anticipated: he could only assume that Geoffrey had gone to keep a
private appointment with Anne. Miss Silvester’s appearance at Windygates
alone, and Miss Silvester’s anxiety to hear the names of the gentlemen
who were staying in the house, seemed, under these circumstances,
to point to the plain conclusion that the two had, in some way,
unfortunately missed each other. But what could be the motive of her
flight? Whether she knew of some other place in which she might meet
Geoffrey? or whether she had gone back to the inn? or whether she had
acted under some sudden impulse of despair?--were questions which Arnold
was necessarily quite incompetent to solve. There was no choice but
to wait until an opportunity offered of reporting what had happened to
Geoffrey himself.
After the lapse of half an hour, the sound of some approaching
vehicle--the first sound of the sort that he had heard--attracted
Arnold’s attention. He started up, and saw the pony-chaise approaching
him along the road from the station. Sir Patrick, this time, was
compelled to drive himself--Duncan was not with him. On discovering
Arnold, he stopped the pony.
“So! so!” said the old gentleman. “You have heard all about it, I see?
You understand that this is to be a secret from every body, till further
notice? Very good, Has any thing happened since you have been here?”
“Nothing. Have you made any discoveries, Sir Patrick?”
“None. I got to the station before the train. No signs of Miss Silvester
any where. I have left Duncan on the watch--with orders not to stir till
the last train has passed to-night.”
“I don’t think she will turn up at the station,” said Arnold. “I fancy
she has gone back to Craig Fernie.”
“Quite possible. I am now on my way to Craig Fernie, to make inquiries
about her. I don’t know how long I may be detained, or what it may
lead to. If you see Blanche before I do tell her I have instructed the
station-master to let me know (if Miss Silvester does take the railway)
what place she books for. Thanks to that arrangement, we sha’n’t have
to wait for news till Duncan can telegraph that he has seen her to her
journey’s end. In the mean time, you understand what you are wanted to
do here?”
“Blanche has explained every thing to me.”
“Stick to your post, and make good use of your eyes. You were accustomed
to that, you know, when you were at sea. It’s no great hardship to pass
a few hours in this delicious summer air. I see you have contracted the
vile modern habit of smoking--that will be occupation enough to amuse
you, no doubt! Keep the roads in view; and, if she does come your
way, don’t attempt to stop her--you can’t do that. Speak to her (quite
innocently, mind!), by way of getting time enough to notice the face of
the man who is driving her, and the name (if there is one) on his cart.
Do that, and you will do enough. Pah! how that cigar poisons the air!
What will have become of your stomach when you get to my age?”
“I sha’n’t complain, Sir Patrick, if I can eat as good a dinner as you
do.”
“That reminds me! I met somebody I knew at the station. Hester Dethridge
has left her place, and gone to London by the train. We may feed at
Windygates--we have done with dining now. It has been a final quarrel
this time between the mistress and the cook. I have given Hester my
address in London, and told her to let me know before she decides on
another place. A woman who _can’t_ talk, and a woman who _can_ cook, is
simply a woman who has arrived at absolute perfection. Such a treasure
shall not go out of the family, if I can help it. Did you notice the
Bechamel sauce at lunch? Pooh! a young man who smokes cigars
doesn’t know the difference between Bechamel sauce and melted
butter. Good afternoon! good afternoon!”
He slackened the reins, and away he went to Craig Fernie. Counting by
years, the pony was twenty, and the pony’s driver was seventy. Counting
by vivacity and spirit, two of the most youthful characters in Scotland
had got together that afternoon in the same chaise.
An hour more wore itself slowly out; and nothing had passed Arnold on
the cross-roads but a few stray foot-passengers, a heavy wagon, and a
gig with an old woman in it. He rose again from the heather, weary of
inaction, and resolved to walk backward and forward, within view of his
post, for a change. At the second turn, when his face happened to be set
toward the open heath, he noticed another foot-passenger--apparently a
man--far away in the empty distance. Was the person coming toward him?
He advanced a little. The stranger was doubtless advancing too, so
rapidly did his figure now reveal itself, beyond all doubt, as the
figure of a man. A few minutes more and Arnold fancied he recognized it.
Yet a little longer, and he was quite sure. There was no mistaking the
lithe strength and grace of _that_ man, and the smooth easy swiftness
with which he covered his ground. It was the hero of the coming
foot-race. It was Geoffrey on his way back to Windygates House.
Arnold hurried forward to meet him. Geoffrey stood still, poising
himself on his stick, and let the other come up.
