Blanche’s mind and the clearing up of her uncle’s suspicions alike
depended on discovering the place in which Miss Silvester had taken
refuge. In this case time would be of importance, and the capacity of
making the most of it would be a precious capacity at starting. Arriving
rapidly at these conclusions, Sir Patrick rang the bell in the hall
which communicated with the servants’ offices, and summoned his own
valet--a person of tried discretion and fidelity, nearly as old as
himself.
“Get your hat, Duncan,” he said, when the valet appeared, “and come out
with me.”
Master and servant set forth together silently on their way through the
grounds. Arrived within sight of the summer-house, Sir Patrick ordered
Duncan to wait, and went on by himself.
There was not the least need for the precaution that he had taken.
The summer-house was as empty as the library. He stepped out again
and looked about him. Not a living creature was visible. Sir Patrick
summoned his servant to join him.
“Go back to the stables, Duncan,” he said, “and say that Miss Lundie
lends me her pony-carriage to-day. Let it be got ready at once and kept
in the stable-yard. I want to attract as little notice as possible.
You are to go with me, and nobody else. Provide yourself with a railway
time-table. Have you got any money?”
“Yes, Sir Patrick.”
“Did you happen to see the governess (Miss Silvester) on the day when we
came here--the day of the lawn-party?”
“I did, Sir Patrick.”
“Should you know her again?”
“I thought her a very distinguished-looking person, Sir Patrick. I
should certainly know her again.”
“Have you any reason to think she noticed you?”
“She never even looked at me, Sir Patrick.”
“Very good. Put a change of linen into your bag, Duncan--I may possibly
want you to take a journey by railway. Wait for me in the stable-yard.
This is a matter in which every thing is trusted to my discretion, and
to yours.”
“Thank you, Sir Patrick.”
With that acknowledgment of the compliment which had been just paid to
him, Duncan gravely went his way to the stables; and Duncan’s master
returned to the summer-house, to wait there until he was joined by
Blanche.
Sir Patrick showed signs of failing patience during the interval of
expectation through which he was now condemned to pass. He applied
perpetually to the snuff-box in the knob of his cane. He fidgeted
incessantly in and out of the summer-house. Anne’s disappearance had
placed a serious obstacle in the way of further discovery; and there
was no attacking that obstacle, until precious time had been wasted in
waiting to see Blanche.
At last she appeared in view, from the steps of the summer-house;
breathless and eager, hasting to the place of meeting as fast as her
feet would take her to it.
Sir Patrick considerately advanced, to spare her the shock of making the
inevitable discovery. “Blanche,” he said. “Try to prepare yourself, my
dear, for a disappointment. I am alone.”
“You don’t mean that you have let her go?”
“My poor child! I have never seen her at all.”
Blanche pushed by him, and ran into the summer-house. Sir Patrick
followed her. She came out again to meet him, with a look of blank
despair. “Oh, uncle! I did so truly pity her! And see how little pity
she has for _me!_”
Sir Patrick put his arm round his niece, and softly patted the fair
young head that dropped on his shoulder.
“Don’t let us judge her harshly, my dear: we don’t know what serious
necessity may not plead her excuse. It is plain that she can trust
nobody--and that she only consented to see me to get you out of the room
and spare you the pain of parting. Compose yourself, Blanche. I don’t
despair of discovering where she has gone, if you will help me.”
Blanche lifted her head, and dried her tears bravely.
“My father himself wasn’t kinder to me than you are,” she said. “Only
tell me, uncle, what I can do!”
“I want to hear exactly what happened in the library,” said Sir Patrick.
“Forget nothing, my dear child, no matter how trifling it may be.
Trifles are precious to us, and minutes are precious to us, now.”
Blanche followed her instructions to the letter, her uncle listening
with the closest attention. When she had completed her narrative,
Sir Patrick suggested leaving the summer-house. “I have ordered your
chaise,” he said; “and I can tell you what I propose doing on our way to
the stable-yard.”
“Let me drive you, uncle!”
