Man and Wife Page 31

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.