married a fortnight. It is hard, surely, after but two weeks’ possession
of your wife, to appear before her in the character of an offender on
trial--and to find that an angel of retribution has been thrown into the
bargain by the liberal destiny which bestowed on you the woman whom you
adore!
They were all three at home on the Wednesday afternoon, looking out for
the postman.
The correspondence delivered included (exactly as Sir Patrick had
foreseen) a letter from Lady Lundie. Further investigation, on the
far more interesting subject of the expected news from Glasgow,
revealed--nothing. The lawyer had not answered Sir Patrick’s inquiry by
return of post.
“Is that a bad sign?” asked Blanche.
“It is a sign that something has happened,” answered her uncle. “Mr.
Crum is possibly expecting to receive some special information, and is
waiting on the chance of being able to communicate it. We must hope, my
dear, in to-morrow’s post.”
“Open Lady Lundie’s letter in the mean time,” said Blanche. “Are you
sure it is for you--and not for me?”
There was no doubt about it. Her ladyship’s reply was ominously
addressed to her ladyship’s brother-in-law. “I know what that means.”
said Blanche, eying her uncle eagerly while he was reading the letter.
“If you mention Anne’s name you insult my step-mother. I have mentioned
it freely. Lady Lundie is mortally offended with me.”
Rash judgment of youth! A lady who takes a dignified attitude, in
a family emergency, is never mortally offended--she is only deeply
grieved. Lady Lundie took a dignified attitude. “I well know,” wrote
this estimable and Christian woman, “that I have been all along regarded
in the light of an intruder by the family connections of my late beloved
husband. But I was hardly prepared to find myself entirely shut out
from all domestic confidence, at a time when some serious domestic
catastrophe has but too evidently taken place. I have no desire, dear
Sir Patrick, to intrude. Feeling it, however, to be quite inconsistent
with a due regard for my own position--after what has happened--to
correspond with Blanche, I address myself to the head of the family,
purely in the interests of propriety. Permit me to ask whether--under
circumstances which appear to be serious enough to require the recall of
my step-daughter and her husband from their wedding tour--you think it
DECENT to keep the widow of the late Sir Thomas Lundie entirely in the
dark? Pray consider this--not at all out of regard for Me!--but out of
regard for your own position with Society. Curiosity is, as you know,
foreign to my nature. But when this dreadful scandal (whatever it may
be) comes out--which, dear Sir Patrick, it can not fail to do--what will
the world think, when it asks for Lady Lundie’s, opinion, and hears that
Lady Lundie knew nothing about it? Whichever way you may decide I shall
take no offense. I may possibly be wounded--but that won’t matter. My
little round of duties will find me still earnest, still cheerful.
And even if you shut me out, my best wishes will find their way,
nevertheless, to Ham Farm. May I add--without encountering a sneer--that
the prayers of a lonely woman are offered for the welfare of all?”
“Well?” said Blanche.
Sir Patrick folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket.
“You have your step-mother’s best wishes, my dear.” Having answered in
those terms, he bowed to his niece with his best grace, and walked out
of the room.
“Do I think it decent,” he repeated to himself, as he closed the door,
“to leave the widow of the late Sir Thomas Lundie in the dark? When a
lady’s temper is a little ruffled, I think it more than decent, I think
it absolutely desirable, to let that lady have the last word.” He went
into the library, and dropped his sister-in-law’s remonstrance into a
box, labeled “Unanswered Letters.” Having got rid of it in that way, he
hummed his favorite little Scotch air--and put on his hat, and went out
to sun himself in the garden.
Meanwhile, Blanche was not quite satisfied with Sir Patrick’s reply. She
appealed to her husband. “There is something wrong,” she said--“and my
uncle is hiding it from me.”
Arnold could have desired no better opportunity than she had offered to
him, in those words, for making the long-deferred disclosure to her of
the truth. He lifted his eyes to Blanche’s face. By an unhappy fatality
she was looking charmingly that morning. How would she look if he told
her the story of the hiding at the inn? Arnold was still in love with
her--and Arnold said nothing.
The next day’s post brought not only the anticipated letter from Mr.
Crum, but an unexpected Glasgow newspaper as well.
