“Don’t take it so, Sir Harold,” cried Atkins. “You’ve had a happy escape from her. She’s a heartless, unprincipled--” Sir Harold put up his hand. “Don’t!” he said pleadingly. “You hurt me, Atkins. She thought me dead, my poor Octavia. Who--who did she marry!” “A gamester and adventurer named Craven Black. During the past month, Sir Harold, I have devoted much time to the study of Mrs. Craven Black’s antecedents. Forgive me, Sir Harold, but in this hour you must know all the truth. I am like the physician who cuts deeply to extract a ball. Sir Harold, the woman you married was never fit to be taken into your family; she was never fit to be placed as step-mother and guardian over a pure young girl--” “Atkins, she is my wife. Mine still, although another claims her. I will not hear a word against her.” “You must hear it, Sir Harold,” said Atkins resolutely. “If you do not hear it from me, others less kind will pour it into your ears. You cannot escape the knowledge. As I said, during the past month I have studied up Lady Wynde’s antecedents. I have seen Mrs. Hyde, Lady Wynde’s aunt, and I have also seen a former maid of her ladyship. I tell you, Sir Harold, and I pray you to forgive me for telling you the truth, the woman you married never loved you. She married you only as a part of a daring conspiracy--” “Atkins!” “It is true, so help me God!” cried Atkins solemnly. “Lady Wynde--I suppose she is Lady Wynde still, her last marriage being rendered invalid by your return to the living, as one might say--Lady Wynde was engaged to marry Craven Black before she ever saw you. Mrs. Hyde told me this herself.” “I cannot believe it!” “Craven Black was poor, and so was Octavia Hathaway. You were at Brighton, rich, a widower. Craven Black conceived the idea that Octavia should win and wed you, and secure a rich jointure, upon which, in due time, having rid themselves of you, they should marry--” “This is monstrous! Atkins, you are deceived. You are belying a noble woman!” “Hear the rest, Sir Harold. As God is my judge, I believe your wife married you intending to poison you!” Sir Harold shook his head. The idea seemed too monstrous for belief. “That affair in the water at Brighton was planned beforehand,” persisted Atkins. “You rescued the lady, as was expected of you. She followed up the acquaintance, and married you. You went to India; and I believe, if you had not gone, you would have died here suddenly of poison. When Lady Wynde had worn mourning a year in most decorous fashion, Craven Black and his son came up to Wyndham, and early in September there were great festivities at Hawkhurst, at the third marriage of Lady Wynde. There was a ball at the great house, and a ball for the tenantry on the lawn, with music and fire-works. It was for all the world an affair such as might have greeted the coming of age of an heir to a grand property, rather than the marriage of a widow from the house of her late husband to a notorious adventurer.”