“George, before you went away I was married.”
The elder brother started, and turned pale to the lips; but he only said,—
“Go on, Louis, I listen.”
“I had been married some months then. Do not be angry that I did not tell you.”
“Angry, why should I? How dare I be angry with you for a concealment which—but I interrupt you; go on.”
“I think you would have liked Louisa. She was the dearest and most lovable girl in the world.”
“Was, Louis? You say was, as if your wife were dead.”
“Dead, O brother! if this question could be answered! But it cannot. She is dead to me, I fear, and yet alive, she and her child.”
“Be calm, brother, and explain all this. Whom did you marry? where is your wife?”
“I can hardly answer either question. She was an orphan, and had an only brother older than herself. The name was Oakley. She was in school, but staying with a lady who lived in the next street to us; our gardens adjoined. I mean the year before our father died, when his family lived like civilized beings, for my mother had not then given herself up to avarice as a terrible passion.