distress that I have caused you, by explaining what my situation really
is, and by telling you all my plans for the future. Dearest Blanche!
don’t think me untrue to the affection we bear toward each other--don’t
think there is any change in my heart toward you--believe only that I
am a very unhappy woman, and that I am in a position which forces me,
against my own will, to be silent about myself. Silent even to you, the
sister of my love--the one person in the world who is dearest to me!
A time may come when I shall be able to open my heart to you. Oh, what
good it will do me! what a relief it will be! For the present, I must be
silent. For the present, we must be parted. God knows what it costs me
to write this. I think of the dear old days that are gone; I remember
how I promised your mother to be a sister to you, when her kind eyes
looked at me, for the last time--_your_ mother, who was an angel from
heaven to _mine!_ All this comes back on me now, and breaks my heart.
But it must be! my own Blanche, for the present, it must be! I will
write often--I will think of you, my darling, night and day, till a
happier future unites us again. God bless _you,_ my dear one! And God
help _me!_”
Blanche silently crossed the room to the sofa on which Anne was sitting,
and stood there for a moment, looking at her. She sat down, and laid
her head on Anne’s shoulder. Sorrowfully and quietly, she put the letter
into her bosom--and took Anne’s hand, and kissed it.
“All my questions are answered, dear. I will wait your time.”
It was simply, sweetly, generously said.
Anne burst into tears.
* * * * *
The rain still fell, but the storm was dying away.
Blanche left the sofa, and, going to the window, opened the shutters to
look out at the night. She suddenly came back to Anne.
“I see lights,” she said--“the lights of a carriage coming up out of
the darkness of the moor. They are sending after me, from Windygates. Go
into t he bedroom. It’s just possible Lady Lundie may have come for me
herself.”
The ordinary relations of the two toward each other were completely
reversed. Anne was like a child in Blanche’s hands. She rose, and
withdrew.
Left alone, Blanche took the letter out of her bosom, and read it again,
in the interval of waiting for the carriage.
The second reading confirmed her in a resolution which she had privately
taken, while she had been sitting by Anne on the sofa--a resolution
destined to lead to far more serious results in the future than any
previsions of hers could anticipate. Sir Patrick was the one person she
knew on whose discretion and experience she could implicitly rely.
She determined, in Anne’s own interests, to take her uncle into her
confidence, and to tell him all that had happened at the inn “I’ll first
make him forgive me,” thought Blanche. “And then I’ll see if he thinks
as I do, when I tell him about Anne.”
The carriage drew up at the door; and Mrs. Inchbare showed in--not Lady
Lundie, but Lady Lundie’s maid.
The woman’s account of what had happened at Windygates was simple
enough. Lady Lundie had, as a matter of course, placed the right
interpretation on Blanche’s abrupt departure in the pony-chaise, and
had ordered the carriage, with the firm determination of following her
step-daughter herself. But the agitations and anxieties of the day had
proved too much for her. She had been seized by one of the attacks
of giddiness to which she was always subject after excessive mental
irritation; and, eager as she was (on more accounts than one) to go to
the inn herself, she had been compelled, in Sir Patrick’s absence, to
commit the pursuit of Blanche to her own maid, in whose age and good
sense she could place every confidence. The woman seeing the state
of the weather--had thoughtfully brought a box with her, containing a
change of wearing apparel. In offering it to Blanche, she added, with
all due respect, that she had full powers from her mistress to go on,
if necessary, to the shooting-cottage, and to place the matter in Sir
Patrick’s hands. This said, she left it to her young lady to decide
for herself, whether she would return to Windygates, under present
circumstances, or not.
Blanche took the box from the woman’s hands, and joined Anne in the
bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home.
“I am going back to a good scolding,” she said. “But a scolding is no
novelty in my experience of Lady Lundie. I’m not uneasy about that,
Anne--I’m uneasy about you. Can I be sure of one thing--do you stay here
for the present?”
The worst that could happen at the inn _had_ happened. Nothing was to be
gained now--and every thing might be lost--by leaving the place at which
Geoffrey had promised to write to her. Anne answered that she proposed
remaining at the inn for the present.
“You promise to write to me?”
“Yes.”
“If there is any thing I can do for you--?”
“There is nothing, my love.”
“There may be. If you want to see me, we can meet at Windygates without
being discovered. Come at luncheon-time--go around by the shrubbery--and
step in at the library window. You know as well as I do there is nobody
in the library at that hour. Don’t say it’s impossible--you don’t know
what may happen. I shall wait ten minutes every day on the chance of
seeing you. That’s settled--and it’s settled that you write. Before I
go, darling, is there any thing else we can think of for the future?”
