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

The lawyers had kept their word. The settlements had beenforwarded, and had been signed two days since.

With the exception of the surgeon and one of the three younggentlemen from the University, who had engagements elsewhere, thevisitors at Windygates had emigrated southward to be present atthe marriage. Besides these gentlemen, there were some ladiesamong the guests invited by Sir Patrick--all of them familyconnections, and three of them appointed to the position ofBlanche's bridesmaids. Add one or two neighbors to be invited tothe breakfast--and the wedding-party would be complete.

There was nothing architecturally remarkable about Sir Patrick'shouse. Ham Farm possessed neither the splendor of Windygates northe picturesque antiquarian attraction of Swanhaven. It was aperfectly commonplace English country seat, surrounded byperfectly commonplace English scenery. Snug monotony welcomed youwhen you went in, and snug monotony met you again when you turnedto the window and looked out.

The animation and variety wanting at Ham Farm were far from beingsupplied by the company in the house. It was remembered, at anafter-period, that a duller wedding-party had never beenassembled together.

Sir Patrick, having no early associations with the place, openlyadmitted that his residence in Kent preyed on his spirits, andthat he would have infinitely preferred a room at the inn in thevillage. The effort to sustain his customary vivacity was notencouraged by persons and circumstances about him. Lady Lundie'sfidelity to the memory of the late Sir Thomas, on the scene ofhis last illness and death, persisted in asserting itself, underan ostentation of concealment which tried even the trained temperof Sir Patrick himself. Blanche, still depressed by her privateanxieties about Anne, was in no condition of mind to look gaylyat the last memorable days of her maiden life. Arnold,sacrificed--by express stipulation on the part of Lady Lundie--tothe prurient delicacy which forbids the bridegroom, beforemarriage, to sleep in the same house with the bride, foundhimself ruthlessly shut out from Sir Patrick's hospitality, andexiled every night to a bedroom at the inn. He accepted hissolitary doom with a resignation which extended its soberinginfluence to his customary flow of spirits. As for the ladies,the elder among them existed in a state of chronic protestagainst Lady Lundie, and the younger were absorbed in theessentially serious occupation of considering and comparing theirwedding-dresses. The two young gentlemen from the Universityperformed prodigies of yawning, in the intervals of prodigies ofbilliard playing. Smith said, in despair, "There's no makingthings pleasant in this house, Jones." And Jones sighed, andmildly agreed with him.

On the Sunday evening--which was the evening before themarriage--the dullness, as a matter of course, reached itsclimax.

But two of the occupations in which people may indulge on weekdays are regarded as harmless on Sunday by the obstinatelyanti-Christian tone of feeling which prevails in this matteramong the Anglo-Saxon race. It is not sinful to wrangle inreligious controversy; and it is not sinful to slumber over areligious book. The ladies at Ham Farm practiced the piousobservance of the evening on this plan. The seniors of the sexwrangled in Sunday controversy; and the juniors of the sexslumbered over Sunday books. As for the men, it is unnecessary tosay that the young ones smoked when they were not yawning, andyawned when they were not smoking. Sir Patrick staid in thelibrary, sorting old letters and examining old accounts. Everyperson in the house felt the oppression of the senseless socialprohibitions which they had imposed on themselves. And yet everyperson in the house would have been scandalized if the plainquestion had been put: You know this is a tyranny of your ownmaking, you know you don't really believe in it, you know youdon't really like it--why do you submit? The freest people on thecivilized earth are the only people on the civilized earth whodare not face that question.

The evening dragged its slow length on; the welcome time drewnearer and nearer for oblivion in bed. Arnold was silentlycontemplating, for the last time, his customary prospects ofbanishment to the inn, when he became aware that Sir Patrick wasmaking signs to him. He rose and followed his host into the emptydining-room. Sir Patrick carefully closed the door. What did itmean?

It meant--so far as Arnold was concerned--that a privateconversation was about to diversify the monotony of the longSunday evening at Ham Farm.

"I have a word to say to you, Arnold," the old gentleman began,"before you become a married man. Do you remember theconversation at dinner yesterday, about the dancing-party atSwanhaven Lodge?"

"Yes."

"Do you remember what Lady Lundie said while the topic was on thetable?"

