I.

ON a summer's morning, between thirty and forty years ago, twogirls were crying bitterly in the cabin of an East Indianpassenger ship, bound outward, from Gravesend to Bombay.

They were both of the same age--eighteen. They had both, fromchildhood upward, been close and dear friends at the same school.They were now parting for the first time--and parting, it mightbe, for life.

The name of one was Blanche. The name of the other was Anne.

Both were the children of poor parents, both had beenpupil-teachers at the school; and both were destined to earntheir own bread. Personally speaking, and socially speaking,these were the only points of resemblance between them.

Blanche was passably attractive and passably intelligent, and nomore. Anne was rarely beautiful and rarely endowed. Blanche'sparents were worthy people, whose first consideration was tosecure, at any sacrifice, the future well-being of their child.Anne's parents were heartless and depraved. Their one idea, inconnection with their daughter, was to speculate on her beauty,and to turn her abilities to profitable account.

The girls were starting in life under widely differentconditions. Blanche was going to India, to be governess in thehousehold of a Judge, under care of the Judge's wife. Anne was towait at home until the first opportunity offered of sending hercheaply to Milan. There, among strangers, she was to be perfectedin the actress's and the singer's art; then to return to England,and make the fortune of her family on the lyric stage.

Such were the prospects of the two as they sat together in thecabin of the Indiaman locked fast in each other's arms, andcrying bitterly. The whispered farewell talk exchanged betweenthem--exaggerated and impulsive as girls' talk is apt to be--camehonestly, in each case, straight from the heart.

"Blanche! you may be married in India. Make your husband bringyou back to England."

"Anne! you may take a dislike to the stage. Come out to India ifyou do."

"In England or out of England, married or not married, we willmeet, darling--if it's years hence--with all the old love betweenus; friends who help each other, sisters who trust each other,for life! Vow it, Blanche!"

"I vow it, Anne!"

"With all your heart and soul?"

"With all my heart and soul!"

The sails were spread to the wind, and the ship began to move inthe water. It was necessary to appeal to the captain's authoritybefore the girls could be parted. The captain interfered gentlyand firmly. "Come, my dear," he said, putting his arm round Anne;"you won't mind _me!_ I have got a daughter of my own." Anne'shead fell on the sailor's shoulder. He put her, with his ownhands, into the shore-boat alongside. In five minutes more theship had gathered way; the boat was at the landing-stage--and thegirls had seen the last of each other for many a long year tocome.

This was in the summer of eighteen hundred and thirty-one.

II.

Twenty-four years later--in the summer of eighteen hundred andfifty-five--there was a villa at Hampstead to be let, furnished.

The house was still occupied by the persons who desired to letit. On the evening on which this scene opens a lady and twogentlemen were seated at the dinner-table. The lady had reachedthe mature age of forty-two. She was still a rarely beautifulwoman. Her husband, some years younger than herself, faced her atthe table, sitting silent and constrained, and never, even byaccident, looking at his wife. The third person was a guest. Thehusband's name was Vanborough. The guest's name was Kendrew.

It was the end of the dinner. The fruit and the wine were on thetable. Mr. Vanborough pushed the bottles in silence to Mr.Kendrew. The lady of the house looked round at the servant whowas waiting, and said, "Tell the children to come in."

The door opened, and a girl twelve years old entered, lending bythe hand a younger girl of five. They were both prettily dressedin white, with sashes of the same shade of light blue. But therewas no family resemblance between them. The elder girl was frailand delicate, with a pale, sensitive face. The younger was lightand florid, with round red cheeks and bright, saucy eyes--acharming little picture of happiness and health.

Mr. Kendrew looked inquiringly at the youngest of the two girls.

"Here is a young lady," he said, "who is a total stranger to me."

"If you had not been a total stranger yourself for a whole yearpast," answered Mrs. Vanborough, "you would never have made thatconfession. This is little Blanche--the only child of the dearestfriend I have. When Blanche's mother and I last saw each other wewere two poor school-girls beginning the world. My friend went toIndia, and married there late in life. You may have heard of herhusband--the famous Indian officer, Sir Thomas Lundie? Yes: 'therich Sir Thomas,' as you call him. Lady Lundie is now on her wayback to England, for the first time since she left it--I amafraid to say how many years since. I expected her yesterday; Iexpect her to-day--she may come at any moment. We exchangedpromises to meet, in the ship that took her to India--'vows' wecalled them in the dear old times. Imagine how changed we shallfind each other when we _do_ meet again at last!"

"In the mean time," said Mr. Kendrew, "your friend appears tohave sent you her little daughter to represent her? It's a longjourney for so young a traveler."

"A journey ordered by the doctors in India a year since,"rejoined Mrs. Vanborough. "They said Blanche's health requiredEnglish air. Sir Thomas was ill at the time, and his wifecouldn't leave him. She had to send the child to England, and whoshould she send her to but me? Look at her now, and say if theEnglish air hasn't agreed with her! We two mothers, Mr. Kendrew,seem literally to live again in our children. I have an onlychild. My friend has an only child. My daughter is littleAnne--as _I_ was. My friend's daughter is little Blanche--as_she_ was. And, to crown it all, those two girls have taken thesame fancy to each other which we took to each other in theby-gone days at school. One has often heard of hereditary hatred.Is there such a thing as hereditary love as well?"

