MRS. INCHBARE was the first person who acted in the emergency.She called for lights; and sternly rebuked the house-maid, whobrought them, for not having closed the house door. "Ye fecklessne'er-do-weel!" cried the landlady; "the wind's blawn the candlesoot."

The woman declared (with perfect truth) that the door had beenclosed. An awkward dispute might have ensued if Blanche had notdiverted Mrs. Inchbare's attention to herself. The appearance ofthe lights disclosed her, wet through with her arms round Anne'sneck. Mrs. Inchbare digressed at once to the pressing question ofchanging the young lady's clothes, and gave Anne the opportunityof looking round her, unobserved. Arnold had made his escapebefore the candles had been brought in.

In the mean time Blanche's attention was absorbed in her owndripping skirts.

"Good gracious! I'm absolutely distilling rain from every part ofme. And I'm making you, Anne, as wet as I am! Lend me some drythings. You can't? Mrs. Inchbare, what does your experiencesuggest? Which had I better do? Go to bed while my clothes arebeing dried? or borrow from your wardrobe--though you _are_ ahead and shoulders taller than I am?"

Mrs. Inchbare instantly bustled out to fetch the choicestgarments that her wardrobe could produce. The moment the door hadclosed on her Blanche looked round the room in her turn.

The rights of affection having been already asserted, the claimsof curiosity naturally pressed for satisfaction next.

"Somebody passed me in the dark," she whispered. "Was it yourhusband? I'm dying to be introduced to him. And, oh my dear! what_is_ your married name?"

Anne answered, coldly, "Wait a little. I can't speak about ityet."

"Are you ill?" asked Blanche.

"I am a little nervous."

"Has any thing unpleasant happened between you and my uncle? Youhave seen him, haven't you?"

"Yes."

"Did he give you my message?"

"He gave me your message.--Blanche! you promised him to stay atWindygates. Why, in the name of heaven, did you come hereto-night?"

"If you were half as fond of me as I am of you," returnedBlanche, "you wouldn't ask that. I tried hard to keep my promise,but I couldn't do it. It was all very well, while my uncle waslaying down the law--with Lady Lundie in a rage, and the dogsbarking, and the doors banging, and all that. The excitement keptme up. But when my uncle had gone, and the dreadful gray, quiet,rainy evening came, and it had all calmed down again, there wasno bearing it. The house--without you--was like a tomb. If I hadhad Arnold with me I might have done very well. But I was all bymyself. Think of that! Not a soul to speak to! There wasn't ahorrible thing that could possibly happen to you that I didn'tfancy was going to happen. I went into your empty room and lookedat your things. _That_ settled it, my darling! I rushed downstairs--carried away, positively carried away, by an Impulsebeyond human resistance. How could I help it? I ask anyreasonable person how could I help it? I ran to the stables andfound Jacob. Impulse--all impulse! I said, 'Get thepony-chaise--I must have a drive--I don't care if it rains--youcome with me.' All in a breath, and all impulse! Jacob behavedlike an angel. He said, 'All right, miss.' I am perfectly certainJacob would die for me if I asked him. He is drinking hot grog atthis moment, to prevent him from catching cold, by my expressorders. He had the pony-chaise out in two minutes; and off wewent. Lady Lundie, my dear, prostrate in her own room--too muchsal volatile. I hate her. The rain got worse. I didn't mind it.Jacob didn't mind it. The pony didn't mind it. They had bothcaught my impulse--especially the pony. It didn't come on tothunder till some time afterward; and then we were nearer CraigFernie than Windygates--to say nothing of your being at one placeand not at the other. The lightning was quite awful on the moor.If I had had one of the horses, he would have been frightened.The pony shook his darling little head, and dashed through it. Heis to have beer. A mash with beer in it--by my express orders.When he has done we'll borrow a lantern, and go into the stable,and kiss him. In the mean time, my dear, here I am--wet throughin a thunderstorm, which doesn't in the least matter--anddetermined to satisfy my own mind about you, which matters agreat deal, and must and shall be done before I rest to-night! "

She turned Anne, by main force, as she spoke, toward the light ofthe candles.

Her tone changed the moment she looked at Anne's face.