"She told me, what I can't believe, that Geoffrey Delamayn wasgoing to be married to Mrs. Glenarm."

"Exactly! I observed that you appeared to be startled by what mysister-in-law had said; and when you declared that appearancesmust certainly have misled her, you looked and spoke (to my mind)like a man animated by a strong feeling of indignation. Was Iwrong in drawing that conclusion?"

"No, Sir Patrick. You were right."

"Have you any objection to tell me why you felt indignant?"

Arnold hesitated.

"You are probably at a loss to know what interest _I_ can feel inthe matter?"

Arnold admitted it with his customary frankness.

"In that case," rejoined Sir Patrick, "I had better go on at oncewith the matter in hand--leaving you to see for yourself theconnection between what I am about to say, and the question thatI have just put. When I have done, you shall then reply to me ornot, exactly as you think right. My dear boy, the subject onwhich I want to speak to you is--Miss Silvester."

Arnold started. Sir Patrick looked at him with a moment'sattention, and went on:

"My niece has her faults of temper and her failings of judgment,"he said. "But she has one atoning quality (among many others)which ought to make--and which I believe will make--the happinessof your married life. In the popular phrase, Blanche is as trueas steel. Once her friend, always her friend. Do you see what Iam coming to? She has said nothing about it, Arnold; but she hasnot yielded one inch in her resolution to reunite herself to MissSilvester. One of the first questions you will have to determine,after to-morrow, will be the question of whether you do, or not,sanction your wife in attempting to communicate with her lostfriend."

Arnold answered without the slightest reserve

"I am heartily sorry for Blanche's lost friend, Sir Patrick. Mywife will have my full approval if she tries to bring MissSilvester back--and my best help too, if I can give it."

Those words were earnestly spoken. It was plain that they camefrom his heart.

"I think you are wrong," said Sir Patrick. "I, too, am sorry forMiss Silvester. But I am convinced that she has not left Blanchewithout a serious reason for it. And I believe you will beencouraging your wife in a hopeless effort, if you encourage herto persist in the search for her lost friend. However, it is youraffair, and not mine. Do you wish me to offer you any facilitiesfor tracing Miss Silvester which I may happen to possess?"

"If you _can_ help us over any obstacles at starting, SirPatrick, it will be a kindness to Blanche, and a kindness to me."

"Very good. I suppose you remember what I said to you, onemorning, when we were talking of Miss Silvester at Windygates?"

"You said you had determined to let her go her own way."

"Quite right! On the evening of the day when I said that Ireceived information that Miss Silvester had been traced toGlasgow. You won't require me to explain why I never mentionedthis to you or to Blanche. In mentioning it now, I communicate toyou the only positive information, on the subject of the missingwoman, which I possess. There are two other chances of findingher (of a more speculative kind) which can only be tested byinducing two men (both equally difficult to deal with) to confesswhat they know. One of those two men is--a person namedBishopriggs, formerly waiter at the Craig Fernie inn."

Arnold started, and changed color. Sir Patrick (silently noticinghim) stated the circumstances relating to Anne's lost letter, andto the conclusion in his own mind which pointed to Bishopriggs asthe person in possession of it.

"I have to add," he proceeded, "that Blanche, unfortunately,found an opportunity of speaking to Bishopriggs at Swanhaven.When she and Lady Lundie joined us at Edinburgh she showed meprivately a card which had been given to her by Bishopriggs. Hehad described it as the address at which he might be heardof--and Blanche entreated me, before we started for London, toput the reference to the test. I told her that she had committeda serious mistake in attempting to deal with Bishopriggs on herown responsibility; and I warned her of the result in which I wasfirmly persuaded the inquiry would end. She declined to believethat Bishopriggs had deceived her. I saw that she would take thematter into her own hands again unless I interfered; and I wentto the place. Exactly as I had anticipated, the person to whomthe card referred me had not heard of Bishopriggs for years, andknew nothing whatever about his present movements. Blanche hadsimply put him on his guard, and shown him the propriety ofkeeping out of the way. If you should ever meet with him in thefuture--say nothing to your wife, and communicate with me. Idecline to assist you in searching for Miss Silvester; but I haveno objection to assist in recovering a stolen letter from athief. So much for Bishopriggs.--Now as to the other man."

