"Shivered when I touched her. That means I have been walking over
her grave."
Blanche turned from the sight of the slate, and from the sight of
the woman, in horror. "You frighten me!" she said. "You will
frighten _ her_ if she sees you. I don't mean to offend you;
but--leave us, please leave us."
Hester Dethridge accepted her dismissal, as she accepted every
thing else. She bowed her head in sign that she
understood--looked for the last time at Anne--dropped a stiff
courtesy to her young mistress--and left the room.
An hour later the butler had paid her, and she had left the
house.
Blanche breathed more freely when she found herself alone. She
could feel the relief now of seeing Anne revive.
"Can you hear me, darling?" she whispered. "Can you let me leave
you for a moment?"
Anne's eyes slowly opened and looked round her--in that torment
and terror of reviving life which marks the awful protest of
humanity against its recall to existence when mortal mercy has
dared to wake it in the arms of Death.
Blanche rested Anne's head against the nearest chair, and ran to
the table upon which she had placed the wine on entering the
room.
After swallowing the first few drops Anne begun to feel the
effect of the stimulant. Blanche persisted in making her empty
the glass, and refrained from asking or answering questions until
her recovery under the influence of the wine was complete.
"You have overexerted yourself this morning," she said, as soon
as it seemed safe to speak. "Nobody has seen you,
darling--nothing has happened. Do you feel like yourself again?"
Anne made an attempt to rise and leave the library; Blanche
placed her gently in the chair, and went on:
"There is not the least need to stir. We have another quarter of
an hour to ourselves before any body is at all likely to disturb
us. I have something to say, Anne--a little proposal to make.
Will you listen to me?"
Anne took Blanche's hand, and p ressed it gratefully to her lips.
She made no other reply. Blanche proceeded:
"I won't ask any questions, my dear--I won't attempt to keep you
here against your will--I won't even remind you of my letter
yesterday. But I can't let you go, Anne, without having my mind
made easy about you in some way. You will relieve all my anxiety,
if you will do one thing--one easy thing for my sake."
"What is it, Blanche?"
She put that question with her mind far away from the subject
before her. Blanche was too eager in pursuit of her object to
notice the absent tone, the purely mechanical manner, in which
Anne had spoken to her.
"I want you to consult my uncle," she answered. "Sir Patrick is
interested in you; Sir Patrick proposed to me this very day to go
and see you at the inn. He is the wisest, the kindest, the
dearest old man living--and you can trust him as you could trust
nobody else. Will you take my uncle into your confidence, and be
guided by his advice?"
With her mind still far away from the subject, Anne looked out
absently at the lawn, and made no answer.
"Come!" said Blanche. "One word isn't much to say. Is it Yes or
No?"
Still looking out on the lawn--still thinking of something
else--Anne yielded, and said "Yes."
Blanche was enchanted. "How well I must have managed it!" she
thought. "This is what my uncle means, when my uncle talks of
'putting it strongly.' "
She bent down over Anne, and gayly patted her on the shoulder.
"That's the wisest 'Yes,' darling, you ever said in your life.
Wait here--and I'll go in to luncheon, or they will be sending to
know what has become of me. Sir Patrick has kept my place for me,
next to himself. I shall contrive to tell him what I want; and
_he_ will contrive (oh, the blessing of having to do with a
clever man; these are so few of them!)--he will contrive to leave
the table before the rest, without exciting any body's
suspicions. Go away with him at once to the summer-house (we have
been at the summer-house all the morning; nobody will go back to
it now), and I will follow you as soon as I have satisfied Lady
Lundie by eating some lunch. Nobody will be any the wiser but our
three selves. In five minutes or less you may expect Sir Patrick.
Let me go! We haven't a moment to lose!"
Anne held her back. Anne's attention was concentrated on her now.
"What is it?" she asked.
"Are you going on happily with Arnold, Blanche?"
"Arnold is nicer than ever, my dear."
"Is the day fixed for your marriage?"
"The day will be ages hence. Not till we are back in town, at the
end of the autumn. Let me go, Anne!"
"Give me a kiss, Blanche."
Blanche kissed her, and tried to release her hand. Anne held it
as if she was drowning, as if her life depended on not letting it
go.
"Will you always love me, Blanche, as you love me now?"
"How can you ask me!"
"_I_ said Yes just now. _You_ say Yes too."
Blanche said it. Anne's eyes fastened on her face, with one long,
yearning look, and then Anne's hand suddenly dropped hers.
She ran out of the room, more agitated, more uneasy, than she
liked to confess to herself. Never had she felt so certain of the
urgent necessity of appealing to Sir Patrick's advice as she felt
at that moment.
The guests were still safe at the luncheon-table when Blanche
entered the dining-room.
Lady Lundie expressed the necessary surprise, in the properly
graduated tone of reproof, at her step-daughter's want of
punctuality. Blanche made her apologies with the most exemplary
humility. She glided into her chair by her uncle's side, and took
the first thing that was offered to her. Sir Patrick looked at
his niece, and found himself in the company of a model young
English Miss--and marveled inwardly what it might mean.
