may be a question of a few hours." Her head sunk on her bosom; she wrung her clasped hands as they rested on her lap. "And, oh, Blanche!" she moaned to herself, the tears gathering again, and falling, this time, unchecked. "Blanche, who looks up to me! Blanche, who loves me! Blanche, who told me, in this very place, that I was to live with her when she was married!" She started up from the chair; the tears dried suddenly; the hard despair settled again, wan and white, on her face. "Let me go! What is death, compared to such a life as is waiting for me?" She looked him over, in one disdainful glance from head to foot; her voice rose to its loudest and firmest tones. "Why, even you; would have the courage to die if you were in my place!"
Geoffrey glanced round toward the lawn.
"Hush!" he said. "They will hear you!"
"Let them hear me! When I am past hearing them, what does it matter?"
He put her back by main force on the chair. In another moment they must have heard her, through all the noise and laughter of the game.
"Say what you want," he resumed, "and I'll do it. Only be reasonable. I can't marry you to-day."
"You can!"
"What nonsense you talk! The house and grounds are swarming with company. It can't be!"
"It can! I have been thinking about it ever since we came to this house. I have got something to propose to you. Will you hear it, or not?"
"Speak lower!"
"Will you hear it, or not?"
"There's somebody coming!"
"Will you hear it, or not?"
"The devil take your obstinacy! Yes!"
The answer had been wrung from him. Still, it was the answer she wanted—it opened the door to hope. The instant he had consented to hear her her mind awakened to the serious necessity of averting discovery by any third person who might stray idly into the summer-house. She held up her hand for silence, and listened to what was going forward on the lawn.
The dull thump of the croquet-mallet against the ball was no longer to be heard. The game had stopped.
In a moment more she heard her own name called. An interval of another instant passed, and a familiar voice said, "I know where she is. I'll fetch her."
She turned to Geoffrey, and pointed to the back of the summer-house.
"It's my turn to play," she said. "And Blanche is coming here to look for me. Wait there, and I'll stop her on the steps."
She went out at once. It was a critical moment. Discovery, which meant moral-ruin to the woman, meant money-ruin to the man. Geoffrey had not exaggerated his position with his father. Lord Holchester had twice paid his debts, and had declined to see him since. One more outrage on his father's rigid sense of propriety, and he would be left out of the will as well as kept out of the house. He looked for a means of retreat, in case there was no escaping unperceived by the front entrance. A door—intended for the use of servants, when picnics and gipsy tea-parties were given in the summer-house—had been made in the back wall. It opened outward, and it was locked. With his strength it was easy to remove that obstacle. He put his shoulder to the door. At the moment when he burst it open he felt a hand on his arm. Anne was behind him, alone.
"You may want it before long," she said, observing the open door, without expressing any surprise, "You don't want it now. Another person will play for me—I have told Blanche I am not well. Sit down. I have secured a respite of five minutes, and I must make the most of it. In that time, or less, Lady Lundie's suspicions will bring her here—to see how I am. For the present, shut the door."
She seated herself, and pointed to a second chair. He took it—with his eye on the closed door.
"Come to the point!" he said, impatiently. "What is it?"
"You can marry me privately to-day," she answered. "Lis ten—and I will tell you how!"
CHAPTER THE FIFTH.
THE PLAN.
SHE took his hand, and began with all the art of persuasion that she possessed.
"One question, Geoffrey, before I say what I want to say. Lady Lundie has invited you to stay at Windygates. Do you accept her invitation? or do you go back to your brother's in the evening?"
"I can't go back in the evening—they've put a visitor into my room. I'm obliged to stay here. My brother has done it on purpose. Julius helps me when I'm hard up—and bullies me afterward. He has sent me here, on duty for the family. Somebody must be civil to Lady Lundie—and I'm the sacrifice."
She took him up at his last word. "Don't make the sacrifice," she said. "Apologize to Lady Lundie, and say you are obliged to go back."
"Why?"
"Because we must both leave this place to-day."
There was a double objection to that. If he left Lady Lundie's, he would fail to establish a future pecuniary claim on his brother's indulgence. And if he left with Anne, the eyes of the world would see them, and the whispers of the world might come to his father's ears.
"If we go away together," he said, "good-by to my prospects, and yours too."
"I don't mean that we shall leave together," she explained. "We will leave separately—and I will go first."
"There will be a hue and cry after you, when you are missed."
"There will be a dance when the croquet is over. I don't dance—and I shall not be missed. There will be time, and opportunity to get to my own room. I shall leave a letter there for Lady Lundie, and a letter"—her voice trembled for a moment—"and a letter for Blanche. Don't interrupt me! I have thought of this, as I have thought of every thing else. The confession I shall make will be the truth in a few hours, if it's not the truth now. My letters will say I am privately married, and called away unexpectedly to join my husband. There will be a scandal in the house, I know. But there will be no excuse for sending after me, when I am under my husband's protection. So far as you are personally concerned there are no discoveries to fear—and nothing which it is not perfectly safe and perfectly easy to do. Wait here an hour after I have gone to save appearances; and then follow me."
"Follow you?" interposed Geoffrey. "Where?" She drew her chair nearer to him, and whispered the next words in his ear.
"To a lonely little mountain inn—four miles from this."
"An inn!"
"Why not?"
"An inn is a public place."
A movement of natural impatience escaped her—but she controlled herself, and went on as quietly as before:
"The place I mean is the loneliest place in the neighborhood. You have no prying eyes to dread there. I have picked it out expressly for that reason. It's away from the railway; it's away from the high-road: it's kept by a decent, respectable Scotchwoman—"
