Man and Wife Page 29

  "Shivered when I touched her. That means I have been walking over

  her grave."

  Blanche turned from the sight of the slate, and from the sight of

  the woman, in horror. "You frighten me!" she said. "You will

  frighten _ her_ if she sees you. I don't mean to offend you;

  but--leave us, please leave us."

  Hester Dethridge accepted her dismissal, as she accepted every

  thing else. She bowed her head in sign that she

  understood--looked for the last time at Anne--dropped a stiff

  courtesy to her young mistress--and left the room.

  An hour later the butler had paid her, and she had left the

  house.

  Blanche breathed more freely when she found herself alone. She

  could feel the relief now of seeing Anne revive.

  "Can you hear me, darling?" she whispered. "Can you let me leave

  you for a moment?"

  Anne's eyes slowly opened and looked round her--in that torment

  and terror of reviving life which marks the awful protest of

  humanity against its recall to existence when mortal mercy has

  dared to wake it in the arms of Death.

  Blanche rested Anne's head against the nearest chair, and ran to

  the table upon which she had placed the wine on entering the

  room.

  After swallowing the first few drops Anne begun to feel the

  effect of the stimulant. Blanche persisted in making her empty

  the glass, and refrained from asking or answering questions until

  her recovery under the influence of the wine was complete.

  "You have overexerted yourself this morning," she said, as soon

  as it seemed safe to speak. "Nobody has seen you,

  darling--nothing has happened. Do you feel like yourself again?"

  Anne made an attempt to rise and leave the library; Blanche

  placed her gently in the chair, and went on:

  "There is not the least need to stir. We have another quarter of

  an hour to ourselves before any body is at all likely to disturb

  us. I have something to say, Anne--a little proposal to make.

  Will you listen to me?"

  Anne took Blanche's hand, and p ressed it gratefully to her lips.

  She made no other reply. Blanche proceeded:

  "I won't ask any questions, my dear--I won't attempt to keep you

  here against your will--I won't even remind you of my letter

  yesterday. But I can't let you go, Anne, without having my mind

  made easy about you in some way. You will relieve all my anxiety,

  if you will do one thing--one easy thing for my sake."

  "What is it, Blanche?"

  She put that question with her mind far away from the subject

  before her. Blanche was too eager in pursuit of her object to

  notice the absent tone, the purely mechanical manner, in which

  Anne had spoken to her.

  "I want you to consult my uncle," she answered. "Sir Patrick is

  interested in you; Sir Patrick proposed to me this very day to go

  and see you at the inn. He is the wisest, the kindest, the

  dearest old man living--and you can trust him as you could trust

  nobody else. Will you take my uncle into your confidence, and be

  guided by his advice?"

  With her mind still far away from the subject, Anne looked out

  absently at the lawn, and made no answer.

  "Come!" said Blanche. "One word isn't much to say. Is it Yes or

  No?"

  Still looking out on the lawn--still thinking of something

  else--Anne yielded, and said "Yes."

  Blanche was enchanted. "How well I must have managed it!" she

  thought. "This is what my uncle means, when my uncle talks of

  'putting it strongly.' "

  She bent down over Anne, and gayly patted her on the shoulder.

  "That's the wisest 'Yes,' darling, you ever said in your life.

  Wait here--and I'll go in to luncheon, or they will be sending to

  know what has become of me. Sir Patrick has kept my place for me,

  next to himself. I shall contrive to tell him what I want; and

  _he_ will contrive (oh, the blessing of having to do with a

  clever man; these are so few of them!)--he will contrive to leave

  the table before the rest, without exciting any body's

  suspicions. Go away with him at once to the summer-house (we have

  been at the summer-house all the morning; nobody will go back to

  it now), and I will follow you as soon as I have satisfied Lady

  Lundie by eating some lunch. Nobody will be any the wiser but our

  three selves. In five minutes or less you may expect Sir Patrick.

  Let me go! We haven't a moment to lose!"

  Anne held her back. Anne's attention was concentrated on her now.

