“You will gain nothing for yourself, Richard,” was her warning; “and, perhaps, may wreck even my scanty fortunes.”  But, as we know, her son had taken his own way (as he was wont to do), and had so far prospered.  She was writing a reply to the letter she had received from him from Crompton that very morning, and the task was one that naturally evoked some bitter memories.

“So he put him in the ebony chamber, did he?” they ran on.  “Ay, that was my room once.  What a pretty chime that serpent-clock had; and how often have I heard it in the early morning as I lay there—­alone!  If it had not been for that hateful woman, I might have been listening to it now!  He seems as mad as ever, by Dick’s account, and, I do not doubt, as brutal and as selfish!  And yet it was he that suffered, he that was wronged, he that was to be pitied!  His wife was the adventuress, forsooth! who deserved all she got.  Oh, these men, these men, that treat us as they please, because they are so sure of sympathy, even from our fellow-slaves and sisters!”

She bent again to her occupation, but only for a minute.  “All this is labor in vain, Dick,” muttered she, laying down her pen; “the luck is gone both from you and from me.  If I were thirty years younger, indeed, and might have my chance once more, I would tame your father yet.  I ought to have beaten his meek-faced mother out of doors; I ought to have trained his bold-eyed girl to work my will with him.  She should have been my accomplice, and not hers; but, now, what boots it that old age has spared me?  Yonder is the only woman!”—­she looked toward the picture—­“who has found a way to win mankind, save as their toy.  My reign has been longer than that of most; but it is over.”  She rose, and, holding up the lamp, surveyed herself, with a mocking face, in the round glass.  “And this was once Jane Hardcastle, was it? This was her face, and this her figure!  No drunkard, staggering home through such a night as this, could take me for her now!  She had wits too; and better for me had I lost them with all the rest; then I should not have the sense to be so bitter!  What a future she must once have had before her, if she had but known what men were made of!  It is only when too late that such women discover what they have missed.  This mad Carew was tinder to a flash of these bright eyes; and the fool Yorke, except in his wild creeds, as pliant as a hazel twig.  I used to think yonder woman was an idiot, because she believed in a place of torment; but she was right there.  Yes, Joanna,” she continued, apostrophizing the picture, “I’m compelled to confess that you are right; for, being in hell, it is idle to deny its existence.”