Before the guest could answer, his attention was claimed by themaster of the house.

"Kendrew," said Mr. Vanborough, "when you have had enough ofdomestic sentiment, suppose you take a glass of wine?"

The words were spoken with undisguised contempt of tone andmanner. Mrs. Vanborough's color rose. She waited, and controlledthe momentary irritation. When she spoke to her husband it wasevidently with a wish to soothe and conciliate him.

"I am afraid, my dear, you are not well this evening?"

"I shall be better when those children have done clattering withtheir knives and forks."

The girls were peeling fruit. The younger one went on. The elderstopped, and looked at her mother. Mrs. Vanborough beckoned toBlanche to come to her, and pointed toward the French windowopening to the floor.

"Would you like to eat your fruit in the garden, Blanche?"

"Yes," said Blanche, "if Anne will go with me."

Anne rose at once, and the two girls went away together into thegarden, hand in hand. On their departure Mr. Kendrew wiselystarted a new subject. He referred to the letting of the house.

"The loss of the garden will be a sad loss to those two youngladies," he said. "It really seems to be a pity that you shouldbe giving up this pretty place."

"Leaving the house is not the worst of the sacrifice," answeredMrs. Vanborough. "If John finds Hampstead too far for him fromLondon, of course we must move. The only hardship that I complainof is the hardship of having the house to let."

Mr. Vanborough looked across the table, as ungraciously aspossible, at his wife.

"What have _you_ to do with it?" he asked.

Mrs. Vanborough tried to clear the conjugal horizon b y a smile.

"My dear John," she said, gently, "you forget that, while you areat business, I am here all day. I can't help seeing the peoplewho come to look at the house. Such people!" she continued,turning to Mr. Kendrew. "They distrust every thing, from thescraper at the door to the chimneys on the roof. They force theirway in at all hours. They ask all sorts of impudentquestions--and they show you plainly that they don't mean tobelieve your answers, before you have time to make them. Somewretch of a woman says, 'Do you think the drains are right?'--andsniffs suspiciously, before I can say Yes. Some brute of a manasks, 'Are you quite sure this house is solidly built,ma'am?'--and jumps on the floor at the full stretch of his legs,without waiting for me to reply. Nobody believes in our gravelsoil and our south aspect. Nobody wants any of our improvements.The moment they hear of John's Artesian well, they look as ifthey never drank water. And, if they happen to pass mypoultry-yard, they instantly lose all appreciation of the meritsof a fresh egg!"

Mr. Kendrew laughed. "I have been through it all in my time," hesaid. "The people who want to take a house are the born enemiesof the people who want to let a house. Odd--isn't it,Vanborough?"

Mr. Vanborough's sullen humor resisted his friend as obstinatelyas it had resisted his wife.

"I dare say," he answered. "I wasn't listening."

This time the tone was almost brutal. Mrs. Vanborough looked ather husband with unconcealed surprise and distress.

"John!" she said. "What _can_ be the matter with you? Are you inpain?"

"A man may be anxious and worried, I suppose, without beingactually in pain."

"I am sorry to hear you are worried. Is it business?"

"Yes--business."

"Consult Mr. Kendrew."

"I am waiting to consult him."

Mrs. Vanborough rose immediately. "Ring, dear," she said, "whenyou want coffee." As she passed her husband she stopped and laidher hand tenderly on his forehead. "I wish I could smooth outthat frown!" she whispered. Mr. Vanborough impatiently shook hishead. Mrs. Vanborough sighed as she turned to the door. Herhusband called to her before she could leave the room.

"Mind we are not interrupted!"

"I will do my best, John." She looked at Mr. Kendrew, holding thedoor open for her; and resumed, with an effort, her formerlightness of tone. "But don't forget our 'born enemies!' Somebodymay come, even at this hour of the evening, who wants to see thehouse."

The two gentlemen were left alone over their wine. There was astrong personal contrast between them. Mr. Vanborough was talland dark--a dashing, handsome man; with an energy in his facewhich all the world saw; with an inbred falseness under it whichonly a special observer could detect. Mr. Kendrew was short andlight--slow and awkward in manner, except when something happenedto rouse him. Looking in _his_ face, the world saw an ugly andundemonstrative little man. The special observer, penetratingunder the surface, found a fine nature beneath, resting on asteady foundation of honor and truth.

Mr. Vanborough opened the conversation.

"If you ever marry," he said, "don't be such a fool, Kendrew, asI have been. Don't take a wife from the stage."

"If I could get such a wife as yours," replied the other, "Iwould take her from the stage to-morrow. A beautiful woman, aclever woman, a woman of unblemished character, and a woman whotruly loves you. Man alive! what do you want more?"

"I want a great deal more. I want a woman highly connected andhighly bred--a woman who can receive the best society in England,and open her husband's way to a position in the world."

"A position in the world!" cried Mr. Kendrew. "Here is a manwhose father has left him half a million of money--with the onecondition annexed to it of taking his father's place at the headof one of the greatest mercantile houses in England. And he talksabout a position, as if he was a junior clerk in his own office!What on earth does your ambition see, beyond what your ambitionhas already got?"

Mr. Vanborough finished his glass of wine, and looked his friendsteadily in the face.

