A little group of loiterers in the vestibule gazed curiously at them as they passed out, and behind them Clara saw the same black eye that had annoyed her so much on the journey. Why should _she_ be there, in the sultry noon, from the dust and weariness of travel? CHAPTER IX. That same afternoon the bride sat alone in her room in a fashionable hotel. A tap at her door--it is that stranger of the black eye and mourning dress. Though amazed and not altogether pleased, Clara invited her to a seat. “I think, ma’am, you were married this morning in ---- church, to Mr. Bernal Brentford?” Clara assented, with a faint blush. “I could not tell you, if I should try, how sorry I am to blast your happiness; but perhaps you will be thankful to me sometime. I must tell you that he, who has just wedded you, _is the husband of another_. Mr. Brentford has been, for four years, a married man!” Clara stared at the woman in blank amazement, as though she did not comprehend what monstrous tale she was trying to make her believe. At last, however, she seemed to understand, and with a sudden burst of indignation, and flashing eyes, she exclaimed, “Who are you, that _dare_ say such a thing? It is false! I know it is false! Brentford is true--he is honorable. I say, how dare you come here with that foul, despicable slander against him, my noble husband?” She stood directly before her visitant, and clasped her cold hands together very tightly, that she might not seem to tremble. The black eyes looked mournfully and steadily on her, as the stranger replied, “Poor girl! I dare come here and tell you this, because I know it is the truth, and I would save an innocent young fellow-being from disgrace and misery. I know one who, five years ago, was as light-hearted a creature as ever trilled a song. Then she met Bernal Brentford. He flattered her. He sang with her. He said he loved her. He took her away from her happy, happy home in the sunny south, and carried her to the city. There he squandered her fortune, and deserted her. “Could I be human and suffer another poor heart to be murdered in this same way?” As she spoke she drew a paper from her pocket, and handed it to Clara, who had sunk down into a chair, pale and speechless. She took it, and opened it mechanically. It was a record of the marriage of Bernal Brentford and Bertha Vale, signed and attested in due form. She read it, again and again, then said, suddenly, “How do I know that this is genuine?” “There are witnesses, to whom you can refer, if you care to. The means of proof are ample.” Clara’s ear caught the sound of a well-known footfall on the stairs. “_You_ are Bertha Vale?” said she. “Yes.” “Sit in that recess, and be silent.”