This time Blanche had no reason to complain that her uncle kept his
correspondence a secret from her. After reading the lawyer’s letter,
with an interest and agitation which showed that the contents had taken
him by surprise, he handed it to Arnold and his niece. “Bad news there,”
he said. “We must share it together.”
After acknowledging the receipt of Sir Patrick’s letter of inquiry,
Mr. Crum began by stating all that he knew of Miss Silvester’s
movements--dating from the time when she had left the Sheep’s Head
Hotel. About a fortnight since he had received a letter from her
informing him that she had found a suitable place of residence in a
village near Glasgow. Feeling a strong interest in Miss Silvester, Mr.
Crum had visited her some few days afterward. He had satisfied himself
that she was lodging with respectable people, and was as comfortably
situated as circumstances would permit. For a week more he had heard
nothing from the lady. At the expiration of that time he had received
a letter from her, telling him that she had read something in a Glasgow
newspaper, of that day’s date, which seriously concerned herself, and
which would oblige her to travel northward immediately as fast as her
strength would permit. At a later period, when she would be more certain
of her own movements, she engaged to write again, and let Mr. Crum know
where he might communicate with her if necessary. In the mean time, she
could only thank him for his kindness, and beg him to take care of any
letters or messages which might be left for her. Since the receipt of
this communication the lawyer had heard nothing further. He had waited
for the morning’s post in the hope of being able to report that he had
received some further intelligence. The hope had not been realized. He
had now stated all that he knew himself thus far--and he had forwarded
a copy of the newspaper alluded to by Miss Silvester, on the chance
that an examination of it by Sir Patrick might possibly lead to further
discoveries. In conclusion, he pledged himself to write again the moment
he had any information to send.
Blanche snatched up the newspaper, and opened it. “Let me look!” she
said. “I can find what Anne saw here if any body can!”
She ran her eye eagerly over column after column and page after
page--and dropped the newspaper on her lap with a gesture of despair.
“Nothing!” she exclaimed. “Nothing any where, that I can see, to
interest Anne. Nothing to interest any body--except Lady Lundie,” she
went on, brushing the newspaper off her lap. “It turns out to be all
true, Arnold, at Swanhaven. Geoffrey Delamayn is going to marry Mrs.
Glenarm.”
“What!” cried Arnold; the idea instantly flashing on him that this was
the news which Anne had seen.
Sir Patrick gave him a warning look, and picked up the newspaper from
the floor.
“I may as well run through it, Blanche, and make quite sure that you
have missed nothing,” he said.
The report to which Blanche had referred was among the paragraphs
arranged under the heading of “Fashionable News.” “A matrimonial
alliance” (the Glasgow journal announced) “was in prospect between the
Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn and the lovely and accomplished relict of
the late Mathew Glenarm, Esq., formerly Miss Newenden.” The marriage
would, in all probability, “be solemnized in Scotland, before the end of
the present autumn;” and the wedding breakfast, it was whispered, “would
collect a large and fashionable party at Swanhaven Lodge.”
Sir Patrick handed the newspaper silently to Arnold. It was plain to any
one who knew Anne Silvester’s story that those were the words which had
found their fatal way to her in her place of rest. The inference that
followed seemed to be hardly less clear. But one intelligible object,
in the opinion of Sir Patrick, could be at the end of her journey to
the north. The deserted woman had rallied the last relics of her old
energy--and had devoted herself to the desperate purpose of stopping the
marriage of Mrs. Glenarm.
Blanche was the first to break the silence.
“It seems like a fatality,” she said. “Perpetual failure! Perpetual
disappointment! Are Anne and I doomed never to meet again?”
She looked at her uncle. Sir Patrick showed none of his customary
cheerfulness in the face of disaster.
“She has promised to write to Mr. Crum,” he said. “And Mr. Crum has
promised to let us know when he hears from her. That is the only
prospect before us. We must accept it as resignedly as we can.”
Blanche wandered out listlessly among the flowers in the conservatory.
Sir Patrick made no secret of the impression produced upon him by Mr.
Crum’s letter, when he and Arnold were left alone.
“There is no denying,” he said, “that matters have taken a very serious
turn. My plans and calculations are all thrown out. It is impossible to
foresee what new mischief may not come of it, if those two women meet;
or what desperate act Delamayn may not commit, if he finds himself
driven to the wall. As things are, I own frankly I don’t know what to
do next. A great light of the Presbyterian Church,” he added, with
a momentary outbreak of his whimsical humor, “once declared, in my
hearing, that the invention of printing was nothing more or less than a
proof of the intellectual activity of the Devil. Upon my honor, I feel
for the first time in my life inclined to agree with him.”
