consider the message Mrs. Inchbare sent to me about the poultry. Why
shouldn’t she offer to take any fowls that I can spare off my hands? She
is a respectable woman; and it is important to me to live on good terms
with al my neighbors, great and small. Has she got a poultry-yard of her
own at Craig Fernie?”
“Yes, my lady. And beautifully kept, I am told.”
“I really don’t see--on reflection, Hopkins--why I should hesitate to
deal with Mrs. Inchbare. (I don’t think it beneath me to sell the game
killed on my estate to the poulterer.) What was it she wanted to buy?
Some of my black Spanish fowls?”
“Yes, my lady. Your ladyship’s black Spaniards are famous all round the
neighborhood. Nobody has got the breed. And Mrs. Inchbare--”
“Wants to share the distinction of having the breed with me,” said Lady
Lundie. “I won’t appear ungracious. I will see her myself, as soon as I
am a little better, and tell her that I have changed my mind. Send
one of the men to Craig Fernie with a message. I can’t keep a trifling
matter of this sort in my memory--send him at once, or I may forget it.
He is to say I am willing to see Mrs. Inchbare, about the fowls, the
first time she finds it convenient to come this way.”
“I am afraid, my lady--Mrs. Inchbare’s heart is so set on the black
Spaniards--she will find it convenient to come this way at once as fast
as her feet can carry her.”
“In that case, you must take her to the gardener’s wife. Say she is to
have some eggs--on condition, of course, of paying the price for them.
If she does come, mind I hear of it.”
Hopkins withdrew. Hopkins’s mistress reclined on her comfortable pillows
and fanned herself gently. The vindictive smile reappeared on her face.
“I fancy I shall be well enough to see Mrs. Inchbare,” she thought to
herself. “And it is just possible that the conversation may get beyond
the relative merits of her poultry-yard and mine.”
A lapse of little more than two hours proved Hopkins’s estimate of the
latent enthusiasm in Mrs. Inchbare’s character to have been correctly
formed. The eager landlady appeared at Windygates on the heels of the
returning servant. Among the long list of human weaknesses, a passion
for poultry seems to have its practical advantages (in the shape
of eggs) as compared with the more occult frenzies for collecting
snuff-boxes and fiddles, and amassing autographs and old postage-stamps.
When the mistress of Craig Fernie was duly announced to the mistress of
Windygates, Lady Lundie developed a sense of humor for the first time
in her life. Her ladyship was feebly merry (the result, no doubt, of the
exhilarating properties of the red lavender draught) on the subject of
Mrs. Inchbare and the Spanish fowls.
“Most ridiculous, Hopkins! This poor woman must be suffering from
a determination of poultry to the brain. Ill as I am, I should have
thought that nothing could amuse me. But, really, this good creature
starting up, and rushing here, as you say, as fast as her feet can carry
her--it’s impossible to resist it! I positively think I must see
Mrs. Inchbare. With my active habits, this imprisonment to my room is
dreadful. I can neither sleep nor read. Any thing, Hopkins, to divert my
mind from myself: It’s easy to get rid of her if she is too much for me.
Send her up.”
Mrs. Inchbare made her appearance, courtesying deferentially; amazed at
the condescension which admitted her within the hallowed precincts of
Lady Lundie’s room.
“Take a chair,” said her ladyship, graciously. “I am suffering from
illness, as you perceive.”
“My certie! sick or well, yer leddyship’s a braw sight to see!” returned
Mrs. Inchbare profoundly impressed by the elegant costume which illness
assumes when illness appears in the regions of high life.
“I am far from being in a fit state to receive any body,” proceeded Lady
Lundie. “But I had a motive for wishing to speak to you when you next
came to my house. I failed to treat a proposal you made to me, a short
time since, in a friendly and neighborly way. I beg you to understand
that I regret having forgotten the consideration due from a person in
my position to a person in yours. I am obliged to say this under very
unusual circumstances,” added her ladyship, with a glance round her
magnificent bedroom, “through your unexpected promptitude in favoring me
with a call. You have lost no time, Mrs. Inchbare, in profiting by the
message which I had the pleasure of sending to you.”
“Eh, my leddy, I wasna’ that sure (yer leddyship having ance changed yer
mind) but that ye might e’en change again if I failed to strike, as they
say, while the iron’s het. I crave yer pardon, I’m sure, if I ha’
been ower hasty. The pride o’ my hairt’s in my powltry--and the black
Spaniards’ (as they ca’ them) are a sair temptation to me to break the
tenth commandment, sae lang as they’re a’ in yer leddyship’s possession,
and nane o’ them in mine.”
