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he came to, without appearing to care what place he occupied at

  his own feast. The guests, following his example, sat where they

  pleased, reckless of precedents and dignities. Mrs. Delamayn,

  feeling a special interest in a young lady who was shortly to be

  a bride, took Blanche's arm. Lady Lundie attached herself

  resolutely to her hostess on the other side. The three sat

  together. Mrs. Delamayn did her best to encourage Blanche to

  talk, and Blanche did her best to meet the advances made to her.

  The experiment succeeded but poorly on either side. Mrs. Delamayn

  gave it up in despair, and turned to Lady Lundie, with a strong

  suspicion that some unpleasant subject of reflection was preying

  privately on the bride's mind. The conclusion was soundly drawn.

  Blanche's little outbreak of temper with her friend on the

  terrace, and Blanche's present deficiency of gayety and spirit,

  were attributable to the same cause. She hid it from her uncle,

  she hid it from Arnold--but she was as anxious as ever, and as

  wretched as ever, about Anne; and she was still on the watch (no

  matter what Sir Patrick might say or do) to seize the first

  opportunity of renewing the search for her lost friend.

  Meanwhile the eating, the drinking, and the talking went merrily

  on. The band played its liveliest melodies; the servants kept the

  glasses constantly filled: round all the tables gayety and

  freedom reigned supreme. The one conversation in progress, in

  which the talkers were not in social harmony with each other, was

  the conversation at Blanche's side, between her step-mother and

  Mrs. Delamayn.

  Among Lady Lundie's other accomplishments the power of making

  disagreeable discoveries ranked high. At the dinner in the glade

  she had not failed to notice--what every body else had passed

  over--the absence at the festival of the hostess's

  brother-in-law; and more remarkable still, the disappearance of a

  lady who was actually one of the guests staying in the house: in

  plainer words, the disappearance of Mrs. Glenarm.

  "Am I mistaken?" said her ladyship, lifting her eye-glass, and

  looking round the tables. "Surely there is a member of our party

  missing? I don't see Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn."

  "Geoffrey promised to be here. But he is not particularly

  attentive, as you may have noticed, to keeping engagements of

  this sort. Every thing is sacrificed to his training. We only see

  him at rare intervals now."

  With that reply Mrs. Delamayn attempted to change the subject.

  Lady Lundie lifted her eye-glass, and looked round the tables for

  the second time.

  "Pardon me," persisted her ladyship--"but is it possible that I

  have discovered another absentee? I don't see Mrs. Glenarm. Yet

  surely she must be here! Mrs. Glenarm is not training for a

  foot-race. Do you see her? _I_ don't."

  "I missed her when we went out on the terrace, and I have not

  seen her since."

  "Isn't it very odd, dear Mrs. Delamayn?"

  "Our guests at Swanhaven, Lady Lundie, have perfect liberty to do

  as they please."

  In those words Mrs. Delamayn (as she fondly imagined) dismissed

  the subject. But Lady Lundie's robust curiosity proved

  unassailable by even the broadest hint. Carried away, in all

  probability, by the infection of merriment about her, her

  ladyship displayed unexpected reserves of vivacity. The mind

  declines to realize it; but it is not the less true that this

  majestic woman actually simpered!

  "Shall we put two and two together?" said Lady Lundie, with a

  ponderous playfulness wonderful to see. "Here, on the one hand,

  is Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn--a young single man. And here, on the

  other, is Mrs. Glenarm--a young widow. Rank on the side of the

  young single man; riches on the side of the young widow. And both

  mysteriously absent at the same time, from the same pleasant

  party. Ha, Mrs. Delamayn! should I guess wrong, if I guessed that

  _you_ will have a marriage in the family, too, before long?"

  Mrs. Delamayn looked a little annoyed. She had entered, with all

  her heart, into the conspiracy for making a match between

  Geoffrey and Mrs. Glenarm. But she was not prepared to own that

  the lady's facility had (in spite of all attempts to conceal it

  from discovery) made the conspiracy obviously successful in ten

  days' time.

  "I am not in the secrets of the lady and gentleman whom you

  mention," she replied, dryly.

