over me + never left my mind. I had nothing to dread from human justice. The + judgment of an Avenging Providence—there was what I was waiting for. + </p> + <p> + “Friday—They held the inquest. He had been known for years past as + an inveterate drunkard, he had been seen overnight going home in liquor; + he had been found locked up in his room, with the key inside the door, and + the latch of the window bolted also. No fire-place was in this garret; + nothing was disturbed or altered: nobody by human possibility could have + got in. The doctor reported that he had died of congestion of the lungs; + and the jury gave their verdict accordingly.” + </p> + <p> + 12. + </p> + <p> + “Saturday.—Marked forever in my calendar as the memorable day on + which the judgment descended on me. Toward three o’clock in the afternoon—in + the broad sunlight, under the cloudless sky, with hundreds of innocent + human creatures all around me—I, Hester Dethridge, saw, for the + first time, the Appearance which is appointed to haunt me for the rest of + my life. + </p> + <p> + “I had had a terrible night. My mind felt much as it had felt on the + evening when I had gone to the play. I went out to see what the air and + the sunshine and the cool green of trees and grass would do for me. The + nearest place in which I could find what I wanted was the Regent’s Park. I + went into one of the quiet walks in the middle of the park, where the + horses and carriages are not allowed to go, and where old people can sun + themselves, and children play, without danger. + </p> + <p> + “I sat me down to rest on a bench. Among the children near me was a + beautiful little boy, playing with a brand-new toy—a horse and + wagon. While I was watching him busily plucking up the blades of grass and + loading his wagon with them, I felt for the first time—what I have + often and often felt since—a creeping chill come slowly over my + flesh, and then a suspicion of something hidden near me, which would steal + out and show itself if I looked that way. + </p> + <p> + “There was a big tree hard by. I looked toward the tree, and waited to see + the something hidden appear from behind it. + </p> + <p> + “The Thing stole out, dark and shadowy in the pleasant sunlight. At first + I saw only the dim figure of a woman. After a little it began to get + plainer, brightening from within outward—brightening, brightening, + brightening, till it set before me the vision of MY OWN SELF, repeated as + if I was standing before a glass—the double of myself, looking at me + with my own eyes. I saw it move over the grass. I saw it stop behind the + beautiful little boy. I saw it stand and listen, as I had stood and + listened at the dawn of morning, for the chiming of the bell before the + clock struck the hour. When it heard the stroke it pointed down to the boy + with my own hand; and it said to me, with my own voice, ‘Kill him.’ + </p> + <p> + “A time passed. I don’t know whether it was a minute or an hour. The + heavens and the earth disappeared from before me. I saw nothing but the + double of myself, with the pointing hand. I felt nothing but the longing + to kill the boy. + </p> + <p> + “Then, as it seemed, the heavens and the earth rushed back upon me. I saw + the people near staring in surprise at me, and wondering if I was in my + right mind. + </p> + <p> + “I got, by main force, to my feet; I looked, by main force, away from the + beautiful boy; I escaped, by main force, from the sight of the Thing, back + into the streets. I can only describe the overpowering strength of the + temptation that tried me in one way. It was like tearing the life out of + me to tear myself from killing the boy. And what it was on this occasion + it has been ever since. No remedy against it but in that torturing effort, + and no quenching the after-agony but by solitude and prayer. + </p> + <p> + “The sense of a coming punishment had hung over me. And the punishment had + come. I had waited for the judgment of an Avenging Providence. And the + judgment was pronounced. With pious David I could now say, Thy fierce + wrath goeth over me; thy terrors have cut me off.” + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + Arrived at that point in the narrative, Geoffrey looked up from the + manuscript for the first time. Some sound outside the room had disturbed + him. Was it a sound in the passage? + </p> + <p> + He listened. There was an interval of silence. He looked back again at the + Confession, turning over the last leaves to count how much was left of it + before it came to an end. + </p> + <p> + After relating the circumstances under which the writer had returned to + domestic service, the narrative was resumed no more. Its few remaining + pages were occupied by a fragmentary journal. The brief entries referred + to the various occasions on which Hester Dethridge had again and again + seen the terrible apparition of herself, and had again and again resisted + the homicidal frenzy roused in her by the hideous creation of her own + distempered brain. In the effort which that resistance cost her lay the + secret of her obstinate determination to insist on being freed from her + work at certain times, and to make it a condition with any mistress who + employed her that she should be privileged to sleep in a room of her own + at night. Having counted the pages thus filled, Geoffrey turned back to + the place at which he had left off, to read the manuscript through to the + end. + </p> + <p> + As his eyes rested on the first line the noise in the passage—intermitted + for a moment only—disturbed him again. + </p> + <p> + This time there was no doubt of what the sound implied. He heard her + hurried footsteps; he heard her dreadful cry. Hester Dethridge had woke in + her chair in the pallor, and had discovered that the Confession was no + longer in her own hands. + </p> + <p> + He put the manuscript into the breast-pocket of his coat. On <i>this</i> + occasion his reading had been of some use to him. Needless to go on + further with it. Needless to return to the Newgate Calendar. The problem + was solved. + </p> + <p> + As he rose to his feet his heavy face brightened slowly with a terrible + smile. While the woman’s Confession was in his pocket the woman herself + was in his power. “If she wants it back,” he said, “she must get it on my + terms.” With that resolution, he opened the door, and met Hester + Dethridge, face to face, in the passage. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0055" id="link2HCH0055"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-FIFTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE SIGNS OF THE END. + </h3> + <p> + THE servant, appearing the next morning in Anne’s room with the breakfast + tray, closed the door with an air of mystery, and announced that strange + things were going on in the house. + </p> + <p> + “Did you hear nothing last night, ma’am,” she asked, “down stairs in the + passage?” + </p> + <p> + “I thought I heard some voices whispering outside my room,” Anne replied. + “Has any thing happened?” + </p> + <p> + Extricated from the confusion in which she involved it, the girl’s + narrative amounted in substance to this. She had been startled by the + sudden appearance of her mistress in the passage, staring about her + wildly, like a woman who had gone out of her senses. Almost at the same + moment “the master” had flung open the drawing-room door. He had caught + Mrs. Dethridge by the arm, had dragged her into the room, and had closed + the door again. After the two had remained shut up together for more than + half an hour, Mrs. Dethridge had come out, as pale as ashes, and had gone + up stairs trembling like a person in great terror. Some time later, when + the servant was in bed, but not asleep, she had seen a light under her + door, in the narrow wooden passage which separated Anne’s bedroom from + Hester’s bedroom, and by which she obtained access to her own little + sleeping-chamber beyond. She had got out of bed; had looked through the + keyhole; and had seen “the master” and Mrs. Dethridge standing together + examining the walls of the passage. “The master” had laid his hand upon + the wall, on the side of his wife’s room, and had looked at Mrs. + Dethridge. And Mrs. Dethridge had looked back at him, and had shaken her + head. Upon that he had said in a whisper (still with his hand on the + wooden wall), “Not to be done here?” And Mrs. Dethridge had shaken her + head. He had considered a moment, and had whispered again, “The other room + will do! won’t it?” And Mrs. Dethridge had nodded her head—and so + they had parted. That was the story of the night. Early in the morning, + more strange things had happened. The master had gone out, with a large + sealed packet in his hand, covered with many stamps; taking his own letter + to the post, instead of sending the servant with it as usual. On his + return, Mrs. Dethridge had gone out next, and had come back with something + in a jar which she had locked up in her own sitting-room. Shortly + afterward, a working-man had brought a bundle of laths, and some mortar + and plaster of Paris, which had been carefully placed together in a corner + of the scullery. Last, and