"Miss Bartley," said the villain, very gravely and solemnly, "she is his wife."
"His wife, sir?" cried Mary, contemptuously—"his wife? You must be mad.
I'll hear no more against him behind his back." Then, threatening her
tormentor: "He will be home again this evening; he has only ridden to the
Lake Hotel; you shall repeat this to his face, if you dare."
"It will be my painful duty," said the serpent, meekly.
"His wife!" said Mary, scornfully, but her lips trembled.
"His wife," replied Monckton, calmly; "a respectable woman whom, it seems, he has deserted these fourteen years. My acquaintance with her is slight, but she is in a good position, and, indeed, wealthy, and has never troubled him. However, she heard somehow he was courting you, and as I often visit Derby upon business, she requested me to come over here and warn you in time."
"And do you think," said Mary, scornfully, "I shall believe this from a stranger?"
"Hardly," said Monckton, with every appearance of candor. "Mrs. Walter
Clifford directed me to show you his marriage certificate and hers."
"The marriage certificate!" cried Mary, turning pale.
"Yes," said Monckton; "they were married at the Registry Office on the 11th June, 1868," and he put his hand in his breast pocket to search for the certificate. He took this opportunity to say, "You must not fancy that there is any jealousy or ill feeling after fourteen years' desertion, but she felt it her duty as a woman—"
"The certificate!" said Mary—"the certificate!"