JULIUS DELAMAYN was alone, idly sauntering to and fro, with hisviolin in his hand, on the terrace at Swanhaven Lodge.

The first mellow light of evening was in the sky. It was theclose of the day on which Anne Silvester had left Perth.

Some hours earlier, Julius had sacrificed himself to the dutiesof his political position--as made for him by his father. He hadsubmitted to the dire necessity of delivering an oration to theelectors, at a public meeting in the neighboring town ofKirkandrew. A detestable atmosphere to breathe; a disorderlyaudience to address; insolent opposition to conciliate; imbecileinquiries to answer; brutish interruptions to endure; greedypetitioners to pacify; and dirty hands to shake: these are thestages by which the aspiring English gentleman is compelled totravel on the journey which leads him from the modest obscurityof private life to the glorious publicity of the House ofCommons. Julius paid the preliminary penalties of a politicalfirst appearance, as exacted by free institutions, with thenecessary patience; and returned to the welcome shelter of home,more indifferent, if possible, to the attractions ofParliamentary distinction than when he set out. The discord ofthe roaring "people" (still echoing in his ears) had sharpenedhis customary sensibility to the poetry of sound, as composed byMozart, and as interpreted by piano and violin. Possessinghimself of his beloved instrument, he had gone out on the terraceto cool himself in the evening air, pending the arrival of theservant whom he had summoned by the music-room bell. The manappeared at the glass door which led into the room; and reported,in answer to his master's inquiry, that Mrs. Julius Delamayn wasout paying visits, and was not expected to return for anotherhour at least.

Julius groaned in spirit. The finest music which Mozart haswritten for the violin associates that instrument with the piano.Without the wife to help him, the husband was mute. After aninstant's consideration, Julius hit on an idea which promised, insome degree, to remedy the disaster of Mrs. Delamayn's absencefrom home.

"Has Mrs. Glenarm gone out, too?" he asked.

"No, Sir."

"My compliments. If Mrs. Glenarm has nothing else to do, will shebe so kind as to come to me in the music-room?"

The servant went away with his message. Julius seated himself onone of the terrace-benches, and began to tune his violin.

Mrs. Glenarm--rightly reported by Bishopriggs as having privatelytaken refuge from her anonymous correspondent at SwanhavenLodge--was, musically speaking, far from being an efficientsubstitute for Mrs. Delamayn. Julius possessed, in his wife, oneof the few players on the piano-forte under whose subtle touchthat shallow and soulless instrument becomes inspired withexpression not its own, and produces music instead of noise. Thefine organization which can work this miracle had not beenbestowed on Mrs. Glenarm. She had been carefully taught; and shewas to be trusted to play correctly--and that was all. Julius,hungry for music, and reigned to circumstances, asked for nomore.

The servant returned with his answer. Mrs. Glenarm would join Mr.Delamayn in the music-room in ten minutes' time.

Julius rose, relieved, and resumed his sauntering walk; nowplaying little snatches of music, now stopping to look at theflowers on the terrace, with an eye that enjoyed their beauty,and a hand that fondled them with caressing touch. If ImperialParliament had seen him at that moment, Imperial Parliament musthave given notice of a question to his illustrious father: Is itpossible, my lord, that _ you_ can have begotten such a Member asthis?

After stopping for a moment to tighten one of the strings of hisviolin, Julius, raising his head from the instrument, wassurprised to see a lady approaching him on the terrace. Advancingto meet her, and perceiving that she was a total stranger to him,he assumed that she was, in all probability, a visitor to hiswife.

"Have I the honor of speaking to a friend of Mrs. Delamayn's?" heasked. "My wife is not at home, I am sorry to say."

"I am a stranger to Mrs. Delamayn," the lady answered. "Theservant informed me that she had gone out; and that I should findMr. Delamayn here."

Julius bowed--and waited to hear more.

"I must beg you to forgive my intrusion," the stranger went on."My object is to ask permission to see a lady who is, I have beeninformed, a guest in your house."

