‘Is there anything wrong between you and Robert?’ Hester asked this question of her husband, one morning in January, as he was sitting by the side of her sofa in their bedroom. The baby was in her arms, and at that moment there was a question as to the godfathers and godmother for the baby.

The letter from Mrs. Smith had arrived on the last day of October, nearly two months before the birth of the baby, and the telegrams refusing to send the money demanded had been despatched on the 1st November,— so that, at this time, Caldigate’s mind was accustomed to the burden of the idea. From that day to this he had not often spoken of the matter to Robert Bolton,— nor indeed had there been much conversation between them on other matters. Robert had asked him two or three times whether he had received any reply by the wires. No such message had come; and of course he answered his brother-in-law’s questions accordingly;— but he had answered them almost with a look of offence. The attorney’s manner and tone seemed to him to convey reproach; and he was determined that none of the Boltons should have the liberty to find fault with him. It had been suggested, some weeks since, before the baby was born, that an effort should be made to induce Mrs. Bolton to act as godmother. And, since that, among the names of many other relatives and friends, those of uncle Babington and Robert Bolton had been proposed. Hester had been particularly anxious that her brother should be asked, because,— as she so often said to her husband,— he had always been her firm friend in the matter of her marriage. But now, when the question was to be settled, John Caldigate shook his head.

‘I was afraid there was something even before baby was born,’ said the wife.

‘There is something, my pet.’

‘What is it, John? You do not mean to keep it secret from me?’

‘I have not the slightest objection to your asking him to stand;— but I think it possible that he may refuse.’

‘Why should he refuse?’

‘Because, as you say, there is something wrong between us. There have been applications for money about the Polyeuka mine. I would not trouble you about it while you were ill.’

‘Does he think you ought to give back the money?’

‘No,— not that. We are quite agreed about the money. But another question has come up;— and though we are, I believe, agreed about that too, still there has been something a little uncomfortable.’

‘Would not baby make that all right?’

‘I think if you were to ask your brother William it would be better.’

‘May I not know what it is now, John?’

‘I have meant you to know always,— from the moment when it occurred,— when you should be well enough.’

‘I am well now.’

‘I hardly know; and yet I cannot bear to keep it secret from you.’

There was something in his manner which made her feel at once that the subject to which he alluded was of the greatest importance. Whether weak or strong, of course she must be told now. Let the shock of the tidings be what it might, the doubt would be worse. She felt all that, and she knew that he could feel it. ‘I am quite strong,’ she said; ‘you must tell me now.’

‘Is baby asleep? Put him in the cradle.’

‘Is it so bad as that?’

‘I do not say that it is bad at all. There is nothing bad in it,— except a lie. Let me put him in the cradle.’

Then he took the child very gently and deposited him, fast asleep, among the blankets. He had already assumed for himself the character of being a good male nurse; and she was always delighted when she saw the baby in his arms. Then he came and seated himself close to her on the sofa, and put his arm round her waist. ‘There is nothing bad — but a lie.’

‘A lie may be so very bad!’

‘Yes, indeed; and this lie is very bad. Do you remember my telling you — about a woman?’

‘That Mrs. Smith;— the dancing woman?’

‘Yes;— her.’

‘Of course I remember.’

‘She was one of those, it seems, who bought the Polyeuka mine.’

‘Oh, indeed!’

‘She, with Crinkett and others. Now they want their money back again.’

‘But can they make you send it? And would it be very bad — to lose it?’

‘They cannot make me send it. They have no claim to a single shilling. And if they could make me pay it, that would not be very bad.’

‘What is it, then? You are afraid to tell me?’

‘Yes, my darling,— afraid to speak to you of what is so wicked;— afraid to shock you, to disgust you; but not afraid of any injury that can be done to you. No harm will come to you.’

‘But to you?’

‘Nor to me;— none to you, or to me, or to baby there.’ As he said this she clutched his hand with hers. ‘No harm, dearest; and yet the thing is so abominable that I can hardly bring myself to wound your ears with it.’

‘You must tell now, John.’

‘Yes, I must tell you. I have thought about it much, and I know that it is better that you should be told.’ He had thought much about it, and had so resolved. But he had not quite known how difficult the telling would be. And now he was aware that he was adding to the horror she would feel by pausing and making much of the thing. And yet he could not tell it as though it were a light matter. If he could have declared it all at once,— at first, with a smile on his face, then expressing his disgust at the woman’s falsehood,— it would have been better. ‘That woman has written me a letter in which she declares herself to be — my wife!’

‘Your wife! John! Your wife?’ These exclamations came from her almost with a shriek as she jumped up from his arms and for a moment stood before him.

‘Come back to me,’ he said. Then again she seated herself. ‘You did not leave me then because you doubted me?’

‘Oh no,’ she cried, throwing herself upon him and smothering him with kisses —‘No, no! It was surprise at such horrid words,— not doubt, not doubt of you. I will never doubt you.’

‘It was because I was sure of you that I have ventured to tell you this.’

‘You may be sure of me,’ she said, sobbing violently the while. ‘You are sure of me; are you not? And now tell it me all. How did she say so? why did she say so? Is she coming to claim you? Tell me all. Oh, John, tell me everything.’

‘The why is soon told. Because she wants money. She had heard no doubt of my marriage and thought to frighten me out of money. I do not think she would do it herself. The man Crinkett has put her up to it.’

‘What does she say?’

‘Just that,— and then she signs herself,— Euphemia Caldigate.’

‘Oh, John!’

‘Now you know it all.’

‘May I not see the letter?’

‘For what good? But you shall see it if you wish it. I have determined that nothing shall be kept back from you. In all that there may ever be to trouble us the best comfort will be in perfect confidence.’ He had already learned enough of her nature to be sure that in this way would he best comfort her, and most certainly ensure her trust in himself.

‘Oh yes,’ she cried. ‘If you will tell me all, I will never doubt you.’ Then she took the letter from his hand, and attempted to read it. But her excitement was so great that though the words were written very clearly, she could not bring her mind to understand them. ‘Treachery! Ruin! Married to you! What is it all? Do you read it to me;— every word of it.’ Then he did read it; every word of it. ‘She says that she will marry the other man. How can she marry him when she says that she is — your wife?’

‘Just so, my pet. But you see what she says. It does not matter much to her whether it be true or false, so that she can get my money from me. But, Hester, I would fain be just even to her. No doubt she wrote the letter.’

‘Who else would have written it?’

‘She wrote it. I know her hand. And these are her words,— because they are properly expressed, gut it is all his doing,— the man’s doing. He has got her in his power, and he is using her in this way.’

‘If you sent her money —?’

‘Not a shilling;— not though she were starving; not now. A man who gives money under a threat is gone. If I were to send her money, everyone would believe this tale that she tells. Your brother Robert would believe it.’

‘He knows it?’

‘I took the letter to him instantly, but I made up my mind that I would not show it you till baby was born. You can understand that?’ She only pressed closer to him as he said this. ‘I showed it to Robert, and, altogether we are not quite such friends since as we were before.’

‘You do not mean that he believes it?’

‘No; not that. He does not believe it. If he did, I do not see how he and I could ever sp............