forever.
"You gave me leave to mention it, Sir Patrick--didn't you?" said
Arnold.
Sir Patrick shifted round a little, so as to get the sun on his
back, and admitted that he had given leave.
"If I had only known, I would rather have cut my tongue out than
have said a word about it. What do you think she did? She burst
out crying, and ordered me to leave the room."
It was a lovely morning--a cool breeze tempered the heat of the
sun; the birds were singing; the garden wore its brightest look.
Sir Patrick was supremely comfortable. The little wearisome
vexations of this mortal life had retired to a respectful
distance from him. He positively declined to invite them to come
any nearer.
"Here is a world," said the old gentleman, getting the sun a
little more broadly on his back, "which a merciful Creator has
filled with lovely sights, harmonious sounds, delicious scents;
and here are creatures with faculties expressly made for
enjoyment of those sights, sounds, and scents--to say nothing of
Love, Dinner, and Sleep, all thrown into the bargain. And these
same creatures hate, starve, toss sleepless on their pillows, see
nothing pleasant, hear nothing pleasant, smell nothing
pleasant--cry bitter tears, say hard words, contract painful
illnesses; wither, sink, age, die! What does it mean, Arnold? And
how much longer is it all to go on?"
The fine connecting link between the blindness of Blanche to the
advantage of being married, and the blindness of humanity to the
advantage of being in existence, though sufficiently perceptible
no doubt to venerable Philosophy ripening in the sun, was
absolutely invisible to Arnold. He deliberately dropped the vast
question opened by Sir Patrick; and, reverting to Blanche, asked
what was to be done.
"What do you do with a fire, when you can't extinguish it?" said
Sir Patrick. "You let it blaze till it goes out. What do you do
with a woman when you can't pacify her? Let _her_ blaze till she
goes out."
Arnold failed to see the wisdom embodied in that excellent
advice. "I thought you would have helped me to put things right
with Blanche," he said.
"I _am_ helping you. Let Blanche alone. Don't speak of the
marriage again, the next time you see her. If she mentions it,
beg her pardon, and tell her you won't press the question any
more. I shall see her in an hour or two, and I shall take exactly
the same tone myself. You have put the idea into her mind--leave
it there to ripen. Give her distress about Miss Silvester nothing
to feed on. Don't stimulate it by contradiction; don't rouse it
to defend itself by disparagement of her lost friend. Leave Time
to edge her gently nearer and nearer to the husband who is
waiting for her--and take my word for it, Time will have her
ready when the settlements are ready."
Toward the luncheon hour Sir Patrick saw Blanche, and put in
practice the principle which he had laid down. She was perfectly
tranquil before her uncle left her. A little later, Arnold was
forgiven. A little later still, the old gentleman's sharp
observation noted that his niece was unusually thoughtful, and
that she looked at Arnold, from time to time, with an interest of
a new kind--an interest which shyly hid itself from Arnold's
view. Sir Patrick went up to dress for dinner, with a comfortable
inner conviction that the difficulties which had beset him were
settled at last. Sir Patrick had never been more mistaken in his
life.
The business of the toilet was far advanced. Duncan had just
placed the glass in a good light; and Duncan's master was at that
turning point in his daily life which consisted in attaining, or
not attaining, absolute perfection in the tying of his white
cravat--when some outer barbarian, ignorant of the first
principles of dressing a gentleman's throat, presumed to knock at
the bedroom door. Neither master nor servant moved or breathed
until the integrity of the cravat was placed beyond the reach of
accident. Then Sir Patrick cast the look of final criticism
in the glass, and breathed again when he saw that it was done.
"A little labored in style, Duncan. But not bad, considering the
interruption?"
"By no means, Sir Patrick."
"See who it is."
Duncan went to the door; and returned, to his master, with an
excuse for the interruption, in the shape of a telegram!
Sir Patrick started at the sight of that unwelcome message. "Sign
the receipt, Duncan," he said--and opened the envelope. Yes!
