“And as for you, poor creature that you are, words cannot tell how I despise you.  You discard me and my devotion, to follow a nature, in its way, it is true, greater even than my own, representing the principle of good, as I represent the principle of evil, but one to which yours is utterly abhorrent.  Can you mix light with darkness, or filthy oil with water?  As well hope to merge your life, black as it is with every wickedness, with that of the splendid creature you would defile.  Do you suppose that a woman such as she will ever be really faithless to her love, even though you trap her into marriage?  Fool, her heart is as far above you as the stars; and without a heart a woman is a husk that none but such miserables as yourself would own.  But go on—­dash yourself against a white purity that will, in the end, blind and destroy you.  Dree your own doom!  I will find you expedients; it is my business to obey you.  You shall marry her, if you will, and taste of the judgment that will follow.  Be still, I will bear no more of your insolence to-day.”  And she swept out of the room, leaving George looking somewhat scared.

When Lady Bellamy reached Rewtham House, she went straight to her husband’s study.  He received her with much politeness, and asked her to sit down.

“I have come to consult you on a matter of some importance,” she said.

“That is, indeed, an unusual occurrence,” answered Sir John, rubbing his dry hands and smiling.

“It is not my own affair:  listen,” and she gave him a full, accurate, and clear account of all that had taken place with reference to George’s determination to marry Angela, not omitting the most trivial detail.  Sir John expressed no surprise; he was a very old bird was Sir John, one for whom every net was spread in vain, whether in or out of his sight.  Nothing in this world, provided that it did not affect his own comfort or safety, could affect his bland and appreciative smile.  He was never surprised.  Once or twice he put a shrewd question to elucidate some point in the narrative, and that was all.  When his wife was finished, he said,

“Well, Anne, you have told a very interesting and amusing little history, doubly so, if you will permit me to say it, seeing that it is told of George Caresfoot by Lady Bellamy; but it seems that your joint efforts have failed.  What is it that you wish me to do?”

“I wish to ask you if you can suggest any plan that will not fail.  You are very cunning in your way, and your advice may be good.”

“Let me see, young Heigham is in Madeira, is he not?”

“I am sure I do not know.”

“But I do,” and he extracted a note-book from a drawer.  “Let me see, I think I have an entry somewhere here.  Ah! here we are.  ’Arthur P. Heigham, Esq., passenger, per Warwick Castle, to Madeira, June 16.’  (Copied from passenger-list, Western Daily News.) His second name is Preston, is it not?  Lucky I kept that.  Now, the thing will be to communicate with Madeira, and see if he is still there.  I can easily do that; I know a man there.”