what I wanted to say. I wish--if I can--to persuade you that I
come here as a friend, before I mention my name. You will, I am
sure, not be very sorry to hear that you need dread no further
annoyance--"
"Pardon me once more," said Mrs. Glenarm, interposing for the
second time. "I am at a loss to know to what I am to attribute
this kind interest in my affairs on the part of a total
stranger."
This time, her tone was more than politely cold--it was politely
impertinent. Mrs. Glenarm had lived all her life in good society,
and was a perfect mistress of the subtleties of refined insolence
in her intercourse with those who incurred her displeasure.
Anne's sensitive nature felt the wound--but Anne's patient
courage submitted. She put away from her the insolence which had
tried to sting, and went on, gently and firmly, as if nothing had
happened.
"The person who wrote to you anonymously," she said, "alluded to
a correspondence. He is no longer in possession of it. The
correspondence has passed into hands which may be trusted to
respect it. It will be put to no base use in the future--I answer
for that."
"You answer for that?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. She suddenly leaned
forward over the piano, and fixed her eyes in unconcealed
scrutiny on Anne's face. The violent temper, so often found in
combination with the weak nature, began to show itself in her
rising color, and her lowering brow. "How do _you_ know what the
person wrote?" she asked. "How do _you_ know that the
correspondence has passed into other hands? Who are you?" Before
Anne could answer her, she sprang to her feet, electrified by a
new idea. "The man who wrote to me spoke of something else
besides a correspondence. He spoke of a woman. I have found you
out!" she exclaimed, with a burst of jealous fury. "_You_ are the
woman!"
Anne rose on her side, still in firm possession of her
self-control.
"Mrs. Glenarm," she said, calmly, "I warn--no, I entreat you--not
to take that tone with me. Compose yourself; and I promise to
satisfy you that you are more interested than you are willing to
believe in what I have still to say. Pray bear with me for a
little longer. I admit that you have guessed right. I own that I
am the miserable woman who has been ruined and deserted by
Geoffrey Delamayn."
"It's false!" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "You wretch! Do you come to
_me_ with your trumped-up story? What does Julius Delamayn mean
by exposing me to this?" Her indignation at finding herself in
the same room with Anne broke its way through, not the restraints
only, but the common decencies of politeness. "I'll ring for the
servants!" she said. "I'll have you turned out of the house."
She tried to cross the fire-place to ring the bell. Anne, who was
standing nearest to it, stepped forward at the same moment.
Without saying a word, she motioned with her hand to the other
woman to stand back. There was a pause. The two waited, with
their eyes steadily fixed on one another--each with her
resolution laid bare to the other's view. In a moment more, the
finer nature prevailed. Mrs. Glenarm drew back a step in silence.
"Listen to me," said Anne.
"Listen to you?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. "You have no right to be
in this house. You have no right to force yourself in here. Leave
the room!"
Anne's patience--so firmly and admirably preserved thus
far--began to fail her at last.
"Take care, Mrs. Glenarm!" she said, still struggling with
herself. "I am not naturally a patient woman. Trouble has done
much to tame my temper--but endurance has its limits. You have
reached the limits of mine. I have a claim to be heard--and after
what you have said to me, I _will_ be heard!"
"You have no claim! You shameless woman, you are married already.
I know the man's name. Arnold Brinkworth."
"Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?"
"I decline to answer a woman who speaks of Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn
in that familiar way."
Anne advanced a step nearer.
"Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?" she repeated.
There was a light in her eyes, there was a ring in her voice,
which showed that she was roused at last. Mrs. Glenarm answered
her, this time.
"He did tell me."
"He lied!"
"He did _not!_ He knew. I believe _him._ I don't believe _you._"
"If he told you that I was any thing but a single woman--if he
told you that Arnold Brinkworth was married to any body but Miss
Lundie of Windygates--I say again he lied!"
"I say again--I believe _him,_ and not you."
"You believe I am Arnold Brinkworth's wife?"
"I am certain of it."
"You tell me that to my face?"
"I tell you to your face--you may have been Geoffrey Delamayn's
mistress; you are Arnold Brinkworth's wife."
At those words the long restrained anger leaped up in Anne--all
the more hotly for having been hitherto so steadily controlled.
In one breathless moment the whirlwind of her indignation swept
away, not only all remembrance of the purpose which had brought
her to Swanhaven, but all sense even of the unpardonable wrong
which she had suffered at Geoffrey's hands. If he had been there,
at that moment, and had offered to redeem his pledge, she would
have consented to marry him, while Mrs. Glenarm s eye was on
her--no matter whether she destroyed herself in her first cool
moment afterward or not. The small sting had planted itself at
last in the great nature. The noblest woman is only a woman,
after all!
"I forbid your marriage to Geoffrey Delamayn! I insist on his
performing the promise he gave me, to make me his wife! I have
got it here in his own words, in his own writing. On his soul, he
swears it to me--he will redeem his pledge. His mistress, did you
say? His wife, Mrs. Glenarm, before the week is out!"
In those wild words she cast back the taunt--with the letter held
in triumph in her hand.
