gone back to Windygates. The rest had separated in their different
directions. Sir Patrick, who also contemplated returning to Scotland,
remained behind for a week--a solitary prisoner in his own country
house. Accumulated arrears of business, with which it was impossible for
his steward to deal single-handed, obliged him to remain at his estates
in Kent for that time. To a man without a taste for partridge-shooting
the ordeal was a trying one. Sir Patrick got through the day with the
help of his business and his books. In the evening the rector of a
neighboring parish drove over to dinner, and engaged his host at the
noble but obsolete game of Piquet. They arranged to meet at each other’s
houses on alternate days. The rector was an admirable player; and Sir
Patrick, though a born Presbyterian, blessed the Church of England from
the bottom of his heart.
Three more days passed. Business at Ham Farm began to draw to an end.
The time for Sir Patrick’s journey to Scotland came nearer. The two
partners at Piquet agreed to meet for a final game, on the next night,
at the rector’s house. But (let us take comfort in remembering it)
our superiors in Church and State are as completely at the mercy of
circumstances as the humblest and the poorest of us. That last game of
Piquet between the baronet and the parson was never to be played.
On the afternoon of the fourth day Sir Patrick came in from a drive, and
found a letter from Arnold waiting for him, which had been delivered by
the second post.
Judged by externals only, it was a letter of an unusually
perplexing--possibly also of an unusually interesting--kind. Arnold was
one of the last persons in the world whom any of his friends would have
suspected of being a lengthy correspondent. Here, nevertheless, was
a letter from him, of three times the customary bulk and weight--and,
apparently, of more than common importance, in the matter of news,
besides. At the top the envelope was marked “_Immediate._.” And at one
side (also underlined) was the ominous word, “_Private._.”
“Nothing wrong, I hope?” thought Sir Patrick.
He opened the envelope.
Two inclosures fell out on the table. He looked at them for a moment.
They were the two letters which he had forwarded to Baden. The third
letter remaining in his hand and occupying a double sheet, was from
Arnold himself. Sir Patrick read Arnold’s letter first. It was dated
“Baden,” and it began as follows:
“My Dear Sir Patrick,--Don’t be alarmed, if you can possibly help it. I
am in a terrible mess.”
Sir Patrick looked up for a moment from the letter. Given a young man
who dates from “Baden,” and declares himself to be in “a terrible
mess,” as representing the circumstances of the case--what is the
interpretation to be placed on them? Sir Patrick drew the inevitable
conclusion. Arnold had been gambling.
He shook his head, and went on with the letter.
“I must say, dreadful as it is, that I am not to blame--nor she either,
poor thing.”
Sir Patrick paused again. “She?” Blanche had apparently been gambling
too? Nothing was wanting to complete the picture but an announcement in
the next sentence, presenting the courier as carried away, in his turn,
by the insatiate passion for play. Sir Patrick resumed:
“You can not, I am sure, expect _me_ to have known the law. And as for
poor Miss Silvester--”
“Miss Silvester?” What had Miss Silvester to do with it? And what could
be the meaning of the reference to “the law?”
Sir Patrick had re ad the letter, thus far, standing up. A vague
distrust stole over him at the appearance of Miss Silvester’s name
in connection with the lines which had preceded it. He felt nothing
approaching to a clear prevision of what was to come. Some indescribable
influence was at work in him, which shook his nerves, and made him
feel the infirmities of his age (as it seemed) on a sudden. It went no
further than that. He was obliged to sit down: he was obliged to wait a
moment before he went on.
The letter proceeded, in these words:
“And, as for poor Miss Silvester, though she felt, as she reminds me,
some misgivings--still, she never could have foreseen, being no lawyer
either, how it was to end. I hardly know the best way to break it to
you. I can’t, and won’t, believe it myself. But even if it should be
true, I am quite sure you will find a way out of it for us. I will stick
at nothing, and Miss Silvester (as you will see by her letter) will
stick at nothing either, to set things right. Of course, I have not
said one word to my darling Blanche, who is quite happy, and suspects
nothing. All this, dear Sir Patrick, is very badly written, I am afraid,
but it is meant to prepare you, and to put the best side on matters at
starting. However, the truth must be told--and shame on the Scotch
law is what _I_ say. This it is, in short: Geoffrey Delamayn is even a
greater scoundrel than you think him; and I bitterly repent (as things
have turned out) having held my tongue that night when you and I had
our private talk at Ham Farm. You will think I am mixing two things up
together. But I am not. Please to keep this about Geoffrey in your mind,
and piece it together with what I have next to say. The worst is still
to come. Miss Silvester’s letter (inclosed) tells me this terrible
thing. You must know that I went to her privately, as Geoffrey’s
messenger, on the day of the lawn-party at Windygates. Well--how it
could have happened, Heaven only knows--but there is reason to fear that
I married her, without being aware of it myself, in August last, at the
Craig Fernie inn.”
