Man and Wife
by Wilkie Collins
Hypertext Meanings and Commentaries
from the Encyclopedia of the Self
by Mark Zimmerman
Return to Part 1 of 2

Mr. Camp was summoned to give his advice. The first thing he
asked for was the unfinished letter.

It was blotted, it was illegible in more places than one. With
pains and care they made out the address at the beginning, and
here and there some fragments of the lines that followed. It
began: "Dear Mr. Brinkworth." Then the writing got, little by
little, worse and worse. To the eyes of  the strangers who looked
at  it, it ran thus: "I should ill re quite * * * Blanche's
interests * * * For God's sake! * * * don't think of _me_ * * *"
There was a little more, but not so much as one word, in those
last lines, was legible

The names mentioned in the letter were reported by the doctor and
the nurse to be also the names on her lips when she spoke in her
wanderings. "Mr. Brinkworth" and "Blanche"--her mind ran
incessantly on those two persons. The one intelligible thing that
she mentioned in connection with them was the letter. She was
perpetually trying, trying, trying to take that unfinished letter
to the post; and she could never get there. Sometimes the post
was across the sea. Sometimes it was at the top of an
inaccessible mountain. Sometimes it was built in by prodigious
walls all round it. Sometimes a man stopped her cruelly at the
moment when she was close at the post, and forced her back
thousands of miles away from it. She once or twice mentioned this
visionary man by his name. They made it out to be "Geoffrey."

Finding no clew to her identity either in the letter that she had
tried to write or in the wild words that escaped her from time to
time, it was decided to search her luggage, and to look at the
clothes which she had worn when she arrived at the hotel.

Her black box sufficiently proclaimed itself as recently
purchased. On opening it the address of a Glasgow trunk-maker was
discovered inside. The linen was also new, and unmarked. The
receipted shop-bill was found with it. The tradesmen, sent for in
each case and questioned, referred to their books. It was proved
that the box and the linen had both been purchased on the day
when she appeared at the hotel.

Her black bag was opened next. A sum of between eighty and ninety
pounds in Bank of England notes; a few simple articles belonging
to the toilet; materials for needle-work; and a photographic
portrait of a young lady, inscribed, "To Anne, from Blanche,"
were found in the bag--but no letters, and nothing whatever that
could afford the slightest clew by which the owner could be
traced. The pocket in her dress was searched next. It contained a
purse, an empty card-case, and a new handkerchief unmarked.

Mr. Camp shook his head.

"A woman's luggage without any letters in it," he said, "suggests
to my mind a woman who has a motive of her own for keeping her
movements a secret. I suspect she has destroyed her letters, and
emptied her card-case, with that view." Mrs. Karnegie's report,
after examining the linen which the so-called "Mrs. Graham" had
worn when she arrived at the inn, proved the soundness of the
lawyer's opinion. In every case the marks had been cut out. Mrs.
Karnegie began to doubt whether the ring which she had seen on
the third finger of the lady's left hand had been placed there
with the sanction of the law.

There was but one chance left of discovering--or rather of
attempting to discover--her friends. Mr. Camp drew out an
advertisement to be inserted in the Glasgow newspapers. If those
newspapers happened to be seen by any member of her family, she
would, in all probability, be claimed. In the contrary event
there would be nothing for it but to wait for her recovery or her
death--with the money belonging to her sealed up, and deposited
in the landlord's strongbox.

The advertisement appeared. They waited for three days afterward,
and nothing came of it. No change of importance occurred, during
the same period, in the condition of the suffering woman. Mr.
Camp looked in, toward evening, and said, "We have done our best.
There is no help for it but to wait."

Far away in Perthshire that third evening was marked as a joyful
occasion at Windygates House. Blanche had consented at last to
listen to Arnold's entreaties, and had sanctioned the writing of
a letter to London to order her wedding-dress.

SIXTH SCENE.--SWANHAVEN LODGE.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST

SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (FIRST SOWING).

"NOT SO large as Windygates. But--shall we say snug, Jones?"

"And comfortable, Smith. I quite agree with you."

Such was the judgment pronounced by the two choral gentlemen on
Julius Delamayn's house in Scotland. It was, as usual with Smith
and Jones, a sound judgment--as far as it went. Swanhaven Lodge
was not half the size of Windygates; but it had been inhabited
for two centuries when the foundations of Windygates were first
laid--and it possessed the advantages, without inheriting the
drawbacks, of its age. There is in an old house a friendly
adaptation to the human character, as there is in an old hat a
friendly adaptation to the human head. The visitor who left
Swanhaven quitted it with something like a sense of leaving home.
Among the few houses not our own which take a strong hold on our
sympathies this was one. The ornamental grounds were far inferior
in size and splendor to the grounds at Windygates. But the park
was beautiful--less carefully laid out, but also less monotonous
than an English park. The lake on the northern boundary of the
estate, famous for its breed of swans, was one of the curiosities
of the neighborhood; and the house had a history, associating it
with more than one celebrated Scottish name, which had been
written and illustrated by Julius Delamayn. Visitors to Swanhaven
Lodge were invariably presented with a copy of the volume
(privately printed). One in twenty read it. The rest were
"charmed," and looked at the pictures.

The day was the last day of August, and the occasion was the
garden-party given by Mr. and Mrs. Delamayn.

Smith and Jones--following, with the other guests at Windygates,
in Lady Lundie's train--exchanged their opinions on the merits of
the house, standing on a terrace at the back, near a flight of
steps which led down into the garden. They formed the van-guard
of the visitors, appearing by twos and threes from the reception
rooms, and all bent on going to see the swans before the
amusements of the day began. Julius Delamayn came out with the
first detachment, recruited Smith and Jones, and other wandering
bachelors, by the way, and set forth for the lake. An interval of
a minute or two passed--and the terrace remained empty. Then two
ladies--at the head of a second detachment of visitors--appeared
under the old stone porch which sheltered the entrance on that
side of the house. One of the ladies was a modest, pleasant
little person, very simply dressed. The other was of the tall and
formidable type of "fine women," clad in dazzling array. The
first was Mrs. Julius Delamayn. The second was Lady Lundie.

"Exquisite!" cried her ladyship, surveying the old mullioned
windows of the house, with their framing of creepers, and the
grand stone buttresses projecting at intervals from the wall,
each with its bright little circle of flowers blooming round the
base. "I am really grieved that Sir Patrick should have missed
this."

"I think you said, Lady Lundie, that Sir Patrick had been called
to Edinburgh by family business?"

"Business, Mrs. Delamayn, which is any thing but agreeable to me,
as one member of the family. It has altered all my arrangements
for the autumn. My step-daughter is to be married next week."

"Is it so near as that? May I ask who the gentleman is?"

"Mr. Arnold Brinkworth."

"Surely I have some association with that name?"

"You have probably heard of him, Mrs. Delamayn, as the heir to
Miss Brinkworth's Scotch property?"

"Exactly! Have you brought Mr. Brinkworth here to-day?"

"I bring his apologies, as well as Sir Patrick's. They went to
Edinburgh together the day before yesterday. The lawyers engage
to have the settlements ready in three or four days more, if a
personal consultation can be managed. Some formal question, I
believe, connected with title-deeds. Sir Patrick thought the
safest way and the speediest way would be to take Mr. Brinkworth
with him to Edinburgh--to get the business over to-day--and to
wait until we join them, on our way south, to-morrow."

"You leave Windygates, in this lovely weather?"

"Most unwillingly! The truth is, Mrs. Delamayn, I am at my
step-daughter's mercy. Her uncle has the authority, as her
guardian--and the use he makes of it is to give her her own way
in every thing. It was only on Friday last that she consented to
let the day be fixed--and even then she made it a positive
condition that the marriage was not to take place in Scotland.
Pure willfulness! But what can I do? Sir Patrick submits; and Mr.
Brinkworth submits. If I am to be present at the marriage I must
follow their example. I feel it my duty to be present--and, as a
matter of course, I sacrifice myself. We start for London
to-morrow."

"Is Miss Lundie to be married in London at this time of year?"

"No. We only pass through, on our way to Sir Patrick's place in
Kent--the place that came to him with the title; the place
associated with the last days of my beloved husband. Another
trial for _me!_ The marriage is to be solemnized on the scene of
my bereavement. My old wound is to be reopened on Monday
next--simply because my step-daughter has taken a dislike to
Windygates."

"This day week, then, is the day of the marriage?"

"Yes. This day week. There have been reasons for hurrying it
which I need not trouble you with. No words can say how I wish it
was over.--But, my dear Mrs. Delamayn, how thoughtless of me to
assail _ you_ with my family worries! You are so sympathetic.
That is my only excuse. Don't let me keep you from your guests. I
could linger in this sweet place forever! Where is Mrs. Glenarm?"

"I really don't know. I missed her when we came out on the
terrace. She will very likely join us at the lake. Do you care
about seeing the lake, Lady Lundie?"

"I adore the beauties of Nature, Mrs. Delamayn--especially
lakes!"

"We have something to show you besides; we have a breed of swans
on the lake, peculiar to the place. My husband has gone on with
some of our friends; and I believe we are expected to follow, as
soon as the rest of the party--in charge of my sister--have seen
the house."

"And what a house, Mrs. Delamayn! Historical associations in
every corner of it! It is _such_ a relief to my mind to take
refuge in the past. When I am far away from this sweet place I
shall people Swanhaven with its departed inmates, and share the
joys and sorrows of centuries since."

As Lady Lundie announced, in these terms, her intention of adding
to the population of the past, the last of the guests who had
been roaming over the old house appeared under the porch. Among
the members forming this final addition to the garden-party were
Blanche, and a friend of her own age whom she had met at
Swanhaven. The two girls lagged behind the rest, talking
confidentially, arm in arm--the subject (it is surely needless to
add) being the coming marriage.

"But, dearest Blanche, why are you not to be married at
Windygates?"

"I detest Windygates, Janet. I have the most miserable
associations with the place. Don't ask me what they are! The
effort of my life is not to think of them now. I long to see the
last of Windygates. As for being married there, I have made it a
condition that I am not to be married in Scotland at all."

"What has poor Scotland done to forfeit your good opinion, my
dear?"

"Poor Scotland, Janet, is a place where people don't know whether
they are married or not. I have heard all about it from my uncle.
And I know somebody who has been a victim--an innocent victim--to
a Scotch marriage."

"Absurd, Blanche! You are thinking of runaway matches, and making
Scotland responsible for the difficulties of people who daren't
own the truth!"

"I am not at all absurd. I am thinking of the dearest friend I
have. If you only knew--"

"My dear! _I_ am Scotch, remember! You can be married just as
well--I really must insist on that--in Scotland as in England."

"I hate Scotland!"

"Blanche!"

"I never was so unhappy in my life as I have been in Scotland. I
never want to see it again. I am determined to be married in
England--from the dear old house where I used to live when I was
a little girl. My uncle is quite willing. _He_ understands me and
feels for me."

"Is that as much as to say that _I_ don't understand you and feel
for you? Perhaps I had better relieve you of my company,
Blanche?"

"If you are going to speak to me in that way, perhaps you had!"

"Am I to hear my native country run down and not to say a word in
defense of it?"

"Oh! you Scotch people make such a fuss about your native
country!"

"_We_ Scotch people! you are of Scotch extraction yourself, and
you ought to be ashamed to talk in that way. I wish you
good-morning!"

"I wish you a better temper!"

A minute since the two young ladies had been like twin roses on
one stalk. Now they parted with red cheeks and hostile sentiments
and cutting words. How ardent is the warmth of youth! how
unspeakably delicate the fragility of female friendship!

The flock of visitors followed Mrs. Delamayn to the shores of the
lake. For a few minutes after the terrace was left a solitude.
Then there appeared under the porch a single gentleman, lounging
out with a flower in his mouth and his hands in his pockets. This
was the strongest man at Swanhaven--otherwise, Geoffrey Delamayn.

After a moment a lady appeared behind him, walking softly, so as
not to be heard. She was superbly dressed after the newest and
the most costly Parisian design. The brooch on her bosom was a
single diamond of resplendent water and great size. The fan in
her hand was a master-piece of the finest Indian workmanship. She
looked what she was, a person possessed of plenty of superfluous
money, but not additionally blest with plenty of superfluous
intelligence to correspond. This was the childless young widow of
the great ironmaster--otherwise, Mrs. Glenarm.

The rich woman tapped the strong man coquettishly on the shoulder
with her fan. "Ah! you bad boy!" she said, with a
slightly-labored archness of look and manner. "Have I found you
at last?"

Geoffrey sauntered on to the terrace--keeping the lady behind him
with a thoroughly savage superiority to all civilized submission
to the sex--and looked at his watch.

"I said I'd come here when I'd got half an hour to myself," he
mumbled, turning the flower carelessly between his teeth. "I've
got half an hour, and here I am."

"Did you come for the sake of seeing the visitors, or did you
come for the sake of seeing Me?"

Geoffrey smiled graciously, and gave the flower another turn in
his teeth. "You. Of course."

The iron-master's widow took his arm, and looked up at him--as
only a young woman would have dared to look up--with the
searching summer light streaming in its full brilliancy on her
face.

Reduced to the plain expression of what it is really worth, the
average English idea of beauty in women may be summed up in three
words--youth, health, plumpness. The more spiritual charm of
intelligence and vivacity, the subtler attraction of delicacy of
line and fitness of detail, are little looked for and seldom
appreciated by the mass of men in this island. It is impossible
otherwise to account for the extraordinary blindness of
perception which (to give one instance only) makes nine
Englishmen out of ten who visit France come back declaring that
they have not seen a single pretty Frenchwoman, in or out of
Paris, in the whole country. Our popular type of beauty proclaims
itself, in its fullest material development, at every shop in
which an illustrated periodical is sold. The same fleshy-faced
girl, with the same inane smile, and with no other expression
whatever, appears under every form of illustration, week after
week, and month after month, all the year round. Those who wish
to know what Mrs. Glenarm was like, have only to go out and stop
at any bookseller's or news-vendor's shop, and there they will
see her in the first illustration, with a young woman in it,
which they discover in the window. The one noticeable peculiarity
in Mrs. Glenarm's purely commonplace and purely material beauty,
which would have struck an observant and a cultivated man, was
the curious girlishness of her look and manner. No stranger
speaking to this woman--who had been a wife at twenty, and who
was now a widow at twenty-four--would ever have thought of
addressing her otherwise than as "Miss."

"Is that the use you make of a flower when I give it to you?" she
said to Geoffrey. "Mumbling it in your teeth, you wretch, as if
you  were a horse!"

"If you come to tha t," returned Geoffrey, "I'm more a horse than
a man. I'm going to run in a race, and the public are betting on
me. Haw! haw! Five to four."

"Five to four! I believe he thinks of nothing but betting. You
great heavy creature, I can't move you. Don't you see I want to
go like the rest of them to the lake? No! you're not to let go of
my arm! You're to take me."

"Can't do it. Must be back with Perry in half an hour."

(Perry was the trainer from London. He had arrived sooner than he
had been expected, and had entered on his functions three days
since.)

"Don't talk to me about Perry! A little vulgar wretch. Put him
off. You won't? Do you mean to say you are such a brute that you
would rather be with Perry than be with me?"

"The betting's at five to four, my dear. And the race comes off
in a month from this."

"Oh! go away to your beloved Perry! I hate you. I hope you'll
lose the race. Stop in your cottage. Pray don't come back to the
house. And--mind this!--don't presume to say 'my dear' to me
again."

"It ain't presuming half far enough, is it? Wait a bit. Give me
till the race is run--and then I'll presume to marry you."

"You! You will be as old as Methuselah, if you wait till I am
your wife. I dare say Perry has got a sister. Suppose you ask
him? She would be just the right person for you."

Geoffrey gave the flower another turn in his teeth, and looked as
if he thought the idea worth considering.

"All right," he said. "Any thing to be agreeable to you. I'll ask
Perry."

He turned away, as if he was going to do it at once. Mrs. Glenarm
put out a little hand, ravishingly clothed in a blush-colored
glove, and laid it on the athlete's mighty arm. She pinched those
iron muscles (the pride and glory of England) gently. "What a man
you are!" she said. "I never met with any body like you before!"

The whole secret of the power that Geoffrey had acquired over her
was in those words.

They had been together at Swanhaven for little more than ten
days; and in that time he had made the conquest of Mrs. Glenarm.
On the day before the garden-party--in one of the leisure
intervals allowed him by Perry--he had caught her alone, had
taken her by the arm, and had asked her, in so many words, if she
would marry him. Instances on record of women who have been wooed
and won in ten days are--to speak it with all possible
respect--not wanting. But an instance of a woman willing to have
it known still remains to be discovered. The iron-master's widow
exacted a promise of secrecy before the committed herself When
Geoffrey had pledged his word to hold his tongue in public until
she gave him leave to speak, Mrs. Glenarm, without further
hesitation, said Yes--having, be it observed, said No, in the
course of the last two years, to at least half a dozen men who
were Geoffrey's superiors in every conceivable respect, except
personal comeliness and personal strength.

There is a reason for every thing; and there was a reason for
this.

However persistently the epicene theorists of modern times may
deny it, it is nevertheless a truth plainly visible in the whole
past history of the sexes that the natural condition of a woman
is to find her master in a man. Look in the face of any woman who
is in no direct way dependent on a man: and, as certainly as you
see the sun in a cloudless sky, you see a woman who is not happy.
The want of a master is their great unknown want; the possession
of a master is--unconsciously to themselves--the only possible
completion of their lives. In ninety-nine cases out of a hundred
this one primitive instinct is at the bottom of the otherwise
inexplicable sacrifice, when we see a woman, of her own free
will, throw herself away on a man who is unworthy of her. This
one primitive instinct was at the bottom of the otherwise
inexplicable facility of self-surrender exhibited by Mrs.
Glenarm.

Up to the time of her meeting with Geoffrey, the young widow had
gathered but one experience in her intercourse with the
world--the experience of a chartered tyrant. In the brief six
months of her married life with the man whose grand-daughter she
might have been--and ought to have been--she had only to lift her
finger to be obeyed. The doting old husband was the willing slave
of the petulant young wife's slightest caprice. At a later
period, when society offered its triple welcome to her birth, her
beauty, and her wealth--go where she might, she found herself the
object of the same prostrate admiration among the suitors who
vied with each other in the rivalry for her hand. For the first
time in her life she encountered a man with a will of his own
when she met Geoffrey Delamayn at Swanhaven Lodge.

Geoffrey's occupation of the moment especially favored the
conflict between the woman's assertion of her influence and the
man's assertion of his will.

During the days that had intervened between his return to his
brother's house and the arrival of the trainer, Geoffrey had
submitted himself to all needful preliminaries of the physical
discipline which was to prepare him for the race. He knew, by
previous experience, what exercise he ought to take, what hours
he ought to keep, what temptations at the table he was bound to
resist. Over and over again Mrs. Glenarm tried to lure him into
committing infractions of his own discipline--and over and over
again the influence with men which had never failed her before
failed her now. Nothing she could say, nothing she could do,
would move _this_ man. Perry arrived; and Geoffrey's defiance of
every attempted exercise of the charming feminine tyranny, to
which every one else had bowed, grew more outrageous and more
immovable than ever. Mrs. Glenarm became as jealous of Perry as
if Perry had been a woman. She flew into passions; she burst into
tears; she flirted with other men; she threatened to leave the
house. All quite useless! Geoffrey never once missed an
appointment with Perry; never once touched any thing to eat or
drink that she could offer him, if Perry had forbidden it. No
other human pursuit is so hostile to the influence of the sex as
the pursuit of athletic sports. No men are so entirely beyond the
reach of women as the men whose lives are passed in the
cultivation of their own physical strength. Geoffrey resisted
Mrs. Glenarm without the slightest effort. He casually extorted
her admiration, and undesignedly forced her respect. She clung to
him, as a hero; she recoiled from him, as a brute; she struggled
with him, submitted to him, despised him, adored him, in a
breath. And the clew to it all, confused and contradictory as it
seemed, lay in one simple fact--Mrs. Glenarm had found her
master.

"Take me to the lake, Geoffrey!" she said, with a little pleading
pressure of the blush-colored hand.

Geoffrey looked at his watch. "Perry expects me in twenty
minutes," he said.

"Perry again!"

"Yes."

Mrs. Glenarm raised her fan, in a sudden outburst of fury, and
broke it with one smart blow on Geoffrey's face.

"There!" she cried, with a stamp of her foot. "My poor fan
broken! You monster, all through you!"

Geoffrey coolly took the broken fan and put it in his pocket.
"I'll write to London," he said, "and get you another. Come
along! Kiss, and make it up."

He looked over each shoulder, to make sure that they were alone
then lifted her off the ground (she was no light weight), held
her up in the air like a baby, and gave her a rough loud-sounding
kiss on each cheek. "With kind compliments from yours truly!" he
said--and burst out laughing, and put her down again.

"How dare you do that?" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "I shall claim Mrs.
Delamayn's protection if I am to be insulted in this way! I will
never forgive you, Sir!" As she said those indignant words she
shot a look at him which flatly contradicted them. The next
moment she was leaning on his arm, and was looking at him
wonderingly, for the thousandth time, as an entire novelty in her
experience of male human kind. "How rough you are, Geoffrey!" she
said, softly. He smiled in recognition of that artless homage to
the manly virtue of his character. She saw the smile, and
instantly made another effort to dispute the hateful supremacy of
Perry. "Put him off!" whispere d the daughter of Eve, determined
to lure Adam into taking a bite of the apple. "Come, Geoffrey,
dear, never mind Perry, this once. Take me to the lake!"

Geoffrey looked at his watch. "Perry expects me in a quarter of
an hour," he said.

Mrs. Glenarm's indignation assumed a new form. She burst out
crying. Geoffrey surveyed her for a moment with a broad stare of
surprise--and then took her by both arms, and shook her!

"Look here!" he said, impatiently. "Can you coach me through my
training?"

"I would if I could!"

"That's nothing to do with it! Can you turn me out, fit, on the
day of the race? Yes? or No?"

"No."

"Then dry your eyes and let Perry do it."

Mrs. Glenarm dried her eyes, and made another effort.

"I'm not fit to be seen," she said. "I'm so agitated, I don't
know what to do. Come indoors, Geoffrey--and have a cup of tea."

Geoffrey shook his head. "Perry forbids tea," he said, "in the
middle of the day."

"You brute!" cried Mrs. Glenarm.

"Do you want me to lose the race?" retorted Geoffrey.

"Yes!"

With that answer she left him at last, and ran back into the
house.

Geoffrey took a turn on the terrace--considered a
little--stopped--and looked at the porch under which the irate
widow had disappeared from his view. "Ten thousand a year," he
said, thinking of the matrimonial prospect which he was placing
in peril. "And devilish well earned," he added, going into the
house, under protest, to appease Mrs. Glenarm.

The offended lady was on a sofa, in the solitary drawing-room.
Geoffrey sat down by her. She declined to look at him. "Don't be
a fool!" said Geoffrey, in his most persuasive manner. Mrs.
Glenarm put her handkerchief to her eyes. Geoffrey took it away
again without ceremony. Mrs. Glenarm rose to leave the room.
Geoffrey stopped her by main force. Mrs. Glenarm threatened to
summon the servants. Geoffrey said, "All right! I don't care if
the whole house knows I'm fond of you!" Mrs. Glenarm looked at
the door, and whispered "Hush! for Heaven's sake!" Geoffrey put
her arm in his, and said, "Come along with me: I've got something
to say to you." Mrs. Glenarm drew back, and shook her head.
Geoffrey put his arm round her waist, and walked her out of the
room, and out of the house--taking the direction, not of the
terrace, but of a fir plantation on the opposite side of the
grounds. Arrived among the trees, he stopped and held up a
warning forefinger before the offended lady's face. "You're just
the sort of woman I like," he said; "and there ain't a man living
who's half as sweet on you as I am. You leave off bullying me
about Perry, and I'll tell you what I'll do--I'll let you see me
take a Sprint."

He drew back a step, and fixed his big blue eyes on her, with a
look which said, "You are a highly-favored woman, if ever there
was one yet!" Curiosity instantly took the leading place among
the emotions of Mrs. Glenarm. "What's a Sprint, Geoffrey?" she
asked.

"A short run, to try me at the top of my speed. There ain't
another living soul in all England that I'd let see it but you.
_Now_ am I a brute?"

Mrs. Glenarm was conquered again, for the hundredth time at
least. She said, softly, "Oh, Geoffrey, if you could only be
always like this!" Her eyes lifted themselves admiringly to his.
She took his arm again of her own accord, and pressed it with a
loving clasp. Geoffrey prophetically felt the ten thousand a year
in his pocket. "Do you really love me?" whispered Mrs. Glenarm.
"Don't I!" answered the hero. The peace was made, and the two
walked on again.

They passed through the plantation, and came out on some open
ground, rising and falling prettily, in little hillocks and
hollows. The last of the hillocks sloped down into a smooth level
plain, with a fringe of sheltering trees on its farther
side--with a snug little stone cottage among the trees--and with
a smart little man, walking up and down before the cottage,
holding his hands behind him. The level plain was the hero's
exercising ground; the cottage was the hero's retreat; and the
smart little man was the hero's trainer.

If Mrs. Glenarm hated Perry, Perry (judging by appearances) was
in no danger of loving Mrs. Glenarm. As Geoffrey approached with
his companion, the trainer came to a stand-still, and stared
silently at the lady. The lady, on her side, declined to observe
that any such person as the trainer was then in existence, and
present in bodily form on the scene.

"How about time?" said Geoffrey.

Perry consulted an elaborate watch, constructed to mark time to
the fifth of a second, and answered Geoffrey, with his eye all
the while on Mrs. Glenarm.

"You've got five minutes to spare."

"Show me where you run, I'm dying to see it!" said the eager
widow, taking possession of Geoffrey's arm with both hands.

Geoffrey led her back to a place (marked by a sapling with a
little flag attached to it) at some short distance from the
cottage. She glided along by his side, with subtle undulations of
movement which appeared to complete the exasperation of Perry. He
waited until she was out of hearing--and then he invoked (let us
say) the blasts of heaven on the fashionably-dressed head of Mrs.
Glenarm.

"You take your place there," said Geoffrey, posting her by the
sapling. "When I pass you--" He stopped, and surveyed her with a
good-humored masculine pity. "How the devil am I to make you
understand it?" he went on. "Look here! when I pass you, it will
be at what you would call (if I was a horse) full gallop. Hold
your tongue--I haven't done yet. You're to look on after me as I
leave you, to where the edge of the cottage wall cuts the trees.
When you have lost sight of me behind the wall, you'll have seen
me run my three hundred yards from this flag. You're in luck's
way! Perry tries me at the long Sprint to-day. You understand
you're to stop here? Very well then--let me go and get my toggery
on."

"Sha'n't I see you again, Geoffrey?"

"Haven't I just told you that you'll see me run?"

"Yes--but after that?"

"After that, I'm sponged and rubbed down--and rest in the
cottage."

"You'll come to us this evening?"

He nodded, and left her. The face of Perry looked unutterable
things when he and Geoffrey met at the door of the cottage.

"I've got a question to ask you, Mr. Delamayn," said the trainer.
"Do you want me? or don't you?"

"Of course I want you."

"What did I say when I first come here?" proceeded Perry,
sternly. "I said, 'I won't have nobody a looking on at a man I'm
training. These here ladies and gentlemen may all have made up
their minds to see you. I've made up my mind not to have no
lookers-on. I won't have you timed at your work by nobody but me.
I won't have every blessed yard of ground you cover put in the
noospapers. I won't have a living soul in the secret of what you
can do, and what you can't, except our two selves.'--Did I say
that, Mr. Delamayn? or didn't I?"

"All right!"

"Did I say it? or didn't I?"

"Of course you did!"

"Then don't you bring no more women here. It's clean against
rules. And I won't have it."

Any other living creature adopting this tone of remonstrance
would probably have had reason to repent it. But Geoffrey himself
was afraid to show his temper in the presence of Perry. In view
of the coming race, the first and foremost of British trainers
was not to be trifled with, even by the first and foremost of
British athletes.

"She won't come again," said Geoffrey. "She's going away from
Swanhaven in two days' time."

"I've put every shilling I'm worth in the world on you," pursued
Perry, relapsing into tenderness. "And I tell you I felt it! It
cut me to the heart when I see you coming along with a woman at
your heels. It's a fraud on his backers, I says to myself--that's
what it is, a fraud on his backers!"

"Shut up!" said Geoffrey. "And come and help me to win your
money." He kicked open the door of the cottage--and athlete and
trainer disappeared from view.

After waiting a few minutes by the little flag, Mrs. Glenarm saw
the two men approaching her from the cottage. Dressed in a
close-fitting costume, light and elastic, adapting itself to
every movement, and made to  answer every purpose required by the
exercise in which he was abo ut to engage, Geoffrey's physical
advantages showed themselves in their best and bravest aspect.
His head sat proud and easy on his firm, white throat, bared to
the air. The rising of his mighty chest, as he drew in deep
draughts of the fragrant summer breeze; the play of his lithe and
supple loins; the easy, elastic stride of his straight and
shapely legs, presented a triumph of physical manhood in its
highest type. Mrs. Glenarm's eyes devoured him in silent
admiration. He looked like a young god of mythology--like a
statue animated with color and life. "Oh, Geoffrey!" she
exclaimed, softly, as he went by. He neither answered, nor
looked: he had other business on hand than listening to soft
nonsense. He was gathering himself up for the effort; his lips
were set; his fists were lightly clenched. Perry posted himself
at his place, grim and silent, with the watch in his hand.
Geoffrey walked on beyond the flag, so as to give himself start
enough to reach his full speed as he passed it. "Now then!" said
Perry. In an instant more, he flew by (to Mrs. Glenarm's excited
imagination) like an arrow from a bow. His action was perfect.
His speed, at its utmost rate of exertion, preserved its rare
underlying elements of strength and steadiness. Less and less and
less he grew to the eyes that followed his course; still lightly
flying over the ground, still firmly keeping the straight line. A
moment more, and the runner vanished behind the wall of the
cottage, and the stop-watch of the trainer returned to its place
in his pocket.

In her eagerness to know the result, Mrs. Glenarm forget her
jealousy of Perry.

"How long has he been?" she asked.

"There's a good many besides you would be glad to know that,"
said Perry.

"Mr. Delamayn will tell me, you rude man!"

"That depends, ma'am, on whether _I_ tell _him._"

With this reply, Perry hurried back to the cottage.

Not a word passed while the trainer was attending to his man, and
while the man was recovering his breath. When Geoffrey had been
carefully rubbed down, and clothed again in his ordinary
garments, Perry pulled a comfortable easy-chair out of a corner.
Geoffrey fell into the chair, rather than sat down in it. Perry
started, and looked at him attentively.

"Well?" said Geoffrey. "How about the time? Long? short? or
middling?"

"Very good time," said Perry.

"How long?"

"When did you say the lady was going, Mr. Delamayn?"

"In two days."

"Very well, Sir. I'll tell you 'how long' when the lady's gone."

Geoffrey made no attempt to insist on an immediate reply. He
smiled faintly. After an interval of less than ten minutes he
stretched out his legs and closed his eyes.

"Going to sleep?" said Perry.

Geoffrey opened his eyes with an effort. "No," he said. The word
had hardly passed his lips before his eyes closed again.

"Hullo!" said Perry, watching him. "I don't like that."

He went closer to the chair. There was no doubt about it. The man
was asleep.

Perry emitted a long whistle under his breath. He stooped and
laid two of his fingers softly on Geoffrey's pulse. The beat was
slow, heavy, and labored. It was unmistakably the pulse of an
exhausted man.

The trainer changed color, and took a turn in the room. He opened
a cupboard, and produced from it his diary of the preceding year.
The entries relating to the last occasion on which he had
prepared Geoffrey for a foot-race included the fullest details.
He turned to the report of the first trial, at three hundred
yards, full speed. The time was, by one or two seconds, not so
good as the time on this occasion. But the result, afterward, was
utterly different. There it was, in Perry's own words: "Pulse
good. Man in high spirits. Ready, if I would have let him, to run
it over again."

Perry looked round at the same man, a year afterward--utterly
worn out, and fast asleep in the chair.

He fetched pen, ink, and paper out of the cupboard, and wrote two
letters--both marked "Private." The first was to a medical man, a
great authority among trainers. The second was to Perry's own
agent in London, whom he knew he could trust. The letter pledged
the agent to the strictest secrecy, and directed him to back
Geoffrey's opponent in the Foot-Race for a sum equal to the sum
which Perry had betted on Geoffrey himself. "If you have got any
money of your own on him," the letter concluded, "do as I do.
'Hedge'--and hold your tongue."

"Another of 'em gone stale!" said the trainer, looking round
again at the sleeping man. "He'll lose the race."

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SECOND.

SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (SECOND SOWING).

AND what did the visitors say of the Swans?

They said, "Oh, what a number of them!"--which was all that was
to be said by persons ignorant of the natural history of aquatic
birds.

And what did the visitors say of the lake?

Some of them said, "How solemn!" Some of them said, "How
romantic!" Some of them said nothing--but privately thought it a
dismal scene.

Here again the popular sentiment struck the right note at
starting. The lake was hidden in the centre of a fir wood. Except
in the middle, where the sunlight reached them, the waters lay
black under the sombre shadow of the trees. The one break in the
plantation was at the farther end of the lake. The one sign of
movement and life to be seen was the ghostly gliding of the swans
on the dead-still surface of the water. It was solemn--as they
said; it was romantic--as they said. It was dismal--as they
thought. Pages of description could express no more. Let pages of
description be absent, therefore, in this place.