Exactly as he had anticipated! News of Miss Silvester, on the
very day when he had decided to abandon all further attempt at
discovering her. The telegram ran thus:
"Message received from Falkirk this morning. Lady, as described,
left the train at Falkirk last night. Went on, by the first train
this morning, to Glasgow. Wait further instructions."
"Is the messenger to take any thing back, Sir Patrick?"
"No. I must consider what I am to do. If I find it necessary I
will send to the station. Here is news of Miss Silvester,
Duncan," continued Sir Patrick, when the messenger had gone. "She
has been traced to Glasgow."
"Glasgow is a large place, Sir Patrick."
"Yes. Even if they have telegraphed on and had her watched (which
doesn't appear), she may escape us again at Glasgow. I am the
last man in the world, I hope, to shrink from accepting my fair
share of any responsibility. But I own I would have given
something to have kept this telegram out of the house. It raises
the most awkward question I have had to decide on for many a long
day past. Help me on with my coat. I must think of it! I must
think of it!"
Sir Patrick went down to dinner in no agreeable frame of mind.
The unexpected recovery of the lost trace of Miss
Silvester--there is no disguising it--seriously annoyed him.
The dinner-party that day, assembling punctually at the stroke of
the bell, had to wait a quarter of an hour before the hostess
came down stairs.
Lady Lundie's apology, when she entered the library, informed her
guests that she had been detained by some neighbors who had
called at an unusually late hour. Mr. and Mrs. Julius Delamayn,
finding themselves near Windygates, had favored her with a visit,
on their way home, and had left cards of invitation for a
garden-party at their house.
Lady Lundie was charmed with her new acquaintances. They had
included every body who was staying at Windygates in their
invitation. They had been as pleasant and easy as old friends.
Mrs. Delamayn had brought the kindest message from one of her
guests--Mrs. Glenarm--to say that she remembered meeting Lady
Lundie in London, in the time of the late Sir Thomas, and was
anxious to improve the acquaintance. Mr. Julius Delamayn had
given a most amusing account of his brother. Geoffrey had sent to
London for a trainer; and the whole household was
on the tip-toe
of expectation to witness the magnificent spectacle of an athlete
preparing himself for a foot-race. The ladies, with Mrs. Glenarm
at their head, were hard at work, studying the profound and
complicated question of human running--the muscles employed in
it, the preparation required for it, the heroes eminent in it.
The men had been all occupied that morning in assisting Geoffrey
to measure a mile, for his exercising-ground, in a remote part of
the park--where there was an empty cottage, which was to be
fitted with all the necessary appliances for the reception of
Geoffrey and his trainer. "You will see the last of my brother,"
Julius had said, "at the garden-party. After that he retires into
athletic privacy, and has but one interest in life--the interest
of watching the disappearance of his own superfluous flesh."
Throughout the dinner Lady Lundie was in oppressively good
spirits, singing the praises of her new friends. Sir Patrick, on
the other hand, had never been so silent within the memory of
mortal man. He talked with an effort; and he listened with a
greater effort still. To answer or not to answer the telegram in
his pocket? To persist or not to persist in his resolution to
leave Miss Silvester to go her own way? Those were the questions
which insisted on coming round to him as regularly as the dishes
themselves came round in the orderly progression of the dinner.
Blanche---who had not felt equal to taking her place at the
table--appeared in the drawing-room afterward.
Sir Patrick came in to tea, with the gentlemen, still uncertain
as to the right course to take in the matter of the telegram. One
look at Blanche's sad face and Blanche's altered manner decided
him. What would be the result if he roused new hopes by resuming
the effort to trace Miss Silvester, and if he lost the trace a
second time? He had only to look at his niece and to see. Could
any consideration justify him in turning her mind back on the
memory of the friend who had left her at the moment when it was
marriage? Nothing could justify him; and nothing should induce
him to do it.