“Have you heard what has happened at the house?” asked Arnold.
He instinctively checked the next question as it rose to his lips.
There was a settled defiance in the expression of Geoffrey’s face, which
Arnold was quite at a loss to understand. He looked like a man who
had made up his mind to confront any thing that could happen, and to
contradict any body who spoke to him.
“Something seems to have annoyed you?” said Arnold.
“What’s up at the house?” returned Geoffrey, with his loudest voice and
his hardest look.
“Miss Silvester has been at the house.”
“Who saw her?”
“Nobody but Blanche.”
“Well?”
“Well, she was miserably weak and ill, so ill that she fainted, poor
thing, in the library. Blanche brought her to.”
“And what then?”
“We were all at lunch at the time. Blanche left the library, to speak
privately to her uncle. When she went back Miss Silvester was gone, and
nothing has been seen of her since.”
“A row at the house?”
“Nobody knows of it at the house, except Blanche--”
“And you? And how many besides?”
“And Sir Patrick. Nobody else.”
“Nobody else? Any thing more?”
Arnold remembered his promise to keep the investigation then on foot
a secret from every body. Geoffrey’s manner made him--unconsciously to
himself--readier than he might otherwise have been to consider Geoffrey
as included in the general prohibition.
“Nothing more,” he answered.
Geoffrey dug the point of his stick deep into the soft, sandy ground.
He looked at the stick, then suddenly pulled it out of the ground and
looked at Arnold. “Good-afternoon!” he said, and went on his way again
by himself.
Arnold followed, and stopped him. For a moment the two men looked at
each other without a word passing on either side. Arnold spoke first.
“You’re out of humor, Geoffrey. What has upset you in this way? Have you
and Miss Silvester missed each other?”
Geoffrey was silent.
“Have you seen her since she left Windygates?”
No reply.
“Do you know where Miss Silvester is now?”
Still no reply. Still the same mutely-insolent defiance of look and
manner. Arnold’s dark color began to deepen.
“Why don’t you answer me?” he said.
“Because I have had enough of it.”
“Enough of what?”
“Enough of being worried about Miss Silvester. Miss Silvester’s my
business--not yours.”
“Gently, Geoffrey! Don’t forget that I have been mixed up in that
business--without seeking it myself.”
“There’s no fear of my forgetting. You have cast it in my teeth often
enough.”
“Cast it in your teeth?”
“Yes! Am I never to hear the last of my obligation to you? The devil
take the obligation! I’m sick of the sound of it.”
There was a spirit in Arnold--not easily brought to the surface,
through the overlying simplicity and good-humor of his ordinary
character--which, once roused, was a spirit not readily quelled.
Geoffrey had roused it at last.
“When you come to your senses,” he said, “I’ll remember old times--and
receive your apology. Till you _do_ come to your senses, go your way by
yourself. I have no more to say to you.”
Geoffrey set his teeth, and came one step nearer. Arnold’s eyes met his,
with a look which steadily and firmly challenged him--though he was
the stronger man of the two--to force the quarrel a step further, if he
dared. The one human virtue which Geoffrey respected and understood
was the virtue of courage. And there it was before him--the undeniable
courage of the weaker man. The callous scoundrel was touched on the
one tender place in his whole being. He turned, and went on his way in
silence.
Left by himself, Arnold’s head dropped on his breast. The friend who had
saved his life--the one friend he possessed, who was associated with
his earliest and happiest remembrances of old days--had grossly insulted
him: and had left him deliberately, without the slightest expression of
regret. Arnold’s affectionate nature--simple, loyal, clinging where
it once fastened--was wounded to the quick. Geoffrey’s fast-retreating
figure, in the open view before him, became blurred and indistinct. He
put his hand over his eyes, and hid, with a boyish shame, the hot tears
that told of the heartache, and that honored the man who shed them.
He was still struggling with the emotion which had overpowered him, when
something happened at the place where the roads met.
The four roads pointed as nearly as might be toward the four points of
the compass. Arnold was now on the road to the eastward, having advanced
in that direction to meet Geoffrey, between two and three hundred yards
from the farm-house inclosure before which he had kept his watch. The
road to the westward, curving away behind the farm, led to the nearest
market-town. The road to the south was the way to the station. And the
road to the north led back to Windygates House.