"I knew it!" she said. "You would never have kept the mostinteresting event in your life a secret from _me_--you wouldnever have written me such a cold formal letter as the letter youleft in your room--if there had not been something wrong. I saidso at the time. I know it now! Why has your husband forced you toleave Windygates at a moment's notice? Why does he slip out ofthe room in the dark, as if he was afraid of being seen? Anne!Anne! what has come to you? Why do you receive me in this way?"

At that critical moment Mrs. Inchbare reappeared, with thechoicest selection of wearing apparel which her wardrobe couldfurnish. Anne hailed the welcome interruption. She took thecandles, and led the way into the bedroom immediately.

"Change your wet clothes first," she said. "We can talk afterthat."

The bedroom door had hardly been closed a minute before there wasa tap at it. Signing to Mrs. Inchbare not to interrupt theservices she was rendering to Blanche, Anne passed quickly intothe sitting-room, and closed the door behind her. To her infiniterelief, she only found herself face to face with the discreet Mr.Bishopriggs.

"What do you want?" she asked.

The eye of Mr. Bishopriggs announced, by a wink, that his missionwas of a confidential nature. The hand of Mr. Bishopriggswavered; the breath of Mr. Bishopriggs exhaled a spirituous fume.He slowly produced a slip of paper, with some lines of writing onit.

"From ye ken who," he explained, jocosely. "A bit love-letter, Itrow, from him that's dear to ye. Eh! he's an awfu' reprobate ishim that's dear to ye. Miss, in the bedchamber there, will naedoot be the one he's jilted for _you?_ I see it all--ye can'tblind Me--I ha' been a frail person my ain self, in my time.Hech! he's safe and sound, is the reprobate. I ha' lookit aftera' his little creature-comforts--I'm joost a fether to him, aswell as a fether to you. Trust Bishopriggs--when puir humannature wants a bit pat on the back, trust Bishopriggs."

While the sage was speaking these comfortable words, Anne wasreading the lines traced on the paper. They were signed byArnold; and they ran thus:

"I am in the smoking-room of the inn. It rests with you to saywhether I must stop there. I don't believe Blanche would bejealous. If I knew how to explain my being at the inn withoutbetraying the confidence which you and Geoffrey have placed inme, I wouldn't be away from her another moment. It does grate onme so! At the same time, I don't want to make your positionharder than it is. Think of yourself f irst. I leave it in yourhands. You have only to say, Wait, by the bearer--and I shallunderstand that I am to stay where I am till I hear from youagain."

Anne looked up from the message.

"Ask him to wait," she said; "and I will send word to him again."

"Wi' mony loves and kisses," suggested Mr. Bishopriggs, as anecessary supplement to the message." Eh! it comes as easy as A.B. C. to a man o' my experience. Ye can ha' nae bettergae-between than yer puir servant to command, SawmuelBishopriggs. I understand ye baith pairfeckly." He laid hisforefinger along his flaming nose, and withdrew.

Without allowing herself to hesitate for an instant, Anne openedthe bedroom door--with the resolution of relieving Arnold fromthe new sacrifice imposed on him by owning the truth.

"Is that you?" asked Blanche.

At the sound of her voice, Anne started back guiltily. "I'll bewith you in a moment," she answered, and closed the door againbetween them.

No! it was not to be done. Something in Blanche's trivialquestion--or something, perhaps, in the sight of Blanche'sface--roused the warning instinct in Anne, which silenced her onthe very brink of the disclosure. At the last moment the ironchain of circumstances made itself felt, binding her withoutmercy to the hateful, the degrading deceit. Could she own thetruth, about Geoffrey and herself, to Blanche? and, withoutowning it, could she explain and justify Arnold's conduct injoining her privately at Craig Fernie? A shameful confession madeto an innocent girl; a risk of fatally shaking Arnold's place inBlanche's estimation; a scandal at the inn, in the disgrace ofwhich the others would be involved with herself--this was theprice at which she must speak, if she followed her first impulse,and said, in so many words, "Arnold is here."

It was not to be thought of. Cost what it might in presentwretchedness--end how it might, if the deception was discoveredin the future--Blanche must be kept in ignorance of the truth,Arnold must be kept in hiding until she had gone.

Anne opened the door for the second time, and went in.

The business of the toilet was standing still. Blanche was inconfidential communication with Mrs. Inchbare. At the moment whenAnne entered the room she was eagerly questioning the landladyabout her friend's "invisible husband"--she was just saying, "Dotell me! what is he like?"

