ARNOLD was a little surprised by the curt manner in whichGeoffrey answered him.

"Has Sir Patrick said any thing unpleasant?" he asked.

"Sir Patrick has said just what I wanted him to say."

"No difficulty about the marriage?"

"None."

"No fear of Blanche--"

"She won't ask you to go to Craig Fernie--I'll answer for that!"He said the words with a strong emphasis on them, took hisbrother's letter from the table, snatched up his hat, and wentout.

His friends, idling on the lawn, hailed him. He passed by themquickly without answering, without so much as a glance at themover his shoulder. Arriving at the rose-garden, he stopped andtook out his pipe; then suddenly changed his mind, and turnedback again by another path. There was no certainty, at that hourof the day, of his being left alone in the rose-garden. He had afierce and hungry longing to be by himself; he felt as if hecould have been the death of any body who came and spoke to himat that moment. With his head down and his brows knit heavily, hefollowed the path to see what it ended in. It ended in awicket-gate which led into a kitchen-garden. Here he was well outof the way of interruption: there was nothing to attract visitorsin the kitchen-garden. He went on to a walnut-tree planted in themiddle of the inclosure, with a wooden bench and a broad strip ofturf running round it. After first looking about him, he seatedhimself and lit his pipe.

"I wish it was done!" he said.

He sat, with his elbows on his knees, smoking and thinking.Before long the restlessness that had got possession of himforced him to his feet again. He rose, and paced round and roundthe strip of greensward under the walnut-tree, like a wild beastin a cage.

What was the meaning of this disturbance in the inner man? Nowthat he had committed himself to the betrayal of the friend whohad trusted and served him, was he torn by remorse?

He was no more torn by remorse than you are while your eye ispassing over this sentence. He was simply in a raging fever ofimpatience to see himself safely la nded at the end which he hadin view.

Why should he feel remorse? All remorse springs, more or lessdirectly, from the action of two sentiments, which are neither ofthem inbred in the natural man. The first of these sentiments isthe product of the respect which we learn to feel for ourselves.The second is the product of the respect which we learn to feelfor others. In their highest manifestations, these two feelingsexalt themselves, until the first he comes the love of God, andthe second the love of Man. I have injured you, and I repent ofit when it is done. Why should I repent of it if I have gainedsomething by it for my own self and if you can't make me feel itby injuring Me? I repent of it because there has been a sense putinto me which tells me that I have sinned against Myself, andsinned against You. No such sense as that exists among theinstincts of the natural man. And no such feelings as thesetroubled Geoffrey Delamayn; for Geoffrey Delamayn was the naturalman.

When the idea of his scheme had sprung to life in his mind, thenovelty of it had startled him--the enormous daring of it,suddenly self-revealed, had daunted him. The signs of emotionwhich he had betrayed at the writing-table in the library werethe signs of mere mental perturbation, and of nothing more.

That first vivid impression past, the idea had made itselffamiliar to him. He had become composed enough to see suchdifficulties as it involved, and such consequences as it implied.These had fretted him with a passing trouble; for these heplainly discerned. As for the cruelty and the treachery of thething he meditated doing--that consideration never crossed thelimits of his mental view. His position toward the man whose lifehe had preserved was the position of a dog. The "noble animal"who has saved you or me from drowning will fly at your throat ormine, under certain conditions, ten minutes afterward. Add to thedog's unreasoning instinct the calculating cunning of a man;suppose yourself to be in a position to say of some triflingthing, "Curious! at such and such a time I happened to pick upsuch and such an object; and now it turns out to be of some useto me!"--and there you have an index to the state of Geoffrey'sfeeling toward his friend when he recalled the past or when hecontemplated the future. When Arnold had spoken to him at thecritical moment, Arnold had violently irritated him; and that wasall.

