he’s speerin’ after the leddy that cam’ here alane. The leddy’s your
leddy, as sure as saxpence. I doot,” said Mr. Bishopriggs, walking away
to the window, “_that’s_ what ye’ve got to do with it.”
Arnold looked at Anne.
“Do you expect any body?”
“Is it Geoffrey?”
“Impossible. Geoffrey is on his way to London.”
“There he is, any way,” resumed Mr. Bishopriggs, at the window. “He’s
loupin’ down from his horse. He’s turning this way. Lord save us!” he
exclaimed, with a start of consternation, “what do I see? That incarnate
deevil, Sir Paitrick himself!”
Arnold sprang to his feet.
“Do you mean Sir Patrick Lundie?”
Anne ran to the window.
“It _is_ Sir Patrick!” she said. “Hide yourself before he comes in!”
“Hide myself?”
“What will he think if he sees you with _me?”_
He was Blanche’s guardian, and he believed Arnold to be at that moment
visiting his new property. What he would think was not difficult to
foresee. Arnold turned for help to Mr. Bishopriggs.
“Where can I go?”
Mr. Bishopriggs pointed to the bedroom door.
“Whar’ can ye go? There’s the nuptial chamber!”
“Impossible!”
Mr. Bishopriggs expressed the utmost extremity of human amazement by a
long whistle, on one note.
“Whew! Is that the way ye talk o’ the nuptial chamber already?”
“Find me some other place--I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Eh! there’s my paintry! I trow that’s some other place; and the door’s
at the end o’ the passage.”
Arnold hurried out. Mr. Bishopriggs--evidently under the impression that
the case before him was a case of elopement, with Sir Patrick mixed
up in it in the capacity of guardian--addressed himself, in friendly
confidence, to Anne.
“My certie, mistress! it’s ill wark deceivin’ Sir Paitrick, if that’s
what ye’ve dune. Ye must know, I was ance a bit clerk body in his
chambers at Embro--”
The voice of Mistress Inchbare, calling for the head-waiter, rose shrill
and imperative from the regions of the bar. Mr. Bishopriggs disappeared.
Anne remained, standing helpless by the window. It was plain by this
time that the place of her retreat had been discovered at Windygates.
The one doubt to decide, now, was whether it would be wise or not to
receive Sir Patrick, for the purpose of discovering whether he came as
friend or enemy to the inn.
CHAPTER THE ELEVENTH.
SIR PATRICK.
THE doubt was practically decided before Anne had determined what to do.
She was still at the window when the sitting-room door was thrown open,
and Sir Patrick appeared, obsequiously shown in by Mr. Bishopriggs.
“Ye’re kindly welcome, Sir Paitrick. Hech, Sirs! the sight of you is
gude for sair eyne.”
Sir Patrick turned and looked at Mr. Bishopriggs--as he might have
looked at some troublesome insect which he had driven out of the window,
and which had returned on him again.
“What, you scoundrel! have you drifted into an honest employment at
last?”
Mr. Bishopriggs rubbed his hands cheerfully, and took his tone from his
superior, with supple readiness,
“Ye’re always in the right of it, Sir Paitrick! Wut, raal wut in that
aboot the honest employment, and me drifting into it. Lord’s sake, Sir,
hoo well ye wear!”
Dismissing Mr. Bishopriggs by a sign, Sir Patrick advanced to Anne.
“I am committing an intrusion, madam which must, I am afraid, appear
unpardonable in your eyes,” he said. “May I hope you will excuse me when
I have made you acquainted with my motive?”
He spoke with scrupulous politeness. His knowledge of Anne was of the
slightest possible kind. Like other men, he had felt the attraction of
her unaffected grace and gentleness on the few occasions when he had
been in her company--and that was all. If he had belonged to the present
generation he would, under the circumstances, have fallen into one of
the besetting sins of England in these days--the tendency (to borrow an
illustration from the stage) to “strike an attitude” in the presence
of a social emergency. A man of the present period, in Sir Patrick’s
position, would have struck an attitude of (what is called) chivalrous
respect; and would have addressed Anne in a tone of ready-made sympathy,
which it was simply impossible for a stranger really to feel. Sir
Patrick affected nothing of the sort. One of the besetting sins of _his_
time was the habitual concealment of our better selves--upon the whole,
a far less dangerous national error than the habitual advertisement of
our better selves, which has become the practice, public and privately,
of society in this age. Sir Patrick assumed, if anything, less sympathy
on this occasion than he really felt. Courteous to all women, he was as
courteous as usual to Anne--and no more.
