could get temporary employment--and at Perth he determined to
make his first anonymous advances to Mrs. Glenarm.
The remainder of the evening passed quietly enough at the Lodge.
The guests were sleepy and dull after the excitement of the day.
Mrs. Glenarm retired early. At eleven o'clock Julius Delamayn was
the only person left up in the house. He was understood to be in
his study, preparing an address to the electors, based on
instructions sent from London by his father. He was actually
occupied in the music-room--now that there was nobody to discover
him--playing exercises softly on his beloved violin.
At the trainer's cottage a trifling incident occured, that night,
which afforded materials for a note in Perry's professional
diary.
Geoffrey had sustained the later trial of walking for a given
time and distance, at his full speed, without showing any of
those symptoms of exhaustion which had followed the more serious
experiment of running, to which he had been subjected earlier in
the day. Perry, honestly bent--though he had privately hedged his
own bets--on doing his best to bring his man in good order to the
post on the day of the race, had forbidden Geoffrey to pay his
evening visit to the house, and had sent him to bed earlier than
usual. The trainer was alone, looking over his own written rules,
and considering what modifications he should introduce into the
diet and exercises of the next day, when he was startled by a
sound of groaning from the bedroom in which his patron lay
asleep.
He went in, and found Geoffrey rolling to and fro on the pillow,
with his face contorted, with his hands clenched, and with the
perspiration standing thick on his forehead--suffering evidently
under the nervous oppression produced by the phantom-terrors of a
dream.
Perry spoke to him, and pulled him up in the bed. He woke with a
scream. He stared at his trainer in vacant terror, and spoke to
his trainer in wild words. "What are your horrid eyes looking at
over my shoulder?" he cried out. "Go to the devil--and take your
infernal slate with you!" Perry spoke to him once more. "You've
been dreaming of somebody, Mr. Delamayn. What's to do about a
slate?" Geoffrey looked eagerly round the room, and heaved a
heavy breath of relief. "I could have sworn she was staring at me
over the dwarf pear-trees," he said. "All right, I know where I
am now." Perry (attributing the dream to nothing more important
than a passing indigestion) administered some brandy and water,
and left him to drop off again to sleep. He fretfully forbade the
extinguishing of the light. "Afraid of the dark?" said Perry,
with a laugh. No. He was afraid of dreaming again of the dumb
cook at Windygates House.
SEVENTH SCENE.--HAM FARM.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.
THE NIGHT BEFORE.
THE time was the night before the marriage. The place was Sir
Patrick's house in Kent.
The lawyers had kept their word. The settlements had been
forwarded, and had been signed two days since.
With the exception of the surgeon and one of the three young
gentlemen from the University, who had engagements elsewhere, the
visitors at Windygates had emigrated southward to be present at
the marriage. Besides these gentlemen, there were some ladies
among the guests invited by Sir Patrick--all of them family
connections, and three of them appointed to the position of
Blanche's bridesmaids. Add one or two neighbors to be invited to
the breakfast--and the wedding-party would be complete.
There was nothing architecturally remarkable about Sir Patrick's
house. Ham Farm possessed neither the splendor of Windygates nor
the picturesque antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was a
perfectly commonplace English country seat, surrounded by
perfectly commonplace English scenery. Snug monotony welcomed you
when you went in, and snug monotony met you again when you turned
to the window and looked out.
The animation and variety wanting at Ham Farm were far from being
supplied by the company in the house. It was remembered, at an
after-period, that a duller wedding-party had never been
assembled together.
Sir Patrick, having no early associations with the place, openly
admitted that his residence in Kent preyed on his spirits, and
that he would have infinitely preferred a room at the inn in the
village. The effort to sustain his customary vivacity was not
encouraged by persons and circumstances about him. Lady Lundie's
fidelity to the memory of the late Sir Thomas, on the scene of
his last illness and death, persisted in asserting itself, under
of Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed by her private
anxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to look gayly
at the last memorable days of her maiden life. Arnold,
sacrificed--by express stipulation on the part of Lady Lundie--to
the prurient delicacy which forbids the bridegroom, before
marriage, to sleep in the same house with the bride, found
himself ruthlessly shut out from Sir Patrick's hospitality, and
exiled every night to a bedroom at the inn. He accepted his
solitary doom with a resignation which extended its sobering
influence to his customary flow of spirits. As for the ladies,
the elder among them existed in a state of chronic protest
against Lady Lundie, and the younger were absorbed in the
essentially serious occupation of considering and comparing their
wedding-dresses. The two young gentlemen from the University
performed prodigies of yawning, in the intervals of prodigies of
billiard playing. Smith said, in despair, "There's no making
things pleasant in this house, Jones." And Jones sighed, and
mildly agreed with him.