The letter dropped from Sir Patrick’s hand. He sank back in the chair,
stunned for the moment, under the shock that had fallen on him.
He rallied, and rose bewildered to his feet. He took a turn in the room.
He stopped, and summoned his will, and steadied himself by main force.
He picked up the letter, and read the last sentence again. His face
flushed. He was on the point of yielding himself to a useless out burst
of anger against Arnold, when his better sense checked him at the last
moment. “One fool in the family is, enough,” he said. “_My_ business in
this dreadful emergency is to keep my head clear for Blanche’s sake.”
He waited once more, to make sure of his own composure--and turned again
to the letter, to see what the writer had to say for himself, in the way
of explanation and excuse.
Arnold had plenty to say--with the drawback of not knowing how to
say it. It was hard to decide which quality in his letter was most
marked--the total absence of arrangement, or the total absence of
reserve. Without beginning, middle, or end, he told the story of his
fatal connection with the troubles of Anne Silvester, from the memorable
day when Geoffrey Delamayn sent him to Craig Fernie, to the equally
memorable night when Sir Patrick had tried vainly to make him open his
lips at Ham Farm.
“I own I have behaved like a fool,” the letter concluded, “in keeping
Geoffrey Delamayn’s secret for him--as things have turned out. But how
could I tell upon him without compromising Miss Silvester? Read her
letter, and you will see what she says, and how generously she releases
me. It’s no use saying I am sorry I wasn’t more cautious. The mischief
is done. I’ll stick at nothing--as I have said before--to undo it. Only
tell me what is the first step I am to take; and, as long as it don’t
part me from Blanche, rely on my taking it. Waiting to hear from you, I
remain, dear Sir Patrick, yours in great perplexity, Arnold Brinkworth.”
Sir Patrick folded the letter, and looked at the two inclosures lying on
the table. His eye was hard, his brow was frowning, as he put his hand
to take up Anne’s letter. The letter from Arnold’s agent in Edinburgh
lay nearer to him. As it happened, he took that first.
It was short enough, and clearly enough written, to invite a reading
before he put it down again. The lawyer reported that he had made the
necessary inquiries at Glasgow, with this result. Anne had been traced
to The Sheep’s Head Hotel. She had lain there utterly helpless, from
illness, until the beginning of September. She had been advertised,
without result, in the Glasgow newspapers. On the 5th of September she
had sufficiently recovered to be able to leave the hotel. She had been
seen at the railway station on the same day--but from that point all
trace of her had been lost once more. The lawyer had accordingly stopped
the proceedings, and now waited further instructions from his client.
This letter was not without its effect in encouraging Sir Patrick to
suspend the harsh and hasty judgment of Anne, which any man, placed
in his present situation, must have been inclined to form. Her illness
claimed its small share of sympathy. Her friendless position--so plainly
and so sadly revealed by the advertising in the newspapers--pleaded
for merciful construction of faults committed, if faults there were.
Gravely, but not angrily, Sir Patrick opened her letter--the letter that
cast a doubt on his niece’s marriage.
Thus Anne Silvester wrote:
“GLASGOW, _September_ 5.
“DEAR MR. BRINKWORTH,--Nearly three weeks since I attempted to write to
you from this place. I was seized by sudden illness while I was engaged
over my letter; and from that time to this I have laid helpless in
bed--very near, as they tell me, to death. I was strong enough to be
dressed, and to sit up for a little while yesterday and the day before.
To-day, I have made a better advance toward recovery. I can hold my pen
and control my thoughts. The first use to which I put this improvement
is to write these lines.