The same impenetrable insensibility, the same primitively naturalcondition of the moral being, prevented him from being troubledby the slightest sense of pity for Anne. "She's out of my way!"was his first thought. "She's provided for, without any troubleto Me! was his second. He was not in the least uneasy about her.Not the slightest doubt crossed his mind that, when once she hadrealized her own situation, when once she saw herself placedbetween the two alternatives of facing her own ruin or ofclaiming Arnold as a last resource, she would claim Arnold. Shewould do it as a matter of course; because _he_ would have doneit in her place.

But he wanted it over. He was wild, as he paced round and roundthe walnut-tree, to hurry on the crisis and be done with it. Giveme my freedom to go to the other woman, and to train for thefoot-race--that's what I want. _They_ injured? Confusion to themboth! It's I who am injured by them. They are the worst enemies Ihave! They stand in my way.

How to be rid of them? There was the difficulty. He had made uphis mind to be rid of them that day. How was he to begin?

There was no picking a quarrel with Arnold, and so beginning with_him._ This course of proceeding, in Arnold's position towardBlanche, would lead to a scandal at the outset--a scandal whichwould stand in the way of his making the right impression on Mrs.Glenarm. The woman--lonely and friendless, with her sex and herposition both against her if _she_ tried to make a scandal ofit--the woman was the one to begin with. Settle it at once andforever with Anne; and leave Arnold to hear of it and deal withit, sooner or later, no matter which.

How was he to break it to her before the day was out?

By going to the inn and openly addressing her to her face as Mrs.Arnold Brinkworth? No! He had had enough, at Windygates, ofmeeting her face to face. The easy way was to write to her, andsend the letter, by the first messenger he could find, to theinn. She might appear afterward at Windygates; she might followhim to his brother's; she might appeal to his father. It didn'tmatter; he had got the whip-hand of her now. "You are a marriedwoman." There was the one sufficient answer, which was strongenough to back him in denying any thing!

He made out the letter in his own mind. "Something like thiswould do," he thought, as he went round and round thewalnut-tree: "You may be surprised not to have seen me. You haveonly yourself to thank for it. I know what took place between youand him at the inn. I have had a lawyer's advice. You are ArnoldBrinkworth's wife. I wish you joy, and good-by forever." Addressthose lines: "To Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth;" instruct the messengerto leave the letter late that night, without waiting for ananswer; start the first thing the next morning for his brother'shouse; and behold, it was done!

But even here there was an obstacle--one last exasperatingobstacle--still in the way.

If she was known at the inn by any name at all, it was by thename of Mrs. Silvester. A letter addressed to "Mrs. ArnoldBrinkworth" would probably not be taken in at the door; or if itwas admitted. and if it was actually offered to her, she mightdecline to receive it, as a letter not addressed to herself. Aman of readier mental resources would have seen that the name onthe outside of the letter mattered little or nothing, so long asthe contents were read by the person to whom they were addressed.But Geoffrey's was the order of mind which expresses disturbanceby attaching importance to trifles. He attached an absurdimportance to preserving absolute consistency in his letter,outside and in. If he declared her to be Arnold Brinkworth'swife, he must direct to her as Arnold Brinkworth's wife; or whocould tell what the law might say, or what scrape he might notget himself into by a mere scratch of the pen! The more hethought of it, the more persuaded he felt of his own clevernesshere, and the hotter and the angrier he grew.

There is a way out of every thing. And there was surely a way outof this, if he could only see it.

He failed to see it. After dealing with all the greatdifficulties, the small difficulty proved too much for him. Itstruck him that he might have been thinking too long aboutit--considering that he was not accustomed to thinking long aboutany thing. Besides, his head was getting giddy, with goingmechanically round and round the tree. He irritably turned hisback on the tree and struck into another path: resolved to thinkof something else, and then to return to his difficulty, and seeit with a new eye.

Leaving his thoughts free to wander where they liked, histhoughts naturally busied themselves with the next subject thatwas uppermost in his mind, the subject of the Foot-Race. In aweek's time his arrangements ought to be made. Now, as to thetraining, first.

