look and tone. “I applied all the remedies with my own hands; I cut her
laces with my own scissors, I completely wetted her head through with
cold water; I remained with her until she was quite exhausted--I took
her in my arms, and folded her to my bosom; I sent every body out of the
room; I said, ‘Dear child, confide in me.’ And how were my advances--my
motherly advances--met? I have already told you. By heartless secrecy.
By undutiful silence.”
Sir Patrick pressed the blister a little closer to the skin. “She was
probably afraid to speak,” he said.
“Afraid? Oh!” cried Lady Lundie, distrusting the evidence of her own
senses. “You can’t have said that? I have evidently misapprehended you.
You didn’t really say, afraid?”
“I said she was probably afraid--”
“Stop! I can’t be told to my face that I have failed to do my duty by
Blanche. No, Sir Patrick! I can bear a great deal; but I can’t bear
that. After having been more than a mother to your dear brother’s child;
after having been an elder sister to Blanche; after having toiled--I say
_toiled,_ Sir Patrick!--to cultivate her intelligence (with the sweet
lines of the poet ever present to my memory: ‘Delightful task to rear
the tender mind, and teach the young idea how to shoot!’); after having
done all I have done--a place in the carriage only yesterday, and a
visit to the most interesting relic of feudal times in Perthshire--after
having sacrificed all I have sacrificed, to be told that I have behaved
in such a manner to Blanche as to frighten her when I ask her to confide
in me, is a little too cruel. I have a sensitive--an unduly sensitive
nature, dear Sir Patrick. Forgive me for wincing when I am wounded.
Forgive me for feeling it when the wound is dealt me by a person whom I
revere.”
Her ladyship put her handkerchief to her eyes. Any other man would have
taken off the blister. Sir Patrick pressed it harder than ever.
“You quite mistake me,” he replied. “I meant that Blanche was afraid to
tell you the true cause of her illness. The true cause is anxiety about
Miss Silvester.”
Lady Lundie emitted another scream--a loud scream this time--and closed
her eyes in horror.
“I can run out of the house,” cried her ladyship, wildly. “I can fly to
the uttermost corners of the earth; but I can _not_ hear that person’s
name mentioned! No, Sir Patrick! not in my presence! not in my room!
not while I am mistress at Windygates House!”
“I am sorry to say any thing that is disagreeable to you, Lady Lundie.
But the nature of my errand here obliges me to touch--as lightly as
possible--on something which has happened in your house without your
knowledge.”
Lady Lundie suddenly opened her eyes, and became the picture of
attention. A casual observer might have supposed her ladyship to be not
wholly inaccessible to the vulgar emotion of curiosity.
“A visitor came to Windygates yesterday, while we were all at lunch,”
proceeded Sir Patrick. “She--”
Lady Lundie seized the scarlet memorandum-book, and stopped her
brother-in-law, before he could get any further. Her ladyship’s next
words escaped her lips spasmodically, like words let at intervals out of
a trap.
“I undertake--as a woman accustomed to self-restraint, Sir Patrick--I
undertake to control myself, on one condition. I won’t have the name
mentioned. I won’t have the sex mentioned. Say, ‘The Person,’ if
you please. ‘The Person,’” continued Lady Lundie, opening her
memorandum-book and taking up her pen, “committed an audacious invasion
of my premises yesterday?”
Sir Patrick bowed. Her ladyship made a note--a fiercely-penned note
that scratched the paper viciously--and then proceeded to examine her
brother-in-law, in the capacity of witness.
“What part of my house did ‘The Person’ invade? Be very careful, Sir
Patrick! I propose to place myself under the protection of a justice of
the peace; and this is a memorandum of my statement. The library--did I
understand you to say? Just so--the library.”
“Add,” said Sir Patrick, with another pressure on the blister, “that The
Person had an interview with Blanche in the library.”
Lady Lundie’s pen suddenly stuck in the paper, and scattered a little
shower of ink-drops all round it. “The library,” repeated her ladyship,
in a voice suggestive of approaching suffocation. “I undertake to
control myself, Sir Patrick! Any thing missing from the library?”
“Nothing missing, Lady Lundie, but The Person herself. She--”
“No, Sir Patrick! I won’t have it! In the name of my own sex, I won’t
have it!”
