BLANCHE stepped lightly into the room, through one of the openFrench windows.

"What are you doing here?" she said to Arnold.

"Nothing. I was just going to look for you in the garden."

"The garden is insufferable, this morning." Saying those words,she fanned herself with her handkerchief, and noticed Geoffrey'spresence in the room with a look of very thinly-concealedannoyance at the discovery. "Wait till I am married!" shethought. "Mr. Delamayn will be cleverer than I take him to be, ifhe gets much of his friend's company _then!_"

"A trifle too hot--eh?" said Geoffrey, seeing her eyes fixed onhim, and supposing that he was expected to say something.

Having performed that duty he walked away without waiting for areply; and seated himself with his letter, at one of thewriting-tables in the library.

"Sir Patrick is quite right about the young men of the presentday," said Blanche, turning to Arnold. "Here is this one asks mea question, and doesn't wait for an answer. There are three moreof them, out in the garden, who have been talking of nothing, forthe last hour, but the pedigrees of horses and the muscles ofmen. When we are married, Arnold, don't present any of your malefriends to me, unless they have turned fifty. What shall we dotill luncheon-time? It's cool and quiet in here among the books.I want a mild excitement--and I have got absolutely nothing todo. Suppose you read me some poetry?"

"While _he_ is here?" asked Arnold, pointing to the personifiedantithesis of poetry--otherwise to Geoffrey, seated with his backto them at the farther end of the library.

"Pooh!" said Blanche. "There's only an animal in the room. Weneedn't mind _him!_"

"I say!" exclaimed Arnold. "You're as bitter, this morning, asSir Patrick himself. What will you say to Me when we are marriedif you talk in that way of my friend?"

Blanche stole her hand into Arnold's hand and gave it a littlesignificant squeeze. "I shall always be nice to _you,_" shewhispered--with a look that contained a host of pretty promisesin itself. Arnold returned the look (Geoffrey was unquestionablyin the way!). Their eyes met tenderly (why couldn't the greatawkward brute write his letters somewhere else?). With a faintlittle sigh, Blanche dropped resignedly into one of thecomfortable arm-chairs--and asked once more for "some poetry," ina voice that faltered softly, and with a color that was brighterthan usual.

"Whose poetry am I to read?" inquired Arnold.

"Any body's," said Blanche. "This is another of my impulses. I amdying for some poetry. I don't know whose poetry. And I don'tknow why."

Arnold went straight to the nearest book-shelf, and took down thefirst volume that his hand lighted on--a solid quarto, bound insober brown.

"Well?" asked Blanche. "What have you found?"

Arnold opened the volume, and conscientiously read the titleexactly as it stood:

"Paradise Lost. A Poem. By John Milton."

"I have never read Milton," said Blanche. "Have you?"

"No."

"Another instance of sympathy between us. No educated personought to be ignorant of Milton. Let us be educated persons.Please begin."

"At the beginning?"

"Of course! Stop! You musn't sit all that way off--you must sitwhere I can look at you. My attention wanders if I don't look atpeople while they read."

Arnold took a stool at Blanche's feet, and opened the "FirstBook" of Paradise Lost. His "system" as a reader of blank versewas simplicity itself. In poetry we are some of us (as manyliving poets can testify) all for sound; and some of us (as fewliving poets can testify) all for sense. Arnold was for sound. Heended every line inexorably with a full stop; and he got on tohis full stop as fast as the inevitable impediment of the wordswould let him. He began:

"Of Man's first disobedience and the fruit.Of that forbidden tree whose mortal taste.Brought death into the world and all our woe.With loss of Eden till one greater Man.Restore us and regain the blissful seat.Sing heavenly Muse--"

"Beautiful!" said Blanche. "What a shame it seems to have hadMilton all this time in the library and never to have read himyet! We will have Mornings with Milton, Arnold. He seems long;but we are both young, and we _may_ live to get to the end ofhim. Do you know dear, now I look at you again, you don't seem tohave come back to Windygates in good spirits."

"Don't I? I can't account for it."

"I can. It's sympathy with Me. I am out of spirits too."

