me,” she began. “I had some difficulty, however, in finding the house.
It is little more than a cottage; and it is quite lost in a great
garden, surrounded by high walls. I saw a carriage waiting. The coachman
was walking his horses up and down--and he showed me the door. It was a
high wooden door in the wall, with a grating in it. I rang the bell. A
servant-girl opened the grating, and looked at me. She refused to let
me in. Her mistress had ordered her to close the door on all
strangers--especially strangers who were women. I contrived to pass some
money to her through the grating, and asked to speak to her mistress.
After waiting some time, I saw another face behind the bars--and it
struck me that I recognized it. I suppose I was nervous. It startled me.
I said, ‘I think we know each other.’ There was no answer. The door was
suddenly opened--and who do you think stood before me?”
“Was it somebody I know?”
“Yes.”
“Man? or woman?”
“It was Hester Dethridge.”
“Hester Dethridge!”
“Yes. Dressed just as usual, and looking just as usual--with her slate
hanging at her side.”
“Astonishing! Where did I last see her? At the Windygates station, to
be sure--going to London, after she had left my sister-in-law’s service.
Has she accepted another place--without letting me know first, as I told
her?”
“She is living at Fulham.”
“In service?”
“No. As mistress of her own house.”
“What! Hester Dethridge in possession of a house of her own? Well! well!
why shouldn’t she have a rise in the world like other people? Did she
let you in?”
“She stood for some time looking at me, in that dull strange way that
she has. The servants at Windygates always said she was not in her right
mind--and you will say, Sir Patrick, when you hear what happened, that
the servants were not mistaken. She must be mad. I said, ‘Don’t you
remember me?’ She lifted her slate, and wrote, ‘I remember you, in a
dead swoon at Windygates House.’ I was quite unaware that she had been
present when I fainted in the library. The discovery startled me--or
that dreadful, dead-cold look that she has in her eyes startled me--I
don’t know which. I couldn’t speak to her just at first. She wrote on
her slate again--the strangest question--in these words: ‘I said, at the
time, brought to it by a man. Did I say true?’ If the question had been
put in the usual way, by any body else, I should have considered it too
insolent to be noticed. Can you understand my answering it, Sir Patrick?
I can’t understand it myself, now--and yet I did answer. She forced me
to it with her stony eyes. I said ‘yes.’”
“Did all this take place at the door?”
“At the door.”
“When did she let you in?”
“The next thing she did was to let me in. She took me by the arm, in
a rough way, and drew me inside the door, and shut it. My nerves are
broken; my courage is gone. I crept with cold when she touched me. She
dropped my arm. I stood like a child, waiting for what it pleased her to
say or do next. She rested her two hands on her sides, and took a long
look at me. She made a horrid dumb sound--not as if she was angry;
more, if such a thing could be, as if she was satisfied--pleased even,
I should have said, if it had been any body but Hester Dethridge. Do you
understand it?”
“Not yet. Let me get nearer to understanding it by asking something
before you go on. Did she show any attachment to you, when you were both
at Windygates?”
“Not the least. She appeared to be incapable of attachment to me, or to
any body.”
“Did she write any more questions on her slate?”
“Yes. She wrote another question under what she had written just before.
Her mind was still running on my fainting fit, and on the ‘man’ who had
‘brought me to it.’ She held up the slate; and the words were these:
‘Tell me how he served you, did he knock you down?’ Most people would
have laughed at the question. _I_ was startled by it. I told her, No.
She shook her head as if she didn’t believe me. She wrote on her slate,
‘We are loth to own it when they up with their fists and beat us--ain’t
we?’ I said, ‘You are quite wrong.’ She went on obstinately with her
writing. ‘Who is the man?’--was her next question. I had control enough
over myself to decline telling her that. She opened the door, and
pointed to me to go out. I made a sign entreating her to wait a
little. She went back, in her impenetrable way, to the writing on the
slate--still about the ‘man.’ This time, the question was plainer still.
She had evidently placed her own interpretation of my appearance at the
house. She wrote, ‘Is it the man who lodges here?’ I saw that she would
close the door on me if I didn’t answer. My only chance with her was
to own that she had guessed right. I said ‘Yes. I want to see him.’ She
took me by the arm, as roughly as before--and led me into the house.”
“I begin to understand her,” said Sir Patrick. “I remember hearing, in
my brother’s time, that she had been brutally ill-used by her husband.
