THE many-toned murmur of the current of London life--flowingthrough the murky channel of Drury Lane--found its muffled wayfrom the front room to the back. Piles of old music lumbered thedusty floor. Stage masks and weapons, and portraits of singersand dancers, hung round the walls. An empty violin case in onecorner faced a broken bust of Rossini in another. A framelessprint, representing the Trial of Queen Caroline, was pasted overthe fireplace. The chairs were genuine specimens of ancientcarving in oak. The table was an equally excellent example ofdirty modern deal. A small morsel of drugget was on the floor;and a large deposit of soot was on the ceiling. The scene thuspresented, revealed itself in the back drawing-room of a house inDrury Lane, devoted to the transaction of musical and theatricalbusiness of the humbler sort. It was late in the afternoon, onMichaelmas-day. Two persons were seated together in the room:they were Anne Silvester and Sir Patrick Lundie.

The opening conversation between them--comprising, on one side,the narrative of what had happened at Perth and at Swanhaven;and, on the other, a statement of the circumstances attending theseparation of Arnold and Blanche--had come to an end. It restedwith Sir Patrick to lead the way to the next topic. He looked athis companion, and hesitated.

"Do you feel strong enough to go on?" he asked. "If you wouldprefer to rest a little, pray say so."

"Thank you, Sir Patrick. I am more than ready, I a m eager, to goon. No words can say how anxious I feel to be of some use to you,if I can. It rests entirely with your experience to show me how."

"I can only do that, Miss Silvester, by asking you withoutceremony for all the information that I want. Had you any objectin traveling to London, which you have not mentioned to me yet? Imean, of course, any object with which I hare a claim (as ArnoldBrinkworth's representative) to be acquainted?"

"I had an object, Sir Patrick. And I have failed to accomplishit."

"May I ask what it was?"

"It was to see Geoffrey Delamayn."

Sir Patrick started. "You have attempted to see _him!_ When?"

"This morning."

"Why, you only arrived in London last night!"

"I only arrived," said Anne, "after waiting many days on thejourney. I was obliged to rest at Edinburgh, and again atYork--and I was afraid I had given Mrs. Glenarm time enough toget to Geoffrey Delamayn before me."

"Afraid?" repeated Sir Patrick. "I understood that you had noserious intention of disputing the scoundrel with Mrs. Glenarm.What motive could possibly have taken you _his_ way?"

"The same motive which took me to Swanhaven."

"What! the idea that it rested with Delamayn to set things right?and that you might bribe him to do it, by consenting to releasehim, so far as your claims were concerned?"

"Bear with my folly, Sir Patrick, as patiently as you can! I amalways alone now; and I get into a habit of brooding over things.I have been brooding over the position in which my misfortuneshave placed Mr. Brinkworth. I have been obstinate--unreasonablyobstinate--in believing that I could prevail with GeoffreyDelamayn, after I had failed with Mrs. Glenarm. I am obstinateabout it still. If he would only have heard me, my madness ingoing to Fulham might have had its excuse." She sighed bitterly,and said no more.

Sir Patrick took her hand.

"It _has_ its excuse," he said, kindly. "Your motive is beyondreproach. Let me add--to quiet your mind--that, even if Delamaynhad been willing to hear you, and had accepted the condition, theresult would still have been the same. You are quite wrong insupposing that he has only to speak, and to set this matterright. It has passed entirely beyond his control. The mischiefwas done when Arnold Brinkworth spent those unlucky hours withyou at Craig Fernie."

"Oh, Sir Patrick, if I had only known that, before I went toFulham this morning!"

She shuddered as she said the words. Something was plainlyassociated with her visit to Geoffrey, the bare remembrance ofwhich shook her nerves. What was it? Sir Patrick resolved toobtain an answer to that question, before be ventured onproceeding further with the main object of the interview.

"You have told me your reason for going to Fulham," he said. "ButI have not heard what happened there yet."

Anne hesitated. "Is it necessary for me to trouble you aboutthat?" she asked--with evident reluctance to enter on thesubject.

"It is absolutely necessary," answered Sir Patrick, "becauseDelamayn is concerned in it."

