for it ane o' these days? Eh! eh! there may be the warth o' a fi'
pun' note in this, to a puir lad like me!"
With that comforting reflection, he drew out a battered tin
cash-box from the inner recesses of the drawer, and locked up the
stolen correspondence to bide its time.
The storm rose higher and higher as the evening advanced.
In the sitting-room, the state of affairs, perpetually changing,
now presented itself under another new aspect.
Arnold had finished his dinner, and had sent it away. He had next
drawn a side-table up to the sofa on which Anne lay--had shuffled
the pack of cards--and was now using all his powers of persuasion
to induce her to try one game at _Ecarté_ with him, by way
of diverting her attention from the tumult of the storm. In sheer
weariness, she gave up contesting the matter; and, raising
herself languidly on the sofa, said she would try to play.
"Nothing can make matters worse than they are," she thought,
despairingly, as Arnold dealt the cards for her. "Nothing can
justify my inflicting my own wretchedness on this kind-hearted
boy!"
Two worse players never probably sat down to a game. Anne's
attention perpetually wandered; and Anne's companion was, in all
human probability, the most incapable card-player in Europe.
Anne turned up the trump--the nine of Diamonds. Arnold looked at
his hand--and "proposed." Anne declined to change the cards.
Arnold announced, with undiminished good-humor, that he saw his
way clearly, now, to losing the game, and then played his first
card--the Queen of Trumps!
Anne took it with the King, and forgot to declare the King. She
played the ten of Trumps.
Arnold unexpectedly discovered the eight of Trumps in his hand.
"What a pity!" he said, as he played it. "Hullo! you haven't
marked the King! I'll do it for you. That's two--no, three--to
you. I said I should lose the game. Couldn't be expected to do
any thing (could I?) with such a hand as mine. I've lost every
thing now I've lost my trumps. You to play."
Anne looked at her hand. At the same moment the lightning flashed
into the room through the ill-closed shutters; the roar of the
thunder burst over the house, and shook it to its foundation. The
screaming of some hysterical female tourist, and the barking of a
dog, rose shrill from the upper floor of the inn. Anne's nerves
could support it no longer. She flung her cards on the table, and
sprang to her feet.
"I can play no more," she said. "Forgive me--I am quite unequal
to it. My head burns! my heart stifles me!"
She began to pace the room again. Aggravated by the effect of the
storm on her nerves, her first vague distrust of the false
position into which she and Arnold had allowed themselves to
drift had strengthened, by this time, into a downright horror of
their situation which was not to be endured. Nothing could
justify such a risk as the risk they were now running! They had
dined together like married people--and there they were, at that
moment, shut in together, and passing the evening like man and
wife!
"Oh, Mr. Brinkworth!" she pleaded. "Think--for Blanche's sake,
think--is there no way out of this?"
Arnold was quietly collecting the scattered cards.
"Blanche, again?" he said, with the most exasperating composure.
"I wonder how she feels, in this storm?"
In Anne's excited state, the reply almost maddened her. She
turned from Arnold, and hurried to the door.
"I don't care!" she cried, wildly. "I won't let this deception go
on. I'll do what I ought to have done before. Come what may of
it, I'll tell the landlady the truth!"
She had opened the door, and was on the point of stepping into
the passage--when she stopped, and started violently. Was it
possible, in that dreadful weather, that she had actually heard
the sound of carriage wheels on the strip of paved road outside
the inn?
Yes! others had heard the sound too. The hobbling figure of Mr.
Bishopriggs passed her in the passage, making for the house door.
The hard voice of the landlady rang through the inn, ejaculating
astonishment in broad Scotch. Anne closed the sitting-room door
again, and turned to Arnold--who had risen, in surprise, to his
feet.
"Travelers!" she exclaimed. "At this time!"
"And in this weather!" added Arnold.
"_Can_ it be Geoffrey?" she asked--going back to the old vain
delusion that he might yet feel for her, and return.
