So, in the new life that she was marking out, was she now unconsciously reflecting in herself the life of her mother before her. Here was the mother’s career as a public singer, chosen (in spite of all efforts to prevent it) by the child! Here (though with other motives, and under other circumstances) was the mother’s irregular marriage in Ireland, on the point of being followed by the daughter’s irregular marriage in Scotland! And here, stranger still, was the man who was answerable for it--the son of the man who had found the flaw in the Irish marriage, and had shown the way by which her mother was thrown on the world! “My Anne is my second self. She is not called by her father’s name; she is called by mine. She is Anne Silvester as I was. Will she end like Me?”--The answer to those words--the last words that had trembled on the dying mother’s lips--was coming fast. Through the chances and changes of many years, the future was pressing near--and Anne Silvester stood on the brink of it. “Well?” she resumed. “Are you at the end of your objections? Can you give me a plain answer at last?” No! He had another objection ready as the words passed her lips. “Suppose the witnesses at the inn happen to know me?” he said. “Suppose it comes to my father’s ears in that way?” “Suppose you drive me to my death?” she retorted, starting to her feet. “Your father shall know the truth, in that case--I swear it!” He rose, on his side, and drew back from her. She followed him up. There was a clapping of hands, at the same moment, on the lawn. Somebody had evidently made a brilliant stroke which promised to decide the game. There was no security now that Blanche might not return again. There was every prospect, the game being over, that Lady Lundie would be free. Anne brought the interview to its crisis, without wasting a moment more. “Mr. Geoffrey Delamayn,” she said. “You have bargained for a private marriage, and I have consented. Are you, or are you not, ready to marry me on your own terms?” “Give me a minute to think!” “Not an instant. Once for all, is it Yes, or No?” He couldn’t say “Yes,” even then. But he said what was equivalent to it. He asked, savagely, “Where is the inn?” She put her arm in his, and whispered, rapidly, “Pass the road on the right that leads to the railway. Follow the path over the moor, and the sheep-track up the hill. The first house you come to after that is the inn. You understand!” He nodded his head, with a sullen frown, and took his pipe out of his pocket again. “Let it alone this time,” he said, meeting her eye. “My mind’s upset. When a man’s mind’s upset, a man can’t smoke. What’s the name of the place?” “Craig Fernie.” “Who am I to ask for at the door?” “For your wife.” “Suppose they want you to give your name when you get there?”