# Once a Week (magazine)/Series 1/Volume 9/Paul Garrett; or, The secret

PAUL GARRETT; OR, THE SECRET.
I had just acquired the right of placing the letters M.D. after my name, and was rejoicing over the bright prospects that were opening before me, when they were all blighted by the sudden death of my father, at the early age of fifty-three. My hopes of establishing a practice in London ​were dashed to the ground, as he had saved very little from his income of a thousand a-year, which his situation under government yielded him, and as he died intestate, all his effects were sold, the proceeds of the sale divided between five of us—four sisters and myself—and when his affairs were wound up, we found ourselves each in possession of four hundred pounds. My sisters made up their minds at once to proceed to Australia, where an aunt of theirs was comfortably settled; but I preferred remaining in England, having no taste for life in the bush.
I was looking out for a situation as assistant to a country practitioner, when an old friend of my father’s informed me of something that he imagined would suit me. Sir Clement Trevanion of—well, we will say,—Monkton Bassett, was desirous of securing my services, as a painful disorder of long standing rendered it necessary that he should be constantly attended by a skilful medical man. Mr. Forrest (my informant) added:
“His present medical attendant, Mr. Simpson, whom I have known for years, is about to leave him, and has written to me to find somebody to take his place. You will receive five hundred a-year, have carriages and horses at your service, and only one patient to attend to. Not a bad beginning, eh?”
“It is so far beyond my hopes or expectations,” I replied, “that I shall only be too thankful to obtain it, if I have the chance.”
“You may make sure of it, my dear fellow,” was the reply. “Simpson’s recommendation is all-powerful with the baronet, and my recommendation is all that Simpson requires. I will write to him by the next post, and you will hear from him shortly, no doubt. Now I must be off. Will you dine with me to-morrow?”
“With pleasure,” I replied; and we parted.
In two days I had a letter from Mr. Simpson, settling everything satisfactorily, and a week afterwards I found myself in the presence of Sir Clement Trevanion, a tall, dark, unhealthy-looking man of about forty-seven years of age. He gave me a searching glance with his deeply-set eyes, and then received me graciously enough. Mr. Simpson, who had remained at Monkton Bassett, to initiate me into the method he had pursued in the treatment of his patient, had a long conversation with me, and from him I found that all was not couleur de rose at Monkton Bassett, as I had almost been sure would be the case.
Imprimis, I was never to range beyond the grounds without permission.
Secondly, I was to exercise a strict surveillance over my patient’s diet—a very disagreeable task.
Thirdly, I was to sleep in a room adjoining Sir Clement’s, that I might always be within call. The carriages and horses were to be at my service when I rode out with Sir Clement, who could not take horse-exercise.
“Apart from those little drawbacks,” said Mr. Simpson, noticing the gradual elongation of my face, as he gave me the above particulars, “my stay here has been pleasant enough. Besides, it is not for life, you know. I have now been with Sir Clement nine years, and with my savings intend to buy a practice. Why should you not do the same?”
“Be that as it may,” I replied, “I have accepted the situation, and mean to perform my duties conscientiously.”
“Ah! that’s right,” was the reply. “You’ll get on very well with Sir Clement, no doubt.”
I could see, however, that he was overjoyed to be emancipated from his thraldom. But he gave me many judicious hints respecting Sir Clement’s management, and much sound advice besides, for which I was, and still am very grateful.
Thus was I installed at Monkton Bassett.
The very day that Mr. Simpson left, the baronet gave me a sample of what I might expect. There was a fine haunch of venison on the table, and I, who officiated as carver, helped him to a slice of it. On the plate being placed before him, he said, sharply,
“Take it away. I cannot eat the lean of venison.”
“The fat is poison to you, Sir Clement,” I remonstrated, “and I am sure that Mr. Simpson—”
“Take it away,” thundered Sir Clement, “I’ll have none!”
And it was the same with almost every dish on the table. I began to fear that I should not “get on” very well with my patient, but while he was sulking, I began talking (having all the talk to myself, however), and fortunately happened to relate an anecdote which tickled his fancy. His brow relaxed, and after laughing heartily, he ate some boiled mutton which I recommended.