"Who is he?"

"Your friend, Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn."

Arnold sprang to his feet in ungovernable surprise.

"I appear to astonish you," remarked Sir Patrick.

Arnold sat down again, and waited, in speechless suspense, tohear what was coming next.

"I have reason to know," said Sir Patrick, "that Mr. Delamayn isthoroughly well acquainted with the nature of Miss Silvester'spresent troubles. What his actual connection is with them, andhow he came into possession of his information, I have not foundout. My discovery begins and ends with the simple fact that hehas the information."

"May I ask one question, Sir Patrick?"

"What is it?"

"How did you find out about Geoffrey Delamayn?"

"It would occupy a long time," answered Sir Patrick, "to tell youhow--and it is not at all necessary to our purpose that youshould know. My present obligation merely binds me to tellyou--in strict confidence, mind!--that Miss Silvester's secretsare no secrets to Mr. Delamayn. I leave to your discretion theuse you may make of that information. You are now entirely on apar with me in relation to your knowledge of the case of MissSilvester. Let us return to the question which I asked you whenwe first came into the room. Do you see the connection, now,between that question, and what I have said since?"

Arnold was slow to see the connection. His mind was running onSir Patrick's discovery. Little dreaming that he was indebted toMrs. Inchb are's incomplete description of him for his own escapefrom detection, he was wondering how it had happened that _he_had remained unsuspected, while Geoffrey's position had been (inpart at least) revealed to view.

"I asked you," resumed Sir Patrick, attempting to help him, "whythe mere report that your friend was likely to marry Mrs. Glenarmroused your indignation, and you hesitated at giving an answer.Do you hesitate still?"

"It's not easy to give an answer, Sir Patrick."

"Let us put it in another way. I assume that your view of thereport takes its rise in some knowledge, on your part, of Mr.Delamayn's private affairs, which the rest of us don'tpossess.--Is that conclusion correct?"

"Quite correct."

"Is what you know about Mr. Delamayn connected with any thingthat you know about Miss Silvester?"

If Arnold had felt himself at liberty to answer that question,Sir Patrick's suspicions would have been aroused, and SirPatrick's resolution would have forced a full disclosure from himbefore he left the house.

It was getting on to midnight. The first hour of the wedding-daywas at hand, as the Truth made its final effort to struggle intolight. The dark Phantoms of Trouble and Terror to come werewaiting near them both at that moment. Arnold hesitatedagain--hesitated painfully. Sir Patrick paused for his answer.The clock in the hall struck the quarter to twelve.

"I can't tell you!" said Arnold.

"Is it a secret?"

"Yes."

"Committed to your honor?"

"Doubly committed to my honor."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that Geoffrey and I have quarreled since he took me intohis confidence. I am doubly bound to respect his confidence afterthat."

"Is the cause of your quarrel a secret also?"

"Yes."

Sir Patrick looked Arnold steadily in the face.

"I have felt an inveterate distrust of Mr. Delamayn from thefirst," he said. "Answer me this. Have you any reason tothink--since we first talked about your friend in thesummer-house at Windygates--that my opinion of him might havebeen the right one after all?"

"He has bitterly disappointed me," answered Arnold. "I can say nomore."

"You have had very little experience of the world," proceeded SirPatrick. "And you have just acknowledged that you have had reasonto distrust your experience of your friend. Are you quite surethat you are acting wisely in keeping his secret from _me?_ Areyou quite sure that you will not repent the course you are takingto-night?" He laid a marked emphasis on those last words. "Think,Arnold," he added, kindly. "Think before you answer."

"I feel bound in honor to keep his secret," said Arnold. "Nothinking can alter that."

Sir Patrick rose, and brought the interview to an end.

"There is nothing more to be said." With those words he gaveArnold his hand, and, pressing it cordially, wished himgood-night.

Going out into the hall, Arnold found Blanche alone, looking atthe barometer.

"The glass is at Set Fair, my darling," he whispered. "Good-nightfor the last time!"

He took her in his arms, and kissed her. At the moment when hereleased her Blanche slipped a little note into his hand.

"Read it," she whispered, "when you are alone at the inn."

So they parted on the eve of their wedding day.