“Come! come!” said Arnold to Anne. “There’s a comic side to all this. Try and see it as I do.”
Mr. Bishopriggs returned from the window, and announced the appearance of a new element of embarrassment in the situation at the inn.
“My certie!” he said, “it’s weel ye cam’ when ye did. It’s ill getting to this hottle in a storm.”
Anne started and looked round at him. “A storm coming!” she exclaimed.
“Eh! ye’re well hoosed here—ye needn’t mind it. There’s the cloud down the valley,” he added, pointing out of the window, “coming up one way, when the wind’s blawing the other. The storm’s brewing, my leddy, when ye see that!”
There was another knock at the door. As Arnold had predicted, the landlady made her appearance on the scene.
“I ha’ just lookit in, Sir,” said Mrs. Inchbare, addressing herself exclusively to Arnold, “to see ye’ve got what ye want.”
“Oh! you are the landlady? Very nice, ma’am—very nice.”
Mistress Inchbare had her own private motive for entering the room, and came to it without further preface.
“Ye’ll excuse me, Sir,” she proceeded. “I wasna in the way when ye cam’ here, or I suld ha’ made bauld to ask ye the question which I maun e’en ask noo. Am I to understand that ye hire these rooms for yersel’, and this leddy here—yer wife?”
Anne raised her head to speak. Arnold pressed her hand warningly, under the table, and silenced her.
“Certainly,” he said. “I take the rooms for myself, and this lady here—my wife!”
Anne made a second attempt to speak.
“This gentleman—” she began.
Arnold stopped her for the second time.
“This gentleman?” repeated Mrs. Inchbare, with a broad stare of surprise. “I’m only a puir woman, my leddy—d’ye mean yer husband here?”
Arnold’s warning hand touched Anne’s, for the third time. Mistress Inchbare’s eyes remained fixed on her in merciless inquiry. To have given utterance to the contradiction which trembled on her lips would have been to involve Arnold (after all that he had sacrificed for her) in the scandal which would inevitably follow—a scandal which would be talked of in the neighborhood, and which might find its way to Blanche’s ears. White and cold, her eyes never moving from the table, she accepted the landlady’s implied correction, and faintly repeated the words: “My husband.”
Mistress Inchbare drew a breath of virtuous relief, and waited for what Anne had to say next. Arnold came considerately to the rescue, and got her out of the room.
“Never mind,” he said to Anne; “I know what it is, and I’ll see about it. She’s always like this, ma’am, when a storm’s coming,” he went on, turning to the landlady. “No, thank you—I know how to manage her. Well send to you, if we want your assistance.”
“At yer ain pleasure, Sir,” answered Mistress Inchbare. She turned, and apologized to Anne (under protest), with a stiff courtesy. “No offense, my leddy! Ye’ll remember that ye cam’ here alane, and that the hottle has its ain gude name to keep up.” Having once more vindicated “the hottle,” she made the long-desired move to the door, and left the room.
“I’m faint!” Anne whispered. “Give me some water.”
There was no water on the table. Arnold ordered it of Mr. Bishopriggs—who had remained passive in the back-ground (a model of discreet attention) as long as the mistress was in the room.
“Mr. Brinkworth!” said Anne, when they were alone, “you are acting with inexcusable rashness. That woman’s question was an impertinence. Why did you answer it? Why did you force me—?”
She stopped, unable to finish the sentence. Arnold insisted on her drinking a glass of wine—and then defended himself with the patient consideration for her which he had shown from the first.
“Why didn’t I have the inn door shut in your face”—he asked, good humoredly—“with a storm coming on, and without a place in which you can take refuge? No, no, Miss Silvester! I don’t presume to blame you for any scruples you may feel—but scruples are sadly out of place with such a woman as that landlady. I am responsible for your safety to Geoffrey; and Geoffrey expects to find you here. Let’s change the subject. The water is a long time coming. Try another glass of wine. No? Well—here is Blanche’s health” (he took some of the wine himself), “in the weakest sherry I ever drank in my life.” As he set down his glass, Mr. Bishopriggs came in with the water. Arnold hailed him satirically. “Well? have you got the water? or have you used it all for the sherry?”
Mr. Bishopriggs stopped in the middle of the room, thunder-struck at the aspersion cast on the wine.
“Is that the way ye talk of the auldest bottle o’ sherry wine in Scotland?” he asked, gravely. “What’s the warld coming to? The new generation’s a foot beyond my fathoming. The maircies o’ Providence, as shown to man in the choicest veentages o’ Spain, are clean thrown away on ’em.”
“Have you brought the water?”
“I ha’ brought the water—and mair than the water. I ha’ brought ye news from ootside. There’s a company o’ gentlemen on horseback, joost cantering by to what they ca’ the shootin’ cottage, a mile from this.”
“Well—and what have we got to do with it?”
“Bide a wee! There’s ane o’ them has drawn bridle at the hottle, and he’s speerin’ after the leddy that cam’ here alane. The leddy’s your leddy, as sure as saxpence. I doot,” said Mr. Bishopriggs, walking away to the window, “that’s what ye’ve got to do with it.”
Arnold looked at Anne.
“Do you expect any body?”
“Is it Geoffrey?”
“Impossible. Geoffrey is on his way to London.”
“There he is, any way,” resumed Mr. Bishopriggs, at the window. “He’s loupin’ down from his horse. He’s turning this way. Lord save us!” he exclaimed, with a start of consternation, “what do I see? That incarnate deevil, Sir Paitrick himself!”
Arnold sprang to his feet.
“Do you mean Sir Patrick Lundie?”
Anne ran to the window.
“It is Sir Patrick!” she said. “Hide yourself before he comes in!”
“Hide myself?”
“What will he think if he sees you with me?”
He was Blanche’s guardian, and he believed Arnold to be at that moment visiting his new property. What he would think was not difficult to foresee. Arnold turned for help to Mr. Bishopriggs.
“Where can I go?”
Mr. Bishopriggs pointed to the bedroom door.
“Whar’ can ye go? There’s the nuptial chamber!”
“Impossible!”
Mr. Bishopriggs expressed the utmost extremity of human amazement by a long whistle, on one note.
“Whew! Is that the way ye talk o’ the nuptial chamber already?”
“Find me some other place—I’ll make it worth your while.”
“Eh! there’s my paintry! I trow that’s some other place; and the door’s at the end o’ the passage.”
Arnold hurried out. Mr. Bishopriggs—evidently under the impression