“I am going (so far as I know) to surprise--possibly to alarm--you.
There is no escaping from it, for you or for me; it must be done.
“Thinking of how best to introduce what I am now obliged to say, I can
find no better way than this. I must ask you to take your memory back to
a day which we have both bitter reason to regret--the day when Geoffrey
Delamayn sent you to see me at the inn at Craig Fernie.
“You may possibly not remember--it unhappily produced no impression
on you at the time--that I felt, and expressed, more than once on that
occasion, a very great dislike to your passing me off on the people of
the inn as your wife. It was necessary to my being permitted to remain
at Craig Fernie that you should do so. I knew this; but still I shrank
from it. It was impossible for me to contradict you, without involving
you in the painful consequences, and running the risk of making a
scandal which might find its way to Blanche’s ears. I knew this also;
but still my conscience reproached me. It was a vague feeling. I was
quite unaware of the actual danger in which you were placing yourself,
or I would have spoken out, no matter what came of it. I had what is
called a presentiment that you were not acting discreetly--nothing
more. As I love and honor my mother’s memory--as I trust in the mercy of
God--this is the truth.
“You left the inn the next morning, and we have not met since.
“A few days after you went away my anxieties grew more than I could bear
alone. I went secretly to Windygates, and had an interview with Blanche.
“She was absent for a few minutes from the room in which we had met.
In that interval I saw Geoffrey Delamayn for the first time since I
had left him at Lady Lundie’s lawn-party. He treated me as if I was a
stranger. He told me that he had found out all that had passed between
us at the inn. He said he had taken a lawyer’s opinion. Oh, Mr.
Brinkworth! how can I break it to you? how can I write the words which
repeat what he said to me next? It must be done. Cruel as it is, it
must be done. He refused to my face to marr y me. He said I was married
already. He said I was your wife.
“Now you know why I have referred you to what I felt (and confessed
to feeling) when we were together at Craig Fernie. If you think hard
thoughts, and say hard words of me, I can claim no right to blame you. I
am innocent--and yet it is my fault.
“My head swims, and the foolish tears are rising in spite of me. I must
leave off, and rest a little.
“I have been sitting at the window, and watching the people in the
street as they go by. They are all strangers. But, somehow, the sight
of them seems to rest my mind. The hum of the great city gives me heart,
and helps me to go on.
“I can not trust myself to write of the man who has betrayed us both.
Disgraced and broken as I am, there is something still left in me which
lifts me above _him._ If he came repentant, at this moment, and offered
me all that rank and wealth and worldly consideration can give, I would
rather be what I am now than be his wife.
“Let me speak of you; and (for Blanche’s sake) let me speak of myself.
“I ought, no doubt, to have waited to see you at Windygates, and to have
told you at once of what had happened. But I was weak and ill and the
shock of hearing what I heard fell so heavily on me that I fainted.
After I came to myself I was so horrified, when I thought of you and
Blanche that a sort of madness possessed me. I had but one idea--the
idea of running away and hiding myself.
“My mind got clearer and quieter on the way to this place; and, arrived
here, I did what I hope and believe was the best thing I could do. I
consulted two lawyers. They differed in opinion as to whether we were
married or not--according to the law which decides on such things in
Scotland. The first said Yes. The second said No--but advised me to
write immediately and tell you the position in which you stood. I
attempted to write the same day, and fell ill as you know.
“Thank God, the delay that has happened is of no consequence. I asked
Blanche, at Windygates, when you were to be married--and she told me not
until the end of the autumn. It is only the fifth of September now. You
have plenty of time before you. For all our sakes, make good use of it.
“What are you to do?
“Go at once to Sir Patrick Lundie, and show him this letter. Follow
his advice--no matter how it may affect _me._ I should ill requite your
kindness, I should be false indeed to the love I bear to Blanche, if
I hesitated to brave any exposure that may now be necessary in your
interests and in hers. You have been all that is generous, all that is
delicate, all that is kind in this matter. You have kept my disgraceful
secret--I am quite sure of it--with the fidelity of an honorable man who
has had a woman’s reputation placed in his charge. I release you, with
my whole heart, dear Mr. Brinkworth, from your pledge. I entreat you, on
my knees, to consider yourself free to reveal the truth. I will make any
acknowledgment, on my side, that is needful under the circumstances--no
matter how public it may be. Release yourself at any price; and then,
and not till then, give back your regard to the miserable woman who has
laden you with the burden of her sorrow, and darkened your life for a
moment with the shadow of her shame.
