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physician from the neighboring town of Kirkandrew was called in.

  The physician came in a carriage and pair, with the necessary

  bald head, and the indispensable white cravat. He felt her

  ladyship's pulse, and put a few gentle questions. He turned his

  back solemnly, as only a great doctor can, on his own positive

  internal conviction that his patient had nothing whatever the

  matter with her. He said, with every appearance of believing in

  himself, "Nerves, Lady Lundie. Repose in bed is essentially

  necessary. I will write a prescription." He prescribed, with

  perfect gravity: Aromatic Spirits of Ammonia--16 drops. Spirits

  of Red Lavender--10 drops. Syrup of Orange Peel--2 drams. Camphor

  Julep--1 ounce. When he had written, Misce fiat Hanstus (instead

  of Mix a Draught)--when he had added, Ter die Sumendus (instead

  of To be taken Three times a day)--and when he had certified to

  his own Latin, by putting his initials at the end, he had only to

  make his bow; to slip two guineas into his pocket; and to go his

  way, with an approving professional conscience, in the character

  of a physician who had done his duty.

  Lady Lundie was in bed. The visible part of her ladyship was

  perfectly attired, with a view to the occasion. A fillet of

  superb white lace encircled her head. She wore an adorable

  invalid jacket of white cambric, trimmed with lace and pink

  ribbons. The rest was--bed-clothes. On a table at her side stood

  the Red Lavender Draught--in color soothing to the eye; in flavor

  not unpleasant to the taste. A book of devotional character was

  near it. The domestic ledgers, and the kitchen report for the

  day, were ranged modestly behind the devout book. (Not even her

  ladyship's nerves, observe, were permitted to interfere with her

  ladyship's duty.) A fan, a smelling-bottle, and a handkerchief

  lay within reach on the counterpane. The spacious room was

  partially darkened. One of the lower windows was open, affording

  her ladyship the necessary cubic supply of air. The late Sir

  Thomas looked at his widow, in effigy, from the wall opposite the

  end of the bed. Not a chair was out of its place; not a vestige

  of wearing apparel dared to show itself outside the sacred limits

  of the wardrobe and the drawers. The sparkling treasures of the

  toilet-table glittered in the dim distance, The jugs and basins

  were of a rare and creamy white; spotless and beautiful to see.

  Look where you might, you saw a perfect room. Then look at the

  bed--and you saw a perfect woman, and completed the picture.

  It was the day after Anne's appearance at Swanhaven--toward the

  end of the afternoon.

  Lady Lundie's own maid opened the door noiselessly, and stole on

  tip-toe to the bedside. Her ladyship's eyes were closed. Her

  ladyship suddenly opened them.

  "Not asleep, Hopkins. Suffering. What is it?"

  Hopkins laid two cards on the counterpane. "Mrs. Delamayn, my

  lady--and Mrs. Glenarm."

  "They were told I was ill, of course?"

  "Yes, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm sent for me. She went into the

  library, and wrote this note." Hopkins produced the note, neatly

  folded in three-cornered form.

  "Have they gone?"

  "No, my lady. Mrs. Glenarm told me Yes or No would do for answer,

  if you could only have the goodness to read this."

  "Thoughtless of Mrs. Glenarm--at a time when the doctor insists

  on perfect repose," said Lady Lundie. "It doesn't matter. One

  sacrifice more or less is of very little consequence."

  She fortified herself by an application of the smelling-bottle,

  and opened the note. It ran thus:

  "So grieved, dear Lady Lundie, to hear that you are a prisoner in

  your room! I had taken the opportunity of calling with Mrs.

  Delamayn, in the hope that I might be able to ask you a question.

  Will your inexhaustible kindness forgive me if I ask it in

  writing? Have you had any unexpected news of Mr. Arnold

  Brinkworth lately? I mean, have you heard any thing about him,

  which has taken you very much by surprise? I have a serious

  reason for asking this. I will tell you what it is, the moment

  you are able to see me. Until then, one word of answer is all I

  expect. Send word down--Yes, or No. A thousand apologies--and

  pray get better soon!"

