in collision, may not lead to very undesirable domestic results; and leaves her to take the course which seems best to herself under those circumstances.—Second message delivered textually. Time, three minutes. A storm coming on. A quarter of an hour’s ride from here to the shooting-cottage. Madam, I wish you good-evening.”
He bowed lower than ever—and, without a word more, quietly left the room.
Anne’s first impulse was (excusably enough, poor soul) an impulse of resentment.
“Thank you, Sir Patrick!” she said, with a bitter look at the closing door. “The sympathy of society with a friendless woman could hardly have been expressed in a more amusing way!”
The little irritation of the moment passed off with the moment. Anne’s own intelligence and good sense showed her the position in its truer light.
She recognized in Sir Patrick’s abrupt departure Sir Patrick’s considerate resolution to spare her from entering into any details on the subject of her position at the inn. He had given her a friendly warning; and he had delicately left her to decide for herself as to the assistance which she might render him in maintaining tranquillity at Windygates. She went at once to a side-table in the room, on which writing materials were placed, and sat down to write to Blanche.
“I can do nothing with Lady Lundie,” she thought. “But I have more influence than any body else over Blanche and I can prevent the collision between them which Sir Patrick dreads.”
She began the letter. “My dearest Blanche, I have seen Sir Patrick, and he has given me your message. I will set your mind at ease about me as soon as I can. But, before I say any thing else, let me entreat you, as the greatest favor you can do to your sister and your friend, not to enter into any disputes about me with Lady Lundie, and not to commit the imprudence—the useless imprudence, my love—of coming here.” She stopped—the paper swam before her eyes. “My own darling!” she thought, “who could have foreseen that I should ever shrink from the thought of seeing you?” She sighed, and dipped the pen in the ink, and went on with the letter.
The sky darkened rapidly as the evening fell. The wind swept in fainter and fainter gusts across the dreary moor. Far and wide over the face of Nature the stillness was fast falling which tells of a coming storm.
CHAPTER THE TWELFTH.
ARNOLD.
MEANWHILE Arnold remained shut up in the head-waiter’s pantry—chafing secretly at the position forced upon him.
He was, for the first time in his life, in hiding from another person, and that person a man. Twice—stung to it by the inevitable loss of self-respect which his situation occasioned—he had gone to the door, determined to face Sir Patrick boldly; and twice he had abandoned the idea, in mercy to Anne. It would have been impossible for him to set himself right with Blanche’s guardian without betraying the unhappy woman whose secret he was bound in honor to keep. “I wish to Heaven I had never come here!” was the useless aspiration that escaped him, as he doggedly seated himself on the dresser to wait till Sir Patrick’s departure set him free.
After an interval—not by any means the long interval which he had anticipated—his solitude was enlivened by the appearance of Father Bishopriggs.
“Well?” cried Arnold, jumping off the dresser, “is the coast clear?”
There were occasions when Mr. Bishopriggs became, on a sudden, unexpectedly hard of hearing, This was one of them.
“Hoo do ye find the paintry?” he asked, without paying the slightest attention to Arnold’s question. “Snug and private? A Patmos in the weelderness, as ye may say!”
His one available eye, which had begun by looking at Arnold’s face, dropped slowly downward, and fixed itself, in mute but eloquent expectation, on Arnold’s waistcoat pocket.
“I understand!” said Arnold. “I promised to pay you for the Patmos—eh? There you are!”
Mr. Bishopriggs pocketed the money with a dreary smile and a sympathetic shake of the head. Other waiters would have returned thanks. The sage of Craig Fernie returned a few brief remarks instead. Admirable in many things, Father Bishopriggs was especially great at drawing a moral. He drew a moral on this occasion from his own gratuity.
“There I am—as ye say. Mercy presairve us! ye need the siller at every turn, when there’s a woman at yer heels. It’s an awfu’ reflection—ye canna hae any thing to do wi’ the sex they ca’ the opposite sex without its being an expense to ye. There’s this young leddy o’ yours, I doot she’ll ha’ been an expense to ye from the first. When you were coortin’ her, ye did it, I’ll go bail, wi’ the open hand. Presents and keep-sakes, flowers and jewelery, and little dogues. Sair expenses all of them!”
“Hang your reflections! Has Sir Patrick left the inn?”
The reflections of Mr. Bishopriggs declined to be disposed of in any thing approaching to a summary way. On they flowed from their parent source, as slowly and as smoothly as ever!
“Noo ye’re married to her, there’s her bonnets and goons and under-clothin’—her ribbons, laces, furbelows, and fallals. A sair expense again!”
“What is the expense of cutting your reflections short, Mr. Bishopriggs?”
“Thirdly, and lastly, if ye canna agree wi’ her as time gaes on—if there’s incompaitibeelity of temper betwixt ye—in short, if ye want a wee bit separation, hech, Sirs! ye pet yer hand in yer poaket, and come to an aimicable understandin’ wi’ her in that way. Or, maybe she takes ye into Court, and pets her hand in your poaket, and comes to a hoastile understandin’ wi’ ye there. Show me a woman—and I’ll show ye a man not far off wha’ has mair expenses on his back than he ever bairgained for.” Arnold’s patience would last no longer—he turned to the door. Mr. Bishopriggs, with equal alacrity on his side, turned to the matter in hand. “Yes, Sir! The room is e’en clear o’ Sir Paitrick, and the leddy’s alane, and waitin’ for ye.”
In a moment more Arnold was back in the sitting-room.
“Well?” he asked, anxiously. “What is it? Bad news from Lady Lundie’s?”
Anne closed and directed the letter to Blanche, which she had just completed. “No,” she replied. “Nothing to interest you.”
“What did Sir Patrick want?”
“Only to warn me. They have found out at Windygates that I am here.”
“That’s awkward, isn’t it?”
“Not in the least. I can manage perfectly; I have nothing to fear. Don’t think of me—think of yourself.”
“I am not suspected, am I?”
“Thank heaven—no. But there is no knowing what may happen if you stay here. Ring the bell at once, and ask the waiter about the trains.”
Struck by the unusual obscurity of the sky at that hour of the evening, Arnold went to the window. The rain had come—and was falling heavily. The view on the moor was fast disappearing in mist and darkness.
“Pleasant weather to travel in!” he said.
“The railway!” Anne exclaimed, impatiently. “It’s getting late. See about the railway!”
Arnold walked to the fire-place to ring the bell. The railway time-table hanging over it met his eye.
“Here’s