Anne summoned her resolution, and entered on her narrative inthese words:

"The person who carries on the business here discovered theaddress for me," she began. "I had some difficulty, however, infinding the house. It is little more than a cottage; and it isquite lost in a great garden, surrounded by high walls. I saw acarriage waiting. The coachman was walking his horses up anddown--and he showed me the door. It was a high wooden door in thewall, with a grating in it. I rang the bell. A servant-girlopened the grating, and looked at me. She refused to let me in.Her mistress had ordered her to close the door on allstrangers--especially strangers who were women. I contrived topass some money to her through the grating, and asked to speak toher mistress. After waiting some time, I saw another face behindthe bars--and it struck me that I recognized it. I suppose I wasnervous. It startled me. I said, 'I think we know each other.'There was no answer. The door was suddenly opened--and who do youthink stood before me?"

"Was it somebody I know?"

"Yes."

"Man? or woman?"

"It was Hester Dethridge."

"Hester Dethridge!"

"Yes. Dressed just as usual, and looking just as usual--with herslate hanging at her side."

"Astonishing! Where did I last see her? At the Windygatesstation, to be sure--going to London, after she had left mysister-in-law's service. Has she accepted another place--withoutletting me know first, as I told her?"

"She is living at Fulham."

"In service?"

"No. As mistress of her own house."

"What! Hester Dethridge in possession of a house of her own?Well! well! why shouldn't she have a rise in the world like otherpeople? Did she let you in?"

"She stood for some time looking at me, in that dull strange waythat she has. The servants at Windygates always said she was notin her right mind--and you will say, Sir Patrick, when you hearwhat happened, that the servants were not mistaken. She must bemad. I said, 'Don't you remember me?' She lifted her slate, andwrote, 'I remember you, in a dead swoon at Windygates House.' Iwas quite unaware that she had been present when I fainted in thelibrary. The discovery startled me--or that dreadful, dead-coldlook that she has in her eyes startled me--I don't know which. Icouldn't speak to her just at first. She wrote on her slateagain--the strangest question--in these words: 'I said, at thetime, brought to it by a man. Did I say true?' If the questionhad been put in the usual way, by any body else, I should haveconsidered it too insolent to be noticed. Can you understand myanswering it, Sir Patrick? I can't understand it myself, now--andyet 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. Mynerves are broken; my courage is gone. I crept with cold when shetouched me. She dropped my arm. I stood like a child, waiting forwhat it pleased her to say or do next. She rested her two handson her sides, and took a long look at me. She made a horrid dumbsound--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 ithad been any body but Hester Dethridge. Do you understand it?"

"Not yet. Let me get nearer to understanding it by askingsomething 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 justbefore. 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 thewords were these: 'Tell me how he served you, did he knock youdown?' Most people would have laughed at the question. _I_ wasstartled by it. I told her, No. She shook her head as if shedidn't believe me. She wrote on her slate, 'We are loth to own itwhen 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 enoughover myself to decline telling her that. She opened the door, andpointed to me to go out. I made a sign entreating her to wait alittle. She went back, in her impenetrable way, to the writing onthe slate--still about the 'man.' This time, the question wasplainer still. She had evidently placed her own interpretation ofmy appearance at the house. She wrote, 'Is it the man who lodgeshere?' I saw that she would close the door on me if I didn'tanswer. My only chance with her was to own that she had guessedright. 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 rememberhearing, in my brother's time, that she had been brutallyill-used by her husband. The association of id eas, even in _her_confused brain, becomes plain, if you bear that in mind. What isher last remembrance of you? It is the remembrance of a faintingwoman at Windygates."

"Yes."

"She makes you acknowledge that she has guessed right, inguessing that a man was, in some way, answerable for thecondition in which she found you. A swoon produced by a shockindicted on the mind, is a swoon that she doesn't understand. Shelooks back into her own experience, and associates it with theexercise of actual physical brutality on the part of the man. Andshe sees, in you, a reflection of her own sufferings and her owncase. It's curious--to a student of human nature. And itexplains, what is otherwise unintelligible--her overlooking herown 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. Shemade signs, offering me tea. It was done in the strangestway--without the least appearance of kindness. After what youhave just said to me, I think I can in some degree interpret whatwas going on in her mind. I believe she felt a hard-heartedinterest in seeing a woman whom she supposed to be as unfortunateas she had once been herself. I declined taking any tea, andtried to return to the subject of what I wanted in the house. Shepaid no heed to me. She pointed round the room; and then took meto a window, and pointed round the garden--and then made a signindicating herself. 'My house; and my garden'--that was what shemeant. There were four men in the garden--and Geoffrey Delamaynwas one of them. I made another attempt to tell her that I wantedto speak to him. But, no! She had her own idea in her mind. Afterbeckoning to me to leave the window, she led the way to thefire-place, and showed me a sheet of paper with writing on it,framed and placed under a glass, and hung on the wall. Sheseemed, I thought, to feel some kind of pride in her framedmanuscript. At any rate, she insisted on my reading it. It was anextract from a will."

