that passed were words spoken in a whisper.
“Are you satisfied now, Blanche?”
“Have you mercy enough left, Lady Lundie, to take me away from this
house?”
“My dear child! Why else did I look at the time-table in the hall?”
CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD.
THE EXPLOSION.
ARNOLD’S mind was far from easy when he was left by himself again in the
smoking-room.
After wasting some time in vainly trying to guess at the source from
which Lady Lundie had derived her information, he put on his hat, and
took the direction which led to Blanche’s favorite walk at Ham Farm.
Without absolutely distrusting her ladyship’s discretion, the idea
had occurred to him that he would do well to join his wife and her
step-mother. By making a third at the interview between them, he might
prevent the conversation from assuming a perilously confidential turn.
The search for the ladies proved useless. They had not taken the
direction in which he supposed them to have gone.
He returned to the smoking-room, and composed himself to wait for events
as patiently as he might. In this passive position--with his
thoughts still running on Lady Lundie--his memory reverted to a brief
conversation between Sir Patrick and himself, occasioned, on the
previous day, by her ladyship’s announcement of her proposed visit to
Ham Farm. Sir Patrick had at once expressed his conviction that his
sister-in-law’s journey south had some acknowledged purpose at the
bottom of it.
“I am not at all sure, Arnold” (he had said), “that I have done wisely
in leaving her letter unanswered. And I am strongly disposed to think
that the safest course will be to take her into the secret when she
comes to-morrow. We can’t help the position in which we are placed.
It was impossible (without admitting your wife to our confidence) to
prevent Blanche from writing that unlucky letter to her--and, even if
we had prevented it, she must have heard in other ways of your return to
England. I don’t doubt my own discretion, so far; and I don’t doubt the
convenience of keeping her in the dark, as a means of keeping her from
meddling in this business of yours, until I have had time to set it
right. But she may, by some unlucky accident, discover the truth for
herself--and, in that case, I strongly distrust the influence which she
might attempt to exercise on Blanche’s mind.”
Those were the words--and what had happened on the day after they had
been spoken? Lady Lundie _had_ discovered the truth; and she was, at
that moment, alone somewhere with Blanche. Arnold took up his hat once
more, and set forth on the search for the ladies in another direction.
The second expedition was as fruitless as the first. Nothing was to be
seen, and nothing was to be heard, of Lady Lundie and Blanche.
Arnold’s watch told him that it was not far from the time when Sir
Patrick might be expected to return. In all probability, while he had
been looking for them, the ladies had gone back by some other way to the
house. He entered the rooms on the ground-floor, one after another. They
were all empty. He went up stairs, and knocked at the door of Blanche’s
room. There was no answer. He opened the door and looked in. The room
was empty, like the rooms down stairs. But, close to the entrance, there
was a trifling circumstance to attract notice, in the shape of a note
lying on the carpet. He picked it up, and saw that it was addressed to
him in the handwriting of his wife.
He opened it. The note began, without the usual form of address, in
these words:
“I know the abominable secret that you and my uncle have hidden from
me. I know _your_ infamy, and _her_ infamy, and the position in which,
thanks to you and to her, I now stand. Reproaches would be wasted words,
addressed to such a man as you are. I write these lines to tell you that
I have placed myself under my step-mother’s protection in London. It
is useless to attempt to follow me. Others will find out whether the
ceremony of marriage which you went through with me is binding on you or
not. For myself, I know enough already. I have gone, never to come back,
and never to let you see me again.--Blanche.”
Hurrying headlong down the stairs with but one clear idea in his
mind--the idea of instantly following his wife--Arnold encountered Sir
Patrick, standing by a table in the hall, on which cards and notes left
by visitors were usually placed, with an open letter in his hand. Seeing
in an instant what had happened, he threw one of his arms round Arnold,
and stopped him at the house-door.
“You are a man,” he said, firmly. “Bear it like a man.”
Arnold’s head fell on the shoulder of his kind old friend. He burst into
tears.
Sir Patrick let the irrepressible outbreak of grief have its way. In
those first moments, silence was mercy. He said nothing. The letter
which he had been reading (from Lady Lundie, it is needless to say),
dropped unheeded at his feet.
Arnold lifted his head, and dashed away the tears.
“I am ashamed of myself,” he said. “Let me go.”
