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“He wants you, Basil,” my wife divined from terms which gave me no sense of any latent design of parting us in his hospitality. “But, evidently, it isn’t a chance to be missed, and you must go–instantly. Can you go to-morrow? But telegraph him you’re coming, and tell him to hold on to the Conwell place; it may be snapped up any moment if it’s so desirable.”

I did not go till the following week, when I found that no one had attempted to snap up the Conwell place. In fact, it rather snapped me up, I secured it with so little trouble. I reported it so perfect that all my wife’s fears of a latent objection to it were roused again. But when I said I thought we could relinquish it, her terrors subsided; and I thought this the right moment to deliver a stroke that I had been holding in reserve.

“You know,” I began, “the Bentleys have their summer place there–the old Bentley homestead. It’s their ancestral town, you know.”

“Bentleys? What Bentleys?” she demanded, opaquely.

“Why, those people we met on the Corinthian, summer before last–you thought he was in love with the girl–“

A simultaneous photograph could alone reproduce Mrs. March’s tumultuous and various emotions as she seized the fact conveyed in my words. She poured out a volume of mingled conjectures, assertions, suspicions, conclusions, in which there was nothing final but the decision that we must not dream of going there; that it would look like thrusting ourselves in, and would be in the worst sort of taste; they would all hate us, and we should feel that we were spies upon the young people; for of course the Bentleys had got Glendenning there to marry him, and in effect did not want any one to witness the disgraceful spectacle.

I said, “That may be the nefarious purpose of the young lady, but, as I understood Glendenning, it is no part of her mother’s design.”

“What do you mean?”

“Miss Bentley may have got him there to marry him, but Mrs. Bentley seems to have meant nothing more than an engagement at the worst.”

“What do you mean? They’re not engaged, are they?”

“They’re not married, at any rate, and I suppose they’re engaged. I did not have it from Miss Bentley, but I suppose Glendenning may be trusted in such a case.”

“Now,” said my wife, with a severity that might well have appalled me, “if you will please to explain, Basil, it will be better for you.”

“Why, it is simply this. Glendenning seems to have made himself so useful to the mother and pleasing to the daughter after we left them in Montreal that he was tolerated on a pretence that there was reason for his writing back to Mrs. Bentley after he got home, and, as Mrs. Bentley never writes letters, Miss Bentley had the hard task of answering him. This led to a correspondence.”

“And to her moving heaven and earth to get him to Gormanville. I see! Of course she did it so that no one knew what she was about!”

“Apparently. Glendenning himself was not in the secret. The Bentleys were in Europe last summer, and he did not know that they had a place at Gormanville till he came to live there. Another proof that Miss Bentley got him there is the fact that she and her mother are Unitarians, and that they would naturally be able to select the rector of the Episcopal church.”

“Go on,” said Mrs. March, not the least daunted.

“Oh, there’s nothing more. He is simply rector of St. Michael’s at Gormanville; and there is not the slightest proof that any young lady had a hand in getting him there.”

“As if I cared in the least whether she had! I suppose you will allow that she had something to do with getting engaged to him, and that is the great matter.”

“Yes, I must allow that, if we are to suppose that young ladies have anything to do with young men getting engaged to them; it doesn’t seem exactly delicate. But the novel phase of this great matter is the position of the young lady’s mother in regard to it. From what I could make out she consents to the engagement of her daughter, but she don’t and won’t consent to her marriage.” My wife glared at me with so little speculation in her eyes that I felt obliged to disclaim all responsibility for the fact I had reported. “Thou canst not say I did it. They did it, and Miss Bentley, if any one, is to blame. It seems, from what Glendenning says, that the young lady and he wrote to each other while she was abroad, and that they became engaged by letter. Then the affair was broken off because of her mother’s opposition; but since they have met at Gormanville, the engagement has been renewed. So much they’ve managed against the old lady’s will, but apparently on condition that they won’t get married till she says.”