The evening passed pleasantly, Sir Clement drawing me out as much as possible to speak on various subjects. The next morning, after breakfast, I tried to persuade him to refrain from ordering for dinner anything injurious to him, but he cut me short by saying:
“I like to see a well-appointed table.”
“But, Sir Clement,” I urged, “surely you can order an excellent—nay a very sumptuous dinner, without subjecting yourself to the torments of Tantalus! And consider the unpleasant duty I have to perform, of prohibiting you from tasting what you would prefer.”
“Mr. Milburn!” said Sir Clement, abruptly, “I like to see certain dishes on my table, whether I partake of them, or not. There!”
Of course no more could be said, and for some time we had daily squabbles of a similar kind; but I discovered afterwards that Sir Clement pursued this course of contradiction, partly because it afforded him a pleasurable excitement, and partly to try the temper of his medical man. Mr. Simpson, it appeared, took refuge in silence, after a snappish reply or two, but I pursued a different method.
After a while he became more manageable, and one day, said:
“I like you very much, Milburn; much better than I did Simpson. He was a clever, conscientious man, but he certainly might have made himself more pleasant. However, perhaps he could not, therefore it was his misfortune not his fault, still, I am very glad that you do not resemble him. ​Time does not hang heavily on my hands now, as it did while he was here. Are you perfectly satisfied with your position?”
“Perfectly, Sir Clement,” was my reply. “I am quite comfortable now,” laying, perhaps, a slight stress on the last word.
“Ah,” said he, laughing, “that now means, I suppose, since our daily prandial disputes have ceased. I must confess that you kept your temper admirably, and have thereby secured my respect. I hope, Milburn,” added he, more gravely, “that you will stay with me to the last, for I feel I am not long for this world.”
I endeavoured to divert him from dwelling on such gloomy thoughts, and assured him that if he were careful, he might live many years. He smiled languidly, and replied:
“After all, though it is but a sorry life I ead, I ought not to repine, for I have ample means of alleviating my own sufferings, and relieving the wants of others. Were I a poor man it would not be so.”
After a while, I succeeded in changing the conversation, and left him in pretty good spirits. I must here remark, that Sir Clement’s charity was unbounded, and he often requested me, as a favour, to give advice to those of his poorer tenants who needed it. He was also scrupulously attentive to his religious duties, and kept the little church at Monkton Bassett (a tumble-down edifice, built of lath and plaster, which I never entered without fearing that a sudden gust of wind might blow it down), in repair at his own expense. I gathered from words dropped here and there, that he had been “crossed in love,” as the old lodge-keeper expressed it, and that a great disappointment had soured his temper and destroyed his health. But he entirely left off showing temper towards me. He made me his amanuensis, and I either read or talked to him, as he preferred. I received cheering news from Australia, three of my sisters were well married, and the fourth on the point of following their example, and for six years I was comparatively happy. At the end of that time, as I was reading to Sir Clement one morning, the steward desired to speak to him. On entering the room, he informed his master that the Elms, a cottage ornée, belonging to the estate, was let to a foreign gentleman—a Mr. Rander.
Sir Clement said:
“Rander does not sound like a foreign name, Rogers; does it, Milburn?” appealing to me.
“No, indeed,” I answered.
“You must have made a mistake, Rogers,” said the baronet.
“Well, Sir Clement, that is what he calls himself,” said Rogers. “But I have his card somewhere. Ah, here it is.”
And he presented Sir Clement with a card, on which was engraved: “Don Pablo de Garate y Aranda,” which Sir Clement read aloud, after which he said:
“Oh! I see. A Spaniard, I should fancy.”
Rogers said he was quite the gentleman. So liberal in everything! He did not wish Sir Clement to lay out a penny, but would do all that was necessary himself.
“Quite a phœnix of a tenant;” said Sir Clement, smiling.
