“It was so much the more sacred because of my absence, John,” Gilbert said.

“Perhaps.  After all, I suppose it was only a question of opportunity.  That particular devil who tempts men to their dishonour contrived that the business should be made fatally easy for me.  You were away, and the coast was clear, you know.  I loved you, Gilbert; but there is a passion stronger than the love which a man feels for his dearest friend.  I meant most steadfastly to keep my faith with you; but you were away, and that fellow Forster plagued me to come to him.  I refused at first—­yes, I held out for a couple of months; but the fever was strong upon me—­a restless demon not to be exorcised by hard work, or dissipation even, for I tried both.  And then before you were at the end of your journey, while you were still a wanderer across the desolate sea, happy in the thought of your dear love’s fidelity, my courage gave way all at once, and I went down to Heatherly.  And so I saw her, and saw that she loved me—­all unworthy as I was; and from that hour I was a lost man; I thought of nothing but winning her.”

“If you had only been true to me, even then, John; if you had written to me declaring the truth, and giving me fair warning that you were my rival, how much better it would have been!  Think what a torture of suspense, what a world of wasted anger, you might have saved me.”

“Yes, it would have been the manlier course, no doubt,” the other answered; “but I could not bring myself to that.  I could not face the idea of your justifiable wrath.  I wanted to win my wife and keep my friend.  It was altogether a weak notion, that idea of secrecy, of course, and couldn’t hold water for any time, as the result has shown; but I thought you would get over your disappointment quickly—­those wounds are apt to heal so speedily—­and fall in love elsewhere; and then it would have been easy for me to tell you the truth.  So I persuaded my dear love, who was easily induced to do anything I wished, to consent to our secret being kept from you religiously for the time being, and to that end we were married under a false name—­not exactly a false name either.  You remember my asking you if you had ever heard the name of Holbrook before your hunt after Marian’s husband?  You said no; yet I think you must have seen the name in some of my old college books.  I was christened John Holbrook.  My grandmother was one of the Holbrooks of Horley-place, Sussex, people of some importance in their day, and our family were rather proud of the name.  But I have dropped it ever since I was a lad.”

“No, I don’t think I can ever have seen the name; I must surely have remembered it, if I had seen it.”