physician from the neighboring town of Kirkandrew was called in.
The physician came in a carriage and pair, with the necessary
bald head, and the indispensable white cravat. He felt her
ladyship's pulse, and put a few gentle questions. He turned his
back solemnly, as only a great doctor can, on his own positive
internal conviction that his patient had nothing whatever the
matter with her. He said, with every appearance of believing in
himself, "Nerves, Lady Lundie. Repose in bed is essentially
necessary. I will write a prescription." He prescribed, with
perfect gravity: Aromatic Spirits of Ammonia--16 drops. Spirits
of Red Lavender--10 drops. Syrup of Orange Peel--2 drams. Camphor
Julep--1 ounce. When he had written, Misce fiat Hanstus (instead
of Mix a Draught)--when he had added, Ter die Sumendus (instead
of To be taken Three times a day)--and when he had certified to
his own Latin, by putting his initials at the end, he had only to
make his bow; to slip two guineas into his pocket; and to go his
way, with an approving professional conscience, in the character
of a physician who had done his duty.
Lady Lundie was in bed. The visible part of her ladyship was
perfectly attired, with a view to the occasion. A fillet of
superb white lace encircled her head. She wore an adorable
invalid jacket of white cambric, trimmed with lace and pink
ribbons. The rest was--bed-clothes. On a table at her side stood
the Red Lavender Draught--in color soothing to the eye; in flavor
not unpleasant to the taste. A book of devotional character was
near it. The domestic ledgers, and the kitchen report for the
day, were ranged modestly behind the devout book. (Not even her
ladyship's nerves, observe, were permitted to interfere with her
ladyship's duty.) A fan, a smelling-bottle, and a handkerchief
lay within reach on the counterpane. The spacious room was
partially darkened. One of the lower windows was open, affording
her ladyship the necessary cubic supply of air. The late Sir
Thomas looked at his widow, in effigy, from the wall opposite the
end of the bed. Not a chair was out of its place; not a vestige
of wearing apparel dared to show itself outside the sacred limits
of the wardrobe and the drawers. The sparkling treasures of the
toilet-table glittered in the dim distance, The jugs and basins
were of a rare and creamy white; spotless and beautiful to see.
Look where you might, you saw a perfect room. Then look at the
bed--and you saw a perfect woman, and completed the picture.
It was the day after Anne's appearance at Swanhaven--toward the
end of the afternoon.
Lady Lundie's own maid opened the door noiselessly, and stole on
tip-toe to the bedside. Her ladyship's eyes were closed. Her
ladyship suddenly opened them.
"Not asleep, Hopkins. Suffering. What is it?"
Hopkins laid two cards on the counterpane. "Mrs. Delamayn, my
lady--and Mrs. Glenarm."
"They were told I was ill, of course?"
"Yes, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm sent for me. She went into the
library, and wrote this note." Hopkins produced the note, neatly
folded in three-cornered form.
"Have they gone?"
"No, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm told me Yes or No would do for answer,
if you could only have the goodness to read this."
"Thoughtless of Mrs. Glenarm--at a time when the doctor insists
on perfect repose," said Lady Lundie. "It doesn't matter. One
sacrifice more or less is of very little consequence."
She fortified herself by an application of the smelling-bottle,
and opened the note. It ran thus:
"So grieved, dear Lady Lundie, to hear that you are a prisoner in
your room! I had taken the opportunity of calling with Mrs.
Delamayn, in the hope that I might be able to ask you a question.
Will your inexhaustible kindness forgive me if I ask it in
writing? Have you had any unexpected news of Mr. Arnold
Brinkworth lately? I mean, have you heard any thing about him,
which has taken you very much by surprise? I have a serious
reason for asking this. I will tell you what it is, the moment
you are able to see me. Until then, one word of answer is all I
expect. Send word down--Yes, or No. A thousand apologies--and
pray get better soon!"