“Wrong, my poor fellow--doubly wrong!” returned Sir Patrick. “There is
no shame in shedding such tears as those. And there is nothing to be
done by leaving _me._”
“I must and will see her!”
“Read that,” said Sir Patrick, pointing to the letter on the floor. “See
your wife? Your wife is with the woman who has written those lines. Read
them.”
Arnold read them.
“DEAR SIR PATRICK,--If you had honored me with your confidence, I should
have been happy to consult you before I interfered to rescue Blanche
from the position in which Mr. Brinkworth has placed her. As it is, your
late brother’s child is under my protection at my house in London. If
_you_ attempt to exercise your authority, it must be by main force--I
will submit to nothing less. If Mr. Brinkworth attempts to exercise
_his_ authority, he shall establish his right to do so (if he can) in a
police-court.
“Very truly yours, JULIA LUNDIE.”
Arnold’s resolution was not to be shaken even by this. “What do I care,”
he burst out, hotly, “whether I am dragged through the streets by
the police or not! I _will_ see my wife. I _will_ clear myself of the
horrible suspicion she has about me. You have shown me your letter. Look
at mine!”
Sir Patrick’s clear sense saw the wild words that Blanche had written in
their true light.
“Do you hold your wife responsible for that letter?” he asked. “I see
her step-mother in every line of it. You descend to something unworthy
of you, if you seriously defend yourself against _this!_ You can’t see
it? You persist in holding to your own view? Write, then. You can’t get
to her--your letter may. No! When you leave this house, you leave it
with me. I have conceded something on my side, in allowing you to write.
I insist on your conceding something, on your side, in return. Come into
the library! I answer for setting things right between you and Blanche,
if you will place your interests in my hands. Do you trust me or not?”
Arnold yielded. They went into the library together. Sir Patrick pointed
to the writing-table. “Relieve your mind there,” he said. “And let me
find you a reasonable man again when I come back.”
When he returned to the library the letter was written; and Arnold’s
mind was so far relieved--for the time at least.
“I shall take your letter to Blanche myself,” said Sir Patrick, “by the
train that leaves for London in half an hour’s time.”
“You will let me go with you?”
“Not to-day. I shall be back this evening to dinner. You shall hear all
that has happened; and you shall accompany me to London to-morrow--if
I find it necessary to make any lengthened stay there. Between this and
then, after the shock that you have suffered, you will do well to be
quiet here. Be satisfied with my assurance that Blanche shall have your
letter. I will force my authority on her step-mother to that extent (if
her step-mother resists) without scruple. The respect in which I hold
the sex only lasts as long as the sex deserves it--and does _not_ extend
to Lady Lundie. There is no advantage that a man can take of a woman
which I am not fully prepared to take of my sister-in-law.”
With that characteristic farewell, he shook hands with Arnold, and
departed for the station.
At seven o’clock the dinner was on the table. At seven o’clock Sir
Patrick came down stairs to eat it, as perfectly dressed as usual, and
as composed as if nothing had happened.
“She has got your letter,” he whispered, as he took Arnold’s arm, and
led him into the dining-room.
“Did she say any thing?”
“Not a word.”
“How did she look?”
“As she ought to look--sorry for what she has done.”
The dinner began. As a matter of necessity, the subject of Sir Patrick’s
expedition was dropped while the servants were in the room--to be
regularly taken up again by Arnold in the intervals between the courses.
He began when the soup was taken away.
“I confess I had hoped to see Blanche come back with you!” he said,
sadly enough.
“In other words,” returned Sir Patrick, “you forgot the native obstinacy
of the sex. Blanche is beginning to feel that she has been wrong. What
is the necessary consequence? She naturally persists in being wrong.
Let her alone, and leave your letter to have its effect. The serious
difficulties in our way don’t rest with Blanche. Content yourself with
knowing that.”
The fish came in, and Arnold was silenced--until his next opportunity
came with the next interval in the course of the dinner.
“What are the difficulties?” he asked
“The difficulties are my difficulties and yours,” answered Sir Patrick.
“My difficulty is, that I can’t assert my authority, as guardian, if
I assume my niece (as I do) to be a married woman. Your difficulty
is, that you can’t assert your authority as her husband, until it is
distinctly proved that you and Miss Silvester are not man and wife. Lady
Lundie was perfectly aware that she would place us in that position,
when she removed Blanche from this house. She has cross-examined Mrs.