Having satiated itself with the swans, having exhausted the lake,
the general curiosity reverted to the break in the trees at the
farther end--remarked a startlingly artificial object, intruding
itself on the scene, in the shape of a large red curtain, which
hung between two of the tallest firs, and closed the prospect
beyond from view--requested an explanation of the curtain from
Julius Delamayn--and received for answer that the mystery should
be revealed on the arrival of his wife with the tardy remainder
of the guests who had loitered about the house.

On the appearance of Mrs. Delamayn and the stragglers, the united
party coasted the shore of the lake, and stood assembled in front
of the curtain. Pointing to the silken cords hanging at either
side of it, Julius Delamayn picked out two little girls (children
of his wife's sister), and sent them to the cords, with
instructions to pull, and see what happened. The nieces of Julius
pulled with the eager hands of children in the presence of a
mystery--the curtains parted in the middle, and a cry of
universal astonishment and delight saluted the scene revealed to
view.

At the end of a broad avenue of firs a cool green glade spread
its grassy carpet in the midst of the surrounding plantation. The
ground at the farther end of the glade rose; and here, on the
lower slopes, a bright little spring of water bubbled out between
gray old granite rocks.

Along the right-hand edge of the turf ran a row of tables,
arrayed in spotless white, and covered with refreshments waiting
for the guests. On the opposite side was a band of music, which
burst into harmony at the moment when the curtains were drawn.
Looking back through the avenue, the eye caught a distant glimpse
of the lake, where the sunlight played on the water, and the
plumage of the gliding swans flashed softly in brilliant white.
Such was the charming surprise which Julius Delamayn had arranged
for his friends. It was only at moments like these--or when he
and his wife were playing Sonatas in the modest little music-room
at Swanhaven--that Lord Holchester's eldest son was really happy.
He secretly groaned over the duties which his position as a
landed gentleman imposed upon him; and he suffered under some of
the highest privileges of his rank and station as under social
martyrdom in its cruelest form.

"We'll dine first," said Julius, "and dance afterward. There is
the programme!"

He led the way to the tables, with the two ladies nearest to
him--utterly careless whether they were or were not among the
ladies of the highest rank  then present. To Lady Lundie's
astonishment he took the first seat
he came to, without appearing to care what place he occupied at
his own feast. The guests, following his example, sat where they
pleased, reckless of precedents and dignities. Mrs. Delamayn,
feeling a special interest in a young lady who was shortly to be
a bride, took Blanche's arm. Lady Lundie attached herself
resolutely to her hostess on the other side. The three sat
together. Mrs. Delamayn did her best to encourage Blanche to
talk, and Blanche did her best to meet the advances made to her.
The experiment succeeded but poorly on either side. Mrs. Delamayn
gave it up in despair, and turned to Lady Lundie, with a strong
suspicion that some unpleasant subject of reflection was preying
privately on the bride's mind. The conclusion was soundly drawn.
Blanche's little outbreak of temper with her friend on the
terrace, and Blanche's present deficiency of gayety and spirit,
were attributable to the same cause. She hid it from her uncle,
she hid it from Arnold--but she was as anxious as ever, and as
wretched as ever, about Anne; and she was still on the watch (no
matter what Sir Patrick might say or do) to seize the first
opportunity of renewing the search for her lost friend.

Meanwhile the eating, the drinking, and the talking went merrily
on. The band played its liveliest melodies; the servants kept the
glasses constantly filled: round all the tables gayety and
freedom reigned supreme. The one conversation in progress, in
which the talkers were not in social harmony with each other, was
the conversation at Blanche's side, between her step-mother and
Mrs. Delamayn.

Among Lady Lundie's other accomplishments the power of making
disagreeable discoveries ranked high. At the dinner in the glade
she had not failed to notice--what every body else had passed
over--the absence at the festival of the hostess's
brother-in-law; and more remarkable still, the disappearance of a
lady who was actually one of the guests staying in the house: in
plainer words, the disappearance of Mrs. Glenarm.

"Am I mistaken?" said her ladyship, lifting her eye-glass, and
looking round the tables. "Surely there is a member of our party
missing? I don't see Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn."

"Geoffrey promised to be here. But he is not particularly
attentive, as you may have noticed, to keeping engagements of
this sort. Every thing is sacrificed to his training. We only see
him at rare intervals now."

With that reply Mrs. Delamayn attempted to change the subject.
Lady Lundie lifted her eye-glass, and looked round the tables for
the second time.

"Pardon me," persisted her ladyship--"but is it possible that I
have discovered another absentee? I don't see Mrs. Glenarm. Yet
surely she must be here! Mrs. Glenarm is not training for a
foot-race. Do you see her? _I_ don't."

"I missed her when we went out on the terrace, and I have not
seen her since."

"Isn't it very odd, dear Mrs. Delamayn?"

"Our guests at Swanhaven, Lady Lundie, have perfect liberty to do
as they please."

In those words Mrs. Delamayn (as she fondly imagined) dismissed
the subject. But Lady Lundie's robust curiosity proved
unassailable by even the broadest hint. Carried away, in all
probability, by the infection of merriment about her, her
ladyship displayed unexpected reserves of vivacity. The mind
declines to realize it; but it is not the less true that this
majestic woman actually simpered!

"Shall we put two and two together?" said Lady Lundie, with a
ponderous playfulness wonderful to see. "Here, on the one hand,
is Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn--a young single man. And here, on the
other, is Mrs. Glenarm--a young widow. Rank on the side of the
young single man; riches on the side of the young widow. And both
mysteriously absent at the same time, from the same pleasant
party. Ha, Mrs. Delamayn! should I guess wrong, if I guessed that
_you_ will have a marriage in the family, too, before long?"

Mrs. Delamayn looked a little annoyed. She had entered, with all
her heart, into the conspiracy for making a match between
Geoffrey and Mrs. Glenarm. But she was not prepared to own that
the lady's facility had (in spite of all attempts to conceal it
from discovery) made the conspiracy obviously successful in ten
days' time.

"I am not in the secrets of the lady and gentleman whom you
mention," she replied, dryly.

A heavy body is slow to acquire movement--and slow to abandon
movement, when once acquired. The playfulness of Lady Lundie,
being essentially heavy, followed the same rule. She still
persisted in being as lively as ever.

"Oh, what a diplomatic answer!" exclaimed her ladyship. "I think
I can interpret it, though, for all that. A little bird tells me
that I shall see a Mrs. Geoffrey Delamayn in London, next season.
And I, for one, shall not be surprised to find myself
congratulating Mrs. Glenarm."

"If you persist in letting your imagination run away with you,
Lady Lundie, I can't possibly help it. I can only request
permission to keep the bridle on _mine._"

This time, even Lady Lundie understood that it would be wise to
say no more. She smiled and nodded, in high private approval of
her own extraordinary cleverness. If she had been asked at that
moment who was the most brilliant Englishwoman living, she would
have looked inward on herself--and would have seen, as in a glass
brightly, Lady Lundie, of Windygates.

From the moment when the talk at her side entered on the subject
of Geoffrey Delamayn and Mrs. Glenarm--and throughout the brief
period during which it remained occupied with that topic--Blanche
became conscious of a strong smell of some spirituous liquor
wafted down on her, as she fancied, from behind and from above.
Finding the odor grow stronger and stronger, she looked round to
see whether any special manufacture of grog was proceeding
inexplicably at the back of her chair. The moment she moved her
head, her attention was claimed by a pair of tremulous gouty old
hands, offering her a grouse pie, profusely sprinkled with
truffles.

"Eh, my bonny Miss!" whispered a persuasive voice at her ear,
"ye're joost stairving in a land o' plenty. Tak' my advice, and
ye'll tak' the best thing at tebble--groose-poy, and trufflers."

Blanche looked up.

There he was--the man of the canny eye, the fatherly manner, and
the mighty nose--Bishopriggs--preserved in spirits and
ministering at the festival at Swanhaven Lodge!

Blanche had only seen him for a moment on the memorable night of
the storm, when she had surprised Anne at the inn. But instants
passed in the society of Bishopriggs were as good as hours spent
in the company of inferior men. Blanche instantly recognized him;
instantly called to mind Sir Patrick's conviction that he was in
possession of Anne's lost letter; instantly rushed to the
conclusion that, in discovering Bishopriggs, she had discovered a
chance of tracing Anne. Her first impulse was to claim
acquaintance with him on the spot. But the eyes of her neighbors
were on her, warning her to wait. She took a little of the pie,
and looked hard at Bishopriggs. That discreet man, showing no
sign of recognition on his side, bowed respectfully, and went on
round the table.

"I wonder whether he has got the letter about him?" thought
Blanche.

He had not only got the letter about him--but, more than that, he
was actually then on the look-out for the means of turning the
letter to profitable pecuniary account.

The domestic establishment of Swanhaven Lodge included no
formidable array of servants. When Mrs. Delamayn gave a large
party, she depended for such additional assistance as was needed
partly on the contributions of her friends, partly on the
resources of the principal inn at Kirkandrew. Mr. Bishopriggs,
serving at the time (in the absence of any better employment) as
a supernumerary at the inn, made one among the waiters who could
be spared to assist at the garden-party. The name of the
gentleman by whom he was to be employed for the day had struck
him, when he first heard it, as having a familiar sound. He had
made his inquiries; and had then betaken himself for additional
information, to the letter which he had picked up from the parlor
floor at Craig Fernie

The sheet of note-paper, lost by Anne, conta ined, it may be
remembered, two letters--one signed by herself; the other signed
by Geoffrey--and both suggestive, to a stranger's eye, of
relations between the writers which they were interested in
concealing from the public view.

Thinking it just possible--if he kept his eyes and ears well open
at Swanhaven--that he might improve his prospect of making a
marketable commodity of the stolen correspondence, Mr.
Bishopriggs had put the letter in his pocket when he left
Kirkandrew. He had recognized Blanche, as a friend of the lady at
the inn--and as a person who might perhaps be turned to account,
in that capacity. And he had, moreover, heard every word of the
conversation between Lady Lundie and Mrs. Delamayn on the subject
of Geoffrey and Mrs. Glenarm. There were hours to be passed
before the guests would retire, and before the waiters would be
dismissed. The conviction was strong in the mind of Mr.
Bishopriggs that he might find good reason yet for congratulating
himself on the chance which had associated him with the
festivities at Swanhaven Lodge.

It was still early in the afternoon when the gayety at the
dinner-table began, in certain quarters, to show signs of wearing
out.

The younger members of the party--especially the ladies--grew
restless with the appearance of the dessert. One after another
they looked longingly at the smooth level of elastic turf in the
middle of the glade. One after another they beat time absently
with their fingers to the waltz which the musicians happened to
be playing at the moment. Noticing these symptoms, Mrs. Delamayn
set the example of rising; and her husband sent a message to the
band. In ten minutes more the first quadrille was in progress on
the grass; the spectators were picturesquely grouped round,
looking on; and the servants and waiters, no longer wanted, had
retired out of sight, to a picnic of their own.

The last person to leave the deserted tables was the venerable
Bishopriggs. He alone, of the men in attendance, had contrived to
combine a sufficient appearance of waiting on the company with a
clandestine attention to his own personal need of refreshment.
Instead of hurrying away to the servants' dinner with the rest,
he made the round of the tables, apparently clearing away the
crumbs--actually, emptying the wine-glasses. Immersed in this
occupation, he was startled by a lady's voice behind him, and,
turning as quickly as he could, found himself face to face with
Miss Lundie.

"I want some cold water," said Blanche. "Be so good as to get me
some from the spring."

She pointed to the bubbling rivulet at the farther end of the
glade.

Bishopriggs looked unaffectedly shocked.

"Lord's sake, miss," he exclaimed "d'ye relly mean to offend yer
stomach wi' cauld water--when there's wine to be had for the
asking!"

Blanche gave him a look. Slowness of perception was not on the
list of the failings of Bishopriggs. He took up a tumbler, winked
with his one available eye, and led the way to the rivulet. There
was nothing remarkable in the spectacle of a young lady who
wanted a glass of spring-water, or of a waiter who was getting it
for her. Nobody was surprised; and (with the band playing) nobody
could by any chance overhear what might be said at the
spring-side.

"Do you remember me at the inn on the night of the storm?" asked
Blanche.

Mr. Bishopriggs had his reasons (carefully inclosed in his
pocketbook) for not being too ready to commit himself with
Blanche at starting.

"I'm no' saying I canna remember ye, miss. Whar's the man would
mak' sic an answer as that to a bonny young leddy like you?"

By way of assisting his memory Blanche took out her purse.
Bishopriggs became absorbed in the scenery. He looked at the
running water with the eye of a man who thoroughly distrusted it,
viewed as a beverage.

"There ye go," he said, addressing himself to the rivulet,
"bubblin' to yer ain annihilation in the loch yonder! It's little
I know that's gude aboot ye, in yer unconvairted state. Ye're a
type o' human life, they say. I tak' up my testimony against
_that._ Ye're a type o' naething at all till ye're heated wi'
fire, and sweetened wi' sugar, and strengthened wi' whusky; and
then ye're a type o' toddy--and human life (I grant it) has got
something to say to ye in that capacity!"

"I have heard more about you, since I was at the inn," proceeded
Blanche, "than you may suppose." (She opened her purse: Mr.
Bishopriggs became the picture of attention.) "You were very,
very kind to a lady who was staying at Craig Fernie," she went
on, earnestly. "I know that you have lost your place at the inn,
because you gave all your attention to that lady. She is my
dearest friend, Mr. Bishopriggs. I want to thank you. I do thank
you. Please accept what I have got here?"

All the girl's heart was in her eyes and in her voice as she
emptied her purse into the gouty (and greedy) old hand of
Bishopriggs.

A young lady with a well-filled purse (no matter how rich the
young lady may be) is a combination not often witnessed in any
country on the civilized earth. Either the money is always spent,
or the money has been forgotten on the toilet-table at home.
Blanche's purse contained a sovereign and some six or seven
shillings in silver. As pocket-money for an heiress it was
contemptible. But as a gratuity to Bishopriggs it was
magnificent. The old rascal put the money into his pocket with
one hand, and dashed away the tears of sensibility, which he had
_not_ shed, with the other.

"Cast yer bread on the waters," cried Mr. Bishopriggs, with his
one eye raised devotionally to the sky, "and ye sall find it
again after monny days! Heeh! hech! didna I say when I first set
eyes on that puir leddy, 'I feel like a fether to ye?' It's
seemply mairvelous to see hoo a man's ain gude deeds find him oot
in this lower warld o' ours. If ever I heard the voice o'
naitural affection speaking in my ain breast," pursued Mr.
Bishopriggs, with his eye fixed in uneasy expectation on Blanche,
"it joost spak' trumpet-tongued when that winsome creature first
lookit at me. Will it be she now that told ye of the wee bit
sairvice I rendered to her in the time when I was in bondage at
the hottle?"

"Yes--she told me herself."

"Might I mak' sae bauld as to ask whar' she may be at the present
time?"

"I don't know, Mr. Bishopriggs. I am more miserable about it than
I can say. She has gone away--and I don't know where."

"Ow! ow! that's bad. And the bit husband-creature danglin' at her
petticoat's tail one day, and awa' wi' the sunrise next
mornin'--have they baith taken leg-bail together?"

"I know nothing of him; I never saw him. You saw him. Tell
me--what was he like?"

"Eh! he was joost a puir weak creature. Didn't know a glass o'
good sherry-wine when he'd got it. Free wi' the siller--that's a'
ye can say for him--free wi' the siller!"

Finding it impossible to extract from Mr. Bishopriggs any clearer
description of the man who had been with Anne at the inn than
this, Blanche approached the main object of the interview. Too
anxious to waste time in circumlocution, she turned the
conversation at once to the delicate and doubtful subject of the
lost letter.

"There is something else that I want to say to you," she resumed.
"My friend had a loss while she was staying at the inn."

The clouds of doubt rolled off the mind of Mr. Bishopriggs. The
lady's friend knew of the lost letter. And, better still, the
lady's friend looked as if she wanted it!

"Ay! ay!" he said, with all due appearance of carelessness. "Like
eneugh. From the mistress downward, they're a' kittle cattle at
the inn since I've left 'em. What may it ha' been that she lost?"

"She lost a letter."

The look of uneasy expectation reappeared in the eye of Mr.
Bishopriggs. It was a question--and a serious question, from his
point of view--whether any suspicion of theft was attached to the
disappearance of the letter.

"When ye say 'lost,' " he asked, "d'ye mean stolen?"

Blanche was quite quick enough to see the necessity of quieting
his mind on this point.

"Oh no!" she answered. "Not stolen. Only lost. Did you hear about
it?"

"Wherefore suld _I_ ha'  heard aboot it?" He looked hard at
Blanche --and detected a momentary hesitation in her face. "Tell
me this, my young leddy," he went on, advancing warily near to
the point. "When ye're speering for news o' your friend's lost
letter--what sets ye on comin' to _me?_"

Those words were decisive. It is hardly too much to say that
Blanche's future depended on Blanche's answer to that question.

If she could have produced the money; and if she had said,
boldly, "You have got the letter, Mr. Bishopriggs: I pledge my
word that no questions shall be asked, and I offer you ten pounds
for it"--in all probability the bargain would have been struck;
and the whole course of coming events would, in that case, have
been altered. But she had no money left; and there were no
friends, in the circle at Swanhaven, to whom she could apply,
without being misinterpreted, for a loan of ten pounds, to be
privately intrusted to her on the spot. Under stress of sheer
necessity Blanche abandoned all hope of making any present appeal
of a pecuniary nature to the confidence of Bishopriggs.

The one other way of attaining her object that she could see was
to arm herself with the influence of Sir Patrick's name. A man,
placed in her position, would have thought it mere madness to
venture on such a risk as this. But Blanche--with one act of
rashness already on her conscience--rushed, woman-like, straight
to the commission of another. The same headlong eagerness to
reach her end, which had hurried her into questioning Geoffrey
before he left Windygates, now drove her, just as recklessly,
into taking the management of Bishopriggs out of Sir Patrick's
skilled and practiced hands. The starving sisterly love in her
hungered for a trace of Anne. Her heart whispered, Risk it! And
Blanche risked it on the spot.

"Sir Patrick set me on coming to you," she said.

The opening hand of Mr. Bishopriggs--ready to deliver the letter,
and receive the reward--closed again instantly as she spoke those
words.

"Sir Paitrick?" he repeated "Ow! ow! ye've een tauld Sir Paitrick
aboot it, have ye? There's a chiel wi' a lang head on his
shouthers, if ever there was ane yet! What might Sir Paitrick ha'
said?"

Blanche noticed a change in his tone. Blanche was rigidly careful
(when it was too late) to answer him in guarded terms.

"Sir Patrick thought you might have found the letter," she said,
"and might not have remembered about it again until after you had
left the inn."

Bishopriggs looked back into his own personal experience of his
old master--and drew the correct conclusion that Sir Patrick's
view of his connection with the disappearance of the letter was
not the purely unsuspicious view reported by Blanche. "The dour
auld deevil," he thought to himself, "knows me better than
_that!_"

"Well?" asked Blanche, impatiently. "Is Sir Patrick right?"

"Richt?" rejoined Bishopriggs, briskly. "He's as far awa' from
the truth as John o' Groat's House is from Jericho."

"You know nothing of the letter?"

"Deil a bit I know o' the letter. The first I ha' heard o' it is
what I hear noo."

Blanche's heart sank within her. Had she defeated her own object,
and cut the ground from under Sir Patrick's feet, for the second
time? Surely not! There was unquestionably a chance, on this
occasion, that the man might be prevailed upon to place the trust
in her uncle which he was too cautious to confide to a stranger
like herself. The one wise thing to do now was to pave the way
for the exertion of Sir Patrick's superior influence, and Sir
Patrick's superior skill. She resumed the conversation with that
object in view.

"I am sorry to hear that Sir Patrick has guessed wrong," she
resumed. "My friend was anxious to recover the letter when I last
saw her; and I hoped to hear news of it from you. However, right
or wrong, Sir Patrick has some reasons for wishing to see
you--and I take the opportunity of telling you so. He has left a
letter to wait for you at the Craig Fernie inn."

"I'm thinking the letter will ha' lang eneugh to wait, if it
waits till I gae back for it to the hottle," remarked
Bishopriggs.

"In that case," said Blanche, promptly, "you had better give me
an address at which Sir Patrick can write to you. You wouldn't, I
suppose, wish me to say that I had seen you here, and that you
refused to communicate with him?"

"Never think it! " cried Bishopriggs, fervently. "If there's ain
thing mair than anither that I'm carefu' to presairve intact,
it's joost the respectful attention that I owe to Sir Paitrick.
I'll make sae bauld, miss, au to chairge ye wi' that bit caird.
I'm no' settled in ony place yet (mair's the pity at my time o'
life!), but Sir Paitrick may hear o' me, when Sir Paitrick has
need o' me, there." He handed a dirty little card to Blanche
containing the name and address of a butcher in Edinburgh.
"Sawmuel Bishopriggs," he went on, glibly. "Care o' Davie Dow,
flesher; Cowgate; Embro. My Patmos in the weelderness, miss, for
the time being."

Blanche received the address with a sense of unspeakable relief.
If she had once more ventured on taking Sir Patrick's place, and
once more failed in justifying her rashness by the results, she
had at least gained some atoning advantage, this time, by opening
a means of communication between her uncle and Bishopriggs. "You
will hear from Sir Patrick," she said, and nodded kindly, and
returned to her place among the guests.

"I'll hear from Sir Paitrick, wull I?" repeated Bishopriggs when
he was left by himself. "Sir Paitrick will wark naething less
than a meeracle if he finds Sawmuel Bishopriggs at the Cowgate,
Embro!"

He laughed softly over his own cleverness; and withdrew to a
lonely place in the plantation, in which he could consult the
stolen correspondence without fear of being observed by any
living creature. Once more the truth had tried to struggle into
light, before the day of the marriage, and once more Blanche had
innocently helped the darkness to keep it from view.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-THIRD.

SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (THIRD SOWING).

AFTER a new and attentive reading of Anne's letter to Geoffrey,
and of Geoffrey's letter to Anne, Bishopriggs laid down
comfortably under a tree, and set himself the task of seeing his
position plainly as it was at that moment.

The profitable disposal of the correspondence to Blanche was no
longer among the possibilities involved in the case. As for
treating with Sir Patrick, Bishopriggs determined to keep equally
dear of the Cowgate, Edinburgh, and of Mrs. Inchbare's inn, so
long as there was the faintest chance of his pushing his own
interests in any other quarter. No person living would be capable
of so certainly extracting the correspondence from him, on such
ruinously cheap terms as his old master. "I'll no' put myself
under Sir Paitrick's thumb," thought Bishopriggs, "till I've gane
my ain rounds among the lave o' them first."

Rendered into intelligible English, this resolution pledged him
to hold no communication with Sir Patrick--until he had first
tested his success in negotiating with other persons, who might
be equally interested in getting possession of the
correspondence, and more liberal in giving hush-money to the
thief who had stolen it.

Who were the "other persons" at his disposal, under these
circumstances?

He had only to recall the conversation which he had overheard
between Lady Lundie and Mrs. Delamayn to arrive at the discovery
of one person, to begin with, who was directly interested in
getting possession of his own letter. Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn was
in a fair way of being married to a lady named Mrs. Glenarm. And
here was this same Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn in matrimonial
correspondence, little more than a fortnight since, with another
lady--who signed herself "Anne Silvester."

Whatever his position between the two women might be, his
interest in possessing himself of the correspondence was plain
beyond all doubt. It was equally clear that the first thing to be
done by Bishopriggs was to find the means of obtaining a personal
interview with him. If the interview led to nothing else, it
would decide one important question which still remained to be
solved. The lady whom Bishopriggs had waited  on at Craig Fernie
might well be "Anne Silv ester." Was Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn, in
that case. the gentleman who had passed as her husband at the
inn?

Bishopriggs rose to his gouty feet with all possible alacrity,
and hobbled away to make the necessary inquiries, addressing
himself, not to the men-servants at the dinner-table, who would
be sure to insist on his joining them, but to the women-servants
left in charge of the empty house.

He easily obtained the necessary directions for finding the
cottage. But he was warned that Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn's trainer
allowed nobody to see his patron at exercise, and that he would
certainly be ordered off again the moment he appeared on the
scene.

Bearing this caution in mind, Bishopriggs made a circuit, on
reaching the open ground, so as to approach the cottage at the
back, under shelter of the trees behind it. One look at Mr.
Geoffrey Delamayn was all that he wanted in the first instance.
They were welcome to order him off again, as long as he obtained
that.

He was still hesitating at the outer line of the trees, when he
heard a loud, imperative voice, calling from the front of the
cottage, "Now, Mr. Geoffrey! Time's up!" Another voice answered,
"All right!" and, after an interval, Geoffrey Delamayn appeared
on the open ground, proceeding to the point from which he was
accustomed to walk his measured mile.

Advancing a few steps to look at his man more closely,
Bishopriggs was instantly detected by the quick eye of the
trainer. "Hullo!" cried Perry, "what do you want here?"
Bishopriggs opened his lips to make an excuse. "Who the devil are
you?" roared Geoffrey. The trainer answered the question out of
the resources of his own experience. "A spy, Sir--sent to time
you at your work." Geoffrey lifted his mighty fist, and sprang
forward a step. Perry held his patron back. "You can't do that,
Sir," he said; "the man's too old. No fear of his turning up
again--you've scared him out of his wits." The statement was
strictly true. The terror of Bishopriggs at the sight of
Geoffrey's fist restored to him the activity of his youth. He ran
for the first time for twenty years; and only stopped to remember
his infirmities, and to catch his breath, when he was out of
sight of the cottage, among the trees.

He sat down to rest and recover himself, with the comforting
inner conviction that, in one respect at least, he had gained his
point. The furious savage, with the eyes that darted fire and the
fist that threatened destruction, was a total stranger to him. In
other words, _not_ the man who had passed as the lady's husband
at the inn.

At the same time it was equally certain that he _was_ the man
involved in the compromising correspondence which Bishopriggs
possessed. To appeal, however, to his interest in obtaining the
letter was entirely incompatible (after the recent exhibition of
his fist) with the strong regard which Bishopriggs felt for his
own personal security. There was no alternative now but to open
negotiations with the one other person concerned in the matter
(fortunately, on this occasion, a person of the gentler sex), who
was actually within reach. Mrs. Glenarm was at Swanhaven. She had
a direct interest in clearing up the question of a prior claim to
Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn on the part of another woman. And she could
only do that by getting the correspondence into her own hands.

"Praise Providence for a' its mercies!" said Bishopriggs, getting
on his feet again. "I've got twa strings, as they say, to my boo.
I trow the woman's the canny string o' the twa--and we'll een try
the twanging of her."

He set forth on his road back again, to search among the company
at the lake for Mrs. Glenarm.

The dance had reached its climax of animation when Bishopriggs
reappeared on the scene of his duties; and the ranks of the
company had been recruited, in his absence, by the very person
whom it was now his foremost object to approach.

Receiving, with supple submission, a reprimand for his prolonged
absence from the chief of the servants, Bishopriggs--keeping his
one observant eye carefully on the look-out--busied himself in
promoting the circulation of ices and cool drinks.

While he was thus occupied, his attention was attracted by two
persons who, in very different ways, stood out prominently as
marked characters among the rank and file of the guests.

The first person was a vivacious, irascible old gentleman, who
persisted in treating the undeniable fact of his age on the
footing of a scandalous false report set afloat by Time. He was
superbly strapped and padded. His hair, his teeth, and his
complexion were triumphs of artificial youth. When he was not
occupied among the youngest women present--which was very
seldom--he attached himself exclusively to the youngest men. He
insisted on joining every dance. Twice he measured his length
upon the grass, but nothing daunted him. He was waltzing again,
with another young woman, at the next dance, as if nothing had
happened. Inquiring who this effervescent old gentleman might be,
Bishopriggs discovered that he was a retired officer in the navy;
commonly known (among his inferiors) as "The Tartar;" more
formally described in society as Captain Newenden, the last male
representative of one of the oldest families in England.

The second person, who appeared to occupy a position of
distinction at the dance in the glade, was a lady.

To the eye of Bishopriggs, she was a miracle of beauty, with a
small fortune for a poor man carried about her in silk, lace, and
jewelry. No woman present was the object of such special
attention among the men as this fascinating and priceless
creature. She sat fanning herself with a matchless work of art
(supposed to be a handkerchief) representing an island of cambric
in the midst of an ocean of lace. She was surrounded by a little
court of admirers, who fetched and carried at her slightest nod,
like well-trained dogs. Sometimes they brought refreshments,
which she had asked for, only to decline taking them when they
came. Sometimes they brought information of what was going on
among the dancers, which the lady had been eager to receive when
they went away, and in which she had ceased to feel the smallest
interest when they came back. Every body burst into ejaculations
of distress when she was asked to account for her absence from
the dinner, and answered, "My poor nerves." Every body said,
"What should we have done without you!"--when she doubted if she
had done wisely in joining the party at all. Inquiring who this
favored lady might be, Bishopriggs discovered that she was the
niece of the indomitable old gentleman who _would_ dance--or,
more plainly still, no less a person than his contemplated
customer, Mrs. Glenarm.

With all his enormous assurance Bishopriggs was daunted when he
found himself facing the question of what he was to do next.

To open negotiations with Mrs. Glenarm, under present
circumstances, was, for a man in his position, simply impossible.
But, apart from this, the prospect of profitably addressing
himself to that lady in the future was, to say the least of it,
beset with difficulties of no common kind.

Supposing the means of disclosing Geoffrey's position to her to
be found--what would she do, when she received her warning? She
would in all probability apply to one of two formidable men, both
of whom were interested in the matter. If she went straight to
the man accused of attempting to marry her, at a time when he was
already engaged to another woman--Bishopriggs would find himself
confronted with the owner of that terrible fist, which had justly
terrified him even on a distant and cursory view. If, on the
other hand she placed her interests in the care of her
uncle--Bishopriggs had only to look at the captain, and to
calculate his chance of imposing terms on a man who owed Life a
bill of more than sixty years' date, and who openly defied time
to recover the debt.

With these serious obstacles standing in the way, what was to be
done? The only alternative left was to approach Mrs. Glenarm
under shelter of the dark.

Reaching this conclusion, Bishopriggs decided to ascertain from
the servants what the lady's future movements might be; and, thus
informed,
to startle her by anonymous warnings, conveyed through the post,
and claiming their answer through the advertising channel of a
newspaper. Here was the certainty of alarming her, coupled with
the certainty of safety to himself! Little did Mrs. Glenarm
dream, when she capriciously stopped a servant going by with some
glasses of lemonade, that the wretched old creature who offered
the tray contemplated corresponding with her before the week was
out, in the double character of her "Well-Wisher" and her "True
Friend."

The evening advanced. The shadows lengthened. The waters of the
lake grew pitchy black. The gliding of the ghostly swans became
rare and more rare. The elders of the party thought of the drive
home. The juniors (excepting Captain Newenden) began to flag at
the dance. Little by little the comfortable attractions of the
house--tea, coffee, and candle-light in snug rooms--resumed their
influence. The guests abandoned the glade; and the fingers and
lungs of the musicians rested at last.

Lady Lundie and her party were the first to send for the carriage
and say farewell; the break-up of the household at Windygates on
the next day, and the journey south, being sufficient apologies
for setting the example of retreat. In an hour more the only
visitors left were the guests staying at Swanhaven Lodge.

The company gone, the hired waiters from Kirkandrew were paid and
dismissed.

On the journey back the silence of Bishopriggs created some
surprise among his comrades.

"I've got my ain concerns. to think of," was the only answer he
vouchsafed to the remonstrances addressed to him. The "concerns"
alluded to, comprehended, among other changes of plan, his
departure from Kirkandrew the next day--with a reference, in case
of inquiries, to his convenient friend at the Cowgate, Edinburgh.
His actual destination--to be kept a secret from every body--was
Perth. The neighborhood of this town--as stated on the authority
of her own maid--was the part of Scotland to which the rich widow
contemplated removing when she left Swanhaven in two days' time.
At Perth, Bishopriggs knew of more than one place in which he
could get temporary employment--and at Perth he determined to
make his first anonymous advances to Mrs. Glenarm.

The remainder of the evening passed quietly enough at the Lodge.

The guests were sleepy and dull after the excitement of the day.
Mrs. Glenarm retired early. At eleven o'clock Julius Delamayn was
the only person left up in the house. He was understood to be in
his study, preparing an address to the electors, based on
instructions sent from London by his father. He was actually
occupied in the music-room--now that there was nobody to discover
him--playing exercises softly on his beloved violin.

At the trainer's cottage a trifling incident occured, that night,
which afforded materials for a note in Perry's professional
diary.

Geoffrey had sustained the later trial of walking for a given
time and distance, at his full speed, without showing any of
those symptoms of exhaustion which had followed the more serious
experiment of running, to which he had been subjected earlier in
the day. Perry, honestly bent--though he had privately hedged his
own bets--on doing his best to bring his man in good order to the
post on the day of the race, had forbidden Geoffrey to pay his
evening visit to the house, and had sent him to bed earlier than
usual. The trainer was alone, looking over his own written rules,
and considering what modifications he should introduce into the
diet and exercises of the next day, when he was startled by a
sound of groaning from the bedroom in which his patron lay
asleep.