Daunted for the moment by the doubt now literally forced on her,
that Anne might really have the claim on Geoffrey which she
advanced, Mrs. Glenarm answered nevertheless with the obstinacy
of a woman brought to bay--with a resolution not to be convinced
by conviction itself.
"I won't give him up!" she cried. "Your letter is a forgery. You
have no proof. I won't, I won't, I won't give him up!" she
repeated, with the impotent iteration of an angry child.
Anne pointed disdainfully to the letter that she held. "Here is
his pledged and written word," she said. "While I live, you will
never be his wife."
"I shall be his wife the day after the race. I am going to him in
London--to warn him against You!"
"You will find me in London, before you--with this in my hand. Do
you know his writing?"
She held up the letter, open. Mrs. Glenarm's hand flew out with
the stealthy rapidity of a cat's paw, to seize and destroy it.
Quick as she was, her rival was quicker still. For an instant
they faced each other breathless--one with the letter held behind
her; one with her hand still stretched out.
At the same moment--before a word more had passed between
them--the glass door opened; and Julius Delamayn appeared in the
room.
He addressed himself to Anne.
"We decided, on the terrace," he said, quietly, "that you should
speak to Mrs. Glenarm, if Mrs. Glenarm wished it. Do you think it
desirable that the interview should be continued any longer?"
Anne's head drooped on her breast. The fiery anger in her was
quenched in an instant.
"I have been cruelly provoked, Mr. Delamayn," she answered. "But
I have no right to plead that." She looked up at him for a
moment. The hot tears of shame gathered in her eyes, and fell
slowly over her cheeks. She bent her head again, and hid them
from him. "The only atonement I can make," she said, "is to ask
your pardon, and to leave the house."
In silence, she turned away to the door. In silence, Julius
Delamayn paid her the trifling courtesy of opening it for her.
She went out.
Mrs. Glenarm's indignation--suspended for the moment--transferred
itself to Julius.
"If I have been entrapped into seeing that woman, with your
approval," she said, haughtily, "I owe it to myself, Mr.
Delamayn, to follow her example, and to leave your house."
"I authorized her to ask you for an interview, Mrs. Glenarm. If
she has presumed on the permission that I gave her, I sincerely
regret it, and I beg you to accept my apologies. At the same
time, I may venture to add, in defense of my conduct, that I
thought her--and think her still--a woman to be pitied more than
to be blamed."
"To be pitied did you say?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, doubtful whether
her ears had not deceived her.
"_You_ may find it convenient, Mr. Delamayn, to forget what your
brother has told us about that person. _I_ happen to remember
it."
"So do I, Mrs. Glenarm. But, with my experience of Geoffrey--" He
hesitated, and ran his fingers nervously over the strings of his
violin.
"You don't believe him?" said Mrs. Glenarm.
Julius declined to admit that he doubted his brother's word, to
the lady who was about to become his brother's wife.
"I don't quite go that length," he said. "I find it difficult to
reconcile what Geoffrey has told us, with Miss Silvester's manner
and appearance--"
"Her appearance!" cried Mrs. Glenarm, in a transport of
astonishment and disgust. "_Her_ appearance! Oh, the men! I beg
your pardon--I ought to have remembered that there is no
accounting for tastes. Go on--pray go on!"
"Shall we compose ourselves with a little music?" suggested
Julius.
"I particularly request you will go on," answered Mrs. Glenarm,
emphatically. "You find it 'impossible to reconcile'--"
"I said 'difficult.' "
"Oh, very well. Difficult to reconcile what Geoffrey told us,
with Miss Silvester's manner and appearance. What next? You had
something else to say, when I was so rude as to interrupt you.
What was it?"
"Only this," said Julius. "I don't find it easy to understand Sir
Patrick Lundie's conduct in permitting Mr. Brinkworth to commit
bigamy with his niece."
"Wait a minute! The marriage of that horrible woman to Mr.
Brinkworth was a private marriage. Of course, Sir Patrick knew
nothing about it!"
Julius owned that this might be possible, and made a second
attempt to lead the angry lady back to the piano. Useless, once
more! Though she shrank from confessing it to herself, Mrs.
Glenarm's belief in the genuineness of her lover's defense had
been shaken. The tone taken by Julius--moderate as it
was--revived the first startling suspicion of the credibility of
Geoffrey's statement which Anne's language and conduct had forced
on Mrs. Glenarm. She dropped into the nearest chair, and put her
handkerchief to her eyes. "You always hated poor Geoffrey," she
said, with a burst of tears. "And now you're defaming him to me!"
Julius managed her admirably. On the point of answering her
seriously, he checked himself. "I always hated poor Geoffrey," he
repeated, with a smile. "You ought to be the last person to say
that, Mrs. Glenarm! I brought him all the way from London
expressly to introduce him to _you._"
"Then I wish you had left him in London!" retorted Mrs. Glenarm,
shifting suddenly from tears to temper. "I was a happy woman
before I met your brother. I can't give him up!" she burst out,
shifting back again from temper to tears. "I don't care if he
_has_ deceived me. I won't let another woman have him! I _will_
be his wife!" She threw herself theatrically on her knees before
Julius. "Oh, _do_ help me to find out the truth!" she said. "Oh,
Julius, pity me! I am so fond of him!"
