"Oh, folly, folly!"
"I secured to you a proper position in society, Clara."
"Oh, folly, folly!" continued Lady Kerrison.
"I was anxious to see you enter life, courted, admired, and envied, my dear Clara."
"Who admires and envies me?" cried Clara, starting to her feet. "Who envies my situation, or would change places with such a wretched creature? By the Heaven which witnessed the sacrifice of my youth and hopes of happiness, I would willingly exchange with the humblest woman who breaks stones for her daily bread, and devours it in peace! Oh, Chrystal, never marry while you live!"
The exertion of complaint, and the powerful passions which warred in the soul of Clara, exhausted her strength after this vehement exposition of her suffering; and she lay upon the sofa, like a child who had sobbed itself into silence. It was a solemn sight to see so young and fair a creature, so deeply engaged in the strife of passion and contention; the expression of her countenance was already tinged with angry feelings, and her beautiful mouth was losing its attitude of repose: if such was Lady Kerrison's vehemence of character at this early period of her marriage, what would become of her in after-years?
Clara fell into a doze, which continued till the hall-bell again announced a visitor. Lady Wetheral, also, endeavoured to acquire a composure which would not appear at her call; Lady Kerrison's reproaches had startled and destroyed her tranquillity. Her hands trembled under their efforts to resume their occupation, and sighs burst from her bosom. Christobelle was glad the bustle of a fresh arrival drew near the door, to divert her thoughts from her sister's sorrow. Clara started from her sleep, at the sound of approaching voices, and rose from her couch. The servants announced Sir Foster Kerrison.
Sir Foster walked fiercely towards his lady, without taking notice of Lady Wetheral or Christobelle, who stood amazed, as he advanced to the sofa; he did not even wink his eye. Clara remained in haughty expectation of his address, her head thrown back, and her eye flashing defiance. "Now, sir, are you come to beard me at Wetheral!" was her indignant exclamation; "are you come here to prove how brutally you can treat a woman, even in her father's house?"
"Go home!" cried Sir Foster. "Go home this instant!"
"I will never return, if there is a roof elsewhere to shelter me!" returned his lady. "I am weary of existence under a tyrant's power."