He went in, and found Geoffrey rolling to and fro on the pillow,
with his face contorted, with his hands clenched, and with the
perspiration standing thick on his forehead--suffering evidently
under the nervous oppression produced by the phantom-terrors of a
dream.

Perry spoke to him, and pulled him up in the bed. He woke with a
scream. He stared at his trainer in vacant terror, and spoke to
his trainer in wild words. "What are your horrid eyes looking at
over my shoulder?" he cried out. "Go to the devil--and take your
infernal slate with you!" Perry spoke to him once more. "You've
been dreaming of somebody, Mr. Delamayn. What's to do about a
slate?" Geoffrey looked eagerly round the room, and heaved a
heavy breath of relief. "I could have sworn she was staring at me
over the dwarf pear-trees," he said. "All right, I know where I
am now." Perry (attributing the dream to nothing more important
than a passing indigestion) administered some brandy and water,
and left him to drop off again to sleep. He fretfully forbade the
extinguishing of the light. "Afraid of the dark?" said Perry,
with a laugh. No. He was afraid of dreaming again of the dumb
cook at Windygates House.

SEVENTH SCENE.--HAM FARM.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FOURTH.

THE NIGHT BEFORE.

THE time was the night before the marriage. The place was Sir
Patrick's house in Kent.

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 remarkable about Sir Patrick's
house. Ham Farm possessed neither the splendor of Windygates nor
the picturesque antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was a
perfectly commonplace English country seat, surrounded by
perfectly commonplace English scenery. Snug monotony welcomed you
when you went in, and snug monotony met you again when you turned
to the window and looked out.

The animation 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 preyed on his spirits, and
that he would have infinitely preferred a room at the inn in the
village. The effort to sustain his customary vivacity was not
encouraged by persons and circumstances about him. Lady Lundie's
fidelity to the memory of the late Sir Thomas, on the scene of
his last illness and death, persisted in asserting itself, under
an ostentation of concealment which tried even the trained temper
of Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed by her private
anxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to look gayly
at the last memorable days of her maiden life. Arnold,
sacrificed--by express stipulation on the part of Lady Lundie--to
the prurient delicacy 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
solitary doom 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 chronic protest
against Lady Lundie, and the younger were absorbed in the
essentially serious occupation of considering and comparing their
wedding-dresses. The two young gentlemen from the University
performed prodigies of yawning, in the intervals 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
climax.

But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on week
days are regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinately
anti-Christian tone of feeling which prevails in this matter
among the Anglo-Saxon race. It is not sinful to wrangle in
religious controversy; and it is not sinful to slumber over a
religious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the pious
observance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sex
wrangled in Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sex
slumbered 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
prohibitions 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
civilized 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
contemplating, for the last time, his customary prospects of
banishment 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 diversify 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 Lodge?"

"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 spoke (to my mind)
like a man animated 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 atoning 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 heartily 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 determined 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 speculative 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, formerly 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 pointed 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
privately 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 entreated 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 inquiry 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 interfered; 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 propriety 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 suspense, to
hear what was coming next.

"I have reason to know," said Sir Patrick, "that Mr. Delamayn is
thoroughly 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 binds me to tell
you--in strict confidence, mind!--that Miss Silvester's secrets
are no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I leave to your discretion the
use you may make of that information. You are now entirely on a
par 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 mere 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 Phantoms 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 steadily in the face.

"I have felt an inveterate 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 acting wisely in keeping his secret from _me?_ Are
you quite sure that you will not repent the course you are taking
to-night?" He laid a marked emphasis on those last words. "Think,
Arnold," he added, kindly. "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 barometer.

"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.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIFTH.

THE DAY.

THE promise of the weather-glass was fulfilled. The sun shone on
Blanche's marriage.

At nine in the morning the first of the proceedings of the day
began. It was essentially of a clandestine nature. The bride and
bridegroom evaded the restraints of lawful authority, and
presumed to meet together privately, before they were married, in
the conservatory at Ham Farm.

"You have read my letter, Arnold?"

"I have come here to answer it, Blanche. But why not have told
me? Why write?"

"Because I put off telling you so long; and because I didn't know
how you might take it; and for fifty other reasons. Never mind!
I've made my confession. I haven't a single secret now which is
not your secret too. There's time to say No, Arnold, if you think
I ought to have no room in my heart for any body but you. My
uncle tells me I am obstinate and wrong in refusing to give Anne
up. If you agree with him, say the word, dear, before you make me
your wife."

"Shall I tell you what I said to Sir Patrick last night?"

"About _this?_"

"Yes. The confession (as you call it) which you make in your
pretty note, is the very thing that Sir Patrick spoke to me about
in the dining-room before I went away. He told me your heart was
set on finding Miss Silvester. And he asked me what I meant to do
about it when we were married."

"And you said--?"

Arnold repeated his answer to Sir Patrick, with fervid
embellishments of the original language, suitable to the
emergency. Blanche's delight expressed itself in the form of two
unblushing outrages on propriety, committed in close succession.
She threw her arms round Arnold's neck; and she actually kissed
him three hours before the consent of State and Church sanctioned
her in taking that proceeding. Let us shudder--but let us not
blame her. These are the consequences of free institutions

"Now," said Arnold, "it's my turn to take to pen and ink. I have
a letter to write before we are married as well as you. Only
there's this difference between us--I want you to help me."

"Who are you going to write to?"

"To my lawyer in Edinburgh. There will be no time unless I do it
now. We start for Switzerland this afternoon--don't we?'

"Yes."

"Very well. I want to relieve your mind, my darling before we go.
Wouldn't you like to know--while we are away--that the right
people are on the look-out for Miss Silvester? Sir Patrick has
told me of the last place that she has been traced to--and my
lawyer will set the right people at work. Come and help me to put
it in the proper language, and the whole thing will be in train."

"Oh, Arnold! can I ever love you enough to reward you for this!"

"We shall see, Blanche--in Switzerland."

They audaciously penetrated, arm in arm, into Sir Patrick's own
study--entirely at their disposal, as they well knew, at that
hour of the morning. With Sir Patrick's pens and Sir Patrick's
paper they produced a letter of instructions, deliberately
reopening the investigation which Sir Patrick's superior wisdom
had closed. Neither pains nor money were to be spared by the
lawyer in at once taking measures (beginning at Glasgow) to find
Anne. The report of the result was to be addressed to Arnold,
under cover to Sir Patrick at Ham Farm. By the time the letter
was completed the morning had advanced to ten o'clock. Blanche
left Arnold to array herself in her bridal splendor--after
another outrage on propriety, and more consequences of free
institutions.

The next proceedings were of a public and avowable nature, and
strictly followed the customary precedents on such occasions.

Village nymphs strewed flowers on the path to the church door
(and sent in the bill the same day). Village swains rang the
joy-bells (and got drunk on their money the same evening). There
was the proper and awful pause while the bridegroom was kept
waiting at the church. There was the proper and pitiless staring
of all the female spectators when the bride was led to the altar.
There was the clergyman's preliminary look at the license--which
meant official caution. And there was the clerk's preliminary
look at the bridegroom--which meant official fees. All the women
appeared to be in their natural element; and all the men appeared
to be out of it.

Then the service began--rightly-considered, the most terrible,
surely, of all mortal ceremonies--the service which binds two
human beings, who know next to nothing of each other's natures,
to risk the tremendous experiment of living together till death
parts them--the service which says, in effect if not in words,
Take your leap in the dark: we sanctify, but we don't insure, it!

The ceremony went on, without the slightest obstacle to mar its
effect. There were no unforeseen interruptions. There were no
ominous mistakes.

The last words were spoken, and the book was closed. They signed
their names on the register;  the husband was congratulated; the
wife was embraced. They went back aga in to the house, with more
flowers strewn at their feet. The wedding-breakfast was hurried;
the wedding-speeches were curtailed: there was no time to be
wasted, if the young couple were to catch the tidal train.

In an hour more the carriage had whirled them away to the
station, and the guests had given them the farewell cheer from
the steps of the house. Young, happy, fondly attached to each
other, raised securely above all the sordid cares of life, what a
golden future was theirs! Married with the sanction of the Family
and the blessing of the Church--who could suppose that the time
was coming, nevertheless, when the blighting question would fall
on them, in the spring-time of their love: Are you Man and Wife?

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SIXTH.

THE TRUTH AT LAST.

Two days after the marriage--on Wednesday, the ninth of September
a packet of letters, received at Windygates, was forwarded by
Lady Lundie's steward to Ham Farm.

With one exception, the letters were all addressed either to Sir
Patrick or to his sister-in-law. The one exception was directed
to "Arnold Brinkworth, Esq., care of Lady Lundie, Windygates
House, Perthshire"--and the envelope was specially protected by a
seal.

Noticing that the post-mark was "Glasgow," Sir Patrick (to whom
the letter had been delivered) looked with a certain distrust at
the handwriting on the address. It was not known to him--but it
was obviously the handwriting of a woman. Lady Lundie was sitting
opposite to him at the table. He said, carelessly, "A letter for
Arnold"--and pushed it across to her. Her ladyship took up the
letter, and dropped it, the instant she looked at the
handwriting, as if it had burned her fingers.

"The Person again!" exclaimed Lady Lundie. "The Person, presuming
to address Arnold Brinkworth, at My house!"

"Miss Silvester?" asked Sir Patrick.

"No," said her ladyship, shutting her teeth with a snap. "The
Person may insult me by addressing a letter to my care. But the
Person's name shall not pollute my lips. Not even in your house,
Sir Patrick. Not even to please _you._"

Sir Patrick was sufficiently answered. After all that had
happened--after her farewell letter to Blanche--here was Miss
Silvester writing to Blanche's husband, of her own accord! It was
unaccountable, to say the least of it. He took the letter back,
and looked at it again. Lady Lundie's steward was a methodical
man. He had indorsed each letter received at Windygates with the
date of its delivery. The letter addressed to Arnold had been
delivered on Monday, the seventh of September--on Arnold's
wedding day.

What did it mean?

It was pure waste of time to inquire. Sir Patrick rose to lock
the letter up in one of the drawers of the writing-table behind
him. Lady Lundie interfered (in the interest of morality).

"Sir Patrick!"

"Yes?"

"Don't you consider it your duty to open that letter?"

"My dear lady! what can you possibly be thinking of?"

The most virtuous of living women had her answer ready on the
spot.

"I am thinking," said Lady Lundie, "of Arnold's moral welfare."

Sir Patrick smiled. On the long list of those respectable
disguises under which we assert our own importance, or gratify
our own love of meddling in our neighbor's affairs, a moral
regard for the welfare of others figures in the foremost place,
and stands deservedly as number one.

"We shall probably hear from Arnold in a day or two," said Sir
Patrick, locking the letter up in the drawer. "He shall have it
as soon as I know where to send it to him."

The next morning brought news of the bride and bridegroom.

They reported themselves to be too supremely happy to care where
they lived, so long as they lived together. Every question but
the question of Love was left in the competent hands of their
courier. This sensible and trust-worthy man had decided that
Paris was not to be thought of as a place of residence by any
sane human being in the month of September. He had arranged that
they were to leave for Baden--on their way to Switzerland--on the
tenth. Letters were accordingly to be addressed to that place,
until further notice. If the courier liked Baden, they would
probably stay there for some time. If the courier took a fancy
for the mountains, they would in that case go on to Switzerland.
In the mean while nothing mattered to Arnold but Blanche--and
nothing mattered to Blanche but Arnold.

Sir Patrick re-directed Anne Silvester's letter to Arnold, at the
Poste Restante, Baden. A second letter, which had arrived that
morning (addressed to Arnold in a legal handwriting, and bearing
the post-mark of Edinburgh), was forwarded in the same way, and
at the same time.

Two days later Ham Farm was deserted by the guests. Lady Lundie
had gone back to Windygates. The rest had separated in their
different directions. Sir Patrick, who also contemplated
returning to Scotland, remained behind for a week--a solitary
prisoner in his own country house. Accumulated arrears of
business, with which it was impossible for his steward to deal
single-handed, obliged him to remain at his estates in Kent for
that time. To a man without a taste for partridge-shooting the
ordeal was a trying one. Sir Patrick got through the day with the
help of his business and his books. In the evening the rector of
a neighboring parish drove over to dinner, and engaged his host
at the noble but obsolete game of Piquet. They arranged to meet
at each other's houses on alternate days. The rector was an
admirable player; and Sir Patrick, though a born Presbyterian,
blessed the Church of England from the bottom of his heart.

Three more days passed. Business at Ham Farm began to draw to an
end. The time for Sir Patrick's journey to Scotland came nearer.
The two partners at Piquet agreed to meet for a final game, on
the next night, at the rector's house. But (let us take comfort
in remembering it) our superiors in Church and State are as
completely at the mercy of circumstances as the humblest and the
poorest of us. That last game of Piquet between the baronet and
the parson was never to be played.

On the afternoon of the fourth day Sir Patrick came in from a
drive, and found a letter from Arnold waiting for him, which had
been delivered by the second post.

Judged by externals only, it was a letter of an unusually
perplexing--possibly also of an unusually interesting--kind.
Arnold was one of the last persons in the world whom any of his
friends would have suspected of being a lengthy correspondent.
Here, nevertheless, was a letter from him, of three times the
customary bulk and weight--and, apparently, of more than common
importance, in the matter of news, besides. At the top the
envelope was marked "_Immediate._." And at one side (also
underlined) was the ominous word, "_Private._."

"Nothing wrong, I hope?" thought Sir Patrick.

He opened the envelope.

Two inclosures fell out on the table. He looked at them for a
moment. They were the two letters which he had forwarded to
Baden. The third letter remaining in his hand and occupying a
double sheet, was from Arnold himself. Sir Patrick read Arnold's
letter first. It was dated "Baden," and it began as follows:

"My Dear Sir Patrick,--Don't be alarmed, if you can possibly help
it. I am in a terrible mess."

Sir Patrick looked up for a moment from the letter. Given a young
man who dates from "Baden," and declares himself to be in "a
terrible mess," as representing the circumstances of the
case--what is the interpretation to be placed on them? Sir
Patrick drew the inevitable conclusion. Arnold had been gambling.

He shook his head, and went on with the letter.

"I must say, dreadful as it is, that I am not to blame--nor she
either, poor thing."

Sir Patrick paused again. "She?" Blanche had apparently been
gambling too? Nothing was wanting to complete the picture but an
announcement in the next sentence, presenting the courier as
carried away, in his turn, by the insatiate passion for play. Sir
Patrick resumed:

"You can not, I am sure, expect _me_ to have known the law. And
as for poor Miss Silvester--"

"Miss Silvester?" What had Miss Silvester to do with it? And what
could be the meaning of the reference to "the law?"

Sir Patrick had re ad the letter, thus far, standing up. A vague
distrust stole over him at the appearance of Miss Silvester's
name in connection with the lines which had preceded it. He felt
nothing approaching to a clear prevision of what was to come.
Some indescribable influence was at work in him, which shook his
nerves, and made him feel the infirmities of his age (as it
seemed) on a sudden. It went no further than that. He was obliged
to sit down: he was obliged to wait a moment before he went on.

The letter proceeded, in these words:

"And, as for poor Miss Silvester, though she felt, as she reminds
me, some misgivings--still, she never could have foreseen, being
no lawyer either, how it was to end. I hardly know the best way
to break it to you. I can't, and won't, believe it myself. But
even if it should be true, I am quite sure you will find a way
out of it for us. I will stick at nothing, and Miss Silvester (as
you will see by her letter) will stick at nothing either, to set
things right. Of course, I have not said one word to my darling
Blanche, who is quite happy, and suspects nothing. All this, dear
Sir Patrick, is very badly written, I am afraid, but it is meant
to prepare you, and to put the best side on matters at starting.
However, the truth must be told--and shame on the Scotch law is
what _I_ say. This it is, in short: Geoffrey Delamayn is even a
greater scoundrel than you think him; and I bitterly repent (as
things have turned out) having held my tongue that night when you
and I had our private talk at Ham Farm. You will think I am
mixing two things up together. But I am not. Please to keep this
about Geoffrey in your mind, and piece it together with what I
have next to say. The worst is still to come. Miss Silvester's
letter (inclosed) tells me this terrible thing. You must know
that I went to her privately, as Geoffrey's messenger, on the day
of the lawn-party at Windygates. Well--how it could have
happened, Heaven only knows--but there is reason to fear that I
married her, without being aware of it myself, in August last, at
the Craig Fernie inn."

The letter dropped from Sir Patrick's hand. He sank back in the
chair, stunned for the moment, under the shock that had fallen on
him.

He rallied, and rose bewildered to his feet. He took a turn in
the room. He stopped, and summoned his will, and steadied himself
by main force. He picked up the letter, and read the last
sentence again. His face flushed. He was on the point of yielding
himself to a useless out burst of anger against Arnold, when his
better sense checked him at the last moment. "One fool in the
family is, enough," he said. "_My_ business in this dreadful
emergency is to keep my head clear for Blanche's sake."

He waited once more, to make sure of his own composure--and
turned again to the letter, to see what the writer had to say for
himself, in the way of explanation and excuse.

Arnold had plenty to say--with the drawback of not knowing how to
say it. It was hard to decide which quality in his letter was
most marked--the total absence of arrangement, or the total
absence of reserve. Without beginning, middle, or end, he told
the story of his fatal connection with the troubles of Anne
Silvester, from the memorable day when Geoffrey Delamayn sent him
to Craig Fernie, to the equally memorable night when Sir Patrick
had tried vainly to make him open his lips at Ham Farm.

"I own I have behaved like a fool," the letter concluded, "in
keeping Geoffrey Delamayn's secret for him--as things have turned
out. But how could I tell upon him without compromising Miss
Silvester? Read her letter, and you will see what she says, and
how generously she releases me. It's no use saying I am sorry I
wasn't more cautious. The mischief is done. I'll stick at
nothing--as I have said before--to undo it. Only tell me what is
the first step I am to take; and, as long as it don't part me
from Blanche, rely on my taking it. Waiting to hear from you, I
remain, dear Sir Patrick, yours in great perplexity, Arnold
Brinkworth."

Sir Patrick folded the letter, and looked at the two inclosures
lying on the table. His eye was hard, his brow was frowning, as
he put his hand to take up Anne's letter. The letter from
Arnold's agent in Edinburgh lay nearer to him. As it happened, he
took that first.

It was short enough, and clearly enough written, to invite a
reading before he put it down again. The lawyer reported that he
had made the necessary inquiries at Glasgow, with this result.
Anne had been traced to The Sheep's Head Hotel. She had lain
there utterly helpless, from illness, until the beginning of
September. She had been advertised, without result, in the
Glasgow newspapers. On the 5th of September she had sufficiently
recovered to be able to leave the hotel. She had been seen at the
railway station on the same day--but from that point all trace of
her had been lost once more. The lawyer had accordingly stopped
the proceedings, and now waited further instructions from his
client.

This letter was not without its effect in encouraging Sir Patrick
to suspend the harsh and hasty judgment of Anne, which any man,
placed in his present situation, must have been inclined to form.
Her illness claimed its small share of sympathy. Her friendless
position--so plainly and so sadly revealed by the advertising in
the newspapers--pleaded for merciful construction of faults
committed, if faults there were. Gravely, but not angrily, Sir
Patrick opened her letter--the letter that cast a doubt on his
niece's marriage.

Thus Anne Silvester wrote:

"GLASGOW, _September_ 5.

"DEAR MR. BRINKWORTH,--Nearly three weeks since I attempted to
write to you from this place. I was seized by sudden illness
while I was engaged over my letter; and from that time to this I
have laid helpless in bed--very near, as they tell me, to death.
I was strong enough to be dressed, and to sit up for a little
while yesterday and the day before. To-day, I have made a better
advance toward recovery. I can hold my pen and control my
thoughts. The first use to which I put this improvement is to
write these lines.

"I am going (so far as I know) to surprise--possibly to
alarm--you. There is no escaping from it, for you or for me; it
must be done.

"Thinking of how best to introduce what I am now obliged to say,
I can find no better way than this. I must ask you to take your
memory back to a day which we have both bitter reason to
regret--the day when Geoffrey Delamayn sent you to see me at the
inn at Craig Fernie.

"You may possibly not remember--it unhappily produced no
impression on you at the time--that I felt, and expressed, more
than once on that occasion, a very great dislike to your passing
me off on the people of the inn as your wife. It was necessary to
my being permitted to remain at Craig Fernie that you should do
so. I knew this; but still I shrank from it. It was impossible
for me to contradict you, without involving you in the painful
consequences, and running the risk of making a scandal which
might find its way to Blanche's ears. I knew this also; but still
my conscience reproached me. It was a vague feeling. I was quite
unaware of the actual danger in which you were placing yourself,
or I would have spoken out, no matter what came of it. I had what
is called a presentiment that you were not acting
discreetly--nothing more. As I love and honor my mother's
memory--as I trust in the mercy of God--this is the truth.

"You left the inn the next morning, and we have not met since.

"A few days after you went away my anxieties grew more than I
could bear alone. I went secretly to Windygates, and had an
interview with Blanche.

"She was absent for a few minutes from the room in which we had
met. In that interval I saw Geoffrey Delamayn for the first time
since I had left him at Lady Lundie's lawn-party. He treated me
as if I was a stranger. He told me that he had found out all that
had passed between us at the inn. He said he had taken a lawyer's
opinion. Oh, Mr. Brinkworth! how can I break it to you? how can I
write the words which repeat what he said to me next? It must be
done. Cruel as it  is, it must be done. He refused to my face to
marr y me. He said I was married already. He said I was your
wife.

"Now you know why I have referred you to what I felt (and
confessed to feeling) when we were together at Craig Fernie. If
you think hard thoughts, and say hard words of me, I can claim no
right to blame you. I am innocent--and yet it is my fault.

"My head swims, and the foolish tears are rising in spite of me.
I must leave off, and rest a little.

"I have been sitting at the window, and watching the people in
the street as they go by. They are all strangers. But, somehow,
the sight of them seems to rest my mind. The hum of the great
city gives me heart, and helps me to go on.

"I can not trust myself to write of the man who has betrayed us
both. Disgraced and broken as I am, there is something still left
in me which lifts me above _him._ If he came repentant, at this
moment, and offered me all that rank and wealth and worldly
consideration can give, I would rather be what I am now than be
his wife.

"Let me speak of you; and (for Blanche's sake) let me speak of
myself.

"I ought, no doubt, to have waited to see you at Windygates, and
to have told you at once of what had happened. But I was weak and
ill and the shock of hearing what I heard fell so heavily on me
that I fainted. After I came to myself I was so horrified, when I
thought of you and Blanche that a sort of madness possessed me. I
had but one idea--the idea of running away and hiding myself.

"My mind got clearer and quieter on the way to this place; and,
arrived here, I did what I hope and believe was the best thing I
could do. I consulted two lawyers. They differed in opinion as to
whether we were married or not--according to the law which
decides on such things in Scotland. The first said Yes. The
second said No--but advised me to write immediately and tell you
the position in which you stood. I attempted to write the same
day, and fell ill as you know.

"Thank God, the delay that has happened is of no consequence. I
asked Blanche, at Windygates, when you were to be married--and
she told me not until the end of the autumn. It is only the fifth
of September now. You have plenty of time before you. For all our
sakes, make good use of it.

"What are you to do?

"Go at once to Sir Patrick Lundie, and show him this letter.
Follow his advice--no matter how it may affect _me._ I should ill
requite your kindness, I should be false indeed to the love I
bear to Blanche, if I hesitated to brave any exposure that may
now be necessary in your interests and in hers. You have been all
that is generous, all that is delicate, all that is kind in this
matter. You have kept my disgraceful secret--I am quite sure of
it--with the fidelity of an honorable man who has had a woman's
reputation placed in his charge. I release you, with my whole
heart, dear Mr. Brinkworth, from your pledge. I entreat you, on
my knees, to consider yourself free to reveal the truth. I will
make any acknowledgment, on my side, that is needful under the
circumstances--no matter how public it may be. Release yourself
at any price; and then, and not till then, give back your regard
to the miserable woman who has laden you with the burden of her
sorrow, and darkened your life for a moment with the shadow of
her shame.

"Pray don't think there is any painful sacrifice involved in
this. The quieting of my own mind is involved in it--and that is
all.

"What has life left for _me?_ Nothing but the barren necessity of
living. When I think of the future now, my mind passes over the
years that may be left to me in this world. Sometimes I dare to
hope that the Divine Mercy of Christ--which once pleaded on earth
for a woman like me--may plead, when death has taken me, for my
spirit in Heaven. Sometimes I dare to hope that I may see my
mother, and Blanche's mother, in the better world. Their hearts
were bound together as the hearts of sisters while they were
here; and they left to their children the legacy of their love.
Oh, help me to say, if we meet again, that not in vain I promised
to be a sister to Blanche! The debt I owe to her is the
hereditary debt of my mother's gratitude. And what am I now? An
obstacle in the way of the happiness of her life. Sacrifice me to
that happiness, for God's sake! It is the one thing I have left
to live for. Again and again I say it--I care nothing for myself.
I have no right to be considered; I have no wish to be
considered. Tell the whole truth about me, and call me to bear
witness to it as publicly as you please!

"I have waited a little, once more, trying to think, before I
close my letter, what there may be still left to write.

"I can not think of any thing left but the duty of informing you
how you may find me. if you wish to write--or if it is thought
necessary that we should meet again.

"One word before I tell you this.

"It is impossible for me to guess what you will do, or what you
will be advised to do by others, when you get my letter. I don't
even know that you may not already have heard of what your
position is from Geoffrey Delamayn himself. In this event, or in
the event of your thinking it desirable to take Blanche into your
confidence, I venture to suggest that you should appoint some
person whom you can trust to see me on your behalf--or, if you
can not do this that you should see me in the presence of a third
person. The man who has not hesitated to betray us both, will not
hesitate to misrepresent us in the vilest way, if he can do it in
the future. For your own sake, let us be careful to give lying
tongues no opportunity of assailing your place in Blanche's
estimation. Don't act so as to risk putting yourself in a false
position _again!_ Don't let it be possible that a feeling
unworthy of her should be roused in the loving and generous
nature of your future wife!

"This written, I may now tell you how to communicate with me
after I have left this place.

"You will find on the slip of paper inclosed the name and address
of the second of the two lawyers whom I consulted in Glasgow. It
is arranged between us that I am to inform him, by letter, of the
next place to which I remove, and that he is to communicate the
information either to you or to Sir Patrick Lundie, on your
applying for it personally or by writing. I don't yet know myself
where I may find refuge. Nothing is certain but that I can not,
in my present state of weakness, travel far.

"If you wonder why I move at all until I am stronger, I can only
give a reason which may appear fanciful and overstrained.

"I have been informed that I was advertised in the Glasgow
newspapers during the time when I lay at this hotel, a stranger
at the point of death. Trouble has perhaps made me morbidly
suspicious. I am afraid of what may happen if I stay here, after
my place of residence has been made publicly known. So, as soon
as I can move, I go away in secret. It will be enough for me, if
I can find rest and peace in some quiet place, in the country
round Glasgow. You need feel no anxiety about my means of living.
I have money enough for all that I need--and, if I get well
again, I know how to earn my bread.

"I send no message to Blanche--I dare not till this is over. Wait
till she is your happy wife; and then give her a kiss, and say it
comes from Anne.

"Try and forgive me, dear Mr. Brinkworth. I have said all. Yours
gratefully,

"ANNE SILVESTER."

Sir Patrick put the letter down with unfeigned respect for the
woman who had written it.

Something of the personal influence which Anne exercised more or
less over all the men with whom she came in contact seemed to
communicate itself to the old lawyer through the medium of her
letter. His thoughts perversely wandered away from the serious
and pressing question of his niece's position into a region of
purely speculative inquiry relating to Anne. What infatuation (he
asked himself) had placed that noble creature at the mercy of
such a man as Geoffrey Delamayn?

We have all, at one time or another in our lives, been perplexed
as Sir Patrick was perplexed now.

If we know any thing by experience, we know that women cast
themselves away impulsively on unworthy men, and that men ruin
themselves headlong for unworthy w omen. We have the institution
of Divorce actually among us, existing mainly because the two
sexes are perpetually placing themselves in these anomalous
relations toward each other. And yet, at every fresh instance
which comes before us, we persist in being astonished to find
that the man and the woman have not chosen each other on rational
and producible grounds! We expect human passion to act on logical
principles; and human fallibility--with love for its guide--to be
above all danger of making a mistake! Ask the wisest among Anne
Silvester's sex what they saw to rationally justify them in
choosing the men to whom they have given their hearts and their
lives, and you will be putting a question to those wise women
which they never once thought of putting to themselves. Nay, more
still. Look into your own experience, and say frankly, Could you
justify your own excellent choice at the time when you
irrevocably made it? Could you have put your reasons on paper
when you first owned to yourself that you loved him? And would
the reasons have borne critical inspection if you had?

Sir Patrick gave it up in despair. The interests of his niece
were at stake. He wisely determined to rouse his mind by
occupying himself with the practical necessities of the moment.
It was essential to send an apology to the rector, in the first
place, so as to leave the evening at his disposal for considering
what preliminary course of conduct he should advise Arnold to
pursue.

After writing a few lines of apology to his partner at
Piquet--assigning family business as the excuse for breaking his
engagement--Sir Patrick rang the bell. The faithful Duncan
appeared, and saw at once in his master s face that something had
happened.

"Send a man with this to the Rectory," said Sir Patrick. "I can't
dine out to-day. I must have a chop at home."

"I am afraid, Sir Patrick--if I may be excused for remarking
it--you have had some bad news?"

"The worst possible news, Duncan. I can't tell you about it now.
Wait within hearing of the bell. In the mean time let nobody
interrupt me. If the steward himself comes I can't see him."

After thinking it over carefully, Sir Patrick decided that there
was no alternative but to send a message to Arnold and Blanche,
summoning them back to England in the first place. The necessity
of questioning Arnold, in the minutest detail, as to every thing
that had happened between Anne Silvester and himself at the Craig
Fernie inn, was the first and foremost necessity of the case.

At the same time it appeared to be desirable, for Blanche's sake,
to keep her in ignorance, for the present at least, of what had
happened. Sir Patrick met this difficulty with characteristic
ingenuity and readiness of resource.

He wrote a telegram to Arnold, expressed in the following terms:

"Your letter and inclosures received. Return to Ham Farm as soon
as you conveniently can. Keep the thing still a secret from
Blanche. Tell her, as the reason for coming back, that the lost
trace of Anne Silvester has been recovered, and that there may be
reasons for her returning to England before any thing further can
be done."

Duncan having been dispatched to the station with this message,
Duncan's master proceeded to calculate the question of time.

Arnold would in all probability receive the telegram at Baden, on
the next day, September the seventeenth. In three days more he
and Blanche might be expected to reach Ham Farm. During the
interval thus placed at his disposal Sir Patrick would have ample
time in which to recover himself, and to see his way to acting
for the best in the alarming emergency that now confronted him.

On the nineteenth Sir Patrick received a telegram informing him
that he might expect to see the young couple late in the evening
on the twentieth.

Late in the evening the sound of carriage-wheels was audible on
the drive; and Sir Patrick, opening the door of his room, heard
the familiar voices in the hall.

"Well!" cried Blanche, catching sight of him at the door, "is
Anne found?"

"Not just yet, my dear."

"Is there news of her?"

"Yes."

"Am I in time to be of use?"

"In excellent time. You shall hear all about it to-morrow. Go and
take off your traveling-things, and come down again to supper as
soon as you can."

Blanche kissed him, and went on up stairs. She had, as her uncle
thought in the glimpse he had caught of her, been improved by her
marriage. It had quieted and steadied her. There were graces in
her look and manner which Sir Patrick had not noticed before.
Arnold, on his side, appeared to less advantage. He was restless
and anxious; his position with Miss Silvester seemed to be
preying on his mind. As soon as his young wife's back was turned,
he appealed to Sir Patrick in an eager whisper.

"I hardly dare ask you what I have got it on my mind to say," he
began. "I must bear it if you are angry with me, Sir Patrick.
But--only tell me one thing. Is there a way out of it for us?
Have you thought of that?"

"I can not trust myself to speak of it clearly and composedly
to-night," said Sir Patrick. "Be satisfied if I tell you that I
have thought it all out--and wait for the rest till to-morrow."

Other persons concerned in the coming drama had had past
difficulties to think out, and future movements to consider,
during the interval occupied by Arnold and Blanche on their
return journey to England. Between the seventeenth and the
twentieth of September Geoffrey Delamayn had left Swanhaven, on
the way to his new training quarters in the neighborhood in which
the Foot-Race at Fulham was to be run. Between the same dates,
also, Captain Newenden had taken the opportunity, while passing
through London on his way south, to consult his solicitors. The
object of the conference was to find means of discovering an
anonymous letter-writer in Scotland, who had presumed to cause
serious annoyance to Mrs. Glenarm.

Thus, by ones and twos, converging from widely distant quarters,
they were now beginning to draw together, in the near
neighborhood of the great city which was soon destined to
assemble them all, for the first and the last time in this world,
face to face.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-SEVENTH.

THE WAY OUT.

BREAKFAST was just over. Blanche, seeing a pleasantly-idle
morning before her, proposed to Arnold to take a stroll in the
grounds.

The garden was blight with sunshine, and the bride was bright
with good-humor. She caught her uncle's eye, looking at her
admiringly, and paid him a little compliment in return. "You have
no idea," she said, "how nice it is to be back at Ham Farm!"

