living knew less.
"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."
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.
"Can't you write to her now, Geoffrey?" he asked.
"What's the good of that?"
"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?"
"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--"
"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."
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.
"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?"
"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."
"What am I to write on?"
"Any thing--your brother's card."
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.
"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!"
He held out the hand which had saved Arnold's life in Lisbon
Harbor, and received Arnold's promise, in remembrance of that
time.
"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."
"What is that?"
"You mustn't present yourself at the inn in your own name; and
you mustn't ask for her by _her_ name."
"Who am I to ask for?"
"It's a little awkward. She has gone there as a married woman, in
case they're particular about taking her in--"
"I understand. Go on."
"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--"
"And I must ask at the door for 'my wife,' or I shall expose Miss
Silvester to unpleasant consequences?"
"You don't object?"
"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."
"I'll put that right for you--never fear!"
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."
Arnold read the note without appearing to share his friend's
favorable opinion of it.
"This is rather short," he said.
"Have I time to make it longer?"
"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."
"Oh, all right! and the date too, if you like."
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.
"Come!" he said. "You haven't a moment to lose!"
Geoffrey started to his feet. Arnold hesitated.
"I must see Blanche!" he pleaded. "I can't leave Blanche without
saying good-by. Where is she?"
Sir Patrick pointed to the steps, with a smile. Blanche had
followed him from the house. Arnold ran out to her instantly.
"Going?" she said, a little sadly.
"I shall be back in two days," Arnold whispered. "It's all right!
Sir Patrick consents."
She held him fast by the arm. The hurried parting before other
people seemed to be not a parting to Blanche's taste.
"You will lose the train!" cried Sir Patrick.
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.
"Why is that brute going away with Mr. Brinkworth?" she asked.
"Mr. Delamayn is called to London by his father's illness,"
replied Sir Patrick. "You don't like him?"
"I hate him!"
Sir Patrick reflected a little.
"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."
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.
"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."
"I wish he hadn't gone with that man!" said Blanche. "I wish he
hadn't got that man for a friend!"
"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!"
"No," returned Blanche. "I'm in no humor for dancing. I shall go
up stairs
, and talk about it to Anne."
"You will do nothing of the sort!" said a third voice, suddenly
joining in the conversation.
Both uncle and niece looked up, and found Lady Lundie at the top
of the summer-house steps.
"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!"
CHAPTER THE EIGHTH.
THE SCANDAL.
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."
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! _They_ were presuming to whisper in
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."--"_Good_-afternoon, Lady
Lundie!"--"Haw! thanks very much!"--"_So_ sorry for dear
Blanche!"--"Oh, it's been _too_ charming!" So Society jabbered
its poor, nonsensical little jargon, and got itself politely out
of the way before the storm came.
This was exactly the consummation of events for which Sir Patrick
had been waiting in the seclusion of the garden.
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
excitem ent 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.
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.
"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!"
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.
"They're all gone, Sir Patrick," said the man.
"That's a comfort, Simpson. We have no visitors to deal with now,
except the visitors who are staying in the house?"
"None, Sir Patrick."
"They're all gentlemen, are they not?"
"Yes, Sir Patrick."
"That's another comfort, Simpson. Very good. I'll see Lady Lundie
first."
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 _her,_
under a given set of circumstances, as set forth above? Not you!
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.
"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."
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."
"No, Sir Patrick! As a Christian woman, that is not _my_ way of
looking at it. This unhappy person has lived under my roof. This
unhappy person has been the companion of Blanche. I am
the world to be able to dismiss it as you do. But no! I must be
satisfied that she _is_ 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!"
"One word, Lady Lundie--"
"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!"
Jonathan was lazy, Jonathan was pimply, Jonathan was fat--_but_
Jonathan was orthodox. He answered that he did know; and, what is
more, he mentioned the place.
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.
"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?"
"As head of the family?" stipulated Lady Lundie.
"As head of the family!" answered Sir Patrick.
"I gratefully accept the proposal," said Lady Lundie.
"I beg you won't mention it," rejoined Sir Patrick.
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!"
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."
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.
"What do you say to a day's shooting to-morrow?" he asked.
Every man present--sportsman or not--said yes.
"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?"
Every body--with or without rheumatism--answered "the cottage."
"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."
Adopted unanimously. Sir Patrick left the guests to their
billiards, and went out to give the necessary orders at the
stables.
In the mean time Blanche remained portentously quiet in the upper
regions of the house; while Lady Lundie steadily pursued her