“I am shocked to hear that I have been the innocent cause of your
falling into temptation, Mrs. Inchbare! Make your proposal--and I shall
be happy to meet it, if I can.”
“I must e’en be content wi’ what yer leddyship will condescend on. A
haitch o’ eggs if I can come by naething else.”
“There is something else you would prefer to a hatch of eggs?”
“I wad prefer,” said Mrs. Inchbare, modestly, “a cock and twa pullets.”
“Open the case on the table behind you,” said Lady Lundie, “and you will
find some writing paper inside. Give me a sheet of it--and the pencil
out of the tray.”
Eagerly watched by Mrs. Inchbare, she wrote an order to the
poultry-woman, and held it out with a gracious smile.
“Take that to the gardener’s wife. If you agree with her about the
price, you can have the cock and the two pullets.”
Mrs. Inchbare opened her lips--no doubt to express the utmost extremity
of human gratitude. Before she had said three words, Lady Lundie’s
impatience to reach the end which she had kept in view from the
time when Mrs. Glenarm had left the house burst the bounds which had
successfully restrained it thus far. Stopping the landlady without
ceremony, she fairly forced the conversation to the subject of Anne
Silvester’s proceedings at the Craig Fernie inn.
“How are you getting on at the hotel, Mrs. Inchbare? Plenty of tourists,
I suppose, at this time of year?”
“Full, my leddy (praise Providence), frae the basement to the ceiling.”
“You had a visitor, I think, some time since of whom I know something? A
person--” She paused, and put a strong constraint on herself. There was
no alternative but to yield to the hard necessity of making her inquiry
intelligible. “A lady,” she added, “who came to you about the middle of
last month.”
“Could yer leddyship condescend on her name?”
Lady Lundie put a still stronger constraint on herself. “Silvester,” she
said, sharply.
“Presairve us a’!” cried Mrs. Inchbare. “It will never be the same that
cam’ driftin’ in by hersel’--wi’ a bit bag in her hand, and a husband
left daidling an hour or mair on the road behind her?”
“I have no doubt it is the same.”
“Will she be a freend o’ yer leddyship’s?” asked Mrs. Inchbare, feeling
her ground cautiously.
“Certainly not!” said Lady Lundie. “I felt a passing curiosity about
her--nothing more.”
Mrs. Inchbare looked relieved. “To tell ye truth, my leddy, there was
nae love lost between us. She had a maisterfu’ temper o’ her ain--and I
was weel pleased when I’d seen the last of her.”
“I can quite understand that, Mrs. Inchbare--I know something of her
temper myself. Did I understand you to say that she came to your hotel
alone, and that her husband joined her shortly afterward?”
“E’en sae, yer leddyship. I was no’ free to gi’ her house-room in the
hottle till her husband daidled in at her heels and answered for her.”
“I fancy I must have seen her husband,” said Lady Lundie. “What sort of
a man was he?”
Mrs. Inchbare replied in much the same words which she had used in
answering the similar question put by Sir Patrick.
“Eh! he was ower young for the like o’ _her._ A pratty man, my
leddy--betwixt tall and short; wi’ bonny brown eyes and cheeks, and fine
coal-blaik hair. A nice douce-spoken lad. I hae naething to say against
him--except that he cam’ late one day, and took leg-bail betimes the
next morning, and left madam behind, a load on my hands.”
The answer produced precisely the same effect on Lady Lundie which it
had produced on Sir Patrick. She, also, felt that it was too vaguely
like too many young men of no uncommon humor and complexion to be
relied on. But her ladyship possessed one immense advantage over her
brother-in-law in attempting to arrive at the truth. _She_ suspected
Arnold--and it was possible, in her case, to assist Mrs. Inchbare’s
memory by hints contributed from her own superior resources of
experience and observation.
“Had he any thing about him of the look and way of a sailor?” she asked.
“And did you notice, when you spoke to him, that he had a habit of
playing with a locket on his watch-chain?”
“There he is, het aff to a T!” cried Mrs. Inchbare. “Yer leddyship’s weel
acquented wi’ him--there’s nae doot o’ that.”
“I thought I had seen him,” said Lady Lundie. “A modest, well-behaved
young man, Mrs. Inchbare, as you say. Don’t let me keep you any longer
from the poultry-yard. I am transgressing the doctor’s orders in seeing
any body. We quite understand each other now, don’t we? Very glad to
have seen you. Good-evening.”
So she dismissed Mrs. Inchbare, when Mrs. Inchbare had served her
purpose.