"You!"

"Yes. After what I saw at Craig Fernie, I grow more and moreuneasy about Anne. You will understand that, I am sure, afterwhat I told you this morning?"

Arnold looked back, in a violent hurry, from Blanche to Milton.That renewed reference to events at Craig Fernie was a renewedreproach to him for his conduct at the inn. He attempted tosilence her by pointing to Geoffrey.

"Don't forget," he whispered, "that there is somebody in the roombesides ourselves."

Blanche shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

"What does _he_ matter?" she asked. "What does _he_ know or careabout Anne?"

There was only one other chance of diverting her from thedelicate subject. Arnold went on reading headlong, two lines inadvance of the place at which he had left off, with more soundand less sense than ever:

"In the beginning how the heavens and earth.Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill--"

At "Sion hill," Blanche interrupted him again.

"Do wait a little, Arnold. I can't have Milton crammed down mythroat in that way. Besides I had something to say. Did I tellyou that I consulted my uncle about Anne? I don't think I did. Icaught him alone in this very room. I told him all I have toldyou. I showed him Anne's letter. And I said, 'What do you think?'He took a little time (and a great deal of snuff) before he wouldsay what he thought. When he did speak, he told me I might quitepossibly be right in suspecting Anne's husband to be a veryabominable person. His keeping himself out of my way was (just asI thought) a suspicious circumstance, to begin with. And thenthere was the sudden extinguishing of the candles, when I firstwent in. I thought (and Mrs. Inchbare thought) it was done by thewind. Sir Patrick suspects it was done by the horrid man himself,to prevent me from seeing him when I entered the room. I amfirmly persuaded Sir Patrick is right. What do _you_ think?"

"I think we had better go on," said Arnold, with his head downover his book. "We seem to be forgetting Milton."

"How you do worry about Milton! That last bit wasn't asinteresting as the other. Is there any love in Paradise Lost?"

"Perhaps we may find some if we go on."

"Very well, then. Go on. And be quick about it."

Arnold was _so_ quick about it that he lost his place. Instead ofgoing on he went back. He read once more:

"In the beginning how the heavens and earth.Rose out of Chaos or if Sion hill--"

"You readthat before," said Blanche.

"I think not."

"I'm sure you did. When you said 'Sion hill' I recollect Ithought of the Methodists directly. I couldn't have thought ofthe Methodists, if you hadn't said 'Sion hill.' It stands toreason."

"I'll try the next page," said Arnold. "I can't have read thatbefore--for I haven't turned over yet."

Blanche threw herself back in her chair, and flung herhandkerchief resignedly over her face. "The flies," sheexplained. "I'm not going to sleep. Try the next page. Oh, dearme, try the next page!"

Arnold proceeded:

"Say first for heaven hides nothing from thy view.Nor the deep tract of hell say first what cause.Moved our grand parents in that happy state--"

Blanche suddenly threw the handkerchief off again, and sat boltupright in her chair. "Shut it up," she cried. "I can't bear anymore. Leave off, Arnold--leave off!"

"What's, the matter now?"

" 'That happy state,' " said Blanche. "What does 'that happystate' mean? Marriage, of course! And marriage reminds me ofAnne. I won't have any more. Paradise Lost is painful. Shut itup. Well, my next question to Sir Patrick was, of course, to knowwhat he thought Anne's husband had done. The wretch had behavedinfamously to her in some way. In what way? Was it any thing todo with her marriage? My uncle considered again. He thought itquite possible. Private marriages were dangerous things (hesaid)--especially in Scotland. He asked me if they had beenmarried in Scotland. I couldn't tell him--I only said, 'Supposethey were? What then?' 'It's barely possible, in that case,' saysSir Patrick, 'that Miss Silvester may be feeling uneasy about hermarriage. She may even have reason--or may think she hasreason--to doubt whether it is a marriage at all.' "

Arnold started, and looked round at Geoffrey still sitting at thewriting-table with his back turned on them. Utterly as Blancheand Sir Patrick were mistaken in their estimate of Anne'sposition at Craig Fernie, they had drifted, nevertheless, intodiscussing the very question in which Geoffrey and Miss Silvesterwere interested--the question of marriage in Scotland. It wasimpossible in Blanche's presence to tell Geoffrey that he mightdo well to listen to Sir Patrick's opinion, even at second-hand.Perhaps the words had found their way to him? perhaps he waslistening already, of his own accord?

