Part 26 (2/2)

”Pray don't think of _me_ any longer.”

”In your situation! who else am I to think of?”

Anne laid her hand earnestly on his arm, and answered:

”Blanche!”

”Blanche?” repeated Arnold, utterly at a loss to understand her.

”Yes--Blanche. She found time to tell me what had pa.s.sed between you this morning before I left Windygates. I know you have made her an offer: I know you are engaged to be married to her.”

Arnold was delighted to hear it. He had been merely unwilling to leave her thus far. He was absolutely determined to stay with her now.

”Don't expect me to go after that!” he said. ”Come and sit down again, and let's talk about Blanche.”

Anne declined impatiently, by a gesture. Arnold was too deeply interested in the new topic to take any notice of it.

”You know all about her habits and her tastes,” he went on, ”and what she likes, and what she dislikes. It's most important that I should talk to you about her. When we are husband and wife, Blanche is to have all her own way in every thing. That's my idea of the Whole Duty of Man--when Man is married. You are still standing? Let me give you a chair.”

It was cruel--under other circ.u.mstances it would have been impossible--to disappoint him. But the vague fear of consequences which had taken possession of Anne was not to be trifled with. She had no clear conception of the risk (and it is to be added, in justice to Geoffrey, that _he_ had no clear conception of the risk) on which Arnold had unconsciously ventured, in undertaking his errand to the inn.

Neither of them had any adequate idea (few people have) of the infamous absence of all needful warning, of all decent precaution and restraint, which makes the marriage law of Scotland a trap to catch unmarried men and women, to this day. But, while Geoffrey's mind was incapable of looking beyond the present emergency, Anne's finer intelligence told her that a country which offered such facilities for private marriage as the facilities of which she had proposed to take advantage in her own case, was not a country in which a man could act as Arnold had acted, without danger of some serious embarra.s.sment following as the possible result.

With this motive to animate her, she resolutely declined to take the offered chair, or to enter into the proposed conversation.

”Whatever we have to say about Blanche, Mr. Brinkworth, must be said at some fitter time. I beg you will leave me.”

”Leave you!”

”Yes. Leave me to the solitude that is best for me, and to the sorrow that I have deserved. Thank you--and good-by.”

Arnold made no attempt to disguise his disappointment and surprise.

”If I must go, I must,” he said, ”But why are you in such a hurry?”

”I don't want you to call me your wife again before the people of this inn.”

”Is _that_ all? What on earth are you afraid of?”

She was unable fully to realize her own apprehensions. She was doubly unable to express them in words. In her anxiety to produce some reason which might prevail on him to go, she drifted back into that very conversation about Blanche into which she had declined to enter but the moment before.

”I have reasons for being afraid,” she said. ”One that I can't give; and one that I can. Suppose Blanche heard of what you have done? The longer you stay here--the more people you see--the more chance there is that she _might_ hear of it.”

”And what if she did?” asked Arnold, in his own straightforward way. ”Do you think she would be angry with me for making myself useful to _you?_”

”Yes,” rejoined Anne, sharply, ”if she was jealous of me.”

Arnold's unlimited belief in Blanche expressed itself, without the slightest compromise, in two words:

<script>