THE Library at Windygates was the largest and the handsomest roomin the house. The two grand divisions under which Literature isusually arranged in these days occupied the customary places init. On the shelves which ran round the walls were the books whichhumanity in general respects--and does not read. On the tablesdistributed over the floor were the books which humanity ingeneral reads--and does not respect. In the first class, theworks of the wise ancients; and the Histories, Biographies, andEssays of writers of more modern times--otherwise the SolidLiterature, which is universally respected, and occasionallyread. In the second class, the Novels of our own day--otherwisethe Light Literature, which is universally read, and occasionallyrespected. At Windygates, as elsewhere, we believed History to behigh literature, because it assumed to be true to Authorities (ofwhich we knew little)--and Fiction to be low literature, becauseit attempted to be true to Nature (of which we knew less). AtWindygates as elsewhere, we were always more or less satisfiedwith ourselves, if we were publicly discovered consulting ourHistory--and more or less ashamed of ourselves, if we werepublicly discovered devouring our Fiction. An architecturalpeculiarity in the original arrangement of the library favoredthe development of this common and curious form of humanstupidity. While a row of luxurious arm-chairs, in the mainthoroughfare of the room, invited the reader of solid lit eratureto reveal himself in the act of cultivating a virtue, a row ofsnug little curtained recesses, opening at intervals out of oneof the walls, enabled the reader of light literature to concealhimself in the act of indulging a vice. For the rest, all theminor accessories of this spacious and tranquil place were asplentiful and as well chosen as the heart could desire. And solidliterature and light literature, and great writers and small,were all bounteously illuminated alike by a fine broad flow ofthe light of heaven, pouring into the room through windows thatopened to the floor.

It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie's garden-party,and it wanted an hour or more of the time at which theluncheon-bell usually rang.

The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden,enjoying the morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rainfor some days past. Two gentlemen (exceptions to the generalrule) were alone in the library. They were the two last gentlemenin the would who could possibly be supposed to have anylegitimate motive for meeting each other in a place of literaryseclusion. One was Arnold Brinkworth, and the other was GeoffreyDelamayn.

They had arrived together at Windygates that morning. Geoffreyhad traveled from London with his brother by the train of theprevious night. Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time,from his own property, by ceremonies incidental to his positionwhich were not to be abridged without giving offense to manyworthy people--had caught the passing train early that morning atthe station nearest to him, and had returned to Lady Lundie's, ashe had left Lady Lundie's, in company with his friend.

After a short preliminary interview with Blanche, Arnold hadrejoined Geoffrey in the safe retirement of the library, to saywhat was still left to be said between them on the subject ofAnne. Having completed his report of events at Craig Fernie, hewas now naturally waiting to hear what Geoffrey had to say on hisside. To Arnold's astonishment, Geoffrey coolly turned away toleave the library without uttering a word.

Arnold stopped him without ceremony.

"Not quite so fast, Geoffrey," he said. "I have an interest inMiss Silvester's welfare as well as in yours. Now you are backagain in Scotland, what are you going to do?"

If Geoffrey had told the truth, he must have stated his positionmuch as follows:

He had necessarily decided on deserting Anne when he had decidedon joining his brother on the journey back. But he had advancedno farther than this. How he was to abandon the woman who hadtrusted him, without seeing his own dastardly conduct draggedinto the light of day, was more than he yet knew. A vague idea ofat once pacifying and deluding Anne, by a marriage which shouldbe no marriage at all, had crossed his mind on the journey. Hehad asked himself whether a trap of that sort might not be easilyset in a country notorious for the looseness of its marriagelaws--if a man only knew how? And he had thought it likely thathis well-informed brother, who lived in Scotland, might betricked into innocently telling him what he wanted to know. Hehad turned the conversation to the subject of Scotch marriages ingeneral by way of trying the experiment. Julius had not studiedthe question; Julius knew nothing about it; and there theexperiment had come to an end. As the necessary result of thecheck thus encountered, he was now in Scotland with absolutelynothing to trust to as a means of effecting his release but thechapter of accidents, aided by his own resolution to marry Mrs.Glenarm. Such was his position, and such should have been thesubstance of his reply when he was confronted by Arnold'squestion, and plainly asked what he meant to do.

"The right thing," he answered, unblushingly. "And no mistakeabout it."

"I'm glad to hear you see your way so plainly," returned Arnold."In your place, I should have been all abroad. I was wondering,only the other day, whether you would end, as I should haveended, in consulting Sir Patrick."

Geoffrey eyed him sharply.

"Consult Sir Patrick?" he repeated. "Why would you have donethat?"