(He _was_ listening. Blanche's last words had found their way tohim, while he was pondering over his half-finished letter to hisbrother. He waited to hear more--without moving, and with the pensuspended in his hand.)

Blanche proceeded, absently winding her fingers in and out ofArnold's hair as he sat at her feet:

"It flashed on me instantly that Sir Patrick had discovered thetruth. Of course I told him so. He laughed, and said I mustn'tjump at conclusions We were guessing quite in the dark; and allthe distressing things I had noticed at the inn might admit ofsome totally different explanation. He would have gone onsplitting straws in that provoking way the whole morning if Ihadn't stopped him. I was strictly logical. I said _I_ had seenAnne, and _he_ hadn't--and that made all the difference. I said,'Every thing that puzzled and frightened me in the poor darlingis accounted for now. The law must, and shall, reach that man,uncle--and I'll pay for it!' I was so much in earnest that Ibelieve I cried a little. What do you think the dear old man did?He took me on his knee and gave me a kiss; and he said, in thenicest way, that he would adopt my view, for the present, if Iwould promise not to cry any more; and--wait! the cream of it isto come!--that he would put the view in quite a new light to meas soon as I was composed again. You may imagine how soon I driedmy eyes, and what a picture of composure I presented in thecourse of half a minute. 'Let us take it for granted,' says SirPatrick, 'that this man unknown has really tried to deceive MissSilvester, as you and I suppose. I can tell you one thing: it'sas likely as not that, in trying to overreach _her,_ he may(without in the least suspecting it) have ended in overreachinghimself.' "

(Geoffrey held his breath. The pen dropped unheeded from hisfingers. It was coming. The light that his brother couldn't throwon the subject was dawning on it at last!)

Blanche resumed:

"I was so interested, and it made such a tremendous impression onme, that I haven't forgotten a word. 'I mustn't make that poorlittle head of yours ache with Scotch law,' my uncle said; 'Imust put it plainly. There are marriages allowed in Scotland,Blanche, which are called Irregular Marriages--and veryabominable things they are. But they have this accidental meritin the present case. It is extremely difficult for a man topretend to marry in Scotland, and not really to do it. And it is,on the other hand, extremely easy for a man to drift intomarrying in Scotland without feeling the slightest suspicion ofhaving done it himself.' That was exactly what he said, Arnold.When _we_ are married, it sha'n't be in Scotland!"

(Geoffrey's ruddy color paled. If this was true he might becaught himself in the trap which he had schemed to set for Anne!Blanche went on with her narrative. He waited and listened.)

"My uncle asked me if I understood him so far. It was as plain asthe sun at noonday, of course I understood him! 'Very well,then--now for the application!' says Sir Patrick. 'Once moresupposing our guess to be the right one, Miss Silvester may bemaking herself very unhappy without any real cause. If thisinvisible man at Craig Fernie has actually meddled, I won't saywith marrying her, but only with pretending to make her his wife,and if he has attempted it in Scotland, the chances are nine toone (though _he_ may not believe it, and though _she_ may notbelieve it) that he has really married her, after all.' Myuncle's own words again! Quite needless to say that, half an hourafter they were out of his lips, I had sent them to Craig Ferniein a letter to Anne!"

(Geoffrey's stolidly-staring eyes suddenly brightened. A light ofthe devil's own striking illuminated him. An idea of the devil'sown bringing entered his mind. He looked stealthily round at theman whose life he had saved--at the man who had devotedly servedhim in return. A hideous cunning leered at his mouth and peepedout of his eyes. "Arnold Brinkworth pretended to be married toher at the inn. By the lord Harry! that's a way out of it thatnever struck me before!" With that thought in his heart he turnedback again to his half-finished letter to Julius. For once in hislife he was strongly, fiercely agitated. For once in his life hewas daunted--and that by his Own Thought! He had written toJulius under a strong sense of the necessity of gaining time todelude Anne into leaving Scotland before he ventured on payinghis addresses to Mrs. Glenarm. His letter contained a string ofclumsy excuses, intended to delay his return to his brother'shouse. "No," he said to himself, as he read it again. "Whateverelse may do--_this_ won't! " He looked round once more at Arnold,and slowly tore the letter into fragments as he looked.)

In the mean time Blanche had not done yet. "No," she said, whenArnold proposed an adjournment to the garden; "I have somethingmore to say, and you are interested in it, this time." Arnoldresigned himself to listen, and worse still to answer, if therewas no help for it, in the character of an innocent stranger whohad never been near the Craig Fernie inn.

"Well," Blanche resumed, "and what do you think has come of myletter to Anne?"

"I'm sure I don't know."

"Nothing has come of it!"

"Indeed?"

"Absolutely nothing! I know she received the letter yesterdaymorning. I ought to have had the answer to-day at breakfast."

"Perhaps she thought it didn't require an answer."

"She couldn't have thought that, for reasons that I know of.Besides, in my letter yesterday I implored her to tell me (if itwas one line only) whether, in guessing at what her trouble was,Sir Patrick and I had not guessed right. And here is the daygetting on, and no answer! What am I to conclude?"

"I really can't say!"

"Is it possible, Arnold, that we have _not_ guessed right, afterall? Is the wickedness of that man who blew the candles outwickedness beyond our discovering? The doubt is so dreadful thatI have made up my mind not to bear it after to-day. I count onyour sympathy and assistance when to-morrow comes!"

Arnold's heart sank. Some new complication was evidentlygathering round him. He waited in silence to hear the worst.Blanche bent forward, and whispered to him.

"This is a secret," she said. "If that creature at thewriting-table has ears for any thing but rowing and racing, hemustn't hear this! Anne may come to me privately to-day while youare all at luncheon. If she doesn't come and if I don't hear fromher, then the mystery of her silence must be cleared up; and Youmust do it!"

"I!"

"Don't make difficulties! If you can't find your way to CraigFernie, I can help you. As for Anne, you know what a charmingperson she is, and you know she will receive you perfectly, formy sake. I must and will have some news of her. I can't break thelaws of the household a second time. Sir Patrick sympathizes, buthe won't stir. Lady Lundie is a bitter enemy. The servants arethreatened with the loss of their places if any one of them goesnear Anne. There is nobody but you. And to Anne you go to-morrow,if I don't see her or hear from her to-day!"

This to the man who had passed as Anne's husband at the inn, andwho had been forced into the most intimate knowledge of Anne'smiserable secret! Arnold rose to put Milton away, with thecomposure of sheer despair. Any other secret he might, in thelast resort, have confided to the discretion of a third person.But a woman's secret--with a woman's reputation depending on hiskeeping it--was not to be confided to any body, under any stressof circumstances whatever. "If Geoffrey doesn't get me out of_this,_," he thought, "I shall have no choice but to leaveWindygates to-morrow."

As he replaced the book on the shelf, Lady Lundie entered thelibrary from the garden.

"What are you doing here?" she said to her step-daughter.

"Improving my mind," replied Blanche. "Mr. Brinkworth and I havebeen reading Milton."

"Can you condescend so far, after reading Milton all the morning,as to help me with the invitations for the dinner next week?"

"If _you_ can condescend, Lady Lundie, after feeding the poultryall the morning, I must be humility itself after only readingMilton!"

With that little interchange of the acid amenities of feminineintercourse, step-mother and step-daughter withdrew to awriting-table, to put the virtue of hospitality in practicetogether.

Arnold joined his friend at the other end of the library.

Geoffrey was sitting with his elbows on the desk, and hisclenched fists dug into his cheeks. Great drops of perspirationstood on his forehead, and the fragments of a torn letter layscattered all round him. He exhibited symptoms of nervoussensibility for the first time in his life--he started whenArnold spoke to him.

"What's the matter, Geoffrey?"