Most women, in her position, would have been content with the
information which she had now obtained. But Lady Lundie--having a man
like Sir Patrick to deal with--determined to be doubly sure of her facts
before she ventured on interfering at Ham Farm. She had learned from
Mrs. Inchbare that the so-called husband of Anne Silvester had joined
her at Craig Fernie on the day when she arrived at the inn, and had left
her again the next morning. Anne had made her escape from Windygates
on the occasion of the lawn-party--that is to say, on the fourteenth of
August. On the same day Arnold Brinkworth had taken his departure for
the purpose of visiting the Scotch property left to him by his aunt. If
Mrs. Inchbare was to be depended on, he must have gone to Craig Fernie
instead of going to his appointed destination--and must, therefore, have
arrived to visit his house and lands one day later than the day which he
had originally set apart for that purpose. If this fact could be proved,
on the testimony of a disinterested witness, the case against Arnold
would be strengthened tenfold; and Lady Lundie might act on her
discovery with something like a certainty that her information was to be
relied on.
After a little consideration she decided on sending a messenger with a
note of inquiry addressed to Arnold’s steward. The apology she invented
to excuse and account for the strangeness of the proposed question,
referred it to a little family discussion as to the exact date of
Arnold’s arrival at his estate, and to a friendly wager in which the
difference of opinion had ended. If the steward could state whether his
employer had arrived on the fourteenth or on the fifteenth of August,
that was all that would be wanted to decide the question in dispute.
Having written in those terms, Lady Lundie gave the necessary directions
for having the note delivered at the earliest possible hour on the next
morning; the messenger being ordered to make his way back to Windygates
by the first return train on the same day.
This arranged, her ladyship was free to refresh herself with another
dose of the red lavender draught, and to sleep the sleep of the just who
close their eyes with the composing conviction that they have done their
duty.
The events of the next day at Windygates succeeded each other in due
course, as follows:
The post arrived, and brought no reply from Sir Patrick. Lady Lundie
entered that incident on her mental register of debts owed by her
brother-in-law--to be paid, with interest, when the day of reckoning
came.
Next in order occurred the return of the messenger with the steward’s
answer.
He had referred to his Diary; and he had discovered that Mr. Brinkworth
had written beforehand to announce his arrival at his estate for the
fourteenth of August--but that he had not actually appeared until the
fifteenth. The one discovery needed to substantiate Mrs. Inchbare’s
evidence being now in Lady Lundie’s possession, she decided to allow
another day to pass--on the chance that Sir Patrick might al ter his
mind, and write to her. If no letter arrived, and if nothing more was
received from Blanche, she resolved to leave Windygates by the next
morning’s train, and to try the bold experiment of personal interference
at Ham Farm.
The third in the succession of events was the appearance of the doctor
to pay his professional visit.
A severe shock awaited him. He found his patient cured by the draught!
It was contrary to all rule and precedent; it savored of quackery--the
red lavender had no business to do what the red lavender had done--but
there she was, nevertheless, up and dressed, and contemplating a journey
to London on the next day but one. “An act of duty, doctor, is involved
in this--whatever the sacrifice, I must go!” No other explanation could
be obtained. The patient was plainly determined--nothing remained for
the physician but to retreat with unimpaired dignity and a paid fee.
He did it. “Our art,” he explained to Lady Lundie in confidence, “is
nothing, after all, but a choice between alternatives. For instance. I
see you--not cured, as you think--but sustained by abnormal excitement.
I have to ask which is the least of the two evils--to risk letting
you travel, or to irritate you by keeping you at home. With your
constitution, we must risk the journey. Be careful to keep the window of
the carriage up on the side on which the wind blows. Let the extremities
be moderately warm, and the mind easy--and pray don’t omit to provide
yourself with a second bottle of the Mixture before you start.” He
made his bow, as before--he slipped two guineas into his pocket, as
before--and he went his way, as before, with an approving conscience,
in the character of a physician who had done his duty. (What an enviable
profession is Medicine! And why don’t we all belong to it?)
The last of the events was the arrival of Mrs. Glenarm.
“Well?” she began, eagerly, “what news?”
The narrative of her ladyship’s discoveries--recited at full length;
and the announcement of her ladyship’s resolution--declared in the most
uncompromising terms--raised Mrs. Glenarm’s excitement to the highest
pitch.
“You go to town on Saturday?” she said. “I will go with you. Ever since
that woman declared she should be in London before me, I have been dying
to hasten my journey--and it is such an opportunity to go with you! I
can easily manage it. My uncle and I were to have met in London, early
next week, for the foot-race. I have only to write and tell him of my
change of plans.--By-the-by, talking of my uncle, I have heard, since I
saw you, from the lawyers at Perth.”
