had been signed two days since.
With the exception of the surgeon and one of the three young gentlemen
from the University, who had engagements elsewhere, the visitors at
Windygates had emigrated southward to be present at the marriage.
Besides these gentlemen, there were some ladies among the guests invited
by Sir Patrick--all of them family connections, and three of them
appointed to the position of Blanche’s bridesmaids. Add one or two
neighbors to be invited to the breakfast--and the wedding-party would be
complete.
There was nothing architecturally remarkable about Sir Patrick’s
house. Ham Farm possessed neither the splendor of Windygates nor the
picturesque antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was a perfectly
commonplace English country seat, surrounded by perfectly commonplace
English scenery. Snug monotony welcomed you when you went in, and snug
monotony met you again when you turned to the window and looked out.
The animation and variety wanting at Ham Farm were far from being
supplied by the company in the house. It was remembered, at an
after-period, that a duller wedding-party had never been assembled
together.
Sir Patrick, having no early associations with the place, openly
admitted that his residence in Kent preyed on his spirits, and that he
would have infinitely preferred a room at the inn in the village. The
effort to sustain his customary vivacity was not encouraged by persons
and circumstances about him. Lady Lundie’s fidelity to the memory of the
late Sir Thomas, on the scene of his last illness and death, persisted
in asserting itself, under an ostentation of concealment which tried
even the trained temper of Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed
by her private anxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to
look gayly at the last memorable days of her maiden life. Arnold,
sacrificed--by express stipulation on the part of Lady Lundie--to the
prurient delicacy which forbids the bridegroom, before marriage, to
sleep in the same house with the bride, found himself ruthlessly shut
out from Sir Patrick’s hospitality, and exiled every night to a bedroom
at the inn. He accepted his solitary doom with a resignation which
extended its sobering influence to his customary flow of spirits. As for
the ladies, the elder among them existed in a state of chronic protest
against Lady Lundie, and the younger were absorbed in the essentially
serious occupation of considering and comparing their wedding-dresses.
The two young gentlemen from the University performed prodigies of
yawning, in the intervals of prodigies of billiard playing. Smith said,
in despair, “There’s no making things pleasant in this house, Jones.”
And Jones sighed, and mildly agreed with him.
On the Sunday evening--which was the evening before the marriage--the
dullness, as a matter of course, reached its climax.
But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on week days are
regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinately anti-Christian tone of
feeling which prevails in this matter among the Anglo-Saxon race. It is
not sinful to wrangle in religious controversy; and it is not sinful
to slumber over a religious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the
pious observance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sex
wrangled in Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sex slumbered
over Sunday books. As for the men, it is unnecessary to say that the
young ones smoked when they were not yawning, and yawned when they were
not smoking. Sir Patrick staid in the library, sorting old letters and
examining old accounts. Every person in the house felt the oppression of
the senseless social prohibitions which they had imposed on themselves.
And yet every person in the house would have been scandalized if the
plain question had been put: You know this is a tyranny of your own
making, you know you don’t really believe in it, you know you don’t
really like it--why do you submit? The freest people on the civilized
earth are the only people on the civilized earth who dare not face that
question.
The evening dragged its slow length on; the welcome time drew nearer and
nearer for oblivion in bed. Arnold was silently contemplating, for the
last time, his customary prospects of banishment to the inn, when he
became aware that Sir Patrick was making signs to him. He rose and
followed his host into the empty dining-room. Sir Patrick carefully
closed the door. What did it mean?
It meant--so far as Arnold was concerned--that a private conversation
was about to diversify the monotony of the long Sunday evening at Ham
Farm.
“I have a word to say to you, Arnold,” the old gentleman began, “before
you become a married man. Do you remember the conversation at dinner
yesterday, about the dancing-party at Swanhaven Lodge?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what Lady Lundie said while the topic was on the
table?”
“She told me, what I can’t believe, that Geoffrey Delamayn was going to
be married to Mrs. Glenarm.”