On the Sunday evening--which was the evening before the
marriage--the dullness, as a matter of course, reached its
climax.
But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on week
days are regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinately
anti-Christian tone of feeling which prevails in this matter
among the Anglo-Saxon race. It is not sinful to wrangle in
religious controversy; and it is not sinful to slumber over a
religious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the pious
observance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sex
wrangled in Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sex
slumbered over Sunday books. As for the men, it is unnecessary to
say that the young ones smoked when they were not yawning, and
yawned when they were not smoking. Sir Patrick staid in the
library, sorting old letters and examining old accounts. Every
person in the house felt the oppression of the senseless social
prohibitions which they had imposed on themselves. And yet every
person in the house would have been scandalized if the plain
question had been put: You know this is a tyranny of your own
mak
ing, you know you don't really believe in it, you know you
don't really like it--why do you submit? The freest people on the
civilized earth are the only people on the civilized earth who
dare not face that question.
The evening dragged its slow length on; the welcome time drew
nearer and nearer for oblivion in bed. Arnold was silently
contemplating, for the last time, his customary prospects of
banishment to the inn, when he became aware that Sir Patrick was
making signs to him. He rose and followed his host into the empty
dining-room. Sir Patrick carefully closed the door. What did it
mean?
It meant--so far as Arnold was concerned--that a private
conversation was about to diversify the monotony of the long
Sunday evening at Ham Farm.
"I have a word to say to you, Arnold," the old gentleman began,
"before you become a married man. Do you remember the
conversation at dinner yesterday, about the dancing-party at
Swanhaven Lodge?"
"Yes."
"Do you remember what Lady Lundie said while the topic was on the
table?"
"She told me, what I can't believe, that Geoffrey Delamayn was
going to be married to Mrs. Glenarm."
"Exactly! I observed that you appeared to be startled by what my
sister-in-law had said; and when you declared that appearances
must certainly have misled her, you looked and spoke (to my mind)
like a man animated by a strong feeling of indignation. Was I
wrong in drawing that conclusion?"
"No, Sir Patrick. You were right."
"Have you any objection to tell me why you felt indignant?"
Arnold hesitated.
"You are probably at a loss to know what interest _I_ can feel in
the matter?"
Arnold admitted it with his customary frankness.
"In that case," rejoined Sir Patrick, "I had better go on at once
with the matter in hand--leaving you to see for yourself the
connection between what I am about to say, and the question that
I have just put. When I have done, you shall then reply to me or
not, exactly as you think right. My dear boy, the subject on
which I want to speak to you is--Miss Silvester."
attention, and went on:
"My niece has her faults of temper and her failings of judgment,"
he said. "But she has one atoning quality (among many others)
which ought to make--and which I believe will make--the happiness
of your married life. In the popular phrase, Blanche is as true
as steel. Once her friend, always her friend. Do you see what I
am coming to? She has said nothing about it, Arnold; but she has
not yielded one inch in her resolution to reunite herself to Miss
Silvester. One of the first questions you will have to determine,
after to-morrow, will be the question of whether you do, or not,
sanction your wife in attempting to communicate with her lost
friend."
Arnold answered without the slightest reserve
"I am heartily sorry for Blanche's lost friend, Sir Patrick. My
wife will have my full approval if she tries to bring Miss
Silvester back--and my best help too, if I can give it."
Those words were earnestly spoken. It was plain that they came
from his heart.
"I think you are wrong," said Sir Patrick. "I, too, am sorry for
Miss Silvester. But I am convinced that she has not left Blanche
without a serious reason for it. And I believe you will be
encouraging your wife in a hopeless effort, if you encourage her
to persist in the search for her lost friend. However, it is your
affair, and not mine. Do you wish me to offer you any facilities
for tracing Miss Silvester which I may happen to possess?"
"If you _can_ help us over any obstacles at starting, Sir
Patrick, it will be a kindness to Blanche, and a kindness to me."
"Very good. I suppose you remember what I said to you, one
morning, when we were talking of Miss Silvester at Windygates?"
"You said you had determined to let her go her own way."
"Quite right! On the evening of the day when I said that I
received information that Miss Silvester had been traced to
Glasgow. You won't require me to explain why I never mentioned
this to you or to Blanche. In mentioning it now, I communicate to
you the only positive information, on the subject of the missing
woman, which I possess. There are two other chances of finding
her (of a more speculative kind) which can only be tested by
inducing two men (both equally difficult to deal with) to confess
what they know. One of those two men is--a person named
Bishopriggs, formerly waiter at the Craig Fernie inn."