"My ambition," he said, "sees a Parliamentary career, with aPeerage at the end of it--and with no obstacle in the way but myestimable wife."

Mr. Kendrew lifted his hand warningly. "Don't talk in that way,"he said. "If you're joking--it's a joke I don't see. If you're inearnest--you force a suspicion on me which I would rather notfeel. Let us change the subject."

"No! Let us have it out at once. What do you suspect?"

"I suspect you are getting tired of your wife."

"She is forty-two, and I am thirty-five; and I have been marriedto her for thirteen years. You know all that--and you onlysuspect I am tired of her. Bless your innocence! Have you anything more to say?"

"If you force me to it, I take the freedom of an old friend, andI say you are not treating her fairly. It's nearly two yearssince you broke up your establishment abroad, and came to Englandon your father's death. With the exception of myself, and one ortwo other friends of former days, you have presented your wife tonobody. Your new position has smoothed the way for you into thebest society. You never take your wife with you. You go out as ifyou were a single man. I have reason to know that you areactually believed to be a single man, among these newacquaintances of yours, in more than one quarter. Forgive me forspeaking my mind bluntly--I say what I think. It's unworthy ofyou to keep your wife buried here, as if you were ashamed ofher."

"I _am_ ashamed of her."

"Vanborough!"

"Wait a little! you are not to have it all your own way, my goodfellow. What are the facts? Thirteen years ago I fell in lovewith a handsome public singer, and married her. My father wasangry with me; and I had to go and live with her abroad. Itdidn't matter, abroad. My father forgave me on his death-bed, andI had to bring her home again. It does matter, at home. I findmyself, with a great career opening before me, tied to a womanwhose relations are (as you well know) the lowest of the low. Awoman without the slightest distinction of manner, or theslightest aspiration beyond her nursery and her kitchen, herpiano and her books. Is _that_ a wife who can help me to make myplace in society?--who can smooth my way through social obstaclesand political obstacles, to the House of Lords? By Jupiter! ifever there was a woman to be 'buried' (as you call it), thatwoman is my wife. And, what's more, if you want the truth, it'sbecause I _can't_ bury her here that I'm going to leave thishouse. She has got a cursed knack of making acquaintanceswherever she goes. She'll have a circle of friends about her if Ileave her in this neighborhood much longer. Friends who rememberher as the famous opera-singer. Friends who will see herswindling scoundrel of a father (when my back is turned) comingdrunk to the door to borrow money of her! I tell you, my marriagehas wrecked my prospects. It's no use talking to me of my wife'svirtues. She is a millstone round my neck, with all her virtues.If I had not been a born idiot I should have waited, and marrieda woman who would have been of some use to me; a woman with highconnections--"

Mr. Kendrew touched his host's arm, and suddenly interrupted him.

"To come to the point," he said--"a woman like Lady JaneParnell."

Mr. Vanborough started. His eyes fell, for the first time, beforethe eyes of his friend.

"What do you know about Lady Jane?" he asked.

"Nothing. I don't move in Lady Jane's world--but I do gosometimes to the opera. I saw you with her last night in her box;and I heard what was said in the stalls near me. You were openlyspoken of as the favored man who was singled out from the rest byLady Jane. Imagine what would happen if your wife heard that! Youare wrong, Vanborough--you are in every way wrong. You alarm, youdistress, you disappoint me. I never sought this explanation--butnow it has come, I won't shrink from it. Reconsider your conduct;reconsider what you have said to me--or you count me no longeramong your friends. No! Iwant no farther talk about it now. We are both getting hot--wemay end in saying what had better have been left unsaid. Oncemore, let us change the subject. You wrote me word that youwanted me here to-day, because you needed my advice on a matterof some importance. What is it?"

Silence followed that question. Mr. Vanborough's face betrayedsigns of embarrassment. He poured himself out another glass ofwine, and drank it at a draught before he replied.

"It's not so easy to tell you what I want," he said, "after thetone you have taken with me about my wife."

Mr. Kendrew looked surprised.

"Is Mrs. Vanborough concerned in the matter?" he asked.

"Yes."

"Does she know about it?"

"No."

"Have you kept the thing a secret out of regard for _her?_"

"Yes."

"Have I any right to advise on it?"

"You have the right of an old friend."

"Then, why not tell me frankly what it is?"

There was another moment of embarrassment on Mr. Vanborough'spart.

"It will come better," he answered, "from a third person, whom Iexpect here every minute. He is in possession of all thefacts--and he is better able to state them than I am."

"Who is the person?"

"My friend, Delamayn."

"Your lawyer?"

"Yes--the junior partner in the firm of Delamayn, Hawke, andDelamayn. Do you know him?"

"I am acquainted with him. His wife's family were friends of minebefore he married. I don't like him."

"You're rather hard to please to-day! Delamayn is a rising man,if ever there was one yet. A man with a career before him, andwith courage enough to pursue it. He is going to leave the Firm,and try his luck at the Bar. Every body says he will do greatthings. What's your objection to him?"

"I have no objection whatever. We meet with people occasionallywhom we dislike without knowing why. Without knowing why, Idislike Mr. Delamayn."

"Whatever you do you must put up with him this evening. He willbe here directly."

He was there at that moment. The servant opened the door, andannounced--"Mr. Delamayn."

III.