"I am to understand then," rejoined Sir Patrick, "that I am
forgiven for interrupting the honey-moon?"

"You are more than forgiven for interrupting it," said
Blanche--"you are thanked. As a married woman," she proceeded,
with the air of a matron of at least twenty years' standing, "I
have been thinking the subject over; and I have arrived at the
conclusion that a honey-moon which takes the form of a tour on
the Continent, is one of our national abuses which stands in need
of reform. When you are in love with each other (consider a
marriage without love to be no marriage at all), what do you want
with the excitement of seeing strange places? Isn't it excitement
enough, and isn't it strange enough, to a newly-married woman to
see such a total novelty as a husband? What is the most
interesting object on the face of creation to a man in Arnold's
position? The Alps? Certainly not! The most interesting object is
the wife. And the proper time for a bridal tour is the time--say
ten or a dozen years later--when you are beginning (not to get
tired of each other, that's out of the question) but to get a
little too well used to each other. Then take your tour to
Switzerland--and you give the Alps a chance. A succession of
honey-moon trips, in the autumn of married life--there is my
proposal for an improvement on the present state of things! Come
into the garden, Arnold; and let us calculate how long it will be
before we get weary of each other, and want the beauties of
nature to keep us company."

Arnold looked appealingly to Sir Patrick. Not a word had passed
between them, as yet, on the se rious subject of Anne Silvester's
letter. Sir Patrick undertook the responsibility of making the
necessary excuses to Blanche.

"Forgive me," he said, "if I ask leave to interfere with your
monopoly of Arnold for a little while. I have something to say to
him about his property in Scotland. Will you leave him with me,
if I promise to release him as soon as possible?"

Blanche smiled graciously. "You shall have him as long as you
like, uncle. There's your hat," she added, tossing it to her
husband, gayly. "I brought it in for you when I got my own. You
will find me on the lawn."

She nodded, and went out.

"Let me hear the worst at once, Sir Patrick," Arnold began. "Is
it serious? Do you think I am to blame?"

"I will answer your last question first," said Sir Patrick. "Do I
think you are to blame? Yes--in this way. You committed an act of
unpardonable rashness when you consented to go, as Geoffrey
Delamayn's messenger, to Miss Silvester at the inn. Having once
placed yourself in that false position, you could hardly have
acted, afterward, otherwise than you did. You could not be
expected to know the Scotch law. And, as an honorable man, you
were bound to keep a secret confided to you, in which the
reputation of a woman was concerned. Your first and last error in
this matter, was the fatal error of involving yourself in
responsibilities which belonged exclusively to another man."

"The man had saved my life." pleaded Arnold--"and I believed I
was giving service for service to my dearest friend."

"As to your other question," proceeded Sir Patrick. "Do I
consider your position to be a serious one? Most assuredly, I do!
So long as we are not absolutely certain that Blanche is your
lawful wife, the position is more than serious: it is
unendurable. I maintain the opinion, mind, out of which (thanks
to your honorable silence) that scoundrel Delamayn contrived to
cheat me. I told him, what I now tell you--that your sayings and
doings at Craig Fernie, do _not_ constitute a marriage, according
to Scottish law. But," pursued Sir Patrick, holding up a warning
forefinger at Arnold, "you have read it in Miss Silvester's
letter, and you may now take it also as a result of my
experience, that no individual opinion, in a matter of this kind,
is to be relied on. Of two lawyers, consulted by Miss Silvester
at Glasgow, one draws a directly opposite conclusion to mine, and
decides that you and she are married. I believe him to be wrong,
but in our situation, we have no other choice than to boldly
encounter the view of the case which he represents. In plain
English, we must begin by looking the worst in the face."

Arnold twisted the traveling hat which Blanche had thrown to him,
nervously, in both hands. "Supposing the worst comes to the
worst," he asked, "what will happen?"

Sir Patrick shook his head.

"It is not easy to tell you," he said, "without entering into the
legal aspect of the case. I shall only puzzle you if I do that.
Suppose we look at the matter in its social bearings--I mean, as
it may possibly affect you and Blanche, and your unborn
children?"

Arnold gave the hat a tighter twist than ever. "I never thought
of the children," he said, with a look of consternation.

"The children may present themselves," returned Sir Patrick,
dryly, "for all that. Now listen. It may have occurred to your
mind that the plain way out of our present dilemma is for you and
Miss Silvester, respectively, to affirm what we know to be the
truth--namely, that you never had the slightest intention of
marrying each other. Beware of founding any hopes on any such
remedy as that! If you reckon on it, you reckon without Geoffrey
Delamayn. He is interested, remember, in proving you and Miss
Silvester to be man and wife. Circumstances may arise--I won't
waste time in guessing at what they may be--which will enable a
third person to produce the landlady and the waiter at Craig
Fernie in evidence against you--and to assert that your
declaration and Miss Silvester's declaration are the result of
collusion between you two. Don't start! Such things have happened
before now. Miss Silvester is poor; and Blanche is rich. You may
be made to stand in the awkward position of a man who is denying
his marriage with a poor woman, in order to establish his
marriage with an heiress: Miss Silvester presumably aiding the
fraud, with two strong interests of her own as inducements--the
interest of asserting the claim to be the wife of a man of rank,
and the interest of earning her reward in money for resigning you
to Blanche. There is a case which a scoundrel might set up--and
with some appearance of truth too--in a court of justice!"

"Surely, the law wouldn't allow him to do that?"

"The law will argue any thing, with any body who will pay the law
for the use of its brains and its time. Let that view of the
matter alone now. Delamayn can set the case going, if he likes,
without applying to any lawyer to help him. He has only to cause
a report to reach Blanche's ears which publicly asserts that she
is not your lawful wife. With her temper, do you suppose she
would leave us a minute's peace till the matter was cleared up?
Or take it the other way. Comfort yourself, if you will, with the
idea that this affair will trouble nobody in the present. How are
we to know it may not turn up in the future under circumstances
which may place the legitimacy of your children in doubt? We have
a man to deal with who sticks at nothing. We have a state of the
law which can only be described as one scandalous uncertainty
from beginning to end. And we have two people (Bishopriggs and
Mrs. Inchbare) who can, and will, speak to what took place
between you and Anne Silvester at the inn. For Blanche's sake,
and for the sake of your unborn children, we must face this
matter on the spot--and settle it at once and forever. The
question before us now is this. Shall we open the proceedings by
communicating with Miss Silvester or not?"

At that important point in the conversation they were interrupted
by the reappearance of Blanche. Had she, by any accident, heard
what they had been saying?

No; it was the old story of most interruptions. Idleness that
considers nothing, had come to look at Industry that bears every
thing. It is a law of nature, apparently, that the people in this
world who have nothing to do can not support the sight of an
uninterrupted occupation in the hands of their neighbors. Blanche
produced a new specimen from Arnold's collection of hats. "I have
been thinking about it in the garden," she said, quite seriously.
"Here is the brown one with the high crown. You look better in
this than in the white one with the low crown. I have come to
change them, that's all." She changed the hats with Arnold, and
went on, without the faintest suspicion that she was in the way.
"Wear the brown one when you come out--and come soon, dear. I
won't stay an instant longer, uncle--I wouldn't interrupt you for
the world." She kissed her hand to Sir Patrick, and smiled at her
husband, and went out.

"What were we saying?" asked Arnold. "It's awkward to be
interrupted in this way, isn't it?"

"If I know any thing of female human nature," returned Sir
Patrick, composedly, "your wife will be in and out of the room,
in that way, the whole morning. I give her ten minutes, Arnold,
before she changes her mind again on the serious and weighty
subject of the white hat and the brown. These little
interruptions--otherwise quite charming--raised a doubt in my
mind. Wouldn't it be wise (I ask myself), if we made a virtue of
necessity, and took Blanche into the conversation? What do you
say to calling her back and telling her the truth?"

Arnold started, and changed color.

"There are difficulties in the way," he said.

"My good fellow! at every step of this business there are
difficulties in the way. Sooner or later, your wife must know
what has happened. The time for telling her is, no doubt, a
matter for your decision, not mine. All I say is this. Consider
whether the disclosure won't come from you with a better grace,
if you make it before you are fairly driven to the wall, and
obliged to open your lips."

Arnold rose to his fee t--took a turn in the room--sat down
again--and looked at Sir Patrick, with the expression of a
thoroughly bewildered and thoroughly helpless man.

"I don't know what to do," he said. "It beats me altogether. The
truth is, Sir Patrick, I was fairly forced, at Craig Fernie, into
deceiving Blanche--in what might seem to her a very unfeeling,
and a very unpardonable way."

"That sounds awkward! What do you mean?"

"I'll try and tell you. You remember when you went to the inn to
see Miss Silvester? Well, being there privately at the time, of
course I was obliged to keep out of your way."

"I see! And, when Blanche came afterward, you were obliged to
hide from Blanche, exactly as you had hidden from me?"

"Worse even than that! A day or two later, Blanche took me into
her confidence. She spoke to me of her visit to the inn, as if I
was a perfect stranger to the circumstances. She told me to my
face, Sir Patrick, of the invisible man who had kept so strangely
out of her way--without the faintest suspicion that I was the
man. And I never opened my lips to set her right! I was obliged
to be silent, or I must have betrayed Miss Silvester. What will
Blanche think of me, if I tell her now? That's the question!"

Blanche's name had barely passed her husband's lips before
Blanche herself verified Sir Patrick's prediction, by reappearing
at the open French window, with the superseded white hat in her
hand.

"Haven't you done yet!" she exclaimed. "I am shocked, uncle, to
interrupt you again--but these horrid hats of Arnold's are
beginning to weigh upon my mind. On reconsideration, I think the
white hat with the low crown is the most becoming of the two.
Change again, dear. Yes! the brown hat is hideous. There's a
beggar at the gate. Before I go quite distracted, I shall give
him the brown hat, and have done with the difficulty in that
manner. Am I very much in the way of business? I'm afraid I must
appear restless? Indeed, I _am_ restless. I can't imagine what is
the matter with me this morning."

"I can tell you," said Sir Patrick, in his gravest and dryest
manner. "You are suffering, Blanche, from a malady which is
exceedingly common among the young ladies of England. As a
disease it is quite incurable--and the name of it is
Nothing-to-Do."

Blanche dropped her uncle a smart little courtesy. "You might
have told me I was in the way in fewer words than that." She
whisked round, kicked the disgraced brown hat out into the
veranda before her, and left the two gentlemen alone once more.

"Your position with your wife, Arnold," resumed Sir Patrick,
returning gravely to the matter in hand, "is certainly a
difficult one." He paused, thinking of the evening when he and
Blanche had illustrated the vagueness of Mrs. Inchbare's
description of the man at the inn, by citing Arnold himself as
being one of the hundreds of innocent people who answered to it!
"Perhaps," he added, "the situation is even more difficult than
you suppose. It would have been certainly easier for _you_--and
it would have looked more honorable in _her_ estimation--if you
had made the inevitable confession before your marriage. I am, in
some degree, answerable for your not having done this--as well as
for the far more serious dilemma with Miss Silvester in which you
now stand. If I had not innocently hastened your marriage with
Blanche, Miss Silvester's admirable letter would have reached us
in ample time to prevent mischief. It's useless to dwell on that
now. Cheer up, Arnold! I am bound to show you the way out of the
labyrinth, no matter what the difficulties may be--and, please
God, I will do it!"

He pointed to a table at the other end of the room, on which
writing materials were placed. "I hate moving the moment I have
had my breakfast," he said. "We won't go into the library. Bring
me the pen and ink here."

"Are you going to write to Miss Silvester?"

"That is the question before us which we have not settled yet.
Before I decide, I want to be in possession of the facts--down to
the smallest detail of what took place between you and Miss
Silvester at the inn. There is only one way of getting at those
facts. I am going to examine you as if I had you before me in the
witness-box in court."

With that preface, and with Arnold's letter from Baden in his
hand as a brief to speak from, Sir Patrick put his questions in
clear and endless succession; and Arnold patiently and faithfully
answered them all.

The examination proceeded uninterruptedly until it had reached
that point in the progress of events at which Anne had crushed
Geoffrey Delamayn's letter in her hand, and had thrown it from
her indignantly to the other end of the room. There, for the
first time, Sir Patrick dipped his pen in the ink, apparently
intending to take a note. "Be very careful here," he said; "I
want to know every thing that you can tell me about that letter."

"The letter is lost," said Arnold.

"The letter has been stolen by Bishopriggs," returned Sir
Patrick, "and is in the possession of Bishopriggs at this
moment."

"Why, you know more about it than I do!" exclaimed Arnold.

"I sincerely hope not. I don't know what was inside the letter.
Do you?"

"Yes. Part of it at least."

"Part of it?"

"There were two letters written, on the same sheet of paper,"
said Arnold. "One of them was written by Geoffrey Delamayn--and
that is the one I know about."

Sir Patrick started. His face brightened; he made a hasty note.
"Go on," he said, eagerly. "How came the letters to be written on
the same sheet? Explain that!"

Arnold explained that Geoffrey, in the absence of any thing else
to write his excuses on to Anne, had written to her on the fourth
or blank page of a letter which had been addressed to him by Anne
herself.

"Did you read that letter?" asked Sir Patrick.

"I might have read it if I had liked."

"And you didn't read it?"

"No."

"Why?"

"Out of delicacy."

Even Sir Patrick's carefully trained temper was not proof against
this. "That is the most misplaced act of delicacy I ever heard of
in my life!" cried the old gentleman, warmly. "Never mind! it's
useless to regret it now. At any rate, you read Delamayn's answer
to Miss Silvester's letter?"

"Yes--I did."

"Repeat it--as nearly as you can remember at this distance of
time."

"It was so short," said Arnold, "that there is hardly any thing
to repeat. As well as I remember, Geoffrey said he was called
away to London by his father's illness. He told Miss Silvester to
stop where she was; and he referred her to me, as messenger.
That's all I recollect of it now."

"Cudgel your brains, my good fellow! this is very important. Did
he make no allusion to his engagement to marry Miss Silvester at
Craig Fernie? Didn't he try to pacify her by an apology of some
sort?"

The question roused Arnold's memory to make another effort.

"Yes," he answered. "Geoffrey said something about being true to
his engagement, or keeping his promise or words to that effect."

"You're sure of what you say now?"

"I am certain of it."

Sir Patrick made another note.

"Was the letter signed?" he asked, when he had done.

"Yes."

"And dated?"

"Yes." Arnold's memory made a second effort, after he had given
his second affirmative answer. "Wait a little," he said. "I
remember something else about the letter. It was not only dated.
The time of day at which it was written was put as well."

"How came he to do that?"

"I suggested it. The letter was so short I felt ashamed to
deliver it as it stood. I told him to put the time--so as to show
her that he was obliged to write in a hurry. He put the time when
the train started; and (I think) the time when the letter was
written as well."

"And you delivered that letter to Miss Silvester, with your own
hand, as soon as you saw her at the inn?"

"I did."

Sir Patrick made a third note, and pushed the paper away from him
with an air of supreme satisfaction.

"I always suspected that lost letter to be an important
document," he said--"or Bishopriggs would never have stolen it.
We must get possession of it, Arnold, at any sacrifice. The first
thing to be done (exactly as I anticipated), is to write to the
Glasgow lawyer, and find Miss Silvester."

"Wait a lit tle!" cried a voice at the veranda. "Don't forget
that I have come back from Baden to help you!"

Sir Patrick and Arnold both looked up. This time Blanche had
heard the last words that had passed between them. She sat down
at the table by Sir Patrick's side, and laid her hand caressingly
on his shoulder.

"You are quite right, uncle," she said. "I _am_ suffering this
morning from the malady of having nothing to do. Are you going to
write to Anne? Don't. Let me write instead."

Sir Patrick declined to resign the pen.

"The person who knows Miss Silvester's address," he said, "is a
lawyer in Glasgow. I am going to write to the lawyer. When he
sends us word where she is--then, Blanche, will be the time to
employ your good offices in winning back your friend."

He drew the writing materials once more with in his reach, and,
suspending the remainder of Arnold's examination for the present,
began his letter to Mr. Crum.

Blanche pleaded hard for an occupation of some sort. "Can nobody
give me something to do?" she asked. "Glasgow is such a long way
off, and waiting is such weary work. Don't sit there staring at
me, Arnold! Can't you suggest something?"

Arnold, for once, displayed an unexpected readiness of resource.

"If you want to write," he said, "you owe Lady Lundie a letter.
It's three days since you heard from her--and you haven't
answered her yet."

Sir Patrick paused, and looked up quickly from his writing-desk.

"Lady Lundie?" he muttered, inquiringly.

"Yes," said Blanche. "It's quite true; I owe her a letter. And of
course I ought to tell her we have come back to England. She will
be finely provoked when she hears why!"

The prospect of provoking Lady Lundie seemed to rouse Blanche s
dormant energies. She took a sheet of her uncle's note-paper, and
began writing her answer then and there.

Sir Patrick completed his communication to the lawyer--after a
look at Blanche, which expressed any thing rather than approval
of her present employment. Having placed his completed note in
the postbag, he silently signed to Arnold to follow him into the
garden. They went out together, leaving Blanche absorbed over her
letter to her step-mother.

"Is my wife doing any thing wrong?" asked Arnold, who had noticed
the look which Sir Patrick had cast on Blanche.

"Your wife is making mischief as fast as her fingers can spread
it."

Arnold stared. "She must answer Lady Lundie's letter," he said.

"Unquestionably."

"And she must tell Lady Lundie we have come back."

"I don't deny it."

"Then what is the objection to her writing?"

Sir Patrick took a pinch of snuff--and pointed with his ivory
cane to the bees humming busily about the flower-beds in the
sunshine of the autumn morning.

"I'll show you the objection," he said. "Suppose Blanche told one
of those inveterately intrusive insects that the honey in the
flowers happens, through an unexpected accident, to have come to
an end--do you think he would take the statement for granted? No.
He would plunge head-foremost into the nearest flower, and
investigate it for himself."

"Well?" said Arnold.

"Well--there is Blanche in the breakfast-room telling Lady Lundie
that the bridal tour happens, through an unexpected accident, to
have come to an end. Do you think Lady Lundie is the sort of
person to take the statement for granted? Nothing of the sort!
Lady Lundie, like the bee, will insist on investigating for
herself. How it will end, if she discovers the truth--and what
new complications she may not introduce into a matter which,
Heaven knows, is complicated enough already--I leave you to
imagine. _My_ poor powers of prevision are not equal to it."

Before Arnold could answer, Blanche joined them from the
breakfast-room.

"I've done it," she said. "It was an awkward letter to write--and
it's a comfort to have it over."

"You have done it, my dear," remarked Sir Patrick, quietly. "And
it may be a comfort. But it's not over."

"What do you mean?"

"I think, Blanche, we shall hear from your step-mother by return
of post."

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-EIGHTH.

THE NEWS FROM GLASGOW.

THE letters to Lady Lundie and to Mr. Crum having been dispatched
on Monday, the return of the post might be looked for on
Wednesday afternoon at Ham Farm.

Sir Patrick and Arnold held more than one private consultation,
during the interval, on the delicate and difficult subject of
admitting Blanche to a knowledge of what had happened. The wise
elder advised and the inexperienced junior listened. "Think of
it," said Sir Patrick; "and do it." And Arnold thought of it--and
left it undone.

Let those who feel inclined to blame him remember that he had
only been married a fortnight. It is hard, surely, after but two
weeks' possession of your wife, to appear before her in the
character of an offender on trial--and to find that an angel of
retribution has been thrown into the bargain by the liberal
destiny which bestowed on you the woman whom you adore!

They were all three at home on the Wednesday afternoon, looking
out for the postman.

The correspondence delivered included (exactly as Sir Patrick had
foreseen) a letter from Lady Lundie. Further investigation, on
the far more interesting subject of the expected news from
Glasgow, revealed--nothing. The lawyer had not answered Sir
Patrick's inquiry by return of post.

"Is that a bad sign?" asked Blanche.

"It is a sign that something has happened," answered her uncle.
"Mr. Crum is possibly expecting to receive some special
information, and is waiting on the chance of being able to
communicate it. We must hope, my dear, in to-morrow's post."

"Open Lady Lundie's letter in the mean time," said Blanche. "Are
you sure it is for you--and not for me?"

There was no doubt about it. Her ladyship's reply was ominously
addressed to her ladyship's brother-in-law. "I know what that
means." said Blanche, eying her uncle eagerly while he was
reading the letter. "If you mention Anne's name you insult my
step-mother. I have mentioned it freely. Lady Lundie is mortally
offended with me."

Rash judgment of youth! A lady who takes a dignified attitude, in
a family emergency, is never mortally offended--she is only
deeply grieved. Lady Lundie took a dignified attitude. "I well
know," wrote this estimable and Christian woman, "that I have
been all along regarded in the light of an intruder by the family
connections of my late beloved husband. But I was hardly prepared
to find myself entirely shut out from all domestic confidence, at
a time when some serious domestic catastrophe has but too
evidently taken place. I have no desire, dear Sir Patrick, to
intrude. Feeling it, however, to be quite inconsistent with a due
regard for my own position--after what has happened--to
correspond with Blanche, I address myself to the head of the
family, purely in the interests of propriety. Permit me to ask
whether--under circumstances which appear to be serious enough to
require the recall of my step-daughter and her husband from their
wedding tour--you think it DECENT to keep the widow of the late
Sir Thomas Lundie entirely in the dark? Pray consider this--not
at all out of regard for Me!--but out of regard for your own
position with Society. Curiosity is, as you know, foreign to my
nature. But when this dreadful scandal (whatever it may be) comes
out--which, dear Sir Patrick, it can not fail to do--what will
the world think, when it asks for Lady Lundie's, opinion, and
hears that Lady Lundie knew nothing about it? Whichever way you
may decide I shall take no offense. I may possibly be
wounded--but that won't matter. My little round of duties will
find me still earnest, still cheerful. And even if you shut me
out, my best wishes will find their way, nevertheless, to Ham
Farm. May I add--without encountering a sneer--that the prayers
of a lonely woman are offered for the welfare of all?"

"Well?" said Blanche.

Sir Patrick folded up the letter, and put it in his pocket.

"You have your step-mother's best wishes, my dear." Having
answered in those terms, he bowed to his niece with his best
grace, and walked out of the room.

"Do I think it decent,"  he repeated to himself, as he closed the
door, "to leave the widow of the late Sir Thomas Lundie in the
dark? When a lady's temper is a little ruffled, I think it more
than decent, I think it absolutely desirable, to let that lady
have the last word." He went into the library, and dropped his
sister-in-law's remonstrance into a box, labeled "Unanswered
Letters." Having got rid of it in that way, he hummed his
favorite little Scotch air--and put on his hat, and went out to
sun himself in the garden.

Meanwhile, Blanche was not quite satisfied with Sir Patrick's
reply. She appealed to her husband. "There is something wrong,"
she said--"and my uncle is hiding it from me."

Arnold could have desired no better opportunity than she had
offered to him, in those words, for making the long-deferred
disclosure to her of the truth. He lifted his eyes to Blanche's
face. By an unhappy fatality she was looking charmingly that
morning. How would she look if he told her the story of the
hiding at the inn? Arnold was still in love with her--and Arnold
said nothing.

The next day's post brought not only the anticipated letter from
Mr. Crum, but an unexpected Glasgow newspaper as well.

This time Blanche had no reason to complain that her uncle kept
his correspondence a secret from her. After reading the lawyer's
letter, with an interest and agitation which showed that the
contents had taken him by surprise, he handed it to Arnold and
his niece. "Bad news there," he said. "We must share it
together."

After acknowledging the receipt of Sir Patrick's letter of
inquiry, Mr. Crum began by stating all that he knew of Miss
Silvester's movements--dating from the time when she had left the
Sheep's Head Hotel. About a fortnight since he had received a
letter from her informing him that she had found a suitable place
of residence in a village near Glasgow. Feeling a strong interest
in Miss Silvester, Mr. Crum had visited her some few days
afterward. He had satisfied himself that she was lodging with
respectable people, and was as comfortably situated as
circumstances would permit. For a week more he had heard nothing
from the lady. At the expiration of that time he had received a
letter from her, telling him that she had read something in a
Glasgow newspaper, of that day's date, which seriously concerned
herself, and which would oblige her to travel northward
immediately as fast as her strength would permit. At a later
period, when she would be more certain of her own movements, she
engaged to write again, and let Mr. Crum know where he might
communicate with her if necessary. In the mean time, she could
only thank him for his kindness, and beg him to take care of any
letters or messages which might be left for her. Since the
receipt of this communication the lawyer had heard nothing
further. He had waited for the morning's post in the hope of
being able to report that he had received some further
intelligence. The hope had not been realized. He had now stated
all that he knew himself thus far--and he had forwarded a copy of
the newspaper alluded to by Miss Silvester, on the chance that an
examination of it by Sir Patrick might possibly lead to further
discoveries. In conclusion, he pledged himself to write again the
moment he had any information to send.

Blanche snatched up the newspaper, and opened it. "Let me look!"
she said. "I can find what Anne saw here if any body can!"

She ran her eye eagerly over column after column and page after
page--and dropped the newspaper on her lap with a gesture of
despair.

"Nothing!" she exclaimed. "Nothing any where, that I can see, to
interest Anne. Nothing to interest any body--except Lady Lundie,"
she went on, brushing the newspaper off her lap. "It turns out to
be all true, Arnold, at Swanhaven. Geoffrey Delamayn is going to
marry Mrs. Glenarm."

"What!" cried Arnold; the idea instantly flashing on him that
this was the news which Anne had seen.

Sir Patrick gave him a warning look, and picked up the newspaper
from the floor.

"I may as well run through it, Blanche, and make quite sure that
you have missed nothing," he said.

The report to which Blanche had referred was among the paragraphs
arranged under the heading of "Fashionable News." "A matrimonial
alliance" (the Glasgow journal announced) "was in prospect
between the Honorable Geoffrey Delamayn and the lovely and
accomplished relict of the late Mathew Glenarm, Esq., formerly
Miss Newenden." The, marriage would, in all probability, "be
solemnized in Scotland, before the end of the present autumn;"
and the wedding breakfast, it was whispered, "would collect a
large and fashionable party at Swanhaven Lodge."

Sir Patrick handed the newspaper silently to Arnold. It was plain
to any one who knew Anne Silvester's story that those were the
words which had found their fatal way to her in her place of
rest. The inference that followed seemed to be hardly less clear.
But one intelligible object, in the opinion of Sir Patrick, could
be at the end of her journey to the north. The deserted woman had
rallied the last relics of her old energy--and had devoted
herself to the desperate purpose of stopping the marriage of Mrs.
Glenarm.

Blanche was the first to break the silence.

"It seems like a fatality," she said. "Perpetual failure!
Perpetual disappointment! Are Anne and I doomed never to meet
again?"

She looked at her uncle. Sir Patrick showed none of his customary
cheerfulness in the face of disaster.

"She has promised to write to Mr. Crum," he said. "And Mr. Crum
has promised to let us know when he hears from her. That is the
only prospect before us. We must accept it as resignedly as we
can."

Blanche wandered out listlessly among the flowers in the
conservatory. Sir Patrick made no secret of the impression
produced upon him by Mr. Crum's letter, when he and Arnold were
left alone.

"There is no denying," he said, "that matters have taken a very
serious turn. My plans and calculations are all thrown out. It is
impossible to foresee what new mischief may not come of it, if
those two women meet; or what desperate act Delamayn may not
commit, if he finds himself driven to the wall. As things are, I
own frankly I don't know what to do next. A great light of the
Presbyterian Church," he added, with a momentary outbreak of his
whimsical humor, "once declared, in my hearing, that the
invention of printing was nothing more or less than a proof of
the intellectual activity of the Devil. Upon my honor, I feel for
the first time in my life inclined to agree with him."

He mechanically took up the Glasgow journal, which Arnold had
laid aside, while he spoke.

"What's this!" he exclaimed, as a name caught his eye in the
first line of the newspaper at which he happened to look. "Mrs.
Glenarm again! Are they turning the iron-master's widow into a
public character?"

There the name of the widow was, unquestionably; figuring for the
second time in type, in a letter of the gossiping sort, supplied
by an "Occasional Correspondent," and distinguished by the title
of "Sayings and Doings in the North." After tattling pleasantly
of the prospects of the shooting season, of the fashions from
Paris, of an accident to a tourist, and of a scandal in the
Scottish Kirk, the writer proceeded to the narrative of a case of
interest, relating to a marriage in the sphere known (in the
language of footmen) as the sphere of "high life."

Considerable sensation (the correspondent announced) had been
caused in Perth and its neighborhood, by the exposure of an
anonymous attempt at extortion, of which a lady of distinction
had lately been made the object. As her name had already been
publicly mentioned in an application to the magistrates, there
could be no impropriety in stating that the lady in question was
Mrs. Glenarm--whose approaching union with the Honorable Geoffrey
Delamayn was alluded to in another column of the journal.

Mrs. Glenarm had, it appeared, received an anonymous letter, on
the first day of her arrival as guest at the house of a friend,
residing in the neighborhood of Perth. The letter warned her that
there was an obstacle, of which she was herself probably not
aware, in the way of her projected marriage with Mr. Geoffrey
Delamayn. That gentleman had seriously compr omised himself with
another lady; and the lady would oppose his marriage to Mrs.
Glenarm, with proof in writing to produce in support of her
claim. The proof was contained in two letters exchanged between
the parties, and signed by their names; and the correspondence
was placed at Mrs. Glenarm's disposal, on two conditions, as
follows:

First, that she should offer a sufficiently liberal price to
induce the present possessor of the letters to part with them.
Secondly, that she should consent to adopt such a method of
paying the money as should satisfy the person that he was in no
danger of finding himself brought within reach of the law. The
answer to these two proposals was directed to be made through the
medium of an advertisement in the local newspaper--distinguished
by this address, "To a Friend in the Dark."

Certain turns of expression, and one or two mistakes in spelling,
pointed to this insolent letter as being, in all probability, the
production of a Scotchman, in the lower ranks of life. Mrs.
Glenarm had at once shown it to her nearest relative, Captain
Newenden. The captain had sought legal advice in Perth. It had
been decided, after due consideration, to insert the
advertisement demanded, and to take measures to entrap the writer
of the letter into revealing himself--without, it is needless to
add, allowing the fellow really to profit by his attempted act of
extortion.

The cunning of the "Friend in the Dark" (whoever he might be)
had, on trying the proposed experiment, proved to be more than a
match for the lawyers. He had successfully eluded not only the
snare first set for him, but others subsequently laid. A second,
and a third, anonymous letter, one more impudent than the other
had been received by Mrs. Glenarm, assuring that lady and the
friends who were acting for her that they were only wasting time
and raising the price which would be asked for the
correspondence, by the course they were taking. Captain Newenden
had thereupon, in default of knowing what other course to pursue,
appealed publicly to the city magistrates, and a reward had been
offered, under the sanction of the municipal authorities, for the
discovery of the man. This proceeding also having proved quite
fruitless, it was understood that the captain had arranged, with
the concurrence of his English solicitors, to place the matter in
the hands of an experienced officer of the London police.

Here, so far as the newspaper correspondent was aware, the affair
rested for the present.

It was only necessary to add, that Mrs. Glenarm had left the
neighborhood of Perth, in order to escape further annoyance; and
had placed herself under the protection of friends in another
part of the county. Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn, whose fair fame had
been assailed (it was needless, the correspondent added in
parenthesis, to say how groundlessly), was understood to have
expressed, not only the indignation natural under the
circumstances but also his extreme regret at not finding himself
in a position to aid Captain Newenden's efforts to bring the
anonymous slanderer to justice. The honorable gentleman was, as
the sporting public were well aware, then in course of strict
training for his forthcoming appearance at the Fulham Foot-Race.
So important was it considered that his mind should not be
harassed by annoyances, in his present responsible position, that
his trainer and his principal backers had thought it desirable to
hasten his removal to the neighborhood of Fulham--where the
exercises which were to prepare him for the race were now being
continued on the spot.

"The mystery seems to thicken," said Arnold.

"Quite the contrary," returned Sir Patrick, briskly. "The mystery
is clearing fast--thanks to the Glasgow newspaper. I shall be
spared the trouble of dealing with Bishopriggs for the stolen
letter. Miss Silvester has gone to Perth, to recover her
correspondence with Geoffrey Delamayn."

"Do you think she would recognize it," said Arnold, pointing to
the newspaper, "in the account given of it here?"

"Certainly! And she could hardly fail, in my opinion, to get a
step farther than that. Unless I am entirely mistaken, the
authorship of the anonymous letters has not mystified _her._"

"How could she guess at that?"

"In this way, as I think. Whatever she may have previously
thought, she must suspect, by this time, that the missing
correspondence has been stolen, and not lost. Now, there are only
two persons whom she can think of, as probably guilty of the
theft--Mrs. Inchbare or Bishopriggs. The newspaper description of
the style of the anonymous letters declares it to be the style of
a Scotchman in the lower ranks of life--in other words, points
plainly to Bishopriggs. You see that? Very well. Now suppose she
recovers the stolen property. What is likely to happen then? She
will be more or less than woman if she doesn't make her way next,
provided with her proofs in writing, to Mrs. Glenarm. She may
innocently help, or she may innocently frustrate, the end we have
in view--either way, our course is clear before us again. Our
interest in communicating with Miss Silvester remains precisely
the same interest that it was before we received the Glasgow
newspaper. I propose to wait till Sunday, on the chance that Mr.
Crum may write again. If we don't hear from him, I shall start
for Scotland on Monday morning, and take my chance of finding my
way to Miss Silvester, through Mrs. Glenarm."