Arnold started, and changed color. Sir Patrick (silently noticing
him) stated the circumstances relating to Anne's lost letter, and
to the conclusion in his own mind which pointed to Bishopriggs as
the person in possession of it.
"I have to add," he proceeded, "that Blanche, unfortunately,
found an opportunity of speaking to Bishopriggs at Swanhaven.
When she and Lady Lundie joined us at Edinburgh she showed me
privately a card which had been given to her by Bishopriggs. He
had described it as the address at which he might be heard
of--and Blanche entreated me, before we started for London, to
put the reference to the test. I told her that she had committed
a serious mistake in attempting to deal with Bishopriggs on her
own responsibility; and I warned her of the result in which I was
firmly persuaded the inquiry would end. She declined to believe
that Bishopriggs had deceived her. I saw that she would take the
matter into her own hands again unless I interfered; and I went
to the place. Exactly as I had anticipated, the person to whom
the card referred me had not heard of Bishopriggs for years, and
knew nothing whatever about his present movements. Blanche had
simply put him on his guard, and shown him the propriety of
keeping out of the way. If you should ever meet with him in the
future--say nothing to your wife, and communicate with me. I
decline to assist you in searching for Miss Silvester; but I have
no objection to assist in recovering a stolen letter from a
thief. So much for Bishopriggs.--Now as to the other man."
"Who is he?"
"Your friend, Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn."
Arnold sprang to his feet in ungovernable surprise.
"I appear to astonish you," remarked Sir Patrick.
Arnold sat down again, and waited, in speechless suspense, to
hear what was coming next.
"I have reason to know," said Sir Patrick, "that Mr. Delamayn is
thoroughly well acquainted with the nature of Miss Silvester's
present troubles. What his actual connection is with them, and
how he came into possession of his information, I have not found
out. My discovery begins and ends with the simple fact that he
has the information."
"May I ask one question, Sir Patrick?"
"What is it?"
"How did you find out about Geoffrey Delamayn?"
"It would occupy a long time," answere
d Sir Patrick, "to tell you
how--and it is not at all necessary to our purpose that you
should know. My present obligation merely binds me to tell
you--in strict confidence, mind!--that Miss Silvester's secrets
are no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I leave to your discretion the
use you may make of that information. You are now entirely on a
par with me in relation to your knowledge of the case of Miss
Silvester. Let us return to the question which I asked you when
we first came into the room. Do you see the connection, now,
between that question, and what I have said since?"
Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running on
Sir Patrick's discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted to
Mrs. Inchb are's incomplete description of him for his own escape
from detection, he was wondering how it had happened that _he_
had remained unsuspected, while Geoffrey's position had been (in
part at least) revealed to view.
"I asked you," resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, "why
the mere report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarm
roused your indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer.
Do you hesitate still?"
"It's not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick."
"Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of the
report takes its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr.
Delamayn's private affairs, which the rest of us don't
possess.--Is that conclusion correct?"
"Quite correct."
"Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thing
that you know about Miss Silvester?"
If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question,
Sir Patrick's suspicions would have been aroused, and Sir
Patrick's resolution would have forced a full disclosure from him
before he left the house.
It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-day
was at hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle into
light. The dark Phantoms of Trouble and Terror to come were
waiting near them both at that moment. Arnold hesitated
again--hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick paused for his answer.
The clock in the hall struck the quarter to twelve.
"I can't tell you!" said Arnold.
"Is it a secret?"
"Yes."
"Committed to your honor?"
"Doubly committed to my honor."
"What do you mean?"
"I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me into
his confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence after
that."
"Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?"
"Yes."
Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily in the face.
"I have felt an inveterate distrust of Mr. Delamayn from the
first," he said. "Answer me this. Have you any reason to
think--since we first talked about your friend in the
summer-house at Windygates--that my opinion of him might have
been the right one after all?"
"He has bitterly disappointed me," answered Arnold. "I can say no
more."
"You have had very little experience of the world," proceeded Sir
Patrick. "And you have just acknowledged that you have had reason
to distrust your experience of your friend. Are you quite sure
that you are acting wisely in keeping his secret from _me?_ Are
you quite sure that you will not repent the course you are taking
to-night?" He laid a marked emphasis on those last words. "Think,
Arnold," he added, kindly. "Think before you answer."
"I feel bound in honor to keep his secret," said Arnold. "No
thinking can alter that."
Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end.
"There is nothing more to be said." With those words he gave
Arnold his hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished him
good-night.
Going out into the hall, Arnold found Blanche alone, looking at
the barometer.
"The glass is at Set Fair, my darling," he whispered. "Good-night
for the last time!"