Reasoning--soundly enough, from his own point of view--on that
basis, Sir Patrick determined on sending no further instructions
to his friend at Edinburgh. That night he warned Duncan to
preserve the strictest silence as to the arrival of the telegram.
He burned it, in case of accidents, with his own hand, in his own
room.
Rising the next day and looking out of his window, Sir Patrick
saw the two young people taking their morning walk at a moment
when they happened to cross the open grassy space which separated
the two shrubberies at Windygates. Arnold's arm was round
Blanche's waist, and they were talking confidentially with their
heads close together. "She is coming round already!" thought the
old gentleman, as the two disappeared again in the second
shrubbery from view. "Thank Heaven! things are running smoothly
at last!"
Among the ornaments of Sir Patrick's bed room there was a view
(taken from above) of one of the Highland waterfalls. If he had
looked at the picture when he turned away from his window, he
might have remarked that a river which is running with its utmost
smoothness at one moment may be a river which plunges into its
most violent agitation at another; and he might have remembered,
with certain misgivings, that the progress of a stream of water
has been long since likened, with the universal consent of
humanity, to the progress of the stream of life.
FIFTH SCENE.--GLASGOW.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-NINTH.
ANNE AMONG THE LAWYERS.
ON the day when Sir Patrick received the second of the two
telegrams sent to him from Edinburgh, four respectable
inhabitants of the City of Glasgow were startled by the
appearance of an object of interest on the monotonous horizon of
their daily lives.
The persons receiving this wholesome shock were--Mr. and Mrs.
Karnegie of the Sheep's Head Hotel- and Mr. Camp, and Mr. Crum,
attached as "Writers" to the honorable profession of the Law.
It was still early in the day when a lady arrived, in a cab from
the railway, at the Sheep's Head Hotel. Her luggage consisted of
a black box, and of a well-worn leather bag which she carried in
her hand. The name on the box (recently written on a new luggage
label, as the color of the ink and paper showed) was a very good
name in its way, common to a very great number of ladies, both in
Scotland and England. It was "Mrs. Graham."
Encountering the landlord at the entrance to the hotel, "Mrs.
Graham" asked to be accommodated with a bedroom, and was
transferred in due course to the chamber-maid on duty at the
time. Returning to the little room behind the bar, in which the
accounts were kept, Mr. Karnegie surprised his wife by moving
more briskly, and looking much brighter than usual. Being
questioned, Mr. Karnegie (who had cast the eye of a landlord on
the black box in the passage) announced that one "Mrs. Graham"
had just arrived, and was then and there to be booked as
inhabiting Room Number Seventeen. Being informed (with
considerable asperity of tone and manner) that this answer failed
to account for the interest which appeared to have been inspired
in him by a total stranger, Mr. Karnegie came to the point, and
confessed that "Mrs. Graham" was one of the sweetest-looking
women he had seen for many a
long day, and that he feared she was very seriously out of
health.
Upon that reply the eyes of Mrs. Karnegie developed in size, and
the color of Mrs. Karnegie deepened in tint. She got up from her
chair and said that it might be just as well if she personally
superintended the installation of "Mrs. Graham" in her room, and
personally satisfied herself that "Mrs. Graham" was a fit inmate
to be received at the Sheep's Head Hotel. Mr. Karnegie thereupon
did what he always did--he agreed with his wife.
Mrs. Karnegie was absent for some little time. On her return her
eyes had a certain tigerish cast in them when they rested on Mr.
Karnegie. She ordered tea and some light refreshment to be taken
to Number Seventeen. This done--without any visible provocation
to account for the remark--she turned upon her husband, and said,
"Mr. Karnegie you are a fool." Mr. Karnegie asked, "Why, my
dear?" Mrs. Karnegie snapped her fingers, and said, "_That_ for
her." Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife.