"Leaving me behind?"

"Leaving you behind. Somebody must stay with Blanche. After
having only been a fortnight married, must I remind you of that?"

"Don't you think Mr. Crum will write before Monday?"

"It will be such a fortunate circumstance for us, if he does
write, that I don't venture to anticipate it."

"You are down on our luck, Sir."

"I detest slang, Arnold. But slang, I own, expresses my state of
mind, in this instance, with an accuracy which almost reconciles
me to the use of it--for once in a way."

"Every body's luck turns sooner or later," persisted Arnold. "I
can't help thinking our luck is on the turn at last. Would you
mind taking a bet, Sir Patrick?"

"Apply at the stables. I leave betting, as I leave cleaning the
horses, to my groom."

With that crabbed answer he closed the conversation for the day.

The hours passed, and time brought the post again in due
course--and the post decided in Arnold's favor! Sir Patrick's
want of confidence in the favoring patronage of Fortune was
practically rebuked by the arrival of a second letter from the
Glasgow lawyer on the next day.

"I have the pleasure of announcing" (Mr. Crum wrote) "that I have
heard from Miss Silvester, by the next postal delivery ensuing,
after I had dispatched my letter to Ham Farm. She writes, very
briefly, to inform me that she has decided on establishing her
next place of residence in London. The reason assigned for taking
this step--which she certainly did not contemplate when I last
saw her--is that she finds herself approaching the end of her
pecuniary resources. Having already decided on adopting, as a
means of living, the calling of a concert-singer, she has
arranged to place her interests in the hands of an old friend of
her late mother (who appears to have belonged also to the musical
profession): a dramatic and musical agent long established in the
metropolis, and well known to her as a trustworthy and
respectable man. She sends me the name and address of this
person--a copy of which you will find on the inclosed slip of
paper--in the event of my having occasion to write to her, before
she is settled in London. This is the whole substance of her
letter. I have only to add, that it does not contain the
slightest allusion to the nature of the errand on which she left
Glasgow."

Sir Patrick happened to be alone when he opened Mr. Crum's
letter.

His first proceeding, after reading it, was to consult the
railway time-table hanging in the hall. Having done this, he
returned to the library--wrote a short note of inquiry, addressed
to the musical agent--and rang the bell.

"Miss Silvester is expected in London, Duncan. I want a discreet
person to communicate with her. You are the person."

Duncan bowed. Sir Pa trick handed him the note.

"If you start at once you will be in time to catch the train. Go
to that address, and inquire for Miss Silvester. If she has
arrived, give her my compliments, and say I will have the honor
of calling on her (on Mr. Brinkworth's behalf) at the earliest
date which she may find it convenient to appoint. Be quick about
it--and you will have time to get back before the last train.
Have Mr. and Mrs. Brinkworth returned from their drive?"

"No, Sir Patrick."

Pending the return of Arnold and Blanche, Sir Patrick looked at
Mr. Crum's letter for the second time.

He was not quite satisfied that the pecuniary motive was really
the motive at the bottom of Anne's journey south. Remembering
that Geoffrey's trainers had removed him to the neighborhood of
London, he was inclined to doubt whether some serious quarrel had
not taken place between Anne and Mrs. Glenarm--and whether some
direct appeal to Geoffrey himself might not be in contemplation
as the result. In that event, Sir Patrick's advice and assistance
would be placed, without scruple, at Miss Silvester's disposal.
By asserting her claim, in opposition to the claim of Mrs.
Glenarm, she was also asserting herself to be an unmarried woman,
and was thus serving Blanche's interests as well as her own. "I
owe it to Blanche to help her," thought Sir Patrick. "And I owe
it to myself to bring Geoffrey Delamayn to a day of reckoning if
I can."

The barking of the dogs in the yard announced the return of the
carriage. Sir Patrick went out to meet Arnold and Blanche at the
gate, and tell them the news.

Punctual to the time at which he was expected, the discreet
Duncan reappeared with a note from the musical agent.

Miss Silvester had not yet reached London; but she was expected
to arrive not later than Tuesday in the ensuing week. The agent
had already been favored with her instructions to pay the
strictest attention to any commands received from Sir Patrick
Lundie. He would take care that Sir Patrick's message should be
given to Miss Silvester as soon as she arrived.

At last, then, there was news to be relied on! At last there was
a prospect of seeing her! Blanche was radiant with happiness,
Arnold was in high spirits for the first time since his return
from Baden.

Sir Patrick tried hard to catch the infection of gayety from his
young friends; but, to his own surprise, not less than to theirs,
the effort proved fruitless. With the tide of events turning
decidedly in his favor--relieved of the necessity of taking a
doubtful journey to Scotland; assured of obtaining his interview
with Anne in a few days' time--he was out of spirits all through
the evening.

"Still down on our luck!" exclaimed Arnold, as he and his host
finished their last game of billiards, and parted for the night.
"Surely, we couldn't wish for a more promising prospect than
_our_ prospect next week?"

Sir Patrick laid his hand on Arnold's shoulder.

"Let us look indulgently together," he said, in his whimsically
grave way, "at the humiliating spectacle of an old man's folly. I
feel, at this moment, Arnold, as if I would give every thing that
I possess in the world to have passed over next week, and to be
landed safely in the time beyond it."

"But why?"

"There is the folly! I can't tell why. With every reason to be in
better spirits than usual, I am unaccountably, irrationally,
invincibly depressed. What are we to conclude from that? Am I the
object of a supernatural warning of misfortune to come? Or am I
the object of a temporary derangement of the functions of the
liver? There is the question. Who is to decide it? How
contemptible is humanity, Arnold, rightly understood! Give me my
candle, and let's hope it's the liver."

EIGHTH SCENE--THE PANTRY.

CHAPTER THE THIRTY-NINTH.

ANNE WINS A VICTORY.

ON a certain evening in the month of September (at that period of
the month when Arnold and Blanche were traveling back from Baden
to Ham Farm) an ancient man--with one eye filmy and blind, and
one eye moist and merry--sat alone in the pantry of the Harp of
Scotland Inn, Perth, pounding the sugar softly in a glass of
whisky-punch. He has hitherto been personally distinguished in
these pages as the self-appointed father of Anne Silvester and
the humble servant of Blanche at the dance at Swanhaven Lodge. He
now dawns on the view in amicable relations with a third
lady--and assumes the mystic character of Mrs. Glenarm's "Friend
in the Dark."

Arriving in Perth the day after the festivities at Swanhaven,
Bishopriggs proceeded to the Harp of Scotland--at which
establishment for the reception of travelers he possessed the
advantage of being known to the landlord as Mrs. Inchbare's
right-hand man, and of standing high on the head-waiter's list of
old and intimate friends.

Inquiring for the waiter first by the name of Thomas (otherwise
Tammy) Pennyquick, Bishopriggs found his friend in sore distress
of body and mind. Contending vainly against the disabling
advances of rheumatism, Thomas Pennyquick ruefully contemplated
the prospect of being laid up at home by a long illness--with a
wife and children to support, and with the emoluments attached to
his position passing into the pockets of the first stranger who
could be found to occupy his place at the inn.

Hearing this doleful story, Bishopriggs cunningly saw his way to
serving his own private interests by performing the part of
Thomas Pennyquick's generous and devoted friend.

He forthwith offered to fill the place, without taking the
emoluments, of the invalided headwaiter--on the understanding, as
a matter of course, that the landlord consented to board and
lodge him free of expense at the inn. The landlord having readily
accepted this condition, Thomas Pennyquick retired to the bosom
of his family. And there was Bishopriggs, doubly secured behind a
respectable position and a virtuous action against all likelihood
of suspicion falling on him as a stranger in Perth--in the event
of his correspondence with Mrs. Glenarm being made the object of
legal investigation on the part of her friends!

Having opened the campaign in this masterly manner, the same
sagacious foresight had distinguished the operations of
Bishopriggs throughout.

His correspondence with Mrs. Glenarm was invariably written with
the left hand--the writing thus produced defying detection, in
all cases, as bearing no resemblance of character whatever to
writing produced by persons who habitually use the other hand. A
no less far-sighted cunning distinguished his proceedings in
answering the advertisements which the lawyers duly inserted in
the newspaper. He appointed hours at which he was employed on
business-errands for the inn, and places which lay on the way to
those errands, for his meetings with Mrs. Glenarm's
representatives: a pass-word being determined on, as usual in
such cases, by exchanging which the persons concerned could
discover each other. However carefully the lawyers might set the
snare--whether they had their necessary "witness" disguised as an
artist sketching in the neighborhood, or as an old woman selling
fruit, or what not--the wary eye of Bishopriggs detected it. He
left the pass-word unspoken; he went his way on his errand; he
was followed on suspicion; and he was discovered to be only "a
respectable person," charged with a message by the landlord of
the Harp of Scotland Inn!

To a man intrenched behind such precautions as these, the chance
of being detected might well be reckoned among the last of all
the chances that could possibly happen.

Discovery was, nevertheless, advancing on Bishopriggs from a
quarter which had not been included in his calculations. Anne
Silvester was in Perth; forewarned by the newspaper (as Sir
Patrick had guessed) that the letters offered to Mrs. Glenarm
were the letters between Geoffrey and herself, which she had lost
at Craig Fernie, and bent on clearing up the suspicion which
pointed to Bishopriggs as the person who was trying to turn the
correspondence to pecuniary account. The inquiries made for him,
at Anne's request, as soon as she arrived in the town, openly
described his name, and  his former position as headwaiter at
Craig Fernie--and thu s led easily to the discovery of him, in
his publicly avowed character of Thomas Pennyquick's devoted
friend. Toward evening, on the day after she reached Perth, the
news came to Anne that Bishopriggs was in service at the inn
known as the Harp of Scotland. The landlord of the hotel at which
she was staying inquired whether he should send a message for
her. She answered, "No, I will take my message myself. All I want
is a person to show me the way to the inn."

Secluded in the solitude of the head-waiter's pantry, Bishopriggs
sat peacefully melting the sugar in his whisky-punch.

It was the hour of the evening at which a period of tranquillity
generally occurred before what was called "the night-business" of
the house began. Bishopriggs was accustomed to drink and meditate
daily in this interval of repose. He tasted the punch, and smiled
contentedly as he set down his glass. The prospect before him
looked fairly enough. He had outwitted the lawyers in the
preliminary negotiations thus far. All that was needful now was
to wait till the terror of a public scandal (sustained by
occasional letters from her "Friend in the Dark") had its due
effect on Mrs. Glenarm, and hurried her into paying the
purchase-money for the correspondence with her own hand. "Let it
breed in the brain," he thought, "and the siller will soon come
out o' the purse."

His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of a slovenly
maid-servant, with a cotton handkerchief tied round her head, and
an uncleaned sauce-pan in her hand.

"Eh, Maister Bishopriggs," cried the girl, "here's a braw young
leddy speerin' for ye by yer ain name at the door."

"A leddy?" repeated Bishopriggs, with a look of virtuous disgust.
"Ye donnert ne'er-do-weel, do you come to a decent, 'sponsible
man like me, wi' sic a Cyprian overture as that? What d'ye tak'
me for? Mark Antony that lost the world for love (the mair fule
he!)? or Don Jovanny that counted his concubines by hundreds,
like the blessed Solomon himself? Awa' wi' ye to yer pots and
pans; and bid the wandering Venus that sent ye go spin!"

Before the girl could answer she was gently pulled aside from the
doorway, and Bishopriggs, thunder-struck, saw Anne Silvester
standing in her place.

"You had better tell the servant I am no stranger to you," said
Anne, looking toward the kitchen-maid, who stood in the passage
staring at her in stolid amazement.

"My ain sister's child!" cried Bishopriggs, lying with his
customary readiness. "Go yer ways, Maggie. The bonny lassie's my
ain kith and kin. The tongue o' scandal, I trow, has naething to
say against that.--Lord save us and guide us!" he added In
another tone, as the girl closed the door on them, "what brings
ye here?"

"I have something to say to you. I am not very well; I must wait
a little first. Give me a chair."

Bishopriggs obeyed in silence. His one available eye rested on
Anne, as he produced the chair, with an uneasy and suspicious
attention. "I'm wanting to know one thing," he said. "By what
meeraiculous means, young madam, do ye happen to ha' fund yer way
to this inn?"

Anne told him how her inquiries had been made and what the result
had been, plainly and frankly. The clouded face of Bishopriggs
began to clear again.

"Hech! hech!" he exclaimed, recovering all his native impudence,
"I hae had occasion to remark already, to anither leddy than
yersel', that it's seemply mairvelous hoo a man's ain gude deeds
find him oot in this lower warld o' ours. I hae dune a gude deed
by pure Tammy Pennyquick, and here's a' Pairth ringing wi the
report o' it; and Sawmuel Bishopriggs sae weel known that ony
stranger has only to ask, and find him. Understand, I beseech ye,
that it's no hand o' mine that pets this new feather in my cap.
As a gude Calvinist, my saul's clear o' the smallest figment o'
belief in Warks. When I look at my ain celeebrity I joost ask, as
the Psawmist asked before me, 'Why do the heathen rage, and the
people imagine a vain thing?' It seems ye've something to say to
me," he added, suddenly reverting to the object of Anne's visit.
"Is it humanly possible that ye can ha' come a' the way to Pairth
for naething but that?"

The expression of suspicion began to show itself again in his
face. Concealing as she best might the disgust that he inspired
in her, Anne stated her errand in the most direct manner, and in
the fewest possible words.

"I have come here to ask you for something," she said.

"Ay? ay? What may it be ye're wanting of me?"

"I want the letter I lost at Craig Fernie."

Even the solidly-founded self-possession of Bishopriggs himself
was shaken by the startling directness of that attack on it. His
glib tongue was paralyzed for the moment. "I dinna ken what ye're
drivin' at," he said, after an interval, with a sullen
consciousness that he had been all but tricked into betraying
himself.

The change in his manner convinced Anne that she had found in
Bishopriggs the person of whom she was in search.

"You have got my letter," she said, sternly insisting on the
truth. "And you are trying to turn it to a disgraceful use. I
won't allow you to make a market of my private affairs. You have
offered a letter of mine for sale to a stranger. I insist on your
restoring it to me before I leave this room!"

Bishopriggs hesitated again. His first suspicion that Anne had
been privately instructed by Mrs. Glenarm's lawyers returned to
his mind as a suspicion confirmed. He felt the vast importance of
making a cautious reply.

"I'll no' waste precious time," he said, after a moment's
consideration with himself, "in brushing awa' the fawse breath o'
scandal, when it passes my way. It blaws to nae purpose, my young
leddy, when it blaws on an honest man like me. Fie for shame on
ye for saying what ye've joost said--to me that was a fether to
ye at Craig Fernie! Wha' set ye on to it? Will it be man or woman
that's misca'ed me behind my back?"

Anne took the Glasgow newspaper from the pocket of her traveling
cloak, and placed it before him, open at the paragraph which
described the act of extortion attempted on Mrs. Glenarm.

"I have found there," she said, "all that I want to know."

"May a' the tribe o' editors, preenters, paper-makers,
news-vendors, and the like, bleeze together in the pit o'
Tophet!" With this devout aspiration--internally felt, not openly
uttered--Bishopriggs put on his spectacles, and read the passage
pointed out to him. "I see naething here touching the name o'
Sawmuel Bishopriggs, or the matter o' ony loss ye may or may not
ha' had at Craig Fernie," he said, when he had done; still
defending his position, with a resolution worthy of a better
cause.

Anne's pride recoiled at the prospect of prolonging the
discussion with him. She rose to her feet, and said her last
words.

"I have learned enough by this time," she answered, "to know that
the one argument that prevails with you is the argument of money.
If money will spare me the hateful necessity of disputing with
you--poor as I am, money you shall have. Be silent, if you
please. You are personally interested in what I have to say
next."

She opened her purse, and took a five-pound note from it.

"If you choose to own the truth, and produce the letter," she
resumed, "I will give you this, as your reward for finding, and
restoring to me, something that I had lost. If you persist in
your present prevarication, I can, and will, make that sheet of
note-paper you have stolen from me nothing but waste paper in
your hands. You have threatened Mrs. Glenarm with my
interference. Suppose I go to Mrs. Glenarm? Suppose I interfere
before the week is out? Suppose I have other letters of Mr.
Delamayn's in my possession, and produce them to speak for me?
What has Mrs. Glenarm to purchase of you _then?_ Answer me that!"

The color rose on her pale face. Her eyes, dim and weary when she
entered the room, looked him brightly through and through in
immeasurable contempt. "Answer me that!" she repeated, with a
burst of her old energy which revealed the fire and passion of
the woman's nature, not quenched even yet!

If Bishopriggs had a merit, it  was a rare merit, as men go, of
knowing when he was beaten. If he had an accomplis hment, it was
the accomplishment of retiring defeated, with all the honors of
war.

"Mercy presairve us!" he exclaimed, in the most innocent manner.
"Is it even You Yersel' that writ the letter to the man ca'ed
Jaffray Delamayn, and got the wee bit answer in pencil on the
blank page? Hoo, in Heeven's name, was I to know _that_ was the
letter ye were after when ye cam' in here? Did ye ever tell me ye
were Anne Silvester, at the hottle? Never ance! Was the puir
feckless husband-creature ye had wi' ye at the inn, Jaffray
Delamayn? Jaffray wad mak' twa o' him, as my ain eyes ha' seen.
Gi' ye back yer letter? My certie! noo I know it is yer letter,
I'll gi' it back wi' a' the pleasure in life!"

He opened his pocket-book, and took it out, with an alacrity
worthy of the honestest man in Christendom--and (more wonderful
still) he looked with a perfectly assumed expression of
indifference at the five-pound note in Anne's hand.

"Hoot! toot!" he said, "I'm no' that clear in my mind that I'm
free to tak' yer money. Eh, weel! weel! I'll een receive it, if
ye like, as a bit Memento o' the time when I was o' some sma'
sairvice to ye at the hottle. Ye'll no' mind," he added, suddenly
returning to business, "writin' me joost a line--in the way o'
receipt, ye ken--to clear me o' ony future suspicion in the
matter o' the letter?"

Anne threw down the bank-note on the table near which they were
standing, and snatched the letter from him.

"You need no receipt," she answered. "There shall be no letter to
bear witness against you!"

She lifted her other hand to tear it in pieces. Bishopriggs
caught her by both wrists, at the same moment, and held her fast.

"Bide a wee!" he said. "Ye don't get the letter, young madam,
without the receipt. It may be a' the same to _you,_ now ye've
married the other man, whether Jaffray Delamayn ance promised ye
fair in the by-gone time, or no. But, my certie! it's a matter o'
some moment to _me,_ that ye've chairged wi' stealin' the letter,
and making a market o't, and Lord knows what besides, that I suld
hae yer ain acknowledgment for it in black and white. Gi' me my
bit receipt--and een do as ye will with yer letter after that!"

Anne's hold of the letter relaxed. She let Bishopriggs repossess
himself of it as it dropped on the floor between them, without
making an effort to prevent him.

"It may be a' the same to _you,_ now ye've married the other man,
whether Jaffray Delamayn ance promised ye fair in the by-gone
time, or no." Those words presented Anne's position before her in
a light in which she had not seen it yet. She had truly expressed
the loathing that Geoffrey now inspired in her, when she had
declared, in her letter to Arnold, that, even if he offered her
marriage, in atonement for the past, she would rather be what she
was than be his wife. It had never occurred to her, until this
moment, that others would misinterpret the sensitive pride which
had prompted the abandonment of her claim on the man who had
ruined her. It had never been brought home to her until now, that
if she left him contemptuously to go his own way, and sell
himself to the first woman who had money enough to buy him, her
conduct would sanction the false conclusion that she was
powerless to interfere, because she was married already to
another man. The color that had risen in her face vanished, and
left it deadly pale again. She began to see that the purpose of
her journey to the north was not completed yet.

"I will give you your receipt," she said. "Tell me what to write,
and it shall be written."

Bishopriggs dictated the receipt. She wrote and signed it. He put
it in his pocket-book with the five-pound note, and handed her
the letter in exchange.

"Tear it if ye will," he said. "It matters naething to _me._"

For a moment she hesitated. A sudden shuddering shook her from
head to foot--the forewarning, it might be, of the influence
which that letter, saved from destruction by a hair's-breadth,
was destined to exercise on her life to come. She recovered
herself, and folded her cloak closer to her, as if she had felt a
passing chill.

"No," she said; "I will keep the letter."

She folded it and put it in the pocket of her dress. Then turned
to go--and stopped at the door.

"One thing more," she added. "Do you know Mrs. Glenarm's present
address?"

"Ye're no' reely going to Mistress Glenarm?"

"That is no concern of yours. You can answer my question or not,
as you please."

"Eh, my leddy! yer temper's no' what it used to be in the auld
times at the hottle. Aweel! aweel! ye ha' gi'en me yer money, and
I'll een gi' ye back gude measure for it, on my side. Mistress
Glenarm's awa' in private--incog, as they say--to Jaffray
Delamayn's brither at Swanhaven Lodge. Ye may rely on the
information, and it's no' that easy to come at either. They've
keepit it a secret as they think from a' the warld. Hech! hech!
Tammy Pennyquick's youngest but twa is page-boy at the hoose
where the leddy's been veesitin', on the outskirts o' Pairth.
Keep a secret if ye can frae the pawky ears o' yer domestics in
the servants' hall!--Eh! she's aff, without a word at parting!"
he exclaimed, as Anne left him without ceremony in the middle of
his dissertation on secrets and servants' halls. "I trow I ha'
gaen out for wool, and come back shorn," he added, reflecting
grimly on the disastrous overthrow of the promising speculation
on which he had embarked. "My certie! there was naething left
for't, when madam's fingers had grippit me, but to slip through
them as cannily as I could. What's Jaffray's marrying, or no'
marrying, to do wi' _her?_" he wondered, reverting to the
question which Anne had put to him at parting. "And whar's the
sense o' her errand, if she's reely bent on finding her way to
Mistress Glenarm?"

Whatever the sense of her errand might be, Anne's next proceeding
proved that she was really bent on it. After resting two days,
she left Perth by the first train in the morning, for Swanhaven
Lodge.

NINTH SCENE.--THE MUSIC-ROOM.

CHAPTER THE FORTIETH.

JULIUS MAKES MISCHIEF.

JULIUS DELAMAYN was alone, idly sauntering to and fro, with his
violin in his hand, on the terrace at Swanhaven Lodge.

The first mellow light of evening was in the sky. It was the
close of the day on which Anne Silvester had left Perth.

Some hours earlier, Julius had sacrificed himself to the duties
of his political position--as made for him by his father. He had
submitted to the dire necessity of delivering an oration to the
electors, at a public meeting in the neighboring town of
Kirkandrew. A detestable atmosphere to breathe; a disorderly
audience to address; insolent opposition to conciliate; imbecile
inquiries to answer; brutish interruptions to endure; greedy
petitioners to pacify; and dirty hands to shake: these are the
stages by which the aspiring English gentleman is compelled to
travel on the journey which leads him from the modest obscurity
of private life to the glorious publicity of the House of
Commons. Julius paid the preliminary penalties of a political
first appearance, as exacted by free institutions, with the
necessary patience; and returned to the welcome shelter of home,
more indifferent, if possible, to the attractions of
Parliamentary distinction than when he set out. The discord of
the roaring "people" (still echoing in his ears) had sharpened
his customary sensibility to the poetry of sound, as composed by
Mozart, and as interpreted by piano and violin. Possessing
himself of his beloved instrument, he had gone out on the terrace
to cool himself in the evening air, pending the arrival of the
servant whom he had summoned by the music-room bell. The man
appeared at the glass door which led into the room; and reported,
in answer to his master's inquiry, that Mrs. Julius Delamayn was
out paying visits, and was not expected to return for another
hour at least.

Julius groaned in spirit. The finest music which Mozart has
written for the violin associates that instrument with the piano.
Without the wife to help him, the husband was mute. After an
instant's consideration, Julius hit on an idea which promised, in
some degree, to remedy the disaster of Mrs. Delamayn's absence
from home.

"Has Mrs. Glenarm gone out, too?" he asked.

"No, Sir."

"My compliments. If Mrs. Glenarm has nothing else to do, will she
be so kind as to come to me in the music-room?"

The servant went away with his message. Julius seated himself on
one of the terrace-benches, and began to tune his violin.

Mrs. Glenarm--rightly reported by Bishopriggs as having privately
taken refuge from her anonymous correspondent at Swanhaven
Lodge--was, musically speaking, far from being an efficient
substitute for Mrs. Delamayn. Julius possessed, in his wife, one
of the few players on the piano-forte under whose subtle touch
that shallow and soulless instrument becomes inspired with
expression not its own, and produces music instead of noise. The
fine organization which can work this miracle had not been
bestowed on Mrs. Glenarm. She had been carefully taught; and she
was to be trusted to play correctly--and that was all. Julius,
hungry for music, and reigned to circumstances, asked for no
more.

The servant returned with his answer. Mrs. Glenarm would join Mr.
Delamayn in the music-room in ten minutes' time.

Julius rose, relieved, and resumed his sauntering walk; now
playing little snatches of music, now stopping to look at the
flowers on the terrace, with an eye that enjoyed their beauty,
and a hand that fondled them with caressing touch. If Imperial
Parliament had seen him at that moment, Imperial Parliament must
have given notice of a question to his illustrious father: Is it
possible, my lord, that _ you_ can have begotten such a Member as
this?

After stopping for a moment to tighten one of the strings of his
violin, Julius, raising his head from the instrument, was
surprised to see a lady approaching him on the terrace. Advancing
to meet her, and perceiving that she was a total stranger to him,
he assumed that she was, in all probability, a visitor to his
wife.

"Have I the honor of speaking to a friend of Mrs. Delamayn's?" he
asked. "My wife is not at home, I am sorry to say."

"I am a stranger to Mrs. Delamayn," the lady answered. "The
servant informed me that she had gone out; and that I should find
Mr. Delamayn here."

Julius bowed--and waited to hear more.

"I must beg you to forgive my intrusion," the stranger went on.
"My object is to ask permission to see a lady who is, I have been
informed, a guest in your house."

The extraordinary formality of the request rather puzzled Julius.

"Do you mean Mrs. Glenarm?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Pray don't think any permission necessary. A friend of Mrs.
Glenarm's may take her welcome for granted in this house."

"I am not a friend of Mrs. Glenarm. I am a total stranger to
her."

This made the ceremonious request preferred by the lady a little
more intelligible--but it left the lady's object in wishing to
speak to Mrs. Glenarm still in the dark. Julius politely waited,
until it pleased her to proceed further, and explain herself The
explanation did not appear to be an easy one to give. Her eyes
dropped to the ground. She hesitated painfully.

"My name--if I mention it," she resumed, without looking up, "may
possibly inform you--" She paused. Her color came and went. She
hesitated again; struggled with her agitation, and controlled it.
"I am Anne Silvester," she said, suddenly raising her pale face,
and suddenly steadying her trembling voice.

Julius started, and looked at her in silent surprise.

The name was doubly known to him. Not long since, he had heard it
from his father's lips, at his father's bedside. Lord Holchester
had charged him, had earnestly charged him, to bear that name in
mind, and to help the woman who bore it, if the woman ever
applied to him in time to come. Again, he had heard the name,
more lately, associated scandalously with the name of his
brother. On the receipt of the first of the anonymous letters
sent to her, Mrs. Glenarm had not only summoned Geoffrey himself
to refute the aspersion cast upon him, but had forwarded a
private copy of the letter to his relatives at Swanhaven.
Geoffrey's defense had not entirely satisfied Julius that his
brother was free from blame. As he now looked at Anne Silvester,
the doubt returned upon him strengthened--almost confirmed. Was
this woman--so modest, so gentle, so simply and unaffectedly
refined--the shameless adventuress denounced by Geoffrey, as
claiming him on the strength of a foolish flirtation; knowing
herself, at the time, to be privately married to another man? Was
this woman--with the voice of a lady, the look of a lady, the
manner of a lady--in league (as Geoffrey had declared) with the
illiterate vagabond who was attempting to extort money
anonymously from Mrs. Glenarm? Impossible! Making every allowance
for the proverbial deceitfulness of appearances, impossible!

"Your name has been mentioned to me," said Julius, answering her
after a momentary pause. His instincts, as a gentleman, made him
shrink from referring to the association of her name with the
name of his brother. "My father mentioned you," he added,
considerately explaining his knowledge of her in _that_ way,
"when I last saw him in London."

"Your father!" She came a step nearer, with a look of distrust as
well as a look of astonishment in her face. "Your father is Lord
Holchester--is he not?"

"Yes."

"What made him speak of _me?_"

"He was ill at the time," Julius answered. "And he had been
thinking of events in his past life with which I am entirely
unacquainted. He said he had known your father and mother. He
desired me, if you were ever in want of any assistance, to place
my services at your disposal. When he expressed that wish, he
spoke very earnestly--he gave me the impression that there was a
feeling of regret associated with the recollections on which he
had been dwelling."

Slowly, and in silence, Anne drew back to the low wall of the
terrace close by. She rested one hand on it to support herself.
Julius had said words of terrible import without a suspicion of
what he had done. Never until now had Anne Silvester known that
the man who had betrayed her was the son of that other man whose
discovery of the flaw in the marriage had ended in the betrayal
of her mother before her. She felt the shock of the revelation
with a chill of superstitious dread. Was the chain of a fatality
wound invisibly round her? Turn which way she might was she still
going darkly on, in the track of her dead mother, to an appointed
and hereditary doom? Present things passed from her view as the
awful doubt cast its shadow over her mind. She lived again for a
moment in the time when she was a child. She saw the face of her
mother once more, with the wan despair on it of the bygone days
when the title of wife was denied her, and the social prospect
was closed forever.

Julius approached, and roused her.

"Can I get you any thing?" he asked. "You are looking very ill. I
hope I have said nothing to distress you?"

The question failed to attract her attention. She put a question
herself instead of answering it.

"Did you say you were quite ignorant of what your father was
thinking of when he spoke to you about me?"

"Quite ignorant."

"Is your brother likely to know more about it than you do?"

"Certainly not."

She paused, absorbed once more in her own thoughts. Startled, on
the memorable day when they had first met, by Geoffrey's family
name, she had put the question to him whether there had not been
some acquaintance between their parents in the past time.
Deceiving her in all else, he had not deceived in this. He had
spoken in good faith, when he had declared that he had never
heard her father or her mother mentioned at home.

The curiosity of Julius was aroused. He attempted to lead her on
into saying more.

"You appear to know what my father was thinking of when he spoke
to me," he resumed. "May I ask--"

She interrupted him with a gesture of entreaty.

"Pray don't ask! It's past and over--it can have no interest for
you--it has nothing to do with my errand here. I must return,"
she went on, hurriedly, "to my object in trespassing on your
kindness. Have you heard me mentioned, Mr. Delamayn, by another
member of your family besides your father?"

Julius had not anticipated that sh e would approach, of her own
accord, the painful subject on which he had himself forborne to
touch. He was a little disappointed. He had expected more
delicacy of feeling from her than she had shown.

"Is it necessary," he asked, coldly, "to enter on that?"

The blood rose again in Anne's cheeks.

"If it had not been necessary," she answered, "do you think I
could have forced myself to mention it to _you?_ Let me remind
you that I am here on sufferance. If I don't speak plainly (no
matter at what sacrifice to my own feelings), I make my situation
more embarrassing than it is already. I have something to tell
Mrs. Glenarm relating to the anonymous letters which she has
lately received. And I have a word to say to her, next, about her
contemplated marriage. Before you allow me to do this, you ought
to know who I am. (I have owned it.) You ought to have heard the
worst that can be said of my conduct. (Your face tells me you
have heard the worst.) After the forbearance you have shown to
me, as a perfect stranger, I will not commit the meanness of
taking you by surprise. Perhaps, Mr. Delamayn, you understand,
_now,_ why I felt myself obliged to refer to your brother. Will
you trust me with permission to speak to Mrs. Glenarm?"

It was simply and modestly said--with an unaffected and touching
resignation of look and manner. Julius gave her back the respect
and the sympathy which, for a moment, he had unjustly withheld
from her.

"You have placed a confidence in me," he said "which most persons
in your situation would have withheld. I feel bound, in return to
place confidence in you. I will take it for granted that your
motive in this matter is one which it is my duty to respect. It
will be for Mrs. Glenarm to say whether she wishes the interview
to take place or not. All that I can do is to leave you free to
propose it to her. You _are_ free."

As he spoke the sound of the piano reached them from the
music-room. Julius pointed to the glass door which opened on to
the terrace.

"You have only to go in by that door," he said, "and you will
find Mrs. Glenarm alone."

Anne bowed, and left him. Arrived at the short flight of steps
which led up to the door, she paused to collect her thoughts
before she went in.

A sudden reluctance to go on and enter the room took possession
of her, as she waited with her foot on the lower step. The report
of Mrs. Glenarm's contemplated marriage had produced no such
effect on her as Sir Patrick had supposed: it had found no love
for Geoffrey left to wound, no latent jealousy only waiting to be
inflamed. Her object in taking the journey to Perth was completed
when her correspondence with Geoffrey was in her own hands again.
The change of purpose which had brought her to Swanhaven was due
entirely to the new view of her position toward Mrs. Glenarm
which the coarse commonsense of Bishopriggs had first suggested
to her. If she failed to protest against Mrs. Glenarm's marriage,
in the interests of the reparation which Geoffrey owed to her,
her conduct would only confirm Geoffrey's audacious assertion
that she was a married woman already. For her own sake she might
still have hesitated to move in the matter. But Blanche's
interests were concerned as well as her own; and, for Blanche's
sake, she had resolved on making the journey to Swanhaven Lodge.