“Exactly! I observed that you appeared to be startled by what my
sister-in-law had said; and when you declared that appearances must
certainly have misled her, you looked and spoke (to my mind) like a man
animated by a strong feeling of indignation. Was I wrong in drawing that
conclusion?”
“No, Sir Patrick. You were right.”
“Have you any objection to tell me why you felt indignant?”
Arnold hesitated.
“You are probably at a loss to know what interest _I_ can feel in the
matter?”
Arnold admitted it with his customary frankness.
“In that case,” rejoined Sir Patrick, “I had better go on at once with
the matter in hand--leaving you to see for yourself the connection
between what I am about to say, and the question that I have just put.
When I have done, you shall then reply to me or not, exactly as you
think right. My dear boy, the subject on which I want to speak to you
is--Miss Silvester.”
Arnold started. Sir Patrick looked at him with a moment’s attention, and
went on:
“My niece has her faults of temper and her failings of judgment,” he
said. “But she has one atoning quality (among many others) which ought
to make--and which I believe will make--the happiness of your married
life. In the popular phrase, Blanche is as true as steel. Once her
friend, always her friend. Do you see what I am coming to? She has
said nothing about it, Arnold; but she has not yielded one inch in
her resolution to reunite herself to Miss Silvester. One of the first
questions you will have to determine, after to-morrow, will be the
question of whether you do, or not, sanction your wife in attempting to
communicate with her lost friend.”
Arnold answered without the slightest reserve
“I am heartily sorry for Blanche’s lost friend, Sir Patrick. My
wife will have my full approval if she tries to bring Miss Silvester
back--and my best help too, if I can give it.”
Those words were earnestly spoken. It was plain that they came from his
heart.
“I think you are wrong,” said Sir Patrick. “I, too, am sorry for Miss
Silvester. But I am convinced that she has not left Blanche without a
serious reason for it. And I believe you will be encouraging your wife
in a hopeless effort, if you encourage her to persist in the search for
her lost friend. However, it is your affair, and not mine. Do you wish
me to offer you any facilities for tracing Miss Silvester which I may
happen to possess?”
“If you _can_ help us over any obstacles at starting, Sir Patrick, it
will be a kindness to Blanche, and a kindness to me.”
“Very good. I suppose you remember what I said to you, one morning, when
we were talking of Miss Silvester at Windygates?”
“You said you had determined to let her go her own way.”
“Quite right! On the evening of the day when I said that I received
information that Miss Silvester had been traced to Glasgow. You won’t
require me to explain why I never mentioned this to you or to
Blanche. In mentioning it now, I communicate to you the only positive
information, on the subject of the missing woman, which I possess. There
are two other chances of finding her (of a more speculative kind) which
can only be tested by inducing two men (both equally difficult to deal
with) to confess what they know. One of those two men is--a person named
Bishopriggs, formerly waiter at the Craig Fernie inn.”
Arnold started, and changed color. Sir Patrick (silently noticing him)
stated the circumstances relating to Anne’s lost letter, and to the
conclusion in his own mind which pointed to Bishopriggs as the person in
possession of it.
“I have to add,” he proceeded, “that Blanche, unfortunately, found an
opportunity of speaking to Bishopriggs at Swanhaven. When she and Lady
Lundie joined us at Edinburgh she showed me privately a card which had
been given to her by Bishopriggs. He had described it as the address at
which he might be heard of--and Blanche entreated me, before we started
for London, to put the reference to the test. I told her that she had
committed a serious mistake in attempting to deal with Bishopriggs on
her own responsibility; and I warned her of the result in which I was
firmly persuaded the inquiry would end. She declined to believe that
Bishopriggs had deceived her. I saw that she would take the matter
into her own hands again unless I interfered; and I went to the place.
Exactly as I had anticipated, the person to whom the card referred me
had not heard of Bishopriggs for years, and knew nothing whatever about
his present movements. Blanche had simply put him on his guard, and
shown him the propriety of keeping out of the way. If you should ever
meet with him in the future--say nothing to your wife, and communicate
with me. I decline to assist you in searching for Miss Silvester; but I
have no objection to assist in recovering a stolen letter from a thief.
