WITH this bitter reply Wheeler retired precipitately; the shaft pierced but one bosom; for the devoted wife, with the swift ingenuity of woman's love, had put both her hands right over her husband's ears that he might hear no more insults.

Sir Charles very nearly had a fit; but his wife loosened his neckcloth, caressed his throbbing head, and applied eau-de-Cologne to his nostrils. He got better, but felt dizzy for about an hour. She made him come into her room and lie down; she hung over him, curling as a vine and light as a bird, and her kisses lit softly as down upon his eyes, and her words of love and pity murmured music in his ears till he slept, and that danger passed.

For a day or two after this both Sir Charles and Lady Bassett avoided the unpleasant subject. But it had to be faced; so Mr. Oldfield was summoned to Huntercombe, and all engagements given up for the day, that he might dine alone with them and talk the matter over.

Sir Charles thought he could justify; but when it came to the point he could only prove that Richard had done several ungentleman-like things of a nature a stout jury would consider trifles.

Mr. Oldfield said of course they must enter an appearance; and, this done, the wisest course would be to let him see Wheeler, and try to compromise the suit. “It will cost you a thousand pounds, Sir Charles, I dare say; but if it teaches you never to write of an enemy or to an enemy without showing your lawyer the letter first, the lesson will be cheap. Somebody in the Bible says, 'Oh, that mine enemy would write a book!' I say, 'Oh, that he would write a letter—without consulting his solicitor.”

It was Lady Bassett's cue now to make light of troubles. “What does it matter, Mr. Oldfield? All they want is money. Yes, offer them a thousand pounds to leave him in peace.”

So next day Mr. Oldfield called on Wheeler, all smiles and civility, and asked him if he did not think it a pity cousins should quarrel before the whole county.

“A great pity,” said Wheeler. “But my client has no alternative. No gentleman in the county would speak to him if he sat quiet under such contumely.”

After beating about the bush the usual time, Oldfield said that Sir Charles was hungry for litigation, but that Lady Bassett was averse to it. “In short, Mr. Wheeler, I will try and get Mr. Bassett a thousand pounds to forego this scandal.”

“I will consult him, and let you know,” said Wheeler. “He happens to be in the town.”

Oldfield called again in an hour. Wheeler told him a thousand pounds would be accepted, with a written apology.

Oldfield shook his head. “Sir Charles will never write an apology: right or wrong, he is too sincere in his conviction.”

“He will never get a jury to share it.”

“You must not be too sure of that. You don't know the defense.”

Oldfield said this with a gravity which did him credit.

“Do you know it yourself?” said the other keen hand.

Mr. Oldfield smiled haughtily, but said nothing. Wheeler had hit the mark.

“By the by,” said the latter, “there is another little matter. Sir Charles assaulted me for doing my duty to my client. I mean to sue him. Here is the writ; will you accept service?”

“Oh, certainly, Mr. Wheeler and I am glad to find you do not make a habit of serving writs on gentlemen in person.”

“Of course not. I did it on a single occasion, contrary to my own wish, and went in person—to soften the blow—instead of sending my clerk.”

After this little spar, the two artists in law bade each other farewell with every demonstration of civility.

Sir Charles would not apologize.

The plaintiff filed his declaration.

The defendant pleaded not guilty, but did not disclose a defense. The law allows a defendant in libel this advantage.

Plaintiff joined issue, and the trial was set down for the next assizes.

Sir Charles was irritated, but nothing more. Lady Bassett, with a woman's natural shrinking from publicity, felt it more deeply. She would have given thousands of her own money to keep the matter out of court. But her very terror of Richard Bassett restrained her. She was always thinking about him, and had convinced herself he was the ablest villain in the wide world; and she thought to herself, “If, with his small means, he annoys Charles so, what would he do if I were to enrich him? He would crush us.”

As the trial drew near she began to hover about Sir Charles in his study, like an anxious hen. The maternal yearnings were awakened in her by marriage, and she had no child; so her Charles in trouble was husband and child.

Sometimes she would come in and just kiss his forehead, and run out again, casting back a celestial look of love at the door, and, though it was her husband she had kissed, she blushed divinely. At last one day she crept in and said, very timidly, “Charles dear, the anonymous letter—is not that an excuse for libeling him—as they call telling the truth?”

“Why, of course it is. Have you got it?”

“Dearest, the brave lady took it away.”

“The brave lady! Who is that?”

“Why, the lady that came with Mr. Oldfield and pleaded your cause with papa—oh, so eloquently! Sometimes when I think of it now I feel almost jealous. Who is she?”

“From what you have always told me, I think it was the Sister of Charity who nursed me.”

“You silly thing, she was no Sister of Charity; that was only put on. Charles, tell me the truth. What does it matter now? It was some lady who loved you.”

“Loved me, and set her wits to work to marry me to you?”

“Women's love is so disinterested—sometimes.”