At the same time, feeling toward Geoffrey as she felt
now--conscious as she was of not really desiring the reparation
on which she was about to insist--it was essential to the
preservation of her own self-respect that she should have some
purpose in view which could justify her to her own conscience in
assuming the character of Mrs. Glenarm's rival.

She had only to call to mind the critical situation of
Blanche--and to see her purpose before her plainly. Assuming that
she could open the coming interview by peaceably proving that her
claim on Geoffrey was beyond dispute, she might then, without
fear of misconception, take the tone of a friend instead of an
enemy, and might, with the best grace, assure Mrs. Glenarm that
she had no rivalry to dread, on the one easy condition that she
engaged to make Geoffrey repair the evil that he had done. "Marry
him without a word against it to dread from _me_--so long as he
unsays the words and undoes the deeds which have thrown a doubt
on the marriage of Arnold and Blanche." If she could but bring
the interview to this end--there was the way found of extricating
Arnold, by her own exertions, from the false position in which
she had innocently placed him toward his wife! Such was the
object before her, as she now stood on the brink of her interview
with Mrs. Glenarm.

Up to this moment, she had firmly believed in her capacity to
realize her own visionary project. It was only when she had her
foot on the step that a doubt of the success of the coming
experiment crossed her mind. For the first time, she saw the weak
point in her own reasoning. For the first time, she felt how much
she had blindly taken for granted, in assuming that Mrs. Glenarm
would have sufficient sense of justice and sufficient command of
temper to hear her patiently. All her hopes of success rested on
her own favorable estimate of a woman who was a total stranger to
her! What if the first words exchanged between them proved the
estimate to be wrong?

It was too late to pause and reconsider the position. Julius
Delamayn had noticed her hesitation, and was advancing toward her
from the end of the terrace. There was no help for it but to
master her own irresolution, and to run the risk boldly. "Come
what may, I have gone too far to stop _here._" With that
desperate resolution to animate her, she opened the glass door at
the top of the steps, and went into the room.

Mrs. Glenarm rose from the piano. The two women--one so richly,
the other so plainly dressed; one with her beauty in its full
bloom, the other worn and blighted; one with society at her feet,
the other an outcast living under the bleak shadow of
reproach--the two women stood face to face, and exchanged the
cold courtesies of salute between strangers, in silence.

The first to meet the trivial necessities of the situation was
Mrs. Glenarm. She good-humoredly put an end to the
embarrassment--which the shy visitor appeared to feel acutely--by
speaking first.

"I am afraid the servants have not told you?" she said. "Mrs.
Delamayn has gone out."

"I beg your pardon--I have not called to see Mrs. Delamayn."

Mrs. Glenarm looked a little surprised. She went on, however, as
amiably as before.

"Mr. Delamayn, perhaps?" she suggested. "I expect him here every
moment."

Anne explained again. "I have just parted from Mr. Delamayn."
Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in astonishment. Anne proceeded. "I
have come here, if you will excuse the intrusion--"

She hesitated--at a loss how to end the sentence. Mrs. Glenarm,
beginning by this time to feel a strong curiosity as to what
might be coming next, advanced to the rescue once more.

"Pray don't apologize," she said. "I think I understand that you
are so good as to have come to see _me._ You look tired. Won't
you take a chair?"

Anne could stand no longer. She took the offered chair. Mrs.
Glenarm resumed her place on the music-stool, and ran her fingers
idly over the keys of the piano. "Where did you see Mr.
Delamayn?" she went on. "The most irresponsible of men, except
when he has got his fiddle in his hand! Is he coming in soon? Are
we going to have any music? Have you come to play with us? Mr.
Delamayn is a perfect fanatic in music, isn't he? Why isn't he
here to introduce us? I suppose you like the classical style,
too? Did you know that I was in the music-room? Might I ask your
name?"

Frivolous as they were, Mrs. Glenarm's questions were not without
their use. They gave Anne time to summon her resolution, and to
feel the necessity of explaining herself.

"I am speaking, I believe, to Mrs. Glenarm?" she began.

The good-humored widow smiled and bowed graciously.

"I have come here, Mrs. Glenarm--by Mr. Delamayn's permission--to
ask leave to speak to you on a matter in which you are
interested."

Mrs. Glenarm's many-ringed fingers paused over the keys of the
piano. Mrs. Gle narm's plump face turned on the stranger with a
dawning expression of surprise.

"Indeed? I am interested in so many matters. May I ask what
_this_ matter is?"

The flippant tone of the speaker jarred on Anne. If Mrs.
Glenarm's nature was as shallow as it appeared to be on the
surface, there was little hope of any sympathy establishing
itself between them.

"I wished to speak to you," she answered, "about something that
happened while you were paying a visit in the neighborhood of
Perth."

The dawning surprise in Mrs. Glenarm's face became intensified
into an expression of distrust. Her hearty manner vanished under
a veil of conventional civility, drawn over it suddenly. She
looked at Anne. "Never at the best of times a beauty," she
thought. "Wretchedly out of health now. Dressed like a servant,
and looking like a lady. What _does_ it mean?"

The last doubt was not to be borne in silence by a person of Mrs.
Glenarm's temperament. She addressed herself to the solution of
it with the most unblushing directness--dextrously excused by the
most winning frankness of manner.

"Pardon me," she said. "My memory for faces is a bad one; and I
don't think you heard me just now, when I asked for your name.
Have we ever met before?"

"Never."

"And yet--if I understand what you are referring to--you wish to
speak to me about something which is only interesting to myself
and my most intimate friends."

"You understand me quite correctly," said Anne. "I wish to speak
to you about some anonymous letters--"

"For the third time, will you permit me to ask for your name?"

"You shall hear it directly--if you will first allow me to finish
what I wanted to say. I wish--if I can--to persuade you that I
come here as a friend, before I mention my name. You will, I am
sure, not be very sorry to hear that you need dread no further
annoyance--"

"Pardon me once more," said Mrs. Glenarm, interposing for the
second time. "I am at a loss to know to what I am to attribute
this kind interest in my affairs on the part of a total
stranger."

This time, her tone was more than politely cold--it was politely
impertinent. Mrs. Glenarm had lived all her life in good society,
and was a perfect mistress of the subtleties of refined insolence
in her intercourse with those who incurred her displeasure.

Anne's sensitive nature felt the wound--but Anne's patient
courage submitted. She put away from her the insolence which had
tried to sting, and went on, gently and firmly, as if nothing had
happened.

"The person who wrote to you anonymously," she said, "alluded to
a correspondence. He is no longer in possession of it. The
correspondence has passed into hands which may be trusted to
respect it. It will be put to no base use in the future--I answer
for that."

"You answer for that?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. She suddenly leaned
forward over the piano, and fixed her eyes in unconcealed
scrutiny on Anne's face. The violent temper, so often found in
combination with the weak nature, began to show itself in her
rising color, and her lowering brow. "How do _you_ know what the
person wrote?" she asked. "How do _you_ know that the
correspondence has passed into other hands? Who are you?" Before
Anne could answer her, she sprang to her feet, electrified by a
new idea. "The man who wrote to me spoke of something else
besides a correspondence. He spoke of a woman. I have found you
out!" she exclaimed, with a burst of jealous fury. "_You_ are the
woman!"

Anne rose on her side, still in firm possession of her
self-control.

"Mrs. Glenarm," she said, calmly, "I warn--no, I entreat you--not
to take that tone with me. Compose yourself; and I promise to
satisfy you that you are more interested than you are willing to
believe in what I have still to say. Pray bear with me for a
little longer. I admit that you have guessed right. I own that I
am the miserable woman who has been ruined and deserted by
Geoffrey Delamayn."

"It's false!" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "You wretch! Do you come to
_me_ with your trumped-up story? What does Julius Delamayn mean
by exposing me to this?" Her indignation at finding herself in
the same room with Anne broke its way through, not the restraints
only, but the common decencies of politeness. "I'll ring for the
servants!" she said. "I'll have you turned out of the house."

She tried to cross the fire-place to ring the bell. Anne, who was
standing nearest to it, stepped forward at the same moment.
Without saying a word, she motioned with her hand to the other
woman to stand back. There was a pause. The two waited, with
their eyes steadily fixed on one another--each with her
resolution laid bare to the other's view. In a moment more, the
finer nature prevailed. Mrs. Glenarm drew back a step in silence.

"Listen to me," said Anne.

"Listen to you?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. "You have no right to be
in this house. You have no right to force yourself in here. Leave
the room!"

Anne's patience--so firmly and admirably preserved thus
far--began to fail her at last.

"Take care, Mrs. Glenarm!" she said, still struggling with
herself. "I am not naturally a patient woman. Trouble has done
much to tame my temper--but endurance has its limits. You have
reached the limits of mine. I have a claim to be heard--and after
what you have said to me, I _will_ be heard!"

"You have no claim! You shameless woman, you are married already.
I know the man's name. Arnold Brinkworth."

"Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?"

"I decline to answer a woman who speaks of Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn
in that familiar way."

Anne advanced a step nearer.

"Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?" she repeated.

There was a light in her eyes, there was a ring in her voice,
which showed that she was roused at last. Mrs. Glenarm answered
her, this time.

"He did tell me."

"He lied!"

"He did _not!_ He knew. I believe _him._ I don't believe _you._"

"If he told you that I was any thing but a single woman--if he
told you that Arnold Brinkworth was married to any body but Miss
Lundie of Windygates--I say again he lied!"

"I say again--I believe _him,_ and not you."

"You believe I am Arnold Brinkworth's wife?"

"I am certain of it."

"You tell me that to my face?"

"I tell you to your face--you may have been Geoffrey Delamayn's
mistress; you are Arnold Brinkworth's wife."

At those words the long restrained anger leaped up in Anne--all
the more hotly for having been hitherto so steadily controlled.
In one breathless moment the whirlwind of her indignation swept
away, not only all remembrance of the purpose which had brought
her to Swanhaven, but all sense even of the unpardonable wrong
which she had suffered at Geoffrey's hands. If he had been there,
at that moment, and had offered to redeem his pledge, she would
have consented to marry him, while Mrs. Glenarm s eye was on
her--no matter whether she destroyed herself in her first cool
moment afterward or not. The small sting had planted itself at
last in the great nature. The noblest woman is only a woman,
after all!

"I forbid your marriage to Geoffrey Delamayn! I insist on his
performing the promise he gave me, to make me his wife! I have
got it here in his own words, in his own writing. On his soul, he
swears it to me--he will redeem his pledge. His mistress, did you
say? His wife, Mrs. Glenarm, before the week is out!"

In those wild words she cast back the taunt--with the letter held
in triumph in her hand.

Daunted for the moment by the doubt now literally forced on her,
that Anne might really have the claim on Geoffrey which she
advanced, Mrs. Glenarm answered nevertheless with the obstinacy
of a woman brought to bay--with a resolution not to be convinced
by conviction itself.

"I won't give him up!" she cried. "Your letter is a forgery. You
have no proof. I won't, I won't, I won't give him up!" she
repeated, with the impotent iteration of an angry child.

Anne pointed disdainfully to the letter that she held. "Here is
his pledged and written word," she said. "While I live, you will
never be his wife."

"I shall be his wife the day after the race. I am going to him in
London--to warn him  against You!"

"You will find me in London, before you--with this in my hand. Do
you know his writing?"

She held up the letter, open. Mrs. Glenarm's hand flew out with
the stealthy rapidity of a cat's paw, to seize and destroy it.
Quick as she was, her rival was quicker still. For an instant
they faced each other breathless--one with the letter held behind
her; one with her hand still stretched out.

At the same moment--before a word more had passed between
them--the glass door opened; and Julius Delamayn appeared in the
room.

He addressed himself to Anne.

"We decided, on the terrace," he said, quietly, "that you should
speak to Mrs. Glenarm, if Mrs. Glenarm wished it. Do you think it
desirable that the interview should be continued any longer?"

Anne's head drooped on her breast. The fiery anger in her was
quenched in an instant.

"I have been cruelly provoked, Mr. Delamayn," she answered. "But
I have no right to plead that." She looked up at him for a
moment. The hot tears of shame gathered in her eyes, and fell
slowly over her cheeks. She bent her head again, and hid them
from him. "The only atonement I can make," she said, "is to ask
your pardon, and to leave the house."

In silence, she turned away to the door. In silence, Julius
Delamayn paid her the trifling courtesy of opening it for her.
She went out.

Mrs. Glenarm's indignation--suspended for the moment--transferred
itself to Julius.

"If I have been entrapped into seeing that woman, with your
approval," she said, haughtily, "I owe it to myself, Mr.
Delamayn, to follow her example, and to leave your house."

"I authorized her to ask you for an interview, Mrs. Glenarm. If
she has presumed on the permission that I gave her, I sincerely
regret it, and I beg you to accept my apologies. At the same
time, I may venture to add, in defense of my conduct, that I
thought her--and think her still--a woman to be pitied more than
to be blamed."

"To be pitied did you say?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, doubtful whether
her ears had not deceived her.

"To be pitied," repeated Julius.

"_You_ may find it convenient, Mr. Delamayn, to forget what your
brother has told us about that person. _I_ happen to remember
it."

"So do I, Mrs. Glenarm. But, with my experience of Geoffrey--" He
hesitated, and ran his fingers nervously over the strings of his
violin.

"You don't believe him?" said Mrs. Glenarm.

Julius declined to admit that he doubted his brother's word, to
the lady who was about to become his brother's wife.

"I don't quite go that length," he said. "I find it difficult to
reconcile what Geoffrey has told us, with Miss Silvester's manner
and appearance--"

"Her appearance!" cried Mrs. Glenarm, in a transport of
astonishment and disgust. "_Her_ appearance! Oh, the men! I beg
your pardon--I ought to have remembered that there is no
accounting for tastes. Go on--pray go on!"

"Shall we compose ourselves with a little music?" suggested
Julius.

"I particularly request you will go on," answered Mrs. Glenarm,
emphatically. "You find it 'impossible to reconcile'--"

"I said 'difficult.' "

"Oh, very well. Difficult to reconcile what Geoffrey told us,
with Miss Silvester's manner and appearance. What next? You had
something else to say, when I was so rude as to interrupt you.
What was it?"

"Only this," said Julius. "I don't find it easy to understand Sir
Patrick Lundie's conduct in permitting Mr. Brinkworth to commit
bigamy with his niece."

"Wait a minute! The marriage of that horrible woman to Mr.
Brinkworth was a private marriage. Of course, Sir Patrick knew
nothing about it!"

Julius owned that this might be possible, and made a second
attempt to lead the angry lady back to the piano. Useless, once
more! Though she shrank from confessing it to herself, Mrs.
Glenarm's belief in the genuineness of her lover's defense had
been shaken. The tone taken by Julius--moderate as it
was--revived the first startling suspicion of the credibility of
Geoffrey's statement which Anne's language and conduct had forced
on Mrs. Glenarm. She dropped into the nearest chair, and put her
handkerchief to her eyes. "You always hated poor Geoffrey," she
said, with a burst of tears. "And now you're defaming him to me!"

Julius managed her admirably. On the point of answering her
seriously, he checked himself. "I always hated poor Geoffrey," he
repeated, with a smile. "You ought to be the last person to say
that, Mrs. Glenarm! I brought him all the way from London
expressly to introduce him to _you._"

"Then I wish you had left him in London!" retorted Mrs. Glenarm,
shifting suddenly from tears to temper. "I was a happy woman
before I met your brother. I can't give him up!" she burst out,
shifting back again from temper to tears. "I don't care if he
_has_ deceived me. I won't let another woman have him! I _will_
be his wife!" She threw herself theatrically on her knees before
Julius. "Oh, _do_ help me to find out the truth!" she said. "Oh,
Julius, pity me! I am so fond of him!"

There was genuine distress in her face, there was true feeling in
her voice. Who would have believed that there were reserves of
merciless insolence and heartless cruelty in this woman--and that
they had been lavishly poured out on a fallen sister not five
minutes since?

"I will do all I can," said Julius, raising her. "Let us talk of
it when you are more composed. Try a little music," he repeated,
"just to quiet your nerves."

"Would _you_ like me to play?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, becoming a
model of feminine docility at a moment's notice.

Julius opened the Sonatas of Mozart, and shouldered his violin.

"Let's try the Fifteenth," he said, placing Mrs. Glenarm at the
piano. "We will begin with the Adagio. If ever there was divine
music written by mortal man, there it is!"

They began. At the third bar Mrs. Glenarm dropped a note--and the
bow of Julius paused shuddering on the strings.

"I can't play!" she said. "I am so agitated; I am so anxious. How
_am_ I to find out whether that wretch is really married or not?
Who can I ask? I can't go to Geoffrey in London--the trainers
won't let me see him. I can't appeal to Mr. Brinkworth himself--I
am not even acquainted with him. Who else is there? Do think, and
tell me!"

There was but one chance of making her return to the Adagio--the
chance of hitting on a suggestion which would satisfy and quiet
her. Julius laid his violin on the piano, and considered the
question before him carefully.

"There are the witnesses," he said. "If Geoffrey's story is to be
depended on, the landlady and the waiter at the inn can speak to
the facts."

"Low people!" objected Mrs. Glenarm. "People I don't know. People
who might take advantage of my situation, and be insolent to me."

Julius considered once more; and made another suggestion. With
the fatal ingenuity of innocence, he hit on the idea of referring
Mrs. Glenarm to no less a person than Lady Lundie herself!

"There is our good friend at Windygates," he said. "Some whisper
of the matter may have reached Lady Lundie's ears. It may be a
little awkward to call on her (if she _has_ heard any thing) at
the time of a serious family disaster. You are the best judge of
that, however. All I can do is to throw out the notion.
Windygates isn't very far off--and something might come of it.
What do you think?"

Something might come of it! Let it be remembered that Lady Lundie
had been left entirely in the dark--that she had written to Sir
Patrick in a tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem was
wounded and her suspicion roused--and that her first intimation
of the serious dilemma in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was now
likely, thanks to Julius Delamayn, to reach her from the lips of
a mere acquaintance. Let this be remembered; and then let the
estimate be formed of what might come of it--not at Windygates
only, but also at Ham Farm!

"What do you think?" asked Julius.

Mrs. Glenarm was enchanted. "The very person to go to!" she said.
"If I am not let in I can easily write--and explain my object as
an apology. Lady Lundie is so right-minded, so sympathetic. If
she sees no one else--I have only to confide my anxieties to her,
and I am sure she will see me. You will lend me a carriage, won't
you? I'll go to Windygates to-morrow."

Julius took his violin off the pi ano.

"Don't think me very troublesome," he said coaxingly. "Between
this and to-morrow we have nothing to do. And it is _such_ music,
if you once get into the swing of it! Would you mind trying
again?"

Mrs. Glenarm was willing to do any thing to prove her gratitude,
after the invaluable hint which she had just received. At the
second trial the fair pianist's eye and hand were in perfect
harmony. The lovely melody which the Adagio of Mozart's Fifteenth
Sonata has given to violin and piano flowed smoothly at last--and
Julius Delamayn soared to the seventh heaven of musical delight.

The next day Mrs. Glenarm and Mrs. Delamayn went together to
Windygates House.

TENTH SCENE--THE BEDROOM.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIRST.

LADY LUNDIE DOES HER DUTY.

THE scene opens on a bedroom--and discloses, in broad daylight, a
lady in bed.

Persons with an irritable sense of propriety, whose
self-appointed duty it is to be always crying out, are warned to
pause before they cry out on this occasion. The lady now
presented to view being no less a person than Lady Lundie
herself, it follows, as a matter of course, that the utmost
demands of propriety are, by the mere assertion of that fact,
abundantly and indisputably satisfied. To say that any thing
short of direct moral advantage could, by any possibility, accrue
to any living creature by the presentation of her ladyship in a
horizontal, instead of a perpendicular position, is to assert
that Virtue is a question of posture, and that Respectability
ceases to assert itself when it ceases to appear in morning or
evening dress. Will any body be bold enough to say that? Let
nobody cry out, then, on the present occasion.

Lady Lundie was in bed.

Her ladyship had received Blanche's written announcement of the
sudden stoppage of the bridal tour; and had penned the answer to
Sir Patrick--the receipt of which at Ham Farm has been already
described. This done, Lady Lundie felt it due to herself to take
a becoming position in her own house, pending the possible
arrival of Sir Patrick's reply. What does a right-minded woman
do, when she has reason to believe that she is cruelly distrusted
by the members of her own family? A right-minded woman feels it
so acutely that she falls ill. Lady Lundie fell ill accordingly.

The case being a serious one, a medical practitioner of the
highest grade in the profession was required to treat it. A
physician from the neighboring town of Kirkandrew was called in.

The physician came in a carriage and pair, with the necessary
bald head, and the indispensable white cravat. He felt her
ladyship's pulse, and put a few gentle questions. He turned his
back solemnly, as only a great doctor can, on his own positive
internal conviction that his patient had nothing whatever the
matter with her. He said, with every appearance of believing in
himself, "Nerves, Lady Lundie. Repose in bed is essentially
necessary. I will write a prescription." He prescribed, with
perfect gravity: Aromatic Spirits of Ammonia--16 drops. Spirits
of Red Lavender--10 drops. Syrup of Orange Peel--2 drams. Camphor
Julep--1 ounce. When he had written, Misce fiat Hanstus (instead
of Mix a Draught)--when he had added, Ter die Sumendus (instead
of To be taken Three times a day)--and when he had certified to
his own Latin, by putting his initials at the end, he had only to
make his bow; to slip two guineas into his pocket; and to go his
way, with an approving professional conscience, in the character
of a physician who had done his duty.

Lady Lundie was in bed. The visible part of her ladyship was
perfectly attired, with a view to the occasion. A fillet of
superb white lace encircled her head. She wore an adorable
invalid jacket of white cambric, trimmed with lace and pink
ribbons. The rest was--bed-clothes. On a table at her side stood
the Red Lavender Draught--in color soothing to the eye; in flavor
not unpleasant to the taste. A book of devotional character was
near it. The domestic ledgers, and the kitchen report for the
day, were ranged modestly behind the devout book. (Not even her
ladyship's nerves, observe, were permitted to interfere with her
ladyship's duty.) A fan, a smelling-bottle, and a handkerchief
lay within reach on the counterpane. The spacious room was
partially darkened. One of the lower windows was open, affording
her ladyship the necessary cubic supply of air. The late Sir
Thomas looked at his widow, in effigy, from the wall opposite the
end of the bed. Not a chair was out of its place; not a vestige
of wearing apparel dared to show itself outside the sacred limits
of the wardrobe and the drawers. The sparkling treasures of the
toilet-table glittered in the dim distance, The jugs and basins
were of a rare and creamy white; spotless and beautiful to see.
Look where you might, you saw a perfect room. Then look at the
bed--and you saw a perfect woman, and completed the picture.

It was the day after Anne's appearance at Swanhaven--toward the
end of the afternoon.

Lady Lundie's own maid opened the door noiselessly, and stole on
tip-toe to the bedside. Her ladyship's eyes were closed. Her
ladyship suddenly opened them.

"Not asleep, Hopkins. Suffering. What is it?"

Hopkins laid two cards on the counterpane. "Mrs. Delamayn, my
lady--and Mrs. Glenarm."

"They were told I was ill, of course?"

"Yes, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm sent for me. She went into the
library, and wrote this note." Hopkins produced the note, neatly
folded in three-cornered form.

"Have they gone?"

"No, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm told me Yes or No would do for answer,
if you could only have the goodness to read this."

"Thoughtless of Mrs. Glenarm--at a time when the doctor insists
on perfect repose," said Lady Lundie. "It doesn't matter. One
sacrifice more or less is of very little consequence."

She fortified herself by an application of the smelling-bottle,
and opened the note. It ran thus:

"So grieved, dear Lady Lundie, to hear that you are a prisoner in
your room! I had taken the opportunity of calling with Mrs.
Delamayn, in the hope that I might be able to ask you a question.
Will your inexhaustible kindness forgive me if I ask it in
writing? Have you had any unexpected news of Mr. Arnold
Brinkworth lately? I mean, have you heard any thing about him,
which has taken you very much by surprise? I have a serious
reason for asking this. I will tell you what it is, the moment
you are able to see me. Until then, one word of answer is all I
expect. Send word down--Yes, or No. A thousand apologies--and
pray get better soon!"

The singular question contained in this note suggested one of two
inferences to Lady Lundie's mind. Either Mrs. Glenarm had heard a
report of the unexpected return of the married couple to
England--or she was in the far more interesting and important
position of possessing a clew to the secret of what was going on
under the surface at Ham Farm. The phrase used in the note, "I
have a serious reason for asking this," appeared to favor the
latter of the two interpretations. Impossible as it seemed to be
that Mrs. Glenarm could know something about Arnold of which Lady
Lundie was in absolute ignorance, her ladyship's curiosity
(already powerfully excited by Blanche's mysterious letter) was
only to be quieted by obtaining the necessary explanation
forthwith, at a personal interview.

"Hopkins," she said, "I must see Mrs. Glenarm."

Hopkins respectfully held up her hands in horror. Company in the
bedroom in the present state of her ladyship's health!

"A matter of duty is involved in this, Hopkins. Give me the
glass."

Hopkins produced an elegant little hand-mirror. Lady Lundie
carefully surveyed herself in it down to the margin of the
bedclothes. Above criticism in every respect? Yes--even when the
critic was a woman.

"Show Mrs. Glenarm up here."

In a minute or two more the iron-master's widow fluttered into
the room--a little over-dressed as usual; and a little profuse in
expressions of gratitude for her ladyship's kindness, and of
anxiety about her ladyship's health. Lady Lundie endured it as
long as she could--then stopped it with a gesture of polite
remonstrance, and came to the point.

"Now, my dear--about this question in your note? Is it possible
you have heard already that Arnold Brinkworth and his wife have
come back from Baden?" Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in
astonishment. Lady Lundie put it more plainly. "They were to have
gone on to Switzerland, you know, for their wedding tour, and
they suddenly altered their minds, and came back to England on
Sunday last."

"Dear Lady Lundie, it's not that! Have you heard nothing about
Mr. Brinkworth except what you have just told me?"

"Nothing."

There was a pause. Mrs. Glenarm toyed hesitatingly with her
parasol. Lady Lundie leaned forward in the bed, and looked at her
attentively.

"What have _you_ heard about him?" she asked.

Mrs. Glenarm was embarrassed. "It's so difficult to say," she
began.

"I can bear any thing but suspense," said Lady Lundie. "Tell me
the worst."

Mrs. Glenarm decided to risk it. "Have you never heard," she
asked, "that Mr. Brinkworth might possibly have committed himself
with another lady before he married Miss Lundie?"

Her ladyship first closed her eyes in horror and then searched
blindly on the counterpane for the smelling-bottle. Mrs. Glenarm
gave it to her, and waited to see how the invalid bore it before
she said any more.

"There are things one _must_ hear," remarked Lady Lundie. "I see
an act of duty involved in this. No words can describe how you
astonish me. Who told you?"

"Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn told me."

Her ladyship applied for the second time to the smelling-bottle.
"Arnold Brinkworth's most intimate friend!" she exclaimed. "He
ought to know if any body does. This is dreadful. Why should Mr.
Geoffrey Delamayn tell _you?_"

"I am going to marry him," answered Mrs. Glenarm. "That is my
excuse, dear Lady Lundie, for troubling you in this matter."

Lady Lundie partially opened her eyes in a state of faint
bewilderment. "I don't understand," she said. "For Heaven's sake
explain yourself!"

"Haven't you heard about the anonymous letters?" asked Mrs.
Glenarm.

Yes. Lady Lundie had heard about the letters. But only what the
public in general had heard. The name of the lady in the
background not mentioned; and Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn assumed to be
as innocent as the babe unborn. Any mistake in that assumption?
"Give me your hand, my poor dear, and confide it all to _me!_"

"He is not quite innocent," said Mrs. Glenarm. "He owned to a
foolish flirtation--all _her_ doing, no doubt. Of course, I
insisted on a distinct explanation. Had she really any claim on
him? Not the shadow of a claim. I felt that I only had his word
for that--and I told him so. He said he could prove it--he said
he knew her to be privately married already. Her husband had
disowned and deserted her; she was at the end of her resources;
she was desperate enough to attempt any thing. I thought it all
very suspicious--until Geoffrey mentioned the man's name. _That_
certainly proved that he had cast off his wife; for I myself knew
that he had lately married another person."

Lady Lundie suddenly started up from her pillow--honestly
agitated; genuinely alarmed by this time.

"Mr. Delamayn told you the man's name?" she said, breathlessly.

"Yes."

"Do I know it?"

"Don't ask me!"

Lady Lundie fell back on the pillow.

Mrs. Glenarm rose to ring for help. Before she could touch the
bell, her ladyship had rallied again.

"Stop!" she cried. "I can confirm it! It's true, Mrs. Glenarm!
it's true! Open the silver box on the toilet-table--you will find
the key in it. Bring me the top letter. Here! Look at it. I got
this from Blanche. Why have they suddenly given up their bridal
tour? Why have they gone back to Sir Patrick at Ham Farm? Why
have they put me off with an infamous subterfuge to account for
it? I felt sure something dreadful had happened. Now I know what
it is!" She sank back again, with closed eyes, and repeated the
words, in a fierce whisper, to herself. "Now I know what it is!"

Mrs. Glenarm read the letter. The reason given for the
suspiciously sudden return of the bride and bridegroom was
palpably a subterfuge--and, more remarkable still, the name of
Anne Silvester was connected with it. Mrs. Glenarm became
strongly agitated on her side.

"This _is_ a confirmation," she said. "Mr. Brinkworth has been
found out--the woman _is_ married to him--Geoffrey is free. Oh,
my dear friend, what a load of anxiety you have taken off my
mind! That vile wretch--"

Lady Lundie suddenly opened her eyes.

"Do you mean," she asked, "the woman who is at the bottom of all
the mischief?"

"Yes. I saw her yesterday. She forced herself in at Swanhaven.
She called him Geoffrey Delamayn. She declared herself a single
woman. She claimed him before my face in the most audacious
manner. She shook my faith, Lady Lundie--she shook my faith in
Geoffrey!"

"Who is she?"

"Who?" echoed Mrs. Glenarm. "Don't you even know that? Why her
name is repeated half a dozen times in this letter!"

Lady Lundie uttered a scream that rang through the room. Mrs.
Glenarm started to her feet. The maid appeared at the door in
terror. Her ladyship motioned to the woman to withdraw again
instantly, and then pointed to Mrs. Glenarm's chair.

"Sit down," she said. "Let me have a minute or two of quiet. I
want nothing more."

The silence in the room was unbroken until Lady Lundie spoke
again. She asked for Blanche's letter. After reading it
carefully, she laid it aside, and fell for a while into deep
thought.

"I have done Blanche an injustice!" she exclaimed. "My poor
Blanche!"

"You think she knows nothing about it?"

"I am certain of it! You forget, Mrs. Glenarm, that this horrible
discovery casts a doubt on my step-daughter's marriage. Do you
think, if she knew the truth, she would write of a wretch who has
mortally injured her as she writes here? They have put her off
with the excuse that she innocently sends to _me._ I see it as
plainly as I see you! Mr. Brinkworth and Sir Patrick are in
league to keep us both in the dark. Dear child! I owe her an
atonement. If nobody else opens her eyes, I will do it. Sir
Patrick shall find that Blanche has a friend in Me!"

A smile--the dangerous smile of an inveterately vindictive woman
thoroughly roused--showed itself with a furtive suddenness on her
face. Mrs. Glenarm was a little startled. Lady Lundie below the
surface--as distinguished from Lady Lundie _on_ the surface--was
not a pleasant object to contemplate.

"Pray try to compose yourself," said Mrs. Glenarm. "Dear Lady
Lundie, you frighten me!"

The bland surface of her ladyship appeared smoothly once more;
drawn back, as it were, over the hidden inner self, which it had
left for the moment exposed to view.

"Forgive me for feeling it!" she said, with the patient sweetness
which so eminently distinguished her in times of trial. "It falls
a little heavily on a poor sick woman--innocent of all suspicion,
and insulted by the most heartless neglect. Don't let me distress
you. I shall rally, my dear; I shall rally! In this dreadful
calamity--this abyss of crime and misery and deceit--I have no
one to depend on but myself. For Blanche's sake, the whole thing
must be cleared up--probed, my dear, probed to the depths.
Blanche must take a position that is worthy of her. Blanche must
insist on her rights, under My protection. Never mind what I
suffer, or what I sacrifice. There is a work of justice for poor
weak Me to do. It shall be done!" said her ladyship, fanning
herself with an aspect of illimitable resolution. "It shall be
done!"

"But, Lady Lundie what can you do? They are all away in the
south. And as for that abominable woman--"

Lady Lundie touched Mrs. Glenarm on the shoulder with her fan.