Externally speaking, the rising solicitor, who was going to tryhis luck at the Bar, looked like a man who was going to succeed.His hard, hairless face, his watchful gray eyes, his thin,resolute lips, said plainly, in so many words, "I mean to get onin the world; and, if you are in my way, I mean to get on at yourexpense." Mr. Delamayn was habitually polite to every body--buthe had never been known to say one unnecessary word to hisdearest friend. A man of rare ability; a man of unblemished honor(as the code of the world goes); but not a man to be takenfamiliarly by the hand. You would never have borrowed money ofhim--but you would have trusted him with untold gold. Involved inprivate and personal troubles, you would have hesitated at askinghim to help you. Involved in public and producible troubles, youwould have said, Here is my man. Sure to push his way--nobodycould look at him and doubt it--sure to push his way.

"Kendrew is an old friend of mine," said Mr. Vanborough,addressing himself to the lawyer. "Whatever you have to say to_me_ you may say before _him._ Will you have some wine?"

"No--thank you."

"Have you brought any news?"

"Yes."

"Have you got the written opinions of the two barristers?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"'Because nothing of the sort is necessary. If the facts of thecase are correctly stated there is not the slightest doubt aboutthe law."

With that reply Mr. Delamayn took a written paper from hispocket, and spread it out on the table before him.

"What is that?" asked Mr. Vanborough.

"The case relating to your marriage."

Mr. Kendrew started, and showed the first tokens of interest inthe proceedings which had escaped him yet. Mr. Delamayn looked athim for a moment, and went on.

"The case," he resumed, "as originally stated by you, and takendown in writing by our head-clerk."

Mr. Vanborough's temper began to show itself again.

"What have we got to do with that now?" he asked. "You have madeyour inquiries to prove the correctness of my statement--haven'tyou?"

"Yes."

"And you have found out that I am right?"

"I have found out that you are right--if the case is right. Iwish to be sure that no mistake has occurred between you and theclerk. This is a very important matter. I am going to take theresponsibility of giving an opinion which may be followed byserious consequences; and I mean to assure myself that theopinion is given on a sound basis, first. I have some questionsto ask you. Don't be impatient, if you please. They won't takelong."

He referred to the manuscript, and put the first question.

"You were married at Inchmallock, in Ireland, Mr. Vanborough,thirteen years since?"

"Yes."

"Your wife--then Miss Anne Silvester--was a Roman Catholic?"

"Yes."

"Her father and mother were Roman Catholics?"

"They were."

"_Your_ father and mother were Protestants? and _you_ werebaptized and brought up in the Church of England?"

"All right!"

"Miss Anne Silvester felt, and expressed, a strong repugnance tomarrying you, because you and she belonged to different religiouscommunities?"

"She did."

"You got over her objection by consenting to become n RomanCatholic, like herself?"

"It was the shortest way with her and it didn't matter to _me_."

"You were formally received into the Roman Catholic Church?"

"I went through the whole ceremony."

"Abroad or at home?"

"Abroad."

"How long was it before the date of your marriage?"

"Six weeks before I was married."

Referring perpetually to the paper in his hand, Mr. Delamayn wasespecially careful in comparing that last answer with the answergiven to the head-clerk.

"Quite right," he said, and went on with his questions.

"The priest who married you was one Ambrose Redman--a young manrecently appointed to his clerical duties?"

"Yes."

"Did he ask if you were both Roman Catholics?"

"Yes."

"Did he ask any thing more?"

"No."

"Are you sure he never inquired whether you had both beenCatholics _for more than one year before you came to him to bemarried?_"

"I am certain of it."

"He must have forgotten that part of his duty--or being only abeginner, he may well have been ignorant of it altogether. Didneither you nor the lady think of informing him on the point?"

"Neither I nor the lady knew there was any necessity forinforming him."

Mr. Delamayn folded up the manuscript, and put it back in hispocket.

"Right," he said, "in every particular."

Mr. Vanborough's swarthy complexion slowly turned pale. He castone furtive glance at Mr. Kendrew, and turned away again.

"Well," he said to the lawyer, "now for your opinion! What is thelaw?"

"The law," answered Mr. Delamayn, "is beyond all doubt ordispute. Your marriage with Miss Anne Silvester is no marriage atall."

Mr. Kendrew started to his feet.

"What do you mean?" he asked, sternly.

The rising solicitor lifted his eyebrows in polite surprise. IfMr. Kendrew wanted information, why should Mr. Kendrew ask for itin that way? "Do you wish me to go into the law of the case?" heinquired.

"I do."

Mr. Delamayn stated the law, as that law still stands--to thedisgrace of the English Legislature and the English Nation.

"By the Irish Statute of George the Second," he said, "everymarriage celebrated by a Popish priest between two Protestants,or between a Papist and any person who has been a Protestantwithin twelve months before the marriage, is declared null andvoid. And by two other Acts of the same reign such a celebrationof marriage is made a felony on the part of the priest. Theclergy in Ireland of other religious denominations have beenrelieved from this law. But it still remains in force so far asthe Roman Catholic priesthood is concerned."

"Is such a state of things possible in the age we live in!"exclaimed Mr. Kendrew.

Mr. Delamayn smiled. He had outgrown the customary illusions asto the age we live in.