He decided on employing two trainers this time. One to travel toScotland, and begin with him at his brother's house. The other totake him up, with a fresh eye to him, on his return to London. Heturned over in his mind the performances of the formidable rivalagainst whom he was to be matched. That other man was theswiftest runner of the two. The betting in Geoffrey's favor wasbetting which calculated on the unparalleled length of the race,and on Geoffrey's prodigious powers of endurance. How long heshould "wait on" the man? Whereabouts it would be safe to "pickthe man up?" How near the end to calculate the man's exhaustionto a nicety, and "put on the spurt," and pass him? These werenice points to decide. The deliberations of apedestrian-privy-council would be required to help him under thisheavy responsibility. What men coul d he trust? He could trust A.and B.--both of them authorities: both of them stanch. Queryabout C.? As an authority, unexceptionable; as a man, doubtful.The problem relating to C. brought him to a standstill--anddeclined to be solved, even then. Never mind! he could alwaystake the advice of A. and B. In the mean time devote C. to theinfernal regions; and, thus dismissing him, try and think ofsomething else. What else? Mrs. Glenarm? Oh, bother the women!one of them is the same as another. They all waddle when theyrun; and they all fill their stomachs before dinner with sloppytea. That's the only difference between women and men--the restis nothing but a weak imitation of Us. Devote the women to theinfernal regions; and, so dismissing _them,_ try and think ofsomething else. Of what? Of something worth thinking of, thistime--of filling another pipe.

He took out his tobacco-pouch; and suddenly suspended operationsat the moment of opening it.

What was the object he saw, on the other side of a row of dwarfpear-trees, away to the right? A woman--evidently a servant byher dress--stooping down with her back to him, gatheringsomething: herbs they looked like, as well as he could make themout at the distance.

What was that thing hanging by a string at the woman's side? Aslate? Yes. What the deuce did she want with a slate at her side?He was in search of something to divert his mind--and here it wasfound. "Any thing will do for me," he thought. "Suppose I 'chaff'her a little about her slate?"

He called to the woman across the pear-trees. "Hullo!"

The woman raised herself, and advanced toward him slowly--lookingat him, as she came on, with the sunken eyes, the sorrow-strickenface, the stony tranquillity of Hester Dethridge.

Geoffrey was staggered. He had not bargained for exchanging thedullest producible vulgarities of human speech (called in thelanguage of slang, "Chaff") with such a woman as this.

"What's that slate for?" he asked, not knowing what else to say,to begin with.

The woman lifted her hand to her lips--touched them--and shookher head.

"Dumb?"

The woman bowed her head.

"Who are you?"

The woman wrote on her slate, and handed it to him over thepear-trees. He read:--"I am the cook."

"Well, cook, were you born dumb?"

The woman shook her head.

"What struck you dumb?"

The woman wrote on her slate:--"A blow."

"Who gave you the blow?"

She shook her head.

"Won't you tell me?"

She shook her head again.

Her eyes had rested on his face while he was questioning her;staring at him, cold, dull, and changeless as the eyes of acorpse. Firm as his nerves were--dense as he was, on all ordinaryoccasions, to any thing in the shape of an imaginativeimpression--the eyes of the dumb cook slowly penetrated him witha stealthy inner chill. Something crept at the marrow of hisback, and shuddered under the roots of his hair. He felt a suddenimpulse to get away from her. It was simple enough; he had onlyto say good-morning, and go on. He did say good-morning--but henever moved. He put his hand into his pocket, and offered hersome money, as a way of making _her_ go. She stretched out herhand across the pear-trees to take it--and stopped abruptly, withher arm suspended in the air. A sinister change passed over thedeathlike tranquillity of her face. Her closed lips slowlydropped apart. Her dull eyes slowly dilated; looked away,sideways, from _his_ eyes; stopped again; and stared, rigid andglittering, over his shoulder--stared as if they saw a sight ofhorror behind him. "What the devil are you looking at?" heasked--and turned round quickly, with a start. There was neitherperson nor thing to be seen behind him. He turned back again tothe woman. The woman had left him, under the influence of somesudden panic. She was hurrying away from him--running, old as shewas--flying the sight of him, as if the sight of him was thepestilence.