There was genuine distress in her face, there was true feeling in
her voice. Who would have believed that there were reserves of
merciless insolence and heartless cruelty in this woman--and that
they had been lavishly poured out on a fallen sister not five
minutes since?
"I will do all I can," said Julius, raising her. "Let us talk of
it when you are more composed. Try a little music," he repeated,
"just to quiet your nerves."
"Would _you_ like me to play?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, becoming a
model of feminine docility at a moment's notice.
Julius opened the Sonatas of Mozart, and shouldered his violin.
"Let's try the Fifteenth," he said, placing Mrs. Glenarm at the
piano. "We will begin with the Adagio. If ever there was divine
music written by mortal man, there it is!"
They began. At the third bar Mrs. Glenarm dropped a note--and the
bow of Julius paused shuddering on the strings.
"I can't play!" she said. "I am so agitated; I am so anxious. How
_am_ I to find out whether that wretch is really married or not?
Who can I ask? I can't go to Geoffrey in London--the trainers
won't let me see him. I can't appeal to Mr. Brinkworth himself--I
am not even acquainted with him. Who else is there? Do think, and
tell me!"
There was but one chance of making her return to the Adagio--the
chance of hitting on a suggestion which would satisfy and quiet
question before him carefully.
"There are the witnesses," he said. "If Geoffrey's story is to be
depended on, the landlady and the waiter at the inn can speak to
the facts."
"Low people!" objected Mrs. Glenarm. "People I don't know. People
who might take advantage of my situation, and be insolent to me."
Julius considered once more; and made another suggestion. With
the fatal ingenuity of innocence, he hit on the idea of referring
Mrs. Glenarm to no less a person than Lady Lundie herself!
"There is our go
od friend at Windygates," he said. "Some whisper
of the matter may have reached Lady Lundie's ears. It may be a
little awkward to call on her (if she _has_ heard any thing) at
the time of a serious family disaster. You are the best judge of
that, however. All I can do is to throw out the notion.
Windygates isn't very far off--and something might come of it.
What do you think?"
Something might come of it! Let it be remembered that Lady Lundie
had been left entirely in the dark--that she had written to Sir
Patrick in a tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem was
wounded and her suspicion roused--and that her first intimation
of the serious dilemma in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was now
likely, thanks to Julius Delamayn, to reach her from the lips of
a mere acquaintance. Let this be remembered; and then let the
estimate be formed of what might come of it--not at Windygates
only, but also at Ham Farm!
"What do you think?" asked Julius.
Mrs. Glenarm was enchanted. "The very person to go to!" she said.
"If I am not let in I can easily write--and explain my object as
an apology. Lady Lundie is so right-minded, so sympathetic. If
she sees no one else--I have only to confide my anxieties to her,
and I am sure she will see me. You will lend me a carriage, won't
you? I'll go to Windygates to-morrow."
Julius took his violin off the pi ano.
"Don't think me very troublesome," he said coaxingly. "Between
this and to-morrow we have nothing to do. And it is _such_ music,
if you once get into the swing of it! Would you mind trying
again?"
Mrs. Glenarm was willing to do any thing to prove her gratitude,
after the invaluable hint which she had just received. At the
second trial the fair pianist's eye and hand were in perfect
harmony. The lovely melody which the Adagio of Mozart's Fifteenth
Sonata has given to violin and piano flowed smoothly at last--and
Julius Delamayn soared to the seventh heaven of musical delight.
The next day Mrs. Glenarm and Mrs. Delamayn went together to
Windygates House.
TENTH SCENE--THE BEDROOM.
CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.
LADY LUNDIE DOES HER DUTY.
THE scene opens on a bedroom--and discloses, in broad daylight, a
lady in bed.
Persons with an irritable sense of propriety, whose
self-appointed duty it is to be always crying out, are warned to
pause before they cry out on this occasion. The lady now
presented to view being no less a person than Lady Lundie
herself, it follows, as a matter of course, that the utmost
demands of propriety are, by the mere assertion of that fact,
abundantly and indisputably satisfied. To say that any thing
short of direct moral advantage could, by any possibility, accrue
to any living creature by the presentation of her ladyship in a
horizontal, instead of a perpendicular position, is to assert
that Virtue is a question of posture, and that Respectability
ceases to assert itself when it ceases to appear in morning or
evening dress. Will any body be bold enough to say that? Let
nobody cry out, then, on the present occasion.
Lady Lundie was in bed.
Her ladyship had received Blanche's written announcement of the
sudden stoppage of the bridal tour; and had penned the answer to
Sir Patrick--the receipt of which at Ham Farm has been already
described. This done, Lady Lundie felt it due to herself to take
a becoming position in her own house, pending the possible
arrival of Sir Patrick's reply. What does a right-minded woman
do, when she has reason to believe that she is cruelly distrusted
by the members of her own family? A right-minded woman feels it
so acutely that she falls ill. Lady Lundie fell ill accordingly.
The case being a serious one, a medical practitioner of the
highest grade in the profession was required to treat it. A