“More anonymous letters?”
“One more--received by the lawyers this time. My unknown correspondent
has written to them to withdraw his proposal, and to announce that
he has left Perth. The lawyers recommended me to stop my uncle from
spending money uselessly in employing the London police. I have
forwarded their letter to the captain; and he will probably be in town
to see his solicitors as soon as I get there with you. So much for
what _I_ have done in this matter. Dear Lady Lundie--when we are at our
journey’s end, what do _you_ mean to do?”
“My course is plain,” answered her ladyship, calmly. “Sir Patrick will
hear from me, on Sunday morning next, at Ham Farm.”
“Telling him what you have found out?”
“Certainly not! Telling him that I find myself called to London by
business, and that I propose paying him a short visit on Monday next.”
“Of course, he must receive you?”
“I think there is no doubt of that. Even _his_ hatred of his
brother’s widow can hardly go to the length--after leaving my letter
unanswered--of closing his doors against me next.”
“How will you manage it when you get there?”
“When I get there, my dear, I shall be breathing an atmosphere of
treachery and deceit; and, for my poor child’s sake (abhorrent as all
dissimulation is to me), I must be careful what I do. Not a word will
escape my lips until I have first seen Blanche in private. However
painful it may be, I shall not shrink from my duty, if my duty compels
me to open her eyes to the truth. Sir Patrick and Mr. Brinkworth will
have somebody else besides an inexperienced young creature to deal with
on Monday next. I shall be there.”
With that formidable announcement, Lady Lundie closed the conversation;
and Mrs. Glenarm rose to take her leave.
“We meet at the Junction, dear Lady Lundie?”
“At the Junction, on Saturday.”
ELEVENTH SCENE.--SIR PATRICK’S HOUSE.
CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND.
THE SMOKING-ROOM WINDOW.
“I CAN’T believe it! I won’t believe it! You’re trying to part me from
my husband--you’re trying to set me against my dearest friend. It’s
infamous. It’s horrible. What have I done to you? Oh, my head! my head!
Are you trying to drive me mad?”
Pale and wild; her hands twisted in her hair; her feet hurrying her
aimlessly to and fro in the room--so Blanche answered her step-mother,
when the object of Lady Lundie’s pilgrimage had been accomplished, and
the cruel truth had been plainly told.
Her ladyship sat, superbly composed, looking out through the window at
the placid landscape of woods and fields which surrounded Ham Farm.
“I was prepared for this outbreak,” she said, sadly. “These wild words
relieve your over-burdened heart, my poor child. I can wait, Blanche--I
can wait!”
Blanche stopped, and confronted Lady Lundie.
“You and I never liked each other,” she said. “I wrote you a pert letter
from this place. I have always taken Anne’s part against you. I have
shown you plainly--rudely, I dare say--that I was glad to be married and
get away from you. This is not your revenge, is it?”
“Oh, Blanche, Blanche, what thoughts to think! what words to say! I can
only pray for you.”
“I am mad, Lady Lundie. You bear with mad people. Bear with me. I
have been hardly more than a fortnight married. I love _him_--I love
_her_--with all my heart. Remember what you have told me about them.
Remember! remember! remember!”
She reiterated the words with a low cry of pain. Her hands went up to
her head again; and she returned restlessly to pacing this way and that
in the room.
Lady Lundie tried the effect of a gentle remonstrance. “For your own
sake,” she said, “don’t persist in estranging yourself from me. In this
dreadful trial, I am the only friend you have.”
Blanche came back to her step-mother’s chair; and looked at her
steadily, in silence. Lady Lundie submitted to inspection--and bore it
perfectly.
“Look into my heart,” she said. “Blanche! it bleeds for you!”
Blanche heard, without heeding. Her mind was painfully intent on its
own thoughts. “You are a religious woman,” she said, abruptly. “Will you
swear on your Bible, that what you told me is true?”
“_My_ Bible!” repeated Lady Lundie with sorrowful emphasis. “Oh, my
child! have _you_ no part in that precious inheritance? Is it not _your_
Bible, too?”
A momentary triumph showed itself in Blanche’s face. “You daren’t swear
it!” she said. “That’s enough for me!”
She turned away scornfully. Lady Lundie caught her by the hand, and drew
her sharply back. The suffering saint disappeared, and the woman who was
no longer to be trifled with took her place.