At those words Anne suddenly shook off the depression that weighed on
her. She caught Blanche in her arms, she held Blanche to her bosom with
a fierce energy. “Will you always be to me, in the future, what you are
now?” she asked, abruptly. “Or is the time coming when you will hate
me?” She prevented any reply by a kiss--and pushed Blanche toward the
door. “We have had a happy time together in the years that are gone,”
she said, with a farewell wave of her hand. “Thank God for that! And
never mind the rest.”
She threw open the bedroom door, and called to the maid, in the
sitting-room. “Miss Lundie is waiting for you.” Blanche pressed her
hand, and left her.
Anne waited a while in the bedroom, listening to the sound made by the
departure of the carriage from the inn door. Little by little, the tramp
of the horses and the noise of the rolling wheels lessened and lessened.
When the last faint sounds were lost in silence she stood for a moment
thinking--then, rousing on a sudden, hurried into the sitting-room, and
rang the bell.
“I shall go mad,” she said to herself, “if I stay here alone.”
Even Mr. Bishopriggs felt the necessity of being silent when he stood
face to face with her on answering the bell.
“I want to speak to him. Send him here instantly.”
Mr. Bishopriggs understood her, and withdrew.
Arnold came in.
“Has she gone?” were the first words he said.
“She has gone. She won’t suspect you when you see her again. I have told
her nothing. Don’t ask me for my reasons!”
“I have no wish to ask you.”
“Be angry with me, if you like!”
“I have no wish to be angry with you.”
He spoke and looked like an altered man. Quietly seating himself at the
table, he rested his head on his hand--and so remained silent. Anne
was taken completely by surprise. She drew near, and looked at him
curiously. Let a woman’s mood be what it may, it is certain to feel the
influence of any change for which she is unprepared in the manner of a
man--when that man interests her. The cause of this is not to be found
in the variableness of her humor. It is far more probably to be traced
to the noble abnegation of Self, which is one of the grandest--and to
the credit of woman be it said--one of the commonest virtues of the sex.
Little by little, the sweet feminine charm of Anne’s face came softly
and sadly back. The inbred nobility of the woman’s nature answered the
call which the man had unconsciously made on it. She touched Arnold on
the shoulder.
“This has been hard on _you,_” she said. “And I am to blame for it. Try
and forgive me, Mr. Brinkworth. I am sincerely sorry. I wish with all my
heart I could comfort you!”
“Thank you, Miss Silvester. It was not a very pleasant feeling, to be
hiding from Blanche as if I was afraid of her--and it’s set me thinking,
I suppose, for the first time in my life. Never mind. It’s all over now.
Can I do any thing for you?”
“What do you propose doing to-night?”
“What I have proposed doing all along--my duty by Geoffrey. I have
promised him to see you through your difficulties here, and to provide
for your safety till he comes back. I can only make sure of doing that
by keeping up appearances, and staying in the sitting-room to-night.
When we next meet it will be under pleasanter circumstances, I hope. I
shall always be glad to think that I was of some service to you. In the
mean time I shall be most likely away to-morrow morning before you are
up.”
Anne held out her hand to take leave. Nothing could undo what had been
done. The time for warning and remonstrance had passed away.
“You have not befriended an ungrateful woman,” she said. “The day may
yet come, Mr. Brinkworth, when I shall prove it.”
“I hope not, Miss Silvester. Good-by, and good luck!”
She withdrew into her own room. Arnold locked the sitting-room door, and
stretched himself on the sofa for the night.
* * * * *
The morning was bright, the air was delicious after the storm.
Arnold had gone, as he had promised, before Anne was out of her room.
It was understood at the inn that important business had unexpectedly
called him south. Mr. Bishopriggs had been presented with a handsome
gratuity; and Mrs. Inchbare had been informed that the rooms were taken
for a week certain.
In every quarter but one the march of events had now, to all appearance,
fallen back into a quiet course. Arnold was on his way to his estate;
Blanche was safe at Windygates; Anne’s residence at the inn was assured
for a week to come. The one present doubt was the doubt which hung over
Geoffrey’s movements. The one event still involved in darkness turned on
the question of life or death waiting for solution in London--otherwise,
the question of Lord Holchester’s health. Taken by itself, the
alternative, either way, was plain enough. If my lord lived--Geoffrey
would be free to come back, and marry her privately in Scotland. If
my lord died--Geoffrey would be free to send for her, and marry her
publicly in London. But could Geoffrey be relied on?