The talk, interrupted for the moment (topics, Politics and
Sport--and then, when a change was wanted, Sport and Politics),
was resumed again all round the table. Under cover of the
conversation, and in the intervals of receiving the attentions of
the gentlemen, Blanche whispered to Sir Patrick, "Don't start,
uncle. Anne is in the library." (Polite Mr. Smith offered some
ham. Gratefully declined.) "Pray, pray, pray go to her; she is
waiting to see you--she is in dreadful trouble." (Gallant Mr.
Jones proposed fruit tart and cream. Accepted with thanks.) "Take
her to the summer-house: I'll follow you when I get the chance.
And manage it at once, uncle, if you love me, or you will be too
late."
Before Sir Patrick could whisper back a word in reply, Lady
Lundie, cutting a cake of the richest Scottish composition, at
the other end of the table, publicly proclaimed it to be her "own
cake," and, as such, offered her brother-in-law a slice. The
slice exhibited an eruption of plums and sweetmeats, overlaid by
&nb
sp; a perspiration of butter. It has been said that Sir Patrick had
reached the age of seventy--it is, therefore, needless to add
that he politely declined to commit an unprovoked outrage on his
own stomach.
"MY cake!" persisted Lady Lundie, elevating the horrible
composition on a fork. "Won't that tempt you?"
Sir Patrick saw his way to slipping out of the room under cover
of a compliment to his sister-in-law. He summoned his courtly
smile, and laid his hand on his heart.
"A fallible mortal," he said, "is met by a temptation which he
can not possibly resist. If he is a wise mortal, also, what does
he do?"
"He eats some of My cake," said the prosaic Lady Lundie.
"No!" said Sir Patrick, with a look of unutterable devotion
directed at his sister-in-law.
"He flies temptation, dear lady--as I do now." He bowed, and
escaped, unsuspected, from the room.
Lady Lundie cast down her eyes, with an expression of virtuous
indulgence for human frailty, and divided Sir Patrick's
compliment modestly between herself and her cake.
Well aware that his own departure from the table would be
followed in a few minutes by the rising of the lady of the house,
Sir Patrick hurried to the library as fast as his lame foot would
let him. Now that he was alone, his manner became anxious, and
his face looked grave. He entered the room.
Not a sign of Anne Silvester was to be seen any where. The
library was a perfect solitude.
"Gone!" said Sir Patrick. "This looks bad."
After a moment's reflection he went back into the hall to get his
hat. It was possible that she might have been afraid of discovery
if she staid in the library, and that she might have gone on to
the summer-house by herself.
If she was not to be found in the summer-house, the quieting of
Blanche's mind and the clearing up of her uncle's suspicions
alike depended on discovering the place in which Miss Silvester
had taken refuge. In this case time would be of importance, and
the capacity of making the most of it would be a precious
capacity at starting. Arriving rapidly at these conclusions, Sir
Patrick rang the bell in the hall which communicated with the
servants' offices, and summoned his own valet--a person of tried
discretion and fidelity, nearly as old as himself.
"Get your hat, Duncan," he said, when the valet appeared, "and
come out with me."
Master and servant set forth together silently on their way
through the grounds. Arrived within sight of the summer-house,
Sir Patrick ordered Duncan to wait, and went on by himself.
There was not the least need for the precaution that he had
taken. The summer-house was as empty as the library. He stepped
out again and looked about him. Not a living creature was
visible. Sir Patrick summoned his servant to join him.
"Go back to the stables, Duncan," he said, "and say that Miss
Lundie lends me her pony-carriage to-day. Let it be got ready at
once and kept in the stable-yard. I want to attract as little
notice as possible. You are to go with me, and nobody else.
Provide yourself with a railway time-table. Have you got any
money?"
"Yes, Sir Patrick."
"Did you happen to see the governess (Miss Silvester) on the day
when we came here--the day of the lawn-party?"
"I did, Sir Patrick."
"Should you know her again?"
"I thought her a very distinguished-looking person, Sir Patrick.
I should certainly know her again."
"Have you any reason to think she noticed you?"
"She never even looked at me,
Sir Patrick."
"Very good. Put a change of linen into your bag, Duncan--I may
possibly want you to take a journey by railway. Wait for me in
the stable-yard. This is a matter in which every thing is trusted
to my discretion, and to yours."
"Thank you, Sir Patrick."
With that acknowledgment of the compliment which had been just
paid to him, Duncan gravely went his way to the stables; and
Duncan's master returned to the summer-house, to wait there until
he was joined by Blanche.
Sir Patrick showed signs of failing patience during the interval
of expectation through which he was now condemned to pass. He
applied perpetually to the snuff-box in the knob of his cane. He
fidgeted incessantly in and out of the summer-house. Anne's
disappearance had placed a serious obstacle in the way of further
discovery; and there was no attacking that obstacle, until
precious time had been wasted in waiting to see Blanche.