  A heavy body is slow to acquire movement--and slow to abandon

  movement, when once acquired. The playfulness of Lady Lundie,

  being essentially heavy, followed the same rule. She still

  persisted in being as lively as ever.

  "Oh, what a diplomatic answer!" exclaimed her ladyship. "I think

  I can interpret it, though, for all that. A little bird tells me

  that I shall see a Mrs. Geoffrey Delamayn in London, next season.

  And I, for one, shall not be surprised to find myself

  congratulating Mrs. Glenarm."

  "If you persist in letting your imagination run away with you,

  Lady Lundie, I can't possibly help it. I can only request

  permission to keep the bridle on _mine._"

  This time, even Lady Lundie understood that it would be wise to

  say no more. She smiled and nodded, in high private approval of

  her own extraordinary cleverness. If she had been asked at that

  moment who was the most brilliant Englishwoman living, she would

  have looked inward on herself--and would have seen, as in a glass

  brightly, Lady Lundie, of Windygates.

  From the moment when the talk at her side entered on the subject

  of Geoffrey Delamayn and Mrs. Glenarm--and throughout the brief

  period during which it remained occupied with that topic--Blanche

  became conscious of a strong smell of some spirituous liquor

  wafted down on her, as she fancied, from behind and from above.

  Finding the odor grow stronger and stronger, she looked round to

  see whether any special manufacture of grog was proceeding

  inexplicably at the back of her chair. The moment she moved her

  head, her attention was claimed by a pair of tremulous gouty old

  hands, offering her a grouse pie, profusely sprinkled with

  truffles.

  "Eh, my bonny Miss!" whispered a persuasive voice at her ear,

  "ye're joost stairving in a land o' plenty. Tak' my advice, and

  ye'll tak' the best thing at tebble--groose-poy, and trufflers."

  Blanche looked up.

  There he was--the man of the canny eye, the fatherly manner, and

  the mighty nose--Bishopriggs--preserved in spirits and

  ministering at the festival at Swanhaven Lodge!

  Blanche had only seen him for a moment on the memorable night of

  the storm, when she had surprised Anne at the inn. But instants

  passed in the society of Bishopriggs were as good as hours spent

  in the company of inferior men. Blanche instantly recognized him;

  instantly called to mind Sir Patrick's conviction that he was in

  possession of Anne's lost letter; instantly rushed to the

  conclusion that, in discovering Bishopriggs, she had discov
ered a

  chance of tracing Anne. Her first impulse was to claim

  acquaintance with him on the spot. But the eyes of her neighbors

  were on her, warning her to wait. She took a little of the pie,

  and looked hard at Bishopriggs. That discreet man, showing no

  sign of recognition on his side, bowed respectfully, and went on

  round the table.

  "I wonder whether he has got the letter about him?" thought

  Blanche.

  He had not only got the letter about him--but, more than that, he

  was actually then on the look-out for the means of turning the

  letter to profitable pecuniary account.

  The domestic establishment of Swanhaven Lodge included no

  formidable array of servants. When Mrs. Delamayn gave a large

  party, she depended for such additional assistance as was needed

  partly on the contributions of her friends, partly on the

  resources of the principal inn at Kirkandrew. Mr. Bishopriggs,

  serving at the time (in the absence of any better employment) as

  a supernumerary at the inn, made one among the waiters who could

  be spared to assist at the garden-party. The name of the

  gentleman by whom he was to be employed for the day had struck

  him, when he first heard it, as having a familiar sound. He had

  made his inquiries; and had then betaken himself for additional

  information, to the letter which he had picked up from the parlor

  floor at Craig Fernie

  The sheet of note-paper, lost by Anne, conta ined, it may be

  remembered, two letters--one signed by herself; the other signed

  by Geoffrey--and both suggestive, to a stranger's eye, of

  relations between the writers which they were interested in

  concealing from the public view.

  Thinking it just possible--if he kept his eyes and ears well open

  at Swanhaven--that he might improve his prospect of making a

  marketable commodity of the stolen correspondence, Mr.