most remarkable in the series of domestic + events, the girl had received permission to go home and see her friends in + the country, on that very day; having been previously informed, when she + entered Mrs. Dethridge’s service, that she was not to expect to have a + holiday granted to her until after Christmas. Such were the strange things + which had happened in the house since the previous night. What was the + interpretation to be placed on them? + </p> + <p> + The right interpretation was not easy to discover. + </p> + <p> + Some of the events pointed apparently toward coming repairs or alterations + in the cottage. But what Geoffrey could have to do with them (being at the + time served with a notice to quit), and why Hester Dethridge should have + shown the violent agitation which had been described, were mysteries which + it was impossible to penetrate. + </p> + <p> + Anne dismissed the girl with a little present and a few kind words. Under + other circumstances, the incomprehensible proceedings in the house might + have made her seriously uneasy. But her mind was now occupied by more + pressing anxieties. Blanche’s second letter (received from Hester + Dethridge on the previous evening) informed her that Sir Patrick persisted + in his resolution, and that he and his niece might be expected, come what + might of it, to present themselves at the cottage on that day. + </p> + <p> + Anne opened the letter, and looked at it for the second time. The passages + relating to Sir Patrick were expressed in these terms: + </p> + <p> + “I don’t think, darling, you have any idea of the interest that you have + roused in my uncle. Although he has not to reproach himself, as I have, + with being the miserable cause of the sacrifice that you have made, he is + quite as wretched and quite as anxious about you as I am. We talk of + nobody else. He said last night that he did not believe there was your + equal in the world. Think of that from a man who has such terribly sharp + eyes for the faults of women in general, and such a terribly sharp tongue + in talking of them! I am pledged to secrecy; but I must tell you one other + thing, between ourselves. Lord Holchester’s announcement that his brother + refuses to consent to a separation put my uncle almost beside himself. If + there is not some change for the better in your life in a few days’ time, + Sir Patrick will find out a way of his own—lawful or not, he doesn’t + care—for rescuing you from the dreadful position in which you are + placed, and Arnold (with my full approval) will help him. As we understand + it, you are, under one pretense or another, kept a close prisoner. Sir + Patrick has already secured a post of observation near you. He and Arnold + went all round the cottage last night, and examined a door in your back + garden wall, with a locksmith to help them. You will no doubt hear further + about this from Sir Patrick himself. Pray don’t appear to know any thing + of it when you see him! I am not in his confidence—but Arnold is, + which comes to the same thing exactly. You will see us (I mean you will + see my uncle and me) to-morrow, in spite of the brute who keeps you under + lock and key. Arnold will not accompany us; he is not to be trusted (he + owns it himself) to control his indignation. Courage, dearest! There are + two people in the world to whom you are inestimably precious, and who are + determined not to let your happiness be sacrificed. I am one of them, and + (for Heaven’s sake keep this a secret also!) Sir Patrick is the other.” + </p> + <p> + Absorbed in the letter, and in the conflict of opposite feelings which it + roused—her color rising when it turned her thoughts inward on + herself, and fading again when she was reminded by it of the coming visit—Anne + was called back to a sense of present events by the reappearance of the + servant, charged with a message. Mr. Speedwell had been for some time in + the cottage, and he was now waiting to see her down stairs. + </p> + <p> + Anne found the surgeon alone in the drawing-room. He apologized for + disturbing her at that early hour. + </p> + <p> + “It was impossible for me to get to Fulham yesterday,” he said, “and I + could only make sure of complying with Lord Holchester’s request by coming + here before the time at which I receive patients at home. I have seen Mr. + Delamayn, and I have requested permission to say a word to you on the + subject of his health.” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked through the window, and saw Geoffrey smoking his pipe—not + in the back garden, as usual, but in front of the cottage, where he could + keep his eye on the gate. + </p> + <p> + “Is he ill?” she asked. + </p> + <p> + “He is seriously ill,” answered Mr. Speedwell. “I should not otherwise + have troubled you with this interview. It is a matter of professional duty + to warn you, as his wife, that he is in danger. He may be seized at any + moment by a paralytic stroke. The only chance for him—a very poor + one, I am bound to say—is to make him alter his present mode of life + without loss of time.” + </p> + <p> + “In one way he will be obliged to alter it,” said Anne. “He has received + notice from the landlady to quit this cottage.” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell looked surprised. + </p> + <p> + “I think you will find that the notice has been withdrawn,” he said. “I + can only assure you that Mr. Delamayn distinctly informed me, when I + advised change of air, that he had decided, for reasons of his own, on + remaining here.” + </p> + <p> + (Another in the series of incomprehensible domestic events! Hester + Dethridge—on all other occasions the most immovable of women—had + changed her mind!) + </p> + <p> + “Setting that aside,” proceeded the surgeon, “there are two preventive + measures which I feel bound to suggest. Mr. Delamayn is evidently + suffering (though he declines to admit it himself) from mental anxiety. If + he is to have a chance for his life, that anxiety must be set at rest. Is + it in your power to relieve it?” + </p> + <p> + “It is not even in my power, Mr. Speedwell, to tell you what it is.” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon bowed, and went on: + </p> + <p> + “The second caution that I have to give you,” he said, “is to keep him + from drinking spirits. He admits having committed an excess in that way + the night before last. In his state of health, drinking means literally + death. If he goes back to the brandy-bottle—forgive me for saying it + plainly; the matter is too serious to be trifled with—if he goes + back to the brandy-bottle, his life, in my opinion, is not worth five + minutes’ purchase. Can you keep him from drinking?” + </p> + <p> + Anne answered sadly and plainly: + </p> + <p> + “I have no influence over him. The terms we are living on here—” + </p> + <p> + Mr. Speedwell considerately stopped her. + </p> + <p> + “I understand,” he said. “I will see his brother on my way home.” He + looked for a moment at Anne. “You are far from well yourself,” he resumed. + “Can I do any thing for you?” + </p> + <p> + “While I am living my present life, Mr. Speedwell, not even your skill can + help me.” + </p> + <p> + The surgeon took his leave. Anne hurried back up stairs, before Geoffrey + could re-enter the cottage. To see the man who had laid her life waste—to + meet the vindictive hatred that looked furtively at her out of his eyes—at + the moment when sentence of death had been pronounced on him, was an + ordeal from which every finer instinct in her nature shrank in horror. + </p> + <p> + Hour by hour, the morning wore on, and he made no attempt to communicate + with her, Stranger still, Hester Dethridge never appeared. The servant + came up stairs to say goodby; and went away for her holiday. Shortly + afterward, certain sounds reached Anne’s ears from the opposite side of + the passage. She heard the strokes of a hammer, and then a noise as of + some heavy piece of furniture being moved. The mysterious repairs were + apparently being begun in the spare room. + </p> + <p> + She went to the window. The hour was approaching at which Sir Patrick and + Blanche might be expected to make the attempt to see her. + </p> + <p> + For the third time, she looked at the letter. + </p> + <p> + It suggested, on this occasion, a new consideration to her. Did the strong + measures which Sir Patrick had taken in secret indicate alarm as well as + sympathy? Did he believe she was in a position in which the protection of + the law was powerless to reach her? It seemed just possible. Suppose she + were free to consult a magistrate, and to own to him (if words could + express it) the vague presentiment of danger which was then present in her + mind—what proof could she produce to satisfy the mind of a stranger? + The proofs were all in her husband’s favor. Witnesses could testify to the + conciliatory words which he had spoken to her in their presence. The + evidence of his mother and brother would show that he had preferred to + sacrifice his own pecuniary interests rather than consent to part with + her. She could furnish nobody with the smallest excuse, in her case, for + interfering between man and