And presently Rogers departed. Sir Clement called on Señor de Aranda, but he was not at home. The latter returned the call when Sir Clement was driving out with me, and there all communication ceased. An invitation to dine at Monkton Bassett was declined on the plea of Madame de Aranda’s delicate health, but Sir Clement said:
“I would wager anything that it is pride that keeps this Spanish hidalgo at a distance. Well! He must have his own way, I suppose!”
And he thought no more of the De Arandas. But one day I was sent for in a great hurry by Madame de Aranda. Mr. Aranda had been thrown from his horse, and carried home insensible. I set off immediately, and found Madame de Aranda watching for me. I observed that she appeared almost beside herself with grief, and followed her into the room where her husband lay still unconscious. I found that he had sustained serious but not dangerous injuries on the head, and had cut his cheek severely. I said to Madame de Aranda,—
“His whisker and chin must be shaved before I can dress the wound.”
She directed her husband’s valet to perform the operation, while I busied myself in endeavouring by cold applications to restore animation. As soon as his cheek was cleared of its hirsute appendage, I looked at the pale face before me, and the perception gradually dawned on me that I had seen it before, years ago, and finally I recognised, in Don Pablo de &c., &c., &c., my old fellow-student at Bartholomew’s, Paul Garrett!
As I became more certain of his identity, I wondered what this disguise could mean. I resolved, however, to respect his secret, and gave no sign of ever having seen him before, until finding him restored to consciousness, I whispered to his wife to speak to him, as he might not like to see a stranger.
She approached him and spoke in Spanish.
He looked dreamily at her, and then appeared to recollect himself. She said something else, and he stared wildly round him, at the same time raising his hand and passing it over his chin. I advanced towards him and said,
“My dear sir, if you wish to recover, you must dismiss all anxiety from your mind—all groundless fears. Make yourself quite easy about the consequences of your slight accident, and you will soon recover. Allow me to feel your pulse. This will never do! Have you some vinegar, hartshorn, or sal volatile at hand?” I asked.
“I will fetch some directly,” said Madame de Aranda, and hurried from the room, while I still held Paul’s hand in mine. He gave me an imploring look, and then with a gasp said, in an unnatural tone of voice,
“Milburn! I will trust you! Keep my secret!”
“I will,” replied I, pressing his hand.
He appeared quite satisfied, and remained quiet. His wife returned with the sal volatile, of which I administered a few drops in water, and after remaining with him some time, left him perfectly sensible and collected. I promised to call again in the ​evening, and performed my promise. I noticed a wonderful improvement in my patient, who on being left alone with me, said,
“I feel quite at ease now, Milburn; but I cannot tell you what I felt when Clara told me that you were here, and that my hair had been cut off. Now, however, I am rather glad that you know me.”
“None of that nonsense just now, old fellow, if you please,” I said. “Get well as soon as you can, and then you may tell me why and wherefore you are glad that I know you. Drink this, turn your head from the light and hold your tongue, I will remain by you for some time.” I sat by him until he fell into a deep sleep, and then left him, desiring to be sent for instantly if he should awake before two o’clock. He did not, and recovered rapidly; indeed he must have had an iron constitution, or he could not have escaped fever and erysipelas, as he fortunately did.
When he recovered, he owned to me that the fear of being recognised by me had induced him to decline Sir Clement’s invitation, but as that fear no longer existed, he would not remain cooped up at the Elms. Sir Clement, naturally enough, believed that pride had given way to gratitude, and was very glad to become better acquainted with his foreign tenant. As time wore on I expected that Paul would draw aside the veil of mystery which enshrouded his proceedings, and that I should hear how he, Paul Garrett, whom I had last heard of as an assistant to a Mr. Jones, at an obscure village in Wales, should have become transformed into a Spanish grandee. But he seemed to shrink from touching on the subject. He did indeed once casually mention that when he left Wales he went to South America, and from thence to Cuba, where he married Clara. There was no reticence in his allusions to his life at Cuba, but not a word escaped him concerning his stay in Wales or in South America.
