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at Craig Fernie, and bent on clearing up the suspicion which

  pointed to Bishopriggs as the person who was trying to turn the

  correspondence to pecuniary account. The inquiries made for him,

  at Anne's request, as soon as she arrived in the town, openly

  described his name, and his former position as headwaiter at

  Craig Fernie--and thu s led easily to the discovery of him, in

  his publicly avowed character of Thomas Pennyquick's devoted

  friend. Toward evening, on the day after she reached Perth, the

  news came to Anne that Bishopriggs was in service at the inn

  known as the Harp of Scotland. The landlord of the hotel at which

  she was staying inquired whether he should send a message for

  her. She answered, "No, I will take my message myself. All I want

  is a person to show me the way to the inn."

  Secluded in the solitude of the head-waiter's pantry, Bishopriggs

  sat peacefully melting the sugar in his whisky-punch.

  It was the hour of the evening at which a period of tranquillity

  generally occurred before what was called "the night-business" of

  the house began. Bishopriggs was accustomed to drink and meditate

  daily in this interval of repose. He tasted the punch, and smiled

  contentedly as he set down his glass. The prospect before him

  looked fairly enough. He had outwitted the lawyers in the

  preliminary negotiations thus far. All that was needful now was

  to wait till the terror of a public scandal (sustained by

  occasional letters from her "Friend in the Dark") had its due

  effect on Mrs. Glenarm, and hurried her into paying the

  purchase-money for the correspondence with her own hand. "Let it

  breed in the brain," he thought, "and the siller will soon come

  out o' the purse."

  His reflections were interrupted by the appearance of a slovenly

  maid-servant, with a cotton handkerchief tied round her head, and

  an uncleaned sauce-pan in her hand.

  "Eh, Maister Bishopriggs," cried the girl, "here's a braw young

  leddy speerin' for ye by yer ain name at the door."

  "A leddy?" repeated Bishopriggs, with a look of virtuous disgust.

  "Ye donnert ne'er-do-weel, do you come to a decent, 'sponsible

  man like me, wi' sic a Cyprian overture as that? What d'ye tak'

  me for? Mark Antony that lost the world for love (the mair fule

  he!)? or Don Jovanny that counted his concubines by hundreds,

  like the blessed Solomon himself? Awa' wi' ye to yer pots and

  pans; and bid the wandering Venus that sent ye go spin!"

  Before the girl could answer she was gently pulled aside from the

  doorway, and Bishopriggs, thunder-struck, saw Anne Silvester

  standing in her place.

  "You had better tell the servant I am no stranger to you," said

  Anne, looking toward the kitchen-maid, who stood in the passage

  staring at her in stolid amazement.

  "My ain sister's child!" cried Bishopriggs, lying with his

  customary readiness. "Go yer ways, Maggie. The bonny lassie's my

  ain kith and kin. The tongue o' scandal, I trow, has naething to

  say against that.--Lord save us and guide us!" he added In

  another tone, as the girl closed the door on them, "what brings

  ye here?"

  "I have something to say to you. I am not very well; I must wait

  a little first. Give me a chair."

  Bishopriggs obeyed in silence. His one available eye rested on

  Anne, as he produced the chair, with an uneasy and suspicious

  attention. "I'm wanting to know one thing," he said. "By what

  meeraiculous means, young madam, do ye happen to ha' fund yer way

  to this inn?"

  Anne told him how her inquiries had been made and what the result

  had been, plainly and frankly. The clouded face of Bishopriggs

  began to clear again.

  "Hech! hech!" he exclaimed, recovering all his native impudence,

  "I hae had occasion to remark already, to anither leddy than

  yersel', that it's seemply mairvelous hoo a man's ain gude deeds

  find him oot in this lower warld o' ours. I hae dune a gude deed

  by pure Tammy Pennyquick, and here's a' Pairth ringing wi the

  report o' it; and Sawmuel Bishopriggs sae weel known that ony

  stranger has only to ask, and find him. Understand, I beseech ye,

  that it's no hand o' mine that pets this new feather in my cap.

  As a gude Calvinist, my saul's clear o' the smallest figment o'

  belief in Warks. When I look at my ain celeebrity I joost ask, as

  the Psawmist asked before me, 'Why do the heathen rage, and the

  people imagine a vain thing?' It seems ye've something to say to

  me," he added, suddenly reverting to the object of Anne's visit.