wife. Did Sir Patrick see this? And did + Blanche’s description of what he and Arnold Brinkworth were doing point to + the conclusion that they were taking the law into their own hands in + despair? The more she thought of it, the more likely it seemed. + </p> + <p> + She was still pursuing the train of thought thus suggested, when the + gate-bell rang. + </p> + <p> + The noises in the spare room suddenly stopped. + </p> + <p> + Anne looked out. The roof of a carriage was visible on the other side of + the wall. Sir Patrick and Blanche had arrived. After an interval Hester + Dethridge appeared in the garden, and went to the grating in the gate. + Anne heard Sir Patrick’s voice, clear and resolute. Every word he said + reached her ears through the open window. + </p> + <p> + “Be so good as to give my card to Mr. Delamayn. Say that I bring him a + message from Holchester House, and that I can only deliver it at a + personal interview.” + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge returned to the cottage. Another, and a longer interval + elapsed. At the end of the time, Geoffrey himself appeared in the front + garden, with the key in his hand. Anne’s heart throbbed fast as she saw + him unlock the gate, and asked herself what was to follow. + </p> + <p> + To her unutterable astonishment, Geoffrey admitted Sir Patrick without the + slightest hesitation—and, more still, he invited Blanche to leave + the carriage and come in! + </p> + <p> + “Let by-gones be by-gones,” Anne heard him say to Sir Patrick. “I only + want to do the right thing. If it’s the right thing for visitors to come + here, so soon after my father’s death, come, and welcome. My own notion + was, when you proposed it before, that it was wrong. I am not much versed + in these things. I leave it to you.” + </p> + <p> + “A visitor who brings you messages from your mother and your brother,” Sir + Patrick answered gravely, “is a person whom it is your duty to admit, Mr. + Delamayn, under any circumstances.” + </p> + <p> + “And he ought to be none the less welcome,” added Blanche, “when he is + accompanied by your wife’s oldest and dearest friend.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked, in stolid submission, from one to the other. + </p> + <p> + “I am not much versed in these things,” he repeated. “I have said already, + I leave it to you.” + </p> + <p> + They were by this time close under Anne’s window. She showed herself. Sir + Patrick took off his hat. Blanche kissed her hand with a cry of joy, and + attempted to enter the cottage. Geoffrey stopped her—and called to + his wife to come down. + </p> + <p> + “No! no!” said Blanche. “Let me go up to her in her room.” + </p> + <p> + She attempted for the second time to gain the stairs. For the second time + Geoffrey stopped her. “Don’t trouble yourself,” he said; “she is coming + down.” + </p> + <p> + Anne joined them in the front garden. Blanche flew into her arms and + devoured her with kisses. Sir Patrick took her hand in silence. For the + first time in Anne’s experience of him, the bright, resolute, self-reliant + old man was, for the moment, at a loss what to say, at a loss what to do. + His eyes, resting on her in mute sympathy and interest, said plainly, “In + your husband’s presence I must not trust myself to speak.” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey broke the silence. + </p> + <p> + “Will you go into the drawing-room?” he asked, looking with steady + attention at his wife and Blanche. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey’s voice appeared to rouse Sir Patrick. He raised his head—he + looked like himself again. + </p> + <p> + “Why go indoors this lovely weather?” he said. “Suppose we take a turn in + the garden?” + </p> + <p> + Blanche pressed Anne’s hand significantly. The proposal was evidently made + for a purpose. They turned the corner of the cottage and gained the large + garden at the back—the two ladies walking together, arm in arm; Sir + Patrick and Geoffrey following them. Little by little, Blanche quickened + her pace. “I have got my instructions,” she whispered to Anne. “Let’s get + out of his hearing.” + </p> + <p> + It was more easily said than done. Geoffrey kept close behind them. + </p> + <p> + “Consider my lameness, Mr. Delamayn,” said Sir Patrick. “Not quite so + fast.” + </p> + <p> + It was well intended. But Geoffrey’s cunning had taken the alarm. Instead + of dropping behind with Sir Patrick, he called to his wife. + </p> + <p> + “Consider Sir Patrick’s lameness,” he repeated. “Not quite so fast.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick met that check with characteristic readiness. When Anne + slackened her pace, he addressed himself to Geoffrey, stopping + deliberately in the middle of the path. “Let me give you my message from + Holchester House,” he said. The two ladies were still slowly walking on. + Geoffrey was placed between the alternatives of staying with Sir Patrick + and leaving them by themselves—or of following them and leaving Sir + Patrick. Deliberately, on his side, he followed the ladies. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick called him back. “I told you I wished to speak to you,” he + said, sharply. + </p> + <p> + Driven to bay, Geoffrey openly revealed his resolution to give Blanche no + opportunity of speaking in private to Anne. He called to Anne to stop. + </p> + <p> + “I have no secrets from my wife,” he said. “And I expect my wife to have + no secrets from me. Give me the message in her hearing.” + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s eyes brightened with indignation. He controlled himself, and + looked for an instant significantly at his niece before he spoke to + Geoffrey. + </p> + <p> + “As you please,” he said. “Your brother requests me to tell you that the + duties of the new position in which he is placed occupy the whole of his + time, and will prevent him from returning to Fulham, as he had proposed, + for some days to come. Lady Holchester, hearing that I was likely to see + you, has charged me with another message, from herself. She is not well + enough to leave home; and she wishes to see you at Holchester House + to-morrow—accompanied (as she specially desires) by Mrs. Delamayn.” + </p> + <p> + In giving the two messages, he gradually raised his voice to a louder tone + than usual. While he was speaking, Blanche (warned to follow her + instructions by the glance her uncle had cast at her) lowered her voice, + and said to Anne: + </p> + <p> + “He won’t consent to the separation as long as he has got you here. He is + trying for higher terms. Leave him, and he must submit. Put a candle in + your window, if you can get into the garden to-night. If not, any other + night. Make for the back gate in the wall. Sir Patrick and Arnold will + manage the rest.” + </p> + <p> + She slipped those words into Anne’s ears—swinging her parasol to and + fro, and looking as if the merest gossip was dropping from her lips—with + the dexterity which rarely fails a woman when she is called on to assist a + deception in which her own interests are concerned. Cleverly as it had + been done, however, Geoffrey’s inveterate distrust was stirred into action + by it. Blanche had got to her last sentence before he was able to turn his + attention from what Sir Patrick was saying to what his niece was saying. A + quicker man would have heard more. Geoffrey had only distinctly heard the + first half of the last sentence. + </p> + <p> + “What’s that,” he asked, “about Sir Patrick and Arnold?” + </p> + <p> + “Nothing very interesting to you,” Blanche answered, readily. “I will + repeat it if you like. I was telling Anne about my step-mother, Lady + Lundie. After what happened that day in Portland Place, she has requested + Sir Patrick and Arnold to consider themselves, for the future, as total + strangers to her. That’s all.” + </p> + <p> + “Oh!” said Geoffrey, eying her narrowly. + </p> + <p> + “Ask my uncle,” returned Blanche, “if you don’t believe that I have + reported her correctly. She gave us all our dismissal, in her most + magnificent manner, and in those very words. Didn’t she, Sir Patrick?” + </p> + <p> + It was perfectly true. Blanche’s readiness of resource had met the + emergency of the moment by describing something, in connection with Sir + Patrick and Arnold, which had really happened. Silenced on one side, in + spite of himself, Geoffrey was at the same moment pressed on the other for + an answer to his mother’s message. + </p> + <p> + “I must take your reply to Lady Holchester,” said Sir Patrick. “What is it + to be?” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey looked hard at him, without making any reply. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick repeated the message—with a special emphasis on that + part of it which related to Anne. The emphasis roused Geoffrey’s temper. + </p> + <p> + “You and my mother have made that message up between you, to try me!” he + burst out. “Damn all underhand work is what <i>I</i> say!” + </p> + <p> + “I am waiting for your answer,” persisted Sir Patrick, steadily ignoring + the words which had just been addressed to him. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey glanced at Anne, and suddenly recovered himself. + </p> + <p> + “My love to my mother,” he said. “I’ll go to her to-morrow—and take + my wife with me, with the greatest pleasure. Do you hear that? With the + greatest pleasure.” He stopped to observe the effect of his reply. Sir + Patrick waited impenetrably to hear more—if he had more to say. “I’m + sorry I lost my temper just now,” he resumed “I am badly treated—I’m + distrusted without a cause. I ask you to bear witness,” he added, his + voice getting louder again, while his eyes moved uneasily backward and + forward between Sir Patrick and Anne, “that I treat my wife as becomes a + lady. Her friend calls on her—and she’s free to receive her friend. + My mother wants to see her—and I promise to take her to my mother’s. + At two o’clock to-morrow. Where am I to blame? You stand there looking at + me, and saying nothing. Where am I to blame?” + </p> + <p> + “If a man’s own conscience justifies him, Mr. Delamayn,” said Sir Patrick, + “the opinions of others are of very little importance. My errand here is + performed.” + </p> + <p> + As he turned to bid Anne farewell, the uneasiness that he felt at leaving + her forced its way to view. The color faded out of his face. His hand + trembled as it closed tenderly and firmly on hers. “I shall see you + to-morrow, at Holchester House,” he said; giving his arm while he spoke to + Blanche. He took leave of Geoffrey, without looking at him again, and + without seeing his offered hand. In another minute they were gone. + </p> + <p> + Anne waited on the lower floor of the cottage while Geoffrey closed and + locked the gate. She had no wish to appear to avoid him, after the answer + that he had sent to his mother’s message. He returned slowly half-way + across the front garden, looked toward the passage in which she was + standing, passed before the door, and disappeared round the corner of the + cottage on his way to the back garden. The inference was not to be + mistaken. It was Geoffrey who was avoiding <i>her.</i> Had he lied to Sir + Patrick? When the next day came would he find reasons of his own for + refusing to take her to Holchester House? + </p> + <p> + She went up stairs. At the same moment Hester Dethridge opened her bedroom + door to come out. Observing Anne, she closed it again and remained + invisible in her room. Once more the inference was not to be mistaken. + Hester Dethridge, also, had her reasons for avoiding Anne. + </p> + <p> + What did it mean? What object could there be in common between Hester and + Geoffrey? + </p> + <p> + There was no fathoming the meaning of it. Anne’s thoughts reverted to the + communication which had been secretly made to her by Blanche. It was not + in womanhood to be insensible to such devotion as Sir Patrick’s conduct + implied. Terrible as her position had become in its ever-growing + uncertainty, in its never-ending suspense, the oppression of it yielded + for the moment to the glow of pride and gratitude which warmed her heart, + as she thought of the sacrifices that had been made, of the perils that + were still to be encountered, solely for her sake. To shorten the period + of suspense seemed to be a duty which she owed to Sir Patrick, as well as + to herself. Why, in her situation, wait for what the next day might bring + forth? If the opportunity offered, she determined to put the signal in the + window that night. + </p> + <p> + Toward evening she heard once more the noises which appeared to indicate + that repairs of some sort were going on in the house. This time the sounds + were fainter; and they came, as she fancied, not from the spare room, as + before, but from Geoffrey’s room, next to it. + </p> + <p> + The dinner was later than usual that day. Hester Dethridge did not appear + with the tray till dusk. Anne spoke to her, and received a mute sign in + answer. Determined to see the woman’s face plainly, she put a question + which required a written answer on the slate; and, telling Hester to wait, + went to the mantle-piece to light her candle. When she turned round with + the lighted candle in her hand, Hester was gone. + </p> + <p> + Night came. She rang her bell to have the tray taken away. The fall of a + strange footstep startled her outside her door. She called out, “Who’s + there?” The voice of the lad whom Geoffrey employed to go on errands for + him answered her. + </p> + <p> + “What do you want here?” she asked, through the door. + </p> + <p> + “Mr. Delamayn sent me up, ma’am. He wishes to speak to you directly.” + </p> + <p> + Anne found Geoffrey in the dining-room. His object in wishing to speak to + her was, on the surface of it, trivial enough. He wanted to know how she + would prefer going to Holchester House on the next day—by the + railway, or in a carriage. “If you prefer driving,” he said, “the boy has + come here for orders, and he can tell them to send a carriage from the + livery-stables, as he goes home.” + </p> + <p> + “The railway will do perfectly well for me,” Anne replied. + </p> + <p> + Instead of accepting the answer, and dropping the subject, he asked her to + reconsider her decision. There was an absent, uneasy expression in his eye + as he begged her not to consult economy at the expense of her own comfort. + He appeared to have some reason of his own for preventing her from leaving + the room. “Sit d own a minute, and think before you decide,” he said. + Having forced her to take a chair, he put his head outside the door and + directed the lad to go up stairs, and see if he had left his pipe in his + bedroom. “I want you to go in comfort, as a lady should,” he repeated, + with the uneasy look more marked than ever. Before Anne could reply, the + lad’s voice reached them from the bedroom floor, raised in shrill alarm, + and screaming “Fire!” + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey ran up stairs. Anne followed him. The lad met them at the top of + the stairs. He pointed to the open door of Anne’s room. She was absolutely + certain of having left her lighted candle, when she went down to Geoffrey, + at a safe distance from the bed-curtains. The bed-curtains, nevertheless, + were in a blaze of fire. + </p> + <p> + There was a supply of water to the cottage, on the upper floor. The + bedroom jugs and cans usually in their places at an earlier hour, were + standing that night at the cistern. An empty pail was left near them. + Directing the lad to bring him water from these resources, Geoffrey tore + down the curtains in a flaming heap, partly on the bed and partly on the + sofa near it. Using the can and the pail alternately, as the boy brought + them, he drenched the bed and the sofa. It was all over in little more + than a minute. The cottage was saved. But the bed-furniture was destroyed; + and the room, as a matter of course, was rendered uninhabitable, for that + night at least, and probably for more nights to come. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey set down the empty pail; and, turning to Anne, pointed across the + passage. + </p> + <p> + “You won’t be much inconvenienced by this,” he said. “You have only to + shift your quarters to the spare room.” + </p> + <p> + With the assistance of the lad, he moved Anne’s boxes, and the chest of + drawers, which had escaped damage, into the opposite room. This done, he + cautioned her to be careful with her candles for the future—and went + down stairs, without waiting to hear what she said in reply. The lad + followed him, and was dismissed for the night. + </p> + <p> + Even in the confusion which attended the extinguishing of the fire, the + conduct of Hester Dethridge had been remarkable enough to force itself on + the attention of Anne. + </p> + <p> + She had come out from her bedroom, when the alarm was given; had looked at + the flaming curtains; and had drawn back, stolidly submissive, into a + corner to wait the event. There she had stood—to all appearance, + utterly indifferent to the possible destruction of her own cottage. The + fire extinguished, she still waited impenetrably in her corner, while the + chest of drawers and the boxes were being moved—then locked the + door, without even a passing glance at the scorched ceiling and the burned + bed-furniture—put the key into her pocket—and went back to her + room. + </p> + <p> + Anne had hitherto not shared the conviction felt by most other persons who + were brought into contact with Hester Dethridge, that the woman’s mind was + deranged. After what she had just seen, however, the general impression + became her impression too. She had thought of putting certain questions to + Hester, when they were left together, as to the origin of the fire. + Reflection decided her on saying nothing, for that night at least. She + crossed the passage, and entered the spare room—the room which she + had declined to occupy on her arrival at the cottage, and which she was + obliged to sleep in now. + </p> + <p> + She was instantly struck by a change in the disposition of the furniture + of the room. + </p> + <p> + The bed had been moved. The head—set, when she had last seen it, + against the side wall of the cottage—was placed now against the + partition wall which separated the room from