“Pray don’t think there is any painful sacrifice involved in this. The
quieting of my own mind is involved in it--and that is all.
“What has life left for _me?_ Nothing but the barren necessity of
living. When I think of the future now, my mind passes over the years
that may be left to me in this world. Sometimes I dare to hope that the
Divine Mercy of Christ--which once pleaded on earth for a woman like
me--may plead, when death has taken me, for my spirit in Heaven.
Sometimes I dare to hope that I may see my mother, and Blanche’s mother,
in the better world. Their hearts were bound together as the hearts of
sisters while they were here; and they left to their children the legacy
of their love. Oh, help me to say, if we meet again, that not in vain
I promised to be a sister to Blanche! The debt I owe to her is the
hereditary debt of my mother’s gratitude. And what am I now? An obstacle
in the way of the happiness of her life. Sacrifice me to that happiness,
for God’s sake! It is the one thing I have left to live for. Again
and again I say it--I care nothing for myself. I have no right to be
considered; I have no wish to be considered. Tell the whole truth about
me, and call me to bear witness to it as publicly as you please!
“I have waited a little, once more, trying to think, before I close my
letter, what there may be still left to write.
“I can not think of any thing left but the duty of informing you how you
may find me if you wish to write--or if it is thought necessary that we
should meet again.
“One word before I tell you this.
“It is impossible for me to guess what you will do, or what you will be
advised to do by others, when you get my letter. I don’t even know that
you may not already have heard of what your position is from Geoffrey
Delamayn himself. In this event, or in the event of your thinking it
desirable to take Blanche into your confidence, I venture to suggest
that you should appoint some person whom you can trust to see me on
your behalf--or, if you can not do this that you should see me in the
presence of a third person. The man who has not hesitated to betray us
both, will not hesitate to misrepresent us in the vilest way, if he can
do it in the future. For your own sake, let us be careful to give lying
tongues no opportunity of assailing your place in Blanche’s estimation.
Don’t act so as to risk putting yourself in a false position _again!_
Don’t let it be possible that a feeling unworthy of her should be roused
in the loving and generous nature of your future wife!
“This written, I may now tell you how to communicate with me after I
have left this place.
“You will find on the slip of paper inclosed the name and address of the
second of the two lawyers whom I consulted in Glasgow. It is arranged
between us that I am to inform him, by letter, of the next place to
which I remove, and that he is to communicate the information either to
you or to Sir Patrick Lundie, on your applying for it personally or by
writing. I don’t yet know myself where I may find refuge. Nothing is
certain but that I can not, in my present state of weakness, travel far.
“If you wonder why I move at all until I am stronger, I can only give a
reason which may appear fanciful and overstrained.
“I have been informed that I was advertised in the Glasgow newspapers
during the time when I lay at this hotel, a stranger at the point of
death. Trouble has perhaps made me morbidly suspicious. I am afraid of
what may happen if I stay here, after my place of residence has been
made publicly known. So, as soon as I can move, I go away in secret. It
will be enough for me, if I can find rest and peace in some quiet place,
in the country round Glasgow. You need feel no anxiety about my means
of living. I have money enough for all that I need--and, if I get well
again, I know how to earn my bread.
“I send no message to Blanche--I dare not till this is over. Wait till
she is your happy wife; and then give her a kiss, and say it comes from
Anne.
“Try and forgive me, dear Mr. Brinkworth. I have said all. Yours
gratefully,
“ANNE SILVESTER.”
Sir Patrick put the letter down with unfeigned respect for the woman who
had written it.
Something of the personal influence which Anne exercised more or less
over all the men with whom she came in contact seemed to communicate
itself to the old lawyer through the medium of her letter. His thoughts
perversely wandered away from the serious and pressing question of his
niece’s position into a region of purely speculative inquiry relating to
Anne. What infatuation (he asked himself) had placed that noble creature
at the mercy of such a man as Geoffrey Delamayn?