The capacity for accurate observation is a capacity so uncommon,and is so seldom associated, even where it does exist, with theequally rare gift of accurately describing the thing or theperson observed, that Anne's dread of the consequences if Mrs.Inchbare was allowed time to comply with Blanches request, was,in all probability, a dread misplaced. Right or wrong, however,the alarm that she felt hurried her into taking measures fordismissing the landlady on the spot. "We mustn't keep you fromyour occupations any longer," she said to Mrs. Inchbare. "I willgive Miss Lundie all the help she needs."

Barred from advancing in one direction, Blanche's curiosityturned back, and tried in another. She boldly addressed herselfto Anne.

"I _must_ know something about him," she said. "Is he shy beforestrangers? I heard you whispering with him on the other side ofthe door. Are you jealous, Anne? Are you afraid I shall fascinatehim in this dress?"

Blanche, in Mrs. Inchbare's best gown--an ancient andhigh-waisted silk garment, of the hue called "bottle-green,"pinned up in front, and trailing far behind her--with a short,orange-colored shawl over her shoulders, and a towel tied turbanfashion round her head, to dry her wet hair, looked at once thestrangest and the prettiest human anomaly that ever was seen."For heaven's sake," she said, gayly, "don't tell your husband Iam in Mrs. Inchbare's clothes! I want to appear suddenly, withouta word to warn him of what a figure I am! I should have nothingleft to wish for in this world," she added, " if Arnold couldonly see me now!"

Looking in the glass, she noticed Anne's face reflected behindher, and started at the sight of it.

"What _is_ the matter?" she asked. "Your face frightens me."

It was useless to prolong the pain of the inevitablemisunderstanding between them. The one course to take was tosilence all further inquiries then and there. Strongly as shefelt this, Anne's inbred loyalty to Blanche still shrank fromdeceiving her to her face. "I might write it," she thought. "Ican't say it, with Arnold Brinkworth in the same house with her!"Write it? As she reconsidered the word, a sudden idea struckher. She opened the bedroom door, and led the way back into thesitting-room.

"Gone again!" exclaimed Blanche, looking uneasily round the emptyroom. "Anne! there's something so strange in all this, that Ineither can, nor will, put up with your silence any longer. It'snot just, it's not kind, to shut me out of your confidence, afterwe have lived together like sisters all our lives!"

Anne sighed bitterly, and kissed her on the forehead. "You shallknow all I can tell you--all I _dare_ tell you," she said,gently. "Don't reproach me. It hurts me more than you think."

She turned away to the side table, and came back with a letter inher hand. "Read that," she said, and handed it to Blanche.

Blanche saw her own name, on the address, in the handwriting ofAnne.

"What does this mean?" she asked.

"I wrote to you, after Sir Patrick had left me," Anne replied. "Imeant you to have received my letter to-morrow, in time toprevent any little imprudence into which your anxiety might hurryyou. All that I _can_ say to you is said there. Spare me thedistress of speaking. Read it, Blanche."

Blanche still held the letter, unopened.

"A letter from you to me! when we are both together, and bothalone in the same room! It's worse than formal, Anne! It's as ifthere was a quarrel between us. Why should it distress you tospeak to me?"

Anne's eyes dropped to the ground. She pointed to the letter forthe second time.

Blanche broke the seal.

She passed rapidly over the opening sentences, and devoted allher attention to the second paragraph.

"And now, my love, you will expect me to atone for the surpriseand distress that I have caused you, by explaining what mysituation really is, and by telling you all my plans for thefuture. Dearest Blanche! don't think me untrue to the affectionwe bear toward each other--don't think there is any change in myheart toward you--believe only that I am a very unhappy woman,and that I am in a position which forces me, against my own will,to be silent about myself. Silent even to you, the sister of mylove--the one person in the world who is dearest to me! A timemay come when I shall be able to open my heart to you. Oh, whatgood it will do me! what a relief it will be! For the present, Imust be silent. For the present, we must be parted. God knowswhat it costs me to write this. I think of the dear old days thatare gone; I remember how I promised your mother to be a sister toyou, when her kind eyes looked at me, for the last time--_your_mother, who was an angel from heaven to _ mine!_ All this comesback on me now, and breaks my heart. But it must be! my ownBlanche, for the present. it must be! I will write often--I willthink of you, my darling, night and day, till a happier futureunites us again. God bless _you,_ my dear one! And God help _me!"_

Blanche silently crossed the room to the sofa on which Anne wassitting, and stood there for a moment, looking at her. She satdown, and laid her head on Anne's shoulder. Sorrowfully andquietly, she put the letter into her bosom--and took Anne's hand,and kissed it.

