“I didn’t expect to meet you, I admit, but for all that I’m jolly glad to see you, for barring one thing we have been the best of friends, and I owe you much.”
“Ah, the one thing you refer to,” remarked his companion, in a slow and melancholy tone, “is what I more than anything else have been wishing to see you about. You know, I suppose, that Aveline and myself are separate and apart. We are strangers. It is no fault of mine that we are so—it is her wish that we should be so. She has left me, Charlie, left me for wealth, position, and rank. I am not good enough for her now—now that she is a lineal descendant of an earl.”
“Are you separated, then? Are you divorced?” cried Peace.
“We are separated, but not actually divorced; but I offer no obstacle, and I believe that the earl, her grandfather, is about to obtain a divorce. Well, after all, it is perhaps but a natural consequence. I am not fit to mix in the society in which they move.”
“My word, but you take the matter in a most self-sacrificing way. She’s your lawful wife. Why don’t you exercise a husband’s authority, and insist upon her returning to her home?”
“I don’t care to do that. If she won’t come of her own free will, let her go her ways. I have done with her for good and for all. She was always vain, Charlie—always yearned for wealth and grandeur. Now she has both, and I hope she’s satisfied. That question has been settled long ago. What I have been anxious to see you for is to learn from your own lips how it first came about that she was traced and proved to be what she most unquestionably is, the grand-daughter of that high and mighty nobleman. You brought it about, or were the main instrument in doing so. Don’t imagine for a moment that I am about to upbraid you.”
“Well, you see, it was just this. When I was staying at Broxbridge, a detective—a Mr. Wrench—came and made some inquiries about some blooming Italian professor and his wife. I told him all I knew, never thinking for a moment that they had anything to do with your wife. I told him all I knew, and he was a ’cute chap, and a decent sort of fellow enough for a detective—mind I put that in—for a detective—and the earl, too, was a good sort in his way.”
“Ah, you know him, do you?”
“Certainly. I did some work for him—restored a picture, and made him some frames. He behaved in a very handsome manner to me, and I have every reason to speak in the highest terms of him. Well, as I was saying, I gave Wrench all the information I could; he followed up the clue, and you know the rest. But lord bless me, Tom, I don’t know as you’ve lost much. As you were saying, she was always vain, and when I saw her in the carriage, being driven to the front entrance of Broxbridge Hall, she never so much as condescended to give me a passing nod—there’s for you! And she knew at the time that I had been the chief means of proving her identity, and bringing her to all this grandeur, which she loves better than anything else, it would appear—better than her husband, better than her duty.”
“Yes, yes, that is right enough,” cried Gatliffe, testily; “but she’s not so very much to blame—she has been wrought upon and over-persuaded by those about her.”