Geoffrey’s room. This new + arrangement had evidently been effected with a settled purpose of some + sort. The hook in the ceiling which supported the curtains (the bed, + unlike the bed in the other room, having no canopy attached to it) had + been moved so as to adapt itself to the change that had been made. The + chairs and the washhand-stand, formerly placed against the partition wall, + were now, as a matter of necessity, shifted over to the vacant space + against the side wall of the cottage. For the rest, no other alteration + was visible in any part of the room. + </p> + <p> + In Anne’s situation, any event not immediately intelligible on the face of + it, was an event to be distrusted. Was there a motive for the change in + the position of the bed? And was it, by any chance, a motive in which she + was concerned? + </p> + <p> + The doubt had barely occurred to her, before a startling suspicion + succeeded it. Was there some secret purpose to be answered by making her + sleep in the spare room? Did the question which the servant had heard + Geoffrey put to Hester, on the previous night, refer to this? Had the fire + which had so unaccountably caught the curtains in her own room, been, by + any possibility, a fire purposely kindled, to force her out? + </p> + <p> + She dropped into the nearest chair, faint with horror, as those three + questions forced themselves in rapid succession on her mind. + </p> + <p> + After waiting a little, she recovered self-possession enough to recognize + the first plain necessity of putting her suspicions to the test. It was + possible that her excited fancy had filled her with a purely visionary + alarm. For all she knew to the contrary, there might be some undeniably + sufficient reason for changing the position of the bed. She went out, and + knocked at the door of Hester Dethridge’s room. + </p> + <p> + “I want to speak to you,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Hester came out. Anne pointed to the spare room, and led the way to it. + Hester followed her. + </p> + <p> + “Why have you changed the place of the bed,” she asked, “from the wall + there, to the wall here?” + </p> + <p> + Stolidly submissive to the question, as she had been stolidly submissive + to the fire, Hester Dethridge wrote her reply. On all other occasions she + was accustomed to look the persons to whom she offered her slate steadily + in the face. Now, for the first time, she handed it to Anne with her eyes + on the floor. The one line written contained no direct answer: the words + were these: + </p> + <p> + “I have meant to move it, for some time past.” + </p> + <p> + “I ask you why you have moved it.” + </p> + <p> + She wrote these four words on the slate: “The wall is damp.” + </p> + <p> + Anne looked at the wall. There was no sign of damp on the paper. She + passed her hand over it. Feel where she might, the wall was dry. + </p> + <p> + “That is not your reason,” she said. + </p> + <p> + Hester stood immovable. + </p> + <p> + “There is no dampness in the wall.” + </p> + <p> + Hester pointed persistently with her pencil to the four words, still + without looking up—waited a moment for Anne to read them again—and + left the room. + </p> + <p> + It was plainly useless to call her back. Anne’s first impulse when she was + alone again was to secure the door. She not only locked it, but bolted it + at top and bottom. The mortise of the lock and the staples of the bolts, + when she tried them, were firm. The lurking treachery—wherever else + it might be—was not in the fastenings of the door. + </p> + <p> + She looked all round the room; examining the fire place, the window and + its shutters, the interior of the wardrobe, the hidden space under the + bed. Nothing was any where to be discovered which could justify the most + timid person living in feeling suspicion or alarm. + </p> + <p> + Appearances, fair as they were, failed to convince her. The presentiment + of some hidden treachery, steadily getting nearer and nearer to her in the + dark, had rooted itself firmly in her mind. She sat down, and tried to + trace her way back to the clew, through the earlier events of the day. + </p> + <p> + The effort was fruitless: nothing definite, nothing tangible, rewarded it. + Worse still, a new doubt grew out of it—a doubt whether the motive + which Sir Patrick had avowed (through Blanche) was the motive for helping + her which was really in his mind. + </p> + <p> + Did he sincerely believe Geoffrey’s conduct to be animated by no worse + object than a mercenary object? and was his only purpose in planning to + remove her out of her husband’s reach, to force Geoffrey’s consent to + their separation on the terms which Julius had proposed? Was this really + the sole end that he had in view? or was he secretly convinced (knowing + Anne’s position as he knew it) that she was in personal danger at the + cottage? and had he considerately kept that conviction concealed, in the + fear that he might otherwise encourage her to feel alarmed about herself? + She looked round the strange room, in the silence of the night, and she + felt that the latter interpretation was the likeliest interpretation of + the two. + </p> + <p> + The sounds caused by the closing of the doors and windows reached her from + the ground-floor. What was to be done? + </p> + <p> + It was impossible, to show the signal which had been agreed on to Sir + Patrick and Arnold. The window in which they expected to see it was the + window of the room in which the fire had broken out—the room which + Hester Dethridge had locked up for the night. + </p> + <p> + It was equally hopeless to wait until the policeman passed on his beat, + and to call for help. Even if she could prevail upon herself to make that + open acknowledgment of distrust under her husband’s roof, and even if help + was near, what valid reason could she give for raising an alarm? There was + not the shadow of a reason to justify any one in placing her under the + protection of the law. + </p> + <p> + As a last resource, impelled by her blind distrust of the change in the + position of the bed, she attempted to move it. The utmost exertion of her + strength did not suffice to stir the heavy piece of furniture out of its + place, by so much as a hair’s breadth. + </p> + <p> + There was no alternative but to trust to the security of the locked and + bolted door, and to keep watch through the night—certain that Sir + Patrick and Arnold were, on their part, also keeping watch in the near + neighborhood of the cottage. She took out her work and her books; and + returned to her chair, placing it near the table, in the middle of the + room. + </p> + <p> + The last noises which told of life and movement about her died away. The + breathless stillness of the night closed round her. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0056" id="link2HCH0056"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SIXTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE MEANS. + </h3> + <p> + THE new day dawned; the sun rose; the household was astir again. Inside + the spare room, and outside the spare room, nothing had happened. + </p> + <p> + At the hour appointed for leaving the cottage to pay the promised visit to + Holchester House, Hester Dethridge and Geoffrey were alone together in the + bedroom in which Anne had passed the night. + </p> + <p> + “She’s dressed, and waiting for me in the front garden,” said Geoffrey. + “You wanted to see me here alone. What is it?” + </p> + <p> + Hester pointed to the bed. + </p> + <p> + “You want it moved from the wall?” + </p> + <p> + Hester nodded her head. + </p> + <p> + They moved the bed some feet away from the partition wall. After a + momentary pause, Geoffrey spoke again. + </p> + <p> + “It must be done to-night,” he said. “Her friends may interfere; the girl + may come back. It must be done to-night.” + </p> + <p> + Hester bowed her head slowly. + </p> + <p> + “How long do you want to be left by yourself in the house?” + </p> + <p> + She held up three of her fingers. + </p> + <p> + “Does that mean three hours?” + </p> + <p> + She nodded her head. + </p> + <p> + “Will it be done in that time?” + </p> + <p> + She made the affirmative sign once more. + </p> + <p> + Thus far, she had never lifted her eyes to his. In her manner of listening + to him when he spoke, in the slightest movement that she made when + necessity required it, the same lifeless submission to him, the same mute + horror of him, was expressed. He had, thus far, silently resented this, on + his side. On the point of leaving the room the restraint which he had laid + on himself gave way. For the first time, he resented it in words. + </p> + <p> + “Why the devil can’t you look at me?” he asked + </p> + <p> + She let the question pass, without a sign to show that she had heard him. + He angrily repeated it. She wrote on her slate, and held it out to him—still + without raising her eyes to his face. + </p> + <p> + “You know you can speak,” he said. “You know I have found you out. What’s + the use of playing the fool with <i>me?