We have all, at one time or another in our lives, been perplexed as Sir
Patrick was perplexed now.
If we know any thing by experience, we know that women cast themselves
away impulsively on unworthy men, and that men ruin themselves headlong
for unworthy w omen. We have the institution of Divorce actually among
us, existing mainly because the two sexes are perpetually placing
themselves in these anomalous relations toward each other. And yet,
at every fresh instance which comes before us, we persist in being
astonished to find that the man and the woman have not chosen each other
on rational and producible grounds! We expect human passion to act on
logical principles; and human fallibility--with love for its guide--to
be above all danger of making a mistake! Ask the wisest among Anne
Silvester’s sex what they saw to rationally justify them in choosing the
men to whom they have given their hearts and their lives, and you will
be putting a question to those wise women which they never once
thought of putting to themselves. Nay, more still. Look into your own
experience, and say frankly, Could you justify your own excellent
choice at the time when you irrevocably made it? Could you have put your
reasons on paper when you first owned to yourself that you loved him?
And would the reasons have borne critical inspection if you had?
Sir Patrick gave it up in despair. The interests of his niece were at
stake. He wisely determined to rouse his mind by occupying himself with
the practical necessities of the moment. It was essential to send an
apology to the rector, in the first place, so as to leave the evening
at his disposal for considering what preliminary course of conduct he
should advise Arnold to pursue.
After writing a few lines of apology to his partner at Piquet--assigning
family business as the excuse for breaking his engagement--Sir Patrick
rang the bell. The faithful Duncan appeared, and saw at once in his
master s face that something had happened.
“Send a man with this to the Rectory,” said Sir Patrick. “I can’t dine
out to-day. I must have a chop at home.”
“I am afraid, Sir Patrick--if I may be excused for remarking it--you
have had some bad news?”
“The worst possible news, Duncan. I can’t tell you about it now. Wait
within hearing of the bell. In the mean time let nobody interrupt me. If
the steward himself comes I can’t see him.”
After thinking it over carefully, Sir Patrick decided that there was no
alternative but to send a message to Arnold and Blanche, summoning them
back to England in the first place. The necessity of questioning Arnold,
in the minutest detail, as to every thing that had happened between
Anne Silvester and himself at the Craig Fernie inn, was the first and
foremost necessity of the case.
At the same time it appeared to be desirable, for Blanche’s sake, to
keep her in ignorance, for the present at least, of what had happened.
Sir Patrick met this difficulty with characteristic ingenuity and
readiness of resource.
He wrote a telegram to Arnold, expressed in the following terms:
“Your letter and inclosures received. Return to Ham Farm as soon as you
conveniently can. Keep the thing still a secret from Blanche. Tell her,
as the reason for coming back, that the lost trace of Anne Silvester
has been recovered, and that there may be reasons for her returning to
England before any thing further can be done.”
Duncan having been dispatched to the station with this message, Duncan’s
master proceeded to calculate the question of time.
Arnold would in all probability receive the telegram at Baden, on the
next day, September the seventeenth. In three days more he and Blanche
might be expected to reach Ham Farm. During the interval thus placed
at his disposal Sir Patrick would have ample time in which to recover
himself, and to see his way to acting for the best in the alarming
emergency that now confronted him.
On the nineteenth Sir Patrick received a telegram informing him that
he might expect to see the young couple late in the evening on the
twentieth.
Late in the evening the sound of carriage-wheels was audible on the
drive; and Sir Patrick, opening the door of his room, heard the familiar
voices in the hall.
“Well!” cried Blanche, catching sight of him at the door, “is Anne
found?”
“Not just yet, my dear.”
“Is there news of her?”
“Yes.”
“Am I in time to be of use?”
“In excellent time. You shall hear all about it to-morrow. Go and take
off your traveling-things, and come down again to supper as soon as you
can.”
Blanche kissed him, and went on up stairs. She had, as her uncle thought
in the glimpse he had caught of her, been improved by her marriage. It
had quieted and steadied her. There were graces in her look and manner
which Sir Patrick had not noticed before. Arnold, on his side, appeared
to less advantage. He was restless and anxious; his position with Miss
Silvester seemed to be preying on his mind. As soon as his young wife’s
back was turned, he appealed to Sir Patrick in an eager whisper.