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Windygates as elsewhere, we were always more or less satisfied

  with ourselves, if we were publicly discovered consulting our

  History--and more or less ashamed of ourselves, if we were

  publicly discovered devouring our Fiction. An architectural

  peculiarity in the original arrangement of the library favored

  the development of this common and curious form of human

  stupidity. While a row of luxurious arm-chairs, in the main

  thoroughfare of the room, invited the reader of solid lit erature

  to reveal himself in the act of cultivating a virtue, a row of

  snug little curtained recesses, opening at intervals out of one

  of the walls, enabled the reader of light literature to conceal

  himself in the act of indulging a vice. For the rest, all the

  minor accessories of this spacious and tranquil place were as

  plentiful and as well chosen as the heart could desire. And solid

  literature and light literature, and great writers and small,

  were all bounteously illuminated alike by a fine broad flow of

  the light of heaven, pouring into the room through windows that

  opened to the floor.

  It was the fourth day from the day of Lady Lundie's garden-party,

  and it wanted an hour or more of the time at which the

  luncheon-bell usually rang.

  The guests at Windygates were most of them in the garden,

  enjoying the morning sunshine, after a prevalent mist and rain

  for some days past. Two gentlemen (exceptions to the general

  rule) were alone in the library. They were the two last gentlemen

  in the would who could possibly be supposed to have any

  legitimate motive for meeting each other in a place of literary

  seclusion. One was Arnold Brinkworth, and the other was Geoffrey

  Delamayn.

  They had arrived together at Windygates that morning. Geoffrey

  had traveled from London with his brother by the train of the

  previous night. Arnold, delayed in getting away at his own time,

  from his own property, by ceremonies incidental to his position

  which were not to be abridged without giving offense to many

  worthy people--had caught the passing train early that morning at

  the station nearest to him, and had returned to Lady Lundie's, as

  he had left Lady Lundie's, in company with his friend.

  After a short preliminary interview with Blanche, Arnold had

  rejoined Geoffrey in the safe retirement of the library, to say

  what was still left to be said between them on the subject of

  Anne. Having completed his report of events at Craig Fernie, he

  was now naturally waiting to hear what Geoffrey had to say on his

  side. To Arnold's astonishment, Geoffrey coolly turned away to

  leave the library without uttering a word.

  Arnold stopped him without ceremony.

  "Not quite so fast, Geoffrey," he said. "I have an interest in

  Miss Silvester's welfare as well as in yours. Now you are back

  again in Scotland, what are you going to do?"

  If Geoffrey had told the truth, he must have stated his position

  much as follows:

  He had necessarily decided on deserting Anne when he had decided

  on joining his brother on the journey back. But he had advanced

  no farther than this. How he was to abandon the woman who had

  trusted him, without seeing his own dastardly conduct dragged

  into the light of day, was more than he yet knew. A vague idea of

  at once pacifying and deluding Anne, by a marriage which should

  be no marriage at all, had crossed his mind on the journey. He

  had asked himself whether a trap of that sort might not be easily

  set in a country notorious for the looseness of its marriage

  laws--if a man only knew how? And he had thought it likely that

  his well-informed brother, who lived in Scotland, might be

  tricked into innocently telling him what he wanted to know. He

  had turned the conversation to the subject of Scotch marriages in

  general by way of trying the experiment. Julius had not studied

  the question; Julius knew nothing about it; and there the

  experiment had come to an end. As the necessary result of the

  check thus encountered, he was now in Scotland with absolutely

  nothing to trust to as a means of effecting his release but the

  chapter of accidents, aided by his own resolution to marry Mrs.

  Glenarm. Such was his position, and such should have been the

  substance of his reply when he was confronted by Arnold's

  question, and plainly asked what he meant to do.

  "The right thing," he answered, unblushingly. "And no mistake

  about it."

  "I'm glad to hear you see your way so plainly," returned Arnold.

  "In your place, I should have been all abroad. I was wondering,

  only the other day, whether you would end, as I should have

  ended, in consulting Sir Patrick."

  Geoffrey eyed him sharply.

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

  that?"

  "_I_ shouldn't have known how to set about marrying her," replied

  Arnold. "And--being in Scotland--I should have applied to Sir

  Patrick (without mentioning names, of course), because he would

  be sure to know all about it."

  "Suppose I don't see my way quite so plainly as you think," said

  Geoffrey. " Would you advise me--"

  "To consult Sir Patrick? Certainly! He has passed his life in the

  practice of the Scotch law. Didn't you know that?"

  "No."

  "Then take my advice--and consult him. You needn't mention names.

  You can say it's the case of a friend."

