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of mind, and the happiness of a person very dear to her, were

  concerned alike in the opinion which Mr. Camp might give when he

  had been placed in possession of the facts.

  She then proceeded to state the facts, without mentioning names:

  relating in every particular precisely the same succession of

  events which Geoffrey Delamayn had already related to Sir Patrick

  Lundie--with this one difference, that she acknowledged herself

  to be the woman who was personally concerned in knowing whether,

  by Scottish law, she was now held to be a married woman or not.

  Mr. Camp's opinion given upon this, after certain questions had

  been asked and answered, differed from Sir Patrick's opinion, as

  given at Windygates. He too quoted the language used by the

  eminent judge--Lord Deas--but he drew an inference of his own

  from it. "In Scotland, consent makes marriage," he said; "and

  consent may be proved by inference. I see a plain inference of

  matrimonial consent in the circumstances which you have related

  to me and I say you are a married woman."

  The effect produced on the lady, when sentence was pronounced on

  her in those terms, was so distressing that Mr. Camp sent a

  message up stairs to his wife; and Mrs. Camp appeared in her

  husband's private room, in business hours, for the first time in

  her life. When Mrs. Camp's services had in some degree restored

  the lady to herself, Mr. Camp followed with a word of

  professional comfort. He, like Sir Patrick, acknowledged the

  scandalous divergence of opinions produced by the confusion and

  uncertainty of the marriage-law of Scotland. He, like Sir

  Patrick, declared it to be quite possible that another lawyer

  might arrive at another conclusion. "Go," he said, giving her his

  card, with a line of writing on it, "to my colleague, Mr. Crum;

  and say I sent you."

  The lady gratefully thanked Mr. Camp and his wife, and went next

  to the office of Mr. Crum.

  Mr. Crum was the older lawyer of the two, and the harder lawyer

  of the two; but he, too, felt the influence which the charm that

  there was in this woman exercised, more or less, over every man

  who came in contact with her. He listened with a patience which

  was rare with him: he put his questions with a gentleness which

  was rarer still; and when _he_ was in possession of the

  circumstances---behold, _his_ opinion flatly contradicted the

  opinion of Mr. Camp!

  "No marriage, ma'am," he said, positively. "Evidence in favor of

  perhaps establishing a marriage, if you propose to claim the man.

  But that, as I understand it, is exactly what you don't wish to

  do."

  The relief to the lady, on hearing this, almost overpowered her.

  For some minutes she was unable to speak. Mr. Crum did, what he

  had never done yet in all his experience as a lawyer. He patted a

  client on the shoulder, and, more extraordinary still , he gave a

  client permission to waste his time. "Wait, and compose

  yourself," said Mr. Crum--administering the law of humanity. The

  lady composed herself. "I must ask you some questions, ma'am,"

  said Mr. Crum--administering the law of the land. The lady bowed,

  and waited for him to begin.

  "I know, thus far, that you decline to claim the gentleman," said

  Mr. Cram. "I want to know now whether the gentleman is likely to

  claim _you._"

  The answer to this was given in the most positive terms. The

  gentleman was not even aware of the position in which he stood.

  And, more yet, he was engaged to be married to the dearest friend

  whom the lady had in the world.

  Mr. Crum opened his eyes--considered--and put another question as

  delicately as he could. "Would it be painful to you to tell me

  how the gentleman came to occupy the awkward position in which he

  stands now?"

  The lady acknowledged that it would be indescribably painful to

  her to answer that question.

  Mr. Crum offered a suggestion under the form of an inquiry:

  "Would it be painful to you to reveal the circumstances--in the

  interests of the gentleman's future prospects--to some discreet

  person (a legal person would be best) who is not, what I am, a

  stranger to you both?"

  The lady declared herself willing to make any sacrifice, on those

  conditions--no matter how painful it might be--for her friend's

  sake.