Arnold shook his head. "Not Geoffrey. Whoever else it may be--not
Geoffrey!"
Mrs. Inchbare suddenly entered the room--with her cap-ribb ons
flying, her eyes staring, and her bones looking harder than ever.
"Eh, mistress!" she said to Anne. "Wha do ye think has driven
here to see ye, from Windygates Hoose, and been owertaken in the
storm?"
Anne was speechless. Arnold put the question: "Who is it?"
"Wha is't?" repeated Mrs. Inchbare. "It's joost the bonny young
leddy--Miss Blanche hersel'."
An irrepressible cry of horror burst from Anne. The landlady set
it down to the lightning, which flashed into the room again at
the same moment.
"Eh, mistress! ye'll find Miss Blanche a bit baulder than to
skirl at a flash o' lightning, that gait! Here she is, the bonny
birdie!" exclaimed Mrs. Inchbare, deferentially backing out into
the passage again.
Blanche's voice reached them, calling for Anne.
Anne caught Arnold by the hand and wrung it hard. "Go!" she
whispered. The next instant she was at the mantle-piece, and had
blown out both the candles.
Another flash of lightning came through the darkness, and showed
Blanche's figure standing at the door.
CHAPTER THE THIRTEENTH.
BLANCHE.
MRS. INCHBARE was the first person who acted in the emergency.
She called for lights; and sternly rebuked the house-maid, who
brought them, for not having closed the house door. "Ye feckless
ne'er-do-weel!" cried the landlady; "the wind's blawn the candles
oot."
The woman declared (with perfect truth) that the door had been
closed. An awkward dispute might have ensued if Blanche had not
diverted Mrs. Inchbare's attention to herself. The appearance of
the lights disclosed her, wet through with her arms round Anne's
neck. Mrs. Inchbare digressed at once to the pressing question of
changing the young lady's clothes, and gave Anne the opportunity
of looking round her, unobserved. Arnold had made his escape
before the candles had been brought in.
In the mean time Blanche's attention was absorbed in her own
dripping skirts.
"Good gracious! I'm absolutely distilling rain from every part of
me. And I'm making you, Anne, as wet as I am! Lend me some dry
things. You can't? Mrs. Inchbare, what does your experience
suggest? Which had I better do? Go to bed while my clothes are
being dried? or borrow from your wardrobe--though you _are_ a
head and shoulders taller than I am?"
Mrs. Inchbare instantly bustled out to fetch the choicest
garments that her wardrobe could produce. The moment the door had
closed on her Blanche looked round the room in her turn.
The rights of affection having been already asserted, the claims
of curiosity naturally pressed for satisfaction next.
"Somebody passed me in the dark," she whispered. "Was it your
husband? I'm dying to be introduced to him. And, oh my dear! what
_is_ your married name?"
Anne answered, coldly, "Wait a little. I can't speak about it
yet."
"Are you ill?" asked Blanche.
"I am a little nervous."
"Has any thing unpleasant happened between you and my uncle? You
have seen him, haven't you?"
"Yes."
"Did he give you my message?"
"He gave me your message.--Blanche! you promised him to stay at
Windygates. Why, in the name of heaven, did you come here
to-night?"
"If you were half as fond of me as I am of you," returned
Blanche, "you wouldn't ask that. I tried hard to keep my promise,
but I couldn't do it. It was all very well, while my uncle was
laying down the law--with Lady Lundie in a rage, and the dogs
barking, and the doors banging, and all that. The excitement kept
me up. But when my uncle had gone, and the dreadful gray, quiet,
rainy evening came, and it had all calmed down again, there was
no bearing it. The house--without you--was like a tomb. If I had
had Arnold with me I might have done very well. But I was all by
myself. Think of that! Not a soul to speak to! There wasn't a
horrible thing that could possibly happen to you that I didn't
fancy was going to happen. I went into your empty room and looked
at your things. _That_ settled it, my darling! I rushed down
beyond human resistance. How could I help it? I ask any
reasonable person how could I help it? I ran to the stables and
found Jacob. Impulse--all impulse! I said, 'Get the
pony-chaise--I must have a drive--I don't care if it rains--you
come with me.' All in a breath, and all impulse! Jacob behaved
like an angel. He said, 'All right, miss.' I am perfectly certain
Jacob would die for me if I asked him. He is drinking hot grog at
this moment, to prevent him from catching cold, by my express
orders. He had the pony-chaise out in two minutes; and off we
went. Lady Lundie, my dear, prostrate in her own room--too much
sal volatile. I hate her. The rain got worse. I didn't mind it.