"Mad!" he thought--and turned his back on the sight of her.

He found himself (hardly knowing how he had got there) under thewalnut-tree once more. In a few minutes his hardy nerves hadrecovered themselves--he could laugh over the remembrance of thestrange impression that had been produced on him. "Frightened forthe first time in my life," he thought--"and that by an oldwoman! It's time I went into training again, when things havecome to this!"

He looked at his watch. It was close on the luncheon hour up atthe house; and he had not decided yet what to do about his letterto Anne. He resolved to decide, then and there.

The woman--the dumb woman, with the stony face and the horrideyes--reappeared in his thoughts, and got in the way of hisdecision. Pooh! some crazed old servant, who might once have beencook; who was kept out of charity now. Nothing more importantthan that. No more of her! no more of her!

He laid himself down on the grass, and gave his mind to theserious question. How to address Anne as "Mrs. ArnoldBrinkworth?" and how to make sure of her receiving the letter?

The dumb old woman got in his way again.

He closed his eyes impatiently, and tried to shut her out in adarkness of his own making.

The woman showed herself through the darkness. He saw her, as ifhe had just asked her a question, writing on her slate. What shewrote he failed to make out. It was all over in an instant. Hestarted up, with a feeling of astonishment at himself--and, atthe same moment his brain cleared with the suddenness of a flashof light. He saw his way, without a conscious effort on his ownpart, through the difficulty that had troubled him. Twoenvelopes, of course: an inner one, unsealed, and addressed to"Mrs. Arnold Brinkworth;" an outer one, sealed, and addressed to"Mrs. Silvester:" and there was the problem solved! Surely thesimplest problem that had ever puzzled a stupid head.

Why had he not seen it before? Impossible to say.

How came he to have seen it now?

The dumb old woman reappeared in his thoughts--as if the answerto the question lay in something connected with _her._

He became alarmed about himself, for the first time in his life.Had this persistent impression, produced by nothing but a crazyold woman, any thing to do with the broken health which thesurgeon had talked about? Was his head on the turn? Or had hesmoked too much on an empty stomach, and gone too long (aftertraveling all night) without his customary drink of ale?

He left the garden to put that latter theory to the testforthwith. The betting would have gone dead against him if thepublic had seen him at that moment. He looked haggard andanxious--and with good reason too. His nervous system hadsuddenly forced itself on his notice, without the slightestprevious introduction, and was saying (in an unknown tongue),Here I am!

Returning to the purely ornamental part of the grounds, Geoffreyencountered one of the footmen giving a message to one of thegardeners. He at once asked for the butler--as the only safeauthority to consult in the present emergency.

Conducted to the butler's pantry, Geoffrey requested thatfunctionary to produce a jug of his oldest ale, with appropriatesolid nourishment in the shape of "a hunk of bread and cheese."

The butler stared. As a form of condescension among the upperclasses this was quite new to him.

"Luncheon will be ready directly, Sir."

"What is there for lunch?"

The butler ran over an appetizing list of good dishes and rarewines.

"The devil take your kickshaws!" said Geoffrey. "Give me my oldale, and my hunk of bread and cheese."

"Where will you take them, Sir?"

"Here, to be sure! And the sooner the better."

The butler issued the necessary orders with all needful alacrity.He spread the simple refreshment demanded, before hisdistinguished guest, in a state of blank bewilderment. Here was anobleman's son, and a public celebrity into the bargain, fillinghimself with bread and cheese and ale, in at once the mostvoracious and the most unpretending manner, at _his_ table! Thebutler ventured on a little complimentary familiarity. He smiled,and touched the betting-book in his breast-pocket. "I've put sixpound on you, Sir, for theRace." "All right, old boy! you shall win your money!" Withthose noble words the honorable gentleman clapped him on theback, and held out his tumbler for some more ale. The butler felttrebly an Englishman as he filled the foaming glass. Ah! foreignnations may have their revolutions! foreign aristocracies maytumble down! The British aristocracy lives in the hearts of thepeople, and lives forever!

