“You can start from this house,” pursued Sir Patrick; “or you can start from a shooting-cottage which is on the Windygates property—­among the woods, on the other side of the moor.  The weather looks pretty well settled (for Scotland), and there are plenty of horses in the stables.  It is useless to conceal from you, gentlemen, that events have taken a certain unexpected turn in my sister-in-law’s family circle.  You will be equally Lady Lundie’s guests, whether you choose the cottage or the house.  For the next twenty-four hours (let us say)—­which shall it be?”

Every body—­with or without rheumatism—­answered “the cottage.”

“Very good,” pursued Sir Patrick, “It is arranged to ride over to the shooting-cottage this evening, and to try the moor, on that side, the first thing in the morning.  If events here will allow me, I shall be delighted to accompany you, and do the honors as well as I can.  If not, I am sure you will accept my apologies for to-night, and permit Lady Lundie’s steward to see to your comfort in my place.”

Adopted unanimously.  Sir Patrick left the guests to their billiards, and went out to give the necessary orders at the stables.

In the mean time Blanche remained portentously quiet in the upper regions of the house; while Lady Lundie steadily pursued her inquiries down stairs.  She got on from Jonathan (last of the males, indoors) to the coachman (first of the males, out-of-doors), and dug down, man by man, through that new stratum, until she struck the stable-boy at the bottom.  Not an atom of information having been extracted in the house or out of the house, from man or boy, her ladyship fell back on the women next.  She pulled the bell, and summoned the cook—­Hester Dethridge.

A very remarkable-looking person entered the room.

Elderly and quiet; scrupulously clean; eminently respectable; her gray hair neat and smooth under her modest white cap; her eyes, set deep in their orbits, looking straight at any person who spoke to her—­here, at a first view, was a steady, trust-worthy woman.  Here also on closer inspection, was a woman with the seal of some terrible past suffering set on her for the rest of her life.  You felt it, rather than saw it, in the look of immovable endurance which underlain her expression—­in the deathlike tranquillity which never disappeared from her manner.  Her story was a sad one—­so far as it was known.  She had entered Lady Lundie’s service at the period of Lady Lundie’s marriage to Sir Thomas.  Her character (given by the clergyman of her parish) described her as having been married to an inveterate drunkard, and as having suffered unutterably during her husband’s lifetime.  There were drawbacks to engaging her, now that she was a widow.  On one of the many occasions on which her husband had personally ill-treated her, he had struck her a blow which had produced very remarkable nervous results.  She had lain insensible many days together, and had