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!
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!
But even here there was an obstacle--one last exasperating
obstacle--still in the way.
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.
There is a way out of every thing. And there was surely a way out
of this, if he could only see it.
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.
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.
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 coul d 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 _them,_ try and think of
something else. Of what? Of something worth thinking of, this
time--of filling another pipe.
He took out his tobacco-pouch; and suddenly suspended operations
at the moment of opening it.
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.
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?"
He called to the woman across the pear-trees. "Hullo!"
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.
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.
"What's that slate for?" he asked, not knowing what else to say,
to begin with.
The woman lifted her hand to her lips--touched them--and shook
her head.
"Dumb?"
The woman bowed her head.
"Who are you?"
The woman wrote on her slate, and handed it to him over the
pear-trees. He read:--"I am the cook."
"Well, cook, were you born dumb?"
The woman shook her head.
"What struck you dumb?"
The woman wrote on her slate:--"A blow."
"Who gave you the blow?"
She shook her head.
"Won't you tell me?"
She shook her head again.
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, an
d offered her
some money, as a way of making _her_ 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 _his_ 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.
"Mad!" he thought--and turned his back on the sight of her.
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!"
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.
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!
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?
The dumb old woman got in his way again.
darkness of his own making.
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.
Why had he not seen it before? Impossible to say.
How came he to have seen it now?
The dumb old woman reappeared in his thoughts--as if the answer
to the question lay in something connected with _her._
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?
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!
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.
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."
The butler stared. As a form of condescension among the upper
classes this was quite new to him.
"Luncheon will be ready directly, Sir."
"What is there for lunch?"
The butler ran over an appetizing list of good dishes and rare
wines.
"The devil take your kickshaws!" said Geoffrey. "Give me my old
ale, and my hunk of bread and cheese."
"Where will you take them, Sir?"
"Here, to be sure! And the sooner the better."
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 _his_ 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!
"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.
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.
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
fasten on _him._ 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.
He strolled idly through the grounds, farther and farther away
from the house.
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.
"Uncle! I have been watching you for the last minute or two."
"At my age, Blanche? that is paying me a very pretty compliment."
"Do you know what I have seen?"
"You have seen an old gentleman in want of his lunch."
"I have seen an old gentleman with something on his mind. What is
it?"
"Suppressed gout, my dear."
"That won't do! I am not to be put off in that way. Uncle! I want
to know--"
"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."
"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."
"When?"
"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."
"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?"
"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?"
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.
"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."
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. "_You_ shutting yourself up with Mr. Delamayn to talk
law! _You_ 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."
Sir Patrick took his niece's hand.
"Stop a minute, Blanche. About Miss Silvester? Have you heard
from her to-day?"
"No. I am more unhappy about her than words can say."
"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?"
Blanche's face flushed brightly with pleasure and surprise. She