“I am quite at a loss, Sir, to know what brings you to this place. The
servant here informs me that you are one of a party of gentlemen who
have just passed by the inn, and who have all gone on except yourself.”
In those guarded terms Anne opened the interview with the unwelcome
visitor, on her side.
Sir Patrick admitted the fact, without betraying the slightest
embarrassment.
“The servant is quite right,” he said. “I am one of the party. And I
have purposely allowed them to go on to the keeper’s cottage without
me. Having admitted this, may I count on receiving your permission to
explain the motive of my visit?”
Necessarily suspicious of him, as coming from Windygates, Anne answered
in few and formal words, as coldly as before.
“Explain it, Sir Patrick, if you please, as briefly as possible.”
Sir Patrick bowed. He was not in the least offended; he was even (if the
confession may be made without degrading him in the public estimation)
privately amused. Conscious of having honestly presented himself at the
inn in Anne’s interests, as well as in the interests of the ladies at
Windygates, it appealed to his sense of humor to find himself kept
at arm’s-length by the very woman whom he had come to benefit. The
temptation was strong on him to treat his errand from his own whimsical
point of view. He gravely took out his watch, and noted the time to a
second, before he spoke again.
“I have an event to relate in which you are interested,” he said. “And
I have two messages to deliver, which I hope you will not object to
receive. The event I undertake to describe in one minute. The messages
I promise to dispose of in two minutes more. Total duration of this
intrusion on your time--three minutes.”
He placed a chair for Anne, and waited until she had permitted him, by a
sign, to take a second chair for himself.
“We will begin with the event,” he resumed. “Your arrival at this place
is no secret at Windygates. You were seen on the foot-road to Craig
Fernie by one of the female servants. And the inference naturally drawn
is, that you were on your way to the inn. It may be important for you to
know this; and I have taken the liberty of mentioning it accordingly.”
He consulted his watch. “Event related. Time, one minute.”
He had excited her curiosity, to begin with. “Which of the women saw
me?” she asked, impulsively.
Sir Patrick (watch in hand) declined to prolong the interview by
answering any incidental inquiries which might arise in the course of
it.
“Pardon me,” he rejoined; “I am pledged to occupy three minutes only. I
have no room for the woman. With your kind permission, I will get on to
the messages next.”
Anne remained silent. Sir Patrick went on.
“First message: ‘Lady Lundie’s compliments to her step-daughter’s late
governess--with whose married name she is not acquainted. Lady Lundie
regrets to say that Sir Patrick, as head of the family, has threatened
to return to Edinburgh, unless she consents to be guided by his
advice in the course she pursues with the late governess. Lady Lundie,
accordingly, foregoes her intention of calling at the Craig Fernie inn,
to express her sentiments and make her inquiries in person, and commits
to Sir Patrick the duty of expressing her sentiments; reserving to
herself the right of making her inquiries at the next convenient
opportunity. Through the medium of her brother-in-law, she begs to
inform the late governess that all intercourse is at an end between
them, and that she declines to act as reference in case of future
emergency.’--Message textually correct. Expressive of Lady Lundie’s view
of your sudden departure from the house. Time, two minutes.”
Anne’s color rose. Anne’s pride was up in arms on the spot.
“The impertinence of Lady Lundie’s message is no more than I should
have expected from her,” she said. “I am only surprised at Sir Patrick’s
delivering it.”
“Sir Patrick’s motives will appear presently,” rejoined the incorrigible
old gentleman. “Second message: ‘Blanche’s fondest love. Is dying to
be acquainted with Anne’s husband, and to be informed of Anne’s married
name. Feels indescribable anxiety and apprehension on Anne’s account.
Insists on hearing from Anne immediately. Longs, as she never longed
for any thing yet, to order her pony-chaise and drive full gallop to
the inn. Yields, under irresistible pressure, to t he exertion of her
guardian’s authority, and commits the expression of her feelings to Sir
Patrick, who is a born tyrant, and doesn’t in the least mind breaking
other people’s hearts.’ Sir Patrick, speaking for himself, places his
sister-in-law’s view and his niece’s view, side by side, before the lady
whom he has now the honor of addressing, and on whose confidence he is
especially careful not to intrude. Reminds the lady that his influence
at Windygates, however strenuously he may exert it, is not likely to
last forever. Requests her to consider whether his sister-in-law’s view
and his niece’s view in collision, may not lead to very undesirable
domestic results; and leaves her to take the course which seems best to
herself under those circumstances.--Second message delivered textually.
Time, three minutes. A storm coming on. A quarter of an hour’s ride from
here to the shooting-cottage. Madam, I wish you good-evening.”
