"Yes, Sir Patrick."
"My compliments to her ladyship. If she is not otherwise engaged,
I shall be glad to speak to her privately in an hour's time."
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SIXTH.
DROPPED.
SIR PATRICK made a bad breakfast. Blanche's absence fretted him,
and Anne Silvester's letter puzzled him.
He read it, short as it was, a second time, and a third. If it
meant any thing, it meant that the motive at the bottom of Anne's
flight was to accomplish the sacrifice of herself to the
happiness of Blanche. She had parted for life from his niece for
his niece's sake! What did this mean? And how was it to be
reconciled with Anne's position--as described to him by Mrs.
Inchbare during his visit to Craig Fernie?
All Sir Patrick's ingenuity, and all Sir Patrick's experience,
failed to find so much as the shadow of an answer to that
question.
While he was still pondering over the letter, Arnold and the
surgeon entered the breakfast-room together.
"Have you heard about Blanche?" asked Arnold, excitedly. "She is
in no danger, Sir Patrick--the worst of it is over now."
The surgeon interposed before Sir Patrick could appeal to him.
"Mr. Brinkworth's interest in the young lady a little exaggerates
the state of the case," he said. "I have seen her, at Lady
Lundie's request; and I can assure you that there is not the
slightest reason for any present alarm. Miss Lundie has had a
nervous attack, which has yielded to the simplest domestic
remedies. The only anxiety you need feel is connected with the
management of her in the future. She is suffering from some
mental distress, which it is not for me, but for her friends, to
alleviate and remove. If you can turn her thoughts from the
painful subject--whatever it may be--on which they are dwelling
now, you will do all that needs to be done." He took up a
newspaper from the table, and strolled out into the garden,
leaving Sir Patrick and Arnold together.
"You heard that?" said Sir Patrick.
"Is he right, do you think?" asked Arnold.
"Right? Do you suppose a man gets _his_ reputation by making
mistakes? You're one of the new generation, Master Arnold. You
can all of you stare at a famous man; but you haven't an atom of
respect for his fame. If Shakspeare came to life again, and
talked of playwriting, the first pretentious nobody who sat
opposite at dinner would differ with him as composedly as he
might differ with you and me. Veneration is dead among us; the
present age has buried it, without a stone to mark the place. So
much for that! Let's get back to Blanche. I suppose you can guess
what the painful subject is that's dwelling on her mind? Miss
Silvester has baffled me, and baffled the Edinburgh police.
Blanche discovered that we had failed last night and Blanche
received that letter this morning."
He pushed Anne's letter across the breakfast-table.
Arnold read it, and handed it back without a word. Viewed by the
new light in which he saw Geoffrey's character after the quarrel
on the heath, the letter conveyed but one conclusion to his mind.
Geoffrey had deserted her.
"Well?" said Sir Patrick. "Do you understand what it means?"
"I understand Blanche's wretchedness when she read it."
He said no more than that. It was plain that no information which
he could afford--even if he had considered himself at liberty to
give it--would be of the slightest use in assisting Sir Patrick
to trace Miss Silvester, under present circumstances, There
was--unhappily--no temptation to induce him to break the
honorable silence which he had maintained thus far. And--more
unfortunately still--assuming the temptation to present itself,
Arnold's capacity to resist it had never been so strong a
capacity as it was now.
To the two powerful motives which had hitherto tied his
tongue--respect for Anne's reputation, and reluctance to reveal
to Blanche the deception which he had been compelled to practice
on her at the inn--to these two motives there was now added a
third. The meanness of betraying the confidence which Geoffrey
had reposed in him would be doubled meanness if he proved false
to his trust after Geoffrey had personally insulted him. The
paltry revenge which that false friend had unhesitatingly
suspected him of taking was a revenge of which Arnold's nature
was simply incapable. Never had his lips been more effectually
sealed than at this moment--when his whole future depended on Sir
at Craig Fernie.
