“You have not told me what she wrote to you,” said Sewell to his wife, as he smoked his cigar at one side of the fire while she read a novel at the other. It was to be their last evening at the Nest; on the morrow they were to leave it for the Priory. “Were there any secrets in it, or were there allusions that I ought not to see?”

“Not that I remember,” said she, carelessly.

“What about our coming? Does the old man seem to wish for it?—how does she herself take it?”

“She says nothing on the subject, beyond her regret at not being there to meet us.”

“And why can't she?—where will she be?”

“At sea, probably, by that time. She goes off to Sardinia to her brother.”

“What! do you mean to that fellow who is living with Fossbrooke? Why did n't you tell me this before?”

“I don't think I remembered it; or, if I did, it's possible I thought it could not have much interest for you.”

“Indeed, Madam! do you imagine that the only things I care for are the movements of your admirers? Where 's this letter? I 'd like to see it.”

“I tore it up. She begged me to do so when I had read it.”

“How honorable! I declare you ladies conduct your intercourse with an integrity that would be positively charming to think of if only your male friends were admitted to any share of the fair dealing. Tell me so much as you can remember of this letter.”

“She spoke of her brother having had a fever, and being now better, but so weak and reduced as to require great care and attention, and obliged to remove for change of air to a small island off the coast.”

“And Fossbrooke,—does she mention him?”

“Only that he is not with her brother, except occasionally: his business detains him near Cagliari.”

“I hope it may continue to detain him there! Has this-young woman gone off all alone on this journey?”

“She has taken no maid. She said it might prove inconvenient to her brother; and has only an old family servant she calls Nicholas with her.”

“So, then, we have the house to ourselves so far. She 'll not be in a hurry back, I take it. Anything would be better than the life she led with her grandfather.”

“She seems sorry to part with him, and recurs three or four times to his kindness and affection.”

“His kindness and affection! His vanity and self-love are nearer the mark. I thought I had seen something of conceit and affectation, but that old fellow leaves everything in that line miles behind. He is, without exception, the greatest bore and the most insupportable bully I ever encountered.”

“Lucy liked him.”

“She did not,—she could not. It suits you women to say these things, because you cultivate hypocrisy so carefully that you carry on the game with each other! How could any one, let her be ever so abject, like that incessant homage this old man exacted,—to be obliged to be alive to his vapid jokes and his dreary stories, to his twaddling reminiscences of college success or House of Commons—Irish House too—triumphs? Do you think if I wasn't a beggar I 'd go and submit myself to such a discipline?”

To this she made no reply, and for a while there was a silence in the room. At last he said, “You'll have to take up that line of character that she acted. You'll have to 'swing the incense' now. I'll be shot if I do.”

She gave no answer, and he went on: “You 'll have to train the brats too to salute him, and kiss his hand and call him—what are they to call him—grandpapa? Yes, they must say grandpapa. How I wish I had not sent in my papers! If I had only imagined I could have planted you all here, I could have gone back to my regiment and served out my time.”

“It might have been better,” said she, in a low voice.

“Of course it would have been better; each of us would have been free, and there are few people, be it said, take more out of their freedom,—eh, Madam?”

She shrugged her shoulders carelessly, but a slight, a very slight, flush colored her cheek.

“By the way, now we're on that subject, have you answered Lady Trafford's letter?”

“Yes,” said she; and now her cheek grew crimson.

“And what answer did you send?”

“I sent back everything.”

“What do you mean?—your rings and trinkets, the bracelet with the hair—mine, of course,—it could be no one's but mine.”

“All, everything,” said she, with a gulp.

“I must read the old woman's letter over again. You have n't burnt that, I hope?”

“No; it's upstairs in my writing-desk.”

“I declare,” said he, rising and standing with his back to the fire, “you women, and especially fine ladies, say things to each other that men never would dare to utter to other men. That old dame, for instance, charged you with what we male creatures have no equivalent for,—cheating at play would be mild in comparison.”

“I don't think that you escaped scot-free,” said she, with an intense bitterness, though her tone was studiously subdued and low.

