“I agree with you,” said his wife; “if he has it at all, he may thank her for it.  There is, I fear, some bad principle in her; for surely the fierceness and overbearing spirit of her pride, and the malignant calumnies of her foul and scandalous tongue, can proceed from nothing that’s good.”

“Well, Martha,” observed her husband, “if the devilish and unaccountable hatred which she bears her fellow-creatures is violent, she has the satisfaction of knowing—­and well she knows it—­that it is returned to her with compound interest; I question if the devil himself is detested with such a venomous feeling as she is.  Her own husband and children cannot like a bone in her skin.”

“And yet,” replied Alice, “you would have made this woman my mother-in-law!  Do you think it was from any regard to us that she came here to propose a marriage between her son and me?  No, indeed, dear papa, it was for the purpose of securing the property, which her brother left me, for him who would otherwise have inherited it.  And do you imagine for a moment that Harry Woodward himself ever felt one emotion of personal affection for me?  If you do you are quite mistaken.  I knew and felt all along—­even while he was assuming the part of the lover—­that he actually hated, not only me, but every one of the family.  His object was the property, and so was that of his mother; but I absolve all the other members of the family from any knowledge of, or participation in, their schemes.  As it is, if you wish to see yourselves childless you will allow his, visits, or, if not, you will never permit his presence under this roof again.  I fear, however, that it is now too late—­you see that I am already on the brink of the grave, in consequence of the evil influence which the dreadful villain has gained over me, and, indeed,” she added, bursting into tears, “I have, at this moment, no hopes of recovery.  My strength, both bodily and mental, is gone—­I am as weak as an infant, and I see nothing before me but an early grave.  I have also other sorrows, but even to you I will not disclose them—­perhaps on my bed of death I may.”

The last words were scarcely uttered when she fainted.  Her parents were dreadfully alarmed—­in a moment both were in tears, but they immediately summoned assistance.  Sarah Sullivan made her appearance, attended by others of the servants; the usual remedies were applied, and in the course of about ten or twelve minutes she recovered, and was weeping in a paroxysm bordering on despair when Harry Woodward entered the room.  This was too much for the unfortunate girl.  It seemed like setting the seal of death to her fate.  She caught a glimpse of him.  There was the malignant, but derisive look—­one which he meant to be courteous, but which the bitter feeling within him overshadowed with the gloomy triumph of an evil spirit.  She placed her hands over her eyes, gave one loud shriek, and immediately fell into strong convulsions.