"Yes! yes!" resumed Sir Patrick, impatiently. "Blanche's distress
is intelligible enough. But here is my niece apparently
answerable for this unhappy woman's disappearance. Can you
explain what my niece has got to do with it?"
"I! Blanche herself is completely mystified. How should _I_
know?"
Answering in those terms, he spoke with perfect sincerity. Anne's
vague distrust of the position in which they had innocently
placed themselves at the inn had produced no corresponding effect
on Arnold at the time. He had not regarded it; he had not even
understood it. As a necessary result, not the faintest suspicion
of the motive under which Anne was acting existed in his mind
now.
Sir Patrick put the letter into his pocket-book, and abandoned
all further attempt at interpreting the meaning of it in despair.
"Enough, and more than enough, of groping in the dark," he said.
"One point is clear to me after what has happened up stairs this
morning. We must accept the position in which Miss Silvester has
placed us. I shall give up all further effort to trace her from
this moment."
"Surely that will be a dreadful disappointment to Blanche, Sir
Patrick?"
"I don't deny it. We must face that result."
"If you are sure there is nothing else to be done, I suppose we
must."
"I am not sure of any thing of the so rt, Master Arnold! There
are two chances still left of throwing light on this matter,
which are both of them independent of any thing that Miss
Silvester can do to keep it in the dark."
"Then why not try them, Sir? It seems hard to drop Miss Silvester
when she is in trouble."
"We can't help her against her own will," rejoined Sir Patrick.
"And we can't run the risk, after that nervous attack this
morning, of subjecting Blanche to any further suspense. I have
thought of my niece's interests throughout this business; and if
I now change my mind, and decline to agitate her by more
experiments, ending (quite possibly) in more failures, it is
because I am thinking of her interests still. I have no other
motive. However numerous my weaknesses may be, ambition to
distinguish myself as a detective policeman is not one of them.
The case, from the police point of view, is by no means a lost
case. I drop it, nevertheless, for Blanche's sake.
Instead of
encouraging her thoughts to dwell on this melancholy business, we
must apply the remedy suggested by our medical friend."
"How is that to be done?" asked Arnold.
The sly twist of humor began to show itself in Sir Patrick's
face.
"Has she nothing to think of in the future, which is a pleasanter
subject of reflection than the loss of her friend?" he asked.
"You are interested, my young gentleman, in the remedy that is to
cure Blanche. You are one of the drugs in the moral prescription.
Can you guess what it is?"
Arnold started to his feet, and brightened into a new being.
"Perhaps you object to be hurried?" said Sir Patrick.
"Object! If Blanche will only consent, I'll take her to church as
soon as she comes down stairs!"
"Thank you!" said Sir Patrick, dryly. "Mr. Arnold Brinkworth, may
you always be as ready to take Time by the forelock as you are
now! Sit down again; and don't talk nonsense. It is just
possible--if Blanche consents (as you say), and if we can hurry
the lawyers--that you may be married in three weeks' or a month's
time."
"What have the lawyers got to do with it?"
"My good fellow, this is not a marriage in a novel! This is the
most unromantic affair of the sort that ever happened. Here are a
young gentleman and a young lady, both rich people; both well
matched in birth and character; one of age, and the other
marrying with the full consent and approval of her guardian. What
is the consequence of this purely prosaic state of things?
Lawyers and settlements, of course!"
"Come into the library, Sir Patrick; and I'll soon settle the
settlements! A bit of paper, and a dip of ink. 'I hereby give
every blessed farthing I have got in the world to my dear
Blanche.' Sign that; stick a wafer on at the side; clap your
finger on the wafer; 'I deliver this as my act and deed;' and
there it is--done!"
"Is it, really? You are a born legislator. You create and codify
your own system all in a breath. Moses-Justinian-Mahomet, give me
your arm! There is one atom of sense in what you have just said.
'Come into the library'--is a suggestion worth attending to. Do
you happen, among your other superfluities, to have such a thing
as a lawyer about you?"