The extraordinary formality of the request rather puzzled Julius.

"Do you mean Mrs. Glenarm?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Pray don't think any permission necessary. A friend of Mrs.Glenarm's may take her welcome for granted in this house."

"I am not a friend of Mrs. Glenarm. I am a total stranger toher."

This made the ceremonious request preferred by the lady a littlemore intelligible--but it left the lady's object in wishing tospeak to Mrs. Glenarm still in the dark. Julius politely waited,until it pleased her to proceed further, and explain herself Theexplanation did not appear to be an easy one to give. Her eyesdropped to the ground. She hesitated painfully.

"My name--if I mention it," she resumed, without looking up, "maypossibly inform you--" She paused. Her color came and went. Shehesitated again; struggled with her agitation, and controlled it."I am Anne Silvester," she said, suddenly raising her pale face,and suddenly steadying her trembling voice.

Julius started, and looked at her in silent surprise.

The name was doubly known to him. Not long since, he had heard itfrom his father's lips, at his father's bedside. Lord Holchesterhad charged him, had earnestly charged him, to bear that name inmind, and to help the woman who bore it, if the woman everapplied to him in time to come. Again, he had heard the name,more lately, associated scandalously with the name of hisbrother. On the receipt of the first of the anonymous letterssent to her, Mrs. Glenarm had not only summoned Geoffrey himselfto refute the aspersion cast upon him, but had forwarded aprivate copy of the letter to his relatives at Swanhaven.Geoffrey's defense had not entirely satisfied Julius that hisbrother was free from blame. As he now looked at Anne Silvester,the doubt returned upon him strengthened--almost confirmed. Wasthis woman--so modest, so gentle, so simply and unaffectedlyrefined--the shameless adventuress denounced by Geoffrey, asclaiming him on the strength of a foolish flirtation; knowingherself, at the time, to be privately married to another man? Wasthis woman--with the voice of a lady, the look of a lady, themanner of a lady--in league (as Geoffrey had declared) with theilliterate vagabond who was attempting to extort moneyanonymously from Mrs. Glenarm? Impossible! Making every allowancefor the proverbial deceitfulness of appearances, impossible!

"Your name has been mentioned to me," said Julius, answering herafter a momentary pause. His instincts, as a gentleman, made himshrink from referring to the association of her name with thename of his brother. "My father mentioned you," he added,considerately explaining his knowledge of her in _that_ way,"when I last saw him in London."

"Your father!" She came a step nearer, with a look of distrust aswell as a look of astonishment in her face. "Your father is LordHolchester--is he not?"

"Yes."

"What made him speak of _me?_"

"He was ill at the time," Julius answered. "And he had beenthinking of events in his past life with which I am entirelyunacquainted. He said he had known your father and mother. Hedesired me, if you were ever in want of any assistance, to placemy services at your disposal. When he expressed that wish, hespoke very earnestly--he gave me the impression that there was afeeling of regret associated with the recollections on which hehad been dwelling."

Slowly, and in silence, Anne drew back to the low wall of theterrace close by. She rested one hand on it to support herself.Julius had said words of terrible import without a suspicion ofwhat he had done. Never until now had Anne Silvester known thatthe man who had betrayed her was the son of that other man whosediscovery of the flaw in the marriage had ended in the betrayalof her mother before her. She felt the shock of the revelationwith a chill of superstitious dread. Was the chain of a fatalitywound invisibly round her? Turn which way she might was she stillgoing darkly on, in the track of her dead mother, to an appointedand hereditary doom? Present things passed from her view as theawful doubt cast its shadow over her mind. She lived again for amoment in the time when she was a child. She saw the face of hermother once more, with the wan despair on it of the bygone dayswhen the title of wife was denied her, and the social prospectwas closed forever.

Julius approached, and roused her.

"Can I get you any thing?" he asked. "You are looking very ill. Ihope I have said nothing to distress you?"

The question failed to attract her attention. She put a questionherself instead of answering it.