Inchbare; she has written to your steward for the date of your arrival
at your estate; she has done every thing, calculated every thing, and
foreseen every thing--except my excellent temper. The one mistake she
has made, is in thinking she could get the better of _that._ No, my dear
boy! My trump card is my temper. I keep it in my hand, Arnold--I keep it
in my hand!”
The next course came in--and there was an end of the subject again.
Sir Patrick enjoyed his mutton, and entered on a long and interesting
narrative of the history of some rare white Burgundy on the table
imported by himself. Arnold resolutely resumed the discussion with the
departure of the mutton.
“It seems to be a dead lock,” he said.
“No slang!” retorted Sir Patrick.
“For Heaven’s sake, Sir, consider my anxiety, and tell me what you
propose to do!”
“I propose to take you to London with me to-morrow, on this
condition--that you promise me, on your word of honor, not to attempt to
see your wife before Saturday next.”
“I shall see her then?”
“If you give me your promise.”
“I do! I do!”
The next course came in. Sir Patrick entered on the question of the
merits of the partridge, viewed as an eatable bird, “By himself,
Arnold--plainly roasted, and tested on his own merits--an overrated
bird. Being too fond of shooting him in this country, we become too fond
of eating him next. Properly understood, he is a vehicle for sauce and
truffles--nothing more. Or no--that is hardly doing him justice. I am
bound to add that he is honorably associated with the famous French
receipt for cooking an olive. Do you know it?”
There was an end of the bird; there was an end of the jelly. Arnold got
his next chance--and took it.
“What is to be done in London to-morrow?” he asked.
“To-morrow,” answered Sir Patrick, “is a memorable day in our calendar.
To-morrow is Tuesday--the day on which I am to see Miss Silvester.”
Arnold set down the glass of wine which he was just raising to his lips.
“After what has happened,” he said, “I can hardly bear to hear her name
mentioned. Miss Silvester has parted me from my wife.”
“Miss Silvester may atone for that, Arnold, by uniting you again.”
“She has been the ruin of me so far.”
“She may be the salvation of you yet.”
The cheese came in; and Sir Patrick returned to the Art of Cookery.
“Do you know the receipt for cooking an olive, Arnold?”
“No.”
“What _does_ the new generation know? It knows how to row, how to shoot,
how to play at cricket, and how to bat. When it has lost its muscle and
lost its money--that is to say, when it has grown old--what a generation
it will be! It doesn’t matter: I sha’n’t live to see it. Are you
listening, Arnold?”
“Yes, Sir.”
“How to cook an olive! Put an olive into a lark, put a lark into a
quail; put a quail into a plover; put a plover into a partridge; put a
partridge into a pheasant; put a pheasant into a turkey. Good. First,
partially roast, then carefully stew--until all is thoroughly done down
to the olive. Good again. Next, open the window. Throw out the turkey,
the pheasant, the partridge, the plover, the quail, and the lark. _Then,
eat the olive._ The dish is expensive, but (we have it on the highest
authority) well worth the sacrifice. The quintessence of the flavor of
six birds, concentrated in one olive. Grand idea! Try another glass of
the white Burgundy, Arnold.”
At last the servants left them--with the wine and dessert on the table.
“I have borne it as long as I can, Sir,” said Arnold. “Add to all your
kindness to me by telling me at once what happened at Lady Lundie’s.”
It was a chilly evening. A bright wood fire was burning in the room. Sir
Patrick drew his chair to the fire.
“This is exactly what happened,” he said. “I found company at Lady
Lundie’s, to begin with. Two perfect strangers to me. Captain Newenden,
and his niece, Mrs. Glenarm. Lady Lundie offered to see me in another
room; the two strangers offered to withdraw. I declined both proposals.