Nothing more was said until the waiter appeared at the bar with
his tray. Mrs. Karnegie, having first waived the tray off,
without instituting her customary investigation, sat down
suddenly with a thump, and said to her husband (who had not
uttered a word in the interval), "Don't talk to Me about her
being out of health! _That_ fo
r her health! It's trouble on her
mind." Mr. Karnegie said, "Is it now?" Mrs. Karnegie replied,
"When I have said, It is, I consider myself insulted if another
person says, Is it?" Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife.
There. was another interval. Mrs. Karnegie added up a bill, with
a face of disgust. Mr. Karnegie looked at her with a face of
wonder. Mrs. Karnegie suddenly asked him why he wasted his looks
on _her,_ when he would have "Mrs. Graham" to look at before
long. Mr. Karnegie, upon that, attempted to compromise the matter
by looking, in the interim, at his own boots. Mrs. Karnegie
wished to know whether after twenty years of married life, she
was considered to be not worth answering by her own husband.
Treated with bare civility (she expected no more), she might have
gone on to explain that "Mrs. Graham" was going out. She might
also have been prevailed on to mention that "Mrs. Graham" had
asked her a very remarkable question of a business nature, at the
interview between them up stairs. As it was, Mrs. Karnegie's lips
were sealed, and let Mr. Karnegie deny if he dared, that he
richly deserved it. Mr. Karnegie agreed with his wife.
In half an hour more, "Mrs. Graham" came down stairs; and a cab
was sent for. Mr. Karnegie, in fear of the consequences if he did
otherwise, kept in a corner. Mrs. Karnegie followed him into the
corner, and asked him how he dared act in that way? Did he
presume to think, after twenty years of married life, that his
wife was jealous? "Go, you brute, and hand Mrs. Graham into the
cab!"
Mr. Karnegie obeyed. He asked, at the cab window, to what part of
Glasgow he should tell the driver to go. The reply informed him
that the driver was to take "Mrs. Graham" to the office of Mr.
Camp, the lawyer. Assuming "Mrs. Graham" to be a stranger in
Glasgow, and remembering that Mr. Camp was Mr. Karnegie's lawyer,
the inference appeared to be, that "Mrs. Graham's" remarkable
question, addressed to the landlady, had related to legal
business, and to the discovery of a trust-worthy person capable
of transacting it for her.
Returning to the bar, Mr. Karnegie found his eldest daughter in
charge of the books, the bills, and the waiters. Mrs. Karnegie
had retired to her own room, justly indignant with her husband
for his infamous conduct in handing "Mrs. Graham" into the cab
before her own eyes. "It's the old story, Pa," remarked Miss
Karnegie, with the most perfect composure. "Ma told you to do it,
of course; and then Ma says you've insulted her before all the
servants. I wonder how you bear it?" Mr. Karnegie looked at his
boots, and answered, "I wonder, too, my dear." Miss Karnegie
said, "You're not going to Ma, are you?" Mr. Karnegie looked up
from his boots, and answered, "I must, my dear."
Mr. Camp sat in his private room, absorbed over his papers.
Multitudinous as those documents were, they appeared to be not
sufficiently numerous to satisfy Mr. Camp. He rang his bell, and
ordered more.
The clerk appearing with a new pile of papers, appeared also with
a message. A lady, recommended by Mrs. Karnegie, of the Sheep's
Head, wished to consult Mr. Camp professionally. Mr. Camp looked
at his watch, counting out precious time before him, in a little
stand on the table, and said, "Show the lady in, in ten minutes."
In ten minutes the lady appeared. She took the client's chair and
lifted her veil. The same effect which had been produced on Mr.
Karnegie was once more produced on Mr. Camp. For the first time,
for many a long year past, he felt personally interested in a
total stranger. It might have been something in her eyes, or it
might have been something in her manner. Whatever it was, it took
softly hold of him, and made him, to his own exceeding surprise,
unmistakably anxious to hear what she had to say!
The lady announced--in a low sweet voice touched with a quiet
sadness--that her business related to a question of marriage (as
marriage is understood by Scottish law), and that her own peace