  The idea was a new one and a good one. Geoffrey looked longingly

  toward the door. Eager to make Sir Patrick his innocent

  accomplice on the spot, he made a second attempt to leave the

  library; and made it for the second time in vain. Arnold had more

  unwelcome inquiries to make, and more advice to give unasked.

  "How have you arranged about meeting Miss Silvester?" he went on.

  "You can't go to the hotel in the character of her husband. I

  have prevented that. Where else are you to meet her? She is all

  alone; she must be weary of waiting, poor thing. Can you manage

  matters so as to see her to-day?"

  After staring hard at Arnold while he was speaking, Geoffrey

  burst out laughing when he had done. A disinterested anxiety for

  the welfare of another person was one of those refinements of

  feeling which a muscular education had not fitted him to

  understand.

  "I say, old boy," he burst out, "you seem to take an

  extraordinary interest in Miss Silvester! You haven't fallen in

  love with her yourself--have you?"

  "Come! come!" said Arnold, seriously. "Neither she nor I deserve

  to be sneered at, in that way. I have made a sacrifice to your

  interests, Geoffrey--and so has she."

  Geoffrey's face became serious again. His secret was in Arnold's

  hands; and his estimate of Arnold's character was founded,

  unconsciously, on his experience of himself. "All right," he

  said, by way of timely apology and concession. "I was only

  joking."

  "As much joking as you please, when you have married her,"

  replied Arnold. "It seems serious enough, to my
mind, till then."

  He stopped--considered--and laid his hand very earnestly on

  Geoffrey's arm. "Mind!" he resumed. "You are not to breathe a

  word to any living soul, of my having been near the inn!"

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

  more?"

  "I am anxious, Geoffrey. I was at Craig Fernie, remember, when

  Blanche came there! She has been telling me all that happened,

  poor darling, in the firm persuasion that I was miles off at the

  time. I swear I couldn't look her in the face! What would she

  think of me, if she knew the truth? Pray be careful! pray be

  careful!"

  Geoffrey's patience began to fail him.

  "We had all this out," he said, "on the way here from the

  station. What's the good of going over the ground again?"

  "You're quite right," said Arnold, good-humoredly. "The fact

  is--I'm out of sorts, this morning. My mind misgives me--I don't

  know why."

  "Mind?" repeated Geoffrey, in high contempt. "It's flesh--that's

  what's the matter with _you._ You're nigh on a stone over your

  right weight. Mind he hanged! A man in healthy training don't

  know that he has got a mind. Take a turn with the dumb-bells, and

  a run up hill with a great-coat on. Sweat it off, Arnold! Sweat

  it off!"

  With that excellent advice, he turned to leave the room for the

  third time. Fate appeared to have determined to keep him

  imprisoned in the library, that morning. On this occasion, it was

  a servant who got in the way--a servant, with a letter and a

  message. "The man waits for answer."

  Geoffrey looked at the letter. It was in his brother's

  handwriting. He had left Julius at the junction about three hours

  since. What could Julius possibly have to say to him now?

  He opened the letter. Julius had to announce that Fortune was

  favoring them already. He had heard news of Mrs. Glenarm, as soon

  as he reached home. She had called on his wife, during his

  absence in London--she had been inv ited to the house--and she

  had promised to accept the invitation early in the week. "Early

  in the week," Julius wrote, "may mean to-morrow. Make your

  apologies to Lady Lundie; and take care not to offend her. Say

  that family reasons, which you hope soon to have the pleasure of

  confiding to her, oblige you to appeal once more to her

  indulgence--and come to-morrow, and help us to receive Mrs.

  Glenarm."

  Even Geoffrey was startled, when he found himself met by a sudden

  necessity for acting on his own decision. Anne knew where his

  brother lived. Suppose Anne (not knowing where else to find him)

  appeared at his brother's house, and claimed him in the presence

  of Mrs. Glenarm? He gave orders to have the messenger kept

  waiting, and said he would send back a written reply.

  "From Craig Fernie?" asked Arnold, pointing to the letter in his

  friend's hand.

  Geoffrey looked up with a frown. He had just opened his lips to

  answer that ill-timed reference to Anne, in no very friendly

  terms, when a voice, calling to Arnold from the lawn outside,

  announced the appearance of a third person in the library, and

  warned the two gentlemen that their private interview was at an

  end.

  CHAPTER THE EIGHTEENTH.

  NEARER STILL.

  BLANCHE stepped lightly into the room, through one of the open

  French 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's

  presence in the room with a look of very thinly-concealed

  annoyance at the discovery. "Wait till I am married!" she

  thought. "Mr. Delamayn will be cleverer than I take him to be, if

  he gets much of his friend's company _then!_"

  "A trifle too hot--eh?" said Geoffrey, seeing her eyes fixed on

  him, and supposing that he was expected to say something.