  "What is it?" she asked.

  "Are you going on happily with Arnold, Blanche?"

  "Arnold is nicer than ever, my dear."

  "Is the day fixed for your marriage?"

  "The day will be ages hence. Not till we are back in town, at the

  end of the autumn. Let me go, Anne!"

  "Give me a kiss, Blanche."

  Blanche kissed her, and tried to release her hand. Anne held it

  as if she was drowning, as if her life depended on not letting it

  go.

  "Will you always love me, Blanche, as you love me now?"

  "How can you ask me!"

  "_I_ said Yes just now. _You_ say Yes too."

  Blanche said it. Anne's eyes fastened on her face, with one long,

  yearning look, and then Anne's hand suddenly dropped hers.

  She ran out of the room, more agitated, more uneasy, than she

  liked to confess to herself. Never had she felt so certain of the

  urgent necessity of appealing to Sir Patrick's advice as she felt

  at that moment.

  The guests were still safe at the luncheon-table when Blanche

  entered the dining-room.

  Lady Lundie expressed the necessary surprise, in the properly

  graduated tone of reproof, at her step-daughter's want of

  punctuality. Blanche made her apologies with the most exemplary

  humility. She glided into her chair by her uncle's side, and took

  the first thing that was offered to her. Sir Patrick looked at

  his niece, and found himself in the company of a model young

  English Miss--and marveled inwardly what it might mean.

  The talk, interrupted for the moment (topics, Politics and

  Sport--and then, when a change was wanted, Sport and Politics),

  was resumed again all round the table. Under cover of the

  conversation, and in the intervals of receiving the attentions of

  the gentlemen, Blanche whispered to Sir Patrick, "Don't start,

  uncle. Anne is in the library." (Polite Mr. Smith offered some

  ham. Gratefully declined.) "Pray, pray, pray go to her; she is

  waiting to see you--she is in dreadful trouble." (Gallant Mr.

  Jones proposed fruit tart and cream. Accepted with thanks.) "Take

  her to the summer-house: I'll follow you when I get the chance.

  And manage it at once, uncle, if you love me, or you will be too

  late."

  Before Sir Patrick could whisper back a word in reply, Lady

  Lundie, cutting a cake of the richest Scottish composition, at

  the other end of the table, publicly proclaimed it to be her "own

  cake," and, as such, offered her brother-in-law a slice. The

  slice exhibited an eruption of plums and sweetmeats, overlaid by

&nb
sp; a perspiration of butter. It has been said that Sir Patrick had

  reached the age of seventy--it is, therefore, needless to add

  that he politely declined to commit an unprovoked outrage on his

  own stomach.

  "MY cake!" persisted Lady Lundie, elevating the horrible

  composition on a fork. "Won't that tempt you?"

  Sir Patrick saw his way to slipping out of the room under cover

  of a compliment to his sister-in-law. He summoned his courtly

  smile, and laid his hand on his heart.

  "A fallible mortal," he said, "is met by a temptation which he

  can not possibly resist. If he is a wise mortal, also, what does

  he do?"

  "He eats some of My cake," said the prosaic Lady Lundie.

  "No!" said Sir Patrick, with a look of unutterable devotion

  directed at his sister-in-law.

  "He flies temptation, dear lady--as I do now." He bowed, and

  escaped, unsuspected, from the room.

  Lady Lundie cast down her eyes, with an expression of virtuous

  indulgence for human frailty, and divided Sir Patrick's

  compliment modestly between herself and her cake.

  Well aware that his own departure from the table would be

  followed in a few minutes by the rising of the lady of the house,

  Sir Patrick hurried to the library as fast as his lame foot would

  let him. Now that he was alone, his manner became anxious, and

  his face looked grave. He entered the room.

  Not a sign of Anne Silvester was to be seen any where. The

  library was a perfect solitude.

  "Gone!" said Sir Patrick. "This looks bad."

  After a moment's reflection he went back into the hall to get his

  hat. It was possible that she might have been afraid of discovery

  if she staid in the library, and that she might have gone on to

  the summer-house by herself.

