Blanche had mysteriously disappeared from her partners in the dance. Lady Lundie had mysteriously abandoned her guests. Blanche had not come back. Lady Lundie had returned with an artificial smile, and a preoccupied1 manner. She acknowledged that she was “not very well.” The same excuse had been given to account for Blanche’s absence—and, again (some time previously2), to explain Miss Silvester’s withdrawal3 from the croquet! A wit among the gentlemen declared it reminded him of declining a verb. “I am not very well; thou art not very well; she is not very well”—and so on. Sir Patrick too! Only think of the sociable4 Sir Patrick being in a state of seclusion5—pacing up and down by himself in the loneliest part of the garden. And the servants again! it had even spread to the servants! They were presuming to whisper in corners, like their betters. The house-maids appeared, spasmodically, where house maids had no business to be. Doors banged and petticoats whisked in the upper regions. Something wrong—depend upon it, something wrong! “We had much better go away. My dear, order the carriage”—“Louisa, love, no more dancing; your papa is going.”—“Good-afternoon, Lady Lundie!”—“Haw! thanks very much!”—“So sorry for dear Blanche!”—“Oh, it’s been too charming!” So Society jabbered6 its poor, nonsensical little jargon7, and got itself politely out of the way before the storm came.
This was exactly the consummation of events for which Sir Patrick had been waiting in the seclusion of the garden.
There was no evading8 the responsibility which was now thrust upon him. Lady Lundie had announced it as a settled resolution, on her part, to trace Anne to the place in which she had taken refuge, and discover (purely in the interests of virtue) whether she actually was married or not. Blanche (already overwrought by the excitement of the day) had broken into an hysterical9 passion of tears on hearing the news, and had then, on recovering, taken a view of her own of Anne’s flight from the house. Anne would never have kept her marriage a secret from Blanche; Anne would never have written such a formal farewell letter as she had written to Blanche—if things were going as smoothly10 with her as she was trying to make them believe at Windygates. Some dreadful trouble had fallen on Anne and Blanche was determined11 (as Lady Lundie was determined) to find out where she had gone, and to follow, and help her.
It was plain to Sir Patrick (to whom both ladies had opened their hearts, at separate interviews) that his sister-in-law, in one way, and his niece in another, were equally likely—if not duly restrained—to plunge12 headlong into acts of indiscretion which might lead to very undesirable13 results. A man in authority was sorely needed at Windygates that afternoon—and Sir Patrick was fain to acknowledge that he was the man.
“Much is to be said for, and much is to be said against a single life,” thought the old gentleman, walking up and down the sequestered14 garden-path to which he had retired15, and applying himself at shorter intervals16 than usual to the knob of his ivory cane17. “This, however, is, I take it, certain. A man’s married friends can’t prevent him from leading the life of a bachelor, if he pleases. But they can, and do, take devilish good care that he sha’n’t enjoy it!”
Sir Patrick’s meditations18 were interrupted by the appearance of a servant, previously instructed to keep him informed of the progress of events at the house.
“They’re all gone, Sir Patrick,” said the man.
“That’s a comfort, Simpson. We have no visitors to deal with now, except the visitors who are staying in the house?”
“None, Sir Patrick.”
“They’re all gentlemen, are they not?”
“Yes, Sir Patrick.”
“That’s another comfort, Simpson. Very good. I’ll see Lady Lundie first.”
Does any other form of human resolution approach the firmness of a woman who is bent19 on discovering the frailties20 of another woman whom she hates? You may move rocks, under a given set of circumstances. But here is a delicate being in petticoats, who shrieks21 if a spider drops on her neck, and shudders22 if you approach her after having eaten an onion. Can you move her, under a given set of circumstances, as set forth23 above? Not you!
Sir Patrick found her ladyship instituting her inquiries24 on the same admirably exhaustive system which is pursued, in cases of disappearance25, by the police. Who was the last witness who had seen the missing person? Who was the last servant who had seen Anne Silvester? Begin with the men-servants, from the butler at the top to the stable boy at the bottom. Go on with the women-servants, from the cook in all her glory to the small female child who weeds the garden. Lady Lundie had cross-examined her way downward as far as the page, when Sir Patrick joined her.
“My dear lady! pardon me for reminding you again, that this is a free country, and that you have no claim whatever to investigate Miss Silvester’s proceedings26 after she has left your house.”
Lady Lundie raised her eyes, devotionally, to the ceiling. She looked like a martyr27 to duty. If you had seen her ladyship at that moment, you would have said yourself, “A martyr to duty.”
“No, Sir Patrick! As a Christian28 woman, that is not my way of looking at it. This unhappy person has lived under my roof. This unhappy person has been the companion of Blanche. I am responsible—I am, in a manner, morally responsible. I would give the world to be able to dismiss it as you do. But no! I must be satisfied that she is married. In the interests of propriety29. For the quieting of my own conscience. Before I lay my head on my pillow to-night, Sir Patrick—before I lay my head on my pillow to-night!”
“One word, Lady Lundie—”
“No!” repeated her ladyship, with the most pathetic gentleness. “You are right, I dare say, from the worldly point of view. I can’t take the worldly point of view. The worldly point of view hurts me.” She turned, with impressive gravity, to the page. “You know where you will go, Jonathan, if you tell lies!”
Jonathan was lazy, Jonathan was pimply30, Jonathan was fat—but Jonathan was orthodox. He answered that he did know; and, what is more, he mentioned the place.
Sir Patrick saw that further opposition31 on his part, at that moment, would be worse than useless. He wisely determined to wait, before he interfered32 again, until Lady Lundie had thoroughly33 exhausted34 herself and her inquiries. At the same time—as it was impossible, in the present state of her ladyship’s temper, to provide against what might happen if the inquiries after Anne unluckily proved successful—he decided35 on taking measures to clear the house of the guests (in the interests of all parties) for the next four-and-twenty hours.
“I only want to ask you a question, Lady Lundie,” he resumed. “The position of the gentlemen who are staying here is not a very pleasant one while all this is going on. If you had been content to let the matter pass without notice, we should have done very well. As things are, don’t you think it will be more convenient to every body if I relieve you of the responsibility of entertaining your guests?”
“As head of the family?” stipulated36 Lady Lundie.
“As head of the family!” answered Sir Patrick.
“I gratefully accept the proposal,” said Lady Lundie.
“I beg you won’t mention it,” rejoined Sir Patrick.
He quitted the room, leaving Jonathan under examination. He and his brother (the late Sir Thomas) had chosen widely different paths in life, and had seen but little of each other since the time when they had been boys. Sir Patrick’s recollections (on leaving Lady Lundie) appeared to have taken him back to that time, and to have inspired him with a certain tenderness for his brother’s memory. He shook his head, and sighed a sad little sigh. “Poor Tom!” he said to himself, softly, after he had shut the door on his brother’s widow. “Poor Tom!”
On crossing the hall, he stopped the first servant he met, to inquire after Blanche. Miss Blanche was quiet, up stairs, closeted with her maid in her own room. “Quiet?” thought Sir Patrick. “That’s a bad sign. I shall hear more of my niece.”
Pending37 that event, the next thing to do was to find the guests. Unerring instinct led Sir Patrick to the billiard-room. There he found them, in solemn conclave38 assembled, wondering what they had better do. Sir Patrick put them all at their ease in two minutes.
“What do you say to a day’s shooting to-morrow?” he asked.
Every man present—sportsman or not—said yes.
“You can start from this house,” pursued Sir Patrick; “or you can start from a shooting-cottage which is on the Windygates property—among the woods, on the other side of the moor39. The weather looks pretty well settled (for Scotland), and there are plenty of horses in the stables. It is useless to conceal40 from you, gentlemen, that events have taken a certain unexpected turn in my sister-in-law’s family circle. You will be equally Lady Lundie’s guests, whether you choose the cottage or the house. For the next twenty-four hours (let us say)—which shall it be?”
Every body—with or without rheumatism—answered “the cottage.”
“Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick, “It is arranged to ride over to the shooting-cottage this evening, and to try the moor, on that side, the first thing in the morning. If events here will allow me, I shall be delighted to accompany you, and do the honors as well as I can. If not, I am sure you will accept my apologies for to-night, and permit Lady Lundie’s steward41 to see to your comfort in my place.”
Adopted unanimously. Sir Patrick left the guests to their billiards42, and went out to give the necessary orders at the stables.
In the mean time Blanche remained portentously43 quiet in the upper regions of the house; while Lady Lundie steadily44 pursued her inquiries down stairs. She got on from Jonathan (last of the males, indoors) to the coachman (first of the males, out-of-doors), and dug down, man by man, through that new stratum45, until she struck the stable-boy at the bottom. Not an atom of information having been extracted in the house or out of the house, from man or boy, her ladyship fell back on the women next. She pulled the bell, and summoned the cook—Hester Dethridge.
A very remarkable46-looking person entered the room.
Elderly and quiet; scrupulously47 clean; eminently48 respectable; her gray hair neat and smooth under her modest white cap; her eyes, set deep in their orbits, looking straight at any person who spoke49 to her—here, at a first view, was a steady, trust-worthy woman. Here also on closer inspection50, was a woman with the seal of some terrible past suffering set on her for the rest of her life. You felt it, rather than saw it, in the look of immovable endurance which underlain51 her expression—in the deathlike tranquillity52 which never disappeared from her manner. Her story was a sad one—so far as it was known. She had entered Lady Lundie’s service at the period of Lady Lundie’s marriage to Sir Thomas. Her character (given by the clergyman of her parish) described her as having been married to an inveterate53 drunkard, and as having suffered unutterably during her husband’s lifetime. There were drawbacks to engaging her, now that she was a widow. On one of the many occasions on which her husband had personally ill-treated her, he had struck her a blow which had produced very remarkable nervous results. She had lain insensible many days together, and had recovered with the total loss of her speech. In addition to this objection, she was odd, at times, in her manner; and she made it a condition of accepting any situation, that she should be privileged to sleep in a room by herself As a set-off against all this, it was to be said, on the other side of the question, that she was sober; rigidly54 honest in all her dealings; and one of the best cooks in England. In consideration of this last merit, the late Sir Thomas had decided on giving her a trial, and had discovered that he had never dined in his life as he dined when Hester Dethridge was at the head of his kitchen. She remained after his death in his widow’s service. Lady Lundie was far from liking55 her. An unpleasant suspicion attached to the cook, which Sir Thomas had over-looked, but which persons less sensible of the immense importance of dining well could not fail to regard as a serious objection to her. Medical men, consulted about her case discovered certain physiological56 anomalies in it which led them to suspect the woman of feigning57 dumbness, for some reason best known to herself. She obstinately58 declined to learn the deaf and dumb alphabet—on the ground that dumbness was not associated with deafness in her case. Stratagems59 were invented (seeing that she really did possess the use of her ears) to entrap60 her into also using her speech, and failed. Efforts were made to induce her to answer questions relating to her past life in her husband’s time. She flatly declined to reply to them, one and all. At certain intervals, strange impulses to get a holiday away from the house appeared to seize her. If she was resisted, she passively declined to do her work. If she was threatened with dismissal, she impenetrably bowed her head, as much as to say, “Give me the word, and I go.” Over and over again, Lady Lundie had decided, naturally enough, on no longer keeping such a servant as this; but she had never yet carried the decision to execution. A cook who is a perfect mistress of her art, who asks for no perquisites61, who allows no waste, who never quarrels with the other servants, who drinks nothing stronger than tea, who is to be trusted with untold62 gold—is not a cook easily replaced. In this mortal life we put up with many persons and things, as Lady Lundie put up with her cook. The woman lived, as it were, on the brink63 of dismissal—but thus far the woman kept her place—getting her holidays when she asked for them (which, to do her justice, was not often) and sleeping always (go where she might with the family) with a locked door, in a room by herself.
Hester Dethridge advanced slowly to the table at which Lady Lundie was sitting. A slate64 and pencil hung at her side, which she used for making such replies as were not to be expressed by a gesture or by a motion of the head. She took up the slate and pencil, and waited with stony65 submission66 for her mistress to begin.
Lady Lundie opened the proceedings with the regular formula of inquiry67 which she had used with all the other servants,
“Do you know that Miss Silvester has left the house?”
The cook nodded her head affirmatively.
“Do you know at what time she left it?”
Another affirmative reply. The first which Lady Lundie had received to that question yet. She eagerly went on to the next inquiry.
“Have you seen her since she left the house?”
A third affirmative reply.
“Where?”
Hester Dethridge wrote slowly on the slate, in singularly firm upright characters for a woman in her position of life, these words:
“On the road that leads to the railway. Nigh to Mistress Chew’s Farm.”
“What did you want at Chew’s Farm?”
Hester Dethridge wrote: “I wanted eggs for the kitchen, and a breath of fresh air for myself.”
“Did Miss Silvester see you?”
A negative shake of the head.
“Did she take the turning that leads to the railway?”
Another negative shake of the head.
“She went on, toward the moor?”
An affirmative reply.
“What did she do when she got to the moor?”
Hester Dethridge wrote: “She took the footpath68 which leads to Craig Fernie.”
Lady Lundie rose excitedly to her feet. There was but one place that a stranger could go to at Craig Fernie. “The inn!” exclaimed her ladyship. “She has gone to the inn!”
Hester Dethridge waited immovably. Lady Lundie put a last precautionary question, in these words:
“Have you reported what you have seen to any body else?”
An affirmative reply. Lady Lundie had not bargained for that. Hester Dethridge (she thought) must surely have misunderstood her.
“Do you mean that you have told somebody else what you have just told me?”
Another affirmative reply.
“A person who questioned you, as I have done?”
A third affirmative reply.
“Who was it?”
Hester Dethridge wrote on her slate: “Miss Blanche.”
Lady Lundie stepped back, staggered by the discovery that Blanche’s resolution to trace Anne Silvester was, to all appearance, as firmly settled as her own. Her step-daughter was keeping her own counsel, and acting69 on her own responsibility—her step-daughter might be an awkward obstacle in the way. The manner in which Anne had left the house had mortally offended Lady Lundie. An inveterately70 vindictive71 woman, she had resolved to discover whatever compromising elements might exist in the governess’s secret, and to make them public property (from a paramount72 sense of duty, of course) among her own circle of friends. But to do this—with Blanche acting (as might certainly be anticipated) in direct opposition to her, and openly espousing73 Miss Silvester’s interests—was manifestly impossible.
The first thing to be done—and that instantly—was to inform Blanche that she was discovered, and to forbid her to stir in the matter.
Lady Lundie rang the bell twice—thus intimating, according to the laws of the household, that she required the attendance of her own maid. She then turned to the cook—still waiting her pleasure, with stony composure, slate in hand.
“You have done wrong,” said her ladyship, severely74. “I am your mistress. You are bound to answer your mistress—”
Hester Dethridge bowed her head, in icy acknowledgment of the principle laid down—so far.
The bow was an interruption. Lady Lundie resented it.
“But Miss Blanche is not your mistress,” she went on, sternly. “You are very much to blame for answering Miss Blanche’s inquiries about Miss Silvester.”
Hester Dethridge, perfectly75 unmoved, wrote her justification76 on her slate, in two stiff sentences: “I had no orders not to answer. I keep nobody’s secrets but my own.”
That reply settled the question of the cook’s dismissal—the question which had been pending for months past.
“You are an insolent77 woman! I have borne with you long enough—I will bear with you no longer. When your month is up, you go!”
In those words Lady Lundie dismissed Hester Dethridge from her service.
Not the slightest change passed over the sinister78 tranquillity of the cook. She bowed her head again, in acknowledgment of the sentence pronounced on her—dropped her slate at her side—turned about—and left the room. The woman was alive in the world, and working in the world; and yet (so far as all human interests were concerned) she was as completely out of the world as if she had been screwed down in her coffin79, and laid in her grave.
Lady Lundie’s maid came into the room as Hester left it.
“Go up stairs to Miss Blanche,” said her mistress, “and say I want her here. Wait a minute!” She paused, and considered. Blanche might decline to submit to her step-mother’s interference with her. It might be necessary to appeal to the higher authority of her guardian80. “Do you know where Sir Patrick is?” asked Lady Lundie.
“I heard Simpson say, my lady, that Sir Patrick was at the stables.”
“Send Simpson with a message. My compliments to Sir Patrick—and I wish to see him immediately.”
The preparations for the departure to the shooting-cottage were just completed; and the one question that remained to be settled was, whether Sir Patrick could accompany the party—when the man-servant appeared with the message from his mistress.
“Will you give me a quarter of an hour, gentlemen?” asked Sir Patrick. “In that time I shall know for certain whether I can go with you or not.”
As a matter of course, the guests decided to wait. The younger men among them (being Englishmen) naturally occupied their leisure time in betting. Would Sir Patrick get the better of the domestic crisis? or would the domestic crisis get the better of Sir Patrick? The domestic crisis was backed, at two to one, to win.
Punctually at the expiration81 of the quarter of an hour, Sir Patrick reappeared. The domestic crisis had betrayed the blind confidence which youth and inexperience had placed in it. Sir Patrick had won the day.
“Things are settled and quiet, gentlemen; and I am able to accompany you,” he said. “There are two ways to the shooting-cottage. One—the longest—passes by the inn at Craig Fernie. I am compelled to ask you to go with me by that way. While you push on to the cottage, I must drop behind, and say a word to a person who is staying at the inn.”
He had quieted Lady Lundie—he had even quieted Blanche. But it was evidently on the condition that he was to go to Craig Fernie in their places, and to see Anne Silvester himself. Without a word more of explanation he mounted his horse, and led the way out. The shooting-party left Windygates.
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1
preoccupied
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| adj.全神贯注的，入神的；被抢先占有的；心事重重的v.占据（某人）思想，使对…全神贯注，使专心于( preoccupy的过去式) | |
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previously
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| adv.以前，先前（地） | |
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withdrawal
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| n.取回，提款；撤退，撤军；收回，撤销 | |
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sociable
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| adj.好交际的，友好的，合群的 | |
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seclusion
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| n.隐遁，隔离 | |
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jabbered
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| v.急切而含混不清地说( jabber的过去式和过去分词 )；急促兴奋地说话 | |
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jargon
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| n.术语，行话 | |
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evading
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| 逃避( evade的现在分词 )； 避开； 回避； 想不出 | |
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hysterical
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| adj.情绪异常激动的，歇斯底里般的 | |
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smoothly
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| adv.平滑地，顺利地，流利地，流畅地 | |
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determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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plunge
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| v.跳入，(使)投入，(使)陷入；猛冲 | |
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undesirable
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| adj.不受欢迎的，不良的，不合意的，讨厌的；n.不受欢迎的人，不良分子 | |
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sequestered
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| adj.扣押的；隐退的；幽静的；偏僻的v.使隔绝，使隔离( sequester的过去式和过去分词 )；扣押 | |
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retired
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| adj.隐退的，退休的，退役的 | |
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intervals
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| n.[军事]间隔( interval的名词复数 )；间隔时间；[数学]区间；（戏剧、电影或音乐会的）幕间休息 | |
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cane
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| n.手杖，细长的茎，藤条；v.以杖击，以藤编制的 | |
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meditations
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| 默想( meditation的名词复数 )； 默念； 沉思； 冥想 | |
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bent
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| n.爱好，癖好；adj.弯的；决心的，一心的 | |
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frailties
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| n.脆弱( frailty的名词复数 )；虚弱；（性格或行为上的）弱点；缺点 | |
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shrieks
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| n.尖叫声( shriek的名词复数 )v.尖叫( shriek的第三人称单数 ) | |
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shudders
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| n.颤动，打颤，战栗( shudder的名词复数 )v.战栗( shudder的第三人称单数 )；发抖；（机器、车辆等）突然震动；颤动 | |
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forth
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| adv.向前；向外，往外 | |
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inquiries
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| n.调查( inquiry的名词复数 )；疑问；探究；打听 | |
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disappearance
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| n.消失，消散，失踪 | |
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proceedings
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| n.进程，过程，议程；诉讼(程序)；公报 | |
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martyr
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| n.烈士，殉难者；vt.杀害，折磨，牺牲 | |
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Christian
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| adj.基督教徒的；n.基督教徒 | |
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propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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pimply
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| adj.肿泡的；有疙瘩的；多粉刺的；有丘疹的 | |
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opposition
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| n.反对，敌对 | |
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interfered
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| v.干预( interfere的过去式和过去分词 )；调停；妨碍；干涉 | |
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thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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exhausted
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| adj.极其疲惫的，精疲力尽的 | |
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decided
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| adj.决定了的，坚决的；明显的，明确的 | |
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stipulated
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| vt.& vi.规定；约定adj.[法]合同规定的 | |
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37
pending
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| prep.直到，等待…期间；adj.待定的；迫近的 | |
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38
conclave
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| n.秘密会议，红衣主教团 | |
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moor
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| n.荒野，沼泽；vt.(使)停泊；vi.停泊 | |
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40
conceal
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| v.隐藏，隐瞒，隐蔽 | |
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41
steward
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| n.乘务员，服务员；看管人；膳食管理员 | |
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42
billiards
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| n.台球 | |
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43
portentously
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steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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stratum
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| n.地层，社会阶层 | |
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46
remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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scrupulously
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| adv.一丝不苟地；小心翼翼地，多顾虑地 | |
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eminently
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| adv.突出地；显著地；不寻常地 | |
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49
spoke
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| n.（车轮的）辐条；轮辐；破坏某人的计划；阻挠某人的行动 v.讲，谈（speak的过去式）；说；演说；从某种观点来说 | |
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50
inspection
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| n.检查，审查，检阅 | |
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underlain
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| v.位于或存在于（某物）之下( underlie的过去分词 )；构成…的基础（或起因），引起 | |
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52
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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54
rigidly
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| adv.刻板地，僵化地 | |
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liking
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| n.爱好；嗜好；喜欢 | |
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physiological
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| adj.生理学的，生理学上的 | |
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feigning
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| 假装，伪装( feign的现在分词 )； 捏造（借口、理由等） | |
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58
obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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59
stratagems
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| n.诡计，计谋( stratagem的名词复数 )；花招 | |
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entrap
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| v.以网或陷阱捕捉，使陷入圈套 | |
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61
perquisites
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| n.（工资以外的）财务补贴( perquisite的名词复数 )；额外收入；（随职位而得到的）好处；利益 | |
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untold
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| adj.数不清的，无数的 | |
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63
brink
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| n.(悬崖、河流等的)边缘，边沿 | |
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64
slate
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| n.板岩，石板，石片，石板色，候选人名单；adj.暗蓝灰色的，含板岩的；vt.用石板覆盖，痛打，提名，预订 | |
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65
stony
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| adj.石头的，多石头的，冷酷的，无情的 | |
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submission
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| n.服从，投降；温顺，谦虚；提出 | |
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inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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footpath
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| n.小路，人行道 | |
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69
acting
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| n.演戏，行为，假装；adj.代理的，临时的，演出用的 | |
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inveterately
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| adv.根深蒂固地，积习地 | |
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vindictive
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| adj.有报仇心的，怀恨的，惩罚的 | |
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paramount
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| a.最重要的，最高权力的 | |
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espousing
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| v.（决定）支持，拥护（目标、主张等）( espouse的现在分词 ) | |
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severely
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| adv.严格地；严厉地；非常恶劣地 | |
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perfectly
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| adv.完美地，无可非议地，彻底地 | |
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justification
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| n.正当的理由；辩解的理由 | |
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insolent
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| adj.傲慢的，无理的 | |
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sinister
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| adj.不吉利的，凶恶的，左边的 | |
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coffin
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| n.棺材，灵柩 | |
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guardian
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| n.监护人；守卫者，保护者 | |
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expiration
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| n.终结，期满，呼气，呼出物 | |
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