"The will under which she had inherited the house?"

"Yes. Her brother's will. It said, that he regretted, on hisdeath-bed, his estrangement from his only sister, dating from thetime when she had married in defiance of his wishes and againsthis advice. As a proof of his sincere desire to be reconciledwith her, before he died, and as some compensation for thesufferings that she had endured at the hands of her deceasedhusband, 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 SirPatrick. "Taking her odd character into consideration, Iunderstand her liking it to be seen. What puzzles me, is herletting lodgings with an income of her own to live on."

"That was the very question which I put to her myself. I wasobliged to be cautious, and to begin by asking about the lodgersfirst--the men being still visible out in the garden, to excusethe inquiry. The rooms to let in the house had (as I understoodher) been taken by a person acting for Geoffrey Delamayn--histrainer, I presume. He had surprised Hester Dethridge by barelynoticing the house, and showing the most extraordinary interestin the garden."

"That is quite intelligible, Miss Silvester. The garden you havedescribed would be just the place he wanted for the exercises ofhis employer--plenty of space, and well secured from observationby the high walls all round. What next?"

"Next, I got to the question of why she should let her house inlodgings at all. When I asked her that, her face turned harderthan ever. She answered me on her slate in these dismal words: 'Ihave not got a friend in the world. I dare not live alone.' Therewas 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 hermind; she opened the door for me herself. Passing the window ofthe room in which I had left her, I looked back. She had takenher place, at a table before the window, apparently watching forwhat might happen. There was something about her, as her eyes metmine (I can't say what), which made me feel uneasy at the time.Adopting your view, I am almost inclined to think now, horrid asthe idea is, that she had the expectation of seeing me treated as_she_ had been treated in former days. It was actually a reliefto me--though I knew I was going to run a serious risk--to losesight of her. As I got nearer to the men in the garden, I heardtwo of them talking very earnestly to Geoffrey Delamayn. Thefourth person, an elderly gentleman, stood apart from the rest atsome little distance. I kept as far as I could out of sight,waiting till the talk was over. It was impossible for me to helphearing it. The two men were trying to persuade Geoffrey Delamaynto speak to the elderly gentleman. They pointed to him as afamous medical man. They reiterated over and over again, that hisopinion was well worth having--"

Sir Patrick interrupted her. "Did they mention his name?" heasked.

"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 thathe was in broken health, when we were visiting together atWindygates House last month. Did he do as the other men wishedhim? Did he speak to the surgeon?"

"No. He sulkily refused--he remembered what you remember. Hesaid, 'See the man who told me I was broken down?--not I!' Afterconfirming it with an oath, he turned away from the others.Unfortunately, he took the direction in which I was standing, anddiscovered me. The bare sight of me seemed to throw him instantlyinto a state of frenzy. He--it is impossible for me to repeat thelanguage that he used: it is bad enough to have heard it. Ibelieve, Sir Patrick, but for the two men, who ran up and laidhold of him, that Hester Dethridge would have seen what sheexpected 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 tremblewhen I think of it. One of the men who had restrained him wasalmost as brutal, in his way. He declared, in the foulestlanguage, that if Delamayn had a fit, he would lose the race, andthat I should be answerable for it. But for Mr. Speedwell, Idon't know what I should have done. He came forward directly.'This is no place either for you, or for me,' he said--and gaveme his arm, and led me back to the house. Hester Dethridge met usin the passage, and lifted her hand to stop me. Mr. Speedwellasked her what she wanted. She looked at me, and then lookedtoward the garden, and made the motion of striking a blow withher clenched fist. For the first time in my experience of her--Ihope it was my fancy--I thought I saw her smile. Mr. Speedwelltook me out. 'They are well matched in that house,' he said. 'Thewoman is as complete a savage as the men.' The carriage which Ihad seen waiting at the door was his. He called it up, andpolitely offered me a place in it. I said I would only trespasson his kindness as far as to the railway station. While we weretalking, Hester Dethridge followed us to the door. She made thesame motion again with her clenched hand, and looked back towardthe garden--and then looked at me, and nodded her head, as muchas to say, 'He will do it yet!' No words can describe how glad Iwas to see the last of her. I hope and trust I shall never seteyes on her again!"

"Did you hear how Mr. Speedwell came to be at the house? Had hegone of his own accord? or had he been sent for?"

"He had been sent for. I ventured to speak to him about thepersons whom I had seen in the garden. Mr. Speedwell explainedeverything which I was not able of myself to understand, in thekindest manner. One of the two strange men in the garden was thetrainer; the other was a doctor, whom the trainer was usually inthe habit of consulting. It seems that the real reason for theirbringing Geof frey Delamayn away from Scotland when they did, wasthat the trainer was uneasy, and wanted to be near London formedical advice. The doctor, on being consulted, owned that he wasat 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 whatwould happen, at Windygates. All he said was, 'I had met Mr.Delamayn in society, and I felt interest enough in the case topay 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 seriousmischief. What the symptoms were I did not hear. Mr. Speedwellonly spoke of changes for the worse in him which a woman would belikely to understand. At one time, he would be so dull andheedless that nothing could rouse him. At another, he flew intothe most terrible passions without any apparent cause. Thetrainer had found it almost impossible (in Scotland) to keep himto the right diet; and the doctor had only sanctioned taking thehouse at Fulham, after being first satisfied, not only of theconvenience of the garden, but also that Hester Dethridge couldbe thoroughly trusted as a cook. With her help, they had placedhim on an entirely new diet. But they had found an unexpecteddifficulty even in doing that. When the trainer took him to thenew lodgings, it turned out that he had seen Hester Dethridge atWindygates, and had taken the strongest prejudice against her. Onseeing her again at Fulham, he appeared to be absolutelyterrified."

"Terrified? Why?"

"Nobody knows why. The trainer and the doctor together could onlyprevent his leaving the house, by threatening to throw up theresponsibility of preparing him for the race, unless he instantlycontrolled himself, and behaved like a man instead of a child.Since that time, he has become reconciled, little by little, tohis new abode--partly through Hester Dethridge's caution inkeeping herself always out of his way; and partly through his ownappreciation of the change in his diet, which Hester's skill incookery has enabled the doctor to make. Mr. Speedwell mentionedsome things which I have forgotten. I can only repeat, SirPatrick, the result at which he has arrived in his own mind.Coming from a man of his authority, the opinion seems to me to bestartling in the last degree. If Geoffrey Delamayn runs in therace 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 beforehe spoke again.

"We have not wasted our time," he said, "in dwelling on whathappened during your visit to Fulham. The possibility of thisman's death suggests to my mind serious matter for consideration.It is very desirable, in the interests of my niece and herhusband, that I should be able to foresee, if I can, how a fatalresult of the race might affect the inquiry which is to be heldon 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 willmeet a person estranged from you, for the present--a friend andsister who has ceased (under Lady Lundie's influence mainly) tofeel as a friend and sister toward you now?"

"I was not quite unprepared, Sir Patrick, to hear that Blanchehad misjudged me. When I wrote my letter to Mr. Brinkworth, Iwarned him as delicately as I could, that his wife's jealousymight be very easily roused. You may rely on my self-restraint,no matter how hardly it may be tried. Nothing that Blanche cansay or do will alter my grateful remembrance of the past. While Ilive, I love her. Let that assurance quiet any little anxietythat you may have felt as to my conduct--and tell me how I canserve those interests which I have at heart as well as you."

"You can serve them, Miss Silvester, in this way. You can make meacquainted with the position in which you stood toward Delamaynat 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 toldme. 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 whichyou recovered from Bishopriggs, at Perth. I have ascertained fromArnold Brinkworth that the sheet of note-paper stolen from youcontained two letters. One was written by you to Delamayn--theother was written by Delamayn to you. The substance of this lastArnold remembered. Your letter he had not read. It is of theutmost importance, Miss Silvester, to let me see thatcorrespondence 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 thefirst time.

"Will it not be enough," she asked, after an interval, "if I tellyou the substance of my letter, without showing it?"

"It will _not_ be enough," returned Sir Patrick, in the plainestmanner. "I hinted--if you remember--at the propriety of my seeingthe letter, when you first mentioned it, and I observed that youpurposely abstained from understanding me, I am grieved to putyou, on this occasion, to a painful test. But if you _are_ tohelp me at this serious crisis, I have shown you the way."

Anne rose from her chair, and answered by putting the letter intoSir Patrick's hands. "Remember what he has done, since I wrotethat," she said. "And try to excuse me, if I own that I amashamed 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 themurky London view of house roof and chimney, while Sir Patrickopened the letter.

