been waiting in the seclusion of the garden.

There was no evading the responsibility which was now thrust upon him.
Lady Lundie had announced it as a settled resolution, on her part, to
trace Anne to the place in which she had taken refuge, and discover
(purely in the interests of virtue) whether she actually was married
or not. Blanche (already overwrought by the excitement of the day) had
broken into an hysterical passion of tears on hearing the news, and had
then, on recovering, taken a view of her own of Anne's flight from the
house. Anne would never have kept her marriage a secret from Blanche;
Anne would never have written such a formal farewell letter as she had
written to Blanche--if things were going as smoothly with her as she
was trying to make them believe at Windygates. Some dreadful trouble
had fallen on Anne and Blanche was determined (as Lady Lundie was
determined) to find out where she had gone, and to follow, and help her.

It was plain to Sir Patrick (to whom both ladies had opened their
hearts, at separate interviews) that his sister-in-law, in one way, and
his niece in another, were equally likely--if not duly restrained--to
plunge headlong into acts of indiscretion which might lead to very
undesirable results. A man in authority was sorely needed at Windygates
that afternoon--and Sir Patrick was fain to acknowledge that he was the
man.

"Much is to be said for, and much is to be said against a single
life," thought the old gentleman, walking up and down the sequestered
garden-path to which he had retired, and applying himself at shorter
intervals than usual to the knob of his ivory cane. "This, however,
is, I take it, certain. A man's married friends can't prevent him from
leading the life of a bachelor, if he pleases. But they can, and do,