“When I guessed which was which of those two girls,” she answered, “and guessed wrong, you deliberately encouraged the mistake. Very clever, but you overdid it. From that moment, though I kept it to myself, I began to fear I might be wrong. Do you remember Low Lanes, my dear sir? A charming old church. I have had another consultation with my lawyer. His questions led me into mentioning how it happened that I heard of Low Lanes. After looking again at his memorandum of the birth advertised in the newspaper without naming the place—he proposed trying the church register at Low Lanes. Need I tell you the result? I know, as well as you do, that Philip has married the adopted child. He has had a mother-in-law who was hanged, and, what is more, he has the honor, through his late father, of being otherwise connected with the murderess by marriage—as his aunt!”
Bewilderment and dismay deprived me of my presence of mind. “How did you discover that?” I was foolish enough to ask.
“Do you remember when I brought the baby to the prison?” she said. “The father—as I mentioned at the time—had been a dear and valued friend of mine. No person could be better qualified to tell me who had married his wife’s sister. If that lady had been living, I should never have been troubled with the charge of the child. Any more questions?”
“Only one. Is Philip to hear of this?”
“Oh, for shame! I don’t deny that Philip insulted me grossly, in one way; and that Philip’s late father insulted me grossly, in another way. But Mamma Tenbruggen is a Christian. She returns good for evil, and wouldn’t for the world disturb the connubial felicity of Mr. and Mrs. Philip Dunboyne.”
The moment the woman was out of my house, I sent a telegram to Philip to say that he might expect to see me that night. I caught the last train in the evening; and I sat down to supper with those two harmless young creatures, knowing I must prepare the husband for what threatened them, and weakly deferring it, when I found myself in their presence, until the next day. Eunice was, in some degree, answerable for this hesitation on my part. No one could look at her husband, and fail to see that he was a supremely happy man. But I detected signs of care in the wife’s face.
Before breakfast the next morning I was out on the beach, trying to decide how the inevitable disclosure might be made. Eunice joined me. Now, when we were alone, I asked if she was really and completely happy. Quietly and sadly she answered: “Not yet.”
I hardly knew what to say. My face must have expressed disappointment and surprise.
“I shall never be quite happy,” she resumed, “till I know what it is that you kept from me on that memorable day. I don’t like having a secret from my husband—though it is not my secret.”
“Remember your promise,” I said