CHAPTER XXV
MRS. SOMERVILLE HAS SCRUPLES
MRS. SOMERVILLE retired from the breakfast-room in the height of ill-humour: it was not often that her husband spoke to her in so plain a manner and she was full of resentment. She was conscious that she had behaved badly in listening at the door, and, though the act did not seem to her such a heinous offence as it might have done to many others, her conscience aggravated her discomfort.
But curiosity was a tough element in her, and she was stayed up through its faint attacks by the interesting things she had overheard. Though her ears were not sharp, and the pair on the other side of the door had been sometimes indistinct, she had learned enough to gather what was afoot. Evidently, Cecilia Raeburn was now breaking her heart for Gilbert Speid, whom she had refused, and the Inspector and Mrs. Stirk had agreed that he should be told of it; so that, if he were still wearing the willow for the young woman, he might return in time to snatch her from her lawful bridegroom.
She had heard a good deal from Barclay of the checkered progress of Fordyce’s wooing and she saw Speid through the lawyer’s spectacles; also, the drastic rebuke she had suffered from Miss Hersey Robertson on his account had not modified her view. To add to this, he was extremely friendly with Captain Somerville, and she was of a class which is liable to resent its husband’s friends. She was jealous with the dreadful jealousy of women of her breeding; not from love of the person who is its object, but from an unsleeping fear for personal prerogative. She determined to tell Barclay of her discoveries, though she had no intention of telling him how she had come by them; and the thought of this little secret revenge on the Inspector was sweet to her.
Throughout the morning she maintained an injured silence which he was too much preoccupied to observe, and when, in the afternoon, he took his hat and the stick he used for such journeys as were short enough for him to attempt on foot, she watched him with a sour smile. He had not told her where he was going, but she knew and felt superior in consequence. She wondered when Barclay would come to see her; if he did not arrive in the course of a day or two she must send him a note. He was accustomed to pay her a visit at least once every week, and it was now ten days since he had been inside her doors.
Captain Somerville, though he returned with his object attained, had not found that attainment easy. The Miss Robertsons had always looked favourably on him as an individual, but Miss Hersey could not forget that he was the husband of his wife; and, since the moment when she had risen in wrath and left the party at his house, there had been a change in her feelings towards him. Well did she know that such a speech as the one which had offended her could never have been uttered by the sailor; the knowledge made no difference; Miss Hersey was strictly and fundamentally illogical.
Gilbert had given his address to his cousins with the request that it should not be passed on to anyone. He wanted to have as little communication as possible with the life he had left behind, and the news of Cecilia, for which he had begged, was the only news he cared to receive; business letters passing between himself and Barclay were written and read from necessity. He wished to give himself every chance of forgetting, though, in his attempts to do so, he was nearly as illogical as Miss Hersey.
The Inspector’s request for his direction was, therefore, in the old ladies’ eyes, almost part and parcel of his wife’s effrontery, and it was met by a stiff refusal and a silence which made it hard for him to go further. The red chintz sofa bristled. It was only his emphatic assurance that what he wished to tell Gilbert would affect him very nearly which gained his point. Even then he could not get the address and had to content himself with Miss Hersey’s promise, that, if he would write his letter, seal it and deliver it to her, she would direct and send it with all despatch. He returned, conscious of having strained relations almost to breaking point, but he did not care; his object was gained and that was what concerned him. He had become almost as earnest as Granny. The florid lady who watched his return from behind her drawing-room window-curtains observed the satisfaction in his look.
He was a slow scribe, as a rule, and it took him some time to put the whole sum of what Granny had told him before Speid; it was only when he came to the end of his letter that his pen warmed to the work and he gave him a plain slice from his opinion. ‘If your feelings are the same,’ he wrote, ‘then your place is here; for, if you stay away a day longer than you need, you are leaving a woman in the lurch. I do not understand this matter but I understand that much.’ Then he added the date of the wedding, underlined it, and assured Gilbert that he was ‘his sincere friend, Wm. Somerville.’ A few minutes later, his lady, still at the window, saw the individual who was at once coachman, errand-boy, and gardener disappear in the direction of Miss Robertson’s house with a sealed packet in his hand.
It was not until evening that he sat down to think what he should say to Cecilia. The need for haste was not so great in this case, but every hour was of value with respect to the letter Miss Hersey was forwarding to Gilbert. There was no knowing where he might be, nor how long it might take in reaching him, nor how many obstacles might rise upon the road home, even should he start the very day he received it. But, here, it was different. The sailor bit the top of his pen as he mused; many things had puzzled him and many things puzzled him still. He had received a shock on hearing of Cecilia’s intended marriage. In his own mind he had never doubted that she loved Speid, and this new placing of her affections was the last thing he expected; if there were no question of affection, then, so much the worse, in his eyes. He thought little of Fordyce and imagined that she thought little of him too. He had never supposed that money would so influence her, and his conclusion—a reluctant one—was that the extreme poverty which must be her portion, now Lady Eliza was gone, had driven her to the step.
