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between the courses. He began when the soup was taken away.

  "I confess I had hoped to see Blanche come back with you!" he

  said, sadly enough.

  "In other words," returned Sir Patrick, "you forgot the native

  obstinacy of the sex. Blanche is beginning to feel that she has

  been wrong. What is the necessary consequence? She naturally

  persists in being wrong. Let her alone, and leave your letter to

  have its effect. The serious difficulties in our way don't rest

  with Blanche. Content yourself with knowing that."

  The fish came in, and Arnold was silenced--until his next

  opportunity came with the next interval in the course of the

  dinner.

  "What are the difficulties?" he asked

  "The difficulties are my difficulties and yours," answered Sir

  Patrick. "My difficulty is, that I can't assert my authority, as

  guardian, if I assume my niece (as I do) to be a married woman.

  Your difficulty is, that you can't assert your authority as her

  husband, until it is distinctly proved that you and Miss

  Silvester are not man and wife. Lady Lundie was perfectly aware

  that she would place us in that position, when she removed

  Blanche from this house. She has cross-examined Mrs. Inchbare;

  she has written to your steward for the date of your arrival at

  your estate; she has done every thing, calculated every thing,

  and foreseen every thing--except my excellent temper. The one

  mistake she has made, is in thinking she could get the better of

  _that._ No, my dear boy! My trump card is my temper. I keep it in

  my hand, Arnold--I keep it in my hand!"

  The next course came in--and there was an end of the subject

  again. Sir Patrick enjoyed his mutton, and entered on a long and

  interesting narrative of the history of some rare white Burgundy

  on the table imported by himself. Arnold resolutely resumed the

  discussion with the departure of the mutton.

  "It seems to be a dead lock," he said.

  "No slang!" retorted Sir Patrick.

  "For Heaven's sake, Sir, consider my anxiety, and tell me what

  you propose to do!"

  "I propose to take you to London with me to-morrow, on this

  condition--that you promise me, on your word of honor, not to

  attempt to see your wife before Saturday next."

  "I shall see her then?"

  "If you give me your promise."

  "I do! I do!"

  The next course came in. Sir Patrick entered on the question of

  the merits of the partridge, viewed as an eatable bird, "By

  himself, Arnold--plainly roasted, and tested on his own

  merits--an overrated bird. Being too fond of shooting him in this

  country, we become too fond of eating him next. Properly

  understood, he is a vehicle for sauce and truffles--nothing more.

  Or no--that is hardly doing him justice. I am bound to add that

  he is honorably associated with the famous French receipt for

  cooking an olive. Do you know it?"

  There was an end of the bird; there was an end of the jelly.

  Arnold got his next chance--and took it.

  "What is to be done in London to-morrow?" he asked.

  "To-morrow," answered Sir Patrick, "is a memorable day in our

  calendar. To-morrow is Tuesday--the day on which I am to see Miss

  Silvester."

  Arnold set down the glass of wine which he was just raising to

  his lips.

  "After what has happened," he said, "I can hardly bear to hear

  her name mentioned. Miss Silvester has parted me from my wife."

  "Miss Silvester may atone for that, Arnold, by uniting you

  again."

  "She has been the ruin of me so far."

  "She may be the salvation of you yet."

  The cheese came in; and Sir Patrick returned to the Art of

  Cookery.

  "Do you know the receipt for cooking an olive, Arnold?"

  "No."

  "What _does_ the new

  generation know? It knows how to row, how to shoot, how to play

  at cricket, and how to bat. When it has lost its muscle and lost

  its money--that is to say, when it has grown old--what a

  generation it will be! It doesn't matter: I sha'n't live to see

  it. Are you listening, Arnold?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "How to cook an olive! Put an olive into a lark, put a lark into

  a quail; put a quail into a plover; put a plover into a

  partridge; put a partridge into a pheasant; put a pheasant into a

  turkey. Good. First, partially roast, then carefully stew--until

  all is thoroughly done down to the olive. Good again. Next, open

  the window. Throw out the turkey, the pheasant, the partridge,

  the plover, the quail, and the lark. _Then, eat the olive._ The

  dish is expensive, but (we have it on the highest authority) well

  worth the sacrifice. The quintessence of the flavor of six birds,

  concentrated in one olive. Grand idea! Try another glass of the

  white Burgundy, Arnold."