"I have my surprise in store, dear friend, as well as you. That
abominable woman was employed as Blanche's governess in this
house. Wait! that is not all. She left us suddenly--ran away--on
the pretense of being privately married. I know where she went. I
can trace what she did. I can find out who was with her. I can
follow Mr. Brinkworth's proceedings, behind Mr. Brinkworth's
back. I can search out the truth, without depending on people
compromised in this black business, whose interest it is to
deceive me. And I will do it to-day!" She closed the fan with a
sharp snap of t riumph, and settled herself on the pillow in
placid enjoyment of her dear friend's surprise.

Mrs. Glenarm drew confidentially closer to the bedside. "How can
you manage it?" she asked, eagerly. "Don't think me curious. I
have my interest, too, in getting at the truth. Don't leave me
out of it, pray!"

"Can you come back to-morrow, at this time?"

"Yes! yes!"

"Come, then--and you shall know."

"Can I be of any use?"

"Not at present."

"Can my uncle be of any use?"

"Do you know where to communicate with Captain Newenden?"

"Yes--he is staying with some friends in Sussex."

"We may possibly want his assistance. I can't tell yet. Don't
keep Mrs. Delamayn waiting any longer, my dear. I shall expect
you to-morrow."

They exchanged an affectionate embrace. Lady Lundie was left
alone.

Her ladyship resigned herself to meditation, with frowning brow
and close-shut lips. She looked her full age, and a year or two
more, as she lay thinking, with her head on her hand, and her
elbow on the pillow. After committing herself to the physician
(and to the red lavender draught) the commonest regard for
consistency made it necessary that she should keep her bed for
that day. And yet it was essential that the proposed inquiries
should be instantly set on foot. On the one hand, the problem was
not an easy one to solve; on the other, her ladyship was not an
easy one to beat. How to send for the landlady at Craig Fernie,
without exciting any special suspicion or remark--was the
question before her. In less than five minutes she had looked
back into her memory of current events at Windygates--and had
solved it.

Her first proceeding was to ring the bell for her maid.

"I am afraid I frightened you, Hopkins. The state of my nerves.
Mrs. Glenarm was a little sudden with some news that surprised
me. I am better now--and able to attend to the household matters.
There is a mistake in the butcher's account. Send the cook here."

She took up the domestic ledger and the kitchen report; corrected
the butcher; cautioned the cook; and disposed of all arrears of
domestic business before Hopkins was summoned again. Having, in
this way, dextrously prevented the woman from connecting any
thing that her mistress said or did, after Mrs. Glenarm's
departure, with any thing that might have passed during Mrs.
Glenarm's visit, Lady Lundie felt herself at liberty to pave the
way for the investigation on which she was determined to enter
before she slept that night.

"So much for the indoor arrangements," she said. "You must be my
prime minister, Hopkins, while I lie helpless here. Is there any
thing wanted by the people out of doors? The coachman? The
gardener?"

"I have just seen the gardener, my lady. He came with last week's
accounts. I told him he couldn't see your ladyship to-day."

"Quite right. Had he any report to make?"

"No, my lady."

"Surely, there was something I wanted to say to him--or to
somebody else? My memorandum-book, Hopkins. In the basket, on
that chair. Why wasn't the basket placed by my bedside?"

Hopkins brought the memorandum-book. Lady Lundie consulted it
(without the slightest necessity), with the same masterly gravity
exhibited by the doctor when he wrote her prescription (without
the slightest necessity also).

"Here it is," she said, recovering the lost remembrance. "Not the
gardener, but the gardener's wife. A memorandum to speak to her
about Mrs. Inchbare. Observe, Hopkins, the association of ideas.
Mrs. Inchbare is associated with the poultry; the poultry are
associated with the gardener's wife; the gardener's wife is
associated with the gardener--and so the gardener gets into my
head. Do you see it? I am always trying to improve your mind. You
do see it? Very well. Now about Mrs. Inchbare? Has she been here
again?"

"No, my lady."

"I am not at all sure, Hopkins, that I was right in declining to
consider the message Mrs. Inchbare sent to me about the poultry.
Why shouldn't she offer to take any fowls that I can spare off my
hands? She is a respectable woman; and it is important to me to
live on good terms with al my neighbors, great and small. Has she
got a poultry-yard of her own at Craig Fernie?"

"Yes, my lady. And beautifully kept, I am told."

"I really don't see--on reflection, Hopkins--why I should
hesitate to deal with Mrs. Inchbare. (I don't think it beneath me
to sell the game killed on my estate to the poulterer.) What was
it she wanted to buy? Some of my black Spanish fowls?"

"Yes, my lady. Your ladyship's black Spaniards are famous all
round the neighborhood. Nobody has got the breed. And Mrs.
Inchbare--"

"Wants to share the distinction of having the breed with me,"
said Lady Lundie. "I won't appear ungracious. I will see her
myself, as soon as I am a little better, and tell her that I have
changed my mind. Send one of the men to Craig Fernie with a
message. I can't keep a trifling matter of this sort in my
memory--send him at once, or I may forget it. He is to say I am
willing to see Mrs. Inchbare, about the fowls, the first time she
finds it convenient to come this way."

"I am afraid, my lady--Mrs. Inchbare's heart is so set on the
black Spaniards--she will find it convenient to come this way at
once as fast as her feet can carry her."

"In that case, you must take her to the gardener's wife. Say she
is to have some eggs--on condition, of course, of paying the
price for them. If she does come, mind I hear of it."

Hopkins withdrew. Hopkins's mistress reclined on her comfortable
pillows and fanned herself gently. The vindictive smile
reappeared on her face. "I fancy I shall be well enough to see
Mrs. Inchbare," she thought to herself. "And it is just possible
that the conversation may get beyond the relative merits of her
poultry-yard and mine."

A lapse of little more than two hours proved Hopkins's estimate
of the latent enthusiasm in Mrs. Inchbare's character to have
been correctly formed. The eager landlady appeared at Windygates
on the heels of the returning servant. Among the long list of
human weaknesses, a passion for poultry seems to have its
practical advantages (in the shape of eggs) as compared with the
more occult frenzies for collecting snuff-boxes and fiddles, and
amassing autographs and old postage-stamps. When the mistress of
Craig Fernie was duly announced to the mistress of Windygates,
Lady Lundie developed a sense of humor for the first time in her
life. Her ladyship was feebly merry (the result, no doubt, of the
exhilarating properties of the red lavender draught) on the
subject of Mrs. Inchbare and the Spanish fowls.

"Most ridiculous, Hopkins! This poor woman must be suffering from
a determination of poultry to the brain. Ill as I am, I should
have thought that nothing could amuse me. But, really, this good
creature starting up, and rushing here, as you say, as fast as
her feet can carry her--it's impossible to resist it! I
positively think I must see Mrs. Inchbare. With my active habits,
this imprisonment to my room is dreadful. I can neither sleep nor
read. Any thing, Hopkins, to divert my mind from myself: It's
easy to get rid of her if she is too much for me. Send her up."

Mrs. Inchbare made her appearance, courtesying deferentially;
amazed at the condescension which admitted her within the
hallowed precincts of Lady Lundie's room.

"Take a chair," said her ladyship, graciously. "I am suffering
from illness, as you perceive."

"My certie! sick or well, yer leddyship's a braw sight to see!"
returned Mrs. Inchbare profoundly impressed by the elegant
costume which illness assumes when illness appears in the regions
of high life.

"I am far from being in a fit state to receive any body,"
proceeded Lady Lundie. "But I had a motive for wishing to speak
to you when you next came to my house. I failed to treat a
proposal you made to me, a short time since, in a friendly and
neighborly way. I beg you to understand that I regret having
forgotten the consideration due from a person in my position to a
person in yours. I am obliged to say this under very unusual
circumstances," added her ladyship, with a glance round her
magnificent bedroom, "through your unexpected promptitude in
favoring me with a call. You have lost no time, Mrs. Inchbare, in
profiting by the message which I had the pleasure of sending to
you."

"Eh, my leddy, I wasna' that sure (yer leddyship having ance
changed yer mind) but that ye might e'en change again if I failed
to strike, as they say, while the iron's het. I crave yer pardon,
I'm sure, if I ha' been ower hasty. The pride o' my hairt's in my
powltry--and the black Spaniards' (as they ca' them) are a sair
temptation to me to break the tenth commandment, sae lang as
they're a' in yer leddyship's possession, and nane o' them in
mine."

"I am shocked to hear that I have been the innocent cause of your
falling into temptation, Mrs. Inchbare! Make your proposal--and I
shall be happy to meet it, if I can."

"I must e'en be content wi' what yer leddyship will condescend
on. A haitch o' eggs if I can come by naething else."

"There is something else you would prefer to a hatch of eggs?"

"I wad prefer," said Mrs. Inchbare, modestly, "a cock and twa
pullets."

"Open the case on the table behind you," said Lady Lundie, "and
you will find some writing paper inside. Give me a sheet of
it--and the pencil out of the tray."

Eagerly watched by Mrs. Inchbare, she wrote an order to the
poultry-woman, and held it out with a gracious smile.

"Take that to the gardener's wife. If you agree with her about
the price, you can have the cock and the two pullets."

Mrs. Inchbare opened her lips--no doubt to express the utmost
extremity of human gratitude. Before she had said three words,
Lady Lundie's impatience to reach the end which she had kept in
view from the time when Mrs. Glenarm had left the house burst the
bounds which had successfully restrained it thus far. Stopping
the landlady without ceremony, she fairly forced the conversation
to the subject of Anne Silvester's proceedings at the Craig
Fernie inn.

"How are you getting on at the hotel, Mrs. Inchbare? Plenty of
tourists, I suppose, at this time of year?"

"Full, my leddy (praise Providence), frae the basement to the
ceiling."

"You had a visitor, I think, some time since of whom I know
something? A person--" She paused, and put a strong constraint on
herself. There was no alternative but to yield to the hard
necessity of making her inquiry intelligible. "A lady," she
added, "who came to you about the middle of last month."

"Could yer leddyship condescend on her name?"

Lady Lundie put a still stronger constraint on herself.
"Silvester," she said, sharply.

"Presairve us a'!" cried Mrs. Inchbare. "It will never be the
same that cam' driftin' in by hersel'--wi' a bit bag in her hand,
and a husband left daidling an hour or mair on the road behind
her?"

"I have no doubt it is the same."

"Will she be a freend o' yer leddyship's?" asked Mrs. Inchbare,
feeling her ground cautiously.

"Certainly not!" said Lady Lundie. "I felt a passing curiosity
about her--nothing more."

Mrs. Inchbare looked relieved. "To tell ye truth, my leddy, there
was nae love lost between us. She had a maisterfu' temper o' her
ain--and I was weel pleased when I'd seen the last of her."

"I can quite understand that, Mrs. Inchbare--I know something of
her temper myself. Did I understand you to say that she came to
your hotel alone, and that her husband joined her shortly
afterward?"

"E'en sae, yer leddyship. I was no' free to gi' her house-room in
the hottle till her husband daidled in at her heels and answered
for her."

"I fancy I must have seen her husband," said Lady Lundie. "What
sort of a man was he?"

Mrs. Inchbare replied in much the same words which she had used
in answering the similar question put by Sir Patrick.

"Eh! he was ower young for the like o' _her._ A pratty man, my
leddy--betwixt tall and short; wi' bonny brown eyes and cheeks,
and fine coal-blaik hair. A nice douce-spoken lad. I hae naething
to say against him--except that he cam' late one day, and took
leg-bail betimes the next morning, and left madam behind, a load
on my hands."

The answer produced precisely the same effect on Lady Lundie
which it had produced on Sir Patrick. She, also, felt that it was
too vaguely like too many young men of no uncommon humor and
complexion to be relied on. But her ladyship possessed one
immense advantage over her brother-in-law in attempting to arrive
at the truth. _She_ suspected Arnold--and it was possible, in her
case, to assist Mrs. Inchbare's memory by hints contributed from
her own superior resources of experience and observation.

"Had he any thing about him of the look and way of a sailor?" she
asked. "And did you notice, when you spoke to him, that he had a
habit of playing with a locket on his watch-chain?"

There he is, het aff to a T!" cried Mrs. Inchbare. "Yer
leddyship's weel acquented wi' him--there's nae doot o' that."

"I thought I had seen him," said Lady Lundie. "A modest,
well-behaved young man, Mrs. Inchbare, as you say. Don't let me
keep you any longer from the poultry-yard. I am transgressing the
doctor's orders in seeing any body. We quite understand each
other now, don't we? Very glad to have seen you. Good-evening."

So she dismissed Mrs. Inchbare, when Mrs. Inchbare had served her
purpose.

Most women, in her position, would have been content with the
information which she had now obtained. But Lady Lundie--having a
man like Sir Patrick to deal with--determined to be doubly sure
of her facts before she ventured on interfering at Ham Farm. She
had learned from Mrs. Inchbare that the so-called husband of Anne
Silvester had joined her at Craig Fernie on the day when she
arrived at the inn, and had left her again the next morning. Anne
had made her escape from Windygates on the occasion of the
lawn-party--that is to say, on the fourteenth of August. On the
same day Arnold Brinkworth had taken his departure for the
purpose of visiting the Scotch property left to him by his aunt.
If Mrs. Inchbare was to be depended on, he must have gone to
Craig Fernie instead of going to his appointed destination--and
must, therefore, have arrived to visit his house and lands one
day later than the day which he had originally set apart for that
purpose. If this fact could be proved, on the testimony of a
disinterested witness, the case against Arnold would be
strengthened tenfold; and Lady Lundie might act on her discovery
with something like a certainty that her information was to be
relied on.

After a little consideration she decided on sending a messenger
with a note of inquiry addressed to Arnold's steward. The apology
she invented to excuse and account for the strangeness of the
proposed question, referred it to a little family discussion as
to the exact date of Arnold's arrival at his estate, and to a
friendly wager in which the difference of opinion had ended. If
the steward could state whether his employer had arrived on the
fourteenth or on the fifteenth of August, that was all that would
be wanted to decide the question in dispute.

Having written in those terms, Lady Lundie gave the necessary
directions for having the note delivered at the earliest possible
hour on the next morning; the messenger being ordered to make his
way back to Windygates by the first return train on the same day.

This arranged, her ladyship was free to refresh herself with
another dose of the red lavender draught, and to sleep the sleep
of the just who close their eyes with the composing conviction
that they have done their duty.

The events of the next day at Windygates succeeded each other in
due course, as follows:

The post arrived, and brought no reply from Sir Patrick. Lady
Lundie entered that incident on her mental register of debts owed
by her brother-in-law--to be paid, with interest, when the day of
reckoning came.

Next in order occurred the return of the messenger with the
steward's answer.

He had referred to his Diary; and he had discovered that Mr.
Brinkworth had written beforehand to announce his arrival at his
estate for the fourteenth of August--but that he had not actually
appeared until the fifteenth. The one discovery needed to
substantiate Mrs. Inchbare's evidence being now in Lady Lundie's
possession, she decided to  allow another day to pass--on the
chance that Sir Patrick might al ter his mind, and write to her.
If no letter arrived, and if nothing more was received from
Blanche, she resolved to leave Windygates by the next morning's
train, and to try the bold experiment of personal interference at
Ham Farm.

The third in the succession of events was the appearance of the
doctor to pay his professional visit.

A severe shock awaited him. He found his patient cured by the
draught! It was contrary to all rule and precedent; it savored of
quackery--the red lavender had no business to do what the red
lavender had done--but there she was, nevertheless, up and
dressed, and contemplating a journey to London on the next day
but one. "An act of duty, doctor, is involved in this--whatever
the sacrifice, I must go!" No other explanation could be
obtained. The patient was plainly determined--nothing remained
for the physician but to retreat with unimpaired dignity and a
paid fee. He did it. "Our art," he explained to Lady Lundie in
confidence, "is nothing, after all, but a choice between
alternatives. For instance. I see you--not cured, as you
think--but sustained by abnormal excitement. I have to ask which
is the least of the two evils--to risk letting you travel, or to
irritate you by keeping you at home. With your constitution, we
must risk the journey. Be careful to keep the window of the
carriage up on the side on which the wind blows. Let the
extremities be moderately warm, and the mind easy--and pray don't
omit to provide yourself with a second bottle of the Mixture
before you start." He made his bow, as before--he slipped two
guineas into his pocket, as before--and he went his way, as
before, with an approving conscience, in the character of a
physician who had done his duty. (What an enviable profession is
Medicine! And why don't we all belong to it?)

The last of the events was the arrival of Mrs. Glenarm.

"Well?" she began, eagerly, "what news?"

The narrative of her ladyship's discoveries--recited at full
length; and the announcement of her ladyship's
resolution--declared in the most uncompromising terms--raised
Mrs. Glenarm's excitement to the highest pitch.

"You go to town on Saturday?" she said. "I will go with you. Ever
since that woman declared she should be in London before me, I
have been dying to hasten my journey--and it is such an
opportunity to go with you! I can easily manage it. My uncle and
I were to have met in London, early next week, for the foot-race.
I have only to write and tell him of my change of
plans.--By-the-by, talking of my uncle, I have heard, since I saw
you, from the lawyers at Perth."

"More anonymous letters?"

"One more--received by the lawyers this time. My unknown
correspondent has written to them to withdraw his proposal, and
to announce that he has left Perth. The lawyers recommended me to
stop my uncle from spending money uselessly in employing the
London police. I have forwarded their letter to the captain; and
he will probably be in town to see his solicitors as soon as I
get there with you. So much for what _I_ have done in this
matter. Dear Lady Lundie--when we are at our journey's end, what
do _you_ mean to do?"

"My course is plain," answered her ladyship, calmly. "Sir Patrick
will hear from me, on Sunday morning next, at Ham Farm."

"Telling him what you have found out?"

"Certainly not! Telling him that I find myself called to London
by business, and that I propose paying him a short visit on
Monday next."

"Of course, he must receive you?"

"I think there is no doubt of that. Even _his_ hatred of his
brother's widow can hardly go to the length--after leaving my
letter unanswered--of closing his doors against me next."

"How will you manage it when you get there?"

"When I get there, my dear, I shall be breathing an atmosphere of
treachery and deceit; and, for my poor child's sake (abhorrent as
all dissimulation is to me), I must be careful what I do. Not a
word will escape my lips until I have first seen Blanche in
private. However painful it may be, I shall not shrink from my
duty, if my duty compels me to open her eyes to the truth. Sir
Patrick and Mr. Brinkworth will have somebody else besides an
inexperienced young creature to deal with on Monday next. I shall
be there."

With that formidable announcement, Lady Lundie closed the
conversation; and Mrs. Glenarm rose to take her leave.

"We meet at the Junction, dear Lady Lundie?"

"At the Junction, on Saturday."

ELEVENTH SCENE.--SIR PATRICK'S HOUSE.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-SECOND.

THE SMOKING-ROOM WINDOW.

"I CAN'T believe it! I won't believe it! You're trying to part me
from my husband--you're trying to set me against my dearest
friend. It's infamous. It's horrible. What have I done to you?
Oh, my head! my head! Are you trying to drive me mad?"

Pale and wild; her hands twisted in her hair; her feet hurrying
her aimlessly to and fro in the room--so Blanche answered her
step-mother, when the object of Lady Lundie's pilgrimage had been
accomplished, and the cruel truth had been plainly told.

Her ladyship sat, superbly composed, looking out through the
window at the placid landscape of woods and fields which
surrounded Ham Farm.

"I was prepared for this outbreak," she said, sadly. "These wild
words relieve your over-burdened heart, my poor child. I can
wait, Blanche--I can wait!"

Blanche stopped, and confronted Lady Lundie.

"You and I never liked each other," she said. "I wrote you a pert
letter from this place. I have always taken Anne's part against
you. I have shown you plainly--rudely, I dare say--that I was
glad to be married and get away from you. This is not your
revenge, is it?"

"Oh, Blanche, Blanche, what thoughts to think! what words to say!
I can only pray for you."

"I am mad, Lady Lundie. You bear with mad people. Bear with me. I
have been hardly more than a fortnight married. I love _him_--I
love _her_--with all my heart. Remember what you have told me
about them. Remember! remember! remember!"

She reiterated the words with a low cry of pain. Her hands went
up to her head again; and she returned restlessly to pacing this
way and that in the room.

Lady Lundie tried the effect of a gentle remonstrance. "For your
own sake," she said, "don't persist in estranging yourself from
me. In this dreadful trial, I am the only friend you have."

Blanche came back to her step-mother's chair; and looked at her
steadily, in silence. Lady Lundie submitted to inspection--and
bore it perfectly.

"Look into my heart," she said. "Blanche! it bleeds for you!"

Blanche heard, without heeding. Her mind was painfully intent on
its own thoughts. "You are a religious woman," she said,
abruptly. "Will you swear on your Bible, that what you told me is
true?"

"_My_ Bible!" repeated Lady Lundie with sorrowful emphasis. "Oh,
my child! have _you_ no part in that precious inheritance? Is it
not _your_ Bible, too?"

A momentary triumph showed itself in Blanche's face. "You daren't
swear it!" she said. "That's enough for me!"

She turned away scornfully. Lady Lundie caught her by the hand,
and drew her sharply back. The suffering saint disappeared, and
the woman who was no longer to be trifled with took her place.

"There must be an end to this," she said. "You don't believe what
I have told you. Have you courage enough to put it to the test?"

Blanche started, and released her hand. She trembled a little.
There was a horrible certainty of conviction expressed in Lady
Lundie's sudden change of manner.

"How?" she asked.

"You shall see. Tell me the truth, on your side, first. Where is
Sir Patrick? Is he really out, as his servant told me?"

"Yes. He is out with the farm bailiff. You have taken us all by
surprise. You wrote that we were to expect you by the next
train."

"When does the next train arrive? It is eleven o'clock now."

"Between one and two."

"Sir Patrick will not be back till then?"

"Not till then."

"Where is Mr. Brinkworth?"

"My husband?"

"Your husband--if you like. Is he out, too?"

"He is in the smoking-room."

"Do you mean the long room, built out from the back of the
house?"

"Yes."

"Come down stairs at once with me."

Blanche advanced a step--and drew back. "What do you want of me?"
she asked, inspired by a
sudden distrust.

Lady Lundie turned round, and looked at her impatiently.

"Can't you see yet," she said, sharply, "that your interest and
my interest in this matter are one? What have I told you?"

"Don't repeat it!"

"I must repeat it! I have told you that Arnold Brinkworth was
privately at Craig Fernie, with Miss Silvester, in the
acknowledged character of her husband--when we supposed him to be
visiting the estate left him by his aunt. You refuse to believe
it--and I am about to put it to the proof. Is it your interest or
is it not, to know whether this man deserves the blind belief
that you place in him?"

Blanche trembled from head to foot, and made no reply.

"I am going into the garden, to speak to Mr. Brinkworth through
the smoking-room window," pursued her ladyship. "Have you the
courage to come with me; to wait behind out of sight; and to hear
what he says with his own lips? I am not afraid of putting it to
that test. Are you?"

The tone in which she asked the question roused Blanche's spirit.

"If I believed him to be guilty," she said, resolutely, "I should
_not_ have the courage. I believe him to be innocent. Lead the
way, Lady Lundie, as soon as you please."

They left the room--Blanche's own room at Ham Farm--and descended
to the hall. Lady Lundie stopped, and consulted the railway
time-table hanging near the house-door.

"There is a train to London at a quarter to twelve," she said.
"How long does it take to walk to the station?"

"Why do you ask?"

"You will soon know. Answer my question."

"It's a walk of twenty minutes to the station."

Lady Lundie referred to her watch. "There will be just time," she
said.

"Time for what?"

"Come into the garden."

With that answer, she led the way out

The smoking-room projected at right angles from the wall of the
house, in an oblong form--with a bow-window at the farther end,
looking into the garden. Before she turned the corner, and showed
herself within the range of view from the window Lady Lundie
looked back, and signed to Blanche to wait behind the angle of
the wall. Blanche waited.

The next instant she heard the voices in conversation through the
open window. Arnold's voice was the first that spoke.

"Lady Lundie! Why, we didn't expect you till luncheon time!"

Lady Lundie was ready with her answer.

"I was able to leave town earlier than I had anticipated. Don't
put out your cigar; and don't move. I am not coming in."

The quick interchange of question and answer went on; every word
being audible in the perfect stillness of the place. Arnold was
the next to speak.

"Have you seen Blanche?"

"Blanche is getting ready to go out with me. We mean to have a
walk together. I have many things to say to her. Before we go, I
have something to say to _you._"

"Is it any thing very serious?"

"It is most serious."

"About me?"

"About you. I know where you went on the evening of my lawn-party
at Windygates--you went to Craig Fernie."

"Good Heavens! how did you find out--?"

"I know whom you went to meet--Miss Silvester. I know what is
said of you and of her--you are man and wife."

"Hush! don't speak so loud. Somebody may hear you!"

"What does it matter if they do? I am the only person whom you
have kept out of the secret. You all of you know it here."

"Nothing of the sort! Blanche doesn't know it."

"What! Neither you nor Sir Patrick has told Blanche of the
situation you stand in at this moment?"

"Not yet. Sir Patrick leaves it to me. I haven't been able to
bring myself to do it. Don't say a word, I entreat you. I don't
know how Blanche may interpret it. Her friend is expected in
London to-morrow. I want to wait till Sir Patrick can bring them
together. Her friend will break it to her better than I can. It's
_my_ notion. Sir Patrick thinks it a good one. Stop! you're not
going away already?"

"She will be here to look for me if I stay any longer."

"One word! I want to know--"

"You shall know later in the day."

Her ladyship appeared again round the angle of the wall. The next
words that passed were words spoken in a whisper.

"Are you satisfied now, Blanche?"

"Have you mercy enough left, Lady Lundie, to take me away from
this house?"

"My dear child! Why else did I look at the time-table in the
hall?"

CHAPTER THE FORTY-THIRD.

THE EXPLOSION.

ARNOLD'S mind was far from easy when he was left by himself again
in the smoking-room.

After wasting some time in vainly trying to guess at the source
from which Lady Lundie had derived her information, he put on his
hat, and took the direction which led to Blanche's favorite walk
at Ham Farm. Without absolutely distrusting her ladyship's
discretion, the idea had occurred to him that he would do well to
join his wife and her step-mother. By making a third at the
interview between them, he might prevent the conversation from
assuming a perilously confidential turn.

The search for the ladies proved useless. They had not taken the
direction in which he supposed them to have gone.

He returned to the smoking-room, and composed himself to wait for
events as patiently as he might. In this passive position--with
his thoughts still running on Lady Lundie--his memory reverted to
a brief conversation between Sir Patrick and himself, occasioned,
on the previous day, by her ladyship's announcement of her
proposed visit to Ham Farm. Sir Patrick had at once expressed his
conviction that his sister-in-law's journey south had some
acknowledged purpose at the bottom of it.

"I am not at all sure, Arnold" (he had said), "that I have done
wisely in leaving her letter unanswered. And I am strongly
disposed to think that the safest course will be to take her into
the secret when she comes to-morrow. We can't help the position
in which we are placed. It was impossible (without admitting your
wife to our confidence) to prevent Blanche from writing that
unlucky letter to her--and, even if we had prevented it, she must
have heard in other ways of your return to England. I don't doubt
my own discretion, so far; and I don't doubt the convenience of
keeping her in the dark, as a means of keeping her from meddling
in this business of yours, until I have had time to set it right.
But she may, by some unlucky accident, discover the truth for
herself--and, in that case, I strongly distrust the influence
which she might attempt to exercise on Blanche's mind."

Those were the words--and what had happened on the day after they
had been spoken? Lady Lundie _had_ discovered the truth; and she
was, at that moment, alone somewhere with Blanche. Arnold took up
his hat once more, and set forth on the search for the ladies in
another direction.

The second expedition was as fruitless as the first. Nothing was
to be seen, and nothing was to be heard, of Lady Lundie and
Blanche.

Arnold's watch told him that it was not far from the time when
Sir Patrick might be expected to return. In all probability,
while he had been looking for them, the ladies had gone back by
some other way to the house. He entered the rooms on the
ground-floor, one after another. They were all empty. He went up
stairs, and knocked at the door of Blanche's room. There was no
answer. He opened the door and looked in. The room was empty,
like the rooms down stairs. But, close to the entrance, there was
a trifling circumstance to attract notice, in the shape of a note
lying on the carpet. He picked it up, and saw that it was
addressed to him in the handwriting of his wife.

He opened it. The note began, without the usual form of address,
in these words:

"I know the abominable secret that you and my uncle have hidden
from me. I know _your_ infamy, and _her_ infamy, and the position
in which, thanks to you and to her, I now stand. Reproaches would
be wasted words, addressed to such a man as you are. I write
these lines to tell you that I have placed myself under my
step-mother's protection in London. It is useless to attempt to
follow me. Others will find out whether the ceremony of marriage
which you went through with me is binding on you or not. For
myself, I know enough already. I have gone, never to come back,
and never to let you see me again.--Blanche."

Hurrying headlong down the stairs with but one clear idea in his
mind--the idea of instantly following his wife--Arnold
encountered Sir Patrick, standing by a table in the hall, on
which cards and notes left by visitors were usually placed, with
an open letter in his hand. Seeing in an instant what had
happened, he threw one of his arms round Arnold, and stopped him
at the house-door.

"You are a man," he said, firmly. "Bear it like a man."

Arnold's head fell on the shoulder of his kind old friend. He
burst into tears.

Sir Patrick let the irrepressible outbreak of grief have its way.
In those first moments, silence was mercy. He said nothing. The
letter which he had been reading (from Lady Lundie, it is
needless to say), dropped unheeded at his feet.

Arnold lifted his head, and dashed away the tears.

"I am ashamed of myself," he said. "Let me go."

"Wrong, my poor fellow--doubly wrong!" returned Sir Patrick.
"There is no shame in shedding such tears as those. And there is
nothing to be done by leaving _me._"

"I must and will see her!"

"Read that," said Sir Patrick, pointing to the letter on the
floor. "See your wife? Your wife is with the woman who has
written those lines. Read them."

Arnold read them.

"DEAR SIR PATRICK,--If you had honored me with your confidence, I
should have been happy to consult you before I interfered to
rescue Blanche from the position in which Mr. Brinkworth has
placed her. As it is, your late brother's child is under my
protection at my house in London. If _you_ attempt to exercise
your authority, it must be by main force--I will submit to
nothing less. If Mr. Brinkworth attempts to exercise _his_
authority, he shall establish his right to do so (if he can) in a
police-court.

"Very truly yours, JULIA LUNDIE.

Arnold's resolution was not to be shaken even by this. "What do I
care," he burst out, hotly, "whether I am dragged through the
streets by the police or not! I _will_ see my wife. I _will_
clear myself of the horrible suspicion she has about me. You have
shown me your letter. Look at mine!"

Sir Patrick's clear sense saw the wild words that Blanche had
written in their true light.

"Do you hold your wife responsible for that letter?" be asked. "I
see her step-mother in every line of it. You descend to something
unworthy of you, if you seriously defend yourself against _this!_
You can't see it? You persist in holding to your own view? Write,
then. You can't get to her--your letter may. No! When you leave
this house, you leave it with me. I have conceded something on my
side, in allowing you to write. I insist on your conceding
something, on your side, in return. Come into the library! I
answer for setting things right between you and Blanche, if you
will place your interests in my hands. Do you trust me or not?"

Arnold yielded. They went into the library together. Sir Patrick
pointed to the writing-table. "Relieve your mind there," he said.
"And let me find you a reasonable man again when I come back."

When he returned to the library the letter was written; and
Arnold's mind was so far relieved--for the time at least.

"I shall take your letter to Blanche myself," said Sir Patrick,
"by the train that leaves for London in half an hour's time."

"You will let me go with you?"

"Not to-day. I shall be back this evening to dinner. You shall
hear all that has happened; and you shall accompany me to London
to-morrow--if I find it necessary to make any lengthened stay
there. Between this and then, after the shock that you have
suffered, you will do well to be quiet here. Be satisfied with my
assurance that Blanche shall have your letter. I will force my
authority on her step-mother to that extent (if her step-mother
resists) without scruple. The respect in which I hold the sex
only lasts as long as the sex deserves it--and does _not_ extend
to Lady Lundie. There is no advantage that a man can take of a
woman which I am not fully prepared to take of my sister-in-law."

With that characteristic farewell, he shook hands with Arnold,
and departed for the station.

At seven o'clock the dinner was on the table. At seven o'clock
Sir Patrick came down stairs to eat it, as perfectly dressed as
usual, and as composed as if nothing had happened.

"She has got your letter," he whispered, as he took Arnold's arm,
and led him into the dining-room.

"Did she say any thing?"

"Not a word."

"How did she look?"

"As she ought to look--sorry for what she has done."

The dinner began. As a matter of necessity, the subject of Sir
Patrick's expedition was dropped while the servants were in the
room--to be regularly taken up again by Arnold in the intervals
between the courses. He began when the soup was taken away.

"I confess I had hoped to see Blanche come back with you!" he
said, sadly enough.

"In other words," returned Sir Patrick, "you forgot the native
obstinacy of the sex. Blanche is beginning to feel that she has
been wrong. What is the necessary consequence? She naturally
persists in being wrong. Let her alone, and leave your letter to
have its effect. The serious difficulties in our way don't rest
with Blanche. Content yourself with knowing that."

The fish came in, and Arnold was silenced--until his next
opportunity came with the next interval in the course of the
dinner.