He bowed lower than ever--and, without a word more, quietly left the
room.
Anne’s first impulse was (excusably enough, poor soul) an impulse of
resentment.
“Thank you, Sir Patrick!” she said, with a bitter look at the closing
door. “The sympathy of society with a friendless woman could hardly have
been expressed in a more amusing way!”
The little irritation of the moment passed off with the moment. Anne’s
own intelligence and good sense showed her the position in its truer
light.
She recognized in Sir Patrick’s abrupt departure Sir Patrick’s
considerate resolution to spare her from entering into any details on
the subject of her position at the inn. He had given her a friendly
warning; and he had delicately left her to decide for herself as to the
assistance which she might render him in maintaining tranquillity at
Windygates. She went at once to a side-table in the room, on which
writing materials were placed, and sat down to write to Blanche.
“I can do nothing with Lady Lundie,” she thought. “But I have more
influence than any body else over Blanche and I can prevent the
collision between them which Sir Patrick dreads.”
She began the letter. “My dearest Blanche, I have seen Sir Patrick, and
he has given me your message. I will set your mind at ease about me as
soon as I can. But, before I say any thing else, let me entreat you,
as the greatest favor you can do to your sister and your friend, not to
enter into any disputes about me with Lady Lundie, and not to commit
the imprudence--the useless imprudence, my love--of coming here.” She
stopped--the paper swam before her eyes. “My own darling!” she thought,
“who could have foreseen that I should ever shrink from the thought of
seeing _you?”_ She sighed, and dipped the pen in the ink, and went on
with the letter.
The sky darkened rapidly as the evening fell. The wind swept in fainter
and fainter gusts across the dreary moor. Far and wide over the face of
Nature the stillness was fast falling which tells of a coming storm.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
ARNOLD.
MEANWHILE Arnold remained shut up in the head-waiter’s pantry--chafing
secretly at the position forced upon him.
He was, for the first time in his life, in hiding from another person,
and that person a man. Twice--stung to it by the inevitable loss of
self-respect which his situation occasioned--he had gone to the door,
determined to face Sir Patrick boldly; and twice he had abandoned the
idea, in mercy to Anne. It would have been impossible for him to set
himself right with Blanche’s guardian without betraying the unhappy
woman whose secret he was bound in honor to keep. “I wish to Heaven I
had never come here!” was the useless aspiration that escaped him, as
he doggedly seated himself on the dresser to wait till Sir Patrick’s
departure set him free.
After an interval--not by any means the long interval which he had
anticipated--his solitude was enlivened by the appearance of Father
Bishopriggs.
“Well?” cried Arnold, jumping off the dresser, “is the coast clear?”
There were occasions when Mr. Bishopriggs became, on a sudden,
unexpectedly hard of hearing, This was one of them.
“Hoo do ye find the paintry?” he asked, without paying the slightest
attention to Arnold’s question. “Snug and private? A Patmos in the
weelderness, as ye may say!”
His one available eye, which had begun by looking at Arnold’s face,
dropped slowly downward, and fixed itself, in mute but eloquent
expectation, on Arnold’s waistcoat pocket.
“I understand!” said Arnold. “I promised to pay you for the Patmos--eh?
There you are!”
Mr. Bishopriggs pocketed the money with a dreary smile and a sympathetic
shake of the head. Other waiters would have returned thanks. The sage
of Craig Fernie returned a few brief remarks instead. Admirable in many
things, Father Bishopriggs was especially great at drawing a moral. He
drew a moral on this occasion from his own gratuity.
“There I am--as ye say. Mercy presairve us! ye need the siller at every
turn, when there’s a woman at yer heels. It’s an awfu’ reflection--ye
canna hae any thing to do wi’ the sex they ca’ the opposite sex without
its being an expense to ye. There’s this young leddy o’ yours, I doot
she’ll ha’ been an expense to ye from the first. When you were
coortin’ her, ye did it, I’ll go bail, wi’ the open hand. Presents and
keep-sakes, flowers and jewelery, and little dogues. Sair expenses all
of them!”
“Hang your reflections! Has Sir Patrick left the inn?”
The reflections of Mr. Bishopriggs declined to be disposed of in any
thing approaching to a summary way. On they flowed from their parent
source, as slowly and as smoothly as ever!
“Noo ye’re married to her, there’s her bonnets and goons and
under-clothin’--her ribbons, laces, furbelows, and fallals. A sair
expense again!”
“What is the expense of cutting your reflections short, Mr.
Bishopriggs?”