  At last the servants left them--with the wine and dessert on the

  table.

  "I have borne it as long as I can, Sir," said Arnold. "Add to all

  your kindness to me by telling me at once what happened at Lady

  Lundie's."

  It was a chilly evening. A bright wood fire was burning in the

  room. Sir Patrick drew his chair to the fire.

  "This is exactly what happened," he said. "I found company at

  Lady Lundie's, to begin with. Two perfect strangers to me.

  Captain Newenden, and his niece, Mrs. Glenarm. Lady Lundie

  offered to see me in another room; the two strangers offered to

  withdraw. I declined both proposals. First check to her ladyship!

  She has reckoned throughout, Arnold, on our being afraid to face

  public opinion. I showed her at starting that we were as ready to

  face it as she was. 'I always accept what the French call

  accomplished facts,' I said. 'You have brought matters to a

  crisis, Lady Lundie. So let it be. I have a word to say to my

  niece (in your presence, if you like); and I have another word to

  say to you afterward--without presuming to disturb your guests.'

  The guests sat down again (both naturally devoured by curiosity).

  Could her ladyship decently refuse me an interview with my own

  niece, while two witnesses were looking on? Impossible. I saw

  Blanche (Lady Lundie being present, it is needless to say) in the

  back drawing-room. I gave her your letter; I said a good word for

  you; I saw that she was sorry, though she wouldn't own it--and

  that was enough. We went back into the front drawing-room. I had

  not spoken five words on our side of the question before it

  appeared, to my astonishment and delight, that Captain Newenden

  was in the house on the very question that had brought me into

  the house--the question of you and Miss Silvester. My business,

  in the interests of _my_ niece, was to deny your marriage to the

  lady. His business, in the interests of _his_ niece, was to

  assert your marriage to the lady. To the unutterable disgust of

  the two women, we joined issue, in the most friendly manner, on

  the spot. 'Charmed to have the pleasure of meeting you, Captain

  Newenden.'--'Delighted to have the honor of making your

  acquai
ntance, Sir Patrick.'--'I think we can settle this in two

  minutes?'--'My own idea perfectly expressed.'--'State your

  position, Captain.'--'With the greatest pleasure. Here is my

  niece, Mrs. Glenarm, engaged to marry Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn. All

  very well, but there happens to be an obstacle--in the shape of a

  lady. Do I put it plainly?'--'You put it admirably, Captain; but

  for the loss to the British navy, you ought to have been a

  lawyer. Pray, go on.'--'You are too good, Sir Patrick. I resume.

  Mr. Delamayn asserts that this person in the back-ground has no

  claim on him, and backs his assertion by declaring that she is

  married already to Mr. Arnold Brinkworth. Lady Lundie and my

  niece assure me, on evidence which satisfies _them,_ that the

  assertion is true. The evidence does not satisfy _me._ 'I hope,

  Sir Patrick, I don't strike you as being an excessively obstinate

  man?'--'My dear Sir, you impress me with the highest opinion of

  your capacity for sifting human testimony! May I ask, next, what

  course you mean to take?'--'The very thing I was going to

  mention, Sir Patrick! This is my course. I refuse to sanction my

  niece's engagement to Mr. Delamayn, until Mr. Delamayn has

  actually proved his statement by appeal to witnesses of the

  lady's marriage. He refers me to two witnesses; but declines

  acting at once in the matter for himself, on the ground that he

  is in training for a foot-race. I admit that that is an obstacle,

  and consent to arrange for bringing the two witnesses to London

  myself. By this post I have written to my lawyers in Perth to

  look the witnesses up; to offer them the necessary terms (at Mr.

  Delamayn's expense) for the use of their time; and to produce

  them by the end of the week. The footrace is on Thursday next.