  The singular question contained in this note suggested one of two

  inferences to Lady Lundie's mind. Either Mrs. Glenarm had heard a

  report of the unexpected return of the married couple to

  England--or she was in the far more interesting and important

  position of possessing a clew to the secret of what was going on

  under the surface at Ham Farm. The phrase used in the note, "I

  have a serious reason for asking this," appeared to favor the

  latter of the two interpretations. Impossible as it seemed to be

  that Mrs. Glenarm could know something about Arnold of which Lady

  Lundie was in absolute ignorance, her ladyship's curiosity

  (already powerfully excited by Blanche's mysterious letter) was

  only to be quieted by obtaining the necessary explanation

  forthwith, at a personal interview.

  "Hopkins," she said, "I must see Mrs. Glenarm."

  Hopkins respectfully held up her hands in horror. Company in the

  bedroom in the present state of her ladyship's health!

  "A matter of duty is involved in this, Hopkins. Give me the

  glass."

  Hopkins produced an elegant little hand-mirror. Lady Lundie

  carefully surveyed herself in it down to the margin of the

  bedclothes. Above criticism in every respect? Yes--even when the

  critic was a woman.

  "Show Mrs. Glenarm up here."

  In a minute or two more the iron-master's widow fluttered into

  the room--a little over-dressed as usual; and a little profuse in

  expressions of gratitude for her ladyship's kindness, and of

  anxiety about her ladyship's health. Lady Lundie endured it as

  long as she could--then stopped it with a gesture of polite

  remonstrance, and came to the point.

  "Now, my dear--about this question in your note? Is it possible

  you have heard already that Arnold Brinkworth and his wife have

  come back from Baden?" Mrs. Glenarm opened her eyes in

  astonishment. Lady Lundie put it more plainly. "They were to have

  gone on to Switzerland, you know, for their wedding tour, and

  they suddenly altered their minds, and came back to England on

  Sunday last."

  "Dear Lady Lundie, it's not that! Have you heard nothing about

  Mr. Brinkworth except what you have just told me?"

  "Nothing."

  There was a pause. Mrs. Glenarm toyed hesitatingly with her

  parasol. Lady Lundie leaned forward in the bed, and looked at her

  attentively.

  "What have _you_ heard about him?" she asked.

  Mrs. Glenarm was embarrassed. "It's so difficult to say," she

  began.

  "I can bear any thing but suspense," said Lady Lundie. "Tell me

  the worst."

  Mrs. Glenarm decided to risk it. "Have you never heard," she

  asked, "that Mr. Brinkworth might possibly have committed himself

  with another
lady before he married Miss Lundie?"

  Her ladyship first closed her eyes in horror and then searched

  blindly on the counterpane for the smelling-bottle. Mrs. Glenarm

  gave it to her, and waited to see how the invalid bore it before

  she said any more.

  "There are things one _must_ hear," remarked Lady Lundie. "I see

  an act of duty involved in this. No words can describe how you

  astonish me. Who told you?"

  "Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn told me."

  Her ladyship applied for the second time to the smelling-bottle.

  "Arnold Brinkworth's most intimate friend!" she exclaimed. "He

  ought to know if any body does. This is dreadful. Why should Mr.

  Geoffrey Delamayn tell _you?_"

  "I am going to marry him," answered Mrs. Glenarm. "That is my

  excuse, dear Lady Lundie, for troubling you in this matter."

  Lady Lundie partially opened her eyes in a state of faint

  bewilderment. "I don't understand," she said. "For Heaven's sake

  explain yourself!"

  "Haven't you heard about the anonymous letters?" asked Mrs.

  Glenarm.

  Yes. Lady Lundie had heard about the letters. But only what the

  public in general had heard. The name of the lady in the

  background not mentioned; and Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn assumed to be

  as innocent as the babe unborn. Any mistake in that assumption?

  "Give me your hand, my poor dear, and confide it all to _me!_"

  "He is not quite innocent," said Mrs. Glenarm. "He owned to a

  foolish flirtation--all _her_ doing, no doubt. Of course, I

  insisted on a distinct explanation. Had she really any claim on

  him? Not the shadow of a claim. I felt that I only had his word

  for that--and I told him so. He said he could prove it--he said

  he knew her to be privately married already. Her husband had

  disowned and deserted her; she was at the end of her resources;

  she was desperate enough to attempt any thing. I thought it all

  very suspicious--until Geoffrey mentioned the man's name. _That_

  certainly proved that he had cast off his wife; for I myself knew

  that he had lately married another person."