"There are other instances in which the Irish marriage-lawpresents some curious anomalies of its own," he went on. "It isfelony, as I have just told you, for a Roman Catholic priest tocelebrate a marriage which may be lawfully celebrated by aparochial clergyman, a Presbyterian mini ster, and aNon-conformist minister. It is also felony (by another law) onthe part of a parochial clergyman to celebrate a marriage thatmay be lawfully celebrated by a Roman Catholic priest. And it isagain felony (by yet another law) for a Presbyterian minister anda Non-conformist minister to celebrate a marriage which may belawfully celebrated by a clergyman of the Established Church. Anodd state of things. Foreigners might possibly think it ascandalous state of things. In this country we don't appear tomind it. Returning to the present case, the results stand thus:Mr. Vanborough is a single man; Mrs. Vanborough is a singlewoman; their child is illegitimate, and the priest, AmbroseRedman, is liable to be tried, and punished, as a felon, formarrying them."

"An infamous law!" said Mr. Kendrew.

"It _is_ the law," returned Mr. Delamayn, as a sufficient answerto him.

Thus far not a word had escaped the master of the house. He satwith his lips fast closed and his eyes riveted on the table,thinking.

Mr. Kendrew turned to him, and broke the silence.

"Am I to understand," he asked, "that the advice you wanted fromme related to _this?_"

"Yes."

"You mean to tell me that, foreseeing the present interview andthe result to which it might lead, you felt any doubt as to thecourse you were bound to take? Am I really to understand that youhesitate to set this dreadful mistake right, and to make thewoman who is your wife in the sight of Heaven your wife in thesight of the law?"

"If you choose to put it in that light," said Mr. Vanborough; "ifyou won't consider--"

"I want a plain answer to my question--'yes, or no.' "

"Let me speak, will you! A man has a right to explain himself, Isuppose?"

Mr. Kendrew stopped him by a gesture of disgust.

"I won't trouble you to explain yourself," he said. "I prefer toleave the house. You have given me a lesson, Sir, which I shallnot forget. I find that one man may have known another from thedays when they were both boys, and may have seen nothing but thefalse surface of him in all that time. I am ashamed of havingever been your friend. You are a stranger to me from thismoment."

With those words he left the room.

"That is a curiously hot-headed man," remarked Mr. Delamayn. "Ifyou will allow me, I think I'll change my mind. I'll have a glassof wine."

Mr. Vanborough rose to his feet without replying, and took a turnin the room impatiently. Scoundrel as he was--in intention, ifnot yet in act--the loss of the oldest friend he had in the worldstaggered him for the moment.

"This is an awkward business, Delamayn," he said. "What would youadvise me to do?"

Mr. Delamayn shook his head, and sipped his claret.

"I decline to advise you," he answered. "I take noresponsibility, beyond the responsibility of stating the law asit stands, in your case."

Mr. Vanborough sat down again at the table, to consider thealternative of asserting or not asserting his freedom from themarriage tie. He had not had much time thus far for turning thematter over in his mind. But for his residence on the Continentthe question of the flaw in his marriage might no doubt have beenraised long since. As things were, the question had only takenits rise in a chance conversation with Mr. Delamayn in the summerof that year.

For some minutes the lawyer sat silent, sipping his wine, and thehusband sat silent, thinking his own thoughts. The first changethat came over the scene was produced by the appearance of aservant in the dining-room.

Mr. Vanborough looked up at the man with a sudden outbreak ofanger.

"What do you want here?"

The man was a well-bred English servant. In other words, a humanmachine, doing its duty impenetrably when it was once wound up.He had his words to speak, and he spoke them.

"There is a lady at the door, Sir, who wishes to see the house."

"The house is not to be seen at this time of the evening."

The machine had a message to deliver, and delivered it.

"The lady desired me to present her apologies, Sir. I was to tellyou she was much pressed for time. This was the last house on thehouse agent's list, and her coachman is stupid about finding hisway in strange places."

"Hold your tongue, and tell the lady to go to the devil!"

Mr. Delamayn interfered--partly in the interests of his client,partly in the interests of propriety.

"You attach some importance, I think, to letting this house assoon as possible?" he said.

"Of course I do!"

"Is it wise--on account of a momentary annoyance--to lose anopportunity of laying your hand on a tenant?"

"Wise or not, it's an infernal nuisance to be disturbed by astranger."

"Just as you please. I don't wish to interfere. I only wish tosay--in case you are thinking of my convenience as yourguest--that it will be no nuisance to _me._"

The servant impenetrably waited. Mr. Vanborough impatiently gaveway.

"Very well. Let her in. Mind, if she comes here, she's only tolook into the room, and go out again. If she wants to askquestions, she must go to the agent."

Mr. Delamayn interfered once more, in the interests, this time,of the lady of the house.

"Might it not be desirable," he suggested, to consult Mrs.Vanborough before you quite decide?"

"Where's your mistress?"

"In the garden, or the paddock, Sir--I am not sure which."

"We can't send all over the grounds in search of her. Tell thehouse-maid, and show the lady in."

The servant withdrew. Mr. Delamayn helped himself to a secondglass of wine.

"Excellent claret," he said. "Do you get it direct fromBordeaux?"

There was no answer. Mr. Vanborough had returned to thecontemplation of the alternative between freeing himself or notfreeing himself from the marriage tie. One of his elbows was onthe table, he bit fiercely at his finger-nails. He mutteredbetween his teeth, "What am I to do?"