  "Is it humanly possible that ye can ha' come a' the way to Pairth

  for naething but that?"

  The expression of suspicion began to show itself again in his

  face. Concealing as she best might the disgust that he inspired

  in her, Anne stated her errand in the most direct manner, and in

  the fewest possible words.

  "I have come here to ask you for something," she said.

  "Ay? ay? What may it be ye're wanting of me?"

  "I want the letter I lost at Craig Fernie."

  Even the solidly-founded self-possession of Bishopriggs himself

  was shaken by the startling directness of that attack on it. His

  glib tongue was paralyzed for the moment. "I dinna ken what ye're

  drivin' at," he said, after an interval, with a sullen

  consciousness that he had been all but tricked into betraying

  himself.

  The change in his manner convinced Anne that she had found in

  Bishopriggs the person of whom she was in search.

  "You have got my letter," she said, sternly insisting on the

  truth. "And you are trying to turn it to a disgraceful use. I

  won't allow you to make a market of my private affairs. You have

  offered a letter of mine for sale to a stranger. I insist on your

  restoring it to me before I leave this room!"

  Bishopriggs hesitated again. His first suspicion that Anne had

  been privately instructed by Mrs. Glenarm's lawyers returned to

  his mind as a suspicion confirmed. He felt the vast importance of

  making a cautious reply.

  "I'll no' waste precious time," he said, after a moment's

  consideration with himself, "in brushing awa' the fawse breath o'

  scandal, when it passes my way. It blaws to nae purpose, my young

  leddy, when it blaws on an honest man like me. Fie for shame on

  ye for saying what ye've joost said--to me that was a fether to

  ye at Craig Fernie! Wha' set ye on to it? Will it be man or woman

  that's misca'ed me behind my back?"

  Anne took the Glasgow newspaper from the pocket of her traveling

  cloak, and placed it before him, open at the paragraph which

  described the act of extortion attempted on Mrs. Glenarm.

  "I have found there," she said, "all that I want to know."

  "May a' the tribe o' editors, preenters, paper-makers,

  news-vendors, and the like, bleeze together in the pit o'

  Tophet!" With this devout aspiration--internally felt, not openly

  uttered--Bishopriggs put on his spectacles, and read the passage

  pointed out to him. "I see naething here touching the name o'

  Sawm
uel Bishopriggs, or the matter o' ony loss ye may or may not

  ha' had at Craig Fernie," he said, when he had done; still

  defending his position, with a resolution worthy of a better

  cause.

  Anne's pride recoiled at the prospect of prolonging the

  discussion with him. She rose to her feet, and said her last

  words.

  "I have learned enough by this time," she answered, "to know that

  the one argument that prevails with you is the argument of money.

  If money will spare me the hateful necessity of disputing with

  you--poor as I am, money you shall have. Be silent, if you

  please. You are personally interested in what I have to say

  next."

  She opened her purse, and took a five-pound note from it.

  "If you choose to own the truth, and produce the letter," she

  resumed, "I will give you this, as your reward for finding, and

  restoring to me, something that I had lost. If you persist in

  your present prevarication, I can, and will, make that sheet of

  note-paper you have stolen from me nothing but waste paper in

  your hands. You have threatened Mrs. Glenarm with my

  interference. Suppose I go to Mrs. Glenarm? Suppose I interfere

  before the week is out? Suppose I have other letters of Mr.

  Delamayn's in my possession, and produce them to speak for me?

  What has Mrs. Glenarm to purchase of you _then?_ Answer me that!"

  The color rose on her pale face. Her eyes, dim and weary when she

  entered the room, looked him brightly through and through in

  immeasurable contempt. "Answer me that!" she repeated, with a

  burst of her old energy which revealed the fire and passion of

  the woman's nature, not quenched even yet!

  If Bishopriggs had a merit, it was a rare merit, as men go, of

  knowing when he was beaten. If he had an accomplis hment, it was

  the accomplishment of retiring defeated, with all the honors of

  war.

  "Mercy presairve us!" he exclaimed, in the most innocent manner.