  Lady Lundie suddenly started up from her pillow--honestly

  agitated; genuinely alarmed by this time.

  "Mr. Delamayn told you the man's name?" she said, breathlessly.

  "Yes."

  "Do I know it?"

  "Don't ask me!"

  Lady Lundie fell back on the pillow.

  Mrs. Glenarm rose to ring for help. Before she could touch the

  bell, her ladyship had rallied again.

  "Stop!" she cried. "I can confirm it! It's true, Mrs. Glenarm!

  it's true! Open the silver box on the toilet-table--you will find

  the key in it. Bring me the top letter. Here! Look at it. I got

  this from Blanche. Why have they suddenly given up their bridal

  tour? Why have they gone back to Sir Patrick at Ham Farm? Why

  have they put me off with an infamous subterfuge to account for

  it? I felt sure something dreadful had happened. Now I know what

  it is!" She sank back again, with closed eyes, and repeated the

  words, in a fierce whisper, to herself. "Now I know what it is!"

  Mrs. Glenarm read the letter. The reason given for the

  suspiciously sudden return of the bride and bridegroom was

  palpably a subterfuge--and, more remarkable still, the name of

  Anne Silvester was connected with it. Mrs. Glenarm became

  strongly agitated on her side.

  "This _is_ a confirmation," she said. "Mr. Brinkworth has been

  found out--the woman _is_ married to him--Geoffrey is free. Oh,

  my dear friend, what a load of anxiety you have taken off my

  mind! That vile wretch--"

  Lady Lundie suddenly opened her eyes.

  "Do you mean," she asked, "the woman who is at the bottom of all

  the mischief?"

  "Yes. I saw her yesterday. She forced herself in at Swanhaven.

  She called him Geoffrey Delamayn. She declared herself a single

  woman. She claimed him before my face in the most audacious

  manner. She shook my faith, Lady Lundie--she shook my faith in

  Geoffrey!"

  "Who is she?"

  "Who?" echoed Mrs. Glenarm. "Don't you even know that? Why her

  name is repeated half a dozen times in this letter!"

  Lady Lundie uttered a scream that rang through the room. Mrs.

  Glenarm started to her feet. The maid appeared at the door in

  terror. Her ladyship motioned to the woman to withdraw again

  instantly, and then pointed to Mrs. Glenarm's chair.

  "Sit down," she said. "Let me have a minute or two of quiet. I

  want nothing more."

  The silence in the room was unbroken until Lady Lundie spoke

  again. She asked for Blanche's letter. After reading it

  carefully, she laid it aside, and fell for a while into deep

  thought.

  "I have done Blanche an injustice!" she exclaimed. "My poor

  Blanche!"

  "You think she knows nothing about it?"

  "I am certain of it! You forget, Mrs. Glenarm, that this horrible

  discovery casts a doubt on my step-daughter's marriage. Do you

  think, if she knew the truth, she would write of a wretch who has

  mortally injured her as she writes here? They have put her off

  with the excuse that she innocently sends to _me._ I see it as

  plainly as I see you! Mr. Brinkworth and Sir Patrick are in

  league to keep us both in the dark. Dear child! I owe her an

  atonement. If nobody else opens her eyes, I will do it. Sir

  Patrick shall find that Blanche has a friend in Me!"

  A smile--the dangerous smile of an inveterately vindictive woman

  thoroughly roused--showed itself with a furtive suddenness on her

  face. Mrs. Glenarm was a little startled. Lady Lundie below the

  surface--as distinguished from Lady Lundie _on_ the surface--was

  not a pleasant object to contemplate.

  "Pray try to compose yourself," said Mrs. Glenarm. "Dear Lady

  Lundie, you frighten me!"

  The bland surface of her ladyship appeared smoothly once more;

  drawn back, as it were, over the hidden inner self, which it had

  left for the moment exposed to view.

  "Forgive me for feeling it!" she said, with the patient sweetness

  which so eminently distinguished her in times of trial. "It falls

  a little heavily on a poor sick woman--innocent of all suspicion,

  and insulted by the most heartless neglect. Don't let me distress

  you. I shall rally, my dear; I shall rally! In this dreadful

  calamity--this abyss of crime and misery and deceit--I have no

  one to depend on but myself. For Blanche's sake, the whole thing

  must be cleared up--probed, my dear, probed to the depths.