A sound of rustling silk made itself gently audible in thepassage outside. The door opened, and the lady who had come tosee the house appeared in the dining-room.

IV.

She was tall and elegant; beautifully dressed, in the happiestcombination of simplicity and splendor. A light summer veil hungover her face. She lifted it, and made her apologies fordisturbing the gentlemen over their wine, with the unaffectedease and grace of a highly-bred woman.

"Pray accept my excuses for this intrusion. I am ashamed todisturb you. One look at the room will be quite enough."

Thus far she had addressed Mr. Delamayn, who happened to benearest to her. Looking round the room her eye fell on Mr.Vanborough. She started, with a loud exclamation of astonishment._"You!"_ she said. "Good Heavens! who would have thought ofmeeting _you_ here?"

Mr. Vanborough, on his side, stood petrified.

"Lady Jane!" he exclaimed. "Is it possible?"

He barely looked at her while she spoke. His eyes wanderedguiltily toward the window which led into the garden. Thesituation was a terrible one--equally terrible if his wifediscovered Lady Jane, or if Lady Jane discovered his wife. Forthe moment nobody was visible on the lawn. There was time, if thechance only offered--there was time for him to get the visitorout of the house. The visitor, innocent of all knowledge of thetruth, gayly offered him her hand.

"I believe in mesmerism for the first time," she said. "This isan instance of magnetic sympathy, Mr. Vanborough. An invalidfriend of mine wants a furnished house at Hampstead. I undertaketo find one for her, and the day _I_ select to make the discoveryis the day _you_ select for dining with a friend. A last house atHampstead is left on my list--and in that house I meet you.Astonishing!" She turned to Mr. Delamayn. "I presume I amaddressing the owner of the house?" Before a word could be saidby either of the gentlemen she noticed the garden. "What prettygrounds! Do I see a lady in the garden? I hope I have not drivenher away." She looked round, and appealed to Mr. Vanborough."Your friend's wife?" she asked, and, on this occasion, waitedfor a reply.

In Mr. Vanborough's situation what reply was possible?

Mrs. Vanborough was not only visible--but audible--in the garden;giving her orders to one of the out-of-door servants with thetone and manner which proclaimed the mistress of the house.Suppose he said, "She is _not_ my friend's wife?" Femalecuriosity would inevitably put the next question, "Who is she?"Suppose he invented an explanation? The explanation would taketime, and time would give his wife an opportunity of discoveringLady Jane. Seeing all these considerations in one breathlessmoment, Mr. Vanborough took the shortest and the boldest way outof the difficulty. He answered silently by an affirmativeinclination of the head, which dextrously turned Mrs. Vanboroughinto to Mrs. Delamayn without allowing Mr. Delamayn theopportunity of hearing it.

But the lawyer's eye was habitually watchful, and the lawyer sawhim.

Mastering in a moment his first natural astonishment at theliberty taken with him, Mr. Delamayn drew the inevitableconclusion that there was something wrong, and that there was anattempt (not to be permitted for a moment) to mix him up in it.He advanced, resolute to contradict his client, to his client'sown face.

The voluble Lady Jane interrupted him before he could open hislips.

"Might I ask one question? Is the aspect south? Of course it is!I ought to see by the sun that the aspect is south. These and theother two are, I suppose, the only rooms on the ground-floor? Andis it quiet? Of course it's quiet! A charming house. Far morelikely to suit my friend than any I have seen yet. Will you giveme the refusal of it till to-morrow?" There she stopped forbreath, and gave Mr. Delamayn his first opportunity of speakingto her.

"I beg your ladyship's pardon," he began. "I really can't--"

Mr. Vanborough--passing close behind him and whispering as hepassed--stopped the lawyer before he could say a word more.

"For God's sake, don't contradict me! My wife is coming thisway!"

At the same moment (still supposing that Mr. Delamayn was themaster of the house) Lady Jane returned to the charge.

"You appear to feel some hesitation," she said. "Do you want areference?" She smiled satirically, and summoned her friend toher aid. "Mr. Vanborough!"

Mr. Vanborough, stealing step by step nearer to thewindow--intent, come what might of it, on keeping his wife out ofthe room--neither heeded nor heard her. Lady Jane followed him,and tapped him briskly on the shoulder with her parasol.

At that moment Mrs. Vanborough appeared on the garden side of thewindow.

"Am I in the way?" she asked, addressing her husband, after onesteady look at Lady Jane. "This lady appears to be an old friendof yours." There was a tone of sarcasm in that allusion to theparasol, which might develop into a tone of jealousy at amoment's notice.

Lady Jane was not in the least disconcerted. She had her doubleprivilege of familiarity with the men whom she liked--herprivilege as a woman of high rank, and her privilege as a youngwidow. She bowed to Mrs. Vanborough, with all the highly-finishedpoliteness of the order to which she belonged.

"The lady of the house, I presume?" she said, with a gracioussmile.

Mrs. Vanborough returned the bow coldly--entered the roomfirst--and then answered, "Yes."

Lady Jane turned to Mr. Vanborough.

"Present me!" she said, submitting resignedly to the formalitiesof the middle classes.

Mr. Vanborough obeyed, without looking at his wife, and withoutmentioning his wife's name.

