given and willingly accepted, and thinking to surprise Mr. Holt by the sudden sight of his wife’s loveliness, he said nothing of his being married, picturing to himself what his astonishment would be when he saw her.
Though he had anticipated some evidence of surprise, he was quite unprepared for the excess of emotion displayed by Mr. Holt upon his introduction to Mrs. Astley. The colour left his face for a moment, and then returning violently dyed it crimson, and the words of acknowledgment were stammered out almost unintelligibly. Recovering his composure by a strong effort he offered his arm to lead Mrs. Astley to dinner, but she quietly declined it, laying her hand upon her husband’s. During the whole time of dinner Mr. Holt scarcely moved his eyes from Mary’s face, who did not seem at all disturbed by his intense gaze, and took no notice of her guest beyond what hospitality demanded.
Astley’s suspicions were excited long before the meal was ended, and his heart took a jealous leap as he thought it possible that his friend was falling in love with his beautiful wife. He cursed the impulse that had induced him to bring Holt home with him, and busily invented excuses for ridding himself of his guest as soon as was possible.
Holt’s agitation increased to positive illness before long, and rising, he asked Astley to accompany him to another room. He was scarcely able to walk, and Astley took him by the arm and asked if he were ill.
“Ill!” he groaned. “I wish I were dead.”
He sat down and covered bis face with his hands.
“You’ll think me a fool, Astley, but the likeness of your wife to mine has overcome me.”
“Are you married, then?” said Astley. “I did not know.”
“I was married eight years ago. I married an English girl with your wife’s hair and eyes; her height, too, and with her sweet voice. I brought her over here directly after our marriage, and we lived the happiest life in the world for two years—and then she died.”
Astley was silent. He could think of no words of consolation that would not be a mockery to a man who had lost such a wife as Mary.”
“Died,” Holt continued, after a pause, “while I was away from her. I had gone a three days’ journey, leaving her in perfect health, and I returned to find that she had died suddenly immediately after my departure, and was already buried.”
“How long ago!” asked Astley, hoarsely. A horrible light was breaking in upon him.
“Six years. I left Lima the following day. I never even visited her grave, but returned to England at once; and now, after these years I find your wife so like her in every feature and every look, that my old wound is torn open afresh, and the intolerable anguish has made me cry out in this way.”
Astley started up and laid his hand upon his friend’s shoulder with a grasp like a vice. His voice was harsh and dry, and his eyes were bloodshot and staring.
“Holt, for God’s sake let us do nothing rashly! Come with me to your wife’s grave, and let us be very sure.”
Holt looked up and saw all in Astley’s face.
“Speak,” he shouted; “she is my wife! Tell me how you met her; speak quickly while I can hear you, for there is the sound of a cataract in my ears that deafens me!”
And he fell in a swoon at Astley’s feet.
He might have died in it for all Astley could do to revive him. He stood blindly staring at the pale face, but was incapable of so much as holding out a hand to him.
Holt came to himself before long, and rising up haggard and wild, repeated his demand that Astley should tell him where he had met his wife.
And he did tell him, sparing nothing; saying plainly out that she had been brought to him by the body-snatchers as a subject; that she had lain as dead upon his table for a night, sheeted and shrouded like a corpse.
“And you dared” burst in Holt, who was almost beside himself.
“I saved her life,” said Astley, gently; he had softened as he thought of that restoration.
“Will you come with me to the grave, that we may be very sure?”
“No, no, no,” Holt moaned; the fury was passing away, and giving place to a dull sorrow. “I can bear no more. It is as certain, more certain than death, that your wife is mine. God help us!”
Which of the men was the most to be pitied?
There were some moments of horrible silence, in which each heard the beating of his heart like a heavy drum. Holt spoke again.
“Ask Edith to come here. Surely she cannot have forgotten me.”
“Mary—I call her Mary. It will only distress her. I give you my word of honour she has no memory of anything before the trance.”
But when he saw the passion in Holt’s face he judged it best for his sake that she should come. Since he chose to hear from her own mouth what he had refused to believe from his friend’s, he should do so.
She came quickly at the sound of the loved