“Thirdly, and lastly, if ye canna agree wi’ her as time gaes on--if
there’s incompaitibeelity of temper betwixt ye--in short, if ye want a
wee bit separation, hech, Sirs! ye pet yer hand in yer poaket, and come
to an aimicable understandin’ wi’ her in that way. Or, maybe she takes
ye into Court, and pets _her_ hand in your poaket, and comes to a
hoastile understandin’ wi’ ye there. Show me a woman--and I’ll show ye
a man not far off wha’ has mair expenses on his back than he ever
bairgained for.” Arnold’s patience would last no longer--he turned to
the door. Mr. Bishopriggs, with equal alacrity on his side, turned to
the matter in hand. “Yes, Sir! The room is e’en clear o’ Sir Paitrick,
and the leddy’s alane, and waitin’ for ye.”
In a moment more Arnold was back in the sitting-room.
“Well?” he asked, anxiously. “What is it? Bad news from Lady Lundie’s?”
Anne closed and directed the letter to Blanche, which she had just
completed. “No,” she replied. “Nothing to interest _you_.”
“What did Sir Patrick want?”
“Only to warn me. They have found out at Windygates that I am here.”
“That’s awkward, isn’t it?”
“Not in the least. I can manage perfectly; I have nothing to fear. Don’t
think of _me_--think of yourself.”
“I am not suspected, am I?”
“Thank heaven--no. But there is no knowing what may happen if you stay
here. Ring the bell at once, and ask the waiter about the trains.”
Struck by the unusual obscurity of the sky at that hour of the evening,
Arnold went to the window. The rain had come--and was falling heavily.
The view on the moor was fast disappearing in mist and darkness.
“Pleasant weather to travel in!” he said.
“The railway!” Anne exclaimed, impatiently. “It’s getting late. See
about the railway!”
Arnold walked to the fire-place to ring the bell. The railway time-table
hanging over it met his eye.
“Here’s the information I want,” he said to Anne; “if I only knew how
to get at it. ‘Down’--‘Up’--‘A. M.’--P. M.’ What a cursed confusion! I
believe they do it on purpose.”
Anne joined him at the fire-place.
“I understand it--I’ll help you. Did you say it was the up train you
wanted?”
“What is the name of the station you stop at?”
Arnold told her. She followed the intricate net-work of lines and
figures with her finger--suddenly stopped--looked again to make
sure--and turned from the time-table with a face of blank despair. The
last train for the day had gone an hour since.
In the silence which followed that discovery, a first flash of lightning
passed across the window and the low roll of thunder sounded the
outbreak of the storm.
“What’s to be done now?” asked Arnold.
In the face of the storm, Anne answered without hesitation, “You must
take a carriage, and drive.”
“Drive? They told me it was three-and-twenty miles, by railway, from
the station to my place--let alone the distance from this inn to the
station.”
“What does the distance matter? Mr. Brinkworth, you can’t possibly stay
here!”
A second flash of lightning crossed the window; the roll of the thunder
came nearer. Even Arnold’s good temper began to be a little ruffled by
Anne’s determination to get rid of him. He sat down with the air of a
man who had made up his mind not to leave the house.
“Do you hear that?” he asked, as the sound of the thunder died away
grandly, and the hard pattering of the rain on the window became audible
once more. “If I ordered horses, do you think they would let me have
them, in such weather as this? And, if they did, do you suppose the
horses could face it on the moor? No, no, Miss Silvester--I am sorry to
be in the way, but the train has gone, and the night and the storm have
come. I have no choice but to stay here!”
Anne still maintained her own view, but less resolutely than before.
“After what you have told the landlady,” she said, “think of the
embarrassment, the cruel embarrassment of our position, if you stop at
the inn till to-morrow morning!”
“Is that all?” returned Arnold.
Anne looked up at him, quickly and angrily. No! he was quite unconscious
of having said any thing that could offend her. His rough masculine
sense broke its way unconsciously through all the little feminine
subtleties and delicacies of his companion, and looked the position
practically in the face for what it was worth, and no more. “Where’s the
embarrassment?” he asked, pointing to the bedroom door. “There’s your
room, all ready for you. And here’s the sofa, in this room, all ready
for _me._ If you had seen the places I have slept in at sea--!”
She interrupted him, without ceremony. The places he had slept in, at
sea, were of no earthly importance. The one question to consider, was
the place he was to sleep in that night.
“If you must stay,” she rejoined, “can’t you get a room in some other
part of the house?”
But one last mistake in dealing with her, in her present nervous
condition, was left to make--and the innocent Arnold made it. “In some
other part of the house?” he repeated, jestingly. “The landlady would be
scandalized. Mr. Bishopriggs would never allow it!”