"A letter to answer. And I don't know how."

"From Miss Silvester?" asked Arnold, dropping his voice so as toprevent the ladies at the other end of the room from hearing him.

"No," answered Geoffrey, in a lower voice still.

"Have you heard what Blanche has been saying to me about MissSilvester?"

"Some of it."

"Did you hear Blanche say that she meant to send me to CraigFernie to-morrow, if she failed to get news from Miss Silvesterto-day?"

"No."

"Then you know it now. That is what Blanche has just said to me."

"Well?"

"Well--there's a limit to what a man can expect even from hisbest friend. I hope you won't ask me to be Blanche's messengerto-morrow. I can't, and won't, go back to the inn as things arenow."

"You have had enough of it--eh?"

"I have had enough of distressing Miss Silvester, and more thanenough of deceiving Blanche."

"What do you mean by 'distressing Miss Silvester?' "

"She doesn't take the same easy view that you and I do, Geoffrey,of my passing her off on the people of the inn as my wife."

Geoffrey absently took up a paper-knife. Still with his headdown, he began shaving off the topmost layer of paper from theblotting-pad under his hand. Still with his head down, heabruptly broke the silence in a whisper.

"I say!"

"Yes?"

"How did you manage to pass her off as your wife?"

"I told you how, as we were driving from the station here."

"I was thinking of something else. Tell me again."

Arnold told him once more what had happened at the inn. Geoffreylistened, without making any remark. He balanced the paper-knifevacantly on one of his fingers. He was strangely sluggish andstrangely silent.

"All _that_ is done and ended," said Arnold shaking him by theshoulder. "It rests with you now to get me out of the difficultyI'm placed in with Blanche. Things must be settled with MissSilvester to-day."

"Things _shall_ be settled."

"Shall be? What are you waiting for?"

"I'm waiting to do what you told me."

"What I told you?"

"Didn't you tell me to consult Sir Patrick before I married her?"

"To be sure! so I did."

"Well--I am waiting for a chance with Sir Patrick."

"And then?"

"And then--" He looked at Arnold for the first time. "Then," hesaid, "you may consider it settled."

"The marriage?"

He suddenly looked down again at the blotting-pad. "Yes--themarriage."

Arnold offered his hand in congratulation. Geoffrey never noticedit. His eyes were off the blotting-pad again. He was looking outof the window near him.

"Don't I hear voices outside?" he asked.

"I believe our friends are in the garden," said Arnold. "SirPatrick may be among them. I'll go and see."

The instant his back was turned Geoffrey snatched up a sheet ofnote-paper. "Before I forget it!" he said to himself. He wrotethe word "Memorandum" at the top of the page, and added theselines beneath it:

"He asked for her by the name of his wife at the door. He said,at dinner, before the landlady and the waiter, 'I take theserooms for my wife.' He made _her_ say he was her husband at thesame time. After that he stopped all night. What do the lawyerscall this in Scotland?--(Query: a marriage?)"

After folding up the paper he hesitated for a moment. "No!" hethought, "It won't do to trust to what Miss Lundie said about it.I can't be certain till I have consulted Sir Patrick himself."

He put the paper away in his pocket, and wiped the heavyperspiration from his forehead. He was pale--for _him,_strikingly pale--when Arnold came back.

"Any thing wrong, Geoffrey?--you're as white as ashes."

"It's the heat. Where's Sir Patrick?"

"You may see for yourself."

Arnold pointed to the window. Sir Patrick was crossing the lawn,on his way to the library with a newspaper in his hand; and theguests at Windygates were accompanying him. Sir Patrick wassmiling, and saying nothing. The guests were talking excitedly atthe tops of their voices. There had apparently been a collisionof some kind between the old school and the new. Arnold directedGeoffrey's attention to the state of affairs on the lawn.

"How are you to consult Sir Patrick with all those people abouthim?"

"I'll consult Sir Patrick, if I take him by the scruff of theneck and carry him into the next county!" He rose to his feet ashe spoke those words, and emphasized them under his breath withan oath.

Sir Patrick entered the library, with the guests at his heels.