her. She opened the bedroom door, and led the way back into the
sitting-room.
"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!"
Anne sighed bitterly, and kissed her on the forehead. "You shall
know all I can tell you--all I _dare_ tell you," she said,
gently. "Don't reproach me. It hurts me more than you think."
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.
Blanche saw her own name, on the address, in the handwriting of
Anne.
"What does this mean?" she asked.
"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 _can_ say to you is said there. Spare me the
distress of speaking. Read it, Blanche."
Blanche still held the letter, unopened.
"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?"
Anne's eyes dropped to the ground. She pointed to the letter for
the second time.
Blanche broke the seal.
She passed rapidly over the opening sentences, and devoted all
her attention to the second paragraph.
"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--_your_
mother, who was an angel from heaven to _ mine!_ 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 _you,_ my dear one! And God help _
me!"_
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.
"All my questions are answered, dear. I will wait your time."
It was simply, sweetly, generously said.
Anne burst into tears.
* * * * * *
The rain still fell, but the storm was dying away.
Blanche left the sofa, and, going to the window, opened the
shutters to look out at the night. She suddenly came back to
Anne.
"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."
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.
Left alone, Blanche took the letter out of her bosom, and read it
again, in the interval of waiting for the carriage.
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
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."
The carriage drew up at the door; and Mrs. Inchbare showed
in--not Lady Lundie, but Lady Lundie's maid.
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.
Blanche took the box from the woman's hands, and joined Anne in
the bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home.
"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?"
The worst that could happen at the inn _had_ 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.
"You promise to write to me?"
"Yes."
"If there is any thing I can do for you--?"
"There is nothing, my love."
"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?"
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."
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.
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.
"I shall go mad," she said to herself, "if I stay here alone."
Even Mr. Bishopriggs felt the necessity of being silent when he
stood face to face with her on answering the bell.
"I want to speak to him. Send him here instantly."
Mr. Bishopriggs understood her, and withdrew.
Arnold came in.
"Has she gone?" were the first words he said.
"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!"
"I have no wish to ask you."
"Be angry with me, if you like!"
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.
"This has been hard on _you,_" 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!"
"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?"
"What do you propose doing to-night?"
"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."
Anne held out her hand to take leave. Nothing could undo what had
been done. The time for warning and remonstrance had passed away.
"You have not befriended an ungrateful woman," she said. "The day
may yet come, Mr. Brinkworth, when I shall prove it."
"I hope not, Miss Silvester. Good-by, and good luck!"
She withdrew into her own room. Arnold locked the sitting-room
door, and stretched himself on the sofa for the night.
* * * * * *
The morning was bright, the air was delicious after the storm.
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.
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 i tself, the
alternative, either way, was plain enough. If my lord
lived--Geoffrey would he 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?
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.
She turned away, weary of questioning the impenetrable future,
and went back to the inn.
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.
THIRD SCENE.--LONDON.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
GEOFFREY AS A LETTER-WRITER.
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.
"Is my father alive?"
"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."
"What was the illness?"
&
nbsp; "A paralytic stroke, Sir. When her ladyship telegraphed to you in
Scotland the doctors had given his lordship up."
"Is my mother at home?"
"Her ladyship is at home to _you,_, Sir."'
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.
Geoffrey spoke, and solved the problem
"Open the door, one of you fellows," he said to the footmen. "I'm
off."
"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."
"I'm blessed if I take it on _my_self!" returned Geoffrey. "Open
the door!"
"Wait here, at any rate," pleaded Julius, "till I can send you
down a message."
"Send your message to Nagle's Hotel. I'm at home at Nagle's--I'm
not at home here."
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."
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.
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.