"_I_ shouldn't have known how to set about marrying her," repliedArnold. "And--being in Scotland--I should have applied to SirPatrick (without mentioning names, of course), because he wouldbe sure to know all about it."

"Suppose I don't see my way quite so plainly as you think," saidGeoffrey. " Would you advise me--"

"To consult Sir Patrick? Certainly! He has passed his life in thepractice of the Scotch law. Didn't you know that?"

"No."

"Then take my advice--and consult him. You needn't mention names.You can say it's the case of a friend."

The idea was a new one and a good one. Geoffrey looked longinglytoward the door. Eager to make Sir Patrick his innocentaccomplice on the spot, he made a second attempt to leave thelibrary; and made it for the second time in vain. Arnold had moreunwelcome inquiries to make, and more advice to give unasked.

"How have you arranged about meeting Miss Silvester?" he went on."You can't go to the hotel in the character of her husband. Ihave prevented that. Where else are you to meet her? She is allalone; she must be weary of waiting, poor thing. Can you managematters so as to see her to-day?"

After staring hard at Arnold while he was speaking, Geoffreyburst out laughing when he had done. A disinterested anxiety forthe welfare of another person was one of those refinements offeeling which a muscular education had not fitted him tounderstand.

"I say, old boy," he burst out, "you seem to take anextraordinary interest in Miss Silvester! You haven't fallen inlove with her yourself--have you?"

"Come! come!" said Arnold, seriously. "Neither she nor I deserveto be sneered at, in that way. I have made a sacrifice to yourinterests, Geoffrey--and so has she."

Geoffrey's face became serious again. His secret was in Arnold'shands; and his estimate of Arnold's character was founded,unconsciously, on his experience of himself. "All right," hesaid, by way of timely apology and concession. "I was onlyjoking."

"As much joking as you please, when you have married her,"replied Arnold. "It seems serious enough, to my mind, till then."He stopped--considered--and laid his hand very earnestly onGeoffrey's arm. "Mind!" he resumed. "You are not to breathe aword to any living soul, of my having been near the inn!"

"I've promised to hold my tongue, once already. What do you wantmore?"

"I am anxious, Geoffrey. I was at Craig Fernie, remember, whenBlanche came there! She has been telling me all that happened,poor darling, in the firm persuasion that I was miles off at thetime. I swear I couldn't look her in the face! What would shethink of me, if she knew the truth? Pray be careful! pray becareful!"

Geoffrey's patience began to fail him.

"We had all this out," he said, "on the way here from thestation. What's the good of going over the ground again?"

"You're quite right," said Arnold, good-humoredly. "The factis--I'm out of sorts, this morning. My mind misgives me--I don'tknow why."

"Mind?" repeated Geoffrey, in high contempt. "It's flesh--that'swhat's the matter with _you._ You're nigh on a stone over yourright weight. Mind he hanged! A man in healthy training don'tknow that he has got a mind. Take a turn with the dumb-bells, anda run up hill with a great-coat on. Sweat it off, Arnold! Sweatit off!"

With that excellent advice, he turned to leave the room for thethird time. Fate appeared to have determined to keep himimprisoned in the library, that morning. On this occasion, it wasa servant who got in the way--a servant, with a letter and amessage. "The man waits for answer."

Geoffrey looked at the letter. It was in his brother'shandwriting. He had left Julius at the junction about three hourssince. What could Julius possibly have to say to him now?

He opened the letter. Julius had to announce that Fortune wasfavoring them already. He had heard news of Mrs. Glenarm, as soonas he reached home. She had called on his wife, during hisabsence in London--she had been inv ited to the house--and shehad promised to accept the invitation early in the week. "Earlyin the week," Julius wrote, "may mean to-morrow. Make yourapologies to Lady Lundie; and take care not to offend her. Saythat family reasons, which you hope soon to have the pleasure ofconfiding to her, oblige you to appeal once more to herindulgence--and come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs.Glenarm."

Even Geoffrey was startled, when he found himself met by a suddennecessity for acting on his own decision. Anne knew where hisbrother lived. Suppose Anne (not knowing where else to find him)appeared at his brother's house, and claimed him in the presenceof Mrs. Glenarm? He gave orders to have the messenger keptwaiting, and said he would send back a written reply.

"From Craig Fernie?" asked Arnold, pointing to the letter in hisfriend's hand.

Geoffrey looked up with a frown. He had just opened his lips toanswer that ill-timed reference to Anne, in no very friendlyterms, when a voice, calling to Arnold from the lawn outside,announced the appearance of a third person in the library, andwarned the two gentlemen that their private interview was at anend.