“Forgive me, my dear, for saying No to that. Your step-mother’s
suspicions are very easily excited--and you had better not be seen with
me if my inquiries take me to the Craig Fernie inn. I promise, if you
will remain here, to tell you every thing when I come back. Join the
others in any plan they have for the afternoon--and you will prevent my
absence from exciting any thing more than a passing remark. You will do
as I tell you? That’s a good girl! Now you shall hear how I propose to
search for this poor lady, and how your little story has helped me.”
He paused, considering with himself whether he should begin by telling
Blanche of his consultation with Geoffrey. Once more, he decided that
question in the negative. Better to still defer taking her into his
confidence until he had performed the errand of investigation on which
he was now setting forth.
“What you have told me, Blanche, divides itself, in my mind, into two
heads,” began Sir Patrick. “There is what happened in the library before
your own eyes; and there is what Miss Silvester told you had happened at
the inn. As to the event in the library (in the first place), it is too
late now to inquire whether that fainting-fit was the result, as you
say, of mere exhaustion--or whether it was the result of something that
occurred while you were out of the room.”
“What could have happened while I was out of the room?”
“I know no more than you do, my dear. It is simply one of the
possibilities in the case, and, as such, I notice it. To get on to what
practically concerns us; if Miss Silvester is in delicate health it is
impossible that she could get, unassisted, to any great distance from
Windygates. She may have taken refuge in one of the cottages in our
immediate neighborhood. Or she may have met with some passing vehicle
from one of the farms on its way to the station, and may have asked the
person driving to give her a seat in it. Or she may have walked as far
as she can, and may have stopped to rest in some sheltered place, among
the lanes to the south of this house.”
“I’ll inquire at the cottages, uncle, while you are gone.”
“My dear child, there must be a dozen cottages, at least, within a
circle of one mile from Windygates! Your inquiries would probably occupy
you for the whole afternoon. I won’t ask what Lady Lundie would think of
your being away all that time by yourself. I will only remind you of two
things. You would be making a public matter of an investigation which
it is essential to pursue as privately as possible; and, even if you
happened to hit on the right cottage your inquiries would be completely
baffled, and you would discover nothing.”
“Why not?”
“I know the Scottish peasant better than you do, Blanche. In his
intelligence and his sense of self-respect he is a very different being
from the English peasant. He would receive you civilly, because you
are a young lady; but he would let you see, at the same time, that
he considered you had taken advantage of the difference between your
position and his position to commit an intrusion. And if Miss Silvester
had appealed, in confidence, to his hospitality, and if he had granted
it, no power on earth would induce him to tell any person living that
she was under his roof--without her express permission.”
“But, uncle, if it’s of no use making inquiries of any body, how are we
to find her?”
“I don’t say that nobody will answer our inquiries, my dear--I only say
the peasantry won’t answer them, if your friend has trusted herself to
their protection. The way to find her is to look on, beyond what Miss
Silvester may be doing at the present moment, to what Miss Silvester
contemplates doing--let us say, before the day is out. We may assume,
I think (after what has happened), that, as soon as she can leave this
neighborhood, she assuredly will leave it. Do you agree, so far?”
“Yes! yes! Go on.”
“Very well. She is a woman, and she is (to say the least of it) not
strong. She can only leave this neighborhood either by hiring a vehicle
or by traveling on the railway. I propose going first to the station.
At the rate at which your pony gets over the ground, there is a fair
chance, in spite of the time we have lost, of my being there as soon as
she is--assuming that she leaves by the first train, up or down, that
passes.”
“There is a train in half an hour, uncle. She can never get there in
time for that.”
“She may be less exhausted than we think; or she may get a lift; or she
may not be alone. How do we know but somebody may have been waiting in
the lane--her husband, if there is such a person--to help her? No! I
shall assume she is now on her way to the station; and I shall get there
as fast as possible--”
“And stop her, if you find her there?”
“What I do, Blanche, must be left to my discretion. If I find her there,
I must act for the best. If I don’t find her there, I shall leave Duncan
(who goes with me) on the watch for the remaining trains, until the last
to-night. He knows Miss Silvester by sight, and he is sure that _she_
has never noticed _him._ Whether she goes north or south, early or late,
Duncan will have my orders to follow her. He is thoroughly to be relied
on. If she takes the railway, I answer for it we shall know where she
goes.”
“How clever of you to think of Duncan!”