  Having performed that duty he walked away without waiting for a

  reply; and seated himself with his letter, at one of the

  writing-tables in the library.

  "Sir Patrick is quite right about the young men of the present

  day," said Blanche, turning to Arnold. "Here is this one asks me

  a question, and doesn't wait for an answer. There are three more

  of them, out in the garden, who have been talking of nothing, for

  the last hour, but the pedigrees of horses and the muscles of

  men. When we are married, Arnold, don't present any of your male

  friends to me, unless they have turned fifty. What shall we do

  till luncheon-time? It's cool and quiet in here among the books.

  I want a mild excitement--and I have got absolutely nothing to

  do. Suppose you read me some poetry?"

  "While _he_ is here?" asked Arnold, pointing to the personified

  antithesis of poetry--otherwise to Geoffrey, seated with his back

  to them at the farther end of the library.

  "Pooh!" said Blanche. "There's only an animal in the room. We

  needn't mind _him!_"

  "I say!" exclaimed Arnold. "You're as bitter, this morning, as

  Sir Patrick himself. What will you say to Me when we are married

  if you talk in that way of my friend?"

  Blanche stole her hand into Arnold's hand and gave it a little

  significant squeeze. "I shall always be nice to _you,_" she

  whispered--with a look that contained a host of pretty promises

  in itself. Arnold returned the look (Geoffrey was unquestionably

  in the way!). Their eyes met tenderly (why couldn't the great

  awkward brute write his letters somewhere else?). With a faint

  little sigh, Blanche dropped resignedly into one of the

  comfortable arm-chairs--and asked once more for "some poetry," in

  a voice that faltered softly, and with a color that was brighter

  than usual.

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

  "Any body's," said Blanche. "This is another of my impulses. I am

  dying for some poetry. I don't know whose poetry. And I don't

  know why."

  Arnold went straight to the nearest book-shelf, and took down the

  first volume that his hand lighted on--a solid quarto, bound in

  sober brown.

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

  Arnold opened the volume, and conscientiously read the title

  exactly 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 person

  ought 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 sit

  where I can look at you. My attention wanders if I don't look at

  people while they read."

  Arnold took a stool at Blanche's feet, and opened the "First

  Book" of Paradise Lost. His "system" as a reader of blank verse

  was simplicity itself. In poetry we are some of us (as many

  living poets can testify) all
for sound; and some of us (as few

  living poets can testify) all for sense. Arnold was for sound. He

  ended every line inexorably with a full stop; and he got on to

  his full stop as fast as the inevitable impediment of the words

  would 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 had

  Milton all this time in the library and never to have read him

  yet! We will have Mornings with Milton, Arnold. He seems long;

  but we are both young, and we _may_ live to get to the end of

  him. Do you know dear, now I look at you again, you don't seem to

  have 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 more

  uneasy about Anne. You will understand that, I am sure, after

  what 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 renewed

  reproach to him for his conduct at the inn. He attempted to

  silence her by pointing to Geoffrey.

  "Don't forget," he whispered, "that there is somebody in the room

  besides ourselves."

  Blanche shrugged her shoulders contemptuously.

  "What does _he_ matter?" she asked. "What does _he_ know or care

  about Anne?"

  There was only one other chance of diverting her from the

  delicate subject. Arnold went on reading headlong, two lines in

  advance of the place at which he had left off, with more sound

  and 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 my

  throat in that way. Besides I had something to say. Did I tell

  you that I consulted my uncle about Anne? I don't think I did. I

  caught him alone in this very room. I told him all I have told

  you. 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 would

  say what he thought. When he did speak, he told me I might quite

  possibly be right in suspecting Anne's husband to be a very

  abominable person. His keeping himself out of my way was (just as

  I thought) a suspicious circumstance, to begin with. And then

  there was the sudden extinguishing of the candles, when I first

  went in. I thought (and Mrs. Inchbare thought) it was done by the

  wind. Sir Patrick suspects it was done by the horrid man himself,

  to prevent me from seeing him when I entered the room. I am

  firmly persuaded Sir Patrick is right. What do _you_ think?"

  "I think we had better go on," said Arnold, with his head down

  over his book. "We seem to be forgetting Milton."

  "How you do worry about Milton! That last bit wasn't as

  interesting 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 of

  going 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 read

  that before," said Blanche.

  "I think not."

  "I'm sure you did. When you said 'Sion hill' I recollect I

  thought of the Methodists directly. I couldn't have thought of

  the Methodists, if you hadn't said 'Sion hill.' It stands to