Granny Stirk’s news had opened his eyes to the probability that there were influences at work of which he knew nothing, and he was uncommon enough to admit such a possibility. When most people know how easily they could manage everybody else’s business, the astonishing thing is that they should ever be in straits on their own account. But it never astonishes them. Captain Somerville had the capacity for being astonished, both at himself and at other people; the world, social and geographical, had taught him that there is no royal road to the solution of anyone’s difficulties. The man who walks about with little contemptuous panaceas in his pocket for his friends’ troubles is generally the man whose hair turns prematurely gray with his own. What had Cecilia meant when she told the old woman, weeping, that she could not help herself? He would, at least, give her the chance of helping herself now, and she could take it or leave it as she chose. He was not going to advise her nor to make suggestions; he would merely tell her what he had done. He had no difficulty in justifying his act to his conscience; he justified it to his prudence by reflecting on what she had given the Queen of the Cadgers to understand; namely, that, if the exile should return, she would throw all to the winds for him.
‘My writing-table is to be dusted to-day, and I shall leave this here,’ he said to his wife on the following afternoon, as he put the letter he had written on the drawing-room mantelpiece; ‘if you can hear of anyone going in the direction of Fullarton, I should be glad to have it carried. It is to Miss Raeburn, in Edinburgh, so Mr. Fullarton must address it for me.’
The Inspector was muffled in his plaid and Mrs. Somerville knew that his duty was taking him south of Kaims; Fullarton lay north of it. As he left the house he hesitated a moment. What if Barclay should call, as he often did, on his way to Fullarton and his wife should entrust him with the letter? Granny had been urgent in telling him to keep clear of the lawyer. But he laughed at his own doubt; for, with the worst intentions, how should Barclay know what it contained? What had he to do with it? The old woman’s dislike of him made her take absurd ideas into her head.
Mrs. Somerville placed the letter where it could lean against the clock, and, when the front-door had shut behind him, she settled herself to a comfortable afternoon by the fire; beside her lay the materials for trimming a bonnet, and, within hand-stretch, a small table-cover under which she might hide them at the approach of company. As she had said to Lucilla, she ‘did not wish to get the name of trimming her own bonnets.’ Her mind was so full of the object on the mantelpiece that she did not hear a step on the stairs, and, greatly as she desired Barclay’s visit, when he was ushered in, she had temporarily forgotten his existence. The bonnet disappeared with a scuffle.
‘You are quite a stranger, I declare!’ she exclaimed when the lawyer had seated himself.
‘Of necessity, Mrs. Somerville—never of inclination. My time has been scarcely my own this week past.’
‘And upon whom have you bestowed it, pray?’
‘Have no fear, ma’am. My own sex is entirely responsible. And I have been making a slight alteration in my house; a trifle, but necessary. I am to lodge my friend Fordyce for the wedding and his best man is coming too—at least so he tells me. They are feather-brained, these young fellows.’
Mrs. Somerville’s knowledge was hot within her, and she turned over in her mind how she might begin to unfold it without committing herself.
‘It will not be a large affair,’ continued he, ‘no one but myself and Mr. Fullarton and a handful of Fordyce’s relatives; the bride makes as much pother about her bereavement as if it had happened yesterday. Lady Fordyce is not to be present. I think she has taken such a poor match very much to heart.’
‘We were invited specially by Miss Raeburn,’ interposed the lady, who was not averse to playing a trump card when she had one.
Cecilia had personally asked the Inspector to the kirk, and had, perforce, made up her mind to the natural consequence in the shape of his wife; he had been Gilbert’s friend and she felt that his presence would help her through the ordeal.
‘Then you will be of the bride’s party,’ observed Barclay, looking superior.
‘Yes,’ replied Mrs. Somerville, settling herself snugly against the back of her chair, ‘we shall—if there is any bride at all.’
He looked at her interrogatively.
‘I said, if there is any bride at all, Mr. Barclay; and for that matter, I may add, if there is any wedding either.’
‘What is to hinder the wedding? My dear Mrs. Somerville, you puzzle me.’
‘Ah,’ she said, nodding her head slowly up and down, ‘you are right to ask, and I can tell you that Mr. Speid may hinder the wedding.’
‘You are speaking in riddles,’ said the lawyer, ‘I may be dull, but I cannot follow you.’
‘If I tell what I know, you will get me into trouble,’ she said, shaking her forefinger at him; ‘there is no trusting you men.’
‘Surely you will make an exception in my case! What have I done to merit your distrust?’
‘Many shocking things, I have no doubt,’ she replied, archly.
‘Ma’am, you are cruel!’ he exclaimed, with a languishing look. He could have beaten her, for he was writhing with internal curiosity.
‘Well, well; do not take it so to heart,’ said she, ‘and promise that you will not betray me. Yesterday, after breakfast, a disreputable person, a Mrs. Stirk, who seems to be known about here—I know nothing about her—asked to speak to the Captain. I was sitting at the breakfast-table, but the door was open, so what they said was forced upon me; really forced upon me, Mr. Barclay. Mrs. Stirk said that she had seen Miss Raeburn and that she was crying—it was a very improbable story—and that she was breaking her heart for Mr. Speid; she had the impudence to tell the Captain that he should write and bring him home.’