  "Is it even You Yersel' that writ the letter to the man ca'ed

  Jaffray Delamayn, and got the wee bit answer in pencil on the

  blank page? Hoo, in Heeven's name, was I to know _that_ was the

  letter ye were after when ye cam' in here? Did ye ever tell me ye

  were Anne Silvester, at the hottle? Never ance! Was the puir

  feckless husband-creature ye had wi' ye at the inn, Jaffray

  Delamayn? Jaffray wad mak' twa o' him, as my ain eyes ha' seen.

  Gi' ye back yer letter? My certie! noo I know it is yer letter,

  I'll gi' it back wi' a' the pleasure in life!"

  He opened his pocket-book, and took it out, with an alacrity

  worthy of the honestest man in Christendom--and (more wonderful

  still) he looked with a perfectly assumed expression of

  indifference at the five-pound note in Anne's hand.

  "Hoot! toot!" he said, "I'm no' that clear in my mind that I'm

  free to tak' yer money. Eh, weel! weel! I'll een receive it, if

  ye like, as a bit Memento o' the time when I was o' some sma'

  sairvice to ye at the hottle. Ye'll no' mind," he added, suddenly

  returning to business, "writin' me joost a line--in the way o'

  receipt, ye ken--to clear me o' ony future suspicion in the

  matter o' the letter?"

  Anne threw down the bank-note on the table near which they were

  standing, and snatched the letter from him.

  "You need no receipt," she answered. "There shall be no letter to

  bear witness against you!"

  She lifted her other hand to tear it in pieces. Bishopriggs

  caught her by both wrists, at the same moment, and held her fast.

  "Bide a wee!" he said. "Ye don't get the letter, young madam,

  without the receipt. It may be a' the same to _you,_ now ye've

  married the other man, whether Jaffray Delamayn ance promised ye

  fair in the by-gone time, or no. But, my certie! it's a matter o'

  some moment to _me,_ that ye've chairged wi' stealin' the letter,

  and making a market o't, and Lord knows what besides, that I suld

  hae yer ain acknowledgment for it in black and white. Gi' me my

  bit receipt--and een do as ye will with yer letter after that!"

  Anne's hold of the letter relaxed. She let Bishopriggs repossess

  himself of it as it dropped on the floor between them, without

  making an effort to prevent him.

  "It may be a' the same to _you,_ now ye've married the other man,

  whether Jaffray Delamayn ance promised ye fair in the by-gone

  time, or no." Those words presented Anne's position before her in

  a light in which she had not seen it yet. She had truly expressed

  the loathing that Geoffrey now inspired in her, when she had

  declared, in her letter to Arnold, that, even if he offered her

  marriage, in atonement for the past, she would rather be what she

  was than be his wife. It had never occurred to her, until this

  moment, that others would misinterpret the sensitive pride which

  had prompted the abandonment of her claim on the man who had

  ruined her. It had never been brought home to her until now, that

  if she left him contemptuously to go his own way, and sell

  himself to the first woman who had money enough to buy him, her

  conduct would sanction the false conclusion that she was

  powerless to interfere, because she was married already to

  another man. The color that had risen in her face vanished, and

  left it deadly pale again. She began to see that the purpose of

  her journey to the north was not completed yet.

  "I will give you your receipt," she said. "Tell me what to write,

  and it shall be written."

  Bishopriggs dictated the receipt. She wrote and signed it. He put

  it in his pocket-book with the five-pound note, and handed her

  the letter in exchange.

  "Tear it if ye will," he said. "It matters naething to _me._"

  For a moment she hesitated. A sudden shuddering shook her from

  head to foot--the forewarning, it might be, of the influence

  which that letter, saved from destruction by a hair's-breadth,

  was destined to exercise on her life to come. She recovered

  herself, and folded her cloak closer to her, as if she had felt a

  passing chill.

  "No," she said; "I will keep the letter."

  She folded it and put it in the pocket of her dress. Then turned

  to go--and stopped at the door.

  "One thing more," she added. "Do you know Mrs. Glenarm's present

  address?"

  "Ye're no' reely going to Mistress Glenarm?"

  "That is no concern of yours. You can answer my question or not,

  as you please."