"Another!" said Geoffrey, presenting his empty glass. "Here'sluck!" He tossed off his liquor at a draught, and nodded to thebutler, and went out.

Had the experiment succeeded? Had he proved his own theory abouthimself to be right? Not a doubt of it! An empty stomach, and adetermination of tobacco to the head--these were the true causesof that strange state of mind into which he had fallen in thekitchen-garden. The dumb woman with the stony face vanished as ifin a mist. He felt nothing now but a comfortable buzzing in hishead, a genial warmth all over him, and an unlimited capacity forcarrying any responsibility that could rest on mortal shoulders.Geoffrey was himself again.

He went round toward the library, to write his letter toAnne--and so have done with that, to begin with. The company hadcollected in the library waiting for the luncheon-bell. All wereidly talking; and some would be certain, if he showed himself, tofasten on _him._ He turned back again, without showing himself.The only way of writing in peace and quietness would be to waituntil they were all at luncheon, and then return to the library.The same opportunity would serve also for finding a messenger totake the letter, without exciting attention, and for going awayafterward, unseen, on a long walk by himself. An absence of twoor three hours would cast the necessary dust in Arnold's eyes;for it would be certainly interpreted by him as meaning absenceat an interview with Anne.

He strolled idly through the grounds, farther and farther awayfrom the house.

The talk in the library--aimless and empty enough, for the mostpart--was talk to the purpose, in one corner of the room, inwhich Sir Patrick and Blanche were sitting together.

"Uncle! I have been watching you for the last minute or two."

"At my age, Blanche? that is paying me a very pretty compliment."

"Do you know what I have seen?"

"You have seen an old gentleman in want of his lunch."

"I have seen an old gentleman with something on his mind. What isit?"

"Suppressed gout, my dear."

"That won't do! I am not to be put off in that way. Uncle! I wantto know--"

"Stop there, Blanche! A young lady who says she 'wants to know,'expresses very dangerous sentiments. Eve 'wanted to know'--andsee what it led to. Faust 'wanted to know'--and got into badcompany, as the necessary result."

"You are feeling anxious about something," persisted Blanche."And, what is more, Sir Patrick, you behaved in a mostunaccountable manner a little while since."

"When?"

"When you went and hid yourself with Mr. Delamayn in that snugcorner there. I saw you lead the way in, while I was at work onLady Lundie's odious dinner-invitations."

"Oh! you call that being at work, do you? I wonder whether therewas ever a woman yet who could give the whole of her mind to anyearthly thing that she had to do?"

"Never mind the women! What subject in common could you and Mr.Delamayn possibly have to talk about? And why do I see a wrinklebetween your eyebrows, now you have done with him?--a wrinklewhich certainly wasn't there before you had that privateconference together?"

Before answering, Sir Patrick considered whether he should takeBlanche into his confidence or not. The attempt to identifyGeoffrey's unnamed "lady," which he was determined to make, wouldlead him to Craig Fernie, and would no doubt end in obliging himto address himself to Anne. Blanche's intimate knowledge of herfriend might unquestionably be made useful to him under thesecircumstances; and Blanche's discretion was to be trusted in anymatter in which Miss Silvester's interests were concerned. On theother hand, caution was imperatively necessary, in the presentimperfect state of his information--and caution, in Sir Patrick'smind, carried the day. He decided to wait and see what came firstof his investigation at the inn.

"Mr. Delamayn consulted me on a dry point of law, in which afriend of his was interested," said Sir Patrick. "You have wastedyour curiosity, my dear, on a subject totally unworthy of alady's notice."

Blanche's penetration was not to be deceived on such easy termsas these. "Why not say at once that you won't tell me?" sherejoined. "_You_ shutting yourself up with Mr. Delamayn to talklaw! _You_ looking absent and anxious about it afterward! I am avery unhappy girl!" said Blanche, with a little, bitter sigh."There is something in me that seems to repel the people I love.Not a word in confidence can I get from Anne. And not a word inconfidence can I get from you. And I do so long to sympathize!It's very hard. I think I shall go to Arnold."