Anne went out on to the terrace-ground in front of the inn. The cool
morning breeze blew steadily. Towering white clouds sailed in grand
procession over the heavens, now obscuring, and now revealing the sun.
Yellow light and purple shadow chased each other over the broad brown
surface of the moor--even as hope and fear chased each other over Anne’s
mind, brooding on what might come to her with the coming time.
She turned away, weary of questioning the impenetrable future, and went
back to the inn.
Crossing the hall she looked at the clock. It was past the hour when the
train from Perthshire was due in London. Geoffrey and his brother were,
at that moment, on their way to Lord Holchester’s house.
THIRD SCENE.--LONDON.
CHAPTER THE FOURTEENTH.
GEOFFREY AS A LETTER-WRITER.
LORD HOLCHESTER’S servants--with the butler at their head--were on the
look-out for Mr. Julius Delamayn’s arrival from Scotland. The appearance
of the two brothers together took the whole domestic establishment by
surprise. Inquiries were addressed to the butler by Julius; Geoffrey
standing by, and taking no other than a listener’s part in the
proceedings.
“Is my father alive?”
“His lordship, I am rejoiced to say, has astonished the doctors, Sir.
He rallied last night in the most wonderful way. If things go on for the
next eight-and-forty hours as they are going now, my lord’s recovery is
considered certain.”
“What was the illness?”
“A paralytic stroke, Sir. When her ladyship telegraphed to you in
Scotland the doctors had given his lordship up.”
“Is my mother at home?”
“Her ladyship is at home to _you,_, Sir.”’
The butler laid a special emphasis on the personal pronoun. Julius
turned to his brother. The change for the better in the state of
Lord Holchester’s health made Geoffrey’s position, at that moment, an
embarrassing one. He had been positively forbidden to enter the house.
His one excuse for setting that prohibitory sentence at defiance rested
on the assumption that his father was actually dying. As matters
now stood, Lord Holchester’s order remained in full force. The
under-servants in the hall (charged to obey that order as they valued
their places) looked from “Mr. Geoffrey” to the butler, The butler
looked from “Mr. Geoffrey” to “Mr. Julius.” Julius looked at his
brother. There was an awkward pause. The position of the second son was
the position of a wild beast in the house--a creature to be got rid of,
without risk to yourself, if you only knew how.
Geoffrey spoke, and solved the problem
“Open the door, one of you fellows,” he said to the footmen. “I’m off.”
“Wait a minute,” interposed his brother. “It will be a sad
disappointment to my mother to know that you have been here, and gone
away again without seeing her. These are no ordinary circumstances,
Geoffrey. Come up stairs with me--I’ll take it on myself.”
“I’m blessed if I take it on _my_self!” returned Geoffrey. “Open the
door!”
“Wait here, at any rate,” pleaded Julius, “till I can send you down a
message.”
“Send your message to Nagle’s Hotel. I’m at home at Nagle’s--I’m not at
home here.”
At that point the discussion was interrupted by the appearance of a
little terrier in the hall. Seeing strangers, the dog began to bark.
Perfect tranquillity in the house had been absolutely insisted on by the
doctors; and the servants, all trying together to catch the animal and
quiet him, simply aggravated the noise he was making. Geoffrey solved
this problem also in his own decisive way. He swung round as the dog was
passing him, and kicked it with his heavy boot. The little creature
fell on the spot, whining piteously. “My lady’s pet dog!” exclaimed the
butler. “You’ve broken its ribs, Sir.” “I’ve broken it of barking, you
mean,” retorted Geoffrey. “Ribs be hanged!” He turned to his brother.
“That settles it,” he said, jocosely. “I’d better defer the pleasure of
calling on dear mamma till the next opportunity. Ta-ta, Julius. You know
where to find me. Come, and dine. We’ll give you a steak at Nagle’s that
will make a man of you.”
He went out. The tall footmen eyed his lordship’s second son with
unaffected respect. They had seen him, in public, at the annual festival
of the Christian-Pugilistic-Association, with “the gloves” on. He could
have beaten the biggest man in the hall within an inch of his life in
three minutes. The porter bowed as he threw open the door. The whole
interest and attention of the domestic establishment then present was
concentrated on Geoffrey. Julius went up stairs to his mother without
attracting the slightest notice.
The month was August. The streets were empty. The vilest breeze that
blows--a hot east wind in London--was the breeze abroad on that day.