First check to her ladyship! She has reckoned throughout, Arnold, on our
being afraid to face public opinion. I showed her at starting that we
were as ready to face it as she was. ‘I always accept what the French
call accomplished facts,’ I said. ‘You have brought matters to a crisis,
Lady Lundie. So let it be. I have a word to say to my niece (in
your presence, if you like); and I have another word to say to you
afterward--without presuming to disturb your guests.’ The guests sat
down again (both naturally devoured by curiosity). Could her ladyship
decently refuse me an interview with my own niece, while two witnesses
were looking on? Impossible. I saw Blanche (Lady Lundie being present,
it is needless to say) in the back drawing-room. I gave her your
letter; I said a good word for you; I saw that she was sorry, though
she wouldn’t own it--and that was enough. We went back into the front
drawing-room. I had not spoken five words on our side of the question
before it appeared, to my astonishment and delight, that Captain
Newenden was in the house on the very question that had brought me into
the house--the question of you and Miss Silvester. My business, in the
interests of _my_ niece, was to deny your marriage to the lady. His
business, in the interests of _his_ niece, was to assert your marriage
to the lady. To the unutterable disgust of the two women, we joined
issue, in the most friendly manner, on the spot. ‘Charmed to have the
pleasure of meeting you, Captain Newenden.’--‘Delighted to have the
honor of making your acquaintance, Sir Patrick.’--‘I think we can settle
this in two minutes?’--‘My own idea perfectly expressed.’--‘State your
position, Captain.’--‘With the greatest pleasure. Here is my niece,
Mrs. Glenarm, engaged to marry Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. All very well,
but there happens to be an obstacle--in the shape of a lady. Do I put
it plainly?’--‘You put it admirably, Captain; but for the loss to the
British navy, you ought to have been a lawyer. Pray, go on.’--‘You are
too good, Sir Patrick. I resume. Mr. Delamayn asserts that this person
in the back-ground has no claim on him, and backs his assertion by
declaring that she is married already to Mr. Arnold Brinkworth. Lady
Lundie and my niece assure me, on evidence which satisfies _them,_ that
the assertion is true. The evidence does not satisfy _me._ ‘I hope, Sir
Patrick, I don’t strike you as being an excessively obstinate man?’--‘My
dear Sir, you impress me with the highest opinion of your capacity
for sifting human testimony! May I ask, next, what course you mean to
take?’--‘The very thing I was going to mention, Sir Patrick! This is
my course. I refuse to sanction my niece’s engagement to Mr. Delamayn,
until Mr. Delamayn has actually proved his statement by appeal to
witnesses of the lady’s marriage. He refers me to two witnesses; but
declines acting at once in the matter for himself, on the ground that
he is in training for a foot-race. I admit that that is an obstacle, and
consent to arrange for bringing the two witnesses to London myself. By
this post I have written to my lawyers in Perth to look the witnesses
up; to offer them the necessary terms (at Mr. Delamayn’s expense) for
the use of their time; and to produce them by the end of the week. The
footrace is on Thursday next. Mr. Delamayn will be able to attend after
that, and establish his own assertion by his own witnesses. What do you
say, Sir Patrick, to Saturday next (with Lady Lundie’s permission) in
this room?’--There is the substance of the captain’s statement. He is
as old as I am and is dressed to look like thirty; but a very pleasant
fellow for all that. I struck my sister-in-law dumb by accepting the
proposal without a moment’s hesitation. Mrs. Glenarm and Lady Lundie
looked at each other in mute amazement. Here was a difference about
which two women would have mortally quarreled; and here were two men
settling it in the friendliest possible manner. I wish you had seen
Lady Lundie’s face, when I declared myself deeply indebted to Captain
Newenden for rendering any prolonged interview with her ladyship quite
unnecessary. ‘Thanks to the captain,’ I said to her, in the most cordial
manner, ‘we have absolutely nothing to discuss. I shall catch the next
train, and set Arnold Brinkworth’s mind quite at ease.’ To come back to
serious things, I have engaged to produce you, in the presence of every
body--your wife included--on Saturday next. I put a bold face on it
before the others. But I am bound to tell _you_ that it is by no means
easy to say--situated as we are now--what the result of Saturday’s
inquiry will be. Every thing depends on the issue of my interview with
Miss Silvester to-morrow. It is no exaggeration to say, Arnold, that
your fate is in her hands.”
“I wish to heaven I had never set eyes on her!” said Arnold.
“Lay the saddle on the right horse,” returned Sir Patrick. “Wish you had
never set eyes on Geoffrey Delamayn.”
Arnold hung his head. Sir Patrick’s sharp tongue had got the better of
him once more.
TWELFTH SCENE.--DRURY LANE.
CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH.
THE LETTER AND THE LAW.
THE many-toned murmur of the current of London life--flowing through the
murky channel of Drury Lane--found its muffled way from the front room
to the back. Piles of old music lumbered the dusty floor. Stage masks
and weapons, and portraits of singers and dancers, hung round the walls.
An empty violin case in one corner faced a broken bust of Rossini in
another. A frameless print, representing the Trial of Queen Caroline,
was pasted over the fireplace. The chairs were genuine specimens of
ancient carving in oak. The table was an equally excellent example of
dirty modern deal. A small morsel of drugget was on the floor; and a
large deposit of soot was on the ceiling. The scene thus presented,
revealed itself in the back drawing-room of a house in Drury Lane,
devoted to the transaction of musical and theatrical business of the
humbler sort. It was late in the afternoon, on Michaelmas-day. Two
persons were seated together in the room: they were Anne Silvester and
Sir Patrick Lundie.
The opening conversation between them--comprising, on one side, the
narrative of what had happened at Perth and at Swanhaven; and, on the
other, a statement of the circumstances attending the separation of
Arnold and Blanche--had come to an end. It rested with Sir Patrick
to lead the way to the next topic. He looked at his companion, and
hesitated.
“Do you feel strong enough to go on?” he asked. “If you would prefer to
rest a little, pray say so.”
“Thank you, Sir Patrick. I am more than ready, I am eager to go on. No
words can say how anxious I feel to be of some use to you, if I can. It
rests entirely with your experience to show me how.”
“I can only do that, Miss Silvester, by asking you without ceremony
for all the information that I want. Had you any object in traveling to
London, which you have not mentioned to me yet? I mean, of course, any
object with which I have a claim (as Arnold Brinkworth’s representative)
to be acquainted?”
“I had an object, Sir Patrick. And I have failed to accomplish it.”
“May I ask what it was?”
“It was to see Geoffrey Delamayn.”
Sir Patrick started. “You have attempted to see _him!_ When?”
“This morning.”
“Why, you only arrived in London last night!”
“I only arrived,” said Anne, “after waiting many days on the journey. I
was obliged to rest at Edinburgh, and again at York--and I was afraid
I had given Mrs. Glenarm time enough to get to Geoffrey Delamayn before
me.”
“Afraid?” repeated Sir Patrick. “I understood that you had no serious
intention of disputing the scoundrel with Mrs. Glenarm. What motive
could possibly have taken you _his_ way?”
“The same motive which took me to Swanhaven.”
“What! the idea that it rested with Delamayn to set things right? and
that you might bribe him to do it, by consenting to release him, so far
as your claims were concerned?”
“Bear with my folly, Sir Patrick, as patiently as you can! I am always
alone now; and I get into a habit of brooding over things. I have been
brooding over the position in which my misfortunes have placed Mr.
Brinkworth. I have been obstinate--unreasonably obstinate--in believing
that I could prevail with Geoffrey Delamayn, after I had failed with
Mrs. Glenarm. I am obstinate about it still. If he would only have heard
me, my madness in going to Fulham might have had its excuse.” She sighed
bitterly, and said no more.
Sir Patrick took her hand.
“It _has_ its excuse,” he said, kindly. “Your motive is beyond reproach.
Let me add--to quiet your mind--that, even if Delamayn had been willing
to hear you, and had accepted the condition, the result would still
have been the same. You are quite wrong in supposing that he has only to
speak, and to set this matter right. It has passed entirely beyond
his control. The mischief was done when Arnold Brinkworth spent those
unlucky hours with you at Craig Fernie.”
“Oh, Sir Patrick, if I had only known that, before I went to Fulham this
morning!”
She shuddered as she said the words. Something was plainly associated
with her visit to Geoffrey, the bare remembrance of which shook her
nerves. What was it? Sir Patrick resolved to obtain an answer to that
question, before he ventured on proceeding further with the main object
of the interview.
“You have told me your reason for going to Fulham,” he said. “But I have
not heard what happened there yet.”
Anne hesitated. “Is it necessary for me to trouble you about that?” she
asked--with evident reluctance to enter on the subject.
“It is absolutely necessary,” answered Sir Patrick, “because Delamayn is
concerned in it.”
Anne summoned her resolution, and entered on her narrative in these
words: