The lawyers had kept their word. The settlements had been forwarded, and had been signed two days since.
With the exception of the surgeon and one of the three young gentlemen from the University, who had engagements elsewhere, the visitors at Windygates had emigrated southward to be present at the marriage. Besides these gentlemen, there were some ladies among the guests invited by Sir Patrick—all of them family connections, and three of them appointed to the position of Blanche’s bridesmaids. Add one or two neighbors to be invited to the breakfast—and the wedding-party would be complete.
There was nothing architecturally remarkable3 about Sir Patrick’s house. Ham Farm possessed4 neither the splendor5 of Windygates nor the picturesque6 antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was a perfectly7 commonplace English country seat, surrounded by perfectly commonplace English scenery. Snug8 monotony welcomed you when you went in, and snug monotony met you again when you turned to the window and looked out.
The animation9 and variety wanting at Ham Farm were far from being supplied by the company in the house. It was remembered, at an after-period, that a duller wedding-party had never been assembled together.
Sir Patrick, having no early associations with the place, openly admitted that his residence in Kent preyed10 on his spirits, and that he would have infinitely11 preferred a room at the inn in the village. The effort to sustain his customary vivacity12 was not encouraged by persons and circumstances about him. Lady Lundie’s fidelity13 to the memory of the late Sir Thomas, on the scene of his last illness and death, persisted in asserting itself, under an ostentation14 of concealment15 which tried even the trained temper of Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed16 by her private anxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to look gayly at the last memorable17 days of her maiden18 life. Arnold, sacrificed—by express stipulation19 on the part of Lady Lundie—to the prurient20 delicacy21 which forbids the bridegroom, before marriage, to sleep in the same house with the bride, found himself ruthlessly shut out from Sir Patrick’s hospitality, and exiled every night to a bedroom at the inn. He accepted his solitary22 doom23 with a resignation which extended its sobering influence to his customary flow of spirits. As for the ladies, the elder among them existed in a state of chronic24 protest against Lady Lundie, and the younger were absorbed in the essentially25 serious occupation of considering and comparing their wedding-dresses. The two young gentlemen from the University performed prodigies26 of yawning, in the intervals27 of prodigies of billiard playing. Smith said, in despair, “There’s no making things pleasant in this house, Jones.” And Jones sighed, and mildly agreed with him.
On the Sunday evening—which was the evening before the marriage—the dullness, as a matter of course, reached its climax28.
But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on week days are regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinately29 anti-Christian tone of feeling which prevails in this matter among the Anglo-Saxon race. It is not sinful to wrangle30 in religious controversy31; and it is not sinful to slumber32 over a religious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the pious33 observance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sex wrangled34 in Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sex slumbered35 over Sunday books. As for the men, it is unnecessary to say that the young ones smoked when they were not yawning, and yawned when they were not smoking. Sir Patrick staid in the library, sorting old letters and examining old accounts. Every person in the house felt the oppression of the senseless social prohibitions36 which they had imposed on themselves. And yet every person in the house would have been scandalized if the plain question had been put: You know this is a tyranny of your own making, you know you don’t really believe in it, you know you don’t really like it—why do you submit? The freest people on the civilized37 earth are the only people on the civilized earth who dare not face that question.
The evening dragged its slow length on; the welcome time drew nearer and nearer for oblivion in bed. Arnold was silently contemplating38, for the last time, his customary prospects39 of banishment40 to the inn, when he became aware that Sir Patrick was making signs to him. He rose and followed his host into the empty dining-room. Sir Patrick carefully closed the door. What did it mean?
It meant—so far as Arnold was concerned—that a private conversation was about to diversify41 the monotony of the long Sunday evening at Ham Farm.
“I have a word to say to you, Arnold,” the old gentleman began, “before you become a married man. Do you remember the conversation at dinner yesterday, about the dancing-party at Swanhaven Lodge42?”
“Yes.”
“Do you remember what Lady Lundie said while the topic was on the table?”
“She told me, what I can’t believe, that Geoffrey Delamayn was going to be married to Mrs. Glenarm.”
“Exactly! I observed that you appeared to be startled by what my sister-in-law had said; and when you declared that appearances must certainly have misled her, you looked and spoke43 (to my mind) like a man animated44 by a strong feeling of indignation. Was I wrong in drawing that conclusion?”
“No, Sir Patrick. You were right.”
“Have you any objection to tell me why you felt indignant?”
Arnold hesitated.
“You are probably at a loss to know what interest I can feel in the matter?”
Arnold admitted it with his customary frankness.
“In that case,” rejoined Sir Patrick, “I had better go on at once with the matter in hand—leaving you to see for yourself the connection between what I am about to say, and the question that I have just put. When I have done, you shall then reply to me or not, exactly as you think right. My dear boy, the subject on which I want to speak to you is—Miss Silvester.”
Arnold started. Sir Patrick looked at him with a moment’s attention, and went on:
“My niece has her faults of temper and her failings of judgment,” he said. “But she has one atoning45 quality (among many others) which ought to make—and which I believe will make—the happiness of your married life. In the popular phrase, Blanche is as true as steel. Once her friend, always her friend. Do you see what I am coming to? She has said nothing about it, Arnold; but she has not yielded one inch in her resolution to reunite herself to Miss Silvester. One of the first questions you will have to determine, after to-morrow, will be the question of whether you do, or not, sanction your wife in attempting to communicate with her lost friend.”
Arnold answered without the slightest reserve
“I am heartily46 sorry for Blanche’s lost friend, Sir Patrick. My wife will have my full approval if she tries to bring Miss Silvester back—and my best help too, if I can give it.”
Those words were earnestly spoken. It was plain that they came from his heart.
“I think you are wrong,” said Sir Patrick. “I, too, am sorry for Miss Silvester. But I am convinced that she has not left Blanche without a serious reason for it. And I believe you will be encouraging your wife in a hopeless effort, if you encourage her to persist in the search for her lost friend. However, it is your affair, and not mine. Do you wish me to offer you any facilities for tracing Miss Silvester which I may happen to possess?”
“If you can help us over any obstacles at starting, Sir Patrick, it will be a kindness to Blanche, and a kindness to me.”
“Very good. I suppose you remember what I said to you, one morning, when we were talking of Miss Silvester at Windygates?”
“You said you had determined47 to let her go her own way.”
“Quite right! On the evening of the day when I said that I received information that Miss Silvester had been traced to Glasgow. You won’t require me to explain why I never mentioned this to you or to Blanche. In mentioning it now, I communicate to you the only positive information, on the subject of the missing woman, which I possess. There are two other chances of finding her (of a more speculative48 kind) which can only be tested by inducing two men (both equally difficult to deal with) to confess what they know. One of those two men is—a person named Bishopriggs, formerly49 waiter at the Craig Fernie inn.”
Arnold started, and changed color. Sir Patrick (silently noticing him) stated the circumstances relating to Anne’s lost letter, and to the conclusion in his own mind which pointed1 to Bishopriggs as the person in possession of it.
“I have to add,” he proceeded, “that Blanche, unfortunately, found an opportunity of speaking to Bishopriggs at Swanhaven. When she and Lady Lundie joined us at Edinburgh she showed me privately50 a card which had been given to her by Bishopriggs. He had described it as the address at which he might be heard of—and Blanche entreated51 me, before we started for London, to put the reference to the test. I told her that she had committed a serious mistake in attempting to deal with Bishopriggs on her own responsibility; and I warned her of the result in which I was firmly persuaded the inquiry52 would end. She declined to believe that Bishopriggs had deceived her. I saw that she would take the matter into her own hands again unless I interfered53; and I went to the place. Exactly as I had anticipated, the person to whom the card referred me had not heard of Bishopriggs for years, and knew nothing whatever about his present movements. Blanche had simply put him on his guard, and shown him the propriety54 of keeping out of the way. If you should ever meet with him in the future—say nothing to your wife, and communicate with me. I decline to assist you in searching for Miss Silvester; but I have no objection to assist in recovering a stolen letter from a thief. So much for Bishopriggs.—Now as to the other man.”
“Who is he?”
“Your friend, Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn.”
Arnold sprang to his feet in ungovernable surprise.
“I appear to astonish you,” remarked Sir Patrick.
Arnold sat down again, and waited, in speechless suspense55, to hear what was coming next.
“I have reason to know,” said Sir Patrick, “that Mr. Delamayn is thoroughly56 well acquainted with the nature of Miss Silvester’s present troubles. What his actual connection is with them, and how he came into possession of his information, I have not found out. My discovery begins and ends with the simple fact that he has the information.”
“May I ask one question, Sir Patrick?”
“What is it?”
“How did you find out about Geoffrey Delamayn?”
“It would occupy a long time,” answered Sir Patrick, “to tell you how—and it is not at all necessary to our purpose that you should know. My present obligation merely binds58 me to tell you—in strict confidence, mind!—that Miss Silvester’s secrets are no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I leave to your discretion59 the use you may make of that information. You are now entirely60 on a par2 with me in relation to your knowledge of the case of Miss Silvester. Let us return to the question which I asked you when we first came into the room. Do you see the connection, now, between that question, and what I have said since?”
Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running on Sir Patrick’s discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted to Mrs. Inchb are’s incomplete description of him for his own escape from detection, he was wondering how it had happened that he had remained unsuspected, while Geoffrey’s position had been (in part at least) revealed to view.
“I asked you,” resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, “why the mere57 report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarm roused your indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer. Do you hesitate still?”
“It’s not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick.”
“Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of the report takes its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr. Delamayn’s private affairs, which the rest of us don’t possess.—Is that conclusion correct?”
“Quite correct.”
“Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thing that you know about Miss Silvester?”
If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question, Sir Patrick’s suspicions would have been aroused, and Sir Patrick’s resolution would have forced a full disclosure from him before he left the house.
It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-day was at hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle into light. The dark Phantoms61 of Trouble and Terror to come were waiting near them both at that moment. Arnold hesitated again—hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick paused for his answer. The clock in the hall struck the quarter to twelve.
“I can’t tell you!” said Arnold.
“Is it a secret?”
“Yes.”
“Committed to your honor?”
“Doubly committed to my honor.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me into his confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence after that.”
“Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?”
“Yes.”
Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily62 in the face.
“I have felt an inveterate63 distrust of Mr. Delamayn from the first,” he said. “Answer me this. Have you any reason to think—since we first talked about your friend in the summer-house at Windygates—that my opinion of him might have been the right one after all?”
“He has bitterly disappointed me,” answered Arnold. “I can say no more.”
“You have had very little experience of the world,” proceeded Sir Patrick. “And you have just acknowledged that you have had reason to distrust your experience of your friend. Are you quite sure that you are acting64 wisely in keeping his secret from me? Are you quite sure that you will not repent65 the course you are taking to-night?” He laid a marked emphasis on those last words. “Think, Arnold,” he added, kindly66. “Think before you answer.”
“I feel bound in honor to keep his secret,” said Arnold. “No thinking can alter that.”
Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end.
“There is nothing more to be said.” With those words he gave Arnold his hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished him good-night.
Going out into the hall, Arnold found Blanche alone, looking at the barometer67.
“The glass is at Set Fair, my darling,” he whispered. “Good-night for the last time!”
He took her in his arms, and kissed her. At the moment when he released her Blanche slipped a little note into his hand.
“Read it,” she whispered, “when you are alone at the inn.”
So they parted on the eve of their wedding day.
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1
pointed
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| adj.尖的，直截了当的 | |
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par
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| n.标准，票面价值，平均数量；adj.票面的，平常的，标准的 | |
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remarkable
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| adj.显著的，异常的，非凡的，值得注意的 | |
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possessed
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| adj.疯狂的；拥有的，占有的 | |
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splendor
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| n.光彩；壮丽，华丽；显赫，辉煌 | |
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picturesque
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| adj.美丽如画的，（语言）生动的，绘声绘色的 | |
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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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snug
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| adj.温暖舒适的，合身的，安全的；v.使整洁干净，舒适地依靠，紧贴；n.（英）酒吧里的私房 | |
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animation
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| n.活泼，兴奋，卡通片／动画片的制作 | |
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10
preyed
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| v.掠食( prey的过去式和过去分词 )；掠食；折磨；（人）靠欺诈为生 | |
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11
infinitely
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| adv.无限地，无穷地 | |
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vivacity
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| n.快活，活泼，精神充沛 | |
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fidelity
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| n.忠诚，忠实；精确 | |
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14
ostentation
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| n.夸耀，卖弄 | |
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concealment
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| n.隐藏, 掩盖，隐瞒 | |
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depressed
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| adj.沮丧的，抑郁的，不景气的，萧条的 | |
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memorable
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| adj.值得回忆的，难忘的，特别的，显著的 | |
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maiden
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| n.少女，处女；adj.未婚的，纯洁的，无经验的 | |
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stipulation
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| n.契约，规定，条文；条款说明 | |
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prurient
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| adj.好色的，淫乱的 | |
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delicacy
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| n.精致，细微，微妙，精良；美味，佳肴 | |
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22
solitary
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| adj.孤独的，独立的，荒凉的；n.隐士 | |
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23
doom
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| n.厄运，劫数；v.注定，命定 | |
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24
chronic
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| adj.(疾病)长期未愈的，慢性的；极坏的 | |
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25
essentially
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| adv.本质上，实质上，基本上 | |
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prodigies
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| n.奇才，天才（尤指神童）( prodigy的名词复数 ) | |
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27
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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28
climax
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| n.顶点；高潮；v.(使)达到顶点 | |
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obstinately
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| ad.固执地，顽固地 | |
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30
wrangle
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| vi.争吵 | |
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31
controversy
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| n.争论，辩论，争吵 | |
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32
slumber
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| n.睡眠，沉睡状态 | |
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pious
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| adj.虔诚的；道貌岸然的 | |
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wrangled
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| v.争吵，争论，口角( wrangle的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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slumbered
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| 微睡，睡眠（slumber的过去式与过去分词形式） | |
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prohibitions
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| 禁令，禁律( prohibition的名词复数 )； 禁酒； 禁例 | |
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civilized
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| a.有教养的，文雅的 | |
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contemplating
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| 深思，细想，仔细考虑( contemplate的现在分词 )； 注视，凝视； 考虑接受（发生某事的可能性）； 深思熟虑，沉思，苦思冥想 | |
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39
prospects
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| n.希望，前途(恒为复数) | |
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40
banishment
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| n.放逐，驱逐 | |
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41
diversify
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| v.（使）不同，（使）变得多样化 | |
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42
lodge
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| v.临时住宿，寄宿，寄存，容纳；n.传达室，小旅馆 | |
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43
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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44
animated
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| adj.生气勃勃的，活跃的，愉快的 | |
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45
atoning
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| v.补偿，赎（罪）( atone的现在分词 )；补偿，弥补，赎回 | |
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46
heartily
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| adv.衷心地，诚恳地，十分，很 | |
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47
determined
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| adj.坚定的；有决心的 | |
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48
speculative
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| adj.思索性的，暝想性的，推理的 | |
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49
formerly
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| adv.从前，以前 | |
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50
privately
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| adv.以私人的身份，悄悄地，私下地 | |
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51
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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52
inquiry
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| n.打听，询问，调查，查问 | |
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53
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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54
propriety
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| n.正当行为；正当；适当 | |
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55
suspense
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| n.（对可能发生的事）紧张感，担心，挂虑 | |
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56
thoroughly
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| adv.完全地，彻底地，十足地 | |
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57
mere
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| adj.纯粹的；仅仅，只不过 | |
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58
binds
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| v.约束( bind的第三人称单数 )；装订；捆绑；（用长布条）缠绕 | |
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59
discretion
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| n.谨慎；随意处理 | |
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60
entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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61
phantoms
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| n.鬼怪，幽灵( phantom的名词复数 ) | |
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62
steadily
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| adv.稳定地；不变地；持续地 | |
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63
inveterate
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| adj.积习已深的，根深蒂固的 | |
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64
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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65
repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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66
kindly
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| adj.和蔼的，温和的，爽快的；adv.温和地，亲切地 | |
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barometer
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| n.气压表，睛雨表，反应指标 | |
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