  If she was not to be found in the summer-house, the quieting of

  Blanche's mind and the clearing up of her uncle's suspicions

  alike depended on discovering the place in which Miss Silvester

  had taken refuge. In this case time would be of importance, and

  the capacity of making the most of it would be a precious

  capacity at starting. Arriving rapidly at these conclusions, Sir

  Patrick rang the bell in the hall which communicated with the

  servants' offices, and summoned his own valet--a person of tried

  discretion and fidelity, nearly as old as himself.

  "Get your hat, Duncan," he said, when the valet appeared, "and

  come out with me."

  Master and servant set forth together silently on their way

  through the grounds. Arrived within sight of the summer-house,

  Sir Patrick ordered Duncan to wait, and went on by himself.

  There was not the least need for the precaution that he had

  taken. The summer-house was as empty as the library. He stepped

  out again and looked about him. Not a living creature was

  visible. Sir Patrick summoned his servant to join him.

  "Go back to the stables, Duncan," he said, "and say that Miss

  Lundie lends me her pony-carriage to-day. Let it be got ready at

  once and kept in the stable-yard. I want to attract as little

  notice as possible. You are to go with me, and nobody else.

  Provide yourself with a railway time-table. Have you got any

  money?"

  "Yes, Sir Patrick."

  "Did you happen to see the governess (Miss Silvester) on the day

  when we came here--the day of the lawn-party?"

  "I did, Sir Patrick."

  "Should you know her again?"

  "I thought her a very distinguished-looking person, Sir Patrick.

  I should certainly know her again."

  "Have you any reason to think she noticed you?"

  "She never even looked at me,

  Sir Patrick."

  "Very good. Put a change of linen into your bag, Duncan--I may

  possibly want you to take a journey by railway. Wait for me in

  the stable-yard. This is a matter in which every thing is trusted

  to my discretion, and to yours."

  "Thank you, Sir Patrick."

  With that acknowledgment of the compliment which had been just

  paid to him, Duncan gravely went his way to the stables; and

  Duncan's master returned to the summer-house, to wait there until

  he was joined by Blanche.

  Sir Patrick showed signs of failing patience during the interval

  of expectation through which he was now condemned to pass. He

  applied perpetually to the snuff-box in the knob of his cane. He

  fidgeted incessantly in and out of the summer-house. Anne's

  disappearance had placed a serious obstacle in the way of further

  discovery; and there was no attacking that obstacle, until

  precious time had been wasted in waiting to see Blanche.

  At last she appeared in view, from the steps of the summer-house;

  breathless and eager, hasting to the place of meeting as fast as

  her feet would take her to it.

  Sir Patrick considerately advanced, to spare her the shock of

  making the inevitable discovery. "Blanche," he said. "Try to

  prepare yourself, my dear, for a disappointment. I am alone."

  "You don't mean that you have let her go?"

  "My poor child! I have never seen her at all."

  Blanche pushed by him, and ran into the summer-house. Sir Patrick

  followed her. She came out again to meet him, with a look of

  blank despair. "Oh, uncle! I did so truly pity her! And see how

  little pity she has for _me!_"

  Sir Patrick put his arm round his niece, and softly patted the

  fair young head that dropped on his shoulder.

  "Don't let us judge her harshly, my dear: we don't know what

  serious necessity may not plead her excuse. It is plain that she

  can trust nobody--and that she only consented to see me to get

  you out of the room and spare you the pain of parting. Compose

  yourself, Blanche. I don't despair of discovering where she has

  gone, if you will help me."

  Blanche lifted her head, and dried her tears bravely.

  "My father himself wasn't kinder to me than you are," she said.

  "Only tell me, uncle, what I can do!"

  "I want to hear exactly what happened in the library," said Sir

  Patrick. "Forget nothing, my dear child, no matter how trifling

  it may be. Trifles are precious to us, and minutes are precious

  to us, now."