“Not in the least, my dear. Duncan is my factotum; and the course I am
taking is the obvious course which would have occurred to any body.
Let us get to the re ally difficult part of it now. Suppose she hires a
carriage?”
“There are none to be had, except at the station.”
“There are farmers about here--and farmers have light carts, or chaises,
or something of the sort. It is in the last degree unlikely that
they would consent to let her have them. Still, women break through
difficulties which stop men. And this is a clever woman, Blanche--a
woman, you may depend on it, who is bent on preventing you from tracing
her. I confess I wish we had somebody we could trust lounging about
where those two roads branch off from the road that leads to the
railway. I must go in another direction; _I_ can’t do it.”
“Arnold can do it!”
Sir Patrick looked a little doubtful. “Arnold is an excellent fellow,”
he said. “But can we trust to his discretion?”
“He is, next to you, the most perfectly discreet person I know,”
rejoined Blanche, in a very positive manner; “and, what is more, I have
told him every thing about Anne, except what has happened to-day. I am
afraid I shall tell him _that,_ when I feel lonely and miserable,
after you have gone. There is something in Arnold--I don’t know what
it is--that comforts me. Besides, do you think he would betray a secret
that I gave him to keep? You don’t know how devoted he is to me!”
“My dear Blanche, I am not the cherished object of his devotion; of
course I don’t know! You are the only authority on that point. I stand
corrected. Let us have Arnold, by all means. Caution him to be careful;
and send him out by himself, where the roads meet. We have now only one
other place left in which there is a chance of finding a trace of her. I
undertake to make the necessary investigation at the Craig Fernie inn.”
“The Craig Fernie inn? Uncle! you have forgotten what I told you.”
“Wait a little, my dear. Miss Silvester herself has left the inn, I
grant you. But (if we should unhappily fail in finding her by any other
means) Miss Silvester has left a trace to guide us at Craig Fernie. That
trace must be picked up at once, in case of accidents. You don’t seem
to follow me? I am getting over the ground as fast as the pony gets
over it. I have arrived at the second of those two heads into which your
story divides itself in my mind. What did Miss Silvester tell you had
happened at the inn?”
“She lost a letter at the inn.”
“Exactly. She lost a letter at the inn; that is one event. And
Bishopriggs, the waiter, has quarreled with Mrs. Inchbare, and has left
his situation; that is another event. As to the letter first. It is
either really lost, or it has been stolen. In either case, if we can
lay our hands on it, there is at least a chance of its helping us to
discover something. As to Bishopriggs, next--”
“You’re not going to talk about the waiter, surely?”
“I am! Bishopriggs possesses two important merits. He is a link in my
chain of reasoning; and he is an old friend of mine.”
“A friend of yours?”
“We live in days, my dear, when one workman talks of another workman as
‘that gentleman.’--I march with the age, and feel bound to mention my
clerk as my friend. A few years since Bishopriggs was employed in the
clerks’ room at my chambers. He is one of the most intelligent and
most unscrupulous old vagabonds in Scotland; perfectly honest as to
all average matters involving pounds, shillings, and pence; perfectly
unprincipled in the pursuit of his own interests, where the violation
of a trust lies on the boundary-line which marks the limit of the law. I
made two unpleasant discoveries when I had him in my employment. I found
that he had contrived to supply himself with a duplicate of my seal; and
I had the strongest reason to suspect him of tampering with some papers
belonging to two of my clients. He had done no actual mischief, so far;
and I had no time to waste in making out the necessary case against him.
He was dismissed from my service, as a man who was not to be trusted to
respect any letters or papers that happened to pass through his hands.”
“I see, uncle! I see!”
“Plain enough now--isn’t it? If that missing letter of Miss Silvester’s
is a letter of no importance, I am inclined to believe that it is merely
lost, and may be found again. If, on the other hand, there is any thing
in it that could promise the most remote advantage to any person in
possession of it, then, in the execrable slang of the day, I will lay
any odds, Blanche, that Bishopriggs has got the letter!”
“And he has left the inn! How unfortunate!”
