“But my father, who was not in such haste to come to conclusions, and substitute some plausible explanation for the truth, found something in the look of P. at that trying moment to which, none of these explanations offered a key.  There was in it, he felt, a fortitude, but not the fortitude of the hero; a religious submission, above the penitent, if not enkindled with the enthusiasm, of the martyr.

“I have said that my father was not one of those who are ready to substitute specious explanations for truth, and those who are thus abstinent rarely lay their hand, on a thread without making it a clew.  Such a man, like the dexterous weaver, lets not one color go till Ire finds that which matches it in the pattern,—­he keeps on weaving, but chooses his shades; and my father found at last what he wanted to make out the pattern for himself.  He met a lady who had been intimate with both himself and P. in early days, and, finding she had seen the latter abroad, asked if she knew the circumstances of the marriage.

“’The circumstances of the act which sealed the misery of our friend, I know,’ she said, ’though as much in the dark as any one about the motives that led to it.

“’We were quite intimate with P. in London, and he was our most delightful companion.  He was then in the full flower of the varied accomplishments which set off his fine manners and dignified character, joined, towards those he loved, with a certain soft willingness which gives the desirable chivalry to a man.  None was more clear of choice where his personal affections were not touched, but where they were, it cost him pain to say no, on the slightest occasion.  I have thought this must have had some connection with the mystery of his misfortunes.

“’One day he called on me, and, without any preface, asked if I would be present next day at his marriage.  I was so surprised, and so unpleasantly surprised, that I did not at first answer a word.  We had been on terms so familiar, that I thought I knew all about him, yet had never dreamed of his having an attachment; and, though I had never inquired on the subject, yet this reserve where perfect openness had been supposed, and really, on my side, existed, seemed to me a kind of treachery.  Then it is never pleasant to know that a heart on which we have some claim is to be given to another.  We cannot tell how it will affect our own relations with a person; it may strengthen or it may swallow up other affections; the crisis is hazardous, and our first thought, on such an occasion, is too often for ourselves,—­at least mine was.  Seeing me silent, he repeated his question.  “To whom,” said I, “are you to be married?” “That,” he replied, “I cannot tell you.”  He was a moment silent, then continued, with an impassive look of cold self-possession, that affected me with strange sadness:  “The name of the person you will hear, of course, at the time, but more I cannot tell you.  I need, however, the presence, not only of legal, but of respectable and friendly witnesses.  I have hoped you and your husband would, do me this kindness.  Will you?” Something in his manner made it impossible to refuse.  I answered, before I knew I was going to speak, “We will,” and he left me.