‘You are very generous, certainly, towards this mythical nephew of yours, whose existence you have presupposed. Do you not think you are actuated in reality by your curious and incomprehensible dislike to—my Mr. Debenham? If so, you may soon find yourself in a very awkward position.’ ‘Incomprehensible!’ echoed Mrs. Belassis. ‘He has done nothing but insult and oppose us ever since he came back. He has a smooth tongue, but he is our enemy at heart, and he will do us an ill-turn when he can. He knows that, and I believe you know it too.’ ‘I do not know it. What I do know is that he has been wonderfully considerate towards you; and although he is acquainted with facts which must seriously affect your peace of mind, and might bring you the greatest unhappiness a woman can suffer, he has refrained from letting fall one syllable which could injure you, in spite of all the provocation you have given him. I advise you, however, not to go too far. A man’s patience is not supposed to be a very elastic article. If you do not take care, you may find the tables turned upon yourself.’ Mrs. Belassis looked uneasy. ‘What can you know about my affairs? Has this Philip, as he calls himself, told you more than he tells me?’ ‘Perhaps he has; but in this instance it was I who told him.’ ‘What did you tell him?’ Miss Marjory looked at her without answering. ‘What did you tell him?’ repeated Mrs. Belassis. ‘Do you really wish to know? It will not be pleasant news.’ ‘I do wish to know.’ ‘I suppose you are not aware that your husband was married in 1843?’ ‘Married!’ gasped Mrs. Belassis. ‘Married, in Whitbury Minster, to a girl named Nelly Roberts, who had been in my service as lady’s-maid. He deserted her two months after the marriage, and, so far as I know, never heard of her again.’ Mrs. Belassis sat like one turned to stone. ‘What became of her?’ she asked, when she could find voice. ‘She lived for some time in Whitbury, and then her health failed, and she went away. Eventually she died; but I lost sight of her before then.’ ‘When did she die?’ ‘Not long after February, 1850; but I do not know the exact date.’ ‘I was married in the May of that year,’ said Mrs. Belassis. ‘I know; and I hope—I hope—at any rate, inquiries are being made, and we shall soon learn the truth; but I do not for a moment believe your husband knows anything about the matter. I believe he lost sight of her utterly.’ Mrs. Belassis said nothing for awhile. Then she asked: ‘My nephew knows this?’ ‘He does.’ ‘Why did he not tell me?’ ‘I believe he wished to spare you.’ ‘Then why do you tell me now?’ ‘Because I wish to warn you. It seems to me that you are taking a very unwise course; and I think it fair you should know to what it may lead you, if you too far provoke your nephew.’