  "Eh, my leddy! yer temper's no' what it used to be in the auld

  times at the hottle. Aweel! aweel! ye ha' gi'en me yer money, and

  I'll een gi' ye back gude measure for it, on my side. Mistress

  Glenarm's awa' in private--incog, as they say--to Jaffray

  Delamayn's brither at Swanhaven Lodge. Ye may rely on the

  information, and it's no' that easy to come at either. They've

  keepit it a secret as they think from a' the warld. Hech! hech!

  Tammy Pennyquick's youngest but twa is page-boy at the hoose

  where the leddy's been veesitin', on the outskirts o' Pairth.

  Keep a secret if ye can frae the pawky ears o'
yer domestics in

  the servants' hall!--Eh! she's aff, without a word at parting!"

  he exclaimed, as Anne left him without ceremony in the middle of

  his dissertation on secrets and servants' halls. "I trow I ha'

  gaen out for wool, and come back shorn," he added, reflecting

  grimly on the disastrous overthrow of the promising speculation

  on which he had embarked. "My certie! there was naething left

  for't, when madam's fingers had grippit me, but to slip through

  them as cannily as I could. What's Jaffray's marrying, or no'

  marrying, to do wi' _her?_" he wondered, reverting to the

  question which Anne had put to him at parting. "And whar's the

  sense o' her errand, if she's reely bent on finding her way to

  Mistress Glenarm?"

  Whatever the sense of her errand might be, Anne's next proceeding

  proved that she was really bent on it. After resting two days,

  she left Perth by the first train in the morning, for Swanhaven

  Lodge.

  NINTH SCENE.--THE MUSIC-ROOM.

  CHAPTER THE FORTIETH.

  JULIUS MAKES MISCHIEF.

  JULIUS DELAMAYN was alone, idly sauntering to and fro, with his

  violin in his hand, on the terrace at Swanhaven Lodge.

  The first mellow light of evening was in the sky. It was the

  close of the day on which Anne Silvester had left Perth.

  Some hours earlier, Julius had sacrificed himself to the duties

  of his political position--as made for him by his father. He had

  submitted to the dire necessity of delivering an oration to the

  electors, at a public meeting in the neighboring town of

  Kirkandrew. A detestable atmosphere to breathe; a disorderly

  audience to address; insolent opposition to conciliate; imbecile

  inquiries to answer; brutish interruptions to endure; greedy

  petitioners to pacify; and dirty hands to shake: these are the

  stages by which the aspiring English gentleman is compelled to

  travel on the journey which leads him from the modest obscurity

  of private life to the glorious publicity of the House of

  Commons. Julius paid the preliminary penalties of a political

  first appearance, as exacted by free institutions, with the

  necessary patience; and returned to the welcome shelter of home,

  more indifferent, if possible, to the attractions of

  Parliamentary distinction than when he set out. The discord of

  the roaring "people" (still echoing in his ears) had sharpened

  his customary sensibility to the poetry of sound, as composed by

  Mozart, and as interpreted by piano and violin. Possessing

  himself of his beloved instrument, he had gone out on the terrace

  to cool himself in the evening air, pending the arrival of the

  servant whom he had summoned by the music-room bell. The man

  appeared at the glass door which led into the room; and reported,

  in answer to his master's inquiry, that Mrs. Julius Delamayn was

  out paying visits, and was not expected to return for another

  hour at least.

  Julius groaned in spirit. The finest music which Mozart has

  written for the violin associates that instrument with the piano.

  Without the wife to help him, the husband was mute. After an

  instant's consideration, Julius hit on an idea which promised, in

  some degree, to remedy the disaster of Mrs. Delamayn's absence

  from home.

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

  "No, Sir."

  "My compliments. If Mrs. Glenarm has nothing else to do, will she

  be so kind as to come to me in the music-room?"

  The servant went away with his message. Julius seated himself on

  one of the terrace-benches, and began to tune his violin.

  Mrs. Glenarm--rightly reported by Bishopriggs as having privately

  taken refuge from her anonymous correspondent at Swanhaven

  Lodge--was, musically speaking, far from being an efficient

  substitute for Mrs. Delamayn. Julius possessed, in his wife, one

  of the few players on the piano-forte under whose subtle touch

  that shallow and soulless instrument becomes inspired with