So much for Bishopriggs.--Now as to the other man.”
“Who is he?”
“Your friend, Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn.”
Arnold sprang to his feet in ungovernable surprise.
“I appear to astonish you,” remarked Sir Patrick.
Arnold sat down again, and waited, in speechless suspense, to hear what
was coming next.
“I have reason to know,” said Sir Patrick, “that Mr. Delamayn is
thoroughly well acquainted with the nature of Miss Silvester’s present
troubles. What his actual connection is with them, and how he came into
possession of his information, I have not found out. My discovery begins
and ends with the simple fact that he has the information.”
“May I ask one question, Sir Patrick?”
“What is it?”
“How did you find out about Geoffrey Delamayn?”
“It would occupy a long time,” answered Sir Patrick, “to tell you
how--and it is not at all necessary to our purpose that you should know.
My present obligation merely binds me to tell you--in strict confidence,
mind!--that Miss Silvester’s secrets are no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I
leave to your discretion the use you may make of that information. You
are now entirely on a par with me in relation to your knowledge of the
case of Miss Silvester. Let us return to the question which I asked
you when we first came into the room. Do you see the connection, now,
between that question, and what I have said since?”
Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running on Sir
Patrick’s discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted to Mrs. Inchb
are’s incomplete description of him for his own escape from detection,
he was wondering how it had happened that _he_ had remained unsuspected,
while Geoffrey’s position had been (in part at least) revealed to view.
“I asked you,” resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, “why the
mere report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarm roused
your indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer. Do you hesitate
still?”
“It’s not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick.”
“Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of the report
takes its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr. Delamayn’s
private affairs, which the rest of us don’t possess.--Is that conclusion
correct?”
“Quite correct.”
“Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thing that you
know about Miss Silvester?”
If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question, Sir
Patrick’s suspicions would have been aroused, and Sir Patrick’s
resolution would have forced a full disclosure from him before he left
the house.
It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-day was
at hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle into light. The
dark Phantoms of Trouble and Terror to come were waiting near them both
at that moment. Arnold hesitated again--hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick
paused for his answer. The clock in the hall struck the quarter to
twelve.
“I can’t tell you!” said Arnold.
“Is it a secret?”
“Yes.”
“Committed to your honor?”
“Doubly committed to my honor.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me into his
confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence after that.”
“Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?”
“Yes.”
Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily in the face.
“I have felt an inveterate distrust of Mr. Delamayn from the first,”
he said. “Answer me this. Have you any reason to think--since we first
talked about your friend in the summer-house at Windygates--that my
opinion of him might have been the right one after all?”
“He has bitterly disappointed me,” answered Arnold. “I can say no more.”
“You have had very little experience of the world,” proceeded Sir
Patrick. “And you have just acknowledged that you have had reason to
distrust your experience of your friend. Are you quite sure that you are
acting wisely in keeping his secret from _me?_ Are you quite sure that
you will not repent the course you are taking to-night?” He laid a
marked emphasis on those last words. “Think, Arnold,” he added, kindly.
“Think before you answer.”
“I feel bound in honor to keep his secret,” said Arnold. “No thinking
can alter that.”
Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end.
“There is nothing more to be said.” With those words he gave Arnold his
hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished him good-night.
Going out into the hall, Arnold found Blanche alone, looking at the
barometer.
“The glass is at Set Fair, my darling,” he whispered. “Good-night for
the last time!”
He took her in his arms, and kissed her. At the moment when he released
her Blanche slipped a little note into his hand.
“Read it,” she whispered, “when you are alone at the inn.”
So they parted on the eve of their wedding day.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH.
THE DAY.
THE promise of the weather-glass was fulfilled. The sun shone on
Blanche’s marriage.
At nine in the morning the first of the proceedings of the day began. It
was essentially of a clandestine nature. The bride and bridegroom
evaded the restraints of lawful authority, and presumed to meet together
privately, before they were married, in the conservatory at Ham Farm.
“You have read my letter, Arnold?”