Sir Patrick took his niece's hand.

"Stop a minute, Blanche. About Miss Silvester? Have you heardfrom her to-day?"

"No. I am more unhappy about her than words can say."

"Suppose somebody went to Craig Fernie and tried to find out thecause of Miss Silvester's silence? Would you believe thatsomebody sympathized with you then?"

Blanche's face flushed brightly with pleasure and surprise. Sheraised Sir Patrick's hand gratefully to her lips.

"Oh!" she exclaimed. "You don't mean that _you_ would do that?"

"I am certainly the last person who ought to do it--seeing thatyou went to the inn in flat rebellion against my orders, and thatI only forgave you, on your own promise of amendment, the otherday. It is a miserably weak proceeding on the part of 'the headof the family' to be turning his back on his own principles,because his niece happens to be anxious and unhappy. Still (ifyou could lend me your little carriage), I _might_ take a surlydrive toward Craig Fernie, all by myself, and I _might_ stumbleagainst Miss Silvester--in case you have any thing to say."

"Any thing to say?" repeated Blanche. She put her arm round heruncle's neck, and whispered in his ear one of the mostinterminable messages that ever was sent from one human being toanother. Sir Patrick listened, with a growing interest in theinquiry on which he was secretly bent. "The woman must have somenoble qualities," he thought, "who can inspire such devotion asthis."

While Blanche was whispering to her uncle, a second privateconference--of the purely domestic sort--was taking place betweenLady Lundie and the butler, in the hall outside the library door.

"I am sorry to say, my lady, Hester Dethridge has broken outagain."

"What do you mean?"

"She was all right, my lady, when she went into thekitchen-garden, some time since. She's taken strange again, nowshe has come back. Wants the rest of the day to herself, yourladyship. Says she's overworked, with all the company in thehouse--and, I must say, does look like a person troubled and wornout in body and mind."

"Don't talk nonsense, Roberts! The woman is obstinate and idleand insolent. She is now in the house, as you know, under amonth's notice to leave. If she doesn't choose to do her duty forthat month I shall refuse to give her a character. Who is to cookthe dinner to-day if I give Hester Dethridge leave to go out?"

"Any way, my lady, I am afraid the kitchen-maid will have to doher best to-day. Hester is very obstinate, when the fit takesher--as your ladyship says."

"If Hester Dethridge leaves the kitchen-maid to cook the dinner,Roberts, Hester Dethridge leaves my service to-day. I want nomore words about it. If she persists in setting my orders atdefiance, let her bring her account-book into the library, whilewe are at lunch, and lay it out my desk. I shall be back in thelibrary after luncheon--and if I see the account-book I shallknow what it means. In that case, you will receive my directionsto settle with her and send her away. Ring the luncheon-bell."

The luncheon-bell rang. The guests all took the direction of thedining -room; Sir Patrick following, from the far end of thelibrary, with Blanche on his arm. Arrived at the dining-roomdoor, Blanche stopped, and asked her uncle to excuse her if sheleft him to go in by himself.

"I will be back directly," she said. "I have forgotten somethingup stairs."

Sir Patrick went in. The dining-room door closed; and Blanchereturned alone to the library. Now on one pretense, and now onanother, she had, for three days past, faithfully fulfilled theengagement she had made at Craig Fernie to wait ten minutes afterluncheon-time in the library, on the chance of seeing Anne. Onthis, the fourth occasion, the faithful girl sat down alone inthe great room, and waited with her eyes fixed on the lawnoutside.

Five minutes passed, and nothing living appeared but the birdshopping about the grass.

In less than a minute more Blanche's quick ear caught the faintsound of a woman's dress brushing over the lawn. She ran to thenearest window, looked out, and clapped her hands with a cry ofdelight. There was the well-known figure, rapidly approachingher! Anne was true to their friendship--Anne had kept herengagement at last!

