THAT very night, after Wheeler had gone home, Richard Bassett wrote a cajoling letter to Mary Wells, asking her to meet him at the old place.

When the girl got this letter she felt a little faint for a moment; but she knew the man, his treachery, and his hard egotism and selfishness so well, that she tossed the letter aside, and resolved to take no notice. Her trust was all in her mistress, for whom, indeed, she had more real affection than for any living creature; as for Richard Bassett she absolutely detested him.

As the day wore on she took another view of matters: her deceiver was the enemy of her mistress; she might do her a service by going to this rendezvous, might learn something from him, and use it against him.

So she went to the rendezvous with a heart full of bitter hate.

Bassett, with all his assurance, could not begin his interrogatory all in a moment. He made a sort of apology, said he felt he had been unkind, and he had never been happy since he had deserted her.

She cut that short. “I have found a better than you,” said she. “I am going to London very soon—to be married.”

“I am glad to hear it.”

“No doubt you are.”

“I mean for your sake.”

“For my sake? You think as little of me as I do of you. Come, now, what do you want of me—without a lie, if you can?”

“I wanted to see you, and talk to you, and hear your prospects.”

“Well, I have told you.” And she pretended to be going.

“Don't be in such a hurry. Tell us the news. Is it true that Lady Bassett is expected—”

“Oh, that is no news.”

“It is to me.”

“'Tain't no news in our house. Why, we have known it for months.”

This took away the man's breath for a minute.

At last he said, with a great deal of intention:

“Will it be fair or dark?”

“As God pleases.”

“I'll bet you five pounds to one that it is dark.”

Mary shrugged her shoulders contemptuously, as if these speculations were too childish for her.

“It's my lady you want to talk about, is it? I thought it was to make me a wedding present.”

He actually put his hand in his pocket and gave her two sovereigns. She took them with a grim smile.

He presumed on this to question her minutely.

She submitted to the interrogatory.

Only, as the questions were not always delicate, and the answer was invariably an untruth, it may be as well to pass over the rest of the dialogue. Suffice it to say that, whenever the girl saw the drift of a question she lied admirably; and when she did not, still she lied upon principle: it must be a good thing to deceive the enemy.

Richard Bassett was now perplexed, and saw himself in that very position which had so galled Lady Bassett six weeks or so before. He could not make any advantageous move, but was obliged to await events. All he could do was to spy a little on Lady Bassett, and note how often she went to the asylum.

After many days' watching he saw something new.

Mr. Angelo was speaking to her with a good deal of warmth, when suddenly she started from him, and then turned round upon him in a very commanding attitude, and with prodigious fire. Angelo seemed then to address her very humbly. But she remained rigid. At last Angelo retired and left her so; but he was no sooner out of sight than she dropped into a garden seat, and, taking out her handkerchief, cried a long time.

“Why doesn't the fool come back?” said Bassett, from his tower of observation.

He related this incident to Wheeler, and it impressed that worthy more than all he had ever said before on the same subject. But in a day or two Wheeler, who was a great gossip, and picked up every thing, came and told Bassett that the parson was looking out for a curate, and going to leave his living for a time, on the ground of health. “That is rather against your theory, Mr. Bassett,” said he.

“Not a bit,” said Bassett. “On the contrary, that is just what these artful women do who sacrifice virtue but cling all the more to reputation. I read French novels, my boy.”

“Find 'em instructive?”

“Very. They cut deeper into human nature than our writers dare. Her turning away her lover now is just the act of what the French call a masterly woman—maitresse femme. She has got rid of him to close the mouth of scandal; that is her game.”

“Well,” said Wheeler, “you certainly are very ingenious, and so fortified in your opinions that with you facts are no longer stubborn things; you can twist them all your way. If he had stayed and buzzed about her, while her husband was incarcerated, you would have found her guilty: he goes to Rome and leaves her, and therefore you find her guilty. You would have made a fine hanging judge in the good old sanguinary times.”

“I use my eyes, my memory, and my reason. She is a monster of vice and deceit. Anything is fair against such a woman.”

“I am sorry to hear you say that,” said Wheeler, becoming grave rather suddenly. “A woman is a woman, and I tell you plainly I have gone pretty well to the end of my tether with you.”

“Abandon me, then,” said Bassett, doggedly; “I can go alone.”

Wheeler was touched by this, and said, “No, no; I am not the man to desert a friend; but pray do nothing rash—do nothing without consulting me.”

Bassett made no reply.

About a week after this, as Lady Bassett was walking sadly in her own garden, a great Newfoundland dog ran up to her without any warning, and put his paws almost on her shoulder.

She screamed violently, and more than once.

One or two windows flew open, and among the women who put their heads out to see what was the matter, Mary Wells was the first.

The owner of the dog instantly whistled, and the sportive animal ran to him; but Lady Bassett was a good deal scared, and went in holding her hand to her side. Mary Wells hurried to her assistance, and she cried a little from nervousness when the young woman came earnestly to her.

“Oh, Mary! he frightened me so. I did not see him coming.”

“Mr. Moss,” said Mary Wells, “here's a villain come and frightened my lady. Go and shoot his dog, you and your son; and get the grooms, and fling him in the horse-pond directly.”

“No!” said Lady Bassett, firmly. “You will see that he does not enter the house, that is all. Should he attempt that, then you will use force for my protection. Mary, come to my room.”

When they were together alone Lady Bassett put both hands on the girl's shoulders, and made her turn toward her.

“I think you love me, Mary?” said she, drinking the girl's eyes with her own.

“Ah! that I do, my lady.”

“Why did you look so pale, and your eyes flash, and why did you incite those poor men to—It might have led to bloodshed.”

“It would; and that is what I wanted, my lady!”

“Oh, Mary!”

“What, don't you see?”

“No, no; I don't want to think so. It might have been an accident. The poor dog meant no harm; it was his way of fawning, that was all.”

“The beast meant no harm, but the man did. He is worse than any beast that ever was born; he is a cruel, cunning, selfish devil; and if I had been a man he should never have got off alive.”

“But are you sure?”

“Quite. I was upstairs, and saw it all.”

This was not true; she had seen nothing till her mistress screamed.

“Then—anything is fair against such a villain.”

“Of course it is.”

“Let me think.”

She leaned her head upon her hand, and that intelligent face of hers quite shone with hard thought.

At last, after long and intense thinking, she spoke.

“I'll teach you to be inhuman, Mr. Richard Bassett,” said she, slowly, and with a strange depth of resolution.

Then Mary Wells and she put their heads together in close discussion; but now Lady Bassett took the lead, and revealed to her astonished adviser extraordinary and astounding qualities.

They had driven her to bay, and that is a perilous game to play with such a woman.

Mary Wells found herself a child compared with her mistress, now that that lady was driven to put out all her powers.

The conversation lasted about two hours: in that time the whole campaign was settled.