"Did you say you were quite ignorant of what your father wasthinking of when he spoke to you about me?"

"Quite ignorant."

"Is your brother likely to know more about it than you do?"

"Certainly not."

She paused, absorbed once more in her own thoughts. Startled, onthe memorable day when they had first met, by Geoffrey's familyname, she had put the question to him whether there had not beensome acquaintance between their parents in the past time.Deceiving her in all else, he had not deceived in this. He hadspoken in good faith, when he had declared that he had neverheard her father or her mother mentioned at home.

The curiosity of Julius was aroused. He attempted to lead her oninto saying more.

"You appear to know what my father was thinking of when he spoketo me," he resumed. "May I ask--"

She interrupted him with a gesture of entreaty.

"Pray don't ask! It's past and over--it can have no interest foryou--it has nothing to do with my errand here. I must return,"she went on, hurriedly, "to my object in trespassing on yourkindness. Have you heard me mentioned, Mr. Delamayn, by anothermember of your family besides your father?"

Julius had not anticipated that sh e would approach, of her ownaccord, the painful subject on which he had himself forborne totouch. He was a little disappointed. He had expected moredelicacy of feeling from her than she had shown.

"Is it necessary," he asked, coldly, "to enter on that?"

The blood rose again in Anne's cheeks.

"If it had not been necessary," she answered, "do you think Icould have forced myself to mention it to _you?_ Let me remindyou that I am here on sufferance. If I don't speak plainly (nomatter at what sacrifice to my own feelings), I make my situationmore embarrassing than it is already. I have something to tellMrs. Glenarm relating to the anonymous letters which she haslately received. And I have a word to say to her, next, about hercontemplated marriage. Before you allow me to do this, you oughtto know who I am. (I have owned it.) You ought to have heard theworst that can be said of my conduct. (Your face tells me youhave heard the worst.) After the forbearance you have shown tome, as a perfect stranger, I will not commit the meanness oftaking you by surprise. Perhaps, Mr. Delamayn, you understand,_now,_ why I felt myself obliged to refer to your brother. Willyou trust me with permission to speak to Mrs. Glenarm?"

It was simply and modestly said--with an unaffected and touchingresignation of look and manner. Julius gave her back the respectand the sympathy which, for a moment, he had unjustly withheldfrom her.

"You have placed a confidence in me," he said "which most personsin your situation would have withheld. I feel bound, in return toplace confidence in you. I will take it for granted that yourmotive in this matter is one which it is my duty to respect. Itwill be for Mrs. Glenarm to say whether she wishes the interviewto take place or not. All that I can do is to leave you free topropose it to her. You _are_ free."

As he spoke the sound of the piano reached them from themusic-room. Julius pointed to the glass door which opened on tothe terrace.

"You have only to go in by that door," he said, "and you willfind Mrs. Glenarm alone."

Anne bowed, and left him. Arrived at the short flight of stepswhich led up to the door, she paused to collect her thoughtsbefore she went in.

A sudden reluctance to go on and enter the room took possessionof her, as she waited with her foot on the lower step. The reportof Mrs. Glenarm's contemplated marriage had produced no sucheffect on her as Sir Patrick had supposed: it had found no lovefor Geoffrey left to wound, no latent jealousy only waiting to beinflamed. Her object in taking the journey to Perth was completedwhen her correspondence with Geoffrey was in her own hands again.The change of purpose which had brought her to Swanhaven was dueentirely to the new view of her position toward Mrs. Glenarmwhich the coarse commonsense of Bishopriggs had first suggestedto her. If she failed to protest against Mrs. Glenarm's marriage,in the interests of the reparation which Geoffrey owed to her,her conduct would only confirm Geoffrey's audacious assertionthat she was a married woman already. For her own sake she mightstill have hesitated to move in the matter. But Blanche'sinterests were concerned as well as her own; and, for Blanche'ssake, she had resolved on making the journey to Swanhaven Lodge.