Blanche hurried out, and drew her into the library in triumph."This makes amends, love for every thing! You answer my letter inthe best of all ways--you bring me your own dear self."

She placed Anne in a chair, and, lifting her veil, saw herplainly in the brilliant mid-day light.

The change in the whole woman was nothing less than dreadful tothe loving eyes that rested on her. She looked years older thanher real age. There was a dull calm in her face, a stagnant,stupefied submission to any thing, pitiable to see. Three daysand nights of solitude and grief, three days and nights ofunresting and unpartaken suspense, had crushed that sensitivenature, had frozen that warm heart. The animating spirit wasgone--the mere shell of the woman lived and moved, a mockery ofher former self.

"Oh, Anne! Anne! What _can_ have happened to you? Are youfrightened? There's not the least fear of any body disturbing us.They are all at luncheon, and the servants are at dinner. We havethe room entirely to ourselves. My darling! you look so faint andstrange! Let me get you something."

Anne drew Blanche's head down and kissed her. It was done in adull, slow way--without a word, without a tear, without a sigh.

"You're tired--I'm sure you're tired. Have you walked here? Yousha'n't go back on foot; I'll take care of that!"

Anne roused herself at those words. She spoke for the first time.The tone was lower than was natural to her; sadder than wasnatural to her--but the charm of her voice, the native gentlenessand beauty of it, seemed to have survived the wreck of allbesides.

"I don't go back, Blanche. I have left the inn."

"Left the inn? With your husband?"

She answered the first question--not the second.

"I can't go back," she said. "The inn is no place for me. A curseseems to follow me, Blanche, wherever I go. I am the cause ofquarreling and wretchedness, without meaning it, God knows. Theold man who is head-waiter at the inn has been kind to me, mydear, in his way, and he and the landlady had hard words togetherabout it. A quarrel, a shocking, violent quarrel. He has lost hisplace in consequence. The woman, his mistress, lays all the blameof it to my door. She is a hard woman; and she has been harderthan ever since Bishopriggs went away. I have missed a letter atthe inn--I must have thrown it aside, I suppose, and forgottenit. I only know that I remembered about it, and couldn't find itlast night. I told the landlady, and she fastened a quarrel on mealmost before the words were out of my mouth. Asked me if Icharged her with stealing my letter. Said things to me--I can'trepeat them. I am not very well, and not able to deal with peopleof that sort. I thought it best to leave Craig Fernie thismorning. I hope and pray I shall never see Craig Fernie again."

She told her little story with a total absence of emotion of anysort, and laid her head back wearily on the chair when it wasdone.

Blanche's eyes filled with tears at the sight of her.

"I won't tease you with questions, Anne," she said, gently. "Comeup stairs and rest in my room. You're not fit to travel, love.I'll take care that nobody comes near us."

The stable-clock at Windygates struck the quarter to two. Anneraised herself in the chair with a start.

"What time was that?" she asked.

Blanche told her.

"I can't stay," she said. "I have come here to find something outif I can. You won't ask me questions? Don't, Blanche, don't! forthe sake of old times."

Blanche turned aside, heart-sick. "I will do nothing, dear, toannoy you," she said, and took Anne's hand, and hid the tearsthat were beginning to fall over her cheeks.

"I want to know something, Blanche. Will you tell me?"

"Yes. What is it?"

"Who are the gentlemen staying in the house?"

Blanche looked round at her again, in sudden astonishment andalarm. A vague fear seized her that Anne's mind had given wayunder the heavy weight of trouble laid on it. Anne persisted inpressing her strange request.

"Run over their names, Blanche. I have a reason for wishing toknow who the gentlemen are who are staying in the house."

Blanche repeated the names of Lady Lundie's guests, leaving tothe last the guests who had arrived last.

"Two more came back this morning," she went on. "ArnoldBrinkworth and that hateful friend of his, Mr. Delamayn."