It is necessary to the right appreciation of events, that othereyes besides Sir Patrick's should follow the brief course of thecorrespondence 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 wouldride over from your brother's place, and see me--and I havewaited in vain. Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bearit no longer. Consider! in your own interests, consider--beforeyou drive the miserable woman who has trusted you to despair. Youhave promised me marriage by all that is sacred. I claim yourpromise. I insist on nothing less than to be what you vowed Ishould be--what I have waited all this weary time to be--what I_am,_ in the sight of Heaven, your wedded wife. Lady Lundie givesa lawn-party here on the 14th. I know you have been asked. Iexpect you to accept her invitation. If I don't see you, I won'tanswer for what may happen. My mind is made up to endure thissuspense no longer. Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past! Befaithful--be just--to your loving wife,

"ANNE SILVESTER."

2. _From Geoffrey Delamayn to Anne Silvester._

"DEAR ANNE,--Just called to London to my father. They havetelegraphed him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I willwrite you. Trust the bearer. Upon my soul, I'll keep my promise.Your loving husband that is to be,

"GEOFFREY DELAMAYN.

WINDYGATES HOUSE _Augt._ 14, 4 P. M.

"In a mortal hurry. The train starts 4.30."

Sir Patrick read the correspondence with breathless attention tothe end. At the last lines of the last letter he did what he hadnot done for twenty years past--he sprang to his feet at a bound,and he crossed a room without the help of his ivory cane.

Anne started; and turning round from the window, looked at him insilent surprise. He was under the influence of strong emotion;his face, his voice, his manner, all showed it.

"How long had you been in Scotland, when you wrote this?" Hepointed to Anne's letter as he asked the question, put ting it soeagerly that he stammered over the first words. "More than threeweeks?" he added, with his bright black eyes fixed in absorbinginterest on her face.

"Yes."

"Are you sure of that?"

"I am certain of it."

"You can refer to persons who have seen you?"

"Easily."

He turned the sheet of note-paper, and pointed to Geoffrey'spenciled letter on the fourth page.

"How long had _he_ been in Scotland, when _he_ wrote this? Morethan three weeks, too?"

Anne considered for a moment.

"For God's sake, be careful!" said Sir Patrick. "You don't knowwhat depends on this, If your memory is not clear about it, sayso."

"My memory was confused for a moment. It is clear again now. Hehad been at his brother's in Perthshire three weeks before hewrote that. And before he went to Swanhaven, he spent three orfour days in the valley of the Esk."

"Are you sure again?"

"Quite sure!"

"Do you know of any one who saw him in the valley of the Esk?"

"I know of a person who took a note to him, from me."

"A person easily found?"

"Quite easily."

Sir Patrick laid aside the letter, and seized in ungovernableagitation on both her hands.

"Listen to me," he said. "The whole conspiracy against ArnoldBrinkworth and you falls to the ground before thatcorrespondence. When you and he met at the inn--"

He paused, and looked at her. Her hands were beginning to tremblein his.

"When you and Arnold Brinkworth met at the inn," he resumed, "thelaw of Scotland had made you a married woman. On the day, and atthe hour, when he wrote those lines at the back of your letter tohim, you were _Geoffrey Delamayn's wedded wife!_"

He stopped, and looked at her again.

Without a word in reply, without the slightest movement in herfrom head to foot, she looked back at him. The blank stillness ofhorror was in her face. The deadly cold of horror was in herhands.

In silence, on his side, Sir Patrick drew back a step, with afaint reflection of _her_ dismay in his face. Married--to thevillain who had not hesitated to calumniate the woman whom he hadruined, and then to cast her helpless on the world. Married--tothe traitor who had not shrunk from betraying Arnold's trust inhim, and desolating Arnold's home. Married--to the ruffian whowould have struck her that morning, if the hands of his ownfriends had not held him back. And Sir Patrick had never thoughtof it! Absorbed in the one idea of Blanche's future, he had neverthought of it, till that horror-stricken face looked at him, andsaid, Think of _my_ future, too!

He came back to her. He took her cold hand once more in his.

"Forgive me," he said, "for thinking first of Blanche."

Blanche's name seemed to rouse her. The life came back to herface; the tender brightness began to shine again in her eyes. Hesaw that he might venture to speak more plainly still: he wenton.

"I see the dreadful sacrifice as _you_ see it. I ask myself, haveI any right, has Blanche any right--"

She stopped him by a faint pressure of his hand.

"Yes," she said, softly, "if Blanche's happiness depends on it."