  Mr. Delamayn will be able to attend after that, and establish his

  own assertion by his own witnesses. What do you say, Sir Patrick,

  to Saturday next (with Lady Lundie's permission) in this

  room?'--There is the substance of the captain's statement. He is

  as old as I am and is dressed to look like thirty; but a very

  pleasant fellow for all that. I struck my sister-in-law dumb by

  accepting the proposal without a moment's hesitation. Mrs.

  Glenarm and Lady Lundie looked at each other in mute amazement.

  Here was a difference about which two women would have mortally

  quarreled; and here were two men settling it in the friendliest

  possible manner. I wish you had seen Lady Lundie's face, when I

  declared myself deeply indebted to Captain Newenden for rendering

  any prolonged interview with her ladyship quite unnecessary.

  'Thanks to the captain,' I said to her, in the most cordial

  manner, 'we have absolutely nothing to discuss. I shall catch the

  next train, and set Arnold Brinkworth's mind quite at ease.' To

  come back to serious things, I have engaged to produce you, in

  the presence of every body--your wife included--on Saturday next.

  I put a bold face on it before the others. But I am bound to tell

  _you_ that it is by no means easy to say--situated as we are

  now--what the result of Saturday's inquiry will be. Every thing

  depends on the issue of my interview with Miss Silvester

  to-morrow. It is no exaggeration to say, Arnold, that your fate

  is in her hands."

  "I wish to heaven I had never set eyes on her!" said Arnold.

  "Lay the saddle on the right horse," returned Sir Patrick. "Wish

  you had never set eyes on Geoffrey Delamayn."

  Arnold hung his head. Sir Patrick's sharp tongue had got the

  better of him once more.

  TWELFTH SCENE.--DRURY LANE.

  CHAPTER THE FORTY-FOURTH.

  THE LETTER AND THE LAW.

  THE many-toned murmur of the current of London life--flowing

  through the murky channel of Drury Lane--found its muffled way

  from the front room to the back. Piles of old music lumbered the

  dusty floor. Stage masks and weapons, and portraits of singers

  and dancers, hung round the walls. An empty violin case in one

  corner faced a broken bust of Rossini in another. A frameless

  print, representing the Trial of Queen Caroline, was pasted over

  the fireplace. The chairs were genuine specimens of ancient

  carving in oak. The table was an equally excellent example of

  dirty modern deal. A small morsel of drugget was on the floor;

  and a large deposit of soot was on the ceiling. The scene thus

  presented, revealed itself in the back drawing-room of a house in

  Drury Lane, devoted to the transaction of musical and theatrical

  business of the humbler sort. It was late in the afternoon, on

  Michaelmas-day. Two persons were seated together in the room:

  they were Anne Silvester and Sir Patrick Lundie.

  The opening conversation between them--comprising, on one side,

  the narrative of what had happened at Perth and at Swanhaven;

  and, on the other, a statement of the circumstances attending the

  separation of Arnold and Blanche--had come to an end. It rested

  with Sir Patrick to lead the way to the next topic. He looked at

  his companion, and hesitated.

  "Do you feel strong enough to go on?" he asked. "If you would

  prefer to rest a little, pray say so."

  "Thank you, Sir Patrick. I am more than ready, I a m eager, to go

  on. No words can say how anxious I feel to be of some use to you,

  if I can. It rests entirely with your experience to show me how."

  "I can only do that, Miss Silvester, by asking you without

  ceremony for all the information that I want. Had you any object

  in traveling to London, which you have not mentioned to me yet? I

  mean, of course, any object with which I hare a claim (as Arnold

  Brinkworth's representative) to be acquainted?"

  "I had an object, Sir Patrick. And I have failed to accomplish

  it."

  "May I ask what it was?"

  "It was to see Geoffrey Delamayn."

  Sir Patrick started. "You have attempted to see _him!_ When?"

  "This morning."

  "Why, you only arrived in London last night!"

  "I only arrived," said Anne, "after waiting many days on the

  journey. I was obliged to rest at Edinburgh, and again at

  York--and I was afraid I had given Mrs. Glenarm time enough to

  get to Geoffrey Delamayn before me."

  "Afraid?" repeated Sir Patrick. "I understood that you had no

  serious intention of disputing the scoundrel with Mrs. Glenarm.

  What motive could possibly have taken you _his_ way?"

