'You must tell now, John.'
'Yes, I must tell you. I have thought about it much, and I know that it is better that you should be told.' He had thought much about it, and had so resolved. But he had not quite known how difficult the telling would be. And now he was aware that he was adding to the horror she would feel by pausing and making much of the thing. And yet he could not tell it as though it were a light matter. If he could have declared it all at once,—at first, with a smile on his face, then expressing his disgust at the woman's falsehood,—it would have been better. 'That woman has written me a letter in which she declares herself to be—my wife!'
'Your wife! John! Your wife?' These exclamations came from her almost with a shriek as she jumped up from his arms and for a moment stood before him.
'Come back to me,' he said. Then again she seated herself. 'You did not leave me then because you doubted me?'
'Oh no,' she cried, throwing herself upon him and smothering him with kisses—'No, no! It was surprise at such horrid words,—not doubt, not doubt of you. I will never doubt you.'
'It was because I was sure of you that I have ventured to tell you this.'
'You may be sure of me,' she said, sobbing violently the while. 'You are sure of me; are you not? And now tell it me all. How did she say so? why did she say so? Is she coming to claim you? Tell me all. Oh, John, tell me everything.'
'The why is soon told. Because she wants money. She had heard no doubt of my marriage and thought to frighten me out of money. I do not think she would do it herself. The man Crinkett has put her up to it.'
'What does she say?'
'Just that,—and then she signs herself,—Euphemia Caldigate.'