Arnold's frankness by coming to the point himself, as readily as
his own whimsical humor would let him.
"Is this female phenomenon my niece?" he inquired.
"Yes, Sir Patrick."
"May I ask how you know that my niece is not an adulterated
article, like the rest of them?"
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.
"I love her."
Sir Patrick sat back in his chair, and stretched out his legs
luxuriously.
"That's the most convincing answer I ever heard in my life," he
said.
"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!"
"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?"
"There's a beautiful sky above our heads," returned Arnold. "I
believe in the sky."
"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?"
"I defy any other woman's head to produce the like of it!"
"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?"
"Oh, come! there can't be any doubt about _that!_ Any man, with
eyes in his head, can see it's the loveliest figure in the
world."
Sir Patrick laughed softly, and crossed his legs again.
"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?"
"I'll take my oath to every inch of it!"
"Shop?"
"Nature!"
Sir Patrick rose to his feet; his satirical humor was silenced at
last.
"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 _ can_ 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 _me_ on the next occasion, and I will promise, on my
side, not to mystify _you._ 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?"
"Yes, Sir Patrick. Lady Lundie has kindly ordered the gig to take
me to the station, in time for the next train."
"When are you to be ready?"
Arnold looked at his watch. "In a quarter of an hour."
"Very good. Mind you _are_ 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."
"I am not very anxious to leave Blanche, Sir--that's the truth of
it."
"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?"
"I have arranged (as I have already told you, Sir) to return to
Windygates the day after to-morrow."
"What! Here is a man with a palace waiting to receive him--and he
is only going to stop one clear day in it!"
"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."
"Oh, if the steward told you so, of course there is nothing more
to be said!"
"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."
"Gently! gently! you talk as if you were married to her already!"
"It's as good as done, Sir! Where's the difficulty in the way
now?"
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.
"What do you want?" asked Sir Patrick
"I beg your pardon, Sir; I was sent by my master--"
"Who is your master?"
"The Honorable Mr. Delamayn, Sir."
"Do you mean Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?" asked Arnold.
"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."
"Can't you find him?"
"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?"
Arnold turned to Sir Patrick. "I haven't seen him. Have you?"
"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 _my_ mind) of
your friend, Mr. Delamayn."
Arnold laughed, and stepped outside the summer-house.
"If you are right, Si
r Patrick, we will find him at once." He
looked around, and shouted, "Geoffrey!"
A voice from the rose-garden shouted back, "Hullo!"
"You're wanted. Come here!"
Geoffrey appeared, sauntering doggedly, with his pipe in his
mouth, and his hands in his pockets.
"Who wants me?"
"A groom--from your brother."
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:
"By Jupiter! Ratcatcher has relapsed!"
Sir Patrick and Arnold looked at each other in blank amazement.
"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."
"I beg your pardon, Sir--" began the groom.
"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?"
"If you please, Sir, it isn't Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher's all
right."
"Ratcatcher's all right? Then what the devil is it?"
"It's a message, Sir."
"About what?"
"About my lord."
"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?"
"A telegram from London, Sir. Bad news of my lord."
The man produced his master's card.
words:
"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."
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.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE DEBT.
ARNOLD was the first who broke the silence. "Is your father
seriously ill?" he asked.
Geoffrey answered by handing him the card.
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.
"Am I right in supposing that Mr. Delamayn's father is
dangerously ill?" he asked, addressing himself to Arnold.
"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."
"Didn't you tell me that Lady Lundie was going to send you to the
railway in a gig?"
"Yes."
"If the servant drives, there will be three of you--and there
will be no room."
"We had better ask for some other vehicle," suggested Arnold.
Sir Patrick looked at his watch. There was no time to change the
carriage. He turned to Geoffrey. "Can you drive, Mr. Delamayn?"
Still impenetrably silent, Geoffrey replied by a nod of the head.
Without noticing the unceremonious manner in which he had been
answered, Sir Patrick went on:
"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."
"Let me save you the trouble, Sir Patrick," said Arnold.
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.
Arnold said a word of sympathy to his friend, when they were
alone.
"I am sorry for this, Geoffrey. I hope and trust you will get to
London in time."
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.
"Is there something amiss, Geoffrey, besides this bad news about
your father?" asked Arnold.
"I'm in the devil's own mess," was the answer.
"Can I do any thing to help you?"
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.
"I say, old fellow!" said Geoffrey.
"Yes."
"Do you remember when the boat turned keel upward in Lisbon
Harbor?"
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.
"Do you think I can ever forget," he cried, warmly, "that you
Geoffrey ventured a step nearer to the object that he had in
view.
"One good turn deserves another," he said, "don't it?"
Arnold took his hand. "Only tell me!" he eagerly rejoined--"only
tell me what I can do!"
"You are going to-day to see your new place, ain't you?"
"Yes."
"Can you put off going till to-morrow?"
"If it's any thing serious--of course I can!"
Geoffrey looked round at the entrance to the summer-house, to
make sure that they were alone.
"You know the governess here, don't you?"
he said, in a whisper.
"Miss Silvester?"
"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 _you._"
"You know I will help you. What is it?"
"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--"
Arnold drew back, suddenly understanding him.
"Good heavens, Geoffrey! You don't mean--"
"I do! Wait a bit--that's not the worst of it. She has left the
house."
"Left the house?"
"Left, for good and all. She can't come back again."
"Why not?"
"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."
Arnold lifted his hands in dismay. "It's the most dreadful
situation, Geoffrey, I ever heard of in my life!"
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.
Arnold's mind was too preoccupied to notice the question.
"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."
Geoffrey looked at him in surly amazement.
"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!"
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.
"You know best," he returned, a little coldly. "What can I do?"
Geoffrey took his arm--roughly as he took every thing; but in a
companionable and confidential way.
"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."
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.
"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?"
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