“Pray pardon me--I forgot that ‘she’ was a prohibited pronoun on the
present occasion. The Person has written a farewell letter to Blanche,
and has gone nobody knows where. The distress produced by these events
is alone answerable for what has happened to Blanche this morning. If
you bear that in mind--and if you remember what your own opinion is of
Miss Silvester--you will understand why Blanche hesitated to admit you
into her confidence.”
There he waited for a reply. Lady Lundie was too deeply absorbed in
completing her memorandum to be conscious of his presence in the room.
“‘Carriage to be at the door at two-thirty,’” said Lady Lundie,
repeating the final words of the memorandum while she wrote them.
“‘Inquire for the nearest justice of the peace, and place the privacy
of Windygates under the protection of the law.’--I beg your pardon!”
exclaimed her ladyship, becoming conscious again of Sir Patrick’s
presence. “Have I missed any thing particularly painful? Pray mention it
if I have!”
“You have missed nothing of the slightest importance,” returned Sir
Patrick. “I have placed you in possession of facts which you had a right
to know; and we have now only to return to our medical friend’s report
on Blanche’s health. You were about to favor me, I think, with the
Prognosis?”
“Diagnosis!” said her ladyship, spitefully. “I had forgotten at the
time--I remember now. Prognosis is entirely wrong.”
“I sit corrected, Lady Lundie. Diagnosis.”
“You have informed me, Sir Patrick, that you were already acquainted
with the Diagnosis. It is quite needless for me to repeat it now.”
“I was anxious to correct my own impression, my dear lady, by comparing
it with yours.”
“You are very good. You are a learned man. I am only a poor ignorant
woman. Your impression can not possibly require correcting by mine.”
“My impression, Lady Lundie, was that our so friend recommended moral,
rather than medical, treatment for Blanche. If we can turn her thoughts
from the painful subject on which they are now dwelling, we shall do all
that is needful. Those were his own words, as I remember them. Do you
confirm me?”
“Can _I_ presume to dispute with you, Sir Patrick? You are a master of
refined irony, I know. I am afraid it’s all thrown away on poor me.”
(The law kept its wonderful temper! The law met the most exasperating of
living women with a counter-power of defensive aggravation all its own!)
“I take that as confirming me, Lady Lundie. Thank you. Now, as to the
method of carrying out our friend’s advice. The method seems plain. All
we can do to divert Blanche’s mind is to turn Blanche’s attention to
some other subject of reflection less painful than the subject which
occupies her now. Do you agree, so far?”
“Why place the whole responsibility on my shoulders?” inquired Lady
Lundie.
“Out of profound deference for your opinion,” answered Sir Patrick.
“Strictly speaking, no doubt, any serious responsibility rests with me.
I am Blanche’s guardian--”
“Thank God!” cried Lady Lundie, with a perfect explosion of pious
fervor.
“I hear an outburst of devout thankfulness,” remarked Sir Patrick. “Am
I to take it as expressing--let me say--some little doubt, on your
part, as to the prospect of managing Blanche successfully, under present
circumstances?”
Lady Lundie’s temper began to give way again--exactly as her
brother-in-law had anticipated.
“You are to take it,” she said, “as expressing my conviction that I
saddled myself with the charge of an incorrigibly heartless, obstinate
and perverse girl, when I undertook the care of Blanche.”
“Did you say ‘incorrigibly?’”
“I said ‘incorrigibly.’”
“If the case is as hopeless as that, my dear Madam--as Blanche’s
guardian, I ought to find means to relieve you of the charge of
Blanche.”
“Nobody shall relieve _me_ of a duty that I have once undertaken!”
retorted Lady Lundie. “Not if I die at my post!”
“Suppose it was consistent with your duty,” pleaded Sir Patrick, “to
be relieved at your post? Suppose it was in harmony with that
‘self-sacrifice’ which is ‘the motto of women?’”
“I don’t understand you, Sir Patrick. Be so good as to explain
yourself.”
Sir Patrick assumed a new character--the character of a hesitating man.
He cast a look of respectful inquiry at his sister-in-law, sighed, and
shook his head.
“No!” he said. “It would be asking too much. Even with your high
standard of duty, it would be asking too much.”
“Nothing which you can ask me in the name of duty is too much.”
“No! no! Let me remind you. Human nature has its limits.”
“A Christian gentlewoman’s sense of duty knows no limits.”
“Oh, surely yes!”
“Sir Patrick! after what I have just said your perseverance in doubting
me amounts to something like an insult!”
