“I fancy it is what he means to do,” said Mrs. Sewell, in the same low tone,—“at least he came to me when I was standing in the small drawing-room, and said, 'How would you endure the quiet stillness and uniformity of such a life as I lead here? Would its dulness overpower you?'”
“Of course, you said it would be paradise,” broke in her Ladyship; “you hinted all about your own resources, and such-like.”
“She did no such thing; she took the pathetic line, put her handkerchief to her eyes, and implied how she would love it, as a refuge from the cruel treatment of a bad husband,—eh, am I right?” Harsh and insolent as the words were, the accents in which they were uttered were far more so. “Out with it, Madam! was it not something like that you said?”
“No,” said she, gently. “I told Sir William I was supremely happy, blessed in every accident and every relation of my life, and that hitherto I had never seen the spot which could not suit the glad temper of my heart.”
“You keep the glad temper confoundedly to yourself then,” burst he out. “I wish you were not such a niggard of it.”
“Dudley, Dudley, I say,” cried Lady Lendrick, in a tone of reproof.
“I have learned not to mind these amenities,” said Mrs. Sewell, in a quiet voice, “and I am only surprised that Colonel Sewell thinks it worth while to continue them.”
“If it be your intention to become Sir William's guest, I must say such habits will require to be amended,” said her Ladyship, gravely.
“So they shall, mother. Your accomplished and amiable husband, as you once called him in a letter to me, shall only see us in our turtle moods, and never be suffered to approach our cage save when we are billing and cooing.”
The look of aversion he threw at his wife as he spoke was something that words cannot convey; and though she never raised eyes to meet it, a sickly pallor crept over her cheek as the blight fell on her.