“I have come here to answer it, Blanche. But why not have told me? Why
write?”
“Because I put off telling you so long; and because I didn’t know how
you might take it; and for fifty other reasons. Never mind! I’ve made my
confession. I haven’t a single secret now which is not your secret too.
There’s time to say No, Arnold, if you think I ought to have no room
in my heart for any body but you. My uncle tells me I am obstinate and
wrong in refusing to give Anne up. If you agree with him, say the word,
dear, before you make me your wife.”
“Shall I tell you what I said to Sir Patrick last night?”
“About _this?_”
“Yes. The confession (as you call it) which you make in your pretty
note, is the very thing that Sir Patrick spoke to me about in the
dining-room before I went away. He told me your heart was set on finding
Miss Silvester. And he asked me what I meant to do about it when we were
married.”
“And you said--?”
Arnold repeated his answer to Sir Patrick, with fervid embellishments
of the original language, suitable to the emergency. Blanche’s delight
expressed itself in the form of two unblushing outrages on propriety,
committed in close succession. She threw her arms round Arnold’s neck;
and she actually kissed him three hours before the consent of State and
Church sanctioned her in taking that proceeding. Let us shudder--but let
us not blame her. These are the consequences of free institutions.
“Now,” said Arnold, “it’s my turn to take to pen and ink. I have a
letter to write before we are married as well as you. Only there’s this
difference between us--I want you to help me.”
“Who are you going to write to?”
“To my lawyer in Edinburgh. There will be no time unless I do it now. We
start for Switzerland this afternoon--don’t we?’
“Yes.”
“Very well. I want to relieve your mind, my darling before we go.
Wouldn’t you like to know--while we are away--that the right people are
on the look-out for Miss Silvester? Sir Patrick has told me of the last
place that she has been traced to--and my lawyer will set the right
people at work. Come and help me to put it in the proper language, and
the whole thing will be in train.”
“Oh, Arnold! can I ever love you enough to reward you for this!”
“We shall see, Blanche--in Switzerland.”
They audaciously penetrated, arm in arm, into Sir Patrick’s own
study--entirely at their disposal, as they well knew, at that hour
of the morning. With Sir Patrick’s pens and Sir Patrick’s paper
they produced a letter of instructions, deliberately reopening the
investigation which Sir Patrick’s superior wisdom had closed. Neither
pains nor money were to be spared by the lawyer in at once taking
measures (beginning at Glasgow) to find Anne. The report of the result
was to be addressed to Arnold, under cover to Sir Patrick at Ham Farm.
By the time the letter was completed the morning had advanced to
ten o’clock. Blanche left Arnold to array herself in her bridal
splendor--after another outrage on propriety, and more consequences of
free institutions.
The next proceedings were of a public and avowable nature, and strictly
followed the customary precedents on such occasions.
Village nymphs strewed flowers on the path to the church door (and sent
in the bill the same day). Village swains rang the joy-bells (and got
drunk on their money the same evening). There was the proper and awful
pause while the bridegroom was kept waiting at the church. There was the
proper and pitiless staring of all the female spectators when the bride
was led to the altar. There was the clergyman’s preliminary look at
the license--which meant official caution. And there was the clerk’s
preliminary look at the bridegroom--which meant official fees. All the
women appeared to be in their natural element; and all the men appeared
to be out of it.
Then the service began--rightly-considered, the most terrible, surely,
of all mortal ceremonies--the service which binds two human beings, who
know next to nothing of each other’s natures, to risk the tremendous
experiment of living together till death parts them--the service
which says, in effect if not in words, Take your leap in the dark: we
sanctify, but we don’t insure, it!
The ceremony went on, without the slightest obstacle to mar its effect.
There were no unforeseen interruptions. There were no ominous mistakes.
The last words were spoken, and the book was closed. They signed their
names on the register; the husband was congratulated; the wife was
embraced. They went back aga in to the house, with more flowers strewn
at their feet. The wedding-breakfast was hurried; the wedding-speeches
were curtailed: there was no time to be wasted, if the young couple were
to catch the tidal train.
