the house. The two grand divisions under which Literature is usually
arranged in these days occupied the customary places in it. On the
shelves which ran round the walls were the books which humanity in
general respects--and does not read. On the tables distributed over
the floor were the books which humanity in general reads--and does not
respect. In the first class, the works of the wise ancients; and
the Histories, Biographies, and Essays of writers of more modern
times--otherwise the Solid Literature, which is universally respected,
and occasionally read. In the second class, the Novels of our own
day--otherwise the Light Literature, which is universally read, and
occasionally respected. At Windygates, as elsewhere, we believed History
to be high literature, because it assumed to be true to Authorities
(of which we knew little)--and Fiction to be low literature, because it
attempted to be true to Nature (of which we knew less). At Windygates as
elsewhere, we were always more or less satisfied with ourselves, if
we were publicly discovered consulting our History--and more or less
ashamed of ourselves, if we were publicly discovered devouring our
Fiction. An architectural peculiarity in the original arrangement of the
library favored the development of this common and curious form of human
stupidity. While a row of luxurious arm-chairs, in the main thoroughfare
of the room, invited the reader of solid literature to reveal himself
in the act of cultivating a virtue, a row of snug little curtained
recesses, opening at intervals out of one of the walls, enabled the
reader of light literature to conceal himself in the act of indulging
a vice. For the rest, all the minor accessories of this spacious and
tranquil place were as plentiful and as well chosen as the heart could
desire. And solid literature and light literature, and great writers and
small, were all bounteously illuminated alike by a fine broad flow of
the light of heaven, pouring into the room through windows that opened
to the floor.
It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie’s garden-party, and
it wanted an hour or more of the time at which the luncheon-bell usually
rang.
The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden, enjoying the
morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain for some days past.
Two gentlemen (exceptions to the general rule) were alone in the
library. They were the two last gentlemen in the would who could
possibly be supposed to have any legitimate motive for meeting each
other in a place of literary seclusion. One was Arnold Brinkworth, and
the other was Geoffrey Delamayn.
They had arrived together at Windygates that morning. Geoffrey had
traveled from London with his brother by the train of the previous
night. Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time, from his own
property, by ceremonies incidental to his position which were not to be
abridged without giving offense to many worthy people--had caught the
passing train early that morning at the station nearest to him, and had
returned to Lady Lundie’s, as he had left Lady Lundie’s, in company with
his friend.
After a short preliminary interview with Blanche, Arnold had rejoined
Geoffrey in the safe retirement of the library, to say what was still
left to be said between them on the subject of Anne. Having completed
his report of events at Craig Fernie, he was now naturally waiting to
hear what Geoffrey had to say on his side. To Arnold’s astonishment,
Geoffrey coolly turned away to leave the library without uttering a
word.
Arnold stopped him without ceremony.
“Not quite so fast, Geoffrey,” he said. “I have an interest in Miss
Silvester’s welfare as well as in yours. Now you are back again in
Scotland, what are you going to do?”
If Geoffrey had told the truth, he must have stated his position much as
follows:
He had necessarily decided on deserting Anne when he had decided on
joining his brother on the journey back. But he had advanced no farther
than this. How he was to abandon the woman who had trusted him, without
seeing his own dastardly conduct dragged into the light of day, was more
than he yet knew. A vague idea of at once pacifying and deluding Anne,
by a marriage which should be no marriage at all, had crossed his mind
on the journey. He had asked himself whether a trap of that sort might
not be easily set in a country notorious for the looseness of its
marriage laws--if a man only knew how? And he had thought it likely that
his well-informed brother, who lived in Scotland, might be tricked
into innocently telling him what he wanted to know. He had turned the
conversation to the subject of Scotch marriages in general by way of
trying the experiment. Julius had not studied the question; Julius knew
nothing about it; and there the experiment had come to an end. As the
necessary result of the check thus encountered, he was now in Scotland
with absolutely nothing to trust to as a means of effecting his release
but the chapter of accidents, aided by his own resolution to marry Mrs.
Glenarm. Such was his position, and such should have been the substance
of his reply when he was confronted by Arnold’s question, and plainly
asked what he meant to do.
“The right thing,” he answered, unblushingly. “And no mistake about it.”
