John Temple was agitated by a variety of emotions. He looked at his wife, who had re-buried her face in the sofa cushions, and thus addressed her, inaudibly:
"You foolish, little simpleton! you ignorant little heretic!—destitute both of religion and common sense. Good Heavens, what a wife! Jealous of Mary, our Mother in Heaven! O, Holy Mary in Heaven, pray for her."
The dinner-bell rang.
"Come, Juliet," said her husband, kindly, "let us go to dinner; I am hungry as a bear."
"You can go; I have no appetite, I never care to eat again as long as I live," came out dismally from the depths of the pillows.
John ate a hearty dinner, when, failing to conciliate his wife, he went to his office. No sooner had the hall-door closed on him than Juliet arose out of her sackcloth and ashes, bathed her face, arranged her hair, and proceeding to the dining-room, so far forgot her intention of never eating again as to surprise the cook by her greediness. She then dressed, ordered her carriage, and was driven to her mother's.
To this mother, who was a confirmed invalid, and confined to the house, Juliet poured out the exaggerated tale of her grievances. It was not enough that her husband was a Catholic; he was also heartless, stoical, unsympathizing, and unloving.
Mrs. St. Leger listened silently to the end. At the conclusion she flew into a rage.
"You shall go back to him no more," she exclaimed. "You see now the folly of your persisting in marrying him. He was beneath you in every respect. But you shall not live with him. My daughter shall not be treated disdainfully by John Temple, an Irishman and a Catholic. I will send for my lawyer and have divorce papers drawn at once. Ring for Richard."
"But, mamma—I—I—I never thought of getting a divorce. I love my husband. It is because I love him so well that I feel so bad if—if—"