“Oh! not much with my part of the business,” she said lightly. “This is how it is: I’m married—excuse enough any day for what I’m charged with; but they won’t take my word, and I have to prove it. When I tell them I’m only a widow in a kind of a way, they say to me, ‘Produce your husband,’ and this is what I’ve got to do. Nearly ten years ago, Mr. Earnshaw, if that is your name—are you listening to me?—I married Arthur Arden; or, rather, Arthur Arden married me.”
“Good God!” cried Edgar; he did not at first seem to take in the meaning of the words, but only felt vaguely that he had received a blow. “You are mad!” he said, after a pause, looking at her—“you are mad!”
“Not a bit; I am saner than you are, for I never would have given up a fortune to him. I am the first Mrs. Arthur Arden, whoever the second may be. He married me twice over, to make it more sure.”
“Good God!” cried Edgar again; his countenance had grown whiter than hers; all power of movement seemed to be taken out of him. “Prove this horrible thing that you say—prove it! He never could be such a villain!”
“Oh, couldn’t he?—much you know about him! He could do worse things than that, if worse is possible. You shall prove it yourself without me stirring a foot. Listen, and I will tell you just how it was. When he saw he couldn’t have me in any other way, he offered marriage; I was young then, and so was he, and I was excusable—I have always felt I was excusable; for a handsomer man, or one with more taking ways—You know him, that’s enough. Well, not to make any more fuss than was necessary, I proposed the registrar; but, if you please, he was a deal too religious for that. ‘Let’s have some sort of parson,’ he said, ‘though he mayn’t be much to look at.’ We were married in the Methodist chapel up on the way to Highgate. I’ll tell you all about it—I’ll give you the name of the street and the date. It’s up Camden Town way, not far from the Highgate Road. Father and mother used to attend chapel there.”
“You were married—to Arthur Arden!” said Edgar; all the details were lost upon him, for he had not yet grasped the fact—“married to Arthur Arden! Is this what you mean to say?”
“Yes, yes, yes!” cried Miss Lockwood, in high impatience, waving the book which she used as a fan—“that is what I meant to say; and there’s a deal more. You seem to be a slow sort of gentleman. I’ll stop, shall I, till you’ve got it well into your head?” she said, with a laugh.
The laugh, the mocking look, the devilish calm of the woman who was expounding so calmly something which must bring ruin and despair upon a family, and take name and fame from another woman, struck Edgar with hot, mad anger.
“For God’s sake, hold your tongue!” he cried, not knowing what he said—“you will drive me mad!”
“I’m sure I don’t see why,” said Miss Lockwood—“why should it?—it ain’t anything to you. And to hold my tongue is the last thing I mean to do. You know what I said; I’ll go over it again to make quite sure.”