CHAPTER VIII.
Mrs. Deane sat rocking, and casting impatient glances at the little clock upon the mantle. The book which she had an hour previous been deeply interested in, lay closed upon her lap, while the nervous glancing of her eye towards the door, told that she was anxiously awaiting the arrival of some one. The clock struck ten, and rising from her seat, she went to the window, and drawing the curtain aside, looked out on the soft summer night. It was one of those lovely evenings towards the close of the season, when the slightly chilled air reminds one of cosy firesides, and close companionship with those dearest to the heart. But her thoughts were not of a peaceful cast. She was alone, and jealous of him who had left her so. A moment later and the sound of footsteps was heard upon the piazza; a sound which in earlier years she had heard with thrills of pleasure. But to-night they only loosed the tension of long-pent passion, and selfish thoughts of neglect. She sank into a chair, and sat with the air of one deeply wronged, as her husband entered the room.
“What, up and waiting for me?” he said, going towards her, his face glowing with mental exhilaration.
She turned coldly from him, and took up her book. He drew it gently from her, saying,—
“Listen, Mabel, to me. I want to talk with you awhile. You can read when I am away.”
“Yes, sir, I find ample opportunities for that,” and she cast on him a look of keen rebuke.
“Don't, Mabel; listen to me.”
“I am all attention; why do you not proceed?”