  Mr. Crum considered a little longer, and then delivered his word

  of advice:

  "At the present stage of the affair," he said, "I need only tell

  you what is the first step that you ought to take under the

  circumstances. Inform the gentleman at once--either by word of

  mouth or by writing--of the position in which he stands: and

  authorize him to place the case in the hands of a person known to

  you both, who is competent to decide on what you are to do next.

  Do I understand that you know of such a person so qualified?"

  The lady answered that she knew of such a person.

  Mr. Crum asked if a day had been fixed for the gentleman's

  marriage.

  The lady answered that she had made this inquiry herself on the

  last occasion when she had seen the gentleman's betrothed wife.

  The marriage was to take place, on a day to be hereafter chosen,

  at the end of the autumn.

  "That," said Mr. Crum, "is a fortunate circumstance. You have

  time before you. Time is, here, of very great importance. Be

  careful not to waste it."

  The lady said she would return to her hotel and write by that

  night's post, to warn the gentleman of the position in which he

  stood, and to authorize him to refer the matter to a competent

  and trust-worthy friend known to them both.

  On rising to leave the room she was seized with giddiness, and

  with some sudden pang of pain, which turned her deadly pale and

  forced her to drop back into her chair. Mr. Crum had no wife; but

  he possessed a housekeeper--and he offered to send for her. The

  lady made a sign in the negative. She drank a little water, and

  conquered the pain. "I am sorry to have alarmed you," she said.

  "It's nothing--I am better now." Mr. Crum gave her his arm, and

  put her into the cab. She looked so pale and faint that he

  proposed sending his housekeeper with her. No: it was only five

  minutes' drive to the hotel. The lady thanked him--and went her

  way back by herself.

  "The letter!" she said, when she was alone. "If I can only live

  long enough to write the letter!"

  CHAPTER THE THIRTIETH.

  ANNE IN THE NEWSPAPERS.

  MRS. KARNEGIE was a woman of feeble intelligence and violent

  temper; prompt to take offense, and not, for the most part, easy

  to appease. But Mrs. Karnegie being--as we all are in our various

  degrees--a compound of many opposite qualities, possessed a

  character with more than one side to it, and had her human merits

  as well as her human faults. Seeds of sound good feeling were

  scattered away in the remoter corners of her nature, and only

  waited for the fertilizing occasion that was to help them to

  sp
ring up. The occasion exerted that benign influence when the

  cab brought Mr. Crum's client back to the hotel. The face of the

  weary, heart-sick woman, as she slowly crossed the hall, roused

  all that was heartiest and best in Mrs. Karnegie's nature, and

  said to her, as if in words, "Jealous of this broken creature?

  Oh, wife and mother is there no appeal to your common womanhood

  _here?_"

  "I am afraid you have overtired yourself, ma'am. Let me send you

  something up stairs?"

  "Send me pen, ink, and paper," was the answer. "I must write a

  letter. I must do it at once."

  It was useless to remonstrate with her. She was ready to accept

  any thing proposed, provided the writing materials were supplied

  first. Mrs. Karnegie sent them up, and then compounded a certain

  mixture of eggs and hot wine. for which The Sheep's Head was

  famous, with her own hands. In five minutes or so it was

  ready--and Miss Karnegie was dispatched by her mother (who had

  other business on hand at the time) to take it up stairs.

  After the lapse of a few moments a cry of alarm was heard from

  the upper landing. Mrs. Karnegie recognized her daughter's voice,

  and hastened to the bedroom floor.

  "Oh, mamma! Look at her! look at her!"

  The letter was on the table with the first lines written. The

  woman was on the sofa with her handkerchief twisted between her

  set teeth, and her tortured face terrible to look at. Mrs.

  Karnegie raised her a little, examined her closely--then suddenly

  changed color, and sent her daughter out of the room with

  directions to dispatch a messenger instantly for medical help.

  Left alone with the sufferer, Mrs. Karnegie carried her to her

  bed. As she was laid down her left hand fell helpless over the

  side of the bed. Mrs. Karnegie suddenly checked the word of

  sympathy as it rose to her lips--suddenly lifted the hand, and

  looked, with a momentary sternness of scrutiny, at the third

  finger. There was a ring on it. Mrs. Karnegie's face softened on

  the instant: the word of pity that had been suspended the moment

  before passed her lips freely now. "Poor soul!" said the

  respectable landlady, taking appearances for granted. "Where's

  your husband, dear? Try and tell me."