She rose, and stamped her foot impatiently on the floor. “Don’t
joke!” she exclaimed. “This is no laughing matter.” She paced the room
excitedly. “I don’t like it! I don’t like it!”
Arnold looked after her, with a stare of boyish wonder.
“What puts you out so?” he asked. “Is it the storm?”
She threw herself on the sofa again. “Yes,” she said, shortly. “It’s the
storm.”
Arnold’s inexhaustible good-nature was at once roused to activity again.
“Shall we have the candles,” he suggested, “and shut the weather out?”
She turned irritably on the sofa, without replying. “I’ll promise to go
away the first thing in the morning!” he went on. “Do try and take it
easy--and don’t be angry with me. Come! come! you wouldn’t turn a dog
out, Miss Silvester, on such a night as this!”
He was irresistible. The most sensitive woman breathing could not
have accused him of failing toward her in any single essential of
consideration and respect. He wanted tact, poor fellow--but who could
expect him to have learned that always superficial (and sometimes
dangerous) accomplishment, in the life he had led at sea? At the sight
of his honest, pleading face, Anne recovered possession of her gentler
and sweeter self. She made her excuses for her irritability with a grace
that enchanted him. “We’ll have a pleasant evening of it yet!” cried
Arnold, in his hearty way--and rang the bell.
The bell was hung outside the door of that Patmos in the
wilderness--otherwise known as the head-waiter’s pantry. Mr. Bishopriggs
(employing his brief leisure in the seclusion of his own apartment) had
just mixed a glass of the hot and comforting liquor called “toddy” in
the language of North Britain, and was just lifting it to his lips, when
the summons from Arnold invited him to leave his grog.
“Haud yer screechin’ tongue!” cried Mr. Bishopriggs, addressing the
bell through the door. “Ye’re waur than a woman when ye aince begin!”
The bell--like the woman--went on again. Mr. Bishopriggs, equally
pertinacious, went on with his toddy.
“Ay! ay! ye may e’en ring yer heart out--but ye won’t part a Scotchman
from his glass. It’s maybe the end of their dinner they’ll be wantin’.
Sir Paitrick cam’ in at the fair beginning of it, and spoilt the
collops, like the dour deevil he is!” The bell rang for the third time.
“Ay! ay! ring awa’! I doot yon young gentleman’s little better than a
belly-god--there’s a scandalous haste to comfort the carnal part o’ him
in a’ this ringin’! He knows naething o’ wine,” added Mr. Bishopriggs,
on whose mind Arnold’s discovery of the watered sherry still dwelt
unpleasantly.
The lightning quickened, and lit the sitting-room horribly with its
lurid glare; the thunder rolled nearer and nearer over the black gulf of
the moor. Arnold had just raised his hand to ring for the fourth time,
when the inevitable knock was heard at the door. It was useless to say
“come in.” The immutable laws of Bishopriggs had decided that a second
knock was necessary. Storm or no storm, the second knock came--and
then, and not till then, the sage appeared, with the dish of untasted
“collops” in his hand.
“Candles!” said Arnold.
Mr. Bishopriggs set the “collops” (in the language of England, minced
meat) upon the table, lit the candles on the mantle-piece, faced about
with the fire of recent toddy flaming in his nose, and waited for
further orders, before he went back to his second glass. Anne declined
to return to the dinner. Arnold ordered Mr. Bishopriggs to close the
shutters, and sat down to dine by himself.
“It looks greasy, and smells greasy,” he said to Anne, turning over the
collops with a spoon. “I won’t be ten minutes dining. Will you have some
tea?”
Anne declined again.
Arnold tried her once more. “What shall we do to get through the
evening?”
“Do what you like,” she answered, resignedly.
Arnold’s mind was suddenly illuminated by an idea.
“I have got it!” he exclaimed. “We’ll kill the time as our
cabin-passengers used to kill it at sea.” He looked over his shoulder at
Mr. Bishopriggs. “Waiter! bring a pack of cards.”
“What’s that ye’re wantin’?” asked Mr. Bishopriggs, doubting the
evidence of his own senses.
“A pack of cards,” repeated Arnold.
“Cairds?” echoed Mr. Bishopriggs. “A pack o’ cairds? The deevil’s
allegories in the deevil’s own colors--red and black! I wunna execute
yer order. For yer ain saul’s sake, I wunna do it. Ha’ ye lived to your
time o’ life, and are ye no’ awakened yet to the awfu’ seenfulness o’
gamblin’ wi’ the cairds?”
“Just as you please,” returned Arnold. “You will find me awakened--when
I go away--to the awful folly of feeing a waiter.”