possession of the information which Miss Silvester has concealed from
you and from me. The person is within our reach. The person is in this
neighborhood. The person is in this room!”
He caught up Blanche’s hand, resting on his arm, and pressed it
significantly. She looked at him with the cry of surprise suspended
on her lips--waited a little with her eyes fixed on Fir Patrick’s
face--struggled resolutely, and composed herself.
“Point the person out.” She said the words with a self-possession which
won her uncle’s hearty approval. Blanche had done wonders for a girl in
her teens.
“Look!” said Sir Patrick; “and tell me what you see.”
“I see Lady Lundie, at the other end of the room, with the map of
Perthshire and the Baronial Antiquities of Scotland on the table. And I
see every body but you and me obliged to listen to her.”
“Every body?”
Blanche looked carefully round the room, and noticed Geoffrey in the
opposite corner; fast asleep by this time in his arm-chair.
“Uncle! you don’t mean--?”
“There is the man.”
“Mr. Delamayn--!”
“Mr. Delamayn knows every thing.”
Blanche held mechanically by her uncle’s arm, and looked at the sleeping
man as if her eyes could never see enough of him.
“You saw me in the library in private consultation with Mr. Delamayn,”
resumed Sir Patrick. “I have to acknowledge, my dear, that you were
quite right in thinking this a suspicious circumstance, And I am now
to justify myself for having purposely kept you in the dark up to the
present time.”
With those introductory words, he briefly reverted to the earlier
occurrences of the day, and then added, by way of commentary, a
statement of the conclusions which events had suggested to his own mind.
The events, it may be remembered, were three in number. First,
Geoffrey’s private conference with Sir Patrick on the subject of
Irregular Marriages in Scotland. Secondly, Anne Silvester’s appearance
at Windygates. Thirdly, Anne’s flight.
The conclusions which had thereupon suggested themselves to Sir
Patrick’s mind were six in number.
First, that a connection of some sort might possibly exist between
Geoffrey’s acknowledged difficulty about his friend, and Miss
Silvester’s presumed difficulty about herself. Secondly, that Geoffrey
had really put to Sir Patrick--not his own case--but the case of a
friend. Thirdly, that Geoffrey had some interest (of no harmless kind)
in establishing the fact of his friend’s marriage. Fourthly, that Anne’s
anxiety (as described by Blanche) to hear the names of the gentlemen who
were staying at Windygates, pointed, in all probability, to Geoffrey.
Fifthly, that this last inference disturbed the second conclusion, and
reopened the doubt whether Geoffrey had not been stating his own case,
after all, under pretense of stating the case of a friend. Sixthly, that
the one way of obtaining any enlightenment on this point, and on all the
other points involved in mystery, was to go to Craig Fernie, and consult
Mrs. Inchbare’s experience during the period of Anne’s residence at the
inn. Sir Patrick’s apology for keeping all this a secret from his niece
followed. He had shrunk from agitating her on the subject until he
could be sure of proving his conclusions to be true. The proof had been
obtained; and he was now, therefore, ready to open his mind to Blanche
without reserve.
“So much, my dear,” proceeded Sir Patrick, “for those necessary
explanations which are also the necessary nuisances of human
intercourse. You now know as much as I did when I arrived at Craig
Fernie--and you are, therefore, in a position to appreciate the value of
my discoveries at the inn. Do you understand every thing, so far?”
“Perfectly!”
“Very good. I drove up to the inn; and--behold me closeted with Mrs.
Inchbare in her own private parlor! (My reputation may or may not
suffer, but Mrs. Inchbare’s bones are above suspicion!) It was a long
business, Blanche. A more sour-tempered, cunning, and distrustful
witness I never examined in all my experience at the Bar. She would have
upset the temper of any mortal man but a lawyer. We have such wonderful
tempers in our profession; and we can be so aggravating when we like! In
short, my dear, Mrs. Inchbare was a she-cat, and I was a he-cat--and I
clawed the truth out of her at last. The result was well worth
arriving at, as you shall see. Mr. Delamayn had described to me certain
remarkable circumstances as taking place between a lady and a gentleman
at an inn: the object of the parties being to pass themselves off at
the time as man and wife. Every one of those circumstances, Blanche,
occurred at Craig Fernie, between a lady and a gentleman, on the day
when Miss Silvester disappeared from this house And--wait!--being
pressed for her name, after the gentleman had left her behind him at the
inn, the name the lady gave was, ‘Mrs. Silvester.’ What do you think of
that?”