  The doctor made his appearance, and went up to the patient.

  Time passed, and Mr. Karnegie and his daughter, carrying on the

  business of the hotel, received a message from up stairs which

  was ominous of something out of the common. The message gave the

  name and address of an experienced nurse--with the doctor's

  compliments, and would Mr. Karnegie have the kindness to send for

  her immediately.

  The nurse was found and sent up stairs.

  Time went on, and the business of the hotel went on, and it was

  getting to be late in the evening, when Mrs. Karnegie appeared at

  last in the parlor behind the bar. The landlady's face was grave,

  the landlady's manner was subdued. "Very, very ill," was the only

  reply she made to her daughter's inquiries. When she and her

  husband were together, a little later, she told the news from up

  stairs in greater detail. "A child born dead," said Mrs.

  Karnegie, in gentler tones than were customary with her. "And the

  mother dying, poor thing, so far as _I_ can see."

  A little later the doctor came down. Dead? No.--Likely to live?

  Impossible to say. The doctor returned twice in the course of the

  night. Both times he had but one answer. "Wait till to-morrow."

  The next day came. She rallied a little. Toward the afternoon she

  began to speak. She expressed no surprise at seeing strangers by

  her bedside: her mind wandered. She passed again into

  insensibility. Then back to delirium once more. The doctor said,

  "This may last for weeks. Or it may end suddenly in death. It's

  time you did something toward finding her friends."

  (Her friends! She had left the one friend she had forever!)

  Mr. Camp was summoned to give his advice. The first thing he

  asked for was the unfinished letter.

  It was blotted, it was illegible in more places than one. With

  pains and care they made out the address at the beginning, and

  here and there some fragments of the lines that followed. It

  began: "Dear Mr. Brinkworth." Then the writing got, little by

  little, worse and worse. To the eyes of the strangers who looked

  at it, it ran thus: "I should ill re quite * * * Blanche's

  interests * * * For God's sake! * * * don't think of _me_ * * *"

  There was a little more, but not so much as one word, in those

  last lines, was legible

  The names mentioned in the letter were reported by the doctor and

  the nurse to be also the names on her lips when she spoke in her

  wanderings. "Mr. Brinkworth" and "Blanche"--her mind ran

  incessantly on those two persons. The one intelligible thing that

  she mentioned in connection with them was the letter. She was

  perpetually trying, trying, trying to take that unfinished letter

  to the post; and she could never get there. Sometimes the post

  was across the sea. Sometimes it was at the top of an

  inaccessible mountain. Sometimes it was built in by prodigious

  walls all round it. Sometimes a man stopped her cruelly at the

  moment when she was close at the post, and forced her back

  thousands of miles away from it. She once or twice mentioned this

  visionary man by his name. They made it out to be "Geoffrey."

  Finding no clew to her identity either in the letter that she had

  tried to write or in the wild words that escaped her from time to

  time, it was decided to search her luggage, and to look at the

  clothes which she had worn when she arrived at the hotel.

  Her black box sufficiently proclaimed itself as recently

  purchased. On opening it the address of a Glasgow trunk-maker was

  discovered inside. The linen was also new, and unmarked. The

  receipted shop-bill was found with it. The tradesmen, sent for in

  each case and questioned, referred to their books. It was proved

  that the box and the linen had both been purchased on the day

  when she appeared at the hotel.

  Her black bag was opened next. A sum of between eighty and ninety

  pounds in Bank of England notes; a few simple articles belonging

  to the toilet; materials for needle-work; and a photographic

  portrait of a young lady, inscribed, "To Anne, from Blanche,"

  were found in the bag--but no letters, and nothing whatever that

  could afford the slightest clew by which the owner could be

  traced. The pocket in her dress was searched next. It contained a

  purse, an empty card-case, and a new handkerchief unmarked.