“Unfortunate as causing delay--nothing worse than that. Unless I am very
much mistaken, Bishopriggs will come back to the inn. The old rascal
(there is no denying it) is a most amusing person. He left a terrible
blank when he left my clerks’ room. Old customers at Craig Fernie
(especially the English), in missing Bishopriggs, will, you may rely on
it, miss one of the attractions of the inn. Mrs. Inchbare is not a woman
to let her dignity stand in the way of her business. She and Bishopriggs
will come together again, sooner or later, and make it up. When I have
put certain questions to her, which may possibly lead to very important
results, I shall leave a letter for Bishopriggs in Mrs. Inchbare’s
hands. The letter will tell him I have something for him to do, and will
contain an address at which he can write to me. I shall hear of him,
Blanche and, if the letter is in his possession, I shall get it.”
“Won’t he be afraid--if he has stolen the letter--to tell you he has got
it?”
“Very well put, my child. He might hesitate with other people. But I
have my own way of dealing with him--and I know how to make him tell
Me.--Enough of Bishopriggs till his time comes. There is one other
point, in regard to Miss Silvester. I may have to describe her. How
was she dressed when she came here? Remember, I am a man--and (if an
Englishwoman’s dress _can_ be described in an Englishwoman’s language)
tell me, in English, what she had on.”
“She wore a straw hat, with corn-flowers in it, and a white veil.
Corn-flowers at one side uncle, which is less common than cornflowers in
front. And she had on a light gray shawl. And a _Pique;_--”
“There you go with your French! Not a word more! A straw hat, with a
white veil, and with corn-flowers at one side of the hat. And a light
gray shawl. That’s as much as the ordinary male mind can take in; and
that will do. I have got my instructions, and saved precious time. So
far so good. Here we are at the end of our conference--in other words,
at the gate of the stable-yard. You understand what you have to do while
I am away?”
“I have to send Arnold to the cross-roads. And I have to behave (if I
can) as if nothing had happened.”
“Good child! Well put again! you have got what I call grasp of mind,
Blanche. An invaluable faculty! You will govern the future domestic
kingdom. Arnold will be nothing but a constitutional husband. Those are
the only husbands who are thoroughly happy. You shall hear every
thing, my love, when I come lack. Got your bag, Duncan? Good. And the
time-table? Good. You take the reins--I won’t drive. I want to think.
Driving is incompatible with intellectual exertion. A man puts his
mind into his horse, and sinks to the level of that useful animal--as a
necessary condition of getting to his destination without being upset.
God bless you, Blanche! To the station, Duncan! to the station!”
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-THIRD.
TRACED.
THE chaise rattled our through the gates. The dogs barked furiously. Sir
Patrick looked round, and waved his hand as he turned the corner of the
road. Blanche was left alone in the yard.
She lingered a little, absently patting the dogs. They had especial
claims on her sympathy at that moment; they, too, evidently thought it
hard to be left behind at the house. After a while she roused herself.
Sir Patrick had left the responsibility of superintending the crossroads
on her shoulders. There was something to be done yet before the
arrangements for tracing Anne were complete. Blanche left the yard to do
it.
On her way back to the house she met Arnold, dispatched by Lady Lundie
in search of her.
The plan of occupation for the afternoon had been settled during
Blanche’s absence. Some demon had whispered to Lady Lundie to cultivate
a taste for feudal antiquities, and to insist on spreading that taste
among her guests. She had proposed an excursion to an old baronial
castle among the hills--far to the westward (fortunately for Sir
Patrick’s chance of escaping discovery) of the hills at Craig Fernie.
Some of the guests were to ride, and some to accompany their hostess in
the open carriage. Looking right and left for proselytes, Lady Lundie
had necessarily remarked the disappearance of certain members of her
circle. Mr. Delamayn had vanished, nobody knew where. Sir Patrick and
Blanche had followed his example. Her ladyship had observed, upon this,
with some asperity, that if they were all to treat each other in
that unceremonious manner, the sooner Windygates was turned into a
Penitentiary, on the silent system, the fitter the house would be for
the people who inhabited it. Under these circumstances, Arnold suggested
that Blanche would do well to make her excuses as soon as possible at
head-quarters, and accept the seat in the carriage which her step-mother
wished her to take. “We are in for the feudal antiquities, Blanche; and
we must help each other through as well as we can. If you will go in the
carriage, I’ll go too.”
Blanche shook her head.