"All my questions are answered, dear. I will wait your time."

It was simply, sweetly, generously said.

Anne burst into tears.

* * * * * *

The rain still fell, but the storm was dying away.

Blanche left the sofa, and, going to the window, opened theshutters to look out at the night. She suddenly came back toAnne.

"I see lights," she said--"the lights of a carriage coming up outof the darkness of the moor. They are sending after me, fromWindygates. Go into t he bedroom. It's just possible Lady Lundiemay have come for me herself."

The ordinary relations of the two toward each other werecompletely reversed. Anne was like a child in Blanche's hands.She rose, and withdrew.

Left alone, Blanche took the letter out of her bosom, and read itagain, in the interval of waiting for the carriage.

The second reading confirmed her in a resolution which she hadprivately taken, while she had been sitting by Anne on thesofa--a resolution destined to lead to far more serious resultsin the future than any previsions of hers could anticipate. SirPatrick was the one person she knew on whose discretion andexperience she could implicitly rely. She determined, in Anne'sown interests, to take her uncle into her confidence, and to tellhim all that had happened at the inn "I'll first make him forgiveme," thought Blanche. "And then I'll see if he thinks as I do,when I tell him about Anne."

The carriage drew up at the door; and Mrs. Inchbare showedin--not Lady Lundie, but Lady Lundie's maid.

The woman's account of what had happened at Windygates was simpleenough. Lady Lundie had, as a matter of course, placed the rightinterpretation on Blanche's abrupt departure in the pony-chaise,and had ordered the carriage, with the firm determination offollowing her step-daughter herself. But the agitations andanxieties of the day had proved too much for her. She had beenseized by one of the attacks of giddiness to which she was alwayssubject after excessive mental irritation; and, eager as she was(on more accounts than one) to go to the inn herself, she hadbeen compelled, in Sir Patrick's absence, to commit the pursuitof Blanche to her own maid, in whose age and good sense she couldplace every confidence. The woman seeing the state of theweather--had thoughtfully brought a box with her, containing achange of wearing apparel. In offering it to Blanche, she added,with all due respect, that she had full powers from her mistressto go on, if necessary, to the shooting-cottage, and to place thematter in Sir Patrick's hands. This said, she left it to heryoung lady to decide for herself, whether she would return toWindygates, under present circumstances, or not.

Blanche took the box from the woman's hands, and joined Anne inthe bedroom, to dress herself for the drive home.

"I am going back to a good scolding," she said. "But a scoldingis no novelty in my experience of Lady Lundie. I'm not uneasyabout that, Anne--I'm uneasy about you. Can I be sure of onething--do you stay here for the present?"

The worst that could happen at the inn _had_ happened. Nothingwas to be gained now--and every thing might be lost--by leavingthe place at which Geoffrey had promised to write to her. Anneanswered that she proposed remaining at the inn for the present.

"You promise to write to me?"

"Yes."

"If there is any thing I can do for you--?"

"There is nothing, my love."

"There may be. If you want to see me, we can meet at Windygateswithout being discovered. Come at luncheon-time--go around by theshrubbery--and step in at the library window. You know as well asI do there is nobody in the library at that hour. Don't say it'simpossible--you don't know what may happen. I shall wait tenminutes every day on the chance of seeing you. That'ssettled--and it's settled that you write. Before I go, darling,is there any thing else we can think of for the future?"

At those words Anne suddenly shook off the depression thatweighed on her. She caught Blanche in her arms, she held Blancheto her bosom with a fierce energy. "Will you always be to me, inthe future, what you are now?" she asked, abruptly. "Or is thetime coming when you will hate me?" She prevented any reply by akiss--and pushed Blanche toward the door. "We have had a happytime together in the years that are gone," she said, with afarewell wave of her hand. "Thank God for that! And never mindthe rest."

She threw open the bedroom door, and called to the maid, in thesitting-room. "Miss Lundie is waiting for you." Blanche pressedher hand, and left her.

