Brinkworth."
Sir Patrick folded the letter, and looked at the two inclosures
lying on the table. His eye was hard, his brow was frowning, as
he put his hand to take up Anne's letter. The letter from
Arnold's agent in Edinburgh lay nearer to him. As it happened, he
took that first.
It was short enough, and clearly enough written, to invite a
reading before he put it down again. The lawyer reported that he
had made the necessary inquiries at Glasgow, with this result.
Anne had been traced to The Sheep's Head Hotel. She had lain
there utterly helpless, from illness, until the beginning of
September. She had been advertised, without result, in the
Glasgow newspapers. On the 5th of September she had sufficiently
recovered to be able to leave the hotel. She had been seen at the
railway station on the same day--but from that point all trace of
her had been lost once more. The lawyer had accordingly stopped
the proceedings, and now waited further instructions from his
client.
This letter was not without its effect in encouraging Sir Patrick
to suspend the harsh and hasty judgment of Anne, which any man,
placed in his present situation, must have been inclined to form.
Her illness claimed its small share of sympathy. Her friendless
position--so plainly and so sadly revealed by the advertising in
the newspapers--pleaded for merciful construction of faults
committed, if faults there were. Gravely, but not angrily, Sir
Patrick opened her letter--the letter that cast a doubt on his
niece's marriage.
Thus Anne Silvester wrote:
"GLASGOW, _September_ 5.
"DEAR MR. BRINKWORTH,--Nearly three weeks since I attempted to
write to you from this place. I was seized by sudden illness
while I was engaged over my letter; and from that time to this I
have laid helpless in bed--very near, as they tell me, to death.
I was strong enough to be dressed, and to sit up for a little
while yesterday and the day before. To-day, I have made a better
advance toward recovery. I can hold my pen and control my
thoughts. The first use to which I put this improvement is to
write these lines.
"I am going (so far as I know) to surprise--possibly to
alarm--you. There is no escaping from it, for you or for me; it
must be done.
"Thinking of how best to introduce what I am now obliged to say,
I can find no better way than this. I must ask you to take your
memory back to a day which we have both bitter reason to
regret--the day when Geoffrey Delamayn sent you to see me at the
inn at Craig Fernie.
"You may possibly not remember--it unhappily produced no
impression on you at the time--that I felt, and expressed, more
than once on that occasion, a very great dislike to your passing
me off on the people of the inn as your wife. It was necessary to
my being permitted to remain at Craig Fernie that you should do
so. I knew this; but still I shrank from it. It was impossible
for me to contradict you, without involving you in the painful
consequences, and running the risk of making a scandal which
might find its way to Blanche's ears. I knew this also; but still
my conscience reproached me. It was a vague feeling. I was quite
unaware of the actual danger in which you were placing yourself,
or I would have spoken out, no matter what came of it. I had what
is called a presentiment that you were not acting
discreetly--nothing more. As I love and honor my mother's
memory--as I trust in the mercy of God--this is the truth.
"You left the inn the next morning, and we have not met since.
"A few days after you went away my anxieties grew more than I
could bear alone. I went secretly to Windygates, and had an
interview with Blanche.
"She was absent for a few minutes from the room in which we had
met. In that interval I saw Geoffrey Delamayn for the first time
since I had left him at Lady Lundie's lawn-party. He treated me
as if I was a stranger. He told me that he had found out all that
had passed between us at the inn. He said he had taken a lawyer's
opinion. Oh, Mr. Brinkworth! how can I break it to you? how can I
write the words which repeat what he said to me next? It must be
done. Cruel as it is, it must be done. He refused to my face to
marr y me. He said I was married already. He said I was your
wife.
"Now you know why I have referred you to what I felt (and
confessed to feeling) when we were together at Craig Fernie. If
right to blame you. I am innocent--and yet it is my fault.
"My head swims, and the foolish tears are rising in spite of me.
I must leave off, and rest a little.
"I have been sitting at the window, and watching the people in
the street as they go by. They are all strangers. But, somehow,
the sight of them seems to rest my mind. The hum of the great
city gives me heart, and helps me to go on.
"I can not trust myself to write of the man who has betrayed us
both. Disgraced and broken as I am, there is something still left
in me which lifts me above _him._ If he came repentant, at this
moment, and offered me all that rank and wealth and worldly
consideration can give, I would rather be what I am now than be
his wife.
"Let me speak of you; and (for Blanche's sake) let me speak of
myself.
"I ought, no doubt, to have waited to see you at Windygates, and
to have told you at once of what had happened. But I was weak and
ill and the shock of hearing what I heard fell so heavily on me
that I fainted. After I came to myself I was so horrified, when I
thought of you and Blanche that a sort of madness possessed me. I
had but one idea--the idea of running away and hiding myself.