"What are the difficulties?" he asked

"The difficulties are my difficulties and yours," answered Sir
Patrick. "My difficulty is, that I can't assert my authority, as
guardian, if I assume my niece (as I do) to be a married woman.
Your difficulty is, that you can't assert your authority as her
husband, until it is distinctly proved that you and Miss
Silvester are not man and wife. Lady Lundie was perfectly aware
that she would place us in that position, when she removed
Blanche from this house. She has cross-examined Mrs. Inchbare;
she has written to your steward for the date of your arrival at
your estate; she has done every thing, calculated every thing,
and foreseen every thing--except my excellent temper. The one
mistake she has made, is in thinking she could get the better of
_that._ No, my dear boy! My trump card is my temper. I keep it in
my hand, Arnold--I keep it in my hand!"

The next course came in--and there was an end of the subject
again. Sir Patrick enjoyed his mutton, and entered on a long and
interesting narrative of the history of some rare white Burgundy
on the table imported by himself. Arnold resolutely resumed the
discussion with the departure of the mutton.

"It seems to be a dead lock," he said.

"No slang!" retorted Sir Patrick.

"For Heaven's sake, Sir, consider my anxiety, and tell me what
you propose to do!"

"I propose to take you to London with me to-morrow, on this
condition--that you promise me, on your word of honor, not to
attempt to see your wife before Saturday next."

"I shall see her then?"

"If you give me your promise."

"I do! I do!"

The next course came in. Sir Patrick entered on the question of
the merits of the partridge, viewed as an eatable bird, "By
himself, Arnold--plainly roasted, and tested on his own
merits--an overrated bird. Being too fond of shooting him in this
country, we become too fond of eating him next. Properly
understood, he is a vehicle for sauce and truffles--nothing more.
Or no--that is hardly doing him justice. I am bound to add that
he is honorably associated with the famous French receipt for
cooking an olive. Do you know it?"

There was an end of the bird; there was an end of the jelly.
Arnold got his next chance--and took it.

"What is to be done in London to-morrow?" he asked.

"To-morrow," answered Sir Patrick, "is a memorable day in our
calendar. To-morrow is Tuesday--the day on which I am to see Miss
Silvester."

Arnold set down the glass of wine which he was just raising to
his lips.

"After what has happened," he said, "I can hardly bear to hear
her name mentioned. Miss Silvester has parted me from my wife."

"Miss Silvester may atone for that, Arnold, by uniting you
again."

"She has been the ruin of me so far."

"She may be the salvation of you yet."

The cheese came in; and Sir Patrick returned to the Art of
Cookery.

"Do you know the receipt for cooking an olive, Arnold?"

"No."

"What _does_ the new
generation know? It knows how to row, how to shoot, how to play
at cricket, and how to bat. When it has lost its muscle and lost
its money--that is to say, when it has grown old--what a
generation it will be! It doesn't matter: I sha'n't live to see
it. Are you listening, Arnold?"

"Yes, Sir."

"How to cook an olive! Put an olive into a lark, put a lark into
a quail; put a quail into a plover; put a plover into a
partridge; put a partridge into a pheasant; put a pheasant into a
turkey. Good. First, partially roast, then carefully stew--until
all is thoroughly done down to the olive. Good again. Next, open
the window. Throw out the turkey, the pheasant, the partridge,
the plover, the quail, and the lark. _Then, eat the olive._ The
dish is expensive, but (we have it on the highest authority) well
worth the sacrifice. The quintessence of the flavor of six birds,
concentrated in one olive. Grand idea! Try another glass of the
white Burgundy, Arnold."

At last the servants left them--with the wine and dessert on the
table.

"I have borne it as long as I can, Sir," said Arnold. "Add to all
your kindness to me by telling me at once what happened at Lady
Lundie's."

It was a chilly evening. A bright wood fire was burning in the
room. Sir Patrick drew his chair to the fire.

"This is exactly what happened," he said. "I found company at
Lady Lundie's, to begin with. Two perfect strangers to me.
Captain Newenden, and his niece, Mrs. Glenarm. Lady Lundie
offered to see me in another room; the two strangers offered to
withdraw. I declined both proposals. First check to her ladyship!
She has reckoned throughout, Arnold, on our being afraid to face
public opinion. I showed her at starting that we were as ready to
face it as she was. 'I always accept what the French call
accomplished facts,' I said. 'You have brought matters to a
crisis, Lady Lundie. So let it be. I have a word to say to my
niece (in your presence, if you like); and I have another word to
say to you afterward--without presuming to disturb your guests.'
The guests sat down again (both naturally devoured by curiosity).
Could her ladyship decently refuse me an interview with my own
niece, while two witnesses were looking on? Impossible. I saw
Blanche (Lady Lundie being present, it is needless to say) in the
back drawing-room. I gave her your letter; I said a good word for
you; I saw that she was sorry, though she wouldn't own it--and
that was enough. We went back into the front drawing-room. I had
not spoken five words on our side of the question before it
appeared, to my astonishment and delight, that Captain Newenden
was in the house on the very question that had brought me into
the house--the question of you and Miss Silvester. My business,
in the interests of _my_ niece, was to deny your marriage to the
lady. His business, in the interests of _his_ niece, was to
assert your marriage to the lady. To the unutterable disgust of
the two women, we joined issue, in the most friendly manner, on
the spot. 'Charmed to have the pleasure of meeting you, Captain
Newenden.'--'Delighted to have the honor of making your
acquaintance, Sir Patrick.'--'I think we can settle this in two
minutes?'--'My own idea perfectly expressed.'--'State your
position, Captain.'--'With the greatest pleasure. Here is my
niece, Mrs. Glenarm, engaged to marry Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. All
very well, but there happens to be an obstacle--in the shape of a
lady. Do I put it plainly?'--'You put it admirably, Captain; but
for the loss to the British navy, you ought to have been a
lawyer. Pray, go on.'--'You are too good, Sir Patrick. I resume.
Mr. Delamayn asserts that this person in the back-ground has no
claim on him, and backs his assertion by declaring that she is
married already to Mr. Arnold Brinkworth. Lady Lundie and my
niece assure me, on evidence which satisfies _them,_ that the
assertion is true. The evidence does not satisfy _me._ 'I hope,
Sir Patrick, I don't strike you as being an excessively obstinate
man?'--'My dear Sir, you impress me with the highest opinion of
your capacity for sifting human testimony! May I ask, next, what
course you mean to take?'--'The very thing I was going to
mention, Sir Patrick! This is my course. I refuse to sanction my
niece's engagement to Mr. Delamayn, until Mr. Delamayn has
actually proved his statement by appeal to witnesses of the
lady's marriage. He refers me to two witnesses; but declines
acting at once in the matter for himself, on the ground that he
is in training for a foot-race. I admit that that is an obstacle,
and consent to arrange for bringing the two witnesses to London
myself. By this post I have written to my lawyers in Perth to
look the witnesses up; to offer them the necessary terms (at Mr.
Delamayn's expense) for the use of their time; and to produce
them by the end of the week. The footrace is on Thursday next.
Mr. Delamayn will be able to attend after that, and establish his
own assertion by his own witnesses. What do you say, Sir Patrick,
to Saturday next (with Lady Lundie's permission) in this
room?'--There is the substance of the captain's statement. He is
as old as I am and is dressed to look like thirty; but a very
pleasant fellow for all that. I struck my sister-in-law dumb by
accepting the proposal without a moment's hesitation. Mrs.
Glenarm and Lady Lundie looked at each other in mute amazement.
Here was a difference about which two women would have mortally
quarreled; and here were two men settling it in the friendliest
possible manner. I wish you had seen Lady Lundie's face, when I
declared myself deeply indebted to Captain Newenden for rendering
any prolonged interview with her ladyship quite unnecessary.
'Thanks to the captain,' I said to her, in the most cordial
manner, 'we have absolutely nothing to discuss. I shall catch the
next train, and set Arnold Brinkworth's mind quite at ease.' To
come back to serious things, I have engaged to produce you, in
the presence of every body--your wife included--on Saturday next.
I put a bold face on it before the others. But I am bound to tell
_you_ that it is by no means easy to say--situated as we are
now--what the result of Saturday's inquiry will be. Every thing
depends on the issue of my interview with Miss Silvester
to-morrow. It is no exaggeration to say, Arnold, that your fate
is in her hands."

"I wish to heaven I had never set eyes on her!" said Arnold.

"Lay the saddle on the right horse," returned Sir Patrick. "Wish
you had never set eyes on Geoffrey Delamayn."

Arnold hung his head. Sir Patrick's sharp tongue had got the
better of him once more.

TWELFTH SCENE.--DRURY LANE.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH.

THE LETTER AND THE LAW.

THE many-toned murmur of the current of London life--flowing
through the murky channel of Drury Lane--found its muffled way
from the front room to the back. Piles of old music lumbered the
dusty floor. Stage masks and weapons, and portraits of singers
and dancers, hung round the walls. An empty violin case in one
corner faced a broken bust of Rossini in another. A frameless
print, representing the Trial of Queen Caroline, was pasted over
the fireplace. The chairs were genuine specimens of ancient
carving in oak. The table was an equally excellent example of
dirty modern deal. A small morsel of drugget was on the floor;
and a large deposit of soot was on the ceiling. The scene thus
presented, revealed itself in the back drawing-room of a house in
Drury Lane, devoted to the transaction of musical and theatrical
business of the humbler sort. It was late in the afternoon, on
Michaelmas-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 the
separation of Arnold and Blanche--had come to an end. It rested
with Sir Patrick to lead the way to the next topic. He looked at
his companion, and hesitated.

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

"Thank you, Sir Patrick. I am more than ready, I a m eager, to go
on. 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 without
ceremony for all the information that I want. Had you any object
in traveling to London, which you have not mentioned to me yet? I
mean, of course, any object with which I hare a claim (as Arnold
Brinkworth's representative) to be acquainted?"

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

"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 the
journey. I was obliged to rest at Edinburgh, and again at
York--and I was afraid I had given Mrs. Glenarm time enough to
get to Geoffrey Delamayn before me."

"Afraid?" repeated Sir Patrick. "I understood that you had no
serious 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 release
him, so far as your claims were concerned?"

"Bear with my folly, Sir Patrick, as patiently as you can! I am
always alone now; and I get into a habit of brooding over things.
I have been brooding over the position in which my misfortunes
have placed Mr. Brinkworth. I have been obstinate--unreasonably
obstinate--in believing that I could prevail with Geoffrey
Delamayn, after I had failed with Mrs. Glenarm. I am obstinate
about it still. If he would only have heard me, my madness in
going 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 beyond
reproach. Let me add--to quiet your mind--that, even if Delamayn
had been willing to hear you, and had accepted the condition, the
result would still have been the same. You are quite wrong in
supposing that he has only to speak, and to set this matter
right. It has passed entirely beyond his control. The mischief
was done when Arnold Brinkworth spent those unlucky hours with
you at Craig Fernie."

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

She shuddered as she said the words. Something was plainly
associated with her visit to Geoffrey, the bare remembrance of
which shook her nerves. What was it? Sir Patrick resolved to
obtain an answer to that question, before be ventured on
proceeding further with the main object of the interview.

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

Anne hesitated. "Is it necessary for me to trouble you about
that?" she asked--with evident reluctance to enter on the
subject.

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

Anne summoned her resolution, and entered on her narrative in
these words:

"The person who carries on the business here discovered the
address for me," she began. "I had some difficulty, however, in
finding the house. It is little more than a cottage; and it is
quite lost in a great garden, surrounded by high walls. I saw a
carriage waiting. The coachman was walking his horses up and
down--and he showed me the door. It was a high wooden door in the
wall, with a grating in it. I rang the bell. A servant-girl
opened the grating, and looked at me. She refused to let me in.
Her mistress had ordered her to close the door on all
strangers--especially strangers who were women. I contrived to
pass some money to her through the grating, and asked to speak to
her mistress. After waiting some time, I saw another face behind
the bars--and it struck me that I recognized it. I suppose I was
nervous. It startled me. I said, 'I think we know each other.'
There was no answer. The door was suddenly opened--and who do you
think 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 her
slate hanging at her side."

"Astonishing! Where did I last see her? At the Windygates
station, to be sure--going to London, after she had left my
sister-in-law's service. Has she accepted another place--without
letting 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 other
people? Did she let you in?"

"She stood for some time looking at me, in that dull strange way
that she has. The servants at Windygates always said she was not
in her right mind--and you will say, Sir Patrick, when you hear
what happened, that the servants were not mistaken. She must be
mad. I said, 'Don't you remember me?' She lifted her slate, and
wrote, 'I remember you, in a dead swoon at Windygates House.' I
was quite unaware that she had been present when I fainted in the
library. The discovery startled me--or that dreadful, dead-cold
look that she has in her eyes startled me--I don't know which. I
couldn't speak to her just at first. She wrote on her slate
again--the strangest question--in these words: 'I said, at the
time, brought to it by a man. Did I say true?' If the question
had been put in the usual way, by any body else, I should have
considered it too insolent to be noticed. Can you understand my
answering it, Sir Patrick? I can't understand it myself, now--and
yet 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. My
nerves are broken; my courage is gone. I crept with cold when she
touched me. She dropped my arm. I stood like a child, waiting for
what it pleased her to say or do next. She rested her two hands
on her sides, and took a long look at me. She made a horrid dumb
sound--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 it
had been any body but Hester Dethridge. Do you understand it?"

"Not yet. Let me get nearer to understanding it by asking
something 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 just
before. 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 the
words were these: 'Tell me how he served you, did he knock you
down?' Most people would have laughed at the question. _I_ was
startled by it. I told her, No. She shook her head as if she
didn't believe me. She wrote on her slate, 'We are loth to own it
when 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 enough
over myself to decline telling her that. She opened the door, and
pointed to me to go out. I made a sign entreating her to wait a
little. She went back, in her impenetrable way, to the writing on
the slate--still about the 'man.' This time, the question was
plainer still. She had evidently placed her own interpretation of
my appearance at the house. She wrote, 'Is it the man who lodges
here?' I saw that she would close the door on me if I didn't
answer. My only chance with her was to own that she had guessed
right. 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 remember
hearing, in my brother's time, that she had been brutally
ill-used by her husband. The association of id eas, even in _her_
confused brain, becomes plain, if you bear that in mind. What is
her last remembrance of you? It is the remembrance of a fainting
woman at Windygates."

"Yes."

"She makes you acknowledge that she has guessed right, in
guessing that a man was, in some way, answerable for the
condition in which she found you. A swoon produced by a shock
indicted on the mind, is a swoon that she doesn't understand. She
looks back into her own experience, and associates it with the
exercise of actual physical brutality on the part of the man. And
she sees, in you, a reflection of her own sufferings and her own
case. It's curious--to a student of human nature. And it
explains, what is otherwise unintelligible--her overlooking her
own 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. She
made signs, offering me tea. It was done in the strangest
way--without the least appearance of kindness. After what you
have just said to me, I think I can in some degree interpret what
was going on in her mind. I believe she felt a hard-hearted
interest in seeing a woman whom she supposed to be as unfortunate
as she had once been herself. I declined taking any tea, and
tried to return to the subject of what I wanted in the house. She
paid no heed to me. She pointed round the room; and then took me
to a window, and pointed round the garden--and then made a sign
indicating herself. 'My house; and my garden'--that was what she
meant. There were four men in the garden--and Geoffrey Delamayn
was one of them. I made another attempt to tell her that I wanted
to speak to him. But, no! She had her own idea in her mind. After
beckoning to me to leave the window, she led the way to the
fire-place, and showed me a sheet of paper with writing on it,
framed and placed under a glass, and hung on the wall. She
seemed, I thought, to feel some kind of pride in her framed
manuscript. At any rate, she insisted on my reading it. It was an
extract from a will."

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

"Yes. Her brother's will. It said, that he regretted, on his
death-bed, his estrangement from his only sister, dating from the
time when she had married in defiance of his wishes and against
his advice. As a proof of his sincere desire to be reconciled
with her, before he died, and as some compensation for the
sufferings that she had endured at the hands of her deceased
husband, 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 Sir
Patrick. "Taking her odd character into consideration, I
understand her liking it to be seen. What puzzles me, is her
letting lodgings with an income of her own to live on."

"That was the very question which I put to her myself. I was
obliged to be cautious, and to begin by asking about the lodgers
first--the men being still visible out in the garden, to excuse
the inquiry. The rooms to let in the house had (as I understood
her) been taken by a person acting for Geoffrey Delamayn--his
trainer, I presume. He had surprised Hester Dethridge by barely
noticing the house, and showing the most extraordinary interest
in the garden."

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

"Next, I got to the question of why she should let her house in
lodgings at all. When I asked her that, her face turned harder
than ever. She answered me on her slate in these dismal words: 'I
have not got a friend in the world. I dare not live alone.' There
was 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 her
mind; she opened the door for me herself. Passing the window of
the room in which I had left her, I looked back. She had taken
her place, at a table before the window, apparently watching for
what might happen. There was something about her, as her eyes met
mine (I can't say what), which made me feel uneasy at the time.
Adopting your view, I am almost inclined to think now, horrid as
the idea is, that she had the expectation of seeing me treated as
_she_ had been treated in former days. It was actually a relief
to me--though I knew I was going to run a serious risk--to lose
sight of her. As I got nearer to the men in the garden, I heard
two of them talking very earnestly to Geoffrey Delamayn. The
fourth person, an elderly gentleman, stood apart from the rest at
some little distance. I kept as far as I could out of sight,
waiting till the talk was over. It was impossible for me to help
hearing it. The two men were trying to persuade Geoffrey Delamayn
to speak to the elderly gentleman. They pointed to him as a
famous medical man. They reiterated over and over again, that his
opinion was well worth having--"

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

"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 that
he was in broken health, when we were visiting together at
Windygates House last month. Did he do as the other men wished
him? Did he speak to the surgeon?"

"No. He sulkily refused--he remembered what you remember. He
said, 'See the man who told me I was broken down?--not I!' After
confirming it with an oath, he turned away from the others.
Unfortunately, he took the direction in which I was standing, and
discovered me. The bare sight of me seemed to throw him instantly
into a state of frenzy. He--it is impossible for me to repeat the
language that he used: it is bad enough to have heard it. I
believe, Sir Patrick, but for the two men, who ran up and laid
hold of him, that Hester Dethridge would have seen what she
expected 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 tremble
when I think of it. One of the men who had restrained him was
almost as brutal, in his way. He declared, in the foulest
language, that if Delamayn had a fit, he would lose the race, and
that I should be answerable for it. But for Mr. Speedwell, I
don't know what I should have done. He came forward directly.
'This is no place either for you, or for me,' he said--and gave
me his arm, and led me back to the house. Hester Dethridge met us
in the passage, and lifted her hand to stop me. Mr. Speedwell
asked her what she wanted. She looked at me, and then looked
toward the garden, and made the motion of striking a blow with
her clenched fist. For the first time in my experience of her--I
hope it was my fancy--I thought I saw her smile. Mr. Speedwell
took me out. 'They are well matched in that house,' he said. 'The
woman is as complete a savage as the men.' The carriage which I
had seen waiting at the door was his. He called it up, and
politely offered me a place in it. I said I would only trespass
on his kindness as far as to the railway station. While we were
talking, Hester Dethridge followed us to the door. She made the
same motion again with her clenched hand, and looked back toward
the garden--and then looked at me, and nodded her head, as much
as to say, 'He will do it yet!' No words can describe how glad I
was to see the last of her. I hope and trust I shall never set
eyes on her again!"

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

"He had been sent for. I ventured to speak to him about the
persons whom I had seen in the garden. Mr. Speedwell explained
everything which I was not able of myself to understand, in the
kindest manner. One of the two strange men in the garden was the
trainer; the other was a doctor, whom the trainer was usually in
the habit of consulting. It seems that the real reason for their
bringing Geof frey Delamayn away from Scotland when they did, was
that the trainer was uneasy, and wanted to be near London for
medical advice. The doctor, on being consulted, owned that he was
at 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 what
would happen, at Windygates. All he said was, 'I had met Mr.
Delamayn in society, and I felt interest enough in the case to
pay 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 serious
mischief. What the symptoms were I did not hear. Mr. Speedwell
only spoke of changes for the worse in him which a woman would be
likely to understand. At one time, he would be so dull and
heedless that nothing could rouse him. At another, he flew into
the most terrible passions without any apparent cause. The
trainer had found it almost impossible (in Scotland) to keep him
to the right diet; and the doctor had only sanctioned taking the
house at Fulham, after being first satisfied, not only of the
convenience of the garden, but also that Hester Dethridge could
be thoroughly trusted as a cook. With her help, they had placed
him on an entirely new diet. But they had found an unexpected
difficulty even in doing that. When the trainer took him to the
new lodgings, it turned out that he had seen Hester Dethridge at
Windygates, and had taken the strongest prejudice against her. On
seeing her again at Fulham, he appeared to be absolutely
terrified."

"Terrified? Why?"

"Nobody knows why. The trainer and the doctor together could only
prevent his leaving the house, by threatening to throw up the
responsibility of preparing him for the race, unless he instantly
controlled himself, and behaved like a man instead of a child.
Since that time, he has become reconciled, little by little, to
his new abode--partly through Hester Dethridge's caution in
keeping herself always out of his way; and partly through his own
appreciation of the change in his diet, which Hester's skill in
cookery has enabled the doctor to make. Mr. Speedwell mentioned
some things which I have forgotten. I can only repeat, Sir
Patrick, the result at which he has arrived in his own mind.
Coming from a man of his authority, the opinion seems to me to be
startling in the last degree. If Geoffrey Delamayn runs in the
race 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 before
he spoke again.

"We have not wasted our time," he said, "in dwelling on what
happened during your visit to Fulham. The possibility of this
man's death suggests to my mind serious matter for consideration.
It is very desirable, in the interests of my niece and her
husband, that I should be able to foresee, if I can, how a fatal
result of the race might affect the inquiry which is to be held
on 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 will
meet a person estranged from you, for the present--a friend and
sister who has ceased (under Lady Lundie's influence mainly) to
feel as a friend and sister toward you now?"

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

"You can serve them, Miss Silvester, in this way. You can make me
acquainted with the position in which you stood toward Delamayn
at 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 told
me. 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 which
you recovered from Bishopriggs, at Perth. I have ascertained from
Arnold Brinkworth that the sheet of note-paper stolen from you
contained two letters. One was written by you to Delamayn--the
other was written by Delamayn to you. The substance of this last
Arnold remembered. Your letter he had not read. It is of the
utmost importance, Miss Silvester, to let me see that
correspondence 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 the
first time.

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

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

Anne rose from her chair, and answered by putting the letter into
Sir Patrick's hands. "Remember what he has done, since I wrote
that," she said. "And try to excuse me, if I own that I am
ashamed 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 the
murky London view of house roof and chimney, while Sir Patrick
opened the letter.

It is necessary to the right appreciation of events, that other
eyes besides Sir Patrick's should follow the brief course of the
correspondence 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 would
ride over from your brother's place, and see me--and I have
waited in vain. Your conduct to me is cruelty itself; I will bear
it no longer. Consider! in your own interests, consider--before
you drive the miserable woman who has trusted you to despair. You
have promised me marriage by all that is sacred. I claim your
promise. I insist on nothing less than to be what you vowed I
should be--what I have waited all this weary time to be--what I
_am,_ in the sight of Heaven, your wedded wife. Lady Lundie gives
a lawn-party here on the 14th. I know you have been asked. I
expect you to accept her invitation. If I don't see you, I won't
answer for what may happen. My mind is made up to endure this
suspense no longer. Oh, Geoffrey, remember the past! Be
faithful--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 have
telegraphed him in a bad way. Stop where you are, and I will
write 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 to
the end. At the last lines of the last letter he did what he had
not 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 in
silent 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?" He
pointed to Anne's letter as he asked the question, put ting it so
eagerly that he stammered over the first words. "More than three
weeks?" he added, with his bright black eyes fixed in absorbing
interest 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's
penciled letter on the fourth page.

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

Anne considered for a moment.

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

"My memory was confused for a moment. It is clear again now. He
had been at his brother's in Perthshire three weeks before he
wrote that. And before he went to Swanhaven, he spent three or
four 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 ungovernable
agitation on both her hands.

"Listen to me," he said. "The whole conspiracy against Arnold
Brinkworth and you falls to the ground before that
correspondence. When you and he met at the inn--"

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

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

He stopped, and looked at her again.

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

In silence, on his side, Sir Patrick drew back a step, with a
faint reflection of _her_ dismay in his face. Married--to the
villain who had not hesitated to calumniate the woman whom he had
ruined, and then to cast her helpless on the world. Married--to
the traitor who had not shrunk from betraying Arnold's trust in
him, and desolating Arnold's home. Married--to the ruffian who
would have struck her that morning, if the hands of his own
friends had not held him back. And Sir Patrick had never thought
of it! Absorbed in the one idea of Blanche's future, he had never
thought of it, till that horror-stricken face looked at him, and
said, 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 her
face; the tender brightness began to shine again in her eyes. He
saw that he might venture to speak more plainly still: he went
on.

"I see the dreadful sacrifice as _you_ see it. I ask myself, have
I 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."

THIRTEENTH SCENE.--FULHAM.

CHAPTER THE FORTY-FIFTH.

THE FOOT-RACE.

A SOLITARY foreigner, drifting about London, drifted toward
Fulham on the day of the Foot-Race.

Little by little, he found himself involved in the current of a
throng of impetuous English people, all flowing together toward
one given point, and all decorated alike with colors of two
prevailing hues--pink and yellow. He drifted along with the
stream of passengers on the pavement (accompanied by a stream of
carriages in the road) until they stopped with one accord at a
gate--and paid admission money to a man in office--and poured
into a great open space of ground which looked like an
uncultivated garden.

Arrived here, the foreign visitor opened his eyes in wonder at
the scene revealed to view. He observed thousands of people
assembled, composed almost exclusively of the middle and upper
classes of society. They were congregated round a vast inclosure;
they were elevated on amphitheatrical wooden stands, and they
were perched on the roofs of horseless carriages, drawn up in
rows. From this congregation there rose such a roar of eager
voices as he had never heard yet from any assembled multitude in
these islands. Predominating among the cries, he detected one
everlasting question. It began with, "Who backs--?" and it ended
in the alternate pronouncing of two British names unintelligible
to foreign ears. Seeing these extraordinary sights, and hearing
these stirring sounds, he applied to a policeman on duty; and
said, in his best producible English, "If you please, Sir, what
is this?"

The policeman answered, " North against South--Sports."

The foreigner was informed, but not satisfied. He pointed all
round the assembly with a circular sweep of his hand; and said,
"Why?"

The policeman declined to waste words on a man who could ask such
a question as that. He lifted a large purple forefinger, with a
broad white nail at the end of it, and pointed gravely to a
printed Bill, posted on the wall behind him. The drifting
foreigner drifted to the Bill.

After reading it carefully, from top to bottom, he consulted a
polite private individual near at hand, who proved to be far more
communicative than the policeman. The result on his mind, as a
person not thoroughly awakened to the enormous national
importance of Athletic Sports, was much as follows:

The color of North is pink. The color of South is yellow. North
produces fourteen pink men, and South produces thirteen yellow
men. The meeting of pink and yellow is a solemnity. The solemnity
takes its rise in an indomitable national passion for hardening
the arms and legs, by throwing hammers and cricket-balls with the
first, and running and jumping with the second. The object in
view is to do this in public rivalry. The ends arrived at are
(physically) an excessive development of the muscles, purchased
at the expense of an excessive strain on the heart and the
lungs--(morally), glory; conferred at the moment by the public
applause; confirmed the next day by a report in the newspapers.
Any person who presumes to see any physical evil involved in
these exercises to the men who practice them, or any moral
obstruction in the exhibition itself to those civilizing
influences on which the true greatness of all nations depends, is
a person without a biceps, who is simply incomprehensible.
Muscular England develops itself, and takes no notice of him.

The foreigner mixed with the assembly, and looked more closely at
the social spectacle around him.

He had met with these people before. He had seen them (for
instance) at the theatre, and observed their manners and customs
with considerable curiosity and surprise. When the curtain was
down, they were so little interested in what they had come to
see, that they had hardly spirit enough to speak to each other
between the acts. When the curtain was up, if the play made any
appeal to their sympathy with any of the higher and nobler
emotions of humanity, they received it as something wearisome, or
sneered at it as something absurd. The public feeling of the
countrymen of Shakespeare, so far as they represented it,
recognized but two duties in the dramatist--the duty of making
them laugh, and the duty of getting it over soon. The two great
merits of a stage proprietor, in England (judging by the rare
applause of his cultivated customers), consisted in spending
plenty of money on his scenery, and in hiring plenty of
brazen-faced women to exhibit their bosoms and their legs. Not at
theatres only; but among other gatherings, in other places, the
foreigner had noticed the same stolid languor where any effort
was exacted from genteel English brains, and the same stupid
contempt where any appeal was made to genteel English hearts.
Preserve us from enjoying any thing but jokes and scandal!
Preserve us from respecting any thing but rank and money! There
were the social aspirations of these insular ladies and
gentlemen, as expressed under other circumstances, and as
betrayed amidst other scenes. Here, all was changed. Here was the
strong feeling, the breathless interest, the hearty enthus iasm,
not visible elsewhere. Here were the superb gentlemen who were
too weary to speak, when an Art was addressing them, shouting
themselves hoarse with burst on burst of genuine applause. Here
were the fine ladies who yawned behind their fans, at the bare
idea of being called on to think or to feel, waving their
handkerchiefs in honest delight, and actually flushing with
excitement through their powder and their paint. And all for
what? All for running and jumping--all for throwing hammers and
balls.

The foreigner looked at it, and tried, as a citizen of a
civilized country, to understand it. He was still trying--when
there occurred a pause in the performances.

Certain hurdles, which had served to exhibit the present
satisfactory state of civilization (in jumping) among the upper
classes, were removed. The privileged persons who had duties to
perform within the inclosure, looked all round it; and
disappeared one after another. A great hush of expectation
pervaded the whole assembly. Something of no common interest and
importance was evidently about to take place. On a sudden, the
silence was broken by a roar of cheering from the mob in the road
outside the grounds. People looked at each other excitedly, and
said, "One of them has come." The silence prevailed again--and
was a second time broken by another roar of applause. People
nodded to each other with an air of relief and said, "Both of
them have come." Then the great hush fell on the crowd once more,
and all eyes looked toward one particular point of the ground,
occupied by a little wooden pavilion, with the blinds down over
the open windows, and the door closed.

The foreigner was deeply impressed by the silent expectation of
the great throng about him. He felt his own sympathies stirred,
without knowing why. He believed himself to be on the point of
understanding the English people.

Some ceremony of grave importance was evidently in preparation.
Was a great orator going to address the assembly? Was a glorious
anniversary to be commemorated? Was a religious service to be
performed? He looked round him to apply for information once
more. Two gentlemen--who contrasted favorably, so far as
refinement of manner was concerned, with most of the spectators
present--were slowly making their way, at that moment, through
the crowd near him. He respectfully asked what national solemnity
was now about to take place. They informed him that a pair of
strong young men were going to run round the inclosure for a
given number of turns, with the object of ascertaining which
could run the fastest of the two.

The foreigner lifted his hands and eyes to heaven. Oh,
multifarious Providence! who would have suspected that the
infinite diversities of thy creation included such beings as
these! With that aspiration, he turned his back on the
race-course, and left the place.

On his way out of the grounds he had occasion to use his
handkerchief, and found that it was gone. He felt next for his
purse. His purse was missing too. When he was back again in his
own country, intelligent inquiries were addressed to him on the
subject of England. He had but one reply to give. "The whole
nation is a mystery to me. Of all the English people I only
understand the English thieves!"

In the mean time the two gentlemen, making their way through the
crowd, reached a wicket-gate in the fence which surrounded the
inclosure.

Presenting a written order to the policeman in charge of the
gate, they were forthwith admitted within the sacred precincts
The closely packed spectators, regarding them with mixed feelings
of envy and curiosity, wondered who they might be. Were they
referees appointed to act at the coming race? or reporters for
the newspapers? or commissioners of police? They were neither the
one nor the other. They were only Mr. Speedwell, the surgeon, and
Sir Patrick Lundie.

The two gentlemen walked into the centre of the inclosure, and
looked round them.

The grass on which they were standing was girdled by a broad
smooth path, composed of finely-sifted ashes and sand--and this
again was surrounded by the fence and by the spectators ranked
behind it. Above the lines thus formed rose on one side the
amphitheatres with their tiers of crowded benches, and on the
other the long rows of carriages with the sight-seers inside and
out. The evening sun was shining brightly, the light and shade
lay together in grand masses, the varied colors of objects
blended softly one with the other. It was a splendid and an
inspiriting scene.

Sir Patrick turned from the rows of eager faces all round him to
his friend the surgeon.

"Is there one person to be found in this vast crowd," he asked,
"who has come to see the race with the doubt in his mind which
has brought _us_ to see it?"

Mr. Speedwell shook his head. "Not one of them knows or cares
what the struggle may cost the men who engage in it."

Sir Patrick looked round him again. "I almost wish I had not come
to see it," he said. "If this wretched man--"

The surgeon interposed. "Don't dwell needlessly, Sir Patrick, on
the gloomy view," he rejoined. "The opinion I have formed has,
thus far, no positive grounds to rest on. I am guessing rightly,
as I believe, but at the same time I am guessing in the dark.
Appearances _may_ have misled me. There may be reserves of vital
force in Mr. Delamayn's constitution which I don't suspect. I am
here to learn a lesson--not to see a prediction fulfilled. I know
his health is broken, and I believe he is going to run this race
at his own proper peril. Don't feel too sure beforehand of the
event. The event may prove me to be wrong."