He mechanically took up the Glasgow journal, which Arnold had laid
aside, while he spoke.
“What’s this!” he exclaimed, as a name caught his eye in the first line
of the newspaper at which he happened to look. “Mrs. Glenarm again! Are
they turning the iron-master’s widow into a public character?”
There the name of the widow was, unquestionably; figuring for the
second time in type, in a letter of the gossiping sort, supplied by an
“Occasional Correspondent,” and distinguished by the title of “Sayings
and Doings in the North.” After tattling pleasantly of the prospects
of the shooting season, of the fashions from Paris, of an accident to a
tourist, and of a scandal in the Scottish Kirk, the writer proceeded
to the narrative of a case of interest, relating to a marriage in the
sphere known (in the language of footmen) as the sphere of “high life.”
Considerable sensation (the correspondent announced) had been caused in
Perth and its neighborhood, by the exposure of an anonymous attempt
at extortion, of which a lady of distinction had lately been made
the object. As her name had already been publicly mentioned in an
application to the magistrates, there could be no impropriety in stating
that the lady in question was Mrs. Glenarm--whose approaching union with
the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn was alluded to in another column of the
journal.
Mrs. Glenarm had, it appeared, received an anonymous letter, on the
first day of her arrival as guest at the house of a friend, residing
in the neighborhood of Perth. The letter warned her that there was an
obstacle, of which she was herself probably not aware, in the way of
her projected marriage with Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. That gentleman had
seriously compromised himself with another lady; and the lady would
oppose his marriage to Mrs. Glenarm, with proof in writing to produce in
support of her claim. The proof was contained in two letters exchanged
between the parties, and signed by their names; and the correspondence
was placed at Mrs. Glenarm’s disposal, on two conditions, as follows:
First, that she should offer a sufficiently liberal price to induce the
present possessor of the letters to part with them. Secondly, that she
should consent to adopt such a method of paying the money as should
satisfy the person that he was in no danger of finding himself brought
within reach of the law. The answer to these two proposals was
directed to be made through the medium of an advertisement in the local
newspaper--distinguished by this address, “To a Friend in the Dark.”
Certain turns of expression, and one or two mistakes in spelling,
pointed to this insolent letter as being, in all probability, the
production of a Scotchman, in the lower ranks of life. Mrs. Glenarm had
at once shown it to her nearest relative, Captain Newenden. The captain
had sought legal advice in Perth. It had been decided, after due
consideration, to insert the advertisement demanded, and to
take measures to entrap the writer of the letter into revealing
himself--without, it is needless to add, allowing the fellow really to
profit by his attempted act of extortion.
The cunning of the “Friend in the Dark” (whoever he might be) had, on
trying the proposed experiment, proved to be more than a match for the
lawyers. He had successfully eluded not only the snare first set for
him, but others subsequently laid. A second, and a third, anonymous
letter, one more impudent than the other had been received by Mrs.
Glenarm, assuring that lady and the friends who were acting for her that
they were only wasting time and raising the price which would be asked
for the correspondence, by the course they were taking. Captain Newenden
had thereupon, in default of knowing what other course to pursue,
appealed publicly to the city magistrates, and a reward had been
offered, under the sanction of the municipal authorities, for the
discovery of the man. This proceeding also having proved quite
fruitless, it was understood that the captain had arranged, with the
concurrence of his English solicitors, to place the matter in the hands
of an experienced officer of the London police.
Here, so far as the newspaper correspondent was aware, the affair rested
for the present.
It was only necessary to add, that Mrs. Glenarm had left the
neighborhood of Perth, in order to escape further annoyance; and had
placed herself under the protection of friends in another part of the
county. Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn, whose fair fame had been assailed (it
was needless, the correspondent added in parenthesis, to say how
groundlessly), was understood to have expressed, not only the
indignation natural under the circumstances but also his extreme regret
at not finding himself in a position to aid Captain Newenden’s efforts
to bring the anonymous slanderer to justice. The honorable gentleman
was, as the sporting public were well aware, then in course of strict
training for his forthcoming appearance at the Fulham Foot-Race. So
important was it considered that his mind should not be harassed by
annoyances, in his present responsible position, that his trainer and
his principal backers had thought it desirable to hasten his removal to
the neighborhood of Fulham--where the exercises which were to prepare
him for the race were now being continued on the spot.