At the same time, feeling toward Geoffrey as she feltnow--conscious as she was of not really desiring the reparationon which she was about to insist--it was essential to thepreservation of her own self-respect that she should have somepurpose in view which could justify her to her own conscience inassuming the character of Mrs. Glenarm's rival.

She had only to call to mind the critical situation ofBlanche--and to see her purpose before her plainly. Assuming thatshe could open the coming interview by peaceably proving that herclaim on Geoffrey was beyond dispute, she might then, withoutfear of misconception, take the tone of a friend instead of anenemy, and might, with the best grace, assure Mrs. Glenarm thatshe had no rivalry to dread, on the one easy condition that sheengaged to make Geoffrey repair the evil that he had done. "Marryhim without a word against it to dread from _me_--so long as heunsays the words and undoes the deeds which have thrown a doubton the marriage of Arnold and Blanche." If she could but bringthe interview to this end--there was the way found of extricatingArnold, by her own exertions, from the false position in whichshe had innocently placed him toward his wife! Such was theobject before her, as she now stood on the brink of her interviewwith Mrs. Glenarm.

Up to this moment, she had firmly believed in her capacity torealize her own visionary project. It was only when she had herfoot on the step that a doubt of the success of the comingexperiment crossed her mind. For the first time, she saw the weakpoint in her own reasoning. For the first time, she felt how muchshe had blindly taken for granted, in assuming that Mrs. Glenarmwould have sufficient sense of justice and sufficient command oftemper to hear her patiently. All her hopes of success rested onher own favorable estimate of a woman who was a total stranger toher! What if the first words exchanged between them proved theestimate to be wrong?

It was too late to pause and reconsider the position. JuliusDelamayn had noticed her hesitation, and was advancing toward herfrom the end of the terrace. There was no help for it but tomaster her own irresolution, and to run the risk boldly. "Comewhat may, I have gone too far to stop _here._" With thatdesperate resolution to animate her, she opened the glass door atthe top of the steps, and went into the room.

Mrs. Glenarm rose from the piano. The two women--one so richly,the other so plainly dressed; one with her beauty in its fullbloom, the other worn and blighted; one with society at her feet,the other an outcast living under the bleak shadow ofreproach--the two women stood face to face, and exchanged thecold courtesies of salute between strangers, in silence.

The first to meet the trivial necessities of the situation wasMrs. Glenarm. She good-humoredly put an end to theembarrassment--which the shy visitor appeared to feel acutely--byspeaking first.

"I am afraid the servants have not told you?" she said. "Mrs.Delamayn has gone out."

"I beg your pardon--I have not called to see Mrs. Delamayn."

Mrs. Glenarm looked a little surprised. She went on, however, asamiably as before.

"Mr. Delamayn, perhaps?" she suggested. "I expect him here everymoment."

Anne explained again. "I have just parted from Mr. Delamayn."Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in astonishment. Anne proceeded. "Ihave come here, if you will excuse the intrusion--"

She hesitated--at a loss how to end the sentence. Mrs. Glenarm,beginning by this time to feel a strong curiosity as to whatmight be coming next, advanced to the rescue once more.

"Pray don't apologize," she said. "I think I understand that youare so good as to have come to see _me._ You look tired. Won'tyou take a chair?"

Anne could stand no longer. She took the offered chair. Mrs.Glenarm resumed her place on the music-stool, and ran her fingersidly over the keys of the piano. "Where did you see Mr.Delamayn?" she went on. "The most irresponsible of men, exceptwhen he has got his fiddle in his hand! Is he coming in soon? Arewe going to have any music? Have you come to play with us? Mr.Delamayn is a perfect fanatic in music, isn't he? Why isn't hehere to introduce us? I suppose you like the classical style,too? Did you know that I was in the music-room? Might I ask yourname?"

Frivolous as they were, Mrs. Glenarm's questions were not withouttheir use. They gave Anne time to summon her resolution, and tofeel the necessity of explaining herself.

"I am speaking, I believe, to Mrs. Glenarm?" she began.