"I have got two. One in London, and one in Edinburgh."
"We will take the nearest of the two, because we are in a hurry.
Who is the Edinburgh lawyer? Pringle of Pitt Street? Couldn't be
a better man. Come and write to him. You have given me your
abstract of a marriage settlement with the brevity of an ancient
Roman. I scorn to be outdone by an amateur lawyer. Here is _my_
abstract: You are just and generous to Blanche; Blanche is just
and generous to you; and you both combine to be just and generous
together to your children. There is a model settlement! and there
are your instructions to Pringle of Pitt Street! Can you do it by
yourself? No; of course you can't. Now don't be slovenly-minded!
See the points in their order as they come. You are going to be
married; you state to whom, you add that I am the lady's
guardian; you give the name and address of my lawyer in
Edinburgh; you write your instructions plainly in the fewest
words, and leave details to your legal adviser; you refer the
lawyers to each other; you request that the draft settlements be
prepared as speedily as possible, and you give your address at
this house. There are the heads. Can't you do it now? Oh, the
rising generation! Oh, the progress we are making in these
enlightened modern times! There! there! you can marry Blanche,
and make her happy, and increase the population--and all without
knowing how to write the English language. One can only say with
the learned Bevorskius, looking out of his window at the
illimitable loves of the sparrows, 'How merciful is Heaven to its
creatures!' Take up the pen. I'll dictate! I'll dictate!"
Sir Patrick read the letter over, approved of it, and saw it safe
in the box for the post. This done, he peremptorily forbade
Arnold to speak to his niece on the subject of the marriage
without his express permission. "There's somebody else's consent
to be got," he said, "besides Blanche's consent and mine."
"Lady Lundie?"
"Lady Lundie. Strictly speaking, I am the only authority. But my
sister-in-law is Blanche's step-mother, and she is appointed
guardian in the event of my death. She has a right to be
consulted--in courtesy, if not in law. Would you like to do it?"
Arnold's face fell. He looked at Sir Patrick in silent dismay.
"What! you can't even speak to such a perfectly pliable person as
Lady Lundie? You may have been a very useful fellow at sea. A
more helpless young man I never met with on shore. Get out with
you into the garden among the other sparrows! Somebody must
confront her ladyship. And if you won't--I must."
He pushed Arnold out of the library, and applied meditatively to
the knob of his cane. His gayety disappeared, now that he was
alone. His experience of Lady Lundie's character told him that,
in attempting to win her approval to any scheme for hurrying
Blanche's marriage, he was undertaking no easy task. "I suppose,"
mused Sir Patrick, thinking of his late brother--"I suppose poor
Tom had some way of managing her. How did he do it, I wonder? If
she had been the wife of a bricklayer, she is the sort of woman
who would have been kept in perfect order by a vigorous and
regular application of her husband's fist. But Tom wasn't a
bricklayer. I wonder how Tom did it?" After a little hard
thinking on this point Sir Patrick gave up the problem as beyond
human solution. "It must be done," he concluded. "And my own
mother-wit must help me to do it."
In that resigned frame of mind he knocked at the door of Lady
Lundie's boudoir.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-SEVENTH.
OUTWITTED.
SIR PATRICK found his sister-in-law immersed in domestic
business. Her ladyship's correspondence and visiting list, her
ladyship's household bills and ledgers; her ladyship's Diary and
Memorandum-book (bound in scarlet morocco); her ladyship's desk,
envelope-case, match-box, and taper candlestick (all in ebony and
silver); her ladyship herself, presiding over her
responsibilities, and wielding her materials, equal to any calls
of emergency, beautifully dressed in correct morning costume,
blessed with perfect health both of the secretions and the
principles; absolutely void of vice, and formidably full of
virtue, presented, to every properly-constituted mind, the most
imposing spectacle known to humanity--the British Matron on her
throne, asking the world in general, When will you produce the
like of Me?
