"We were married at the beginning of last winter. Fear of my father's displeasure has prevented my declaring it."
Mary was silent. Her heart throbbed unpleasantly.
"Jane is too good a girl for aught else," he resumed, the subject seeming to impart to him some fictitious strength. "She has borne all the obloquy in patience and silence for my sake. Did you suppose, Mary, that the favourite pupil of the Grey Ladies, trained by them, could have turned out unworthily?"
"You should, at least, have confided this to Miss Hallet, Harry."
"No; to her the least of all. Miss Hallet has her pride and her notions, and would have proclaimed it in the marketplace."
"I seem not to comprehend yet," replied Mary, many remembrances crowding upon her. In point of fact, she scarcely knew whether to believe him. "Last winter--yes, and since then, Harry--you appeared to be seeking Ethel Reene for your wife."
"I once had an idea of Ethel. I knew not that the warm affection I felt for her was but that of a brother: when I fell in love with Jane I learnt the truth. My teasings of Ethel have been but jest, Mary: pursued to divert attention from my intimacy with my real love, my wife."
Mary Ursula sighed. Harry had always been random and blamable in some way or other. What a blow this would be for the Master of Greylands!
"You will let her come in, Mary! Are you doubting still?" he resumed, noting her perplexed countenance. "Why, Mary Ursula, had my relations with Jane been what the world assumed, can you imagine I should have had the hardihood to intrude my brazen face here amid the Sisters when she was taken ill? I have my share of impudence, I am told; but I have certainly not enough for that. I sought that minute's interview with Jane to bid her be firm--to bear all reproaches, spoken and unspoken, for my sake and my father's peace. The only wonder to me and to Jane also, has been that nobody ever suspected the truth."
Mary Ursula left the room. Jane was leaning against the wall outside in the semi-darkness, a picture of quiet tribulation. Too conscious of the estimation in which she was held, she did not dare assert herself. The lantern, which nobody had put out, stood on the passage slab: there was no other light. Mary drew her into the parlour--which was wholly dark, save for the reflected light that came in from the lantern. So much the better. Jealous for the honour of her family, Mary Ursula was feeling the moment bitterly, and her face would have shown that she was.