Also, certain ugly letters from a person of the name of Lowes, in
London, put him on the track, had he cared to follow it up, of a
deception even worse than that of pretended art or mock science. These
letters, written in the same handwriting as that wherein Julius de
Montfort, her brother-in-law, the present marquis, had told her of
the defalcations of the family solicitor and trustee, called Virginie,
Madame la Marquise de Montfort, plain Susan bluntly, and reminded her
of the screw that would be turned if the writer was not satisfied;
and were letters that demanded money, always money, as the price of
continued silence.

But Sebastian had loved his second wife too well to seek to know the
truth, if that truth would be to her discredit. He preferred to
be deceived; and he had what he preferred. He stifled all doubts,
darkened all chinks by which the obtrusive light might penetrate, kept
his love if not his faith unshaken, caring only to remember her as
beautiful, seductive, soothing, and mourning her as deeply, doubtful
as she had proved herself to be, as he had loved her fondly when he
believed her honest. It was a curious mental condition for a man to
cherish, but it satisfied him, and his regret was not robbed of its
pathos by knowledge.

Now that the four years were completed, the widower had to return to
his desolate home and make the best he could of the fragments of peace
and happiness left to him. Leam was nineteen: it was time for her to
be taken from school and given the protection of her father's house.
It went against the man's heart to have her, but he was compelled, if
he wished to stand well with his friends, and he hoped that the girl
would be found improved from these years of discipline and training,