  Bishopriggs had put the letter in his pocket when he left

  Kirkandrew. He had recognized Blanche, as a friend of the lady at

  the inn--and as a person who might perhaps be turned to account,

  in that capacity. And he had, moreover, heard every word of the

  conversation between Lady Lundie and Mrs. Delamayn on the subject

  of Geoffrey and Mrs. Glenarm. There were hours to be passed

  before the guests would retire, and before the waiters would be

  dismissed. The conviction was strong in the mind of Mr.

  Bishopriggs that he might find good reason yet for congratulating

  himself on the chance which had associated him with the

  festivities at Swanhaven Lodge.

  It was still early in the afternoon when the gayety at the

  dinner-table began, in certain quarters, to show signs of wearing

  out.

  The younger members of the party--especially the ladies--grew

  restless with the appearance of the dessert. One after another

  they looked longingly at the smooth level of elastic turf in the

  middle of the glade. One after another they beat time absently

  with their fingers to the waltz which the musicians happened to

  be playing at the moment. Noticing these symptoms, Mrs. Delamayn

  set the example of rising; and her husband sent a message to the

  band. In ten minutes more the first quadrille was in progress on

  the grass; the spectators were picturesquely grouped round,

  looking on; and the servants and waiters, no longer wanted, had

  retired out of sight, to a picnic of their own.

  The last person to leave the deserted tables was the venerable

  Bishopriggs. He alone, of the men in attendance, had contrived to

  combine a sufficient appearance of waiting on the company with a

  clandestine attention to his own personal need of refreshment.

  Instead of hurrying away to the servants' dinner with the rest,

  he made the round of the tables, apparently clearing away the

  crumbs--actually, emptying the wine-glasses. Immersed in this

  occupation, he was startled by a lady's voice behind him, and,

  turning as quickly as he could, found himself face to face with

  Miss Lundie.

  "I want some cold water," said Blanche. "Be so good as to get me

  some from the spring."

  She pointed to the bubbling rivulet at the farther end of the

  glade.

  Bishopriggs looked unaffectedly shocked.

  "Lord's sake, miss," he exclaimed "d'ye relly mean to offend yer

  stomach wi' cauld water--when there's wine to be had for the

  asking!"

  Blanche gave him a look. Slowness of perception was not on the

  list of the failings of Bishopriggs. He took up a tumbler, winked

  with his one available eye, and led the way to the rivulet. There

  was nothing remarkable in the spectacle of a young lady who

  wanted a glass of spring-water, or of a waiter who was getting it

  for her. Nobody was surprised; and (with the band playing) nobody

  could by any chance overhear what might be said at the

  spring-side.

  "Do you remember me at the inn on the night of the storm?" asked

  Blanche.

  Mr. Bishopriggs had his reasons (carefully inclosed in his

  pocketbook) for not being too ready to commit himself with

  Blanche at starting.

  "I'm no' saying I canna remember ye, miss. Whar's the man would

  mak' sic an answer as that to a bonny young leddy like you?"

  By way of assisting his memory Blanche took out her purse.

  Bishopriggs became absorbed in the scenery. He looked at the

  running water with the eye of a man who thoroughly distrusted it,

  viewed as a beverage.

  "There ye go," he said, addressing himself to the rivulet,

  "bubblin' to yer ain annihilation in the loch yonder! It's little

  I know that's gude aboot ye, in yer unconvairted state. Ye're a

  type o' human life, they say. I tak' up my testimony against

  _that._ Ye're a type o' naething at all till ye're heated wi'

  fire, and sweetened wi' sugar, and strengthened wi' whusky; and

  then ye're a type o' toddy--and human life (I grant it) has got

  something to say to ye in that capacity!"

  "I have heard more about you, since I was at the inn," proceeded

  Blanche, "than you may suppose." (She opened her purse: Mr.

  Bishopriggs became the picture of attention.) "You were very,

  very kind to a lady who was staying at Craig Fernie," she went

  on, earnestly. "I know that you have lost your place at the inn,

  because you gave all your attention to that lady. She is my

  dearest friend, Mr. Bishopriggs. I want to thank you. I do thank

  you. Please accept what I have got here?"

  All the girl's heart was in her eyes and in her voice as she

  emptied her purse into the gouty (and greedy) old hand of

  Bishopriggs.

  A young lady with a well-filled purse (no matter how rich the

  young lady may be) is a combination not often witnessed in any

  country on the civilized earth. Either the money is always spent,

  or the money has been forgotten on the toilet-table at home.

  Blanche's purse contained a sovereign and some six or seven

  shillings in silver. As pocket-money for an heiress it was

  contemptible. But as a gratuity to Bishopriggs it was

/>   magnificent. The old rascal put the money into his pocket with

  one hand, and dashed away the tears of sensibility, which he had

  _not_ shed, with the other.

  "Cast yer bread on the waters," cried Mr. Bishopriggs, with his

  one eye raised devotionally to the sky, "and ye sall find it

  again after monny days! Heeh! hech! didna I say when I first set

  eyes on that puir leddy, 'I feel like a fether to ye?' It's

  seemply mairvelous to see hoo a man's ain gude deeds find him oot

  in this lower warld o' ours. If ever I heard the voice o'

  naitural affection speaking in my ain breast," pursued Mr.

  Bishopriggs, with his eye fixed in uneasy expectation on Blanche,

  "it joost spak' trumpet-tongued when that winsome creature first

  lookit at me. Will it be she now that told ye of the wee bit

  sairvice I rendered to her in the time when I was in bondage at

  the hottle?"

  "Yes--she told me herself."

  "Might I mak' sae bauld as to ask whar' she may be at the present

  time?"

  "I don't know, Mr. Bishopriggs. I am more miserable about it than

  I can say. She has gone away--and I don't know where."

  "Ow! ow! that's bad. And the bit husband-creature danglin' at her

  petticoat's tail one day, and awa' wi' the sunrise next

  mornin'--have they baith taken leg-bail together?"

  "I know nothing of him; I never saw him. You saw him. Tell

  me--what was he like?"

  "Eh! he was joost a puir weak creature. Didn't know a glass o'

  good sherry-wine when he'd got it. Free wi' the siller--that's a'

  ye can say for him--free wi' the siller!"

  Finding it impossible to extract from Mr. Bishopriggs any clearer

  description of the man who had been with Anne at the inn than

  this, Blanche approached the main object of the interview. Too

  anxious to waste time in circumlocution, she turned the

  conversation at once to the delicate and doubtful subject of the

  lost letter.

  "There is something else that I want to say to you," she resumed.

  "My friend had a loss while she was staying at the inn."

  The clouds of doubt rolled off the mind of Mr. Bishopriggs. The

  lady's friend knew of the lost letter. And, better still, the

  lady's friend looked as if she wanted it!

  "Ay! ay!" he said, with all due appearance of carelessness. "Like

  eneugh. From the mistress downward, they're a' kittle cattle at

  the inn since I've left 'em. What may it ha' been that she lost?"

  "She lost a letter."

  The look of uneasy expectation reappeared in the eye of Mr.

  Bishopriggs. It was a question--and a serious question, from his

  point of view--whether any suspicion of theft was attached to the

  disappearance of the letter.

  "When ye say 'lost,' " he asked, "d'ye mean stolen?"

  Blanche was quite quick enough to see the necessity of quieting

  his mind on this point.

  "Oh no!" she answered. "Not stolen. Only lost. Did you hear about

  it?"

  "Wherefore suld _I_ ha' heard aboot it?" He looked hard at

  Blanche --and detected a momentary hesitation in her face. "Tell

  me this, my young leddy," he went on, advancing warily near to

  the point. "When ye're speering for news o' your friend's lost

  letter--what sets ye on comin' to _me?_"

  Those words were decisive. It is hardly too much to say that

  Blanche's future depended on Blanche's answer to that question.

  If she could have produced the money; and if she had said,

  boldly, "You have got the letter, Mr. Bishopriggs: I pledge my

  word that no questions shall be asked, and I offer you ten pounds

  for it"--in all probability the bargain would have been struck;

  and the whole course of coming events would, in that case, have

  been altered. But she had no money left; and there were no

  friends, in the circle at Swanhaven, to whom she could apply,

  without being misinterpreted, for a loan of ten pounds, to be

  privately intrusted to her on the spot. Under stress of sheer

  necessity Blanche abandoned all hope of making any present appeal

  of a pecuniary nature to the confidence of Bishopriggs.