  "The same motive which took me to Swanhaven."

  "What! the idea that it rested with Delamayn to set things right?

  and that you might bribe him to do it, by consenting to release

  him, so far as your claims were concerned?"

  "Bear with my folly, Sir Patrick, as patiently as you can! I am

  always alone now; and I get into a habit of brooding over things.

  I have been brooding over the position in which my misfortunes

  have placed Mr. Brinkworth. I have been obstinate--unreasonably

  obstinate--in believing that I could prevail with Geoffrey

  Delamayn, after I had failed with Mrs. Glenarm. I am obstinate

  about it still. If he would only ha
ve heard me, my madness in

  going to Fulham might have had its excuse." She sighed bitterly,

  and said no more.

  Sir Patrick took her hand.

  "It _has_ its excuse," he said, kindly. "Your motive is beyond

  reproach. Let me add--to quiet your mind--that, even if Delamayn

  had been willing to hear you, and had accepted the condition, the

  result would still have been the same. You are quite wrong in

  supposing that he has only to speak, and to set this matter

  right. It has passed entirely beyond his control. The mischief

  was done when Arnold Brinkworth spent those unlucky hours with

  you at Craig Fernie."

  "Oh, Sir Patrick, if I had only known that, before I went to

  Fulham this morning!"

  She shuddered as she said the words. Something was plainly

  associated with her visit to Geoffrey, the bare remembrance of

  which shook her nerves. What was it? Sir Patrick resolved to

  obtain an answer to that question, before be ventured on

  proceeding further with the main object of the interview.

  "You have told me your reason for going to Fulham," he said. "But

  I have not heard what happened there yet."

  Anne hesitated. "Is it necessary for me to trouble you about

  that?" she asked--with evident reluctance to enter on the

  subject.

  "It is absolutely necessary," answered Sir Patrick, "because

  Delamayn is concerned in it."

  Anne summoned her resolution, and entered on her narrative in

  these words:

  "The person who carries on the business here discovered the

  address for me," she began. "I had some difficulty, however, in

  finding the house. It is little more than a cottage; and it is

  quite lost in a great garden, surrounded by high walls. I saw a

  carriage waiting. The coachman was walking his horses up and

  down--and he showed me the door. It was a high wooden door in the

  wall, with a grating in it. I rang the bell. A servant-girl

  opened the grating, and looked at me. She refused to let me in.

  Her mistress had ordered her to close the door on all

  strangers--especially strangers who were women. I contrived to

  pass some money to her through the grating, and asked to speak to

  her mistress. After waiting some time, I saw another face behind

  the bars--and it struck me that I recognized it. I suppose I was

  nervous. It startled me. I said, 'I think we know each other.'

  There was no answer. The door was suddenly opened--and who do you

  think stood before me?"

  "Was it somebody I know?"

  "Yes."

  "Man? or woman?"

  "It was Hester Dethridge."

  "Hester Dethridge!"

  "Yes. Dressed just as usual, and looking just as usual--with her

  slate hanging at her side."

  "Astonishing! Where did I last see her? At the Windygates

  station, to be sure--going to London, after she had left my

  sister-in-law's service. Has she accepted another place--without

  letting me know first, as I told her?"

  "She is living at Fulham."

  "In service?"

  "No. As mistress of her own house."

  "What! Hester Dethridge in possession of a house of her own?

  Well! well! why shouldn't she have a rise in the world like other

  people? Did she let you in?"

  "She stood for some time looking at me, in that dull strange way

  that she has. The servants at Windygates always said she was not

  in her right mind--and you will say, Sir Patrick, when you hear

  what happened, that the servants were not mistaken. She must be

  mad. I said, 'Don't you remember me?' She lifted her slate, and

  wrote, 'I remember you, in a dead swoon at Windygates House.' I

  was quite unaware that she had been present when I fainted in the

  library. The discovery startled me--or that dreadful, dead-cold

  look that she has in her eyes startled me--I don't know which. I

  couldn't speak to her just at first. She wrote on her slate

  again--the strangest question--in these words: 'I said, at the

  time, brought to it by a man. Did I say true?' If the question