Even Geoffrey appeared to feel the influence of the weather as the cab
carried him from his father’s door to the hotel. He took off his hat,
and unbuttoned his waistcoat, and lit his everlasting pipe, and growled
and grumbled between his teeth in the intervals of smoking. Was it only
the hot wind that wrung from him these demonstrations of discomfort? Or
was there some secret anxiety in his mind which assisted the depressing
influences of the day? There was a secret anxiety in his mind. And the
name of it was--Anne.
As things actually were at that moment, what course was he to take with
the unhappy woman who was waiting to hear from him at the Scotch inn?
To write? or not to write? That was the question with Geoffrey.
The preliminary difficulty, relating to addressing a letter to Anne at
the inn, had been already provided for. She had decided--if it proved
necessary to give her name, before Geoffrey joined her--to call herself
Mrs., instead of Miss, Silvester. A letter addressed to “Mrs.
Silvester” might be trusted to find its way to her without causing any
embarrassment. The doubt was not here. The doubt lay, as usual, between
two alternatives. Which course would it be wisest to take?--to inform
Anne, by that day’s post, that an interval of forty-eight hours must
elapse before his father’s recovery could be considered certain? Or
to wait till the interval was over, and be guided by the result?
Considering the alternatives in the cab, he decided that the wise course
was to temporize with Anne, by reporting matters as they then stood.
Arrived at the hotel, he sat down to write the letter--doubted--and tore
it up--doubted again--and began again--doubted once more--and tore
up the second letter--rose to his feet--and owned to himself (in
unprintable language) that he couldn’t for the life of him decide which
was safest--to write or to wait.
In this difficulty, his healthy physical instincts sent him to healthy
physical remedies for relief. “My mind’s in a muddle,” said Geoffrey.
“I’ll try a bath.”
It was an elaborate bath, proceeding through many rooms, and combining
many postures and applications. He steamed. He plunged. He simmered. He
stood under a pipe, and received a cataract of cold water on his head.
He was laid on his back; he was laid on his stomach; he was respectfully
pounded and kneaded, from head to foot, by the knuckles of accomplished
practitioners. He came out of it all, sleek, clear rosy, beautiful. He
returned to the hotel, and took up the writing materials--and behold
the intolerable indecision seized him again, declining to be washed out!
This time he laid it all to Anne. “That infernal woman will be the ruin
of me,” said Geoffrey, taking up his hat. “I must try the dumb-bells.”
The pursuit of the new remedy for stimulating a sluggish brain took him
to a public house, kept by the professional pedestrian who had the honor
of training him when he contended at Athletic Sports.
“A private room and the dumb-bells!” cried Geoffrey. “The heaviest you
have got.”
He stripped himself of his upper clothing, and set to work, with the
heavy weights in each hand, waving them up and down, and backward and
forward, in every attainable variety o f movement, till his magnificent
muscles seemed on the point of starting through his sleek skin. Little
by little his animal spirits roused themselves. The strong
exertion intoxicated the strong man. In sheer excitement he swore
cheerfully--invoking thunder and lightning, explosion and blood, in
return for the compliments profusely paid to him by the pedestrian and
the pedestrian’s son. “Pen, ink, and paper!” he roared, when he could
use the dumb-bells no longer. “My mind’s made up; I’ll write, and have
done with it!” He sat down to his writing on the spot; actually finished
the letter; another minute would have dispatched it to the post--and, in
that minute, the maddening indecision took possession of him once more.
He opened the letter again, read it over again, and tore it up again.
“I’m out of my mind!” cried Geoffrey, fixing his big bewildered blue
eyes fiercely on the professor who trained him. “Thunder and lightning!
Explosion and blood! Send for Crouch.”
Crouch (known and respected wherever English manhood is known and
respected) was a retired prize-fighter. He appeared with the third
and last remedy for clearing the mind known to the Honorable Geoffrey
Delamayn--namely, two pair of boxing-gloves in a carpet-bag.
The gentleman and the prize-fighter put on the gloves, and faced each
other in the classically correct posture of pugilistic defense. “None of
your play, mind!” growled Geoffrey. “Fight, you beggar, as if you were
in the Ring again with orders to win.” No man knew better than the great
and terrible Crouch what real fighting meant, and what heavy blows
might be given even with such apparently harmless weapons as stuffed
and padded gloves. He pretended, and only pretended, to comply with his
patron’s request. Geoffrey rewarded him for his polite forbearance by
knocking him down. The great and terrible rose with unruffled composure.