The singular question contained in this note suggested one of two
inferences to Lady Lundie's mind. Either Mrs. Glenarm had heard a
report of the unexpected return of the married couple to
England--or she was in the far more interesting and important
position of possessing a clew to the secret of what was going on
under the surface at Ham Farm. The phrase used in the note, "I
have a serious reason for asking this," appeared to favor the
latter of the two interpretations. Impossible as it seemed to be
that Mrs. Glenarm could know something about Arnold of which Lady
Lundie was in absolute ignorance, her ladyship's curiosity
(already powerfully excited by Blanche's mysterious letter) was
only to be quieted by obtaining the necessary explanation
forthwith, at a personal interview.
"Hopkins," she said, "I must see Mrs. Glenarm."
Hopkins respectfully held up her hands in horror. Company in the
bedroom in the present state of her ladyship's health!
"A matter of duty is involved in this, Hopkins. Give me the
glass."
Hopkins produced an elegant little hand-mirror. Lady Lundie
carefully surveyed herself in it down to the margin of the
bedclothes. Above criticism in every respect? Yes--even when the
critic was a woman.
"Show Mrs. Glenarm up here."
In a minute or two more the iron-master's widow fluttered into
the room--a little over-dressed as usual; and a little profuse in
expressions of gratitude for her ladyship's kindness, and of
anxiety about her ladyship's health. Lady Lundie endured it as
long as she could--then stopped it with a gesture of polite
remonstrance, and came to the point.
"Now, my dear--about this question in your note? Is it possible
you have heard already that Arnold Brinkworth and his wife have
come back from Baden?" Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in
astonishment. Lady Lundie put it more plainly. "They were to have
gone on to Switzerland, you know, for their wedding tour, and
they suddenly altered their minds, and came back to England on
Sunday last."
"Dear Lady Lundie, it's not that! Have you heard nothing about
Mr. Brinkworth except what you have just told me?"
"Nothing."
There was a pause. Mrs. Glenarm toyed hesitatingly with her
parasol. Lady Lundie leaned forward in the bed, and looked at her
attentively.
"What have _you_ heard about him?" she asked.
Mrs. Glenarm was embarrassed. "It's so difficult to say," she
began.
"I can bear any thing but suspense," said Lady Lundie. "Tell me
the worst."
Mrs. Glenarm decided to risk it. "Have you never heard," she
asked, "that Mr. Brinkworth might possibly have committed himself
with another
lady before he married Miss Lundie?"
Her ladyship first closed her eyes in horror and then searched
blindly on the counterpane for the smelling-bottle. Mrs. Glenarm
gave it to her, and waited to see how the invalid bore it before
she said any more.
"There are things one _must_ hear," remarked Lady Lundie. "I see
an act of duty involved in this. No words can describe how you
astonish me. Who told you?"
"Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn told me."
Her ladyship applied for the second time to the smelling-bottle.
"Arnold Brinkworth's most intimate friend!" she exclaimed. "He
ought to know if any body does. This is dreadful. Why should Mr.
Geoffrey Delamayn tell _you?_"
"I am going to marry him," answered Mrs. Glenarm. "That is my
excuse, dear Lady Lundie, for troubling you in this matter."
Lady Lundie partially opened her eyes in a state of faint
bewilderment. "I don't understand," she said. "For Heaven's sake
explain yourself!"
"Haven't you heard about the anonymous letters?" asked Mrs.
Glenarm.
Yes. Lady Lundie had heard about the letters. But only what the
public in general had heard. The name of the lady in the
background not mentioned; and Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn assumed to be
as innocent as the babe unborn. Any mistake in that assumption?
"Give me your hand, my poor dear, and confide it all to _me!_"
"He is not quite innocent," said Mrs. Glenarm. "He owned to a
foolish flirtation--all _her_ doing, no doubt. Of course, I
insisted on a distinct explanation. Had she really any claim on
him? Not the shadow of a claim. I felt that I only had his word
for that--and I told him so. He said he could prove it--he said
he knew her to be privately married already. Her husband had
disowned and deserted her; she was at the end of her resources;
she was desperate enough to attempt any thing. I thought it all
very suspicious--until Geoffrey mentioned the man's name. _That_
certainly proved that he had cast off his wife; for I myself knew
that he had lately married another person."