“Think! I’m bewildered--I can’t realize it.”
“It’s a startling discovery, my dear child--there is no denying that.
Shall I wait a little, and let you recover yourself?”
“No! no! Go on! The gentleman, uncle? The gentleman who was with Anne?
Who is he? Not Mr. Delamayn?”
“Not Mr. Delamayn,” said Sir Patrick. “If I have proved nothing else, I
have proved that.”
“What need was there to prove it? Mr. Delamayn went to London on the day
of the lawn-party. And Arnold--”
“And Arnold went with him as far as the second station from this. Quite
true! But how was I to know what Mr. Delamayn might have done after
Arnold had left him? I could only make sure that he had not gone back
privately to the inn, by getting the proof from Mrs. Inchbare.”
“How did you get it?”
“I asked her to describe the gentleman who was with Miss Silvester.
Mrs. Inchbare’s description (vague as you will presently find it to be)
completely exonerates that man,” said Sir Patrick, pointing to Geoffrey
still asleep in his chair. “_He_ is not the person who passed Miss
Silvester off as his wife at Craig Fernie. He spoke the truth when he
described the case to me as the case of a friend.”
“But who is the friend?” persisted Blanche. “That’s what I want to
know.”
“That’s what I want to know, too.”
“Tell me exactly, uncle, what Mrs. Inchbare said. I have lived with Anne
all my life. I _must_ have seen the man somewhere.”
“If you can identify him by Mrs. Inchbare’s description,” returned
Sir Patrick, “you will be a great deal cleverer than I am. Here is the
picture of the man, as painted by the landlady: Young; middle-sized;
dark hair, eyes, and complexion; nice temper, pleasant way of speaking.
Leave out ‘young,’ and the rest is the exact contrary of Mr. Delamayn.
So far, Mrs. Inchbare guides us plainly enough. But how are we to
apply her description to the right person? There must be, at the
lowest computation, five hundred thousand men in England who are young,
middle-sized, dark, nice-tempered, and pleasant spoken. One of the
footmen here answers that description in every particular.”
“And Arnold answers it,” said Blanche--as a still stronger instance of
the provoking vagueness of the description.
“And Arnold answers it,” repeated Sir Patrick, quite agreeing with her.
They had barely said those words when Arnold himself appeared,
approaching Sir Patrick with a pack of cards in his hand.
There--at the very moment when they had both guessed the truth, without
feeling the slightest suspicion of it in their own minds--there stood
Discovery, presenting itself unconsciously to eyes incapable of seeing
it, in the person of the man who had passed Anne Silvester off as
his wife at the Craig Fernie inn! The terrible caprice of Chance, the
merciless irony of Circumstance, could go no further than this. The
three had their feet on the brink of the precipice at that moment. And
two of them were smiling at an odd coincidence; and one of them was
shuffling a pack of cards!
“We have done with the Antiquities at last!” said Arnold; “and we are
going to play at Whist. Sir Patrick, will you choose a card?”
“Too soon after dinner, my good fellow, for _me_. Play the first rubber,
and then give me another chance. By-the-way,” he added “Miss Silvester
has been traced to Kirkandrew. How is it that you never saw her go by?”
“She can’t have gone my way, Sir Patrick, or I must have seen her.”
Having justified himself in those terms, he was recalled to the other
end of the room by the whist-party, impatient for the cards which he had
in his hand.
“What were we talking of when he interrupted us?” said Sir Patrick to
Blanche.
“Of the man, uncle, who was with Miss Silvester at the inn.”
“It’s useless to pursue that inquiry, my dear, with nothing better than
Mrs. Inchbare’s description to help us.”
Blanche looked round at the sleeping Geoffrey.
“And _he_ knows!” she said. “It’s maddening, uncle, to look at the brute
snoring in his chair!”
Sir Patrick held up a warning hand. Before a word more could be said
between them they were silenced again by another interruption.
The whist-party comprised Lady Lundie and the surgeon, playing as
partners against Smith and Jones. Arnold sat behind the surgeon, taking
a lesson in the game. One, Two, and Three, thus left to their own
devices, naturally thought of the billiard-table; and, detecting
Geoffrey asleep in his corner, advanced to disturb his slumbers, under
the all-sufficing apology of “Pool.” Geoffrey roused himself, and rubbed
his eyes, and said, drowsily, “All right.” As he rose, he looked at
the opposite corner in which Sir Patrick and his niece were sitting.
