how often you reproached me for the solitary cheerless life I led. I paid a short annual visit to Wales, and on those occasions it appeared as if the sole object of Winifred’s life were to consult my happiness. At last I returned to Wales for a permanency, and became Mr. Jones’s assistant. I received a small salary, and this became the bone of contention between my wife and me. Winifred made many attempts to obtain the mastery over me in all pecuniary matters, but I stoutly resisted her tyranny, and at last, on my peremptory refusal to set down every farthing of my expenditure (in a book ruled and prepared by herself) we came to an open rupture. From that time, my life was a perpetual torment, and I really believe I should have put an end to it and my misery at once, had I not heard of an appointment in South America; and, on the impulse of the moment, applied for and obtained it. On my telling Winifred what I had done, her anger exceeded all bounds, but I cared little for that, the prospect of freedom was before me, and I listened to her reproaches in silence.
“I pass over some years spent in South America, and hasten on to the time at which I left for Jamaica. The ship in which I sailed was wrecked, but two other men and I, saved our lives by clinging to some portion of the rigging, and we were picked up by a Spanish vessel bound for Cuba. I arrived there, and found employment. Shortly after my arrival, I accidentally saw in an English newspaper, six months old, the announcement of the death of Winifred Davies, of Llanvargwn. I will not deny that the certainty of being freed from a hateful tie, was not unpleasing to me, though I dreamed not at that time of forming a new and more auspicious one. But some time after, I met with Clara, an orphan heiress, and though at first, I dared not raise my eyes to her, yet, after a nearer acquaintance, I wooed and won her. Clara was always anxious to visit England; and, two years after our marriage, we left Cuba, and arrived here in safety. At that time, a relation of Clara’s was consul here, and she went to stay some time with him and his family, while I, impelled by some fatality, went down into Wales to make inquiries respecting my first wife. Who can describe my horror on finding her still alive! I hurried away from the place, a vulture gnawing at my heart, but not before I had ascertained that the Winifred Davies to whom the announcement which I had seen referred, was a grand-aunt of my wife’s of the same name. I need not tell you, Milburn, that since then I have not had one moment’s peace. The dread of discovery constantly haunted me. I took Clara to Italy and to France; but as she preferred England, I at length returned here, and settled at Monkton Bassett, as being a secluded, out-of-the-way place. But you were there! Had not Clara been the sweetest tempered being in the world, she could never have borne with my fitful moods at that time, and it was positively a relief to me when I could disburthen myself of part of my secret to you. Now you know all. And I tremble lest Clara should discover that she is not my wife. But I have not sinned wilfully.”
“No, Paul,” I replied, “you have not, and it is to spare your poor Clara from suddenly gaining a knowledge of the truth, that I am here. Aunt Winifred has recognised you, and wished to set a detective to dog your steps, but Alice believes that she is deranged; and I, heaven forgive me! have not discouraged the idea, to gain time. You must leave England immediately!”
“What can I say to Clara?”
“Tell her you are summoned away upon urgent business. Say that you will leave her in charge of Alice and me. If I am not mistaken in her, she will not question your actions. Start from here by the first train to-morrow, after sending me a note in a disguised hand, telling me you have been obliged to go. If you intend to go to Spain, say you are going to Germany, and vice versâ. And now I must leave you. Have you money enough for your present emergencies? If not I have brought—”
“Oh! I have plenty,” interrupted he, “but would that I were a daily labourer, so I could have peace.”
I rose and prepared to depart, and after he had wrung my hand warmly, with “God bless you, Milburn,” I left him.
I reached home at a late hour, but found Alice sitting up for me. I scolded her for so doing, but she told me that Aunt Winifred had passed the evening in alternate fits of raving and depression, and that she (Alice) was quite alarmed about her. But as she had retired to bed at last, I expressed a hope to my wife that she would sleep off her strange notion, and be herself again in the morning. I then sought my pillow, but obtained no rest that night.
The next morning a note was brought to me from Paul. It ran as follows:
Dear Doctor Milburn,—I am suddenly summoned to Cadiz, on business of the utmost importance. I may say indeed that it is a matter of life and death. I therefore write to entreat you and Mrs. Milburn to take compassion on Clara, a helpless foreigner in a strange land, and to give her an asylum during my absence (which will, I hope, not extend beyond a week or ten days). I have no time to add more, and, with best regards to Mrs. Milburn, believe me,
Dear Doctor,
Faithfully yours,
The signature was in one continuous scrawl.
Alice proposed to go instantly and fetch poor Madame de Aranda, and I acceded to the proposition. Before noon Clara was installed as our inmate, and remained more than a month with us. Aunt Winifred was completely mystified by the sight of Paul’s note, which Alice mentioned having received, and as she had eagerly requested to see his handwriting, Alice gave her the note. She perused it attentively, and then muttered:
“Not in the least like his writing. It’s very strange! Degratyrander!” And she fell into a fit of musing.
Clara bore Paul’s absence with resignation. She knew that some mystery was connected with his departure, but such was her perfect faith in him, that she never dreamed of anything to his prejudice, and Alice learned to love her as a sister, to