</i>” + </p> + <p> + She persisted in holding the slate before him. He read these words: + </p> + <p> + “I am dumb to you, and blind to you. Let me be.” + </p> + <p> + “Let you be!” he repeated. “It’s a little late in the day to be + scrupulous, after what you have done. Do you want your Confession back, or + not?” + </p> + <p> + As the reference to the Confession passed his lips, she raised her head. A + faint tinge of color showed itself on her livid cheeks; a momentary spasm + of pain stirred her deathlike face. The one last interest left in the + woman’s life was the interest of recovering the manuscript which had been + taken from her. To <i>that</i> appeal the stunned intelligence still + faintly answered—and to no other. + </p> + <p> + “Remember the bargain on your side,” Geoffrey went on, “and I’ll remember + the bargain on mine. This is how it stands, you know. I have read your + Confession; and I find one thing wanting. You don’t tell how it was done. + I know you smothered him—but I don’t know how. I want to know. + You’re dumb; and you can’t tell me. You must do to the wall here what you + did in the other house. You run no risks. There isn’t a soul to see you. + You have got the place to yourself. When I come back let me find this wall + like the other wall—at that small hour of the morning you know, when + you were waiting, with the towel in your hand, for the first stroke of the + clock. Let me find that; and to-morrow you shall have your Confession back + again.” + </p> + <p> + As the reference to the Confession passed his lips for the second time, + the sinking energy in the woman leaped up in her once more. She snatched + her slate from her side; and, writing on it rapidly, held it, with both + hands, close under his eyes. He read these words: + </p> + <p> + “I won’t wait. I must have it to-night.” + </p> + <p> + “Do you think I keep your Confession about me?” said Geoffrey. “I haven’t + even got it in the house.” + </p> + <p> + She staggered back; and looked up for the first time. + </p> + <p> + “Don’t alarm yourself,” he went on. “It’s sealed up with my seal; and it’s + safe in my bankers’ keeping. I posted it to them myself. You don’t stick + at a trifle, Mrs. Dethridge. If I had kept it locked up in the house, you + might have forced the lock when my back was turned. If I had kept it about + me—I might have had that towel over my face, in the small hours of + the morning! The bankers will give you back your Confession—just as + they have received it from me—on receipt of an order in my + handwriting. Do what I have told you; and you shall have the order + to-night.” + </p> + <p> + She passed her apron over her face, and drew a long breath of relief. + Geoffrey turned to the door. + </p> + <p> + “I will be back at six this evening,” he said. “Shall I find it done?” + </p> + <p> + She bowed her head. + </p> + <p> + His first condition accepted, he proceeded to the second. + </p> + <p> + “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?” + </p> + <p> + She made the affirmative sign once more. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + They met in the passage. + </p> + <p> + “Tired of waiting in the garden?” he asked, abruptly. + </p> + <p> + She pointed to the dining-room. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Step out!” he said. “We shall lose the train.” + </p> + <p> + They started for their visit to Holchester House. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2HCH0057" id="link2HCH0057"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + CHAPTER THE FIFTY-SEVENTH. + </h2> + <h3> + THE END. + </h3> + <p> + AT a few minutes before six o’clock that evening, Lord Holchester’s + carriage brought Geoffrey and Anne back to the cottage. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Done?” he asked, in a whisper. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + She removed her bonnet and mantle, and sat down to rest. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + Anne at once engaged to comply with the request. + </p> + <p> + “Are you ill?” she asked; noticing, faint as the light now was, something + strangely altered in Hester’s manner. + </p> + <p> + Without looking up, Hester shook her head. + </p> + <p> + “Has any thing happened to vex you?” + </p> + <p> + The negative sign was repeated. + </p> + <p> + “Have I offended you?” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Concluding that she had inadvertently said, or done, something to offend + 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. + </p> + <p> + After what Mr. Speedwell had told her, it was her duty to interfere. She + performed her duty, without an instant’s hesitation. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me for interrupting you,” she said. “I think you have forgotten + what Mr. Speedwell told you about that.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Is she safe at her tea?” he asked, removing his heavy boots, and putting + on the slippers which were placed ready for him. + </p> + <p> + Hester bowed her head. + </p> + <p> + He pointed up the stairs. “You go first,” he whispered. “No nonsense! and + no noise!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Well?” he said. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + By the last dim rays of twilight, Geoffrey looked at the wall. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge got down from the chair, and made signs for a light. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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! + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + He beckoned to Hester to approach him. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey was satisfied. He pointed next to the towels in his room. + </p> + <p> + “Take one of them,” he said, “and show me how you did it, with your own + hands.” + </p> + <p> + As he said the words, Anne’s voice reached his ear from below, calling for + “Mrs. Dethridge.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “Put it right again,” he said. “Instantly!” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “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.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + “What were you looking for?” he whispered after her. + </p> + <p> + She neither answered, nor looked back—she went her way into the + kitchen. + </p> + <p> + He waited a minute, and then followed her. + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + The night advanced; the clock of Putney Church struck ten. + </p> + <p> + Anne appeared again from the drawing room, with her bedroom candle in her + hand. + </p> + <p> + “Put out the lights,” she said to Hester, at the kitchen door; “I am going + up stairs.” + </p> + <p> + 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. + </p> + <p> + 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 repose which she sorely needed, + the chances were that her nerves might fail her, through sheer exhaustion, + when the time came for facing the risk and making the effort to escape. + Sleep was falling on her even now—and sleep she must have. She had + no fear of failing to wake at the needful time. Falling asleep, with a + special necessity for rising at a given hour present to her mind, Anne + (like most other sensitively organized people) could trust herself to wake + at that given hour, instinctively. She put her lighted candle in a safe + position, and laid down on the bed. In less than five minutes, she was in + a deep sleep. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The church clock struck the quarter to eleven. Hester Dethridge showed + herself at the back garden door. Geoffrey crossed the lawn, and joined + her. The light of the lamp in the passage fell on his face. She started + back from the sight of it. + </p> + <p> + “What’s wrong?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + She shook her head; and pointed through the dining-room door to the + brandy-bottle on the table. + </p> + <p> + “I’m as sober as you are, you fool!” he said. “Whatever else it is, it’s + not that.” + </p> + <p> + Hester looked at him again. He was right. However unsteady his gait might + be, his speech was not the speech, his eyes were not the eyes, of a + drunken man. + </p> + <p> + “Is she in her room for the night?” + </p> + <p> + Hester made the affirmative sign. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey ascended the st airs, swaying from side to side. He stopped at + the top, and beckoned to Hester to join him. He went on into his room; + and, signing to her to follow him, closed the door. + </p> + <p> + He looked at the partition wall—without approaching it. Hester + waited, behind him. + </p> + <p> + “Is she asleep?” he asked. + </p> + <p> + Hester went to the wall; listened at it; and made the affirmative reply. + </p> + <p> + He sat down. “My head’s queer,” he said. “Give me a drink of water.” He + drank part of the water, and poured the rest over his head. Hester turned + toward the door to leave him. He instantly stopped her. “<i>I</i> can’t + unwind the strings. <i>I</i> can’t lift up the paper. Do it.” + </p> + <p> + She sternly made the sign of refusal: she resolutely opened the door to + leave him. “Do you want your Confession back?” he asked. She closed the + door, stolidly submissive in an instant; and crossed to the partition + wall. + </p> + <p> + She lifted the loose strips of paper on either side of the wall—pointed + through the hollowed place—and drew back again to the other end of + the room. + </p> + <p> + He rose and walked unsteadily from the chair to the foot of his bed. + Holding by the wood-work of the bed; he waited a little. While he waited, + he became conscious of a change in the strange sensations that possessed + him. A feeling as of a breath of cold air passed over the right side of + his head. He became steady again: he could calculate his distances: he + could put his hands through the hollowed place, and draw aside the light + curtains, hanging from the hook in the ceiling over the head of her bed. + He could look at his sleeping wife. + </p> + <p> + She was dimly visible, by the light of the candle placed at the other end + of her room. The worn and weary look had disappeared from her face. All + that had been purest and sweetest in it, in the by-gone time, seemed to be + renewed by the deep sleep that held her gently. She was young again in the + dim light: she was beautiful in her calm repose. Her head lay back on the + pillow. Her upturned face was in a position which placed her completely at + the mercy of the man under whose eyes she was sleeping—the man who + was looking at her, with the merciless resolution in him to take her life. + </p> + <p> + After waiting a while, he drew back. “She’s more like a child than a woman + to-night,” he muttered to himself under his breath. He glanced across the + room at Hester Dethridge. The lighted candle which she had brought up + stairs with her was burning near the place where she stood. “Blow it out,” + he whispered. She never moved. He repeated the direction. There she stood, + deaf to him. + </p> + <p> + What was she doing? She was looking fixedly into one of the corners of the + room. + </p> + <p> + He turned his head again toward the hollowed place in the wall. He looked + at the peaceful face on the pillow once more. He deliberately revived his + own vindictive sense of the debt that he owed her. “But for you,” he + whispered to himself, “I should have won the race: but for you, I should + have been friends with my father: but for you, I might marry Mrs. + Glenarm.” He turned back again into the room while the sense of it was at + its fiercest in him. He looked round and round him. He took up a towel; + considered for a moment; and threw it down again. + </p> + <p> + A new idea struck him. In two steps he was at the side of his bed. He + seized on one of the pillows, and looked suddenly at Hester. “It’s not a + drunken brute, this time,” he said to her. “It’s a woman who will fight + for her life. The pillow’s the safest of the two.” She never answered him, + and never looked toward him. He made once more for the place in the wall; + and stopped midway between it and his bed—stopped, and cast a + backward glance over his shoulder. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge was stirring at last. + </p> + <p> + With no third person in the room, she was looking, and moving, + nevertheless, as if she was following a third person along the wall, from + the corner. Her lips were parted in horror; her eyes, opening wider and + wider, stared rigid and glittering at the empty wall. Step by step she + stole nearer and nearer to Geoffrey, still following some visionary Thing, + which was stealing nearer and nearer, too. He asked himself what it meant. + Was the terror of the deed that he was about to do more than the woman’s + brain could bear? Would she burst out screaming, and wake his wife? + </p> + <p> + He hurried to the place in the wall—to seize the chance, while the + chance was his. + </p> + <p> + He steadied his strong hold on the pillow. + </p> + <p> + He stooped to pass it through the opening. + </p> + <p> + He poised it over Anne’s sleeping face. + </p> + <p> + At the same moment he felt Hester Dethridge’s hand laid on him from + behind. The touch ran through him, from head to foot, like a touch of ice. + He drew back with a start, and faced her. Her eyes were staring straight + over his shoulder at something behind him—looking as they had looked + in the garden at Windygates. + </p> + <p> + Before he could speak he felt the flash of her eyes in <i>his</i> eyes. + For the third time, she had seen the Apparition behind him. The homicidal + frenzy possessed her. She flew at his throat like a wild beast. The feeble + old woman attacked the athlete! + </p> + <p> + He dropped the pillow, and lifted his terrible right arm to brush her from + him, as he might have brushed an insect from him. + </p> + <p> + Even as he raised the arm a frightful distortion seized on his face. As if + with an invisible hand, it dragged down the brow and the eyelid on the + right; it dragged down the mouth on the same side. His arm fell helpless; + his whole body, on the side under the arm, gave way. He dropped on the + floor, like a man shot dead. + </p> + <p> + Hester Dethridge pounced on his prostrate body—knelt on his broad + breast—and fastened her ten fingers on his throat. + </p> + <hr /> + <p> + The shock of the fall woke Anne on the instant. She started up—looked + round—and saw a gap in the wall at the head of her bed, and the + candle-light glimmering in the next room. Panic-stricken; doubting, for + the moment, if she were in her right mind, she drew back, waiting—listening—looking. + She saw nothing but the glimmering light in the room; she heard nothing + but a hoarse gasping, as of some person laboring for breath. The sound + ceased. There was an interval of silence. Then the head of Hester + Dethridge rose slowly into sight through the gap in the wall—rose + with the glittering light of madness in the eyes, and looked at her. + </p> + <p> + She flew to the open window, and screamed for help. + </p> + <p> + Sir Patrick’s voice answered her, from the road in front of the cottage. + </p> + <p> + “Wait for me, for God’s sake!” she cried. + </p> + <p> + She fled from the room, and rushed down the stairs. In another moment, she + had opened the door, and was out in the front garden. + </p> + <p> + As she ran to the gate, she heard the voice of a strange man on the other + side of it. Sir Patrick called to her encouragingly. “The police man is + with us,” he said. “He patrols the garden at night—he has a key.” As + he spoke the gate was opened from the outside. She saw Sir Patrick, + Arnold, and the policeman. She staggered toward them as they came in—she + was just able to say, “Up stairs!” before her senses failed her. Sir + Patrick saved her from falling. He placed her on the bench in the garden, + and waited by her, while Arnold and the policeman hurried into the + cottage. + </p> + <p> + “Where first?” asked Arnold. + </p> + <p> + “The room the lady called from,” said the policeman + </p> + <p> + They mounted the stairs, and entered Anne’s room. The gap in the wall was + instantly observed by both of them. They looked through it. + </p> + <p> + Geoffrey Delamayn’s dead body lay on the floor. Hester Dethridge was + kneeling at his head, praying. + </p> + <p> + <a name="link2H_EPIL" id="link2H_EPIL"> + <!-- H2 anchor --> </a> + </p> + <div style="height: 4em;"> + <br /><br /><br /><br /> + </div> + <h2> + EPILOGUE. + </h2> + <p> + A MORNING CALL. I. + </p> + <p> + THE newspapers have announced the return of Lord and Lady Holchester to + their residence in London, after an absence on the continent of more than + six months. + </p> + <p> + It is the height of the season. All day long, within the canonical hours, + the door of Holchester House is perpetually opening to receive visitors. + The vast majority leave their cards, and go away again. Certain privileged + individuals only, get out of their carriages, and enter the house. + </p> + <p> + Among these last, arriving at an earlier hour than is customary, is a + person of distinction who is positively bent on seeing either the master + or the mistress of the house, and who will take no denial. While this + person is parleying with the chief of the servants, Lord Holchester, + passing from one room to another, happens to cross the inner end of the + hall. The person instantly darts at him with a cry of “Dear Lord + Holchester!” Julius turns, and sees—Lady Lundie! + </p> + <p> + He is fairly caught, and he gives way with his best grace. As he opens the + door of the nearest room for her ladyship, he furtively consults his + watch, and says in his inmost soul, “How am I to get rid of her before the + others come?” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie settles down on a sofa in a whirlwind of silk and lace, and + becomes, in her own majestic way, “perfectly charming.” She makes the most + affectionate inquiries about Lady Holchester, about the Dowager Lady + Holchester, about Julius himself. Where have they been? what have they + seen? have time and change helped them to recover the shock of that + dreadful event, to which Lady Lundie dare not more particularly allude? + Julius answers resignedly, and a little absently. He makes polite + inquiries, on his side, as to her ladyship’s plans and proceedings—with + a mind uneasily conscious of the inexorable lapse of time, and of certain + probabilities which that lapse may bring with it. Lady Lundie has very + little to say about herself. She is only in town for a few weeks. Her life + is a life of retirement. “My modest round of duties at Windygates, Lord + Holchester; occasionally relieved, when my mind is overworked, by the + society of a few earnest friends whose views harmonize with my own—my + existence passes (not quite uselessly, I hope) in that way. I have no + news; I see nothing—except, indeed, yesterday, a sight of the + saddest kind.” She pauses there. Julius observes that he is expected to + make inquiries, and makes them accordingly. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie hesitates; announces that her news refers to that painful past + event which she has already touched on; acknowledges that she could not + find herself in London without feeling an act of duty involved in making + inquiries at the asylum in which Hester Dethridge is confined for life; + announces that she has not only made the inquiries, but has seen the + unhappy woman herself; has spoken to her, has found her unconscious of her + dreadful position, incapable of the smallest exertion of memory, resigned + to the existence that she leads, and likely (in the opinion of the medical + superintendent) to live for some years to come. Having stated these facts, + her ladyship is about to make a few of those “remarks appropriate to the + occasion,” in which she excels, when the door opens; and Lady Holchester, + in search of her missing husband, enters the room. + </p> + <p> + II. + </p> + <p> + There is a new outburst of affectionate interest on Lady Lundie’s part—met + civilly, but not cordially, by Lady Holchester. Julius’s wife seems, like + Julius, to be uneasily conscious of the lapse of time. Like Julius again, + she privately wonders how long Lady Lundie is going to stay. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie shows no signs of leaving the sofa. She has evidently come to + Holchester House to say something—and she has not said it yet. Is + she going to say it? Yes. She is going to get, by a roundabout way, to the + object in view. She has another inquiry of the affectionate sort to make. + May she be permitted to resume the subject of Lord and Lady Holchester’s + travels? They have been at Rome. Can they confirm the shocking + intelligence which has reached her of the “apostasy” of Mrs. Glenarm? + </p> + <p> + Lady Holchester can confirm it, by personal experience. Mrs. Glenarm has + renounced the world, and has taken refuge in the bosom of the Holy + Catholic Church. Lady Holchester has seen her in a convent at Rome. She is + passing through the period of her probation; and she is resolved to take + the veil. Lady Lundie, as a good Protestant, lifts her hands in horror—declares + the topic to be too painful to dwell on—and, by way of varying it, + goes straight to the point at last. Has Lady I Holchester, in the course + of her continental experience, happened to meet with, or to hear of—Mrs. + Arnold Brinkworth? + </p> + <p> + “I have ceased, as you know, to hold any communication with my relatives,” + Lady Lundie explains. “The course they took at the time of our family + trial—the sympathy they felt with a Person whom I can not even now + trust myself to name more particularly—alienated us from each other. + I may be grieved, dear Lady Holchester; but I bear no malice. And I shall + always feel a motherly interest in hearing of Blanche’s welfare. I have + been told that she and her husband were traveling, at the time when you + and Lord Holchester were traveling. Did you meet with them?” + </p> + <p> + Julius and his wife looked at each other. Lord Holchester is dumb. Lady + Holchester replies: + </p> + <p> + “We saw Mr. and Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth at Florence, and afterward at + Naples, Lady Lundie. They returned to England a week since, in + anticipation of a certain happy event, which will possibly increase the + members of your family circle. They are now in London. Indeed, I may tell + you that we expect them here to lunch to-day.” + </p> + <p> + Having made this plain statement, Lady Holchester looks at Lady Lundie. + (If <i>that</i> doesn’t hasten her departure, nothing will!) + </p> + <p> + Quite useless! Lady Lundie holds her ground. Having heard absolutely + nothing of her relatives for the last six months, she is burning with + curiosity to hear more. There is a name she has not mentioned yet. She + places a certain constraint upon herself, and mentions it now. + </p> + <p> + “And Sir Patrick?” says her ladyship, subsiding into a gentle melancholy, + suggestive of past injuries condoned by Christian forgiveness. “I only + know what report tells me. Did you meet with Sir Patrick at Florence and + Naples, also?” + </p> + <p> + Julius and his wife look at each other again. The clock in the hall + strikes. Julius shudders. Lady Holchester’s patience begins to give way. + There is an awkward pause. Somebody must say something. As before, Lady + Holchester replies “Sir Patrick went abroad, Lady Lundie, with his niece + and her husband; and Sir Patrick has come back with them.” + </p> + <p> + “In good health?” her ladyship inquires. + </p> + <p> + “Younger than ever,” Lady Holchester rejoins. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie smiles satirically. Lady Holchester notices the smile; decides + that mercy shown to <i>this</i> woman is mercy misplaced; and announces + (to her husband’s horror) that she has news to tell of Sir Patrick, which + will probably take his sister-in-law by surprise. + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie waits eagerly to hear what the news is. + </p> + <p> + “It is no secret,” Lady Holchester proceeds—“though it is only + known, as yet to a few intimate friends. Sir Patrick has made an important + change in his life.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie’s charming smile suddenly dies out. + </p> + <p> + “Sir Patrick is not only a very clever and a very agreeable man,” Lady + Holchester resumes a little maliciously; “he is also, in all his habits + and ways (as you well know), a man younger than his years—who still + possesses many of the qualities which seldom fail to attract women.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie starts to her feet. + </p> + <p> + “You don’t mean to tell me, Lady Holchester, that Sir Patrick is married?” + </p> + <p> + “I do.” + </p> + <p> + Her ladyship drops back on the sofa; helpless really and truly helpless, + under the double blow that has fallen on her. She is not only struck out + of her place as the chief woman of the family, but (still on the right + side of forty) she is socially superannuated, as The Dowager Lady Lundie, + for the rest of her life! + </p> + <p> + “At his age!” she exclaims, as soon as she can speak. + </p> + <p> + “Pardon me for reminding you,” Lady Holchester answers, “that plenty of + men marry at Sir Patrick’s age. In his case, it is only due to him to say + that his motive raises him beyond the reach of ridicule or reproach. His + marriage is a good action, in the highest sense of the word. It does honor + to <i>him,</i> as well as to the lady who shares his position and his + name.” + </p> + <p> + “A young girl, of course!” is Lady Lundie’s next remark. + </p> + <p> + “No. A woman who has been tried by no common suffering, and who has borne + her hard lot nobly. A woman who deserves the calmer and the happier life + on which she is entering now.” + </p> + <p> + “May I ask who she is?” + </p> + <p> + Before the question can be answered, a knock at the house door announces + the arrival of visitors. For the third time, Julius and his wife look at + each other. On this occasion, Julius interferes. + </p> + <p> + “My wife has already told you, Lady Lundie, that we expect Mr. and Mrs. + Brinkworth to lunch. Sir Patrick, and the new Lady Lundie, accompany them. + If I am mistaken in supposing that it might not be quite agreeable to you + to meet them, I can only ask your pardon. If I am right, I will leave Lady + Holchester to receive our friends, and will do myself the honor of taking + you into another room.” + </p> + <p> + He advances to the door of an inner room. He offers his arm to Lady + Lundie. Her ladyship stands immovable; determined to see the woman who has + supplanted her. In a moment more, the door of entrance from the hall is + thrown open; and the servant announces, “Sir Patrick and Lady Lundie. Mr. + and Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth.” + </p> + <p> + Lady Lundie looks at the woman who has taken her place at the head of the + family; and sees—ANNE SILVESTER! + </p> + <p> + <br /> <br /> + </p> +<pre xml:space="preserve"> + + + + + +End of the Project Gutenberg EBook of Man and Wife, by Wilkie Collins + +*** END OF THIS PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK MAN AND WIFE *** + +***** This file should be named 1586-h.htm or 1586-h.zip ***** +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: + http://www.gutenberg.org/1/5/8/1586/ + +Produced by James Rusk and David Widger + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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