In an hour more the carriage had whirled them away to the station,
and the guests had given them the farewell cheer from the steps of the
house. Young, happy, fondly attached to each other, raised securely
above all the sordid cares of life, what a golden future was theirs!
Married with the sanction of the Family and the blessing of the
Church--who could suppose that the time was coming, nevertheless, when
the blighting question would fall on them, in the spring-time of their
love: Are you Man and Wife?
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH.
THE TRUTH AT LAST.
Two days after the marriage--on Wednesday, the ninth of September
a packet of letters, received at Windygates, was forwarded by Lady
Lundie’s steward to Ham Farm.
With one exception, the letters were all addressed either to Sir Patrick
or to his sister-in-law. The one exception was directed to
“Arnold Brinkworth, Esq., care of Lady Lundie, Windygates House,
Perthshire”--and the envelope was specially protected by a seal.
Noticing that the post-mark was “Glasgow,” Sir Patrick (to whom the
letter had been delivered) looked with a certain distrust at the
handwriting on the address. It was not known to him--but it was
obviously the handwriting of a woman. Lady Lundie was sitting opposite
to him at the table. He said, carelessly, “A letter for Arnold”--and
pushed it across to her. Her ladyship took up the letter, and dropped
it, the instant she looked at the handwriting, as if it had burned her
fingers.
“The Person again!” exclaimed Lady Lundie. “The Person, presuming to
address Arnold Brinkworth, at My house!”
“Miss Silvester?” asked Sir Patrick.
“No,” said her ladyship, shutting her teeth with a snap. “The Person may
insult me by addressing a letter to my care. But the Person’s name shall
not pollute my lips. Not even in your house, Sir Patrick. Not even to
please _you._”
Sir Patrick was sufficiently answered. After all that had
happened--after her farewell letter to Blanche--here was Miss Silvester
writing to Blanche’s husband, of her own accord! It was unaccountable,
to say the least of it. He took the letter back, and looked at it again.
Lady Lundie’s steward was a methodical man. He had indorsed each
letter received at Windygates with the date of its delivery. The
letter addressed to Arnold had been delivered on Monday, the seventh of
September--on Arnold’s wedding day.
What did it mean?
It was pure waste of time to inquire. Sir Patrick rose to lock the
letter up in one of the drawers of the writing-table behind him. Lady
Lundie interfered (in the interest of morality).
“Sir Patrick!”
“Yes?”
“Don’t you consider it your duty to open that letter?”
“My dear lady! what can you possibly be thinking of?”
The most virtuous of living women had her answer ready on the spot.
“I am thinking,” said Lady Lundie, “of Arnold’s moral welfare.”
Sir Patrick smiled. On the long list of those respectable disguises
under which we assert our own importance, or gratify our own love of
meddling in our neighbor’s affairs, a moral regard for the welfare of
others figures in the foremost place, and stands deservedly as number
one.
“We shall probably hear from Arnold in a day or two,” said Sir Patrick,
locking the letter up in the drawer. “He shall have it as soon as I know
where to send it to him.”
The next morning brought news of the bride and bridegroom.
They reported themselves to be too supremely happy to care where they
lived, so long as they lived together. Every question but the question
of Love was left in the competent hands of their courier. This sensible
and trust-worthy man had decided that Paris was not to be thought of as
a place of residence by any sane human being in the month of September.
He had arranged that they were to leave for Baden--on their way to
Switzerland--on the tenth. Letters were accordingly to be addressed to
that place, until further notice. If the courier liked Baden, they would
probably stay there for some time. If the courier took a fancy for the
mountains, they would in that case go on to Switzerland. In the mean
while nothing mattered to Arnold but Blanche--and nothing mattered to
Blanche but Arnold.
Sir Patrick re-directed Anne Silvester’s letter to Arnold, at the
Poste Restante, Baden. A second letter, which had arrived that morning
(addressed to Arnold in a legal handwriting, and bearing the post-mark
of Edinburgh), was forwarded in the same way, and at the same time.