“There are serious reasons for _my_ keeping up appearances,” she said.
“I shall go in the carriage. You mustn’t go at all.”
Arnold naturally looked a little surprised, and asked to be favored with
an explanation.
Blanche took his arm and hugged it close. Now that Anne was lost, Arnold
was more precious to her than ever. She literally hungered to hear at
that moment, from his own lips, how fond he was of her. It mattered
nothing that she was already perfectly satisfied on this point. It was
so nice (after he had said it five hundred times already) to make him
say it once more!
“Suppose I had no explanation to give?” she said. “Would you stay behind
by yourself to please me?”
“I would do any thing to please you!”
“Do you really love me as much as that?”
They were still in the yard; and the only witnesses present were
the dogs. Arnold answered in the language without words--which is
nevertheless the most expressive language in use, between men and women,
all over the world.
“This is not doing my duty,” said Blanche, penitently. “But, oh Arnold,
I am so anxious and so miserable! And it _is_ such a consolation to know
that _you_ won’t turn your back on me too!”
With that preface she told him what had happened in the library. Even
Blanche’s estimate of her lover’s capacity for sympathizing with her was
more than realized by the effect which her narrative produced on Arnold.
He was not merely surprised and sorry for her. His face showed plainly
that he felt genuine concern and distress. He had never stood higher in
Blanche’s opinion than he stood at that moment.
“What is to be done?” he asked. “How does Sir Patrick propose to find
her?”
Blanche repeated Sir Patrick’s instructions relating to the crossroads,
and also to the serious necessity of pursuing the investigation in the
strictest privacy. Arnold (relieved from all fear of being sent back
to Craig Fernie) undertook to do every thing that was asked of him, and
promised to keep the secret from every body.
They went back to the house, and met with an icy welcome from Lady
Lundie. Her ladyship repeated her remark on the subject of turning
Windygates into a Penitentiary for Blanche’s benefit. She received
Arnold’s petition to be excused from going to see the castle with the
barest civility. “Oh, take your walk by all means! You may meet your
friend, Mr. Delamayn--who appears to have such a passion for walking
that he can’t even wait till luncheon is over. As for Sir Patrick--Oh!
Sir Patrick has borrowed the pony-carriage? and gone out driving by
himself?--I’m sure I never meant to offend my brother-in-law when I
offered him a slice of my poor little cake. Don’t let me offend any
body else. Dispose of your afternoon, Blanche, without the slightest
reference to me. Nobody seems inclined to visit the ruins--the most
interesting relic of feudal times in Perthshire, Mr. Brinkworth. It
doesn’t matter--oh, dear me, it doesn’t matter! I can’t force my guests
to feel an intelligent curiosity on the subject of Scottish Antiquities.
No! no! my dear Blanche!--it won’t be the first time, or the last, that
I have driven out alone. I don’t at all object to being alone. ‘My
mind to me a kingdom is,’ as the poet says.” So Lady Lundie’s outraged
self-importance asserted its violated claims on human respect, until
her distinguished medical guest came to the rescue and smoothed his
hostess’s ruffled plumes. The surgeon (he privately detested ruins)
begged to go. Blanche begged to go. Smith and Jones (profoundly
interested in feudal antiquities) said they would sit behind, in the
“rumble”--rather than miss this unexpected treat. One, Two, and Three
caught the infection, and volunteered to be the escort on horseback.
Lady Lundie’s celebrated “smile” (warranted to remain unaltered on her
face for hours together) made its appearance once more. She issued her
orders with the most charming amiability. “We’ll take the guidebook,”
said her ladyship, with the eye to mean economy, which is only to be met
with in very rich people, “and save a shilling to the man who shows the
ruins.” With that she went up stairs to array herself for the drive,
and looked in the glass; and saw a perfectly virtuous, fascinating, and
accomplished woman, facing her irresistibly in a new French bonnet!
At a private signal from Blanche, Arnold slipped out and repaired to his
post, where the roads crossed the road that led to the railway.
There was a space of open heath on one side of him, and the stonewall
and gates of a farmhouse inclosure on the other. Arnold sat down on
the soft heather--and lit a cigar--and tried to see his way through the
double mystery of Anne’s appearance and Anne’s flight.