I pondered deeply on all this, and finally came to the conclusion that Paul had either forged or embezzled a sum of money. But whatever he had done, I knew him well enough to be certain that he had not easily succumbed to temptation, for a more honourable, self-denying, conscientious fellow than was Paul Garrett, when I first knew him, never existed. For two years he and his wife frequently visited Sir Clement, and many were the pleasant days we spent together. At the expiration of that time, Sir Clement sank under his malady, and died, bequeathing me a legacy of five thousand pounds. With that sum and my savings I could now attain the height of my ambition—a first-rate London practice, and soon after Sir Clement’s death, I bade adieu to Paul, who with his wife was about to start for the south of France.
PART II.
I reached London full of hope, and conjuring up bright visions of the future. I consulted with the friends who remained to me, and particularly with Mr. Forrest, who strongly advised me to marry before I established myself. I should have had no objection to follow his advice, had I known any young lady likely to come up to my ideas of what a wife ought to be, but my acquaintance among the fair sex was singularly limited. At this juncture, I received a letter from my sister Fanny, who wrote that a young friend of hers, Miss Alice Powell, had just lost her father, her only relative in Australia, and would leave for England by the next ship that sailed after the one that brought my letter, arriving at Plymouth on or about the 20th of April. Would I (if possible) go and meet the young lady, whom I was to escort safely to London, and deliver into the charge of her aunt, who was old and infirm, at Cumming Street, Pentonville? Fanny added, “I promised Alice that you would meet her if you possibly could. So be sure you go, there’s a dear George.”
It was fortunate on Fanny’s account (or she might not have been enabled to keep her word) that I was still a gentleman at large—had I not been, it would have been no easy task to leave London on a piece of knight-errantry. But as it was, nothing interfered to prevent my following all the instructions laid down for me. I met the young lady, escorted her safely to Cumming Street, and left her in charge of her aunt, a gaunt red-haired angular personage, suffering acutely from rheumatism. And on returning to my lodgings, I began wondering whether Alice Powell would help me to follow old Mr. Forrest’s advice. Her manners were so natural, there was such a freshness about her: in short, Alice Powell would just suit me,—if she would have me.
I had asked leave to call on her aunt, and received a churlish affirmative to my request; but I persevered, and soon perceived that poor Alice’s position with her relative was any but a comfortable one. The old lady’s temper was fearful, and not even my presence could prevent her from grumbling at the additional expense Alice’s advent had entailed upon her. In one respect, however, she found it an economy. I attended her gratis, and cured her of her rheumatism, so that she was able to trot about as actively as was her wont before her illness. And then I spoke out, and offered my hand to Alice, who consented to be my wife. By a strange perversity her aunt, Miss Davies, was now quite loth to part with her, and bewailed the dreariness of her future so pathetically to Alice, that, on the latter telling me she was really sorry to leave the poor woman to her loneliness, I was induced—in an unguarded moment, I confess—to offer her a home with us. From that moment Miss Davies was an altered woman. She seldom gave way to her temper, tried to make herself agreeable, and I had no cause to regret her making one of our family. She became exceedingly fond of Alice, and indeed was capable of deep and strong attachment.
We married, and I took a house in Craven Gardens, but waited to begin practice until I could secure a better position, which I could not just then, as the International Exhibition was open, and I had set my mind on a house in Chester Place, which would be vacant at Michaelmas. I took three season-tickets, and all of us visited the Exhibition nearly every day. Sometimes I appointed to meet Alice and her aunt at a particular spot, and on one occasion the place of meeting was to be outside the Roman Court. On ​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 ​look younger than he is now, if it were not for that nasty hair about his face.”
Aunt Winifred seemed to have taken Paul’s mustachios in especial aversion. She resumed:
“Now, George, tell me. What had I better do?”
“It is a very awkward business,” said I, soothingly. “Only suppose that you should be mistaken, what then? If you make any disturbance about the business, you will bring vexation and annoyance on worthy people who have never injured you, and do yourself no good. You say your marriage was secret. Why was that? I presume you were of age.”
“I will tell you.”
Another dry cough.
