“I have considered it, and decided to receive him,” he replied.

“Ah!  I am afraid—­that is, I hope—­he may find our housekeeping such as he can enjoy,” she said, with an involuntary expression of surprise; for she had scarcely had a doubt that her husband would have preferred evading the visit of his fine friend, under his gloomy circumstances.

“If our modest fare does not suit him,” said Marston, with sullen bitterness, “he can depart as easily as he came.  We, poor gentlemen, can but do our best.  I have thought it over, and made up my mind.”

“And how soon, my dear Richard, do you intend fixing his arrival?” she inquired, with the natural uneasiness of one upon whom, in an establishment whose pretensions considerably exceeded its resources, the perplexing cares of housekeeping devolved.

“Why, as soon as he pleases,” replied he, “I suppose you can easily have his room prepared by tomorrow or next day.  I shall write by this mail, and tell him to come down at once.”

Having said this in a cold, decisive way, he turned and left her, as it seemed, not caring to be teased with further questions.  He took his solitary way to a distant part of his wild park, where, far from the likelihood of disturbance or intrusion, he was often wont to amuse himself for the live-long day, in the sedentary sport of shooting rabbits.  And there we leave him for the present, signifying to the distant inmates of his house the industrious pursuit of his unsocial occupation, by the dropping fire that sullenly, from hour to hour, echoed from the remote woods.

Mrs. Marston issued her orders; and having set on foot all the necessary preparations for so unwonted an event as a stranger’s visit of some duration, she betook herself to her little boudoir—­the scene of many an hour of patient but bitter suffering, unseen by human eye, and unknown, except to the just Searcher of hearts, to whom belongs mercy—­and vengeance.

Mrs. Marston had but two friends to whom she had ever spoken upon the subject nearest her heart—­the estrangement of her husband, a sorrow to which even time had failed to reconcile her.  From her children this grief was carefully concealed.  To them she never uttered the semblance of a complaint.  Anything that could by possibility have reflected blame or dishonor upon their father, she would have perished rather than have allowed them so much as to suspect.  The two friends who did understand her feelings, though in different degrees, were, one, a good and venerable clergyman, the Rev. Doctor Danvers, a frequent visitor and occasional guest at Gray Forest, where his simple manners and unaffected benignity and tenderness of heart had won the love of all, with the exception of its master, and commanded even his respect.  The second was no other than the young French governess, Mademoiselle de Barras, in whose ready sympathy and consolatory counsels she found no small happiness.  The society of this young lady had indeed become, next to that of her daughter, her greatest comfort and pleasure.