Anne's head sank back once more on the chair. She had found herway without exciting suspicion of the truth, to the one discoverywhich she had come to Windygates to make. He was in Scotlandagain, and he had only arrived from London that morning. Therewas barely time for him to have communicated with Craig Ferniebefore she left the inn--he, too, who hated letter-writing! Thecircumstances were all in his favor: there was no reason, therewas really and truly no reason, so far, to believe that he haddeserted her. The heart of the unhappy woman bounded in herbosom, under the first ray of hope that had warmed it for fourdays past. Under that sudden revulsion of feeling, her weakenedframe shook from head to foot. Her face flushed deep for amoment--then turned deadly pale again. Blanche, anxiouslywatching her, saw the serious necessity for giving somerestorative to her instantly.

"I am going to get you some wine--you will faint, Anne, if youdon't take something. I shall be back in a moment; and I canmanage it without any body being the wiser."

She pushed Anne's chair close to the nearest open window--awindow at the upper end of the library--and ran out.

Blanche had barely left the room, by the door that led into the,hall, when Geoffrey entered it by one of the lower windowsopening from the lawn.

With his mind absorbed in the letter that he was about to write,he slowly advanced up the room toward the nearest table. Anne,hearing the sound of footsteps, started, and looked round. Herfailing strength rallied in an instant, under the sudden reliefof seeing him again. She rose and advanced eagerly, with a fainttinge of color in her cheeks. He looked up. The two stood face toface together--alone.

"Geoffrey!"

He looked at her without answering--without advancing a step, onhis side. There was an evil light in his eyes; his silence wasthe brute silence that threatens dumbly. He had made up his mindnever to see her again, and she had entrapped him into aninterview. He had made up his mind to write, and there she stoodforcing him to speak. The sum of her offenses against him was nowcomplete. If there had ever been the faintest hope of her raisingeven a passing pity in his heart, that hope would have beenannihilated now.

She failed to understand the full meaning of his silence. Shemade her excuses, poor soul, for venturing back toWindygates--her excuses to the man whose purpose at that momentwas to throw her helpless on the world.

"Pray forgive me for coming here," she said. "I have done nothingto compromise you, Geoffrey. Nobody but Blanche knows I am atWindygates. And I have contrived to make my inquiri es about youwithout allowing her to suspect our secret." She stopped, andbegan to tremble. She saw something more in his face than she hadread in it at first. "I got your letter," she went on, rallyingher sinking courage. "I don't complain of its being so short: youdon't like letter-writing, I know. But you promised I should hearfrom you again. And I have never heard. And oh, Geoffrey, it wasso lonely at the inn!"

She stopped again, and supported herself by resting her hand onthe table. The faintness was stealing back on her. She tried togo on again. It was useless--she could only look at him now.

"What do you want?" he asked, in the tone of a man who wasputting an unimportant question to a total stranger.

A last gleam of her old energy flickered up in her face, like adying flame.

"I am broken by what I have gone through," she said. "Don'tinsult me by making me remind you of your promise."

"What promise?"'

"For shame, Geoffrey! for shame! Your promise to marry me."

"You claim my promise after what you have done at the inn?"

She steadied herself against the table with one hand, and put theother hand to her head. Her brain was giddy. The effort to thinkwas too much for her. She said to herself, vacantly, "The inn?What did I do at the inn?"

"I have had a lawyer's advice, mind! I know what I am talkingabout."

She appeared not to have heard him. She repeated the words, "Whatdid I do at the inn?" and gave it up in despair. Holding by thetable, she came close to him and laid her hand on his arm.

"Do you refuse to marry me?" she asked.

He saw the vile opportunity, and said the vile words.

"You're married already to Arnold Brinkworth."

Without a cry to warn him, without an effort to save herself, shedropped senseless at his feet; as her mother had dropped at hisfather's feet in the by-gone time.

He disentangled himself from the folds of her dress. "Done!" hesaid, looking down at her as she lay on the floor.

As the word fell from his lips he was startled by a sound in theinner part of the house. One of the library doors had not beencompletely closed. Light footsteps were audible, advancingrapidly across the hall.

He turned and fled, leaving the library, as he had entered it, bythe open window at the lower end of the room.