“The fact was that my step-father, Mr. Jones, had plenty of money, and had promised to leave it to me if I behaved well to him (for his own daughter had married against his will and gone to Australia), and I was afraid to tell him I had married his assistant, for fear he should be angry with me. That was why I kept the marriage secret.”
“Well, aunt,” I said, “my advice to you is, do nothing rashly. I will try and find out, if possible, the antecedents of Señor de Aranda, and then we can make up our minds how to act. I must now leave you, for I have business of importance to attend to.”
“But,” persisted Aunt Winifred, “would it not be better to have him watched by a detective?”
“To what purpose?” I asked. “Is he not staying at the ——?”
“True,” replied she. “Well, I will wait to see what you find out.”
I left her, but as I was quitting the house was waylaid by Alice, who lamented the delusion under which her unfortunate aunt laboured. Alice was firmly persuaded that her aunt could never have been married, and imagined her story a fiction from beginning to end. But I knew better. I felt sure that I had found out Paul’s secret, and my compunction was great, at being forced to act a lie to my wife, for was I not aware that Paul Garrett and De Aranda were one and the same? Still, when I reflected upon Clara on the one hand, and Aunt Winifred on the other, my sympathies were all entirely for the former, and I wished to hear from Paul himself how it all happened. I was sure he had not sinned wilfully, and how could I be a party to any plan that would consign that poor, innocent, confiding Clara to shame and disgrace?
I hurried to the hotel. On entering the room where Paid and his wife were, the latter exclaimed:
“Oh, Dr. Milburn? I am so glad you are come! I wanted Pablo to let me send for you. I am sure he is ill. He has not been himself all day.”
“Why, what is the matter?” I asked.
He shook his head.
“You are looking pale and fatigued, yourself, madame,” said I to Clara. “I fear you have tired yourself out to-day. I would suggest your retiring early, and recommend your husband to have a cigar afterwards as a sedative.”
“I will retire now, Dr. Milburn,” said Clara, “and I can leave you, querido Pablo, in Dr. Milburn’s charge. I do feel rather tired, and that is the truth. So good night, Dr. Milburn.”
And at last we were alone, Paul and I.
“You must think I am a great villain,” said Paul.
I hesitated.
“Appearances are strangely against you, I must own.”
“I will tell you how it all happened,” said Paul; “and indeed I have been longing to do so, ever since we met at Monkton Bassett. I know Winifred too well not to be certain that she will not leave a stone unturned to find out the truth, and she will follow me to the end of the world rather than loose her hold of me. I have not wilfully wronged her, as you shall hear.
“I was placed at the age of fourteen as apprentice to Mr. Jones, Winifred’s step-father, to remain with him for four years, with the promise, that after completing my medical studies, I should become his assistant. I had neither father nor mother, and for the first three years my position was as lonely and wretched as could well be imagined. At the end of that time I shot up, and improved in appearance. Miss Winifred began to take notice of me. She was not ill-looking, though she had high cheek-bones and red hair. I was no longer ‘that boy,’ but ‘Mr, Paul,’ and as I had at that time a weakness for sweetmeats and dainties, Miss Winifred daily ministered to my failing with unwearied assiduity. She reigned supreme in the household, and my situation was far different to what it had been. She likewise took charge of my wardrobe, supplying its many deficiencies with such tender forethought, that I became quite attached to her—I mean I felt deeply grateful for her kindness towards me.
“I expected to go to London as soon as I had completed my eighteenth year, but shortly before that time arrived, the bank in which the money had been invested for that especial purpose, broke, and I was left without the means of qualifying myself to become Mr. Jones’s assistant.
“What was I to do?
“Winifred and I held several consultations together on the subject, and the upshot of it all was, that she promised to find money for me to go to London, and I agreed to marry her.
“We were secretly married, and for some time I was not unhappy, though Winifred could scarely bear me out of her sight, but that I excused, imputing it to her excessive fondness for me. But when I mentioned the journey to London, she raved at the idea of our separation, and begged me not to think of it. Necessity, however, is a stern mistress. I pointed out to her that I must either qualify myself for her father’s assistant, or seek my bread elsewhere, and to London I went!