The good-humored widow smiled and bowed graciously.

"I have come here, Mrs. Glenarm--by Mr. Delamayn's permission--toask leave to speak to you on a matter in which you areinterested."

Mrs. Glenarm's many-ringed fingers paused over the keys of thepiano. Mrs. Gle narm's plump face turned on the stranger with adawning expression of surprise.

"Indeed? I am interested in so many matters. May I ask what_this_ matter is?"

The flippant tone of the speaker jarred on Anne. If Mrs.Glenarm's nature was as shallow as it appeared to be on thesurface, there was little hope of any sympathy establishingitself between them.

"I wished to speak to you," she answered, "about something thathappened while you were paying a visit in the neighborhood ofPerth."

The dawning surprise in Mrs. Glenarm's face became intensifiedinto an expression of distrust. Her hearty manner vanished undera veil of conventional civility, drawn over it suddenly. Shelooked at Anne. "Never at the best of times a beauty," shethought. "Wretchedly out of health now. Dressed like a servant,and looking like a lady. What _does_ it mean?"

The last doubt was not to be borne in silence by a person of Mrs.Glenarm's temperament. She addressed herself to the solution ofit with the most unblushing directness--dextrously excused by themost winning frankness of manner.

"Pardon me," she said. "My memory for faces is a bad one; and Idon't think you heard me just now, when I asked for your name.Have we ever met before?"

"Never."

"And yet--if I understand what you are referring to--you wish tospeak to me about something which is only interesting to myselfand my most intimate friends."

"You understand me quite correctly," said Anne. "I wish to speakto you about some anonymous letters--"

"For the third time, will you permit me to ask for your name?"

"You shall hear it directly--if you will first allow me to finishwhat I wanted to say. I wish--if I can--to persuade you that Icome here as a friend, before I mention my name. You will, I amsure, not be very sorry to hear that you need dread no furtherannoyance--"

"Pardon me once more," said Mrs. Glenarm, interposing for thesecond time. "I am at a loss to know to what I am to attributethis kind interest in my affairs on the part of a totalstranger."

This time, her tone was more than politely cold--it was politelyimpertinent. Mrs. Glenarm had lived all her life in good society,and was a perfect mistress of the subtleties of refined insolencein her intercourse with those who incurred her displeasure.

Anne's sensitive nature felt the wound--but Anne's patientcourage submitted. She put away from her the insolence which hadtried to sting, and went on, gently and firmly, as if nothing hadhappened.

"The person who wrote to you anonymously," she said, "alluded toa correspondence. He is no longer in possession of it. Thecorrespondence has passed into hands which may be trusted torespect it. It will be put to no base use in the future--I answerfor that."

"You answer for that?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. She suddenly leanedforward over the piano, and fixed her eyes in unconcealedscrutiny on Anne's face. The violent temper, so often found incombination with the weak nature, began to show itself in herrising color, and her lowering brow. "How do _you_ know what theperson wrote?" she asked. "How do _you_ know that thecorrespondence has passed into other hands? Who are you?" BeforeAnne could answer her, she sprang to her feet, electrified by anew idea. "The man who wrote to me spoke of something elsebesides a correspondence. He spoke of a woman. I have found youout!" she exclaimed, with a burst of jealous fury. "_You_ are thewoman!"

Anne rose on her side, still in firm possession of herself-control.

"Mrs. Glenarm," she said, calmly, "I warn--no, I entreat you--notto take that tone with me. Compose yourself; and I promise tosatisfy you that you are more interested than you are willing tobelieve in what I have still to say. Pray bear with me for alittle longer. I admit that you have guessed right. I own that Iam the miserable woman who has been ruined and deserted byGeoffrey Delamayn."

"It's false!" cried Mrs. Glenarm. "You wretch! Do you come to_me_ with your trumped-up story? What does Julius Delamayn meanby exposing me to this?" Her indignation at finding herself inthe same room with Anne broke its way through, not the restraintsonly, but the common decencies of politeness. "I'll ring for theservants!" she said. "I'll have you turned out of the house."