Blanche’s self-possession, resolutely as she struggled to preserve it,
was not strong enough to keep her eyes from turning toward Geoffrey with
an expression which betrayed the reluctant interest that she now felt in
him. He stopped, noticing something entirely new in the look with which
the young lady was regarding him.
“Beg your pardon,” said Geoffrey. “Do you wish to speak to me?”
Blanche’s face flushed all over. Her uncle came to the rescue.
“Miss Lundie and I hope you have slept well Mr. Delamayn,” said Sir
Patrick, jocosely. “That’s all.”
“Oh? That’s all?” said Geoffrey still looking at Blanche. “Beg your
pardon again. Deuced long walk, and deuced heavy dinner. Natural
consequence--a nap.”
Sir Patrick eyed him closely. It was plain that he had been honestly
puzzled at finding himself an object of special attention on Blanche’s
part. “See you in the billiard-room?” he said, carelessly, and followed
his companions out of the room--as usual, without waiting for an answer.
“Mind what you are about,” said Sir Patrick to his niece. “That man is
quicker than he looks. We commit a serious mistake if we put him on his
guard at starting.”
“It sha’n’t happen again, uncle,” said Blanche. “But think of _his_
being in Anne’s confidence, and of _my_ being shut out of it!”
“In his friend’s confidence, you mean, my dear; and (if we only avoid
awakening his suspicion) there is no knowing how soon he may say or do
something which may show us who his friend is.”
“But he is going back to his brother’s to-morrow--he said so at
dinner-time.”
“So much the better. He will be out of the way of seeing strange things
in a certain young lady’s face. His brother’s house is within easy reach
of this; and I am his legal adviser. My experience tells me that he has
not done consulting me yet--and that he will let out something more
next time. So much for our chance of seeing the light through Mr.
Delamayn--if we can’t see it in any other way. And that is not our only
chance, remember. I have something to tell you about Bishopriggs and the
lost letter.”
“Is it found?”
“No. I satisfied myself about that--I had it searched for, under my own
eye. The letter is stolen, Blanche; and Bishopriggs has got it. I have
left a line for him, in Mrs. Inchbare’s care. The old rascal is missed
already by the visitors at the inn, just as I told you he would be. His
mistress is feeling the penalty of having been fool enough to vent her
ill temper on her head-waiter. She lays the whole blame of the quarrel
on Miss Silvester, of course. Bishopriggs neglected every body at
the inn to wait on Miss Silvester. Bishopriggs was insolent on being
remonstrated with, and Miss Silvester encouraged him--and so on. The
result will be--now Miss Silvester has gone--that Bishopriggs will
return to Craig Fernie before the autumn is over. We are sailing with
wind and tide, my dear. Come, and learn to play whist.”
He rose to join the card-players. Blanche detained him.
“You haven’t told me one thing yet,” she said. “Whoever the man may be,
is Anne married to him?”
“Whoever the man may be,” returned Sir Patrick, “he had better not
attempt to marry any body else.”
So the niece unconsciously put the question, and so the uncle
unconsciously gave the answer on which depended the whole happiness of
Blanche’s life to come, The “man!” How lightly they both talked of the
“man!” Would nothing happen to rouse the faintest suspicion--in their
minds or in Arnold’s mind--that Arnold was the “man” himself?
“You mean that she _is_ married?” said Blanche.
“I don’t go as far as that.”
“You mean that she is _not_ married?”
“I don’t go so far as _that._”
“Oh! the law!”
“Provoking, isn’t it, my dear? I can tell you, professionally, that (in
my opinion) she has grounds to go on if she claims to be the man’s wife.
That is what I meant by my answer; and, until we know more, that is all
I can say.”
“When shall we know more? When shall we get the telegram?”
“Not for some hours yet. Come, and learn to play whist.”
“I think I would rather talk to Arnold, uncle, if you don’t mind.”
“By all means! But don’t talk to him about what I have been telling you
to-night. He and Mr. Delamayn are old associates, remember; and he might
blunder into telling his friend what his friend had better not know. Sad
(isn’t it?) for me to be instilling these lessons of duplicity into the
youthful mind. A wise person once said, ‘The older a man gets the
worse he gets.’ That wise person, my dear, had me in his eye, and was
perfectly right.”
He mitigated the pain of that confession with a pinch of snuff, and went
to the whist table to wait until the end of the rubber gave him a place
at the game.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-FIFTH.
FORWARD.