At last she appeared in view, from the steps of the summer-house;
breathless and eager, hasting to the place of meeting as fast as
her feet would take her to it.
Sir Patrick considerately advanced, to spare her the shock of
making the inevitable discovery. "Blanche," he said. "Try to
prepare yourself, my dear, for a disappointment. I am alone."
"You don't mean that you have let her go?"
"My poor child! I have never seen her at all."
Blanche pushed by him, and ran into the summer-house. Sir Patrick
followed her. She came out again to meet him, with a look of
blank despair. "Oh, uncle! I did so truly pity her! And see how
little pity she has for _me!_"
Sir Patrick put his arm round his niece, and softly patted the
fair young head that dropped on his shoulder.
"Don't let us judge her harshly, my dear: we don't know what
serious necessity may not plead her excuse. It is plain that she
can trust nobody--and that she only consented to see me to get
you out of the room and spare you the pain of parting. Compose
yourself, Blanche. I don't despair of discovering where she has
gone, if you will help me."
Blanche lifted her head, and dried her tears bravely.
"My father himself wasn't kinder to me than you are," she said.
"Only tell me, uncle, what I can do!"
"I want to hear exactly what happened in the library," said Sir
Patrick. "Forget nothing, my dear child, no matter how trifling
it may be. Trifles are precious to us, and minutes are precious
to us, now."
Blanche followed her instructions to the letter, her uncle
listening with the closest attention. When she had completed her
narrative, Sir Patrick suggested leaving the summer-house. "I
propose doing on our way to the stable-yard."
"Let me drive you, uncle!"
"Forgive me, my dear, for saying No to that. Your step-mother's
suspicions are very easily excited--and you had better not be
seen with me if my inquiries take me to the Craig Fernie inn. I
promise, if you will remain here, to tell you every thing when I
come back. Join the others in any plan they have for the
afternoon--and you will prevent my absence from exciting any
thing more than a passing remark. You will do as I tell you?
That's a good girl! Now you shall hear how I propose to search
for this poor lady, and how your l
ittle story has helped me."
He paused, considering with himself whether he should begin by
telling Blanche of his consultation with Geoffrey. Once more, he
decided that question in the negative. Better to still defer
taking her into his confidence until he had performed the errand
of investigation on which he was now setting forth.
"What you have told me, Blanche, divides itself, in my mind, into
two heads," began Sir Patrick. "There is what happened in the
library before your own eyes; and there is what Miss Silvester
told you had happened at the inn. As to the event in the library
(in the first place), it is too late now to inquire whether that
fainting-fit was the result, as you say, of mere exhaustion--or
whether it was the result of something that occurred while you
were out of the room."
"What could have happened while I was out of the room?"
"I know no more than you do, my dear. It is simply one of the
possibilities in the case, and, as such, I notice it. To get on
to what practically concerns us; if Miss Silvester is in delicate
health it is impossible that she could get, unassisted, to any
great distance from Windygates. She may have taken refuge in one
of the cottages in our immediate neighborhood. Or she may have
met with some passing vehicle from one of the farms on its way to
the station, and may have asked the person driving to give her a
seat in it. Or she may have walked as far as she can, and may
have stopped to rest in some sheltered place, among the lanes to
the south of this house."
"I'll inquire at the cottages, uncle, while you are gone."
"My dear child, there must be a dozen cottages, at least, within
a circle of one mile from Windygates! Your inquiries would
probably occupy you for the whole afternoon. I won't ask what
Lady Lundie would think of your being away all that time by
yourself. I will only remind you of two things. You would be
making a public matter of an investigation which it is essential
to pursue as privately as possible; and, even if you happened to
hit on the right cottage your inquiries would be completely
baffled, and you would discover nothing."
"Why not?"
"I know the Scottish peasant better than you do, Blanche. In his
intelligence and his sense of self-respect he is a very different
being from the English peasant. He would receive you civilly,
because you are a young lady; but he would let you see, at the
same time, that he considered you had taken advantage of the
difference between your position and his position to commit an
intrusion. And if Miss Silvester had appealed, in confidence, to
his hospitality, and if he had granted it, no power on earth
would induce him to tell any person living that she was under his
roof--without her express permission."
"But, uncle, if it's of no use making inquiries of any body, how
are we to find her?"
"I don't say that nobody will answer our inquiries, my dear--I
only say the peasantry won't answer them, if your friend has
trusted herself to their protection. The way to find her is to
look on, beyond what Miss Silvester may be doing at the present
moment, to what Miss Silvester contemplates doing--let us say,
before the day is out. We may assume, I think (after what has
happened), that, as soon as she can leave this neighborhood, she
assuredly will leave it. Do you agree, so far?"
"Yes! yes! Go on."
"Very well. She is a woman, and she is (to say the least of it)
not strong. She can only leave this neighborhood either by hiring
a vehicle or by traveling on the railway. I propose going first
to the station. At the rate at which your pony gets over the
ground, there is a fair chance, in spite of the time we have
lost, of my being there as soon as she is--assuming that she
leaves by the first train, up or down, that passes."