“The mystery seems to thicken,” said Arnold.
“Quite the contrary,” returned Sir Patrick, briskly. “The mystery is
clearing fast--thanks to the Glasgow newspaper. I shall be spared
the trouble of dealing with Bishopriggs for the stolen letter. Miss
Silvester has gone to Perth, to recover her correspondence with Geoffrey
Delamayn.”
“Do you think she would recognize it,” said Arnold, pointing to the
newspaper, “in the account given of it here?”
“Certainly! And she could hardly fail, in my opinion, to get a step
farther than that. Unless I am entirely mistaken, the authorship of the
anonymous letters has not mystified _her._”
“How could she guess at that?”
“In this way, as I think. Whatever she may have previously thought, she
must suspect, by this time, that the missing correspondence has been
stolen, and not lost. Now, there are only two persons whom she can think
of, as probably guilty of the theft--Mrs. Inchbare or Bishopriggs. The
newspaper description of the style of the anonymous letters declares
it to be the style of a Scotchman in the lower ranks of life--in other
words, points plainly to Bishopriggs. You see that? Very well. Now
suppose she recovers the stolen property. What is likely to happen then?
She will be more or less than woman if she doesn’t make her way next,
provided with her proofs in writing, to Mrs. Glenarm. She may innocently
help, or she may innocently frustrate, the end we have in view--either
way, our course is clear before us again. Our interest in communicating
with Miss Silvester remains precisely the same interest that it was
before we received the Glasgow newspaper. I propose to wait till Sunday,
on the chance that Mr. Crum may write again. If we don’t hear from him,
I shall start for Scotland on Monday morning, and take my chance of
finding my way to Miss Silvester, through Mrs. Glenarm.”
“Leaving me behind?”
“Leaving you behind. Somebody must stay with Blanche. After having only
been a fortnight married, must I remind you of that?”
“Don’t you think Mr. Crum will write before Monday?”
“It will be such a fortunate circumstance for us, if he does write, that
I don’t venture to anticipate it.”
“You are down on our luck, Sir.”
“I detest slang, Arnold. But slang, I own, expresses my state of mind,
in this instance, with an accuracy which almost reconciles me to the use
of it--for once in a way.”
“Every body’s luck turns sooner or later,” persisted Arnold. “I can’t
help thinking our luck is on the turn at last. Would you mind taking a
bet, Sir Patrick?”
“Apply at the stables. I leave betting, as I leave cleaning the horses,
to my groom.”
With that crabbed answer he closed the conversation for the day.
The hours passed, and time brought the post again in due course--and the
post decided in Arnold’s favor! Sir Patrick’s want of confidence in the
favoring patronage of Fortune was practically rebuked by the arrival of
a second letter from the Glasgow lawyer on the next day.
“I have the pleasure of announcing” (Mr. Crum wrote) “that I have heard
from Miss Silvester, by the next postal delivery ensuing, after I had
dispatched my letter to Ham Farm. She writes, very briefly, to inform
me that she has decided on establishing her next place of residence in
London. The reason assigned for taking this step--which she certainly
did not contemplate when I last saw her--is that she finds herself
approaching the end of her pecuniary resources. Having already decided
on adopting, as a means of living, the calling of a concert-singer, she
has arranged to place her interests in the hands of an old friend of
her late mother (who appears to have belonged also to the musical
profession): a dramatic and musical agent long established in the
metropolis, and well known to her as a trustworthy and respectable man.
She sends me the name and address of this person--a copy of which you
will find on the inclosed slip of paper--in the event of my having
occasion to write to her, before she is settled in London. This is the
whole substance of her letter. I have only to add, that it does not
contain the slightest allusion to the nature of the errand on which she
left Glasgow.”
Sir Patrick happened to be alone when he opened Mr. Crum’s letter.
His first proceeding, after reading it, was to consult the railway
time-table hanging in the hall. Having done this, he returned to
the library--wrote a short note of inquiry, addressed to the musical
agent--and rang the bell.