She tried to cross the fire-place to ring the bell. Anne, who wasstanding nearest to it, stepped forward at the same moment.Without saying a word, she motioned with her hand to the otherwoman to stand back. There was a pause. The two waited, withtheir eyes steadily fixed on one another--each with herresolution laid bare to the other's view. In a moment more, thefiner nature prevailed. Mrs. Glenarm drew back a step in silence.

"Listen to me," said Anne.

"Listen to you?" repeated Mrs. Glenarm. "You have no right to bein this house. You have no right to force yourself in here. Leavethe room!"

Anne's patience--so firmly and admirably preserved thusfar--began to fail her at last.

"Take care, Mrs. Glenarm!" she said, still struggling withherself. "I am not naturally a patient woman. Trouble has donemuch to tame my temper--but endurance has its limits. You havereached the limits of mine. I have a claim to be heard--and afterwhat you have said to me, I _will_ be heard!"

"You have no claim! You shameless woman, you are married already.I know the man's name. Arnold Brinkworth."

"Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?"

"I decline to answer a woman who speaks of Mr. Geoffrey Delamaynin that familiar way."

Anne advanced a step nearer.

"Did Geoffrey Delamayn tell you that?" she repeated.

There was a light in her eyes, there was a ring in her voice,which showed that she was roused at last. Mrs. Glenarm answeredher, this time.

"He did tell me."

"He lied!"

"He did _not!_ He knew. I believe _him._ I don't believe _you._"

"If he told you that I was any thing but a single woman--if hetold you that Arnold Brinkworth was married to any body but MissLundie of Windygates--I say again he lied!"

"I say again--I believe _him,_ and not you."

"You believe I am Arnold Brinkworth's wife?"

"I am certain of it."

"You tell me that to my face?"

"I tell you to your face--you may have been Geoffrey Delamayn'smistress; you are Arnold Brinkworth's wife."

At those words the long restrained anger leaped up in Anne--allthe more hotly for having been hitherto so steadily controlled.In one breathless moment the whirlwind of her indignation sweptaway, not only all remembrance of the purpose which had broughther to Swanhaven, but all sense even of the unpardonable wrongwhich she had suffered at Geoffrey's hands. If he had been there,at that moment, and had offered to redeem his pledge, she wouldhave consented to marry him, while Mrs. Glenarm s eye was onher--no matter whether she destroyed herself in her first coolmoment afterward or not. The small sting had planted itself atlast in the great nature. The noblest woman is only a woman,after all!

"I forbid your marriage to Geoffrey Delamayn! I insist on hisperforming the promise he gave me, to make me his wife! I havegot it here in his own words, in his own writing. On his soul, heswears it to me--he will redeem his pledge. His mistress, did yousay? His wife, Mrs. Glenarm, before the week is out!"

In those wild words she cast back the taunt--with the letter heldin triumph in her hand.

Daunted for the moment by the doubt now literally forced on her,that Anne might really have the claim on Geoffrey which sheadvanced, Mrs. Glenarm answered nevertheless with the obstinacyof a woman brought to bay--with a resolution not to be convincedby conviction itself.

"I won't give him up!" she cried. "Your letter is a forgery. Youhave no proof. I won't, I won't, I won't give him up!" sherepeated, with the impotent iteration of an angry child.

Anne pointed disdainfully to the letter that she held. "Here ishis pledged and written word," she said. "While I live, you willnever be his wife."

"I shall be his wife the day after the race. I am going to him inLondon--to warn him against You!"

"You will find me in London, before you--with this in my hand. Doyou know his writing?"

She held up the letter, open. Mrs. Glenarm's hand flew out withthe stealthy rapidity of a cat's paw, to seize and destroy it.Quick as she was, her rival was quicker still. For an instantthey faced each other breathless--one with the letter held behindher; one with her hand still stretched out.