Barclay’s eyes were almost starting out of his head.
‘You may well look surprised,’ said Mrs. Somerville, ‘but what will you say when I tell you he has done it? And because a fishwife told him, too! I let him know what an impudent old baggage I thought her, and I got no thanks for my pains, I assure you!’
The lady’s voice had risen with each word.
‘Written to Speid? Impossible! How does he know where to find him?’
‘Miss Robertson is to send the letter. There will be no wedding yet, as I tell you.’
‘He cannot get home; at any rate, it is very doubtful,’ said the lawyer, counting on his fingers, ‘for, by the time he reaches here, Fordyce will be a married man. And he will not stop the marriage, if he comes. Miss Raeburn would never dare to give Fordyce the slip now, for all her high-and-mighty ways.’
‘But the Captain has written to her too, so she will have plenty of time to make up her mind. Look at the letter on the mantelpiece, waiting to be taken to Fullarton. He put it there when he went out.’
Barclay sat staring at the missive and arranging his ideas. He wondered how soon he could escape and send news of what he had heard to Fordyce; he hesitated to hurry away at once, for he had not been to see Mrs. Somerville for a long time, and he knew he was expected to sit with her, as he generally did, for at least an hour. One thing was certain; that letter on the mantelpiece should not reach Cecilia if he could help it. The other had gone beyond recall, but he doubted it getting into Speid’s hands in time to do much harm. Meantime, there was nothing like prompt action.
‘It is rather curious that I should be going to Fullarton to-day; I am on my way there at this moment. I had meant to make you a long visit to-morrow but I could not resist the temptation of turning in as I passed this door just now. Suppose I were to carry the letter? No good will come of it, I am sure, but, if the Captain wishes it to go, go it must. Can you not persuade him to think better of it?’
‘Indeed, if he heard you had been here on your way to Fullarton and I had not sent it, he would be annoyed. But how am I to forgive you for such a niggardly visit? You have hardly been here five minutes.’
‘By allowing me to pay you a liberal one to-morrow,’ replied the astute Barclay. ‘I can then assure you of the safety of the letter. What am I to do? Give me all directions.’
‘You are to hand it to Mr. Fullarton and ask him to address it and send it to Miss Raeburn. It is a very queer business, is it not?’
‘It will smooth down. I attach no importance at all to it,’ replied he.
‘You are mighty cool about it, seeing that Mr. Fordyce is such a friend.’
‘It can come to nothing,’ said he.
He was determined she should not suspect his feelings, which were, in reality, tinged with dismay. If Speid should baffle them still! The letter might reach him in time and he might easily act upon it. A torrent of silent abuse was let loose in his heart against Granny Stirk. He had hated her roundly for some time, and now he would have given anything to be able to turn her off the Whanland estate altogether. He promised himself that he would see what could be done when this affair of Fordyce’s marriage was off his mind.
‘Mr. Fordyce should thank me for warning you,’ said Mrs. Somerville, ‘if he has any sense he will hurry on the wedding-day after this. Whatever happens, do not betray me!’
A look in her face suggested to him that she might, in her heart, suspect what he had in his mind. He would make sure.
‘I suppose I dare not delay this for a day or two?’ he said, tentatively, looking from her to the letter.
‘Oh, no! no!’ she cried, in alarm. ‘Oh! what would happen if anyone found out that I had told you?’
‘I am only joking,’ he laughed, much relieved, ‘pray, pray don’t upset yourself, ma’am.’
‘I really do not know whether I have not done sadly wrong in speaking,’ said she, turning her eyes down. ‘I have many scruples. My name must never, never be mentioned.’
‘You insult me, Mrs. Somerville, when you talk in that way. Your name is sacred to me, as it has ever been, and your action is most timely, most obliging. I only regret that your own wishes forbid my telling Fordyce of your kind interest in him—in us, I should say, for I identify myself with my friends. I am nothing if not true. You, surely, of all people can give me that character.’
‘Come, come,’ she said, ‘you may go away. I shall not tell you what I think for fear of making you vain!’
Barclay left the house with the precious letter in his pocket; he had come out that afternoon, with no intention of going anywhere near Fullarton. On reaching his own front-door he banged it so heartily with the knocker that his maidservant felt her heart thump too. She came running to answer the summons.
‘Order round the chaise immediately,’ he cried, ‘and see that the fire is kept in till I come back!’
As he stood at the door, waiting for his conveyance to be brought, he saw the strange one belonging to Captain Somerville enter the street on its homeward way. He ran to the gate which opened on the yard behind his house.
‘Be quick, can’t you!’ he roared to the man harnessing the horse.
What he feared he knew not, but the sight of the Inspector’s plaided body sitting under the retrograde hood of his carriage, like an owl in a hollow tree, made him long to be clear of the town.