The association of id eas, even in _her_ confused brain, becomes plain,
if you bear that in mind. What is her last remembrance of you? It is the
remembrance of a fainting woman at Windygates.”
“Yes.”
“She makes you acknowledge that she has guessed right, in guessing that
a man was, in some way, answerable for the condition in which she found
you. A swoon produced by a shock indicted on the mind, is a swoon that
she doesn’t understand. She looks back into her own experience, and
associates it with the exercise of actual physical brutality on the part
of the man. And she sees, in you, a reflection of her own sufferings
and her own case. It’s curious--to a student of human nature. And it
explains, what is otherwise unintelligible--her overlooking her own
instructions to the servant, and letting you into the house. What
happened next?”
“She took me into a room, which I suppose was her own room. She made
signs, offering me tea. It was done in the strangest way--without the
least appearance of kindness. After what you have just said to me, I
think I can in some degree interpret what was going on in her mind.
I believe she felt a hard-hearted interest in seeing a woman whom she
supposed to be as unfortunate as she had once been herself. I declined
taking any tea, and tried to return to the subject of what I wanted in
the house. She paid no heed to me. She pointed round the room; and then
took me to a window, and pointed round the garden--and then made a sign
indicating herself. ‘My house; and my garden’--that was what she meant.
There were four men in the garden--and Geoffrey Delamayn was one of
them. I made another attempt to tell her that I wanted to speak to him.
But, no! She had her own idea in her mind. After beckoning to me to
leave the window, she led the way to the fire-place, and showed me a
sheet of paper with writing on it, framed and placed under a glass, and
hung on the wall. She seemed, I thought, to feel some kind of pride in
her framed manuscript. At any rate, she insisted on my reading it. It
was an extract from a will.”
“The will under which she had inherited the house?”
“Yes. Her brother’s will. It said, that he regretted, on his death-bed,
his estrangement from his only sister, dating from the time when she had
married in defiance of his wishes and against his advice. As a proof
of his sincere desire to be reconciled with her, before he died, and as
some compensation for the sufferings that she had endured at the hands
of her deceased husband, he left her an income of two hundred pounds a
year, together with the use of his house and garden, for her lifetime.
That, as well as I remember, was the substance of what it said.”
“Creditable to her brother, and creditable to herself,” said Sir
Patrick. “Taking her odd character into consideration, I understand her
liking it to be seen. What puzzles me, is her letting lodgings with an
income of her own to live on.”
“That was the very question which I put to her myself. I was obliged
to be cautious, and to begin by asking about the lodgers first--the men
being still visible out in the garden, to excuse the inquiry. The rooms
to let in the house had (as I understood her) been taken by a person
acting for Geoffrey Delamayn--his trainer, I presume. He had surprised
Hester Dethridge by barely noticing the house, and showing the most
extraordinary interest in the garden.”
“That is quite intelligible, Miss Silvester. The garden you have
described would be just the place he wanted for the exercises of his
employer--plenty of space, and well secured from observation by the high
walls all round. What next?”
“Next, I got to the question of why she should let her house in lodgings
at all. When I asked her that, her face turned harder than ever. She
answered me on her slate in these dismal words: ‘I have not got a friend
in the world. I dare not live alone.’ There was her reason! Dreary and
dreadful, Sir Patrick, was it not?”
“Dreary indeed! How did it end? Did you get into the garden?”
“Yes--at the second attempt. She seemed suddenly to change her mind; she
opened the door for me herself. Passing the window of the room in which
I had left her, I looked back. She had taken her place, at a table
before the window, apparently watching for what might happen. There was
something about her, as her eyes met mine (I can’t say what), which made
me feel uneasy at the time. Adopting your view, I am almost inclined to
think now, horrid as the idea is, that she had the expectation of seeing
me treated as _she_ had been treated in former days. It was actually a
relief to me--though I knew I was going to run a serious risk--to lose
sight of her. As I got nearer to the men in the garden, I heard two of
them talking very earnestly to Geoffrey Delamayn. The fourth person, an
elderly gentleman, stood apart from the rest at some little distance. I
kept as far as I could out of sight, waiting till the talk was over.
It was impossible for me to help hearing it. The two men were trying
to persuade Geoffrey Delamayn to speak to the elderly gentleman. They
pointed to him as a famous medical man. They reiterated over and over
again, that his opinion was well worth having--”
Sir Patrick interrupted her. “Did they mention his name?” he asked.
“Yes. They called him Mr. Speedwell.”