While Geoffrey was still fifty yards from the turning which would take
him back to Windygates--while the tears were still standing thickly in
Arnold’s eyes--the gate of the farm inclosure opened. A light four-wheel
chaise came out with a man driving, and a woman sitting by his side. The
woman was Anne Silvester, and the man was the owner of the farm.
Instead of taking the way which led to the station, the chaise pursued
the westward road to the market-town. Proceeding in this direction, the
backs of the persons in the vehicle were necessarily turned on Geoffrey,
advancing behind them from the eastward. He just carelessly noticed
the shabby little chaise, and then turned off north on his way to
Windygates.
By the time Arnold was composed enough to look round him, the chaise
had taken the curve in the road which wound behind the farmhouse. He
returned--faithful to the engagement which he had undertaken--to his
post before the inclosure. The chaise was then a speck in the distance.
In a minute more it was a speck out of sight.
So (to use Sir Patrick’s phrase) had the woman broken through
difficulties which would have stopped a man. So, in her sore need, had
Anne Silvester won the sympathy which had given her a place, by the
farmer’s side, in the vehicle that took him on his own business to the
market-town. And so, by a hair’s-breadth, did she escape the treble risk
of discovery which threatened her--from Geoffrey, on his way back; from
Arnold, at his post; and from the valet, on the watch for her appearance
at the station.
The afternoon wore on. The servants at Windygates, airing themselves
in the grounds--in the absence of their mistress and her guests--were
disturbed, for the moment, by the unexpected return of one of “the
gentlefolks.” Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn reappeared at the house alone; went
straight to the smoking-room; and calling for another supply of the old
ale, settled himself in an arm-chair with the newspaper, and began to
smoke.
He soon tired of reading, and fell into thinking of what had happened
during the latter part of his walk.
The prospect before him had more than realized the most sanguine
anticipations that he could have formed of it. He had braced
himself--after what had happened in the library--to face the outbreak
of a serious scandal, on his return to the house. And here--when he came
back--was nothing to face! Here were three people (Sir Patrick, Arnold,
and Blanche) who must at least know that Anne was in some serious
trouble keeping the secret as carefully as if they felt that his
interests were at stake! And, more wonderful still, here was Anne
herself--so far from raising a hue and cry after him--actually taking
flight without saying a word that could compromise him with any living
soul!
What in the name of wonder did it mean? He did his best to find his way
to an explanation of some sort; and he actually contrived to account for
the silence of Blanche and her uncle, and Arnold. It was pretty clear
that they must have all three combined to keep Lady Lundie in ignorance
of her runaway governess’s return to the house.
But the secret of Anne’s silence completely baffled him.
He was simply incapable of conceiving that the horror of seeing herself
set up as an obstacle to Blanche’s marriage might have been vivid
enough to overpower all sense of her own wrongs, and to hurry her away,
resolute, in her ignorance of what else to do, never to return again,
and never to let living eyes rest on her in the character of Arnold’s
wife. “It’s clean beyond _my_ making out,” was the final conclusion at
which Geoffrey arrived. “If it’s her interest to hold her tongue, it’s
my interest to hold mine, and there’s an end of it for the present!”
He put up his feet on a chair, and rested his magnificent muscles after
his walk, and filled another pipe, in thorough contentment with himself.
No interference to dread from Anne, no more awkward questions (on the
terms they were on now) to come from Arnold. He looked back at the
quarrel on the heath with a certain complacency--he did his friend
justice; though they _had_ disagreed. “Who would have thought the fellow
had so much pluck in him!” he said to himself as he struck the match and
lit his second pipe.
An hour more wore on; and Sir Patrick was the next person who returned.
He was thoughtful, but in no sense depressed. Judging by appearances,
his errand to Craig Fernie had certainly not ended in disappointment.
The old gentleman hummed his favorite little Scotch air--rather
absently, perhaps--and took his pinch of snuff from the knob of his
ivory cane much as usual. He went to the library bell and summoned a
servant.
“Any body been here for me?”--“No, Sir Patrick.”--“No letters?”--“No,
Sir Patrick.”--“Very well. Come up stairs to my room, and help me on
with my dressing-gown.” The man helped him to his dressing-gown and
slippers “Is Miss Lundie at home?”--“No, Sir Patrick. They’re all away
with my lady on an excursion.”--“Very good. Get me a cup of coffee; and
wake me half an hour before dinner, in case I take a nap.” The servant
went out. Sir Patrick stretched himself on the sofa. “Ay! ay! a little
aching in the back, and a certain stiffness in the legs. I dare say
the pony feels just as I do. Age, I suppose, in both cases? Well! well!
well! let’s try and be young at heart. ‘The rest’ (as Pope says) ‘is
leather and prunella.’” He returned resignedly to his little Scotch air.
