Man and Wife Page 55

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 ta
ken

  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 y
our 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