“I’m glad to hear you see your way so plainly,” returned Arnold. “In
your place, I should have been all abroad. I was wondering, only the
other day, whether you would end, as I should have ended, in consulting
Sir Patrick.”
Geoffrey eyed him sharply.
“Consult Sir Patrick?” he repeated. “Why would you have done that?”
“_I_ shouldn’t have known how to set about marrying her,” replied
Arnold. “And--being in Scotland--I should have applied to Sir Patrick
(without mentioning names, of course), because he would be sure to know
all about it.”
“Suppose I don’t see my way quite so plainly as you think,” said
Geoffrey. “Would you advise me--”
“To consult Sir Patrick? Certainly! He has passed his life in the
practice of the Scotch law. Didn’t you know that?”
“No.”
“Then take my advice--and consult him. You needn’t mention names. You
can say it’s the case of a friend.”
The idea was a new one and a good one. Geoffrey looked longingly toward
the door. Eager to make Sir Patrick his innocent accomplice on the
spot, he made a second attempt to leave the library; and made it for the
second time in vain. Arnold had more unwelcome inquiries to make, and
more advice to give unasked.
“How have you arranged about meeting Miss Silvester?” he went on. “You
can’t go to the hotel in the character of her husband. I have prevented
that. Where else are you to meet her? She is all alone; she must be
weary of waiting, poor thing. Can you manage matters so as to see her
to-day?”
After staring hard at Arnold while he was speaking, Geoffrey burst out
laughing when he had done. A disinterested anxiety for the welfare of
another person was one of those refinements of feeling which a muscular
education had not fitted him to understand.
“I say, old boy,” he burst out, “you seem to take an extraordinary
interest in Miss Silvester! You haven’t fallen in love with her
yourself--have you?”
“Come! come!” said Arnold, seriously. “Neither she nor I deserve to
be sneered at, in that way. I have made a sacrifice to your interests,
Geoffrey--and so has she.”
Geoffrey’s face became serious again. His secret was in Arnold’s hands;
and his estimate of Arnold’s character was founded, unconsciously,
on his experience of himself. “All right,” he said, by way of timely
apology and concession. “I was only joking.”
“As much joking as you please, when you have married her,” replied
Arnold. “It seems serious enough, to my mind, till then.” He
stopped--considered--and laid his hand very earnestly on Geoffrey’s arm.
“Mind!” he resumed. “You are not to breathe a word to any living soul,
of my having been near the inn!”
“I’ve promised to hold my tongue, once already. What do you want more?”
“I am anxious, Geoffrey. I was at Craig Fernie, remember, when Blanche
came there! She has been telling me all that happened, poor darling, in
the firm persuasion that I was miles off at the time. I swear I couldn’t
look her in the face! What would she think of me, if she knew the truth?
Pray be careful! pray be careful!”
Geoffrey’s patience began to fail him.
“We had all this out,” he said, “on the way here from the station.
What’s the good of going over the ground again?”
“You’re quite right,” said Arnold, good-humoredly. “The fact is--I’m out
of sorts, this morning. My mind misgives me--I don’t know why.”
“Mind?” repeated Geoffrey, in high contempt. “It’s flesh--that’s what’s
the matter with _you._ You’re nigh on a stone over your right weight.
Mind he hanged! A man in healthy training don’t know that he has got
a mind. Take a turn with the dumb-bells, and a run up hill with a
great-coat on. Sweat it off, Arnold! Sweat it off!”
With that excellent advice, he turned to leave the room for the third
time. Fate appeared to have determined to keep him imprisoned in the
library, that morning. On this occasion, it was a servant who got in the
way--a servant, with a letter and a message. “The man waits for answer.”
Geoffrey looked at the letter. It was in his brother’s handwriting.
He had left Julius at the junction about three hours since. What could
Julius possibly have to say to him now?
He opened the letter. Julius had to announce that Fortune was favoring
them already. He had heard news of Mrs. Glenarm, as soon as he reached
home. She had called on his wife, during his absence in London--she
had been inv ited to the house--and she had promised to accept the
invitation early in the week. “Early in the week,” Julius wrote, “may
mean to-morrow. Make your apologies to Lady Lundie; and take care not
to offend her. Say that family reasons, which you hope soon to have
the pleasure of confiding to her, oblige you to appeal once more to her
indulgence--and come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs. Glenarm.”
