“What have you done to your mamma, sir?”

The child, conscious that he had not done anything, but frightened on the whole, repented of his disobedience, and escaped from the chamber more quickly than he had entered it.  The dowager hated to be puzzled, and went wrathfully up to her daughter.

“Perhaps you’ll tell me what’s the matter, Maude.”

Lady Hartledon grew calm.  The countess-dowager pressed the question.

“There’s nothing the matter,” came the tardy and rather sullen reply.

“Why do you wish yourself dead, then?”

“Because I do.”

“How dare you answer me so?”

“It’s the truth.  I should be spared suffering.”

The countess-dowager paused.  “Spared suffering!” she mentally repeated; and being a woman given to arriving at rapid conclusions without rhyme or reason, she bethought herself that Maude must have become acquainted with the suspicion regarding her heart.

“Who told you that?” shrieked the dowager.  “It was that fool Hartledon.”

“He has told me nothing,” said Maude, in an access of resentment, all too visible.  “Told me what?”

“Why, about your heart.  That’s what I suppose it is.”

Maude raised herself upon her elbow, her wan face fixed on her mother’s.  “Is there anything the matter with my heart?” she calmly asked.

And then the old woman found that she had made a grievous mistake, and hastened to repair it.

“I thought there might be, and asked Pepps.  I’ve just asked him now; and he’s says there’s nothing the matter with it.”

“I wish there were!” said Maude.

“You wish there were!  That’s a pretty wish for a reasonable Christian,” cried the tart dowager.  “You want your husband to lecture you; saying such things.”

“I wish he were hanged!” cried Maude, showing her glistening teeth.

“My gracious!” exclaimed the wondering old lady, after a pause.  “What has he done?”

“Why did you urge me to marry him?  Oh, mother, can’t you see that I am dying—­dying of horror—­and shame—­and grief?  You had better have buried me instead.”

For once in her selfish and vulgar mind the countess-dowager felt a feeling akin to fear.  In her astonishment she thought Maude must be going mad.

“You’d do well to get some sleep, dear,” she said in a subdued tone; “and to-morrow you must get up; Pepps says so; he thinks you want rousing.”

“I have not slept since; it’s not sleep, it’s a dead stupor, in which I dream things as horrible as the reality,” murmured Maude, unconscious perhaps that she spoke aloud.  “I shall never sleep again.”

“Not slept since when?”

“I don’t know.”

“Can’t you say what you mean?” cried the puzzled dowager.  “If you’ve any grievance, tell it out; if you’ve not, don’t talk nonsense.”

But Lady Hartledon, though thus sweetly allured to confession, held her tongue.  Her half-scattered senses came back to her, and with them a reticence she would not break.  The countess-dowager hardly knew whether she deserved pitying or shaking, and went off in a fit of exasperation, breaking in upon her son-in-law as he was busy looking over some accounts in the library.