“The man himself! This is even more interesting, Miss Silvester, than
you suppose. I myself heard Mr. Speedwell warn Delamayn that he was in
broken health, when we were visiting together at Windygates House
last month. Did he do as the other men wished him? Did he speak to the
surgeon?”
“No. He sulkily refused--he remembered what you remember. He said, ‘See
the man who told me I was broken down?--not I!’ After confirming it
with an oath, he turned away from the others. Unfortunately, he took the
direction in which I was standing, and discovered me. The bare sight
of me seemed to throw him instantly into a state of frenzy. He--it is
impossible for me to repeat the language that he used: it is bad enough
to have heard it. I believe, Sir Patrick, but for the two men, who ran
up and laid hold of him, that Hester Dethridge would have seen what she
expected to see. The change in him was so frightful--even to me, well as
I thought I knew him in his fits of passion--I tremble when I think of
it. One of the men who had restrained him was almost as brutal, in his
way. He declared, in the foulest language, that if Delamayn had a fit,
he would lose the race, and that I should be answerable for it. But for
Mr. Speedwell, I don’t know what I should have done. He came forward
directly. ‘This is no place either for you, or for me,’ he said--and
gave me his arm, and led me back to the house. Hester Dethridge met us
in the passage, and lifted her hand to stop me. Mr. Speedwell asked her
what she wanted. She looked at me, and then looked toward the garden,
and made the motion of striking a blow with her clenched fist. For the
first time in my experience of her--I hope it was my fancy--I thought I
saw her smile. Mr. Speedwell took me out. ‘They are well matched in that
house,’ he said. ‘The woman is as complete a savage as the men.’ The
carriage which I had seen waiting at the door was his. He called it up,
and politely offered me a place in it. I said I would only trespass on
his kindness as far as to the railway station. While we were talking,
Hester Dethridge followed us to the door. She made the same motion again
with her clenched hand, and looked back toward the garden--and then
looked at me, and nodded her head, as much as to say, ‘He will do it
yet!’ No words can describe how glad I was to see the last of her. I
hope and trust I shall never set eyes on her again!”
“Did you hear how Mr. Speedwell came to be at the house? Had he gone of
his own accord? or had he been sent for?”
“He had been sent for. I ventured to speak to him about the persons whom
I had seen in the garden. Mr. Speedwell explained everything which I was
not able of myself to understand, in the kindest manner. One of the two
strange men in the garden was the trainer; the other was a doctor, whom
the trainer was usually in the habit of consulting. It seems that the
real reason for their bringing Geof frey Delamayn away from Scotland
when they did, was that the trainer was uneasy, and wanted to be near
London for medical advice. The doctor, on being consulted, owned that he
was at a loss to understand the symptoms which he was asked to treat.
He had himself fetched the great surgeon to Fulham, that morning. Mr.
Speedwell abstained from mentioning that he had foreseen what would
happen, at Windygates. All he said was, ‘I had met Mr. Delamayn in
society, and I felt interest enough in the case to pay him a visit--with
what result, you have seen yourself.’”
“Did he tell you any thing about Delamayn’s health?”
“He said that he had questioned the doctor on the way to Fulham, and
that some of the patient’s symptoms indicated serious mischief. What the
symptoms were I did not hear. Mr. Speedwell only spoke of changes for
the worse in him which a woman would be likely to understand. At one
time, he would be so dull and heedless that nothing could rouse him. At
another, he flew into the most terrible passions without any apparent
cause. The trainer had found it almost impossible (in Scotland) to keep
him to the right diet; and the doctor had only sanctioned taking
the house at Fulham, after being first satisfied, not only of the
convenience of the garden, but also that Hester Dethridge could be
thoroughly trusted as a cook. With her help, they had placed him on an
entirely new diet. But they had found an unexpected difficulty even in
doing that. When the trainer took him to the new lodgings, it turned
out that he had seen Hester Dethridge at Windygates, and had taken
the strongest prejudice against her. On seeing her again at Fulham, he
appeared to be absolutely terrified.”
“Terrified? Why?”
“Nobody knows why. The trainer and the doctor together could only
prevent his leaving the house, by threatening to throw up the
responsibility of preparing him for the race, unless he instantly
controlled himself, and behaved like a man instead of a child. Since
that time, he has become reconciled, little by little, to his new
abode--partly through Hester Dethridge’s caution in keeping herself
always out of his way; and partly through his own appreciation of the
change in his diet, which Hester’s skill in cookery has enabled the
doctor to make. Mr. Speedwell mentioned some things which I have
forgotten. I can only repeat, Sir Patrick, the result at which he has
arrived in his own mind. Coming from a man of his authority, the opinion
seems to me to be startling in the last degree. If Geoffrey Delamayn
runs in the race on Thursday next, he will do it at the risk of his
life.”