“Miss Silvester is expected in London, Duncan. I want a discreet person
to communicate with her. You are the person.”
Duncan bowed. Sir Pa trick handed him the note.
“If you start at once you will be in time to catch the train. Go to that
address, and inquire for Miss Silvester. If she has arrived, give her
my compliments, and say I will have the honor of calling on her (on
Mr. Brinkworth’s behalf) at the earliest date which she may find it
convenient to appoint. Be quick about it--and you will have time to get
back before the last train. Have Mr. and Mrs. Brinkworth returned from
their drive?”
“No, Sir Patrick.”
Pending the return of Arnold and Blanche, Sir Patrick looked at Mr.
Crum’s letter for the second time.
He was not quite satisfied that the pecuniary motive was really
the motive at the bottom of Anne’s journey south. Remembering that
Geoffrey’s trainers had removed him to the neighborhood of London, he
was inclined to doubt whether some serious quarrel had not taken
place between Anne and Mrs. Glenarm--and whether some direct appeal to
Geoffrey himself might not be in contemplation as the result. In that
event, Sir Patrick’s advice and assistance would be placed, without
scruple, at Miss Silvester’s disposal. By asserting her claim, in
opposition to the claim of Mrs. Glenarm, she was also asserting herself
to be an unmarried woman, and was thus serving Blanche’s interests as
well as her own. “I owe it to Blanche to help her,” thought Sir Patrick.
“And I owe it to myself to bring Geoffrey Delamayn to a day of reckoning
if I can.”
The barking of the dogs in the yard announced the return of the
carriage. Sir Patrick went out to meet Arnold and Blanche at the gate,
and tell them the news.
Punctual to the time at which he was expected, the discreet Duncan
reappeared with a note from the musical agent.
Miss Silvester had not yet reached London; but she was expected to
arrive not later than Tuesday in the ensuing week. The agent had already
been favored with her instructions to pay the strictest attention to any
commands received from Sir Patrick Lundie. He would take care that
Sir Patrick’s message should be given to Miss Silvester as soon as she
arrived.
At last, then, there was news to be relied on! At last there was a
prospect of seeing her! Blanche was radiant with happiness, Arnold was
in high spirits for the first time since his return from Baden.
Sir Patrick tried hard to catch the infection of gayety from his young
friends; but, to his own surprise, not less than to theirs, the effort
proved fruitless. With the tide of events turning decidedly in his
favor--relieved of the necessity of taking a doubtful journey to
Scotland; assured of obtaining his interview with Anne in a few days’
time--he was out of spirits all through the evening.
“Still down on our luck!” exclaimed Arnold, as he and his host finished
their last game of billiards, and parted for the night. “Surely, we
couldn’t wish for a more promising prospect than _our_ prospect next
week?”
Sir Patrick laid his hand on Arnold’s shoulder.
“Let us look indulgently together,” he said, in his whimsically grave
way, “at the humiliating spectacle of an old man’s folly. I feel, at
this moment, Arnold, as if I would give every thing that I possess in
the world to have passed over next week, and to be landed safely in the
time beyond it.”
“But why?”
“There is the folly! I can’t tell why. With every reason to be in
better spirits than usual, I am unaccountably, irrationally, invincibly
depressed. What are we to conclude from that? Am I the object of a
supernatural warning of misfortune to come? Or am I the object of
a temporary derangement of the functions of the liver? There is the
question. Who is to decide it? How contemptible is humanity, Arnold,
rightly understood! Give me my candle, and let’s hope it’s the liver.”
EIGHTH SCENE--THE PANTRY.
CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH.
ANNE WINS A VICTORY.
ON a certain evening in the month of September (at that period of the
month when Arnold and Blanche were traveling back from Baden to Ham
Farm) an ancient man--with one eye filmy and blind, and one eye moist
and merry--sat alone in the pantry of the Harp of Scotland Inn, Perth,
pounding the sugar softly in a glass of whisky-punch. He has hitherto
been personally distinguished in these pages as the self-appointed
father of Anne Silvester and the humble servant of Blanche at the dance
at Swanhaven Lodge. He now dawns on the view in amicable relations with
a third lady--and assumes the mystic character of Mrs. Glenarm’s “Friend
in the Dark.”