Jacob didn't mind it. The pony didn't mind it. They had both
caught my impulse--especially the pony. It didn't come on to
thunder till some time afterward; and then we were nearer Craig
Fernie than Windygates--to say nothing of your being at one place
and not at the other. The lightning was quite awful on the moor.
If I had had one of the horses, he would have been frightened.
The pony shook his darling little head, and dashed through it. He
is to have beer. A mash with beer in it--by my express orders.
When he has done we'll borrow a lantern, and go into the stable,
and kiss him. In the mean time, my dear, here I am--wet through
in a thunderstorm, which doesn't in the least matter--and
determined to satisfy my own mind about you, which matters a
great deal, and must and shall be done before I rest to-night! "
She turned Anne, by main force, as she spoke, toward the light of
the candles.
Her tone changed the moment she looked at Anne's face.
"I knew it!" she said. "You would never have kept the most
interesting event in your life a secret from _me_--you would
never have written me such a cold formal letter as the letter you
left in your room--if there had not been something wrong. I said
so at the time. I know it now! Why has your husband forced you to
leave Windygates at a moment's notice? Why does he slip out of
the room in the dark, as if he was afraid of being seen? Anne!
Anne! what has come to you? Why do you receive me in this way?"
At that critical moment Mrs. Inchbare reappeared, with the
choicest selection of wearing apparel which her wardrobe could
furnish. Anne hailed the welcome interruption. She took the
candles, and led the way into the bedroom immediately.
"Change your wet clothes first," she said. "We can talk after
that."
The bedroom door had hardly been closed a minute before there was
a tap at it. Signing to Mrs. Inchbare not to interrupt the
services she was rendering to Blanche, Anne passed quickly into
the sitting-room, and closed the door behind her. To her infinite
relief, she only found herself face to face with the discreet Mr.
Bishopriggs.
"What do you want?" she asked.
The eye of Mr. Bishopriggs announced, by a wink, that his mission
was of a confidential nature. The hand of Mr. Bishopriggs
wavered; the breath of Mr. Bishopriggs exhaled a spirituous fume.
He slowly produced a slip of paper, with some lines of writing on
it.
"From ye ken who," he explained, jocosely. "A bit love-letter, I
trow, from him that's dear to ye. Eh! he's an awfu' reprobate is
him that's dear to ye. Miss, in the bedchamber there, will nae
doot be the one he's jilted for _you?_ I see it all--ye can't
blind Me--I ha' been a frail person my ain self, in my time.
Hech! he's safe and sound, is the reprobate. I ha' lookit after
a' his little creature-comforts--I'm joost a fether to him, as
well as a fether to you. Trust Bishopriggs--when puir human
nature wants a bit pat on the back, trust Bishopriggs."
While the sage was speaking these comfortable words, Anne was
reading the lines traced on the paper. They were signed by
Arnold; and they ran thus:
"I am in the smoking-room of the inn. It rests with you to say
whether I must stop there. I don't believe Blanche would be
jealous. If I knew how to explain my being at the inn without
betraying the confidence which you and Geoffrey have placed in
me, I wouldn't be away from her another moment. It does grate on
me so! At the same time, I don't want to make your position
harder than it is. Think of yourself f irst. I leave it in your
hands. You have only to say, Wait, by the bearer--and I shall
understand that I am to stay where I am till I hear from you
again."