The servant came in with the coffee. And then the room was quiet, except
for the low humming of insects and the gentle rustling of the creepers
at the window. For five minutes or so Sir Patrick sipped his coffee, and
meditated--by no means in the character of a man who was depressed by
any recent disappointment. In five minutes more he was asleep.
A little later, and the party returned from the ruins.
With the one exception of their lady-leader, the whole expedition was
depressed--Smith and Jones, in particular, being quite speechless. Lady
Lundie alone still met feudal antiquities with a cheerful front. She
had cheated the man who showed the ruins of his shilling, and she was
thoroughly well satisfied with herself. Her voice was flute-like in
its melody, and the celebrated “smile” had never been in better order.
“Deeply interesting!” said her ladyship, descending from the carriage
with ponderous grace, and addressing herself to Geoffrey, lounging under
the portico of the house. “You have had a loss, Mr. Delamayn. The next
time you go out for a walk, give your hostess a word of warning, and you
won’t repent it.” Blanche (looking very weary and anxious) questioned
the servant, the moment she got in, about Arnold and her uncle. Sir
Patrick was invisible up stairs. Mr. Brinkworth had not come back. It
wanted only twenty minutes of dinner-time; and full evening-dress was
insisted on at Windygates. Blanche, nevertheless, still lingered in the
hall in the hope of seeing Arnold before she went up stairs. The hope
was realized. As the clock struck the quarter he came in. And he, too,
was out of spirits like the rest!
“Have you seen her?” asked Blanche.
“No,” said Arnold, in the most perfect good faith. “The way she has
escaped by is not the way by the cross-roads--I answer for that.”
They separated to dress. When the party assembled again, in the library,
before dinner, Blanche found her way, the moment he entered the room, to
Sir Patrick’s side.
“News, uncle! I’m dying for news.”
“Good news, my dear--so far.”
“You have found Anne?”
“Not exactly that.”
“You have heard of her at Craig Fernie?”
“I have made some important discoveries at Craig Fernie, Blanche. Hush!
here’s your step-mother. Wait till after dinner, and you may hear more
than I can tell you now. There may be news from the station between this
and then.”
The dinner was a wearisome ordeal to at least two other persons
present besides Blanche. Arnold, sitting opposite to Geoffrey, without
exchanging a word with him, felt the altered relations between his
former friend and himself very painfully. Sir Patrick, missing the
skilled hand of Hester Dethridge in every dish that was offered to
him, marked the dinner among the wasted opportunities of his life, and
resented his sister-in-law’s flow of spirits as something simply inhuman
under present circumstances. Blanche followed Lady Lundie into the
drawing-room in a state of burning impatience for the rising of
the gentlemen from their wine. Her step-mother--mapping out a new
antiquarian excursion for the next day, and finding Blanche’s ears
closed to her occasional remarks on baronial Scotland five hundred years
since--lamented, with satirical emphasis, the absence of an intelligent
companion of her own sex; and stretched her majestic figure on the sofa
to wait until an audience worthy of her flowed in from the dining-room.
Before very long--so soothing is the influence of an after-dinner
view of feudal antiquities, taken through the medium of an approving
conscience--Lady Lundie’s eyes closed; and from Lady Lundie’s nose
there poured, at intervals, a sound, deep like her ladyship’s learning;
regular, like her ladyship’s habits--a sound associated with nightcaps
and bedrooms, evoked alike by Nature, the leveler, from high and
low--the sound (oh, Truth what enormities find publicity in thy
name!)--the sound of a Snore.
Free to do as she pleased, Blanche left the echoes of the drawing-room
in undisturbed enjoyment of Lady Lundie’s audible repose.
She went into the library, and turned over the novels. Went out again,
and looked across the hall at the dining-room door. Would the men never
have done talking their politics and drinking their wine? She went up to
her own room, and changed her ear-rings, and scolded her maid. Descended
once more--and made an alarming discovery in a dark corner of the hall.
Two men were standing there, hat in hand whispering to the butler. The
butler, leaving them, went into the dining-room--came out again with Sir
Patrick--and said to the two men, “Step this way, please.” The two men
came out into the light. Murdoch, the station-master; and Duncan, the
valet! News of Anne!
“Oh, uncle, let me stay!” pleaded Blanche.