“There I met you, Milburn, and you know whether I spared myself in pursuit of my professional studies, or indulged in any of the gaieties patronised by my companions. You remember ​how often you reproached me for the solitary cheerless life I led. I paid a short annual visit to Wales, and on those occasions it appeared as if the sole object of Winifred’s life were to consult my happiness. At last I returned to Wales for a permanency, and became Mr. Jones’s assistant. I received a small salary, and this became the bone of contention between my wife and me. Winifred made many attempts to obtain the mastery over me in all pecuniary matters, but I stoutly resisted her tyranny, and at last, on my peremptory refusal to set down every farthing of my expenditure (in a book ruled and prepared by herself) we came to an open rupture. From that time, my life was a perpetual torment, and I really believe I should have put an end to it and my misery at once, had I not heard of an appointment in South America; and, on the impulse of the moment, applied for and obtained it. On my telling Winifred what I had done, her anger exceeded all bounds, but I cared little for that, the prospect of freedom was before me, and I listened to her reproaches in silence.
“I pass over some years spent in South America, and hasten on to the time at which I left for Jamaica. The ship in which I sailed was wrecked, but two other men and I, saved our lives by clinging to some portion of the rigging, and we were picked up by a Spanish vessel bound for Cuba. I arrived there, and found employment. Shortly after my arrival, I accidentally saw in an English newspaper, six months old, the announcement of the death of Winifred Davies, of Llanvargwn. I will not deny that the certainty of being freed from a hateful tie, was not unpleasing to me, though I dreamed not at that time of forming a new and more auspicious one. But some time after, I met with Clara, an orphan heiress, and though at first, I dared not raise my eyes to her, yet, after a nearer acquaintance, I wooed and won her. Clara was always anxious to visit England; and, two years after our marriage, we left Cuba, and arrived here in safety. At that time, a relation of Clara’s was consul here, and she went to stay some time with him and his family, while I, impelled by some fatality, went down into Wales to make inquiries respecting my first wife. Who can describe my horror on finding her still alive! I hurried away from the place, a vulture gnawing at my heart, but not before I had ascertained that the Winifred Davies to whom the announcement which I had seen referred, was a grand-aunt of my wife’s of the same name. I need not tell you, Milburn, that since then I have not had one moment’s peace. The dread of discovery constantly haunted me. I took Clara to Italy and to France; but as she preferred England, I at length returned here, and settled at Monkton Bassett, as being a secluded, out-of-the-way place. But you were there! Had not Clara been the sweetest tempered being in the world, she could never have borne with my fitful moods at that time, and it was positively a relief to me when I could disburthen myself of part of my secret to you. Now you know all. And I tremble lest Clara should discover that she is not my wife. But I have not sinned wilfully.”
“No, Paul,” I replied, “you have not, and it is to spare your poor Clara from suddenly gaining a knowledge of the truth, that I am here. Aunt Winifred has recognised you, and wished to set a detective to dog your steps, but Alice believes that she is deranged; and I, heaven forgive me! have not discouraged the idea, to gain time. You must leave England immediately!”
“What can I say to Clara?”
“Tell her you are summoned away upon urgent business. Say that you will leave her in charge of Alice and me. If I am not mistaken in her, she will not question your actions. Start from here by the first train to-morrow, after sending me a note in a disguised hand, telling me you have been obliged to go. If you intend to go to Spain, say you are going to Germany, and vice versâ. And now I must leave you. Have you money enough for your present emergencies? If not I have brought—”
“Oh! I have plenty,” interrupted he, “but would that I were a daily labourer, so I could have peace.”
I rose and prepared to depart, and after he had wrung my hand warmly, with “God bless you, Milburn,” I left him.
I reached home at a late hour, but found Alice sitting up for me. I scolded her for so doing, but she told me that Aunt Winifred had passed the evening in alternate fits of raving and depression, and that she (Alice) was quite alarmed about her. But as she had retired to bed at last, I expressed a hope to my wife that she would sleep off her strange notion, and be herself again in the morning. I then sought my pillow, but obtained no rest that night.
