“A sincere friend warns Mrs. Philip Caresfoot that her husband is deceiving her, and has become entangled with a young lady of her acquaintance. Burn this; wait and watch!”

The letter fell from her hands as though it had stung her.

“Mrs. Jacobs was right,” she said aloud, with a bitter laugh, “men always have a ‘reason.’  Oh, let him beware!” And she threw back her beautiful head and the great blue eyes sparkled like those of a snake about to strike.  The sword of jealousy, that she had hitherto repelled with the shield of a woman’s trust in the man she loves, had entered into her soul, and, could Philip have seen her under these new circumstances, he would have realized that he had indeed good reason to “beware.”  “No wonder,” she went on, “no wonder that he finds her name irritating upon my lips; no doubt to him it is a desecration.  Oh, oh!” And she flung herself on her face, and wept tears of jealous rage.

“Well,” said George to Mrs. Bellamy, as they drove home together after the great dinner party (do not be shocked, my reader, Bellamy was on the bow), “well, how shall we strike?  Shall I go to the old man to-morrow, and show him my certified copy?  There is no time to lose.  He might die any day.”

“No; we must act through Mrs. Philip.”

“Why?”

“It is more scientific, and it will be more amusing.”

“Poor thing! it will be a blow to her.  Don’t you like her?”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because she did not trust me, and because she eclipses me.  Therefore I am glad of an opportunity of destroying her.”

“You are a very ruthless woman.”

“When I have an end in view, I march straight to it; I do not vacillate—­that is all.  But never mind me; here we are near home.  Go to town by the first train to-morrow morning and post another letter announcing what has happened here.  Then come back and wait.”

“Ay,” reflected George, “that is a wonderful woman—­a woman it is good to have some hold over.”

We left Hilda stretched on her face sobbing.  But the fit did not last long.  She rose, and flung open the window; she seemed stifled for want of air.  Then she sat down to think what she should do.  Vanish and leave no trace?  No; not yet.  Appear and claim her place?  No; not yet.  The time was not ripe for choice between these two extremes.  Upbraid Philip with his faithlessness?  No; not without proofs.  What did that hateful letter say?  “Wait and watch;” yes, that was what she would do.  But she could not wait here; she felt as though she must go somewhere, get some change of scene, or she should break down.  She had heard Mrs. Jacobs speak of a village not more than two hours from London that a convalescent lodger of hers had visited and found charming.  She would go there for a week, and watch the spring cast her mantle over the earth, and listen to the laughter of the brooks, and try to forget her burning love and jealousy, and just for that one week be happy as she was when, as a little girl, she roamed all day through the woods of her native Germany.  Alas! she forgot that it is the heart and not the scene that makes happiness.