Sir Patrick hesitated. It was impossible to say--as matters stood at
that moment--what distressing intelligence the two men might not have
brought of the missing woman. Duncan’s return, accompanied by the
station-master, looked serious. Blanche instantly penetrated the secret
of her uncle’s hesitation. She turned pale, and caught him by the
arm. “Don’t send me away,” she whispered. “I can bear any thing but
suspense.”
“Out with it!” said Sir Patrick, holding his niece’s hand. “Is she found
or not?”
“She’s gone by the up-train,” said the station-master. “And we know
where.”
Sir Patrick breathed freely; Blanche’s color came back. In different
ways, the relief to both of them was equally great.
“You had my orders to follow her,” said Sir Patrick to Duncan. “Why have
you come back?”
“Your man is not to blame, Sir,” interposed the station-master. “The
lady took the train at Kirkandrew.”
Sir Patrick started and looked at the station-master. “Ay? ay? The next
station--the market-town. Inexcusably stupid of me. I never thought of
that.”
“I took the liberty of telegraphing your description of the lady to
Kirkandrew, Sir Patrick, in case of accidents.”
“I stand corrected, Mr. Murdoch. Your head, in this matter, has been the
sharper head of the two. Well?”
“There’s the answer, Sir.”
Sir Patrick and Blanche read the telegram together.
“Kirkandrew. Up train. 7.40 P.M. Lady as described. No luggage. Bag in
her hand. Traveling alone. Ticket--second-class. Place--Edinburgh.”
“Edinburgh!” repeated Blanche. “Oh, uncle! we shall lose her in a great
place like that!”
“We shall find her, my dear; and you shall see how. Duncan, get me
pen, ink, and paper. Mr. Murdoch, you are going back to the station, I
suppose?”
“Yes, Sir Patrick.”
“I will give you a telegram, to be sent at once to Edinburgh.”
He wrote a carefully-worded telegraphic message, and addressed it to The
Sheriff of Mid-Lothian.
“The Sheriff is an old friend of mine,” he explained to his niece. “And
he is now in Edinburgh. Long before the train gets to the terminus
he will receive this personal description of Miss Silvester, with my
request to have all her movements carefully watched till further notice.
The police are entirely at his disposal; and the best men will be
selected for the purpose. I have asked for an answer by telegraph. Keep
a special messenger ready for it at the station, Mr. Murdoch. Thank you;
good-evening. Duncan, get your supper, and make yourself comfortable.
Blanche, my dear, go back to the drawing-room, and expect us in to tea
immediately. You will know where your friend is before you go to bed
to-night.”
With those comforting words he returned to the gentlemen. In ten minutes
more they all appeared in the drawing-room; and Lady Lundie (firmly
persuaded that she had never closed her eyes) was back again in baronial
Scotland five hundred years since.
Blanche, watching her opportunity, caught her uncle alone.
“Now for your promise,” she said. “You have made some important
discoveries at Craig Fernie. What are they?”
Sir Patrick’s eye turned toward Geoffrey, dozing in an arm-chair in a
corner of the room. He showed a certain disposition to trifle with the
curiosity of his niece.
“After the discovery we have already made,” he said, “can’t you wait, my
dear, till we get the telegram from Edinburgh?”
“That is just what it’s impossible for me to do! The telegram won’t come
for hours yet. I want something to go on with in the mean time.”
She seated herself on a sofa in the corner opposite Geoffrey, and
pointed to the vacant place by her side.
Sir Patrick had promised--Sir Patrick had no choice but to keep his
word. After another look at Geoffrey, he took the vacant place by his
niece.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FOURTH.
BACKWARD.
“WELL?” whispered Blanche, taking her uncle confidentially by the arm.
“Well,” said Sir Patrick, with a spark of his satirical humor flashing
out at his niece, “I am going to do a very rash thing. I am going to
place a serious trust in the hands of a girl of eighteen.”
“The girl’s hands will keep it, uncle--though she _is_ only eighteen.”
“I must run the risk, my dear; your intimate knowledge of Miss Silvester
may be of the greatest assistance to me in the next step I take. You
shall know all that I can tell you, but I must warn you first. I
can only admit you into my confidence by startling you with a great
surprise. Do you follow me, so far?”
“Yes! yes!”
“If you fail to control yourself, you place an obstacle in the way of
my being of some future use to Miss Silvester. Remember that, and now
prepare for the surprise. What did I tell you before dinner?”
“You said you had made discoveries at Craig Fernie. What have you found
out?”