"I am afraid I disturb you," said Sir Patrick. "I am a perfectly
idle person. Shall I look in a little later?"
Lady Lundie put her hand to her head, and smiled faintly.
"A little pressure _here,_ Sir Patrick. Pray sit d
own. Duty finds
me earnest; Duty finds me cheerful; Duty finds me accessible.
From a poor, weak woman, Duty must expect no more. Now what is
it?" (Her ladyship consulted her scarlet memorandum-book.) "I
have got it here, under its proper head, distinguished by initial
letters. P.--the. poor. No. H.M.--heathen missions. No.
V.T.A.--Visitors to arrive. No. P. I. P.--Here it is: private
interview with Patrick. Will you forgive me the little harmless
familiari ty of omitting your title? Thank you! You are always so
good. I am quite at your service when you like to begin. If it's
any thing painful, pray don't hesitate. I am quite prepared."
With that intimation her ladyship threw herself back in her
chair, with her elbows on the arms, and her fingers joined at the
tips, as if she was receiving a deputation. "Yes?" she said,
interrogatively. Sir Patrick paid a private tribute of pity to
his late brother's memory, and entered on his business.
"We won't call it a painful matter," he began. "Let us say it's a
matter of domestic anxiety. Blanche--"
Lady Lundie emitted a faint scream, and put her hand over her
eyes.
"_Must_ you?" cried her ladyship, in a tone of touching
remonstrance. "Oh, Sir Patrick, _must_ you?"
"Yes. I must."
Lady Lundie's magnificent eyes looked up at that hidden court of
human appeal which is lodged in the ceiling. The hidden court
looked down at Lady Lundie, and saw--Duty advertising itself in
the largest capital letters.
"Go on, Sir Patrick. The motto of woman is Self-sacrifice. You
sha'n't see how you distress me. Go on."
Sir Patrick went on impenetrably--without betraying the slightest
expression of sympathy or surprise.
"I was about to refer to the nervous attack from which Blanche
has suffered this morning," he said. "May I ask whether you have
been informed of the cause to which the attack is attributable?"
"There!" exclaimed Lady Lundie with a sudden bound in her chair,
and a sudden development of vocal power to correspond. "The one
thing I shrank from speaking of! the cruel, cruel, cruel behavior
I was prepared to pass over! And Sir Patrick hints on it!
Innocently--don't let me do an injustice--innocently hints on
it!"
"Hints on what, my dear Madam?"
"Blanche's conduct to me this morning. Blanche's heartless
secrecy. Blanche's undutiful silence. I repeat the words:
Heartless secrecy. Undutiful silence."
"Allow me for one moment, Lady Lundie--"
"Allow _me,_ Sir Patrick! Heaven knows how unwilling I am to
speak of it. Heaven knows that not a word of reference to it
escaped _my_ lips. But you leave me no choice now. As mistress of
the household, as a Christian woman, as the widow of your dear
brother, as a mother to this misguided girl, I must state the
facts. I know you mean well; I know you wish to spare me. Quite
useless! I must state the facts."
Sir Patrick bowed, and submitted. (If he had only been a
bricklayer! and if Lady Lundie had not been, what her ladyship
unquestionably was, the strongest person of the two!)
"Permit me to draw a veil, for your sake," said Lady Lundie,
"over the horrors--I can not, with the best wish to spare you,
conscientiously call them by any other name--the horrors that
took place up stairs. The moment I heard that Blanche was ill I
was at my post. Duty will always find me ready, Sir Patrick, to
my dying day. Shocking as the whole thing was, I presided calmly
over the screams and sobs of my step-daughter. I closed my ears
to the profane violence of her language. I set the necessary
example, as an English gentlewoman at the head of her household.
It was only when I distinctly heard the name of a person, never
to be mentioned again in my family circle, issue (if I may use
the expression) from Blanche's lips that I began to be really
alarmed. I said to my maid: 'Hopkins, this is not Hysteria. This