“No, no; she told me she was a sister of—, and no doubt that is the truth.”

“A sister of whom?”

“No matter: don't remind me of the past; it is odious to me; and, on second thoughts, rather than stir up all that mud, it would be better not to use the anonymous letter, even if you could get it again.”

Lady Bassett begged him to take advice on that; meantime she would try to get the letter, and also the evidence that Richard Bassett wrote it.

“I see no harm in that,” said Sir Charles; “only confine your communication to Mr. Oldfield. I will not have you speaking or writing to a woman I don't know: and the more I think of her conduct the less I understand it.”

“There are people who do good by stealth,” suggested Bella timidly.

“Fiddledeedee!” replied Sir Charles; “you are a goose—I mean an angel.”

Lady Bassett complied with the letter, but, goose or not, evaded the spirit of Sir Charles's command with considerable dexterity.

“DEAR MR. OLDFIELD—You may guess what trouble I am in. Sir Charles will soon have to appear in open court, and be talked against by some great orator. That anonymous letter Mr. Bassett wrote me was very base, and is surely some justification of the violent epithets my dear husband, in an unhappy moment of irritation, has applied to him. The brave lady has it. I am sure she will not refuse to send it me. I wish I dare ask her to give it me with her own hand; but I must not, I suppose. Pray tell her how unhappy I am, and perhaps she will favor us with a word of advice as well as the letter.

“I remain, yours faithfully,

“BELLA BASSETT.”

This letter was written at the brave lady; and Mr. Oldfield did what was expected, he sent Miss Somerset a copy of Lady Bassett's letter, and some lines in his own hand, describing Sir Charles's difficulty in a more businesslike way.

In due course Miss Somerset wrote him back that she was in the country, hunting, at no very great distance from Huntercombe Hall; she would sent up to town for her desk; the letter would be there, if she had kept it at all.

Oldfield groaned at this cool conjecture, and wrote back directly, urging expedition.

This produced an effect that he had not anticipated.

One morning Lord Harrowdale's foxhounds met at a large covert, about five miles from Huntercombe, and Sir Charles told Lady Bassett she must ride to cover.

“Yes, dear. Charles, love, I have no spirit to appear in public. We shall soon have publicity enough.”

“That is my reason. I have not done nor said anything I am ashamed of, and you will meet the county on this and on every public occasion.”

“I obey,” said Bella.

“And look your best.”

“I will, dearest.”

“And be in good spirits.”

“Must I?”

“Yes.”

“I will try. Oh!—oh!—oh!”

“Why, you poor-spirited little goose! Dry your eyes this moment.”

“There. Oh!”

“And kiss me.”

“There. Ah! kissing you is a great comfort.”

“It is one you are particularly welcome to. Now run away and put on your habit. I'll have two grooms out; one with a fresh horse for me, and one to look after you.”

“Oh, Charles! Pray don't make me hunt.”

“No, no. Not so tyrannical as that; hang it all!”

“Do you know what I do while you are hunting? I pray all the time that you may not get a fall and be hurt; and I pray God to forgive you and all the gentlemen for your cruelty in galloping with all those dogs after one poor little inoffensive thing, to hunt it and kill it—kill it twice, indeed; once with terror, and then over again with mangling its poor little body.”

“This is cheerful,” said Sir Charles, rather ruefully. “We cannot all be angels, like you. It is a glorious excitement. There! you are too good for this world; I'll let you off going.”

“Oh no, dear. I won't be let off, now I know your wish. Only I beg to ride home as soon as the poor thing runs away. You wouldn't get me out of the thick covers if I were a fox. I'd run round and round, and call on all my acquaintances to set them running.”

As she said this her eyes turned toward each other in a peculiar way, and she looked extremely foxy; but the look melted away directly.

The hounds met, and Lady Bassett, who was still the beauty of the county, was surrounded by riders at first; but as the hounds began to work, and every now and then a young hound uttered a note, they cantered about, and took up different posts, as experience suggested.

At last a fox was found at the other end of the cover, and away galloped the hunters in that direction, all but four persons, Lady Bassett, and her groom, who kept respectfully aloof, and a lady and gentleman who had reined their horses up on a rising ground about a furlong distant.

Lady Bassett, thus left alone, happened to look round, and saw the lady level an opera-glass toward her and look through it.

As a result of this inspection the lady cantered toward her. She was on a chestnut gelding of great height and bone, and rode him as if they were one, so smoothly did she move in concert with his easy, magnificent strides.

When she came near Lady Bassett she made a little sweep and drew up beside her on the grass.

There was no mistaking that tall figure and commanding face. It was the brave lady. Her eyes sparkled; her cheek was slightly colored with excitement; she looked healthier and handsomer than ever, and also more feminine, for a reason the sagacious reader may perhaps discern if he attends to the dialogue.

