can telegraph that he has seen her to her journey's end. In the
mean time, you un derstand what you are wanted to do here?"
"Blanche has explained every thing to me."
"Stick to your post, and make good use of your eyes. You were
accustomed to that, you know, when you were at sea. It's no great
hardship to pass a few hours in this delicious summer air. I see
you have contracted the vile modern habit of smoking--that will
be occupation enough to amuse you, no doubt! Keep the roads in
view; and, if she does come your way, don't attempt to stop
her--you can't do that. Speak to her (quite innocently, mind!),
by way of getting time enough to notice the face of the man who
is driving her, and the name (if there is one) on his cart. Do
that, and you will do enough. Pah! how that cigar poisons the
air! What will have become of your stomach when you get to my
age?"
"I sha'n't complain, Sir Patrick, if I can eat as good a dinner
as you do."
"That reminds me! I met somebody I knew at the station. Hester
Dethridge has left her place, and gone to London by the train. We
may feed at Windygates--we have done with dining now. It has been
a final quarrel this time between the mistress and the cook. I
have given Hester my address in London, and told her to let me
know before she decides on another place. A woman who _can't_
talk, and a woman who _can_ cook, is simply a woman who has
arrived at absolute perfection. Such a treasure shall not go out
of the family, if I can help it. Did you notice the Béchamel
sauce at lunch? Pooh! a young man who smokes cigars doesn't know
the difference between Béchamel sauce and melted butter.
Good afternoon! good afternoon!"
He slackened the reins, and away he went to Craig Fernie.
Counting by years, the pony was twenty, and the pony's driver was
seventy. Counting by vivacity and spirit, two of the most
youthful characters in Scotland had got together that afternoon
in the same chaise.
An hour more wore itself slowly out; and nothing had passed
Arnold on the cross-roads but a few stray foot-passengers, a
heavy wagon, and a gig with an old woman in it. He rose again
from the heather, weary of inaction, and resolved to walk
backward and forward, within view of his post, for a change. At
the second turn, when his face happened to be set toward the open
heath, he noticed another foot-passenger--apparently a man--far
away in the empty distance. Was the person coming toward him?
He advanced a little. The stranger was doubtless advancing too,
so rapidly did his figure now reveal itself, beyond all doubt, as
the figure of a man. A few minutes more and Arnold fancied he
recognized it. Yet a little longer, and he was quite sure. There
was no mistaking the lithe strength and grace of _that_ man, and
the smooth easy swiftness with which he covered his ground. It
was the hero of the coming foot-race. It was Geoffrey on his way
back to Windygates House.
Arnold hurried forward to meet him. Geoffrey stood still, poising
himself on his stick, and let the other come up.
"Have you heard what has happened at the house?" asked Arnold.
He instinctively checked the next question as it rose to his
lips. There was a settled defiance in the expression of
Geoffrey's face, which Arnold was quite at a loss to understand.
He looked like a man who had made up his mind to confront any
thing that could happen, and to contradict any body who spoke to
him.
"Something seems to have annoyed you?" said Arnold.
"What's up at the house?" returned Geoffrey, with his loudest
voice and his hardest look.
"Miss Silvester has been at the house."
"Who saw her?"
"Nobody but Blanche."
"Well?"
"Well, she was miserably weak and ill, so ill that she fainted,
poor thing, in the library. Blanche brought her to."
"And what then?"
"We were all at lunch at the time. Blanche left the library, to
speak privately to her uncle. When she went back Miss Silvester
was gone, and nothing has been seen of her since."
"A row at the house?"
"Nobody knows of it at the house, except Blanche--"
"And you? And how many besides?"
"And Sir Patrick. Nobody else."
"Nobody else? Any thing more?"
Arnold remembered his promise to keep the investigation then on
foot a secret from every body. Geoffrey's manner made
him--unconsciously to himself--readier than he might otherwise
have been to consider Geoffrey as included in the general
prohibition.
"Nothing more," he answered.
Geoffrey dug the point of his stick deep into the soft, sandy
ground. He looked at the stick, then suddenly pulled it out of
the ground and looked at Arnold. "Good-afternoon!" he said, and
went on his way again by himself.
Arnold followed, and stopped him. For a moment the two men looked
at each other without a word passing on either side. Arnold spoke
first.
"You're out of humor, Geoffrey. What has upset you in this way?
Have you and Miss Silvester missed each other?"
Geoffrey was silent.
"Have you seen her since she left Windygates?"
No reply.
"Do you know where Miss Silvester is now?"
Still no reply. Still the same mutely-insolent defiance of look
and manner. Arnold's dark color began to deepen.
"Why don't you answer me?" he said.
"Because I have had enough of it."
"Enough of what?"
"Enough of being worried about Miss Silvester. Miss Silvester's
my business--not yours."
"Gently, Geoffrey! Don't forget that I have been mixed up in that
business--without seeking it myself."
"There's no fear of my forgetting. You have cast it in my teeth
often enough."
"Cast it in your teeth?"
"Yes! Am I never to hear the last of my obligation to you? The
devil take the obligation! I'm sick of the sound of it."