At the same moment--before a word more had passed betweenthem--the glass door opened; and Julius Delamayn appeared in theroom.

He addressed himself to Anne.

"We decided, on the terrace," he said, quietly, "that you shouldspeak to Mrs. Glenarm, if Mrs. Glenarm wished it. Do you think itdesirable that the interview should be continued any longer?"

Anne's head drooped on her breast. The fiery anger in her wasquenched in an instant.

"I have been cruelly provoked, Mr. Delamayn," she answered. "ButI have no right to plead that." She looked up at him for amoment. The hot tears of shame gathered in her eyes, and fellslowly over her cheeks. She bent her head again, and hid themfrom him. "The only atonement I can make," she said, "is to askyour pardon, and to leave the house."

In silence, she turned away to the door. In silence, JuliusDelamayn paid her the trifling courtesy of opening it for her.She went out.

Mrs. Glenarm's indignation--suspended for the moment--transferreditself to Julius.

"If I have been entrapped into seeing that woman, with yourapproval," she said, haughtily, "I owe it to myself, Mr.Delamayn, to follow her example, and to leave your house."

"I authorized her to ask you for an interview, Mrs. Glenarm. Ifshe has presumed on the permission that I gave her, I sincerelyregret it, and I beg you to accept my apologies. At the sametime, I may venture to add, in defense of my conduct, that Ithought her--and think her still--a woman to be pitied more thanto be blamed."

"To be pitied did you say?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, doubtful whetherher ears had not deceived her.

"To be pitied," repeated Julius.

"_You_ may find it convenient, Mr. Delamayn, to forget what yourbrother has told us about that person. _I_ happen to rememberit."

"So do I, Mrs. Glenarm. But, with my experience of Geoffrey--" Hehesitated, and ran his fingers nervously over the strings of hisviolin.

"You don't believe him?" said Mrs. Glenarm.

Julius declined to admit that he doubted his brother's word, tothe lady who was about to become his brother's wife.

"I don't quite go that length," he said. "I find it difficult toreconcile what Geoffrey has told us, with Miss Silvester's mannerand appearance--"

"Her appearance!" cried Mrs. Glenarm, in a transport ofastonishment and disgust. "_Her_ appearance! Oh, the men! I begyour pardon--I ought to have remembered that there is noaccounting for tastes. Go on--pray go on!"

"Shall we compose ourselves with a little music?" suggestedJulius.

"I particularly request you will go on," answered Mrs. Glenarm,emphatically. "You find it 'impossible to reconcile'--"

"I said 'difficult.' "

"Oh, very well. Difficult to reconcile what Geoffrey told us,with Miss Silvester's manner and appearance. What next? You hadsomething else to say, when I was so rude as to interrupt you.What was it?"

"Only this," said Julius. "I don't find it easy to understand SirPatrick Lundie's conduct in permitting Mr. Brinkworth to commitbigamy with his niece."

"Wait a minute! The marriage of that horrible woman to Mr.Brinkworth was a private marriage. Of course, Sir Patrick knewnothing about it!"

Julius owned that this might be possible, and made a secondattempt to lead the angry lady back to the piano. Useless, oncemore! Though she shrank from confessing it to herself, Mrs.Glenarm's belief in the genuineness of her lover's defense hadbeen shaken. The tone taken by Julius--moderate as itwas--revived the first startling suspicion of the credibility ofGeoffrey's statement which Anne's language and conduct had forcedon Mrs. Glenarm. She dropped into the nearest chair, and put herhandkerchief to her eyes. "You always hated poor Geoffrey," shesaid, with a burst of tears. "And now you're defaming him to me!"

Julius managed her admirably. On the point of answering herseriously, he checked himself. "I always hated poor Geoffrey," herepeated, with a smile. "You ought to be the last person to saythat, Mrs. Glenarm! I brought him all the way from Londonexpressly to introduce him to _you._"

"Then I wish you had left him in London!" retorted Mrs. Glenarm,shifting suddenly from tears to temper. "I was a happy womanbefore I met your brother. I can't give him up!" she burst out,shifting back again from temper to tears. "I don't care if he_has_ deceived me. I won't let another woman have him! I _will_be his wife!" She threw herself theatrically on her knees beforeJulius. "Oh, _do_ help me to find out the truth!" she said. "Oh,Julius, pity me! I am so fond of him!"