“So,” said she, without bowing or any other ceremony, “that little rascal is troubling you again.”

Lady Bassett colored and panted, and looked lovingly at her, before she could speak. At last she said, “Yes; and you have come to help us again.”

“Well, the lawyer said there was no time to lose; so I have brought you the anonymous letter.”

“Oh, thank you, madam, thank you.”

“But I'm afraid it will be of no use unless you can prove Mr. Bassett wrote it. It is in a disguised hand.”

“But you found him out by means of another letter.”

“Yes; but I can't give you that other letter to have it read in a court of law, because—Do you see that gentleman there?”

“Yes.”

“That is Marsh.”

“Oh, is it?”

“He is a fool; but I am going to marry him. I have been very ill since I saw you, and poor Marsh nursed me. Talk of women nurses! If ever you are ill in earnest, as I was, write to me, and I'll send you Marsh. Oh, I have no words to tell you his patience, his forbearance, his watchfulness, his tenderness to a sick woman. It is no use—I must marry him; and I could have no letter published that would give him pain.”

“Of course not. Oh, madam, do you think I am capable of doing anything that would give you pain, or dear Mr. Marsh either?”

“No, no; you are a good woman.”

“Not half so good as you are.”

“You don't know what you are saying.”

“Oh yes, I do.”

“Then I say no more; it is rude to contradict. Good-by, Lady Bassett.”

“Must you leave me so soon? Will you not visit us? May I not know the name of so good a friend?”

“Next week I shall be Mrs. Marsh.”

“And you will give me the great pleasure of having you at my house—you and your husband?”

The lady showed some agitation at this—an unusual thing for her. She faltered: “Some day, perhaps, if I make him as good a wife as I hope to. What a lady you are! Vulgar people are ashamed to be grateful; but you are a born lady. Good-by, before I make a fool of myself; and they are all coming this way, by the dogs' music.”

“Won't you kiss me, after bringing me this?”

“Kiss you?” and she opened her eyes.

“If you please,” said Lady Bassett, bending toward her, with eyes full of gratitude and tenderness.

Then the other woman took her by the shoulders, and plunged her great gray orbs into Bella's.

They kissed each other.

At that contact the stranger seemed to change her character all in a moment. She strained Bella to her bosom and kissed her passionately, and sobbed out, wildly, “O God! you are good to sinners. This is the happiest hour of my life—it is a forerunner. Bless you, sweet dove of innocence! You will be none the worse, and I am all the better—Ah! Sir Charles. Not one word about me to him.”

And with these words, uttered with sudden energy, she spurred her great horse, leaped the ditch, and burst through the dead hedge into the wood, and winded out of sight among the trees.

Sir Charles came up astonished. “Why, who was that?”

Bella's eyes began to rove, as I have before described; but she replied pretty promptly, “The brave lady herself; she brought me the anonymous letter for your defense.”

“Why, how came she to know about it?”

“She did not tell me that. She was in a great hurry. Her fiance was waiting for her.”

“Was it necessary to kiss her in the hunting-field?” said Sir Charles, with something very like a frown.

“I'd kiss the whole field, grooms and all, if they did you a great service, as that dear lady has,” said Bella. The words were brave, but the accent piteous.

“You are excited, Bella. You had better ride home,” said Sir Charles, gently enough, but moodily.

“Thank you, Charles,” said Bella, glad to escape further examination about this mysterious lady. She rode home accordingly. There she found Mr. Oldfield, and showed him the anonymous letter.

He read it, and said it was a defense, but a disagreeable one. “Suppose he says he wrote it, and the facts were true?”

“But I don't think he will confess it. He is not a gentleman. He is very untruthful. Can we not make this a trap to catch him, sir? He has no scruples.”

Oldfield looked at her in some surprise at her depth.

“We must get hold of his handwriting,” said he. “We must ransack the local banks; find his correspondents.”

“Leave all that to me,” said Lady Bassett, in a low voice.

Lady Bassett, thus instructed, drove to all the banks, but found no clerk acquainted with Mr. Bassett's handwriting. He did not bank with anybody in the county.

She called on several persons she thought likely to possess letters or other writings of Richard Bassett. Not a scrap.

Then she began to fear. The case looked desperate.

Then she began to think. And she thought very hard indeed, especially at night.

In the dead of night she had an idea. She got up, and stole from her husband's side, and studied the anonymous letter.

Next day she sat down with the anonymous letter on her desk, and blushed, and trembled, and looked about like some wild animal scared. She selected from the anonymous letter several words—“character, abused, Sir, Charles, Bassett, lady, abandoned, friend, whether, ten, slanderer” etc.—and wrote them on a slip of paper. Then she locked up the anonymous letter. Then she locked the door. Then she sat down to a sheet of paper, and, after some more wild and furtive glances all around, she gave her whole mind to writing a letter.

And to whom did she write, think you?

To Richard Bassett.