“Well hit, Sir!” he said. “Try it with the other hand now.” Geoffrey’s
temper was not under similar control. Invoking everlasting destruction
on the frequently-blackened eyes of Crouch, he threatened instant
withdrawal of his patronage and support unless the polite pugilist
hit, then and there, as hard as he could. The hero of a hundred fights
quailed at the dreadful prospect. “I’ve got a family to support,”
remarked Crouch. “If you _will_ have it, Sir--there it is!” The fall of
Geoffrey followed, and shook the house. He was on his legs again in an
instant--not satisfied even yet. “None of your body-hitting!” he roared.
“Stick to my head. Thunder and lightning! explosion and blood! Knock it
out of me! Stick to the head!” Obedient Crouch stuck to the head.
The two gave and took blows which would have stunned--possibly have
killed--any civilized member of the community. Now on one side of
his patron’s iron skull, and now on the other, the hammering of the
prize-fighter’s gloves fell, thump upon thump, horrible to hear--until
even Geoffrey himself had had enough of it. “Thank you, Crouch,” he
said, speaking civilly to the man for the first time. “That will do. I
feel nice and clear again.” He shook his head two or three times, he was
rubbed down like a horse by the professional runner; he drank a mighty
draught of malt liquor; he recovered his good-humor as if by magic.
“Want the pen and ink, Sir?” inquired his pedestrian host. “Not I!”
answered Geoffrey. “The muddle’s out of me now. Pen and ink be hanged!
I shall look up some of our fellows, and go to the play.” He left the
public house in the happiest condition of mental calm. Inspired by the
stimulant application of Crouch’s gloves, his torpid cunning had been
shaken up into excellent working order at last. Write to Anne? Who but a
fool would write to such a woman as that until he was forced to it? Wait
and see what the chances of the next eight-and-forty hours might bring
forth, and then write to her, or desert her, as the event might decide.
It lay in a nut-shell, if you could only see it. Thanks to Crouch, he
did see it--and so away in a pleasant temper for a dinner with “our
fellows” and an evening at the play!
CHAPTER THE FIFTEENTH.
GEOFFREY IN THE MARRIAGE MARKET.
THE interval of eight-and-forty hours passed--without the occurrence of
any personal communication between the two brothers in that time.
Julius, remaining at his father’s house, sent brief written bulletins of
Lord Holchester’s health to his brother at the hotel. The first bulletin
said, “Going on well. Doctors satisfied.” The second was firmer in tone.
“Going on excellently. Doctors very sanguine.” The third was the most
explicit of all. “I am to see my father in an hour from this. The
doctors answer for his recovery. Depend on my putting in a good word for
you, if I can; and wait to hear from me further at the hotel.”
Geoffrey’s face darkened as he read the third bulletin. He called once
more for the hated writing materials. There could be no doubt now as to
the necessity of communicating with Anne. Lord Holchester’s recovery had
put him back again in the same critical position which he had occupied
at Windygates. To keep Anne from committing some final act of despair,
which would connect him with a public scandal, and ruin him so far as
his expectations from his father were concerned, was, once more, the
only safe policy that Geoffrey could pursue. His letter began and ended
in twenty words:
“DEAR ANNE,--Have only just heard that my father is turning the corner.
Stay where you are. Will write again.”
Having dispatched this Spartan composition by the post, Geoffrey lit his
pipe, and waited the event of the interview between Lord Holchester and
his eldest son.
Julius found his father alarmingly altered in personal appearance, but
in full possession of his faculties nevertheless. Unable to return
the pressure of his son’s hand--unable even to turn in the bed without
help--the hard eye of the old lawyer was as keen, the hard mind of the
old lawyer was as clear, as ever. His grand ambition was to see Julius
in Parliament. Julius was offering himself for election in Perthshire,
by his father’s express desire, at that moment. Lord Holchester entered
eagerly into politics before his eldest son had been two minutes by his
bedside.
“Much obliged, Julius, for your congratulations. Men of my sort are not
easily killed. (Look at Brougham and Lyndhurst!) You won’t be called to
the Upper House yet. You will begin in the House of Commons--precisely
as I wished. What are your prospects with the constituency? Tell me
exactly how you stand, and where I can be of use to you.”
“Surely, Sir, you are hardly recovered enough to enter on matters of
business yet?”
“I am quite recovered enough. I want some present interest to occupy
me. My thoughts are beginning to drift back to past times, and to things
which are better forgotten.” A sudden contraction crossed his livid
face. He looked hard at his son, and entered abruptly on a new question.
“Julius!” he resumed, “have you ever heard of a young woman named Anne
Silvester?”