Her husband had known nothing of her frenzy.  She would not have dared to tell him.  There were many things she did not tell him.  He