There was a spirit in Arnold--not easily brought to the surface,
through the overlying simplicity and good-humor of his ordinary
character--which, once roused, was a spirit not readily quelled.
Geoffrey had roused it at last.
"When you come to your senses," he said, "I'll remember old
times--and receive your apology. Till you _do_ come to your
senses, go your way by yourself. I have no more to say to you."
Geoffrey set his teeth, and came one step nearer. Arnold's eyes
met his, with a look which steadily and firmly challenged
him--though he was the stronger man of the two--to force the
quarrel a step further, if he dared. The one human virtue which
Geoffrey respected and understood was the virtue of courage. And
there it was before him--the undeniable courage of the weaker
man. The callous scoundrel was touched on the one tender place in
his whole being. He turned, and went on his way in silence.
Left by himself, Arnold's head dropped on his breast. The friend
who had saved his
life--the one friend he possessed, who was
associated with his earliest and happiest remembrances of old
days--had grossly insulted him: and had left him deliberately,
without the slightest expression of regret. Arnold's affectionate
nature--simple, loyal, clinging where it once fastened--was
wounded to the quick. Geoffrey's fast-retreating figure, in the
open view before him, became blurred and indistinct. He put his
hand over his eyes, and hid, with a boyish shame, the hot tears
that told of the heartache, and that honored the man who shed
them.
He was still struggling with the emotion which had overpowered
him, when something happened at the place where the roads met.
The four roads pointed as nearly as might be toward the four
points of the compass. Arnold was now on the road to the
eastward, having advanced in that direction to meet Geoffrey,
between two and three hundred yards from the farm-house inclosure
before which he had kept his watch. The road to the westward,
curving away behind the farm, led to the nearest market-town. The
road to the south was the way to the station. And the road to the
north led back to Windygates House.
While Geoffrey was still fifty yards from the turning which would
take him back to Windygates--while the tears were still standing
thickly in Arnold's eyes--the gate of the farm inclosure opened.
A light four-wheel chaise came out with a man driving, and a
woman sitting by his side. The woman was Anne Silvester, and the
man was the owner of the farm.
Instead of taking the way which led to the station, the chaise
pursued the westward road to the market-town.
Proceeding in this direction, the backs of the persons in the
vehicle were necessarily turned on Geoffrey, advancing behind
them from the eastward. He just carelessly noticed the shabby
little chaise, and then turned off north on his way to
Windygates.
By the time Arnold was composed enough to look round him, the
chaise had taken the curve in the road which wound behind the
farmhouse. He returned--faithful to the engagement which he had
undertaken--to his post before the inclosure. The chaise was then
a speck in the distance. In a minute more it was a speck out of
sight.
So (to use Sir Patrick's phrase) had the woman broken through
difficulties which would have stopped a man. So, in her sore
need, had Anne Silvester won the sympathy which had given her a
place, by the farmer's side, in the vehicle that took him on his
own business to the market-town. And so, by a hair's-breadth, did
she escape the treble risk of discovery which threatened
her--from Geoffrey, on his way back; from Arnold, at his post;
and from the valet, on the watch for her appearance at the
station.
The afternoon wore on. The servants at Windygates, airing
themselves in the grounds--in the absence of their mistress and
her guests--were disturbed, for the moment, by the unexpected
return of one of "the gentlefolks." Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn
reappeared at the house alone; went straight to the smoking-room;
and calling for another supply of the old ale, settled himself in
an arm-chair with the newspaper, and began to smoke.
He soon tired of reading, and fell into thinking of what had
happened during the latter part of his walk.
The prospect before him had more than realized the most sanguine
anticipations that he could have formed of it. He had braced
himself--after what had happened in the library--to face the
outbreak of a serious scandal, on his return to the house. And
here--when he came back--was nothing to face! Here were three
people (Sir Patrick, Arnold, and Blanche) who must at least know
that Anne was in some serious trouble keeping the secret as
carefully as if they felt that his interests were at stake! And,
more wonderful still, here was Anne herself--so far from raising
a hue and cry after him--actually taking flight without saying a
word that could compromise him with any living soul!
What in the name of wonder did it mean? He did his best to find
his way to an explanation of some sort; and he actually contrived
to account for the silence of Blanche and her uncle, and Arnold.
It was pretty clear that they must have all three combined to
keep Lady Lundie in ignorance of her runaway governess's return
to the house.
But the secret of Anne's silence completely baffled him.
He was simply incapable of conceiving that the horror of seeing
herself set up as an obstacle to Blanche's marriage might have
been vivid enough to overpower all sense of her own wrongs, and
to hurry her away, resolute, in her ignorance of what else to do,
never to return again, and never to let living eyes rest on her
in the character of Arnold's wife. "It's clean beyond _my_ making
out," was the final conclusion at which Geoffrey arrived. "If
it's her interest to hold her tongue, it's my interest to hold
mine, and there's an end of it for the present!"
He put up his feet on a chair, and rested his magnificent muscles
after his walk, and filled another pipe, in thorough contentment
with himself. No interference to dread from Anne, no more awkward
questions (on the terms they were on now) to come from Arnold. He
looked back at the quarrel on the heath with a certain
complacency--he did his friend justice; though they _had_
disagreed. "Who would have thought the fellow had so much pluck
in him!" he said to himself as he struck the match and lit his
second pipe.
An hour more wore on; and Sir Patrick was the next person who
returned.
He was thoughtful, but in no sense depressed. Judging by
appearances, his errand to Craig Fernie had certainly not ended
in disappointment. The old gentleman hummed his favorite little
Scotch air--rather absently, perhaps--and took his pinch of snuff
from the knob of his ivory cane much as usual. He went to the
library bell and summoned a servant.
"Any body been here for me?"--"No, Sir Patrick."--"No
letters?"--"No, Sir Patrick."--"Very well. Come up stairs to my
room, and help me on with my dressing-gown." The man helped him
to his dressing-gown and slippers "Is Miss Lundie at home?"--"No,
Sir Patrick. They're all away with my lady on an
excursion."--"Very good. Get me a cup of coffee; and wake me half
an hour before dinner, in case I take a nap." The servant went
out. Sir Patrick stretched himself on the sofa. "Ay! ay! a little
aching in the back, and a certain stiffness in the legs. I dare
say the pony feels just as I do. Age, I suppose, in both cases?
Well! well! well! let's try and be young at heart. 'The rest' (as
Pope says) 'is leather and prunella.' " He returned resignedly to
his little Scotch air. The servant came in with the coffee. And
then the room was quiet, except for the low humming of insects
and the gentle rustling of the creepers at the window. For five
minutes or so Sir Patrick sipped his co
ffee, and meditated--by no
means in the character of a man who was depressed by any recent
disappointment. In five minutes more he was asleep.
A little later, and the party returned from the ruins.
With the one exception of their lady-leader, the whole expedition
was depressed--Smith and Jones, in particular, being quite
speechless. Lady Lundie alone still met feudal antiquities with a
cheerful front. She had cheated the man who showed the ruins of
his shilling, and she was thoroughly well satisfied with herself.
Her voice was flute-like in its melody, and the celebrated
"smile" had never been in better order. "Deeply interesting!"
said her ladyship, descending from the carriage with ponderous
grace, and addressing herself to Geoffrey, lounging under the
portico of the house. "You have had a loss, Mr. Delamayn. The
next time you go out for a walk, give your hostess a word of
warning, and you won't repent it." Blanche (looking very weary
and anxious) questioned the servant, the moment she got in, about
Arnold and her uncle. Sir Patrick was invisible up stairs. Mr.
Brinkworth had not come back. It wanted only twenty minutes of
dinner-time; and full evening-dress was insisted on at
Windygates. Blanche, nevertheless, still lingered in the hall in
the hope of seeing Arnold before she went up stairs. The hope was
realized. As the clock struck the quarter he came in. And he,
too, was out of spirits like the rest!
"Have you seen her?" asked Blanche.
"No," said Arnold, in the most perfect good faith. "The way she
has escaped by is not the way by the cross-roads--I answer for
that."
They separated to dress. When the party assembled again, in the
library, before dinner, Blanche found her way, the moment he
entered the room, to Sir Patrick's side.
"News, uncle! I'm dying for news."
"Good news, my dear--so far."
"You have found Anne?"
"Not exactly that."
"You have heard of her at Craig Fernie?"
"I have made some important discoveries at Craig Fernie, Blanche.
Hush! here's your step-mother. Wait till after dinner, and you
may hear more than I can tell you now. There may be news from the
station between this and then."
The dinner was a wearisome ordeal to at least two other persons
present besides Blanche. Arnold, sitting opposite to Geoffrey,
without exchanging a word with him, felt the altered relations
between his former friend and himself very painfully. Sir
Patrick, missing the skilled hand of Hester Dethridge in every
dish that was offered to him, marked the dinner among the wasted
opportunities of his life, and resented his sister-in-law's flow
of spirits as something simply inhuman under present
circumstances. Blanche followed Lady Lundie into the drawing-room
in a state of burning impatience for the rising of the gentlemen
from their wine. Her step-mother--mapping out a new antiquarian
excursion for the next day, and finding Blanche's ears closed to
her occasional remarks on baronial Scotland five hundred years
since--lamented, with satirical
emphasis, the absence of an intelligent companion of her own
sex; and stretched her majestic figure on the sofa to wait until
an audience worthy of her flowed in from the dining-room. Before
very long--so soothing is the influence of an after-dinner view
of feudal antiquities, taken through the medium of an approving
conscience--Lady Lundie's eyes closed; and from Lady Lundie's
nose there poured, at intervals, a sound, deep like her
ladyship's learning; regular, like her ladyship's habits--a sound
associated with nightcaps and bedrooms, evoked alike by Nature,
the leveler, from high and low--the sound (oh, Truth what
enormities find publicity in thy name!)--the sound of a Snore.
Free to do as she pleased, Blanche left the echoes of the
drawing-room in undisturbed enjoyment of Lady Lundie's audible
repose.
Man and Wife Page 31
