“Yes, Sir Patrick. Lady Lundie has kindly ordered the gig to take me to the station, in time for the next train.”
“When are you to be ready?”
Arnold looked at his watch. “In a quarter of an hour.”
“Very good. Mind you are ready. Stop a minute! you will have plenty of time to speak to Blanche when I have done with you. You don’t appear to me to be sufficiently anxious about seeing your own property.”
“I am not very anxious to leave Blanche, Sir—that’s the truth of it.”
“Never mind Blanche. Blanche is not business. They both begin with a B—and that’s the only connection between them. I hear you have got one of the finest houses in this part of Scotland. How long are you going to stay in Scotland? How long are you going to stay in it?”
“I have arranged (as I have already told you, Sir) to return to Windygates the day after to-morrow.”
“What! Here is a man with a palace waiting to receive him—and he is only going to stop one clear day in it!”
“I am not going to stop in it at all, Sir Patrick—I am going to stay with the steward. I’m only wanted to be present to-morrow at a dinner to my tenants—and, when that’s over, there’s nothing in the world to prevent my coming back here. The steward himself told me so in his last letter.”
“Oh, if the steward told you so, of course there is nothing more to be said!”
“Don’t object to my coming back! pray don’t, Sir Patrick! I’ll promise to live in my new house when I have got Blanche to live in it with me. If you won’t mind, I’ll go and tell her at once that it all belongs to her as well as to me.”
“Gently! gently! you talk as if you were married to her already!”
“It’s as good as done, Sir! Where’s the difficulty in the way now?”
As he asked the question the shadow of some third person, advancing from the side of the summer-house, was thrown forward on the open sunlit space at the top of the steps. In a moment more the shadow was followed by the substance—in the shape of a groom in his riding livery. The man was plainly a stranger to the place. He started, and touched his hat, when he saw the two gentlemen in the summer-house.
“What do you want?” asked Sir Patrick
“I beg your pardon, Sir; I was sent by my master—”
“Who is your master?”
“The Honorable Mr. Delamayn, Sir.”
“Do you mean Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn?” asked Arnold.
“No, Sir. Mr. Geoffrey’s brother—Mr. Julius. I have ridden over from the house, Sir, with a message from my master to Mr. Geoffrey.”
“Can’t you find him?”
“They told me I should find him hereabouts, Sir. But I’m a stranger, and don’t rightly know where to look.” He stopped, and took a card out of his pocket. “My master said it was very important I should deliver this immediately. Would you be pleased to tell me, gentlemen, if you happen to know where Mr. Geoffrey is?”
Arnold turned to Sir Patrick. “I haven’t seen him. Have you?”
“I have smelt him,” answered Sir Patrick, “ever since I have been in the summer-house. There is a detestable taint of tobacco in the air—suggestive (disagreeably suggestive to my mind) of your friend, Mr. Delamayn.”
Arnold laughed, and stepped outside the summer-house.
“If you are right, Sir Patrick, we will find him at once.” He looked around, and shouted, “Geoffrey!”
A voice from the rose-garden shouted back, “Hullo!”
“You’re wanted. Come here!”
Geoffrey appeared, sauntering doggedly, with his pipe in his mouth, and his hands in his pockets.
“Who wants me?”
“A groom—from your brother.”
That answer appeared to electrify the lounging and lazy athlete. Geoffrey hurried, with eager steps, to the summer-house. He addressed the groom before the man had time to speak With horror and dismay in his face, he exclaimed:
“By Jupiter! Ratcatcher has relapsed!”
Sir Patrick and Arnold looked at each other in blank amazement.
“The best horse in my brother’s stables!” cried Geoffrey, explaining, and appealing to them, in a breath. “I left written directions with the coachman, I measured out his physic for three days; I bled him,” said Geoffrey, in a voice broken by emotion—“I bled him myself, last night.”
“I beg your pardon, Sir—” began the groom.
“What’s the use of begging my pardon? You’re a pack of infernal fools! Where’s your horse? I’ll ride back, and break every bone in the coachman’s skin! Where’s your horse?”
“If you please, Sir, it isn’t Ratcatcher. Ratcatcher’s all right.”
“Ratcatcher’s all right? Then what the devil is it?”
“It’s a message, Sir.”
“About what?”
“About my lord.”
“Oh! About my father?” He took out his handkerchief, and passed it over his forehead, with a deep gasp of relief. “I thought it was Ratcatcher,” he said, looking at Arnold, with a smile. He put his pipe into his mouth, and rekindled the dying ashes of the tobacco. “Well?” he went on, when the pipe was in working order, and his voice was composed again: “What’s up with my father?”
“A telegram from London, Sir. Bad news of my lord.”
The man produced his master’s card.
Geoffrey read on it (written in his brother’s handwriting) these words:
“I have only a moment to scribble a line on my card. Our father is dangerously ill—his lawyer has been sent for. Come with me to London by the first train. Meet at the junction.”
Without a word to any one of the three persons present, all silently looking at him, Geoffrey consulted his watch. Anne had told him to wait half an hour, and to assume that she had gone if he failed to hear from her in that time. The interval had passed—and no communication of any sort had reached him. The flight from the house had been safely accomplished. Anne Silvester was, at that moment, on her way to the mountain inn.
CHAPTER THE SEVENTH.
THE DEBT.
ARNOLD was the first who broke the silence. “Is your father seriously ill?” he asked.
Geoffrey answered by handing him the card.
Sir Patrick, who had stood apart (while the question of Ratcatcher’s relapse was