"Lady Jane Parnell," he said, passing over the introduction asrapidly as possible. "Let me see you to your carriage," he added,offering his arm. "I will take care that you have the refusal ofthe house. You may trust it all to me."

No! Lady Jane was accustomed to leave a favorable impressionbehind her wherever she went. It was a habit with her to becharming (in widely different ways) to both sexes. The socialexperience of the upper classes is, in England, an experience ofuniversal welcome. Lady Jane declined to leave until she hadthawed the icy reception of the lady of the house.

"I must repeat my apologies," she said to Mrs. Vanborough, "forcoming at this inconvenient time. My intrusion appears to havesadly disturbed the two gentlemen. Mr. Vanborough looks as if hewished me a hundred miles away. And as for your husband--" Shestopped and glanced toward Mr. Delamayn. "Pardon me for speakingin that familiar way. I have not the pleasure of knowing yourhusband's name."

In speechless amazement Mrs. Vanborough's eyes followed thedirection of Lady Jane's eyes--and rested on the lawyer,personally a total stranger to her.

Mr. Delamayn, resolutely waiting his opportunity to speak, seizedit once more--and held it this time.

"I beg your pardon," he said. "There is some misapprehensionhere, for which I am in no way responsible. I am _not_ thatlady's husband."

It was Lady Jane's turn to be astonished. She looked at thelawyer. Useless! Mr. Delamayn had set himself right--Mr. Delamayndeclined to interfere further. He silently took a chair at theother end of the room. Lady Jane addressed Mr. Vanborough.

"Whatever the mistake may be," she said, "you are responsible forit. You certainly told me this lady was your friend's wife."

"What!!!" cried Mrs. Vanborough--loudly, sternly, incredulously.

The inbred pride of the great lady began to appear behind thethin outer veil of politeness that covered it.

"I will speak louder if you wish it," she said. "Mr. Vanboroughtold me you were that gentleman's wife."

Mr. Vanborough whispered fiercely to his wife through hisclenched teeth.

"The whole thing is a mistake. Go into the garden again!"

Mrs. Vanborough's indignation was suspended for the moment indread, as she saw the passion and the terror struggling in herhusband's face.

"How you look at me!" she said. "How you speak to me!"

He only repeated, "Go into the garden!"

Lady Jane began to perceive, what the lawyer had discovered someminutes previously--that there was something wrong in the villaat Hampstead. The lady of the house was a lady in an anomalousposition of some kind. And as the house, to all appearance,belonged to Mr. Vanborough's friend, Mr. Vanborough's friend must(in spite of his recent disclaimer) be in some way responsiblefor it. Arriving, naturally enough, at this erroneous conclusion,Lady Jane's eyes rested for an instant on Mrs. Vanborough with afinely contemptuous expression of inquiry which would have rousedthe spirit of the tamest woman in existence. The implied insultstung the wife's sensitive nature to the quick. She turned oncemore to her husband--this time without flinching.

"Who is that woman?" she asked.

Lady Jane was equal to the emergency. The manner in which shewrapped herself up in her own virtue, without the slightestpretension on the one hand, and without the slightest compromiseon the other, was a sight to see.

"Mr. Vanborough," she said, "you offered to take me to mycarriage just now. I begin to understand that I had better haveaccepted the offer at once. Give me your arm."

"Stop!" said Mrs. Vanborough, "your ladyship's looks are looks ofcontempt; your ladyship's words can bear but one interpretation.I am innocently involved in some vile deception which I don'tunderstand. But this I do know--I won't submit to be insulted inmy own house. After what you have just said I forbid my husbandto give you his arm.

Her husband!

Lady Jane looked at Mr. Vanborough--at Mr. Vanborough, whom sheloved; whom she had honestly believed to be a single man; whomshe had suspected, up to that moment, of nothing worse than oftrying to screen the frailties of his friend. She dropped herhighly-bred tone; she lost her highly-bred manners. The sense ofher injury (if this was true), the pang of her jealousy (if thatwoman was his wife), stripped the human nature in her bare of alldisguises, raised the angry color in her cheeks, and struck theangry fire out of her eyes.

"If you can tell the truth, Sir," she said, haughtily, "be sogood as to tell it now. Have you been falsely presenting yourselfto the world--falsely presenting yourself to _me_--in thecharacter and with the aspirations of a single man? Is that ladyyour wife?"

"Do you hear her? do you see her?" cri ed Mrs. Vanborough,appealing to her husband, in her turn. She suddenly drew backfrom him, shuddering from head to foot. "He hesitates!" she saidto herself, faintly. "Good God! he hesitates!"

Lady Jane sternly repeated her question.

"Is that lady your wife?"

He roused his scoundrel-courage, and said the fatal word:

"No!"

Mrs. Vanborough staggered back. She caught at the white curtainsof the window to save herself from falling, and tore them. Shelooked at her husband, with the torn curtain clenched fast in herhand. She asked herself, "Am I mad? or is he?"

Lady Jane drew a deep breath of relief. He was not married! Hewas only a profligate single man. A profligate single man isshocking--but reclaimable. It is possible to blame him severely,and to insist on his reformation in the most uncompromisingterms. It is also possible to forgive him, and marry him. LadyJane took the necessary position under the circumstances withperfect tact. She inflicted reproof in the present withoutexcluding hope in the future.