Even Geoffrey was startled, when he found himself met by a sudden
necessity for acting on his own decision. Anne knew where his brother
lived. Suppose Anne (not knowing where else to find him) appeared at
his brother’s house, and claimed him in the presence of Mrs. Glenarm? He
gave orders to have the messenger kept waiting, and said he would send
back a written reply.
“From Craig Fernie?” asked Arnold, pointing to the letter in his
friend’s hand.
Geoffrey looked up with a frown. He had just opened his lips to answer
that ill-timed reference to Anne, in no very friendly terms, when a
voice, calling to Arnold from the lawn outside, announced the appearance
of a third person in the library, and warned the two gentlemen that
their private interview was at an end.
CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.
NEARER STILL.
BLANCHE stepped lightly into the room, through one of the open French
windows.
“What are you doing here?” she said to Arnold.
“Nothing. I was just going to look for you in the garden.”
“The garden is insufferable, this morning.” Saying those words, she
fanned herself with her handkerchief, and noticed Geoffrey’s presence
in the room with a look of very thinly-concealed annoyance at the
discovery. “Wait till I am married!” she thought. “Mr. Delamayn will be
cleverer than I take him to be, if he gets much of his friend’s company
_then!_”
“A trifle too hot--eh?” said Geoffrey, seeing her eyes fixed on him, and
supposing that he was expected to say something.
Having performed that duty he walked away without waiting for a reply;
and seated himself with his letter, at one of the writing-tables in the
library.
“Sir Patrick is quite right about the young men of the present day,”
said Blanche, turning to Arnold. “Here is this one asks me a question,
and doesn’t wait for an answer. There are three more of them, out in
the garden, who have been talking of nothing, for the last hour, but the
pedigrees of horses and the muscles of men. When we are married, Arnold,
don’t present any of your male friends to me, unless they have turned
fifty. What shall we do till luncheon-time? It’s cool and quiet in here
among the books. I want a mild excitement--and I have got absolutely
nothing to do. Suppose you read me some poetry?”
“While _he_ is here?” asked Arnold, pointing to the personified
antithesis of poetry--otherwise to Geoffrey, seated with his back to
them at the farther end of the library.
“Pooh!” said Blanche. “There’s only an animal in the room. We needn’t
mind _him!_”
“I say!” exclaimed Arnold. “You’re as bitter, this morning, as Sir
Patrick himself. What will you say to Me when we are married if you talk
in that way of my friend?”
Blanche stole her hand into Arnold’s hand and gave it a little
significant squeeze. “I shall always be nice to _you,_” she
whispered--with a look that contained a host of pretty promises in
itself. Arnold returned the look (Geoffrey was unquestionably in the
way!). Their eyes met tenderly (why couldn’t the great awkward brute
write his letters somewhere else?). With a faint little sigh, Blanche
dropped resignedly into one of the comfortable arm-chairs--and asked
once more for “some poetry,” in a voice that faltered softly, and with a
color that was brighter than usual.
“Whose poetry am I to read?” inquired Arnold.
“Any body’s,” said Blanche. “This is another of my impulses. I am dying
for some poetry. I don’t know whose poetry. And I don’t know why.”
Arnold went straight to the nearest book-shelf, and took down the first
volume that his hand lighted on--a solid quarto, bound in sober brown.
“Well?” asked Blanche. “What have you found?”
Arnold opened the volume, and conscientiously read the title exactly as
it stood:
“Paradise Lost. A Poem. By John Milton.”
“I have never read Milton,” said Blanche. “Have you?”
“No.”
“Another instance of sympathy between us. No educated person ought to be
ignorant of Milton. Let us be educated persons. Please begin.”
“At the beginning?”
“Of course! Stop! You musn’t sit all that way off--you must sit where
I can look at you. My attention wanders if I don’t look at people while
they read.”
Arnold took a stool at Blanche’s feet, and opened the “First Book” of
Paradise Lost. His “system” as a reader of blank verse was simplicity
itself. In poetry we are some of us (as many living poets can testify)
all for sound; and some of us (as few living poets can testify) all for
sense. Arnold was for sound. He ended every line inexorably with a
full stop; and he got on to his full stop as fast as the inevitable
impediment of the words would let him. He began:
“Of Man’s first disobedience and the fruit.
Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste.
Brought death into the world and all our woe.
With loss of Eden till one greater Man.
Restore us and regain the blissful seat.
Sing heavenly Muse--”
“Beautiful!” said Blanche. “What a shame it seems to have had Milton all
this time in the library and never to have read him yet! We will have
Mornings with Milton, Arnold. He seems long; but we are both young, and
we _may_ live to get to the end of him. Do you know dear, now I look
at you again, you don’t seem to have come back to Windygates in good
spirits.”
“Don’t I? I can’t account for it.”
“I can. It’s sympathy with Me. I am out of spirits too.”
“You!”
“Yes. After what I saw at Craig Fernie, I grow more and more uneasy
about Anne. You will understand that, I am sure, after what I told you
this morning?”
Arnold looked back, in a violent hurry, from Blanche to Milton. That
renewed reference to events at Craig Fernie was a renewed reproach to
him for his conduct at the inn. He attempted to silence her by pointing
to Geoffrey.
“Don’t forget,” he whispered, “that there is somebody in the room
besides ourselves.”
Blanche shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.
“What does _he_ matter?” she asked. “What does _he_ know or care about
Anne?”
There was only one other chance of diverting her from the delicate
subject. Arnold went on reading headlong, two lines in advance of the
place at which he had left off, with more sound and less sense than
ever:
“In the beginning how the heavens and earth.
Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill--”
At “Sion hill,” Blanche interrupted him again.
“Do wait a little, Arnold. I can’t have Milton crammed down my throat
in that way. Besides I had something to say. Did I tell you that I
consulted my uncle about Anne? I don’t think I did. I caught him alone
in this very room. I told him all I have told you. I showed him Anne’s
letter. And I said, ‘What do you think?’ He took a little time (and a
great deal of snuff) before he would say what he thought. When he did
speak, he told me I might quite possibly be right in suspecting Anne’s
husband to be a very abominable person. His keeping himself out of my
way was (just as I thought) a suspicious circumstance, to begin with.
And then there was the sudden extinguishing of the candles, when I first
went in. I thought (and Mrs. Inchbare thought) it was done by the wind.
Sir Patrick suspects it was done by the horrid man himself, to prevent
me from seeing him when I entered the room. I am firmly persuaded Sir
Patrick is right. What do _you_ think?”
“I think we had better go on,” said Arnold, with his head down over his
book. “We seem to be forgetting Milton.”
“How you do worry about Milton! That last bit wasn’t as interesting as
the other. Is there any love in Paradise Lost?”
“Perhaps we may find some if we go on.”
“Very well, then. Go on. And be quick about it.”
Arnold was _so_ quick about it that he lost his place. Instead of going
on he went back. He read once more:
“In the beginning how the heavens and earth.
Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill--”
“You read that before,” said Blanche.
“I think not.”
“I’m sure you did. When you said ‘Sion hill’ I recollect I thought of
the Methodists directly. I couldn’t have thought of the Methodists, if
you hadn’t said ‘Sion hill.’ It stands to reason.”
“I’ll try the next page,” said Arnold. “I can’t have read that
before--for I haven’t turned over yet.”
Blanche threw herself back in her chair, and flung her handkerchief
resignedly over her face. “The flies,” she explained. “I’m not going to
sleep. Try the next page. Oh, dear me, try the next page!”
Arnold proceeded:
“Say first for heaven hides nothing from thy view.
Nor the deep tract of hell say first what cause.
Moved our grand parents in that happy state--”
Blanche suddenly threw the handkerchief off again, and sat bolt upright
in her chair. “Shut it up,” she cried. “I can’t bear any more. Leave
off, Arnold--leave off!”
“What’s, the matter now?”
“‘That happy state,’” said Blanche. “What does ‘that happy state’ mean?
Marriage, of course! And marriage reminds me of Anne. I won’t have any
more. Paradise Lost is painful. Shut it up. Well, my next question to
Sir Patrick was, of course, to know what he thought Anne’s husband had
done. The wretch had behaved infamously to her in some way. In what way?