Anne looked up from the message.
"Ask him to wait," she said; "and I will send word to him again."
necessary supplement to the message." Eh! it comes as easy as A.
B. C. to a man o' my experience. Ye can ha' nae better
gae-between than yer puir servant to command, Sawmuel
Bishopriggs. I understand ye baith pairfeckly." He laid his
forefinger along his flaming nose, and withdrew.
Without allowing herself to hesitate for an instant, Anne opened
the bedroom door--with the resolution of relieving Arnold from
the new sacrifice imposed on him by ownin
g the truth.
"Is that you?" asked Blanche.
At the sound of her voice, Anne started back guiltily. "I'll be
with you in a moment," she answered, and closed the door again
between them.
No! it was not to be done. Something in Blanche's trivial
question--or something, perhaps, in the sight of Blanche's
face--roused the warning instinct in Anne, which silenced her on
the very brink of the disclosure. At the last moment the iron
chain of circumstances made itself felt, binding her without
mercy to the hateful, the degrading deceit. Could she own the
truth, about Geoffrey and herself, to Blanche? and, without
owning it, could she explain and justify Arnold's conduct in
joining her privately at Craig Fernie? A shameful confession made
to an innocent girl; a risk of fatally shaking Arnold's place in
Blanche's estimation; a scandal at the inn, in the disgrace of
which the others would be involved with herself--this was the
price at which she must speak, if she followed her first impulse,
and said, in so many words, "Arnold is here."
It was not to be thought of. Cost what it might in present
wretchedness--end how it might, if the deception was discovered
in the future--Blanche must be kept in ignorance of the truth,
Arnold must be kept in hiding until she had gone.
Anne opened the door for the second time, and went in.
The business of the toilet was standing still. Blanche was in
confidential communication with Mrs. Inchbare. At the moment when
Anne entered the room she was eagerly questioning the landlady
about her friend's "invisible husband"--she was just saying, "Do
tell me! what is he like?"
The capacity for accurate observation is a capacity so uncommon,
and is so seldom associated, even where it does exist, with the
equally rare gift of accurately describing the thing or the
person observed, that Anne's dread of the consequences if Mrs.
Inchbare was allowed time to comply with Blanches request, was,
in all probability, a dread misplaced. Right or wrong, however,
the alarm that she felt hurried her into taking measures for
dismissing the landlady on the spot. "We mustn't keep you from
your occupations any longer," she said to Mrs. Inchbare. "I will
give Miss Lundie all the help she needs."
Barred from advancing in one direction, Blanche's curiosity
turned back, and tried in another. She boldly addressed herself
to Anne.
"I _must_ know something about him," she said. "Is he shy before
strangers? I heard you whispering with him on the other side of
the door. Are you jealous, Anne? Are you afraid I shall fascinate
him in this dress?"
Blanche, in Mrs. Inchbare's best gown--an ancient and
high-waisted silk garment, of the hue called "bottle-green,"
pinned up in front, and trailing far behind her--with a short,
orange-colored shawl over her shoulders, and a towel tied turban
fashion round her head, to dry her wet hair, looked at once the
strangest and the prettiest human anomaly that ever was seen.
"For heaven's sake," she said, gayly, "don't tell your husband I
am in Mrs. Inchbare's clothes! I want to appear suddenly, without
a word to warn him of what a figure I am! I should have nothing
left to wish for in this world," she added, " if Arnold could
only see me now!"
Looking in the glass, she noticed Anne's face reflected behind
her, and started at the sight of it.
"What _is_ the matter?" she asked. "Your face frightens me."
It was useless to prolong the pain of the inevitable
misunderstanding between them. The one course to take was to
silence all further inquiries then and there. Strongly as she
felt this, Anne's inbred loyalty to Blanche still shrank from
deceiving her to her face. "I might write it," she thought. "I
can't say it, with Arnold Brinkworth in the same house with her!
"Write it? As she reconsidered the word, a sudden idea struck