  Mr. Camp shook his head.

  "A woman's luggage without any letters in it," he said, "suggests

  to my mind a woman who has a motive of her own for keeping her

  movements a secret. I suspect she has destroyed her letters, and

  emptied her card-case, with that view." Mrs. Karnegie's report,

  after examining the linen which the so-called "Mrs. Graham" had

  worn when she arrived at the inn, proved the soundness of the

  lawyer's o
pinion. In every case the marks had been cut out. Mrs.

  Karnegie began to doubt whether the ring which she had seen on

  the third finger of the lady's left hand had been placed there

  with the sanction of the law.

  There was but one chance left of discovering--or rather of

  attempting to discover--her friends. Mr. Camp drew out an

  advertisement to be inserted in the Glasgow newspapers. If those

  newspapers happened to be seen by any member of her family, she

  would, in all probability, be claimed. In the contrary event

  there would be nothing for it but to wait for her recovery or her

  death--with the money belonging to her sealed up, and deposited

  in the landlord's strongbox.

  The advertisement appeared. They waited for three days afterward,

  and nothing came of it. No change of importance occurred, during

  the same period, in the condition of the suffering woman. Mr.

  Camp looked in, toward evening, and said, "We have done our best.

  There is no help for it but to wait."

  Far away in Perthshire that third evening was marked as a joyful

  occasion at Windygates House. Blanche had consented at last to

  listen to Arnold's entreaties, and had sanctioned the writing of

  a letter to London to order her wedding-dress.

  SIXTH SCENE.--SWANHAVEN LODGE.

  CHAPTER THE THIRTY-FIRST

  SEEDS OF THE FUTURE (FIRST SOWING).

  "NOT SO large as Windygates. But--shall we say snug, Jones?"

  "And comfortable, Smith. I quite agree with you."

  Such was the judgment pronounced by the two choral gentlemen on

  Julius Delamayn's house in Scotland. It was, as usual with Smith

  and Jones, a sound judgment--as far as it went. Swanhaven Lodge

  was not half the size of Windygates; but it had been inhabited

  for two centuries when the foundations of Windygates were first

  laid--and it possessed the advantages, without inheriting the

  drawbacks, of its age. There is in an old house a friendly

  adaptation to the human character, as there is in an old hat a

  friendly adaptation to the human head. The visitor who left

  Swanhaven quitted it with something like a sense of leaving home.

  Among the few houses not our own which take a strong hold on our

  sympathies this was one. The ornamental grounds were far inferior

  in size and splendor to the grounds at Windygates. But the park

  was beautiful--less carefully laid out, but also less monotonous

  than an English park. The lake on the northern boundary of the

  estate, famous for its breed of swans, was one of the curiosities

  of the neighborhood; and the house had a history, associating it

  with more than one celebrated Scottish name, which had been

  written and illustrated by Julius Delamayn. Visitors to Swanhaven

  Lodge were invariably presented with a copy of the volume

  (privately printed). One in twenty read it. The rest were

  "charmed," and looked at the pictures.

  The day was the last day of August, and the occasion was the

  garden-party given by Mr. and Mrs. Delamayn.

  Smith and Jones--following, with the other guests at Windygates,

  in Lady Lundie's train--exchanged their opinions on the merits of

  the house, standing on a terrace at the back, near a flight of

  steps which led down into the garden. They formed the van-guard

  of the visitors, appearing by twos and threes from the reception

  rooms, and all bent on going to see the swans before the

  amusements of the day began. Julius Delamayn came out with the

  first detachment, recruited Smith and Jones, and other wandering

  bachelors, by the way, and set forth for the lake. An interval of

  a minute or two passed--and the terrace remained empty. Then two

  ladies--at the head of a second detachment of visitors--appeared

  under the old stone porch which sheltered the entrance on that

  side of the house. One of the ladies was a modest, pleasant

  little person, very simply dressed. The other was of the tall and

  formidable type of "fine women," clad in dazzling array. The