BLANCHE found her lover as attentive as usual to her slightest wish, but
not in his customary good spirits. He pleaded fatigue, after his long
watch at the cross-roads, as an excuse for his depression. As long as
there was any hope of a reconciliation with Geoffrey, he was unwilling
to tell Blanche what had happened that afternoon. The hope grew fainter
and fainter as the evening advanced. Arnold purposely suggested a
visit to the billiard-room, and joined the game, with Blanche, to give
Geoffrey an opportunity of saying the few gracious words which would
have made them friends again. Geoffrey never spoke the words; he
obstinately ignored Arnold’s presence in the room.
At the card-table the whist went on interminably. Lady Lundie, Sir
Patrick, and the surgeon, were all inveterate players, evenly matched.
Smith and Jones (joining the game alternately) were aids to whist,
exactly as they were aids to conversation. The same safe and modest
mediocrity of style distinguished the proceedings of these two gentlemen
in all the affairs of life.
The time wore on to midnight. They went to bed late and they rose late
at Windygates House. Under that hospitable roof, no intrusive hints, in
the shape of flat candlesticks exhibiting themselves with ostentatious
virtue on side-tables, hurried the guest to his room; no vile bell
rang him ruthlessly out of bed the next morning, and insisted on his
breakfasting at a given hour. Life has surely hardships enough that
are inevitable without gratuitously adding the hardship of absolute
government, administered by a clock?
It was a quarter past twelve when Lady Lundie rose blandly from the
whist-table, and said that she supposed somebody must set the example of
going to bed. Sir Patrick and Smith, the surgeon and Jones, agreed on a
last rubber. Blanche vanished while her stepmother’s eye was on her;
and appeared again in the drawing-room, when Lady Lundie was safe in the
hands of her maid. Nobody followed the example of the mistress of the
house but Arnold. He left the billiard-room with the certainty that it
was all over now between Geoffrey and himself. Not even the attraction
of Blanche proved strong enough to detain him that night. He went his
way to bed.
It was past one o’clock. The final rubber was at an end, the accounts
were settled at the card-table; the surgeon had strolled into the
billiard-room, and Smith and Jones had followed him, when Duncan came
in, at last, with the telegram in his hand.
Blanche turned from the broad, calm autumn moonlight which had drawn her
to the window, and looked over her uncle’s shoulder while he opened the
telegram.
She read the first line--and that was enough. The whole scaffolding of
hope built round that morsel of paper fell to the ground in an instant.
The train from Kirkandrew had reached Edinburgh at the usual time. Every
passenger in it had passed under the eyes of the police, and nothing had
been seen of any person who answered the description given of Anne!
Sir Patrick pointed to the two last sentences in the telegram:
“Inquiries telegraphed to Falkirk. If with any result, you shall know.”
“We must hope for the best, Blanche. They evidently suspect her of
having got out at the junction of the two railways for the purpose
of giving the telegraph the slip. There is no help for it. Go to bed,
child--go to bed.”
Blanche kissed her uncle in silence and went away. The bright young face
was sad with the first hopeless sorrow which the old man had yet seen in
it. His niece’s parting look dwelt painfully on his mind when he was up
in his room, with the faithful Duncan getting him ready for his bed.
“This is a bad business, Duncan. I don’t like to say so to Miss Lundie;
but I greatly fear the governess has baffled us.”
“It seems likely, Sir Patrick. The poor young lady looks quite
heart-broken about it.”
“You noticed that too, did you? She has lived all her life, you see,
with Miss Silvester; and there is a very strong attachment between them.
I am uneasy about my niece, Duncan. I am afraid this disappointment will
have a serious effect on her.”
“She’s young, Sir Patrick.”
“Yes, my friend, she’s young; but the young (when they are good for any
thing) have warm hearts. Winter hasn’t stolen on _them,_ Duncan! And
they feel keenly.”
“I think there’s reason to hope, Sir, that Miss Lundie may get over it
more easily than you suppose.”
“What reason, pray?”
“A person in my position can hardly venture to speak freely, Sir, on a
delicate matter of this kind.”
Sir Patrick’s temper flashed out, half-seriously, half-whimsically, as
usual.
“Is that a snap at Me, you old dog? If I am not your friend, as well as
your master, who is? Am _I_ in the habit of keeping any of my harmless
fellow-creatures at a distance? I despise the cant of modern Liberalism;
but it’s not the less true that I have, all my life, protested against
the inhuman separation of classes in England. We are, in that respect,
brag as we may of our national virtue, the most unchristian people in
the civilized world.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir Patrick--”
“God help me! I’m talking polities at this time of night! It’s your
fault, Duncan. What do you mean by casting my station in my teeth,
because I can’t put my night-cap on comfortably till you have brushed
my hair? I have a good mind to get up and brush yours. There! there! I’m
uneasy about my niece--nervous irritability, my good fellow, that’s all.
Let’s hear what you have to say about Miss Lundie. And go on with my
hair. And don’t be a humbug.”
“I was about to remind you, Sir Patrick, that Miss Lundie has another
interest in her life to turn to. If this matter of Miss Silvester ends
badly--and I own it begins to look as if it would--I should hurry my
niece’s marriage, Sir, and see if _that_ wouldn’t console her.”
Sir Patrick started under the gentle discipline of the hair-brush in
Duncan’s hand.
“That’s very sensibly put,” said the old gentleman. “Duncan! you are,
what I call, a clear-minded man. Well worth thinking of, old Truepenny!
If the worst comes to the worst, well worth thinking of!”
It was not the first time that Duncan’s steady good sense had struck
light, under the form of a new thought, in his master’s mind. But never
yet had he wrought such mischief as the mischief which he had innocently
done now. He had sent Sir Patrick to bed with the fatal idea of
hastening the marriage of Arnold and Blanche.
The situation of affairs at Windygates--now that Anne had apparently
obliterated all trace of herself--was becoming serious. The one chance
on which the discovery of Arnold’s position depended, was the chance
that accident might reveal the truth in the lapse of time. In this
posture of circumstances, Sir Patrick now resolved--if nothing happened
to relieve Blanche’s anxiety in the course of the week--to advance the
celebration of the marriage from the end of the autumn (as originally
contemplated) to the first fortnight of the ensuing month. As dates
then stood, the change led (so far as free scope for the development of
accident was concerned) to this serious result. It abridged a lapse of
three months into an interval of three weeks.
The next morning came; and Blanche marked it as a memorable morning,
by committing an act of imprudence, which struck away one more of
the chances of discovery that had existed, before the arrival of the
Edinburgh telegram on the previous day.
She had passed a sleepless night; fevered in mind and body; thinking,
hour after hour, of nothing but Anne. At sunrise she could endure it no
longer. Her power to control herself was completely exhausted; her own
impulses led her as they pleased. She got up, determined not to let
Geoffrey leave the house without risking an effort to make him reveal
what he knew about Anne. It was nothing less than downright treason to
Sir Patrick to act on her own responsibility in this way. She knew it
was wrong; she was heartily ashamed of herself for doing it. But the
demon that possesses women with a recklessness all their own, at the
critical moments of their lives, had got her--and she did it.
Geoffrey had arranged overnight, to breakfast early, by himself, and to
walk the ten miles to his brother’s house; sending a servant to fetch
his luggage later in the day.
He had got on his hat; he was standing in the hall, searching his pocket
for his second self, the pipe--when Blanche suddenly appeared from the
morning-room, and placed herself between him and the house door.
“Up early--eh?” said Geoffrey. “I’m off to my brother’s.”
She made no reply. He looked at her closer. The girl’s eyes were trying
to read his face, with an utter carelessness of concealment, which
forbade (even to his mind) all unworthy interpretation of her motive for
stopping him on his way out.
“Any commands for me?” he inquired
This time she answered him. “I have something to ask you,” she said.
He smiled graciously, and opened his tobacco-pouch. He was fresh and
strong after his night’s sleep--healthy and handsome and good-humored.
The house-maids had had a peep at him that morning, and had wished--like
Desdemona, with a difference--that “Heaven had made all three of them
such a man.”
“Well,” he said, “what is it?”
She put her question, without a single word of preface--purposely to
surprise him.
“Mr. Delamayn,” she said, “do you know where Anne Silvester is this
morning?”
He was filling his pipe as she spoke, and he dropped some of the tobacco
on the floor. Instead of answering before he picked up the tobacco he
answered after--in surly self-possession, and in one word--“No.”
“Do you know nothing about her?”
He devoted himself doggedly to the filling of his pipe. “Nothing.”
“On your word of honor, as a gentleman?”
“On my word of honor, as a gentleman.”
He put back his tobacco-pouch in his pocket. His handsome face was as
hard as stone. His clear blue eyes defied all the girls in England put
together to see into _his_ mind. “Have you done, Miss Lundie?” he asked,
suddenly changing to a bantering politeness of tone and manner.