"I have made a very painful discovery," she said, gravely, to Mr.Vanborough. "It rests with _you_ to persuade me to forget it!Good-evening!"

She accompanied the last words by a farewell look which arousedMrs. Vanborough to frenzy. She sprang forward and prevented LadyJane from leaving the room.

"No!" she said. "You don't go yet!"

Mr. Vanborough came forward to interfere. His wife eyed him witha terrible look, and turned from him with a terrible contempt."That man has lied!" she said. "In justice to myself, I insist onproving it!" She struck a bell on a table near her. The servantcame in. "Fetch my writing-desk out of the next room." Shewaited--with her back turned on her husband, with her eyes fixedon Lady Jane. Defenseless and alone she stood on the wreck of hermarried life, superior to the husband's treachery, the lawyer'sindifference, and her rival's contempt. At that dreadful momenther beauty shone out again with a gleam of its old glory. Thegrand woman, who in the old stage days had held thousandsbreathless over the mimic woes of the scene, stood there granderthan ever, in her own woe, and held the three people who lookedat her breathless till she spoke again.

The servant came in with the desk. She took out a paper andhanded it to Lady Jane.

"I was a singer on the stage," she said, "when I was a singlewoman. The slander to which such women are exposed doubted mymarriage. I provided myself with the paper in your hand. Itspeaks for itself. Even the highest society, madam, respects_that!_"

Lady Jane examined the paper. It was a marriage-certificate. Sheturned deadly pale, and beckoned to Mr. Vanborough. "Are youdeceiving me?" she asked.

Mr. Vanborough looked back into the far corner of the room, inwhich the lawyer sat, impenetrably waiting for events. "Oblige meby coming here for a moment," he said.

Mr. Delamayn rose and complied with the request. Mr. Vanboroughaddressed himself to Lady Jane.

"I beg to refer you to my man of business. _He_ is not interestedin deceiving you."

"Am I required simply to speak to the fact?" asked Mr. Delamayn."I decline to do more."

"You are not wanted to do more."

Listening intently to that interchange of question and answer,Mrs. Vanborough advanced a step in silence. The high courage thathad sustained her against outrage which had openly declareditself shrank under the sense of something coming which she hadnot foreseen. A nameless dread throbbed at her heart and creptamong the roots of her hair.

Lady Jane handed the certificate to the lawyer.

"In two words, Sir," she said, impatiently, "what is this?"

"In two words, madam," answered Mr. Delamayn; "waste paper."

"He is _not_ married?"

"He is _not_ married."

After a moment's hesitation Lady Jane looked round at Mrs.Vanborough, standing silent at her side--looked, and started backin terror. "Take me away!" she cried, shrinking from the ghastlyface that confronted her with the fixed stare of agony in thegreat, glittering eyes. "Take me away! That woman will murderme!"

Mr. Vanborough gave her his arm and led her to the door. Therewas dead silence in the room as he did it. Step by step thewife's eyes followed them with the same dreadful stare, till thedoor closed and shut them out. The lawyer, left alone with thedisowned and deserted woman, put the useless certificate silentlyon the table. She looked from him to the paper, and dropped,without a cry to warn him, without an effort to save herself,senseless at his feet.

He lifted her from the floor and placed her on the sofa, andwaited to see if Mr. Vanborough would come back. Looking at thebeautiful face--still beautiful, even in the swoon--he owned itwas hard on her. Yes! in his own impenetrable way, the risinglawyer owned it was hard on her.

But the law justified it. There was no doubt in this case. Thelaw justified it.

The trampling of horses and the grating of wheels soundedoutside. Lady Jane's carriage was driving away. Would the husbandcome back? (See what a thing habit is! Even Mr. Delamayn stillmechanically thought of him as the husband--in the face of thelaw! in the face of the facts!)

No. Then minutes passed. And no sign of the husband coming back.

It was not wise to make a scandal in the house. It was notdesirable (on his own sole responsibility) to let the servantssee what had happened. Still, there she lay senseless. The coolevening air came in through the open window and lifted the lightribbons in her lace cap, lifted the little lock of hair that hadbroken loose and drooped over her neck. Still, there she lay--thewife who had loved him, the mother of his child--there she lay.

He stretched out his hand to ring the bell and summon help.

At the same moment the quiet of the summer evening was once moredisturbed. He held his hand suspended over the bell. The noiseoutside came nearer. It was again the trampling of horses and thegrating of wheels. Advancing--rapidly advancing--stopping at thehouse.

Was Lady Jane coming back?

Was the husband coming back?

There was a loud ring at the bell--a quick opening of thehouse-door--a rustling of a woman's dress in the passage. Thedoor of the room opened, and the woman appeared--alone. Not LadyJane. A stranger--older, years older, than Lady Jane. A plainwoman, perhaps, at other times. A woman almost beautiful now,with the eager happiness that beamed in her face.

She saw the figure on the sofa. She ran to it with a cry--a cryof recognition and a cry of terror in one. She dropped on herknees--and laid that helpless head on her bosom, and kissed, witha sister's kisses, that cold, white cheek.

"Oh, my darling!" she said. "Is it thus we meet again?"

Yes! After all the years that had passed since the parting in thecabin of the ship, it was thus the two school-friends met again.