  Blanche must take a position that is worthy of her. Blanche must

  insist on her rights, under My protection. Never mind what I

  suffer, or what I sacrifice. There is a work of justice for poor

  weak Me to do. It shall be done!" said her ladyship, fanning

  herself with an aspect of illimitable resolution. "It shall be

  done!"

  "But, Lady Lundie what can you do? They are all away in the

  south. And as for that abominable woman--"

  Lady Lundie touched Mrs. Glenarm on the shoulder with her fan.

  "I have my surprise in store, dear friend, a
s well as you. That

  abominable woman was employed as Blanche's governess in this

  house. Wait! that is not all. She left us suddenly--ran away--on

  the pretense of being privately married. I know where she went. I

  can trace what she did. I can find out who was with her. I can

  follow Mr. Brinkworth's proceedings, behind Mr. Brinkworth's

  back. I can search out the truth, without depending on people

  compromised in this black business, whose interest it is to

  deceive me. And I will do it to-day!" She closed the fan with a

  sharp snap of t riumph, and settled herself on the pillow in

  placid enjoyment of her dear friend's surprise.

  Mrs. Glenarm drew confidentially closer to the bedside. "How can

  you manage it?" she asked, eagerly. "Don't think me curious. I

  have my interest, too, in getting at the truth. Don't leave me

  out of it, pray!"

  "Can you come back to-morrow, at this time?"

  "Yes! yes!"

  "Come, then--and you shall know."

  "Can I be of any use?"

  "Not at present."

  "Can my uncle be of any use?"

  "Do you know where to communicate with Captain Newenden?"

  "Yes--he is staying with some friends in Sussex."

  "We may possibly want his assistance. I can't tell yet. Don't

  keep Mrs. Delamayn waiting any longer, my dear. I shall expect

  you to-morrow."

  They exchanged an affectionate embrace. Lady Lundie was left

  alone.

  Her ladyship resigned herself to meditation, with frowning brow

  and close-shut lips. She looked her full age, and a year or two

  more, as she lay thinking, with her head on her hand, and her

  elbow on the pillow. After committing herself to the physician

  (and to the red lavender draught) the commonest regard for

  consistency made it necessary that she should keep her bed for

  that day. And yet it was essential that the proposed inquiries

  should be instantly set on foot. On the one hand, the problem was

  not an easy one to solve; on the other, her ladyship was not an

  easy one to beat. How to send for the landlady at Craig Fernie,

  without exciting any special suspicion or remark--was the

  question before her. In less than five minutes she had looked

  back into her memory of current events at Windygates--and had

  solved it.

  Her first proceeding was to ring the bell for her maid.

  "I am afraid I frightened you, Hopkins. The state of my nerves.

  Mrs. Glenarm was a little sudden with some news that surprised

  me. I am better now--and able to attend to the household matters.

  There is a mistake in the butcher's account. Send the cook here."

  She took up the domestic ledger and the kitchen report; corrected

  the butcher; cautioned the cook; and disposed of all arrears of

  domestic business before Hopkins was summoned again. Having, in

  this way, dextrously prevented the woman from connecting any

  thing that her mistress said or did, after Mrs. Glenarm's

  departure, with any thing that might have passed during Mrs.

  Glenarm's visit, Lady Lundie felt herself at liberty to pave the

  way for the investigation on which she was determined to enter

  before she slept that night.

  "So much for the indoor arrangements," she said. "You must be my

  prime minister, Hopkins, while I lie helpless here. Is there any

  thing wanted by the people out of doors? The coachman? The

  gardener?"

  "I have just seen the gardener, my lady. He came with last week's

  accounts. I told him he couldn't see your ladyship to-day."

  "Quite right. Had he any report to make?"

  "No, my lady."

  "Surely, there was something I wanted to say to him--or to

  somebody else? My memorandum-book, Hopkins. In the basket, on

  that chair. Why wasn't the basket placed by my bedside?"

  Hopkins brought the memorandum-book. Lady Lundie consulted it

  (without the slightest necessity), with the same masterly gravity