Was it any thing to do with her marriage? My uncle considered again. He
thought it quite possible. Private marriages were dangerous things (he
said)--especially in Scotland. He asked me if they had been married in
Scotland. I couldn’t tell him--I only said, ‘Suppose they were? What
then?’ ‘It’s barely possible, in that case,’ says Sir Patrick, ‘that
Miss Silvester may be feeling uneasy about her marriage. She may even
have reason--or may think she has reason--to doubt whether it is a
marriage at all.’”
Arnold started, and looked round at Geoffrey still sitting at the
writing-table with his back turned on them. Utterly as Blanche and Sir
Patrick were mistaken in their estimate of Anne’s position at Craig
Fernie, they had drifted, nevertheless, into discussing the very
question in which Geoffrey and Miss Silvester were interested--the
question of marriage in Scotland. It was impossible in Blanche’s
presence to tell Geoffrey that he might do well to listen to Sir
Patrick’s opinion, even at second-hand. Perhaps the words had found
their way to him? perhaps he was listening already, of his own accord?
(He _was_ listening. Blanche’s last words had found their way to him,
while he was pondering over his half-finished letter to his brother. He
waited to hear more--without moving, and with the pen suspended in his
hand.)
Blanche proceeded, absently winding her fingers in and out of Arnold’s
hair as he sat at her feet:
“It flashed on me instantly that Sir Patrick had discovered the
truth. Of course I told him so. He laughed, and said I mustn’t jump at
conclusions We were guessing quite in the dark; and all the distressing
things I had noticed at the inn might admit of some totally different
explanation. He would have gone on splitting straws in that provoking
way the whole morning if I hadn’t stopped him. I was strictly logical.
I said _I_ had seen Anne, and _he_ hadn’t--and that made all the
difference. I said, ‘Every thing that puzzled and frightened me in the
poor darling is accounted for now. The law must, and shall, reach
that man, uncle--and I’ll pay for it!’ I was so much in earnest that
I believe I cried a little. What do you think the dear old man did? He
took me on his knee and gave me a kiss; and he said, in the nicest way,
that he would adopt my view, for the present, if I would promise not to
cry any more; and--wait! the cream of it is to come!--that he would put
the view in quite a new light to me as soon as I was composed again. You
may imagine how soon I dried my eyes, and what a picture of composure I
presented in the course of half a minute. ‘Let us take it for granted,’
says Sir Patrick, ‘that this man unknown has really tried to deceive
Miss Silvester, as you and I suppose. I can tell you one thing: it’s as
likely as not that, in trying to overreach _her,_ he may (without in the
least suspecting it) have ended in overreaching himself.’”
(Geoffrey held his breath. The pen dropped unheeded from his fingers. It
was coming. The light that his brother couldn’t throw on the subject was
dawning on it at last!)
Blanche resumed:
“I was so interested, and it made such a tremendous impression on me,
that I haven’t forgotten a word. ‘I mustn’t make that poor little head
of yours ache with Scotch law,’ my uncle said; ‘I must put it plainly.
There are marriages allowed in Scotland, Blanche, which are called
Irregular Marriages--and very abominable things they are. But they have
this accidental merit in the present case. It is extremely difficult for
a man to pretend to marry in Scotland, and not really to do it. And it
is, on the other hand, extremely easy for a man to drift into marrying
in Scotland without feeling the slightest suspicion of having done it
himself.’ That was exactly what he said, Arnold. When _we_ are married,
it sha’n’t be in Scotland!”
(Geoffrey’s ruddy color paled. If this was true he might be caught
himself in the trap which he had schemed to set for Anne! Blanche went
on with her narrative. He waited and listened.)
“My uncle asked me if I understood him so far. It was as plain as the
sun at noonday, of course I understood him! ‘Very well, then--now for
the application!’ says Sir Patrick. ‘Once more supposing our guess to be
the right one, Miss Silvester may be making herself very unhappy without
any real cause. If this invisible man at Craig Fernie has actually
meddled, I won’t say with marrying her, but only with pretending to make
her his wife, and if he has attempted it in Scotland, the chances are
nine to one (though _he_ may not believe it, and though _she_ may not
believe it) that he has really married her, after all.’ My uncle’s own
words again! Quite needless to say that, half an hour after they were
out of his lips, I had sent them to Craig Fernie in a letter to Anne!”