A nice, amiable-looking gentleman, and every one said that he was as good, and nice, and amiable as he looked; and that he was very sorry that his brother had quitted the Grange; that he would have given him anything to remain, would give him anything now—no matter what; that there was no quarrel between the brothers; and that Mr. Wilford might still have half the estates, even, if he chose."
"They told you this?"
"Yes."
"Did they tell you, also, that I had refused these things a dozen times—that I had determined that the will should be carried out in its integrity—and that not one halfpenny of my father's money should find its way into my pocket? Did they tell you that also?"
"They did."
"Well?"
"And I did not believe it."
"Why not?"
"Because I knew the time might arrive when you would be glad to dip your hand into your brother's purse, willingly proffered. And I was right. The time has arrived now. not the money we need, you will obtain it from Mr. Stephen Hadfield of the Grange, your younger brother."
"You are wrong." He rose with a determined air, as though to end the interview. He took his hat. "You are wrong, Madame Boisfleury. As I said at first, I have no money. I am a poor man; I work for my bread; I am quite unable to assist you, if I were even willing so to do, and I am not."
"This is hasty conduct, Mr. Wilford; you will think better of it."
"Undeceive yourself."
There was a slight pause. Then the woman resumed:
"I heard other things at Grilling Abbots—strange things they were, too, and very new to me—very new indeed. You were ill at one time, it seems; so ill that you were quite given over; no one expected that you would ever recover. Meanwhile you were a visitor beneath the roof of the doctor at Grilling Abbots—Mr. Fuller, who resides in the pretty white cottage at the end of the town."
She stopped, looking at him with a strange meaning in her red, restless eyes.
"Well?" Wilford said, rather faintly. "You recovered, thanks to the care of the doctor, and the nursing of his daughters."
He trembled visibly, looking askance as she said this.
"You were very grateful for his and their zeal, were you not? It was necessary to do something in proof of your gratitude, was it not? So perhaps, for that reason, you made love to the eldest daughter—offered her your hand in marriage, made her your wife. Was that the reason?"
He made no answer; he was breathing heavily, his hands shaking as with palsy, his face pale as death.
"Violet Fuller," the woman went on. "I saw her name in the register of marriages in Grilling Church. I asked to see the book, and they showed it to me. I saw her signature—'Violet Fuller'—and yours—'Wilford Hadfield'—written boldly and plainly enough; and her father and her sister—they too signed the book—the witnesses, I suppose. Oh, it was very complete; and very interesting."
She stopped again, glancing at him as though she expected him to speak. But he made no attempt to do so; he kept his eyes steadily turned from her.
"Is not all this true?"
"It is true," he answered, in a low voice.
"Have you nothing to say about it?"
"Nothing," he replied, with a gasp.
"Perhaps you thought this would never come to my ears: that the whole thing would be kept secret and hushed up. You did not manage very well. You should not have had the wedding at Grilling Abbots; that was a mistake—a decided oversight. I give you credit for the way you have hid yourself in London. Yet an assumed name is an easy matter, and London is a very large place. I could not get your address at Grilling Abbots, nobody would tell me; probably, nobody knew, except the members of your own family, and I could not well ask them. But Alexis is very clever if he once gets a clue. Give him a scent, and he'll follow it like a bloodhound. I learnt that you had been publishing books—quite a celebrated author, I declare. I fancy Alexis found you out by tracking you from your publisher's to your lodgings in Freer Street. Is not that where you live? He has been on your heels for some days, following you like a dog. Oh, he is a faithful creature—a good boy is Alexis."
Still Wilford said nothing; he looked dazed and confused, like a man in a dream.
"I have not been to Freer Street myself; I have not yet called upon your wife."
"You will not go!" he cried, in a tone of acute suffering.
She paid no attention to him.
"Is she pretty, this wife of yours? this doctor's daughter? this Violet Fuller?—charming name, so romantic. And there's a baby, too, isn't there? a son and heir! Dear me! how interesting."
"Woman," he said, "be silent. You will drive me mad."
She abandoned the air of banter she had assumed, and said in coarse, blunt tones:
"You will give me this money, then?"
"How much do you want?" he asked, feebly. "A mere trifle—and when it is paid—"
"You will demand a further and a further sum; what security can I have that this demand will not be repeated?"
"What security can you have? I will give you my word."
"Bah!"
"I will take an oath."
"Your oath!"
"You can but have a promise. I will sign what papers you will; I will pledge myself to molest you no more."
"You pledged yourself to the same effect years ago. How have you kept your promise?"
"There has been no help for it. I have been in great trouble."
