Alas! neither home nor Horace profited by this dismissal of a rival. The attentive wife grew pettish, irritable, and more avowedly indifferent than ever. Her health was seriously affected. She was subject to hysterics, which came on apparently without cause. Her gaiety had entirely disappeared, and she was often found in tears. She would rally from time to time, and endeavour, in incessant dissipation, to escape from the torment of her thoughts; but this never lasted long; she soon relapsed again into a capricious, fretful, malicious, melancholy state of mind.
She had, indeed, received a deep wound. That conscience which, in its anticipation of the opinion of others, so troubled the studious Marmaduke, was an awful retribution on Mrs. Vyner. The thought that he had duped her and had excited her love—for she had loved him—merely as a means of revenge, was of itself sufficient to rouse her to exasperation; but when to that was added the thought of Violet knowing it—of the detested Violet who had always seen through and scorned her, and who now held the secret of her guilty passion—it became a rankling poison in her soul. Nor was the fury of jealousy absent. This villain who had played with her, did he not love the haughty girl who despised her?
The poor old pedant was at a loss to comprehend the cause of his wife's conduct. She could not love Marmaduke, or why should she dismiss him; yet, if she did not love him, why was she so miserable?
In vain he tried by kindness to revive within her that semblance of affection with which she had hitherto cheated him. She ceased all hypocrisy, though hypocrisy would have been kindness. She received his demonstrations of affection with exasperating indifference, and when he, on one or two occasions, endeavoured to exert his authority—for he was master in his own house, he supposed—she only laughed at him.
The poor old man retired to his books, but not to read; in mute distress he ruminated on the change which had taken place, and sat there helpless and hopeless. He tried to forget these painful thoughts in occupying himself with his great work; but he sat there, the book open before him, the pen idle in his hand, and the snuff-box his only consolation.
His domestic peace was gone, and he began to perceive it.
CHAPTER VIII.
REHEARSAL OF THE OPERA.
"Good news, pet," said Cecil, dancing into the room one afternoon. "Moscheles, whom I meet sometimes, you know, at Hester Mason's, has looked over my opera, and likes it very much; he has even proposed that we should have a sort of private rehearsal of it at his house next week, and has undertaken to secure the singers, and Bunn is to be there to hear it."
"That is good news, indeed."