Lady Lundie suddenly started up from her pillow--honestly
agitated; genuinely alarmed by this time.
"Mr. Delamayn told you the man's name?" she said, breathlessly.
"Yes."
"Do I know it?"
"Don't ask me!"
Lady Lundie fell back on the pillow.
Mrs. Glenarm rose to ring for help. Before she could touch the
bell, her ladyship had rallied again.
"Stop!" she cried. "I can confirm it! It's true, Mrs. Glenarm!
it's true! Open the silver box on the toilet-table--you will find
the key in it. Bring me the top letter. Here! Look at it. I got
this from Blanche. Why have they suddenly given up their bridal
tour? Why have they gone back to Sir Patrick at Ham Farm? Why
have they put me off with an infamous subterfuge to account for
it? I felt sure something dreadful had happened. Now I know what
it is!" She sank back again, with closed eyes, and repeated the
words, in a fierce whisper, to herself. "Now I know what it is!"
Mrs. Glenarm read the letter. The reason given for the
suspiciously sudden return of the bride and bridegroom was
palpably a subterfuge--and, more remarkable still, the name of
Anne Silvester was connected with it. Mrs. Glenarm became
strongly agitated on her side.
"This _is_ a confirmation," she said. "Mr. Brinkworth has been
found out--the woman _is_ married to him--Geoffrey is free. Oh,
my dear friend, what a load of anxiety you have taken off my
mind! That vile wretch--"
Lady Lundie suddenly opened her eyes.
"Do you mean," she asked, "the woman who is at the bottom of all
the mischief?"
"Yes. I saw her yesterday. She forced herself in at Swanhaven.
She called him Geoffrey Delamayn. She declared herself a single
woman. She claimed him before my face in the most audacious
manner. She shook my faith, Lady Lundie--she shook my faith in
Geoffrey!"
"Who is she?"
"Who?" echoed Mrs. Glenarm. "Don't you even know that? Why her
name is repeated half a dozen times in this letter!"
Lady Lundie uttered a scream that rang through the room. Mrs.
Glenarm started to her feet. The maid appeared at the door in
terror. Her ladyship motioned to the woman to withdraw again
instantly, and then pointed to Mrs. Glenarm's chair.
"Sit down," she said. "Let me have a minute or two of quiet. I
want nothing more."
The silence in the room was unbroken until Lady Lundie spoke
again. She asked for Blanche's letter. After reading it
carefully, she laid it aside, and fell for a while into deep
thought.
"I have done Blanche an injustice!" she exclaimed. "My poor
Blanche!"
"You think she knows nothing about it?"
"I am certain of it! You forget, Mrs. Glenarm, that this horrible
discovery casts a doubt on my step-daughter's marriage. Do you
think, if she knew the truth, she would write of a wretch who has
mortally injured her as she writes here? They have put her off
with the excuse that she innocently sends to _me._ I see it as
plainly as I see you! Mr. Brinkworth and Sir Patrick are in
league to keep us both in the dark. Dear child! I owe her an
atonement. If nobody else opens her eyes, I will do it. Sir
Patrick shall find that Blanche has a friend in Me!"
A smile--the dangerous smile of an inveterately vindictive woman
thoroughly roused--showed itself with a furtive suddenness on her
face. Mrs. Glenarm was a little startled. Lady Lundie below the
surface--as distinguished from Lady Lundie _on_ the surface--was
not a pleasant object to contemplate.
"Pray try to compose yourself," said Mrs. Glenarm. "Dear Lady
Lundie, you frighten me!"
The bland surface of her ladyship appeared smoothly once more;
drawn back, as it were, over the hidden inner self, which it had
left for the moment exposed to view.
"Forgive me for feeling it!" she said, with the patient sweetness
which so eminently distinguished her in times of trial. "It falls
a little heavily on a poor sick woman--innocent of all suspicion,
and insulted by the most heartless neglect. Don't let me distress
you. I shall rally, my dear; I shall rally! In this dreadful
calamity--this abyss of crime and misery and deceit--I have no
one to depend on but myself. For Blanche's sake, the whole thing
must be cleared up--probed, my dear, probed to the depths.
