Page:Once a Week June to Dec 1863.pdf/15

27, 1863.] my way thither a hand was placed on my shoulder. I turned round, and saw Paul Garrett with his wife, bright and blooming, by his side. We were delighted to meet again, and I asked him to come and be introduced to my wife. Paul looked remarkably well: he had not so much beard as when he first came to Monkton Bassett, but had thick moustachios.

We walked together until we came to where Alice and her aunt were seated. I presented my friends, Mr. and Mrs. Aranda, but was astonished at the strange effect produced on Aunt Winifred by the introduction. She started forward, and after peering curiously at Paul from under her coarse red eyebrows, seemed to settle down into her usual manner. It struck me, too, that Paul was not unmoved. The pupils of his eyes were dilated to an unnatural size, and an indescribable change came over his countenance, but it was only momentary. Alice and Clara soon became friendly, Paul joined in their conversation, and I was left to take care of Aunt Winifred. She whispered:

“Where did you become acquainted with that gentleman?”

“I met him while I was at Sir Clement Trevanion’s,” I replied.

“Oh!” A pause. “You say he is a foreigner?”

“He told me he had come from Cuba,” was my evasive reply.

I felt assured that Aunt Winifred held the key to Paul’s secret, whatever it might be, and determined to be upon my guard. She muttered to herself:

“It is astonishing.”

I asked her to walk about with me. She consented, but was preoccupied and absent until we resumed our seats. I invited Paul and his wife to a friendly dinner, but he declined the invitation. It was settled, however, that Clara should accept a seat in my carriage to convey her to the hotel where she and Paul were staying, that Alice and Aunt Winifred should accompany her, while Paul and I walked home together. After seeing the ladies in the carriage, we turned our steps homewards, and walked along Kensington without Paul opening his lips. But wishing him to be forewarned, I said:

“My wife’s aunt was very particular in her inquiries about you.”

“What!” he exclaimed, “is she, Winifred, your wife’s aunt?”

“She is, indeed!” was my reply; “and, moreover, she lives with us.”

“Good heavens!” said he, an expression of horror flitting across his face; then, turning to me, he added, “For the love of Heaven, Milburn, do not drop a hint to her of your ever having known me as a medical student, and, above all, don’t mention that I was ever in Wales.”

“I will take care to do neither of those things,” I replied. “I told her I met you at Sir Clement Trevanion’s.”

“And what did she say to that?” asked he, eagerly.

“Appeared very much puzzled,” was my reply.

“Milburn!” said he, impressively, “I am the most miserable of men! Not exactly through my fault—circumstances—false information that misled me—I may some day, perhaps, tell you all—it will be a relief to me—but not now—not now.”

I parted from him soon after, and when I reached my house I was met by Alice, who, in great perturbation, said:

“George, do you know that I fear Aunt Winifred is going out of her mind?”

“Why do you fear that, my love?” asked I.

“She has been talking so absurdly, that it would be really laughable, if it were not too shocking. Only fancy! She declares that Mr. de Aranda is an Englishman, and her husband!”

“What could possibly have put such an idea into her head?” I asked.

“She says she was married secretly to him years ago, when he was very young—that he was her stepfather’s assistant at Llanvargwn, or some such name, in Wales. Is it not dreadful? And she actually talked of setting a detective to watch him, and find out all about him, but I persuaded her to wait until you returned.”

“You did quite right, Alice,” I said; “I will speak to her by-and-by.”

We dined, and after dinner Aunt Winifred, with great solemnity, desired to speak to me. I was prepared for what was coming, and waited patiently to hear what she would say. She began:

“That man you introduced to us to-day, George, who calls himself a foreigner, is no such thing! He is an Englishman, his real name is Paul Garrett” (I knew that well enough), “and I married him in Wales fifteen years ago.”

“But,” I objected, “Mr. de Aranda is still a young man—not above two or three and thirty—at that time he must have been but seventeen or eighteen.”

Aunt Winifred evidently winced at this: she gave a dry cough, and said,

“He was eighteen, and I was—several years older. But that is neither here nor there. He is my husband in spite of those nasty mustachios, and I’ll prove it, too, before I have done with him.”

“Now, my good aunt,” I remonstrated, “pray do not excite yourself. Be calm, and tell me how you came to lose sight of this husband of yours for so many years.”

“You shall hear, George. We did not live happily together. Paul was so wilful and so disinclined to take advice which was all for his good! At last he went off to South America. From there he wrote once to say he was going to Jamaica, but on his way there the ship he was in was lost, and it was reported that all on board perished. I have supposed him dead for many years. But he is alive, I have seen him to-day, and he has married again. His wife, indeed! I’m his wife.”

“Now be calm, pray,” I urged. “Are you quite sure that no fancied resemblance—”

“No, no!” interrupted she, fiercely. “I am certain of what I say. Besides his is a face that time does not change much. Fifteen years ago, he looked much older than he was, and he would