Anne waited a while in the bedroom, listening to the sound madeby the departure of the carriage from the inn door. Little bylittle, the tramp of the horses and the noise of the rollingwheels lessened and lessened. When the last faint sounds werelost in silence she stood for a moment thinking--then, rousing ona sudden, hurried into the sitting-room, and rang the bell.

"I shall go mad," she said to herself, "if I stay here alone."

Even Mr. Bishopriggs felt the necessity of being silent when hestood face to face with her on answering the bell.

"I want to speak to him. Send him here instantly."

Mr. Bishopriggs understood her, and withdrew.

Arnold came in.

"Has she gone?" were the first words he said.

"She has gone. She won't suspect you when you see her again. Ihave told her nothing. Don't ask me for my reasons!"

"I have no wish to ask you."

"Be angry with me, if you like!"

"I have no wish to be angry with you."

He spoke and looked like an altered man. Quietly seating himselfat the table, he rested his head on his hand--and so remainedsilent. Anne was taken completely by surprise. She drew near, andlooked at him curiously. Let a woman's mood be what it may, it iscertain to feel the influence of any change for which she isunprepared in the manner of a man--when that man interests her.The cause of this is not to be found in the variableness of herhumor. It is far more probably to be traced to the nobleabnegation of Self, which is one of the grandest--and to thecredit of woman be it said--one of the commonest virtues of thesex. Little by little, the sweet feminine charm of Anne's facecame softly and sadly back. The inbred nobility of the woman'snature answered the call which the man had unconsciously made onit. She touched Arnold on the shoulder.

"This has been hard on _you,_" she said. "And I am to blame forit. Try and forgive me, Mr. Brinkworth. I am sincerely sorry. Iwish with all my heart I could comfort you!"

"Thank you, Miss Silvester. It was not a very pleasant feeling,to be hiding from Blanche as if I was afraid of her--and it's setme thinking, I suppose, for the first time in my life. Nevermind. It's all over now. Can I do any thing for you?"

"What do you propose doing to-night?"

"What I have proposed doing all along--my duty by Geoffrey. Ihave promised him to see you through your difficulties here, andto provide for your safety till he comes back. I can only makesure of doing that by keeping up appearances, and staying in thesitting-room to-night. When we next meet it will be underpleasanter circumstances, I hope. I shall always be glad to thinkthat I was of some service to you. In the mean time I shall bemost likely away to-morrow morning before you are up."

Anne held out her hand to take leave. Nothing could undo what hadbeen done. The time for warning and remonstrance had passed away.

"You have not befriended an ungrateful woman," she said. "The daymay yet come, Mr. Brinkworth, when I shall prove it."

"I hope not, Miss Silvester. Good-by, and good luck!"

She withdrew into her own room. Arnold locked the sitting-roomdoor, and stretched himself on the sofa for the night.

* * * * * *

The morning was bright, the air was delicious after the storm.

Arnold had gone, as he had promised, before Anne was out of herroom. It was understood at the inn that important business hadunexpectedly called him south. Mr. Bishopriggs had been presentedwith a handsome gratuity; and Mrs. Inchbare had been informedthat the rooms were taken for a week certain.

In every quarter but one the march of events had now, to allappearance, fallen back into a quiet course. Arnold was on hisway to his estate; Blanche was safe at Windygates; Anne'sresidence at the inn was assured for a week to come. The onepresent doubt was the doubt which hung over Geoffrey's movements.The one event still involved in darkness turned on the questionof life or death waiting for solution in London--otherwise, thequestion of Lord Holchester's health. Taken by i tself, thealternative, either way, was plain enough. If my lordlived--Geoffrey would he free to come back, and marry herprivately in Scotland. If my lord died--Geoffrey would be free tosend for her, and marry her publicly in London. But couldGeoffrey be relied on?

Anne went out on to the terrace-ground in front of the inn. Thecool morning breeze blew steadily. Towering white clouds sailedin grand procession over the heavens, now obscuring, and nowrevealing the sun. Yellow light and purple shadow chased eachother over the broad brown surface of the moor--even as hope andfear chased each other over Anne's mind, brooding on what mightcome to her with the coming time.

She turned away, weary of questioning the impenetrable future,and went back to the inn.

Crossing the hall she looked at the clock. It was past the hourwhen the train from Perthshire was due in London. Geoffrey andhis brother were, at that moment, on their way to LordHolchester's house.