"My mind got clearer and quieter on the way to this place; and,
arrived here, I did what I hope and believe was the best thing I
could do. I consulted two lawyers. They differed in opinion as to
whether we were married or not--according to the law which
decides on such things in Scotland. The first said Yes. The
second said No--but advised me to write immediately and tell you
the position in which you stood. I attempted to write the same
day, and fell ill as you know.
"Thank God, the delay that has happened is of no consequence. I
asked Blanche, at Windygates, when you were to be married--and
she told me not until the end of the autumn. It is only the fifth
of September now. You have plenty of time before you. For all our
sakes, make good use of it.
"What are you to do?
"Go at once to Sir Patrick Lundie, and show him this letter.
Follow his advice--no matter how it may affect _me._ I should ill
requite your kindness, I should be false indeed to the love I
bear to Blanche, if I hesitated to brave any exposure that may
now be necessary in your interests and in hers. You have been all
that is generous, all that is delicate, all that is kind in this
matter. You have kept my disgraceful secret--I am quite sure of
it--with the fidelity of an honorable man who has had a woman's
reputation placed in his charge. I release you, with my whole
heart, dear Mr. Brinkworth, from your pledge. I entreat you, on
my knees, to consider yourself free to reveal the truth. I will
make any acknowledgment, on my side, that is needful under the
circumstances--no matter how public it may be. Release yourself
at any price; and then, and not till then, give back your regard
to the miserable woman who has laden you with the burden of her
sorrow, and darkened your life for a moment with the shadow of
her shame.
"Pray don't think there is any painful sacrifice involved in
this. The quieting of my own mind is involved in it--and that is
all.
"What has life left for _me?_ Nothing but the barren necessity of
living. When I think of the future now, my mind passes over the
years that may be left to me in this world. Sometimes I dare to
hope that the Divine Mercy of Christ--which once pleaded on earth
for a woman like me--may plead, when death has taken me, for my
spirit in Heaven. Sometimes I dare to hope that I may see my
mother, and Blanche's mother, in the better world. Their hearts
were bound together as the hearts of sisters while they were
here; and they left to their children the legacy of their love.
Oh, help me to say, if we meet again, that not in vain I promised
to be a sister to Blanche! The debt I owe to her is the
hereditary debt of my mother's gratitude. And what am I now? An
obstacle in the way of the happiness of her life. Sacrifice me to
that happiness, for God's sake! It is the one thing I have left
to live for. Again and again I say it--I care nothing for myself.
I have no right to be considered; I have no wish to be
considered. Tell the whole truth about me, and call me to bear
witness to it as publicly as you please!
"I have waited a little, once more, trying to think, before I
close my letter, what there may be still left to write.
how you may find me. if you wish to write--or if it is thought
necessary that we should meet again.
"One word before I tell you this.
"It is impossible for me to guess what you will do, or what you
will be advised to do by others, when you get my letter. I don't
even know that you may not already have heard of what your
position is from Geoffrey Delamayn himself. In this event, or in
the event of your thinking it desirable to take Blanche into your
confidence, I venture to suggest that you should appoint some
person whom you can trust to see me on your behalf--or, if you
can not do this that you should see me in the presence of a third
person. The man who has not hesitated to betray us both, will not
hesitate to misrepresent us in the vilest way, if he can do it in
the future. For your own sake, let us be careful to give lying
tongues no opportunity of assailing your place in Blanche's
estimation. Don't act so as to risk putting yourself in a false
position _again!_ Don't let it be possible that a feeling
unworthy of her should be roused in the loving and generous
nature of your future wife!
"This written, I may now tell you how to communicate with me
after I have left this place.
"You will find on the slip of paper inclosed the name and address
of the second of the two lawyers whom I consulted in Glasgow. It
is arranged between us that I am to inform him, by letter, of the
next place to which I remove, and that he is to communicate the
information either to you or to Sir Patrick Lundie, on your
applying for it personally or by writing. I don't yet know myself
where I may find refuge. Nothing is certain but that I can not,
in my present state of weakness, travel far.
"If you wonder why I move at all until I am stronger, I can only
give a reason which may appear fanciful and overstrained.
"I have been informed that I was advertised in the Glasgow
newspapers during the time when I lay at this hotel, a stranger
at the point of death. Trouble has perhaps made me morbidly
suspicious. I am afraid of what may happen if I stay here, after
my place of residence has been made publicly known. So, as soon
as I can move, I go away in secret. It will be enough for me, if
I can find rest and peace in some quiet place, in the country
round Glasgow. You need feel no anxiety about my means of living.
I have money enough for all that I need--and, if I get well
again, I know how to earn my bread.
"I send no message to Blanche--I dare not till this is over. Wait
till she is your happy wife; and then give her a kiss, and say it
comes from Anne.
"Try and forgive me, dear Mr. Brinkworth. I have said all. Yours
gratefully,
"ANNE SILVESTER."
Sir Patrick put the letter down with unfeigned respect for the
woman who had written it.