“At the risk of dying on the ground?”
“Yes.”
Sir Patrick’s face became thoughtful. He waited a little before he spoke
again.
“We have not wasted our time,” he said, “in dwelling on what happened
during your visit to Fulham. The possibility of this man’s death
suggests to my mind serious matter for consideration. It is very
desirable, in the interests of my niece and her husband, that I should
be able to foresee, if I can, how a fatal result of the race might
affect the inquiry which is to be held on Saturday next. I believe you
may be able to help me in this.”
“You have only to tell me how, Sir Patrick.”
“I may count on your being present on Saturday?”
“Certainly.”
“You thoroughly understand that, in meeting Blanche, you will meet a
person estranged from you, for the present--a friend and sister who has
ceased (under Lady Lundie’s influence mainly) to feel as a friend and
sister toward you now?”
“I was not quite unprepared, Sir Patrick, to hear that Blanche had
misjudged me. When I wrote my letter to Mr. Brinkworth, I warned him
as delicately as I could, that his wife’s jealousy might be very easily
roused. You may rely on my self-restraint, no matter how hardly it may
be tried. Nothing that Blanche can say or do will alter my grateful
remembrance of the past. While I live, I love her. Let that assurance
quiet any little anxiety that you may have felt as to my conduct--and
tell me how I can serve those interests which I have at heart as well as
you.”
“You can serve them, Miss Silvester, in this way. You can make me
acquainted with the position in which you stood toward Delamayn at the
time when you went to the Craig Fernie inn.”
“Put any questions to me that you think right, Sir Patrick.”
“You mean that?”
“I mean it.”
“I will begin by recalling something which you have already told me.
Delamayn has promised you marriage--”
“Over and over again!”
“In words?”
“Yes.”
“In writing?”
“Yes.”
“Do you see what I am coming to?”
“Hardly yet.”
“You referred, when we first met in this room, to a letter which you
recovered from Bishopriggs, at Perth. I have ascertained from Arnold
Brinkworth that the sheet of note-paper stolen from you contained two
letters. One was written by you to Delamayn--the other was written by
Delamayn to you. The substance of this last Arnold remembered. Your
letter he had not read. It is of the utmost importance, Miss Silvester,
to let me see that correspondence before we part to-day.”
Anne made no answer. She sat with her clasped hands on her lap. Her eyes
looked uneasily away from Sir Patrick’s face, for the first time.
“Will it not be enough,” she asked, after an interval, “if I tell you
the substance of my letter, without showing it?”
“It will _not_ be enough,” returned Sir Patrick, in the plainest manner.
“I hinted--if you remember--at the propriety of my seeing the letter,
when you first mentioned it, and I observed that you purposely abstained
from understanding me, I am grieved to put you, on this occasion, to a
painful test. But if you _are_ to help me at this serious crisis, I have
shown you the way.”
Anne rose from her chair, and answered by putting the letter into Sir
Patrick’s hands. “Remember what he has done, since I wrote that,” she
said. “And try to excuse me, if I own that I am ashamed to show it to
you now.”
With those words she walked aside to the window. She stood there, with
her hand pressed on her breast, looking out absently on the murky London
view of house roof and chimney, while Sir Patrick opened the letter.
It is necessary to the right appreciation of events, that other
eyes besides Sir Patrick’s should follow the brief course of the
correspondence in this place.
1. _From Anne Silvester to Geoffrey Delamayn._
WINDYGATES HOUSE. _August_ 19, 1868.
“GEOFFREY DELAMAYN,--I have waited in the hope that you would ride over
from your brother’s place, and see me--and I have waited in vain. Your
conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear it no longer. Consider! in
your own interests, consider--before you drive the miserable woman who
has trusted you to despair. You have promised me marriage by all that is
sacred. I claim your promise. I insist on nothing less than to be
what you vowed I should be--what I have waited all this weary time to
be--what I _am,_ in the sight of Heaven, your wedded wife. Lady Lundie
gives a lawn-party here on the 14th. I know you have been asked. I
expect you to accept her invitation. If I don’t see you, I won’t answer
for what may happen. My mind is made up to endure this suspense no
longer. Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past! Be faithful--be just--to your
loving wife,
“ANNE SILVESTER.”