The next morning a note was brought to me from Paul. It ran as follows:
Dear Doctor Milburn,—I am suddenly summoned to Cadiz, on business of the utmost importance. I may say indeed that it is a matter of life and death. I therefore write to entreat you and Mrs. Milburn to take compassion on Clara, a helpless foreigner in a strange land, and to give her an asylum during my absence (which will, I hope, not extend beyond a week or ten days). I have no time to add more, and, with best regards to Mrs. Milburn, believe me,
Dear Doctor, Faithfully yours,
The signature was in one continuous scrawl.
Alice proposed to go instantly and fetch poor Madame de Aranda, and I acceded to the proposition. Before noon Clara was installed as our inmate, and remained more than a month with us. Aunt Winifred was completely mystified by the sight of Paul’s note, which Alice mentioned having received, and as she had eagerly requested to see his handwriting, Alice gave her the note. She perused it attentively, and then muttered:
“Not in the least like his writing. It’s very strange! Degratyrander!” And she fell into a fit of musing.
Clara bore Paul’s absence with resignation. She knew that some mystery was connected with his departure, but such was her perfect faith in him, that she never dreamed of anything to his prejudice, and Alice learned to love her as a sister, to ​the great annoyance of Aunt Winifred, who had conceived a violent dislike to her, calling her “a finical little thing,” and also taken great offence at her wearing a gold cross on her neck. She returned to her hunt after Paul with renewed vigour, after a short lull, and went out one morning to secure the services of a detective from a Private Inquiry Office. Her manner, however, was so strange, that the person to whom she applied doubted her sanity, and sent a man to the address she had given to inquire into particulars. By great good fortune Alice saw the man, and impressed as she was with the idea of her aunt’s derangement, she had little trouble in persuading the detective of the fact, but suggested that, to keep her quiet, he should bring fictitious accounts to her from time to time. Nothing could have happened more opportunely. I thereby escaped telling falsehood upon falsehood, and Aunt Winifred received accounts of Paul’s whereabouts. He was taken from Cadiz to Baden, from thence to Switzerland, whence he was conveyed to Paris. She said, exultingly, to Alice:
“I can lay my finger on him when I choose! That’s a comfort!”
The detective’s services were engaged for a month, at the end of which time he informed her that her quarry had returned to England, and was now at Brighton, No. —, Oriental Place, under an assumed name. She told this to Alice in confidence, but Alice did not repeat it to me. At this time, I could quite conscientiously have affirmed that Aunt Winifred was not of sound mind; by constantly dwelling on one idea her intellect had been shaken, and I had directed Alice to keep a strict watch over her. We supposed, afterwards, that an advertisement of an excursion train to Brighton had caught her eye, and led to the disastrous consequence that followed. One morning, she did not appear at breakfast, and we heard that she had left the house at five o’clock, a.m., in a cab, ordering the man to drive her to the London Bridge terminus. Alice immediately suspected that she had gone to Brighton, and made me acquainted with her suspicions, but we thought no more of it. In the course of the day, however, I heard that a terrible accident had happened on the Brighton line, and on making inquiries found my worst fears confirmed. Aunt Winifred had been killed by a collision that had taken place, and I broke the melancholy tidings to Alice as gently as I could. Alice lamented loudly that her poor aunt should have met with her death while labouring under so great a delusion, and I was obliged to hear her regrets, knowing all the time that the unfortunate woman had only told the truth. That was my hardest task.
Aunt Winifred was buried in Woking Cemetery, and after her interment I wrote to Paul. He answered my letter in person, and shocked poor Clara by telling her that his absence had been caused by his having received information that their marriage had not been properly solemnised; that it was informal, in fact, and that it was necessary that they should be re-married. Clara submitted to him without a murmur, and I gave her away at a church in London. The instant the ceremony was concluded, a weight appeared to be lifted off my mind, and I prayed devoutly that I might never again become the depository of a similar secret. But was I wrong in keeping it? I think not.
Emma Treherne.