Blanche must take a position that is worthy of her. Blanche must
insist on her rights, under My protection. Never mind what I
suffer, or what I sacrifice. There is a work of justice for poor
weak Me to do. It shall be done!" said her ladyship, fanning
herself with an aspect of illimitable resolution. "It shall be
done!"
"But, Lady Lundie what can you do? They are all away in the
south. And as for that abominable woman--"
Lady Lundie touched Mrs. Glenarm on the shoulder with her fan.
"I have my surprise in store, dear friend, a
s well as you. That
abominable woman was employed as Blanche's governess in this
house. Wait! that is not all. She left us suddenly--ran away--on
the pretense of being privately married. I know where she went. I
can trace what she did. I can find out who was with her. I can
follow Mr. Brinkworth's proceedings, behind Mr. Brinkworth's
back. I can search out the truth, without depending on people
compromised in this black business, whose interest it is to
deceive me. And I will do it to-day!" She closed the fan with a
sharp snap of t riumph, and settled herself on the pillow in
placid enjoyment of her dear friend's surprise.
Mrs. Glenarm drew confidentially closer to the bedside. "How can
you manage it?" she asked, eagerly. "Don't think me curious. I
have my interest, too, in getting at the truth. Don't leave me
out of it, pray!"
"Can you come back to-morrow, at this time?"
"Yes! yes!"
"Come, then--and you shall know."
"Can I be of any use?"
"Not at present."
"Can my uncle be of any use?"
"Do you know where to communicate with Captain Newenden?"
"Yes--he is staying with some friends in Sussex."
"We may possibly want his assistance. I can't tell yet. Don't
keep Mrs. Delamayn waiting any longer, my dear. I shall expect
you to-morrow."
They exchanged an affectionate embrace. Lady Lundie was left
alone.
Her ladyship resigned herself to meditation, with frowning brow
and close-shut lips. She looked her full age, and a year or two
more, as she lay thinking, with her head on her hand, and her
elbow on the pillow. After committing herself to the physician
(and to the red lavender draught) the commonest regard for
consistency made it necessary that she should keep her bed for
that day. And yet it was essential that the proposed inquiries
should be instantly set on foot. On the one hand, the problem was
not an easy one to solve; on the other, her ladyship was not an
easy one to beat. How to send for the landlady at Craig Fernie,
without exciting any special suspicion or remark--was the
question before her. In less than five minutes she had looked
back into her memory of current events at Windygates--and had
solved it.
Her first proceeding was to ring the bell for her maid.
"I am afraid I frightened you, Hopkins. The state of my nerves.
Mrs. Glenarm was a little sudden with some news that surprised
me. I am better now--and able to attend to the household matters.
There is a mistake in the butcher's account. Send the cook here."
She took up the domestic ledger and the kitchen report; corrected
the butcher; cautioned the cook; and disposed of all arrears of
domestic business before Hopkins was summoned again. Having, in
this way, dextrously prevented the woman from connecting any
thing that her mistress said or did, after Mrs. Glenarm's
departure, with any thing that might have passed during Mrs.
Glenarm's visit, Lady Lundie felt herself at liberty to pave the
way for the investigation on which she was determined to enter
before she slept that night.
"So much for the indoor arrangements," she said. "You must be my
prime minister, Hopkins, while I lie helpless here. Is there any
thing wanted by the people out of doors? The coachman? The
gardener?"
"I have just seen the gardener, my lady. He came with last week's
accounts. I told him he couldn't see your ladyship to-day."
"Quite right. Had he any report to make?"
"No, my lady."
"Surely, there was something I wanted to say to him--or to
somebody else? My memorandum-book, Hopkins. In the basket, on
that chair. Why wasn't the basket placed by my bedside?"
Hopkins brought the memorandum-book. Lady Lundie consulted it
(without the slightest necessity), with the same masterly gravity