2. _From Geoffrey Delamayn to Anne Silvester._
“DEAR ANNE,--Just called to London to my father. They have telegraphed
him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I will write you. Trust the
bearer. Upon my soul, I’ll keep my promise. Your loving husband that is
to be,
“GEOFFREY DELAMAYN.
“WINDYGATES HOUSE _Augt._ 14, 4 P. M.
“In a mortal hurry. The train starts 4.30.”
Sir Patrick read the correspondence with breathless attention to the
end. At the last lines of the last letter he did what he had not done
for twenty years past--he sprang to his feet at a bound, and he crossed
a room without the help of his ivory cane.
Anne started; and turning round from the window, looked at him in silent
surprise. He was under the influence of strong emotion; his face, his
voice, his manner, all showed it.
“How long had you been in Scotland, when you wrote this?” He pointed to
Anne’s letter as he asked the question, put ting it so eagerly that he
stammered over the first words. “More than three weeks?” he added, with
his bright black eyes fixed in absorbing interest on her face.
“Yes.”
“Are you sure of that?”
“I am certain of it.”
“You can refer to persons who have seen you?”
“Easily.”
He turned the sheet of note-paper, and pointed to Geoffrey’s penciled
letter on the fourth page.
“How long had _he_ been in Scotland, when _he_ wrote this? More than
three weeks, too?”
Anne considered for a moment.
“For God’s sake, be careful!” said Sir Patrick. “You don’t know what
depends on this, If your memory is not clear about it, say so.”
“My memory was confused for a moment. It is clear again now. He had been
at his brother’s in Perthshire three weeks before he wrote that. And
before he went to Swanhaven, he spent three or four days in the valley
of the Esk.”
“Are you sure again?”
“Quite sure!”
“Do you know of any one who saw him in the valley of the Esk?”
“I know of a person who took a note to him, from me.”
“A person easily found?”
“Quite easily.”
Sir Patrick laid aside the letter, and seized in ungovernable agitation
on both her hands.
“Listen to me,” he said. “The whole conspiracy against Arnold Brinkworth
and you falls to the ground before that correspondence. When you and he
met at the inn--”
He paused, and looked at her. Her hands were beginning to tremble in
his.
“When you and Arnold Brinkworth met at the inn,” he resumed, “the law of
Scotland had made you a married woman. On the day, and at the hour,
when he wrote those lines at the back of your letter to him, you were
_Geoffrey Delamayn’s wedded wife!_”
He stopped, and looked at her again.
Without a word in reply, without the slightest movement in her from head
to foot, she looked back at him. The blank stillness of horror was in
her face. The deadly cold of horror was in her hands.
In silence, on his side, Sir Patrick drew back a step, with a faint
reflection of _her_ dismay in his face. Married--to the villain who had
not hesitated to calumniate the woman whom he had ruined, and then to
cast her helpless on the world. Married--to the traitor who had not
shrunk from betraying Arnold’s trust in him, and desolating Arnold’s
home. Married--to the ruffian who would have struck her that morning, if
the hands of his own friends had not held him back. And Sir Patrick had
never thought of it! Absorbed in the one idea of Blanche’s future, he
had never thought of it, till that horror-stricken face looked at him,
and said, Think of _my_ future, too!
He came back to her. He took her cold hand once more in his.
“Forgive me,” he said, “for thinking first of Blanche.”
Blanche’s name seemed to rouse her. The life came back to her face; the
tender brightness began to shine again in her eyes. He saw that he might
venture to speak more plainly still: he went on.
“I see the dreadful sacrifice as _you_ see it. I ask myself, have I any
right, has Blanche any right--”
She stopped him by a faint pressure of his hand.
“Yes,” she said, softly, “if Blanche’s happiness depends on it.”
THIRTEENTH SCENE.--FULHAM.
CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH.
THE FOOT-RACE.
A SOLITARY foreigner, drifting about London, drifted toward Fulham on
the day of the Foot-Race.
Little by little, he found himself involved in the current of a throng
of impetuous English people, all flowing together toward one given
point, and all decorated alike with colors of two prevailing hues--pink
and yellow. He drifted along with the stream of passengers on the
pavement (accompanied by a stream of carriages in the road) until they
stopped with one accord at a gate--and paid admission money to a man in
office--and poured into a great open space of ground which looked like
an uncultivated garden.