“Don’t say that! Let me put a case. Let’s suppose the future interests
of another person depend on your saying, Yes--when all your own most
cherished ideas and opinions urge you to say, No. Do you really mean to
tell me that you could trample your own convictions under foot, if
it could be shown that the purely abstract consideration of duty was
involved in the sacrifice?”
“Yes!” cried Lady Lundie, mounting the pedestal of her virtue on the
spot. “Yes--without a moment’s hesitation!”
“I sit corrected, Lady Lundie. You embolden me to proceed. Allow me to
ask (after what I just heard)--whether it is not your duty to act
on advice given for Blanche’s benefit, by one the highest medical
authorities in England?” Her ladyship admitted that it was her
duty; pending a more favorable opportunity for contradicting her
brother-in-law.
“Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick. “Assuming that Blanche is like most
other human beings, and has some prospect of happiness to contemplate,
if she could only be made to see it--are we not bound to make her see
it, by our moral obligation to act on the medical advice?” He cast a
courteously-persuasive look at her ladyship, and paused in the most
innocent manner for a reply.
If Lady Lundie had not been bent--thanks to the irritation fomented by
her brother-in-law--on disputing the ground with him, inch by inch, she
must have seen signs, by this time, of the snare that was being set
for her. As it was, she saw nothing but the opportunity of disparaging
Blanche and contradicting Sir Patrick.
“If my step-daughter had any such prospect as you describe,”
she answered, “I should of course say, Yes. But Blanche’s is an
ill-regulated mind. An ill-regulated mind has no prospect of happiness.”
“Pardon me,” said Sir Patrick. “Blanche _has_ a prospect of happiness.
In other words, Blanche has a prospect of being married. And what is
more, Arnold Brinkworth is ready to marry her as soon as the settlements
can be prepared.”
Lady Lundie started in her chair--turned crimson with rage--and opened
her lips to speak. Sir Patrick rose to his feet, and went on before she
could utter a word.
“I beg to relieve you, Lady Lundie--by means which you have just
acknowledged it to be your duty to accept--of all further charge of an
incorrigible girl. As Blanche’s guardian, I have the honor of proposing
that her marriage be advanced to a day to be hereafter named in the
first fortnight of the ensuing month.”
In those words he closed the trap which he had set for his
sister-in-law, and waited to see what came of it.
A thoroughly spiteful woman, thoroughly roused, is capable of
subordinating every other consideration to the one imperative necessity
of gratifying her spite. There was but one way now of turning the tables
on Sir Patrick--and Lady Lundie took it. She hated him, at that moment,
so intensely, that not even the assertion of her own obstinate will
promised her more than a tame satisfaction, by comparison with the
priceless enjoyment of beating her brother-in-law with his own weapons.
“My dear Sir Patrick!” she said, with a little silvery laugh, “you have
wasted much precious time and many eloquent words in trying to entrap
me into giving my consent, when you might have had it for the asking.
I think the idea of hastening Blanche’s marriage an excellent one. I am
charmed to transfer the charge of such a person as my step-daughter to
the unfortunate young man who is willing to take her off my hands. The
less he sees of Blanche’s character the more satisfied I shall feel of
his performing his engagement to marry her. Pray hurry the lawyers, Sir
Patrick, and let it be a week sooner rather than a week later, if you
wish to please Me.”
Her ladyship rose in her grandest proportions, and made a courtesy
which was nothing less than a triumph of polite satire in dumb show. Sir
Patrick answered by a profound bow and a smile which said, eloquently,
“I believe every word of that charming answer. Admirable woman--adieu!”
So the one person in the family circle, whose opposition might have
forced Sir Patrick to submit to a timely delay, was silenced by adroit
management of the vices of her own character. So, in despite of herself,
Lady Lundie was won over to the project for hurrying the marriage of
Arnold and Blanche.
CHAPTER THE TWENTY-EIGHTH.
STIFLED.
IT is the nature of Truth to struggle to the light. In more than one
direction, the truth strove to pierce the overlying darkness, and to
reveal itself to view, during the interval between the date of Sir
Patrick’s victory and the date of the wedding-day.
Signs of perturbation under the surface, suggestive of some hidden
influence at work, were not wanting, as the time passed on. The one
thing missing was the prophetic faculty that could read those signs
aright at Windygates House.
On the very day when Sir Patrick’s dextrous treatment of his
sister-in-law had smoothed the way to the hastening of the marriage,
an obstacle was raised to the new arrangement by no less a person than
Blanche herself. She had sufficiently recovered, toward noon, to be able
to receive Arnold in her own little sitting-room. It proved to be a very
brief interview. A quarter of an hour later, Arnold appeared before Sir
Patrick--while the old gentleman was sunning himself in the garden--with
a face of blank despair. Blanche had indignantly declined even to think
of such a thing as her marriage, at a time when she was heart-broken by
the discovery that Anne had left her forever.
“You gave me leave to mention it, Sir Patrick--didn’t you?” said Arnold.
Sir Patrick shifted round a little, so as to get the sun on his back,
and admitted that he had given leave.
“If I had only known, I would rather have cut my tongue out than have
said a word about it. What do you think she did? She burst out crying,
and ordered me to leave the room.”
It was a lovely morning--a cool breeze tempered the heat of the sun; the
birds were singing; the garden wore its brightest look. Sir Patrick was
supremely comfortable. The little wearisome vexations of this mortal
life had retired to a respectful distance from him. He positively
declined to invite them to come any nearer.
“Here is a world,” said the old gentleman, getting the sun a little more
broadly on his back, “which a merciful Creator has filled with lovely
sights, harmonious sounds, delicious scents; and here are creatures
with faculties expressly made for enjoyment of those sights, sounds, and
scents--to say nothing of Love, Dinner, and Sleep, all thrown into the
bargain. And these same creatures hate, starve, toss sleepless on their
pillows, see nothing pleasant, hear nothing pleasant, smell nothing
pleasant--cry bitter tears, say hard words, contract painful illnesses;
wither, sink, age, die! What does it mean, Arnold? And how much longer
is it all to go on?”
The fine connecting link between the blindness of Blanche to the
advantage of being married, and the blindness of humanity to the
advantage of being in existence, though sufficiently perceptible no
doubt to venerable Philosophy ripening in the sun, was absolutely
invisible to Arnold. He deliberately dropped the vast question opened by
Sir Patrick; and, reverting to Blanche, asked what was to be done.
“What do you do with a fire, when you can’t extinguish it?” said Sir
Patrick. “You let it blaze till it goes out. What do you do with a woman
when you can’t pacify her? Let _her_ blaze till she goes out.”
Arnold failed to see the wisdom embodied in that excellent advice. “I
thought you would have helped me to put things right with Blanche,” he
said.
“I _am_ helping you. Let Blanche alone. Don’t speak of the marriage
again, the next time you see her. If she mentions it, beg her pardon,
and tell her you won’t press the question any more. I shall see her in
an hour or two, and I shall take exactly the same tone myself. You have
put the idea into her mind--leave it there to ripen. Give her distress
about Miss Silvester nothing to feed on. Don’t stimulate it by
contradiction; don’t rouse it to defend itself by disparagement of her
lost friend. Leave Time to edge her gently nearer and nearer to the
husband who is waiting for her--and take my word for it, Time will have
her ready when the settlements are ready.”
Toward the luncheon hour Sir Patrick saw Blanche, and put in practice
the principle which he had laid down. She was perfectly tranquil before
her uncle left her. A little later, Arnold was forgiven. A little later
still, the old gentleman’s sharp observation noted that his niece was
unusually thoughtful, and that she looked at Arnold, from time to time,
with an interest of a new kind--an interest which shyly hid itself
from Arnold’s view. Sir Patrick went up to dress for dinner, with a
comfortable inner conviction that the difficulties which had beset him
were settled at last. Sir Patrick had never been more mistaken in his
life.
The business of the toilet was far advanced. Duncan had just placed the
glass in a good light; and Duncan’s master was at that turning point in
his daily life which consisted in attaining, or not attaining, absolute
perfection in the tying of his white cravat--when some outer barbarian,
ignorant of the first principles of dressing a gentleman’s throat,
presumed to knock at the bedroom door. Neither master nor servant moved
or breathed until the integrity of the cravat was placed beyond the
reach of accident. Then Sir Patrick cast the look of final criticism in
the glass, and breathed again when he saw that it was done.
“A little labored in style, Duncan. But not bad, considering the
interruption?”
“By no means, Sir Patrick.”
“See who it is.”
Duncan went to the door; and returned, to his master, with an excuse for
the interruption, in the shape of a telegram!
Sir Patrick started at the sight of that unwelcome message. “Sign the
receipt, Duncan,” he said--and opened the envelope. Yes! Exactly as he
had anticipated! News of Miss Silvester, on the very day when he had
decided to abandon all further attempt at discovering her. The telegram
ran thus:
“Message received from Falkirk this morning. Lady, as described, left
the train at Falkirk last night. Went on, by the first train this
morning, to Glasgow. Wait further instructions.”
“Is the messenger to take any thing back, Sir Patrick?”
“No. I must consider what I am to do. If I find it necessary I will send
to the station. Here is news of Miss Silvester, Duncan,” continued Sir
Patrick, when the messenger had gone. “She has been traced to Glasgow.”
“Glasgow is a large place, Sir Patrick.”
“Yes. Even if they have telegraphed on and had her watched (which
doesn’t appear), she may escape us again at Glasgow. I am the last man
in the world, I hope, to shrink from accepting my fair share of any
responsibility. But I own I would have given something to have kept this
telegram out of the house. It raises the most awkward question I have
had to decide on for many a long day past. Help me on with my coat. I
must think of it! I must think of it!”
Sir Patrick went down to dinner in no agreeable frame of mind. The
unexpected recovery of the lost trace of Miss Silvester--there is no
disguising it--seriously annoyed him.
The dinner-party that day, assembling punctually at the stroke of the
bell, had to wait a quarter of an hour before the hostess came down
stairs.
Lady Lundie’s apology, when she entered the library, informed her
guests that she had been detained by some neighbors who had called at
an unusually late hour. Mr. and Mrs. Julius Delamayn, finding themselves
near Windygates, had favored her with a visit, on their way home, and
had left cards of invitation for a garden-party at their house.
Lady Lundie was charmed with her new acquaintances. They had included
every body who was staying at Windygates in their invitation. They had
been as pleasant and easy as old friends. Mrs. Delamayn had brought the
kindest message from one of her guests--Mrs. Glenarm--to say that she
remembered meeting Lady Lundie in London, in the time of the late Sir
Thomas, and was anxious to improve the acquaintance. Mr. Julius Delamayn
had given a most amusing account of his brother. Geoffrey had sent to
London for a trainer; and the whole household was on the tip-toe of
expectation to witness the magnificent spectacle of an athlete preparing
himself for a foot-race. The ladies, with Mrs. Glenarm at their head,
were hard at work, studying the profound and complicated question of
human running--the muscles employed in it, the preparation required for
it, the heroes eminent in it. The men had been all occupied that morning
in assisting Geoffrey to measure a mile, for his exercising-ground, in a
remote part of the park--where there was an empty cottage, which was
to be fitted with all the necessary appliances for the reception of
Geoffrey and his trainer. “You will see the last of my brother,” Julius
had said, “at the garden-party. After that he retires into athletic
privacy, and has but one interest in life--the interest of watching the
disappearance of his own superfluous flesh.” Throughout the dinner Lady
Lundie was in oppressively good spirits, singing the praises of her new
friends. Sir Patrick, on the other hand, had never been so silent within
the memory of mortal man. He talked with an effort; and he listened with
a greater effort still. To answer or not to answer the telegram in his
pocket? To persist or not to persist in his resolution to leave Miss
Silvester to go her own way? Those were the questions which insisted on
coming round to him as regularly as the dishes themselves came round in
the orderly progression of the dinner.
Blanche---who had not felt equal to taking her place at the
table--appeared in the drawing-room afterward.
Sir Patrick came in to tea, with the gentlemen, still uncertain as to
the right course to take in the matter of the telegram. One look at
Blanche’s sad face and Blanche’s altered manner decided him. What would
be the result if he roused new hopes by resuming the effort to trace
Miss Silvester, and if he lost the trace a second time? He had only to
look at his niece and to see. Could any consideration justify him in
turning her mind back on the memory of the friend who had left her at
the moment when it was just beginning to look forward for relief to the
prospect of her marriage? Nothing could justify him; and nothing should
induce him to do it.
Reasoning--soundly enough, from his own point of view--on that basis,
Sir Patrick determined on sending no further instructions to his friend
at Edinburgh. That night he warned Duncan to preserve the strictest
silence as to the arrival of the telegram. He burned it, in case of
accidents, with his own hand, in his own room.