There was genuine distress in her face, there was true feeling inher voice. Who would have believed that there were reserves ofmerciless insolence and heartless cruelty in this woman--and thatthey had been lavishly poured out on a fallen sister not fiveminutes since?

"I will do all I can," said Julius, raising her. "Let us talk ofit when you are more composed. Try a little music," he repeated,"just to quiet your nerves."

"Would _you_ like me to play?" asked Mrs. Glenarm, becoming amodel of feminine docility at a moment's notice.

Julius opened the Sonatas of Mozart, and shouldered his violin.

"Let's try the Fifteenth," he said, placing Mrs. Glenarm at thepiano. "We will begin with the Adagio. If ever there was divinemusic written by mortal man, there it is!"

They began. At the third bar Mrs. Glenarm dropped a note--and thebow of Julius paused shuddering on the strings.

"I can't play!" she said. "I am so agitated; I am so anxious. How_am_ I to find out whether that wretch is really married or not?Who can I ask? I can't go to Geoffrey in London--the trainerswon't let me see him. I can't appeal to Mr. Brinkworth himself--Iam not even acquainted with him. Who else is there? Do think, andtell me!"

There was but one chance of making her return to the Adagio--thechance of hitting on a suggestion which would satisfy and quiether. Julius laid his violin on the piano, and considered thequestion before him carefully.

"There are the witnesses," he said. "If Geoffrey's story is to bedepended on, the landlady and the waiter at the inn can speak tothe facts."

"Low people!" objected Mrs. Glenarm. "People I don't know. Peoplewho might take advantage of my situation, and be insolent to me."

Julius considered once more; and made another suggestion. Withthe fatal ingenuity of innocence, he hit on the idea of referringMrs. Glenarm to no less a person than Lady Lundie herself!

"There is our good friend at Windygates," he said. "Some whisperof the matter may have reached Lady Lundie's ears. It may be alittle awkward to call on her (if she _has_ heard any thing) atthe time of a serious family disaster. You are the best judge ofthat, however. All I can do is to throw out the notion.Windygates isn't very far off--and something might come of it.What do you think?"

Something might come of it! Let it be remembered that Lady Lundiehad been left entirely in the dark--that she had written to SirPatrick in a tone which plainly showed that her self-esteem waswounded and her suspicion roused--and that her first intimationof the serious dilemma in which Arnold Brinkworth stood was nowlikely, thanks to Julius Delamayn, to reach her from the lips ofa mere acquaintance. Let this be remembered; and then let theestimate be formed of what might come of it--not at Windygatesonly, but also at Ham Farm!

"What do you think?" asked Julius.

Mrs. Glenarm was enchanted. "The very person to go to!" she said."If I am not let in I can easily write--and explain my object asan apology. Lady Lundie is so right-minded, so sympathetic. Ifshe sees no one else--I have only to confide my anxieties to her,and I am sure she will see me. You will lend me a carriage, won'tyou? I'll go to Windygates to-morrow."

Julius took his violin off the pi ano.

"Don't think me very troublesome," he said coaxingly. "Betweenthis and to-morrow we have nothing to do. And it is _such_ music,if you once get into the swing of it! Would you mind tryingagain?"

Mrs. Glenarm was willing to do any thing to prove her gratitude,after the invaluable hint which she had just received. At thesecond trial the fair pianist's eye and hand were in perfectharmony. The lovely melody which the Adagio of Mozart's FifteenthSonata has given to violin and piano flowed smoothly at last--andJulius Delamayn soared to the seventh heaven of musical delight.

The next day Mrs. Glenarm and Mrs. Delamayn went together toWindygates House.