“Your husband!—I thought he was dead?”
“Mr. Baines is dead—long ago; but—I have married again.”
“Married again?” he repeated, as if he could hardly believe his ears.
“Yes, married again, and that is why I implore you to help me, so that I may give the young, tender life that is joined to mine the comforts that are necessary to him,” she said, with supplicating misery.
“Do you mean to say”—and he looked at her as if he thought she was mad—“that some young man has married you?”
“Yes,” she answered, in a low voice; “we have been married nearly eight months.”
“And has he got any money?—or does he do anything for a living?”
“He is a most brilliant writer, and has given the greatest satisfaction to Mr. Fisher; but he has been ill, and he requires country air and nourishment and luxuries—and I implore you to help me to preserve this young and beautiful life that has been confided to me.”
“Is he a cripple or mad?”
She looked up in astonishment.