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    Man and Wife

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    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.

      A very remarkable-looking person entered the room.

      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.

      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.

      Lady Lundie opened the proceedings with the regular formula of

      inquiry which she had used with all the other servants

      "Do you know that Miss Silvester has left the house?"

      The cook nodded her head affirmatively,

      "Do you know at what time she left it?"

      Another affirmative reply. The first which Lady Lundie had

      received to that question yet. She eagerly went on to the next

      inquiry.

      "Have you seen her since she left the house?"

      A third affirmative reply.

      "Where?"

      Hester Dethridge wrote slowly on the slate, in singularly firm

      upright characters for a woman in her position of life, these

      words:

      "On the road that leads to the railway. Nigh to Mistress Chew's

      Farm."

      "What did you want at Chew's Farm?"

      Hester Dethridge wrote: "I wanted eggs for the kitchen, and a

      breath of fresh air for myself."

      "Did Miss Silvester see you?"

      A negative shake of the head.

      "Did she take the turning that leads to the railway?"

      Another negative shake of the head.

      "She went on, toward the moor?"

      An affirmative reply.

      "What did she do when she got to the moor?"

      Hester Dethridge wrote: "She took the footpath which leads to

      Craig Fernie."

      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!"

      Hester Dethridge waited immovably. Lady Lundie put a last

      precautionary question, in these words:

      "Have you reported what you have seen to any body else?"

      An affirmative reply. Lady Lundie had not bargained for that.

      Hester Dethridge (she thought) must surely have misunderstood

      her.

      "Do you mean that you have told somebody else what you have just

      told me?"

      Another affirmative reply.

      "A person who questioned you, as I have done?"

      A third affirmative reply.

      "Who was it?"

      Hester Dethridge wrote on her slate: "Miss Blanche."

      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 awkwar
    d 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.

      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.

      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.

      "You have done wrong," said her ladyship, severely. "I am your

      mistress. You are bound to answer your mistress--"

      Hester Dethridge bowed her head, in icy acknowledgment of the

      principle laid down--so far.

      The bow was an interruption. Lady Lundie resented it.

      "But Miss Blanche is _not_ your mistress," she went on, sternly.

      "You are very much to blame for answering Miss Blanche's

      inquiries about Miss Silvester."

      Hester Dethridge, perfectly unmoved, wrote her justification on

      her slate, in two stiff sentences: "I had no orders _not_ to

      answer. I keep nobody's secrets but my own."

      That reply settled the question of the cook's dismissal--the

      question which had been pending for months past.

      "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!"

      In those words Lady Lundie dismissed Hester Dethridge from her

      service.

      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.

      Lady Lundie's maid came into the room as Hester left it.

      "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.

      "I heard Simpson say, my lady, that Sir Patrick was at the

      stables."

      "Send Simpson with a message. My compliments to Sir Patrick--and

      I wish to see him immediately."

      * * * * * *

      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.

      "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."

      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.

      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.

      "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."

      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.

      SECOND SCENE.--THE INN.

      CHAPTER THE NINTH.

      ANNE.

      "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."

      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.

      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.

      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.

      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 th
    ing 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."

      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.

      "Mention your charge for the rooms," she said. "I am willing to

      pay for them beforehand."

      Her majesty, Mrs. Inchbare, never even looked at her subject's

      poor little purse.

      "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."

      The time had been when Anne would have answered sharply enough.

      The hard necessities of her position made her patient now.

      "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.

      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.

      "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 _him,_, instead o' lettin' them

      to _you._ And, sae, good-morrow t' ye." With that final

      announcement of her royal will and pleasure, the Empress of the

      Inn withdrew.

      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.

      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.

      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."

      "What are you doing there?" Anne asked, sharply.

      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.

      "Eh! Am just doostin' the things; and setin' the room in decent

      order for ye."

      "For _me?_ Did you hear what the landlady said?"

      Mr. Bishopriggs advanced confidentially, and pointed with a very

     


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