“There must be an end to this,” she said. “You don’t believe what I have
told you. Have you courage enough to put it to the test?”
Blanche started, and released her hand. She trembled a little. There
was a horrible certainty of conviction expressed in Lady Lundie’s sudden
change of manner.
“How?” she asked.
“You shall see. Tell me the truth, on your side, first. Where is Sir
Patrick? Is he really out, as his servant told me?”
“Yes. He is out with the farm bailiff. You have taken us all by
surprise. You wrote that we were to expect you by the next train.”
“When does the next train arrive? It is eleven o’clock now.”
“Between one and two.”
“Sir Patrick will not be back till then?”
“Not till then.”
“Where is Mr. Brinkworth?”
“My husband?”
“Your husband--if you like. Is he out, too?”
“He is in the smoking-room.”
“Do you mean the long room, built out from the back of the house?”
“Yes.”
“Come down stairs at once with me.”
Blanche advanced a step--and drew back. “What do you want of me?” she
asked, inspired by a sudden distrust.
Lady Lundie turned round, and looked at her impatiently.
“Can’t you see yet,” she said, sharply, “that your interest and my
interest in this matter are one? What have I told you?”
“Don’t repeat it!”
“I must repeat it! I have told you that Arnold Brinkworth was privately
at Craig Fernie, with Miss Silvester, in the acknowledged character of
her husband--when we supposed him to be visiting the estate left him
by his aunt. You refuse to believe it--and I am about to put it to
the proof. Is it your interest or is it not, to know whether this man
deserves the blind belief that you place in him?”
Blanche trembled from head to foot, and made no reply.
“I am going into the garden, to speak to Mr. Brinkworth through the
smoking-room window,” pursued her ladyship. “Have you the courage to
come with me; to wait behind out of sight; and to hear what he says with
his own lips? I am not afraid of putting it to that test. Are you?”
The tone in which she asked the question roused Blanche’s spirit.
“If I believed him to be guilty,” she said, resolutely, “I should _not_
have the courage. I believe him to be innocent. Lead the way, Lady
Lundie, as soon as you please.”
They left the room--Blanche’s own room at Ham Farm--and descended to the
hall. Lady Lundie stopped, and consulted the railway time-table hanging
near the house-door.
“There is a train to London at a quarter to twelve,” she said. “How long
does it take to walk to the station?”
“Why do you ask?”
“You will soon know. Answer my question.”
“It’s a walk of twenty minutes to the station.”
Lady Lundie referred to her watch. “There will be just time,” she said.
“Time for what?”
“Come into the garden.”
With that answer, she led the way out
The smoking-room projected at right angles from the wall of the house,
in an oblong form--with a bow-window at the farther end, looking into
the garden. Before she turned the corner, and showed herself within the
range of view from the window Lady Lundie looked back, and signed to
Blanche to wait behind the angle of the wall. Blanche waited.
The next instant she heard the voices in conversation through the open
window. Arnold’s voice was the first that spoke.
“Lady Lundie! Why, we didn’t expect you till luncheon time!”
Lady Lundie was ready with her answer.
“I was able to leave town earlier than I had anticipated. Don’t put out
your cigar; and don’t move. I am not coming in.”
The quick interchange of question and answer went on; every word being
audible in the perfect stillness of the place. Arnold was the next to
speak.
“Have you seen Blanche?”
“Blanche is getting ready to go out with me. We mean to have a walk
together. I have many things to say to her. Before we go, I have
something to say to _you._”
“Is it any thing very serious?”
“It is most serious.”
“About me?”
“About you. I know where you went on the evening of my lawn-party at
Windygates--you went to Craig Fernie.”
“Good Heavens! how did you find out--?”
“I know whom you went to meet--Miss Silvester. I know what is said of
you and of her--you are man and wife.”
“Hush! don’t speak so loud. Somebody may hear you!”
“What does it matter if they do? I am the only person whom you have kept
out of the secret. You all of you know it here.”
“Nothing of the sort! Blanche doesn’t know it.”
“What! Neither you nor Sir Patrick has told Blanche of the situation you
stand in at this moment?”
“Not yet. Sir Patrick leaves it to me. I haven’t been able to bring
myself to do it. Don’t say a word, I entreat you. I don’t know how
Blanche may interpret it. Her friend is expected in London to-morrow. I
want to wait till Sir Patrick can bring them together. Her friend will
break it to her better than I can. It’s _my_ notion. Sir Patrick thinks
it a good one. Stop! you’re not going away already?”
“She will be here to look for me if I stay any longer.”
“One word! I want to know--”
“You shall know later in the day.”