illness, I was living in a garret at Brussels, trying to earn a living by teaching languages. It was only by selling all I had that I was enabled to provide means for my journey to Grilling Abbots."
"And Regine?" Martin asked.
"For more than seven years I had heard nothing of her. Pray believe me, Martin, when I tell you that when I married Violet Fuller I felt assured that Regine had long been dead. I had made great efforts to trace her. I forbear to relate to you all I learnt concerning her. Finally I found she had been a prisoner in St. Lazare, condemned with two others for a conspiracy to defraud. Further inquiry ceased, for I was told at St. Lazare that she had died in prison, quite suddenly, some months before her term of punishment had expired."
"And you believed this?"
"I did, Martin. I swear to you that I did. Heaven knows I would not knowingly have brought this great sin upon my head. I would not willingly have wrought this cruel wrong to Violet. I may no more call her wife!"
"If this be so"
"Indeed, indeed it is—on my soul it is!"
"Perhaps there is excuse for you, my poor friend!"
"You don't know how precious to me are those words, Martin."
"And Violet Fuller has known nothing of this early love—this fatal marriage!"
"Nothing. Not one syllable. Could I pollute her ears with a narrative of all the folly, the shame, the sin of those years of my life which I believed hidden forever, and past all human finding out? Could I depreciate the love which seemed of value in her eyes, by telling her how of old it had been profligately lavished upon this woman—this Regine. Let me remember that she is still lawfully my wife, when I prepare to heap abuse upon her head."
"And you are certain that she still lives."
"Certain. I have seen her within these few hours—spoken with her. She is now here, in London, with the woman Pichot and her son. It was ho who left the letter here the other day. The father, Dominique Pichot, it seems, is a convict at the galleys. There is no doubt, Martin. All is too dreadfully, too certainly true. She lives—under an assumed name. Why should I hide anything from you?" (He took a paper from his pocket; it had been given him by Madame Boisfleury). "Learn all. Read this play-bill. The Mademoiselle Stephanie Boisfleury who dances at the theatre in Long Acre is Regine Stephanie Pichot—the wife of Wilford Hadfield."
There was silence for some minutes. At length Martin spoke, but with evident effort. It was then only in reference to a question of detail. Men will often in such cases select to discuss what is apparently but a small part of a subject, either to gain time to form a conclusion upon the whole, or to shrink altogether from pronouncing a judgment.
"And the name of this clergyman at Calais?" he asked.
"I can tell you if you wish it, Martin; if you think it of importance,"
"Certainly. If this man was not really in orders, had been unfrocked or suspended by his bishop—if he could not legally perform the ceremony, might not the marriage be invalidated?"
Milford shook his head, mournfully. He appeared to derive but little hope from this suggestion, but he gave the required information. Martin, with a trembling hand, made a note in his pocket-book.
"I will make it my business to inquire into this. In such a case, it is necessary to avail ourselves of every, the slightest chance. Still, Wilford, I should do wrong to hold out to you any serious encouragement. I confess"
"I know what you would say, Martin. I believe beforehand that there is no hope. That I am fast bound, hand and foot, by this first early marriage. How can I hope to evade the consequences of the shame of my youth? Is it given to any one to sin with impunity? Is not wickedness ever its own Nemesis? I must bare my back to the lash—I must submit, though Heaven knows, my punishment is severe! The madman I have been! Why did I not bear my dishonour and suffering, as I had planned, away from the world, caring for and cared for by none. However deep my disgrace, it would have been then solely my own: it could not have tainted others, it could not have been shared by one whom I love a thousand times dearer than life. Violet! how can I expiate this sin against you, how can I hope to be forgiven the wrong I have inflicted upon you—yes—and upon our child? To dream that I could come from a pest-house and not bring infection with me; that I could mingle with the good and pure, and yet not soil and corrupt their goodness and purity! I should have shrunk from Violet, hurried from her sweet presence as an evil creature from an angel of light! But I saw her. I listened to her. I could not but love her. I tried, as it were, to cheat my way back to heaven! I loved her. I asked her to be mine. And I have brought this cruel ruin upon her!"
He had spoken these words in a delirium of emotion. Now his voice trembled and broke, and the tears stood in his parched looking eyes. Very pale, and with compressed lips, Martin turned away to the window.
"Think, Martin," said Wilford, after a pause, and in a calmer tone; "it was hard to act rightly—very hard for me—broken, and penitent, and hopeless. I know that she loved me! She has paid dearly for her madness. But could I turn from that love?"
"You knew that she loved you, Wilford?"
"I know it. I could not shut my eyes or my ears to that knowledge. It lifted me out of my unworthiness. Think how happy a future it opened to me—Violet's love!"
"It is all very sad, very dreadful," and Martin's voice trembled as he spoke. "As I have said, Wilford, there are excuses to be made for you. It would indeed be hard to turn from the love of Violet Fuller." He stopped for a moment. "I know few men who, placed in your situation, would have forborne to act as you have acted. Can I say more? Forgive me, Wilford, if my conduct has seemed to you wanting in friendship,