Something of the personal influence which Anne exercised more or
less over all the men with whom she came in contact seemed to
communicate itself to the old lawyer through the medium of her
letter. His thoughts perversely wandered away from the serious
and pressing question of his niece's position into a region of
purely speculative inquiry relating to Anne. What infatuation (he
asked himself) had placed that noble creature at the mercy of
such a man as Geoffrey Delamayn?
We have all, at one time or another in our lives, been perplexed
as Sir Patrick was perplexed now.
If we know any thing by experience, we know that women cast
themselves away impulsively on unworthy men, and that men ruin
themselves headlong for unworthy w omen. We have the institution
of Divorce actually among us, existing mainly because the two
sexes are perpetually placing themselves in these anomalous
relations toward each other. And yet, at every fresh instance
which comes before us, we persist in being astonished to find
that the man and the woman have not chosen each other on rational
and producible grounds! We expect human passion to act on logical
principles; and human fallibility--with love for its guide--to be
above all danger of making a mistake! Ask the wisest among Anne
Silvester's sex what they saw to rationally justify them in
choosing the men to whom they have given their hearts and their
lives, and you will be putting a question to those wise women
which they never once thought of putting to themselves. Nay, more
still. Look into your own experience, and say frankly, Could you
justify your own excellent choice at the time when you
irrevocably made it? Could you have put your reasons on paper
when you first owned to yourself that you loved him? And would
the reasons have borne critical inspection if you had?
Sir Patrick gave it up in despair. The interests of his niece
were at stake. He wisely determined to rouse his mind by
occupying
himself with the practical necessities of the moment.
It was essential to send an apology to the rector, in the first
place, so as to leave the evening at his disposal for considering
what preliminary course of conduct he should advise Arnold to
pursue.
After writing a few lines of apology to his partner at
Piquet--assigning family business as the excuse for breaking his
engagement--Sir Patrick rang the bell. The faithful Duncan
appeared, and saw at once in his master s face that something had
happened.
"Send a man with this to the Rectory," said Sir Patrick. "I can't
dine out to-day. I must have a chop at home."
"I am afraid, Sir Patrick--if I may be excused for remarking
it--you have had some bad news?"
"The worst possible news, Duncan. I can't tell you about it now.
Wait within hearing of the bell. In the mean time let nobody
interrupt me. If the steward himself comes I can't see him."
After thinking it over carefully, Sir Patrick decided that there
was no alternative but to send a message to Arnold and Blanche,
summoning them back to England in the first place. The necessity
of questioning Arnold, in the minutest detail, as to every thing
that had happened between Anne Silvester and himself at the Craig
Fernie inn, was the first and foremost necessity of the case.
At the same time it appeared to be desirable, for Blanche's sake,
to keep her in ignorance, for the present at least, of what had
happened. Sir Patrick met this difficulty with characteristic
ingenuity and readiness of resource.
He wrote a telegram to Arnold, expressed in the following terms:
"Your letter and inclosures received. Return to Ham Farm as soon
as you conveniently can. Keep the thing still a secret from
Blanche. Tell her, as the reason for coming back, that the lost
trace of Anne Silvester has been recovered, and that there may be
reasons for her returning to England before any thing further can
be done."
Duncan having been dispatched to the station with this message,
Duncan's master proceeded to calculate the question of time.
Arnold would in all probability receive the telegram at Baden, on
the next day, September the seventeenth. In three days more he
and Blanche might be expected to reach Ham Farm. During the
interval thus placed at his disposal Sir Patrick would have ample
time in which to recover himself, and to see his way to acting
for the best in the alarming emergency that now confronted him.
On the nineteenth Sir Patrick received a telegram informing him
that he might expect to see the young couple late in the evening
on the twentieth.
Late in the evening the sound of carriage-wheels was audible on
the drive; and Sir Patrick, opening the door of his room, heard
the familiar voices in the hall.
"Well!" cried Blanche, catching sight of him at the door, "is
Anne found?"
"Not just yet, my dear."
"Is there news of her?"
"Yes."
"Am I in time to be of use?"
"In excellent time. You shall hear all about it to-morrow. Go and
take off your traveling-things, and come down again to supper as
soon as you can."
Blanche kissed him, and went on up stairs. She had, as her uncle
thought in the glimpse he had caught of her, been improved by her
marriage. It had quieted and steadied her. There were graces in
her look and manner which Sir Patrick had not noticed before.
Arnold, on his side, appeared to less advantage. He was restless
and anxious; his position with Miss Silvester seemed to be
preying on his mind. As soon as his young wife's back was turned,
he appealed to Sir Patrick in an eager whisper.
"I hardly dare ask you what I have got it on my mind to say," he
began. "I must bear it if you are angry with me, Sir Patrick.
But--only tell me one thing. Is there a way out of it for us?
Have you thought of that?"