  Blanche followed her instructions to the letter, her uncle

  listening with the closest attention. When she had completed her

  narrative, Sir Patrick suggested leaving the summer-house. "I

  have ordered your chaise," he said; "and I can tell you what I

  propose doing on our way to the stable-yard."

  "Let me drive you, uncle!"

  "Forgive me, my dear, for saying No to that. Your step-mother's

  suspicions are very easily excited--and you had better not be

  seen with me if my inquiries take me to the Craig Fernie inn. I

  promise, if you will remain here, to tell you every thing when I

  come back. Join the others in any plan they have for the

  afternoon--and you will prevent my absence from exciting any

  thing more than a passing remark. You will do as I tell you?

  That's a good girl! Now you shall hear how I propose to search

  for this poor lady, and how your l
ittle story has helped me."

  He paused, considering with himself whether he should begin by

  telling Blanche of his consultation with Geoffrey. Once more, he

  decided that question in the negative. Better to still defer

  taking her into his confidence until he had performed the errand

  of investigation on which he was now setting forth.

  "What you have told me, Blanche, divides itself, in my mind, into

  two heads," began Sir Patrick. "There is what happened in the

  library before your own eyes; and there is what Miss Silvester

  told you had happened at the inn. As to the event in the library

  (in the first place), it is too late now to inquire whether that

  fainting-fit was the result, as you say, of mere exhaustion--or

  whether it was the result of something that occurred while you

  were out of the room."

  "What could have happened while I was out of the room?"

  "I know no more than you do, my dear. It is simply one of the

  possibilities in the case, and, as such, I notice it. To get on

  to what practically concerns us; if Miss Silvester is in delicate

  health it is impossible that she could get, unassisted, to any

  great distance from Windygates. She may have taken refuge in one

  of the cottages in our immediate neighborhood. Or she may have

  met with some passing vehicle from one of the farms on its way to

  the station, and may have asked the person driving to give her a

  seat in it. Or she may have walked as far as she can, and may

  have stopped to rest in some sheltered place, among the lanes to

  the south of this house."

  "I'll inquire at the cottages, uncle, while you are gone."

  "My dear child, there must be a dozen cottages, at least, within

  a circle of one mile from Windygates! Your inquiries would

  probably occupy you for the whole afternoon. I won't ask what

  Lady Lundie would think of your being away all that time by

  yourself. I will only remind you of two things. You would be

  making a public matter of an investigation which it is essential

  to pursue as privately as possible; and, even if you happened to

  hit on the right cottage your inquiries would be completely

  baffled, and you would discover nothing."

  "Why not?"

  "I know the Scottish peasant better than you do, Blanche. In his

  intelligence and his sense of self-respect he is a very different

  being from the English peasant. He would receive you civilly,

  because you are a young lady; but he would let you see, at the

  same time, that he considered you had taken advantage of the

  difference between your position and his position to commit an

  intrusion. And if Miss Silvester had appealed, in confidence, to

  his hospitality, and if he had granted it, no power on earth

  would induce him to tell any person living that she was under his

  roof--without her express permission."

  "But, uncle, if it's of no use making inquiries of any body, how

  are we to find her?"

  "I don't say that nobody will answer our inquiries, my dear--I

  only say the peasantry won't answer them, if your friend has

  trusted herself to their protection. The way to find her is to

  look on, beyond what Miss Silvester may be doing at the present

  moment, to what Miss Silvester contemplates doing--let us say,

  before the day is out. We may assume, I think (after what has

  happened), that, as soon as she can leave this neighborhood, she

  assuredly will leave it. Do you agree, so far?"

  "Yes! yes! Go on."

  "Very well. She is a woman, and she is (to say the least of it)

  not strong. She can only leave this neighborhood either by hiring

  a vehicle or by traveling on the railway. I propose going first

  to the station. At the rate at which your pony gets over the

  ground, there is a fair chance, in spite of the time we have

  lost, of my being there as soon as she is--assuming that she

  leaves by the first train, up or down, that passes."