“No,” said he, with a jeering laugh. “I figured as the accessory or accomplice, or whatever the law calls it. I was what polite French ladies call le mari complaisant,—a part I am so perfect in, Madam, that I almost think I ought to play it for my Benefit.' What do you say?”

“Oh, sir, it is not for me to pass an opinion on your abilities.”

“I have less bashfulness,” said he, fiercely. “I 'll venture to say a word on yours. I 've told you scores of times—I told you in India, I told you at the Cape, I told you when we were quarantined at Trieste, and I tell you now—that you never really captivated any man much under seventy. When they are tottering on to the grave, bald, blear-eyed, and deaf, you are perfectly irresistible; and I wish—really I say it in all good faith—you would limit the sphere of your fascinations to such very frail humanities. Trafford only became spooney after that smash on the skull; as he grew better, he threw off his delusions,—did n't he?”

“So he told me,” said she, with perfect calm.

“By Jove! that was a great fluke of mine,” cried he, aloud. “That was a hazard I never so much as tried. So that this fellow had made some sort of a declaration to you?”

“I never said so.”

“What was it then that you did say, Madam? Let us understand each other clearly.”

“Oh, I am sure we need no explanations for that,” said she, rising, and moving towards the door.

“I want to hear about this before you go,” said he, standing between her and the door.

“You are not going to pretend jealousy, are you?” said she, with an easy laugh.

“I should think not,” said he, insolently. “That is about one of the last cares will ever rob me of my rest at night. I 'd like to know, however, what pretext I have to send a ball through your young friend.”

“Oh, as to that peril, it will not rob me of a night's rest,” said she, with such a look of scorn and contempt as seemed actually to sicken him, for he staggered back as though about to fall and she passed out ere he could recover himself.

“It is to be no quarter between us then! Well, be it so,” cried he, as he sank heavily into a seat. “She's playing a bold game when she goes thus far.” He leaned his head on the table, and sat thus so long that he appeared to have fallen asleep; indeed, the servant who came to tell him that tea was served, feared to disturb him, and retired without speaking. Far from sleeping, however, his head was racked with a maddening pain, and he kept on muttering to himself, “This is the second time—the second time she has taunted me with cowardice. Let her beware! Is there no one will warn her against what she is doing?”

“Missis says, please, sir, won't you have a cup of tea?” said the maid timidly at the door.

“No; I'll not take any.”

“Missis says too, sir, that Miss Blanche is tuk poorly, and has a shiverin' over her, and a bad headache, and she hopes you 'll send in for Dr. Tobin.”

“Is she in bed?”

“Yes, sir, please.”

“I'll go up and see her;” and with this he arose and passed up the little stair that led to the nursery. In one bed a little dark-haired girl of about three years old lay fast asleep; in the adjoining bed a bright blue-eyed child of two years or less lay wide awake, her cheeks crimson, and the expression of her features anxious and excited. Her mother was bathing her temples with cold water as Sewell entered, and was talking in a voice of kind and gentle meaning to the child.

“That stupid woman of yours said it was Blanche,” said Sewell, pettishly, as he gazed at the little girl.

“I told her it was Cary; she has been heavy all day, and eaten nothing. No, pet,—no, darling,” said she, stooping over the sick child, “pa is not angry; he is only sorry that little Cary is ill.”

“I suppose you'd better have Tobin to see her,” said he, coldly. “I 'll tell George to take the tax-cart and fetch him out. It's well it was n't Blanche,” muttered he, as he sauntered out of the room. His wife's eyes followed him as he went, and never did a human face exhibit a stronger show of repressed passion than hers, as, with closely compressed lips and staring eyes, she watched him as he passed out.

“The fool frightened me,—she said it was Blanche,” were the words he continued to mutter as he went down the stairs.

Tobin arrived in due time, and pronounced the case not serious,—a mere feverish attack that only required a day or two of care and treatment.

“Have you seen Colonel Sewell?” said Mrs. Sewell, as she accompanied the doctor downstairs.

“Yes; I told him just what I 've said to you.”

“And what reply did he make?”

“He said, 'All right! I have business in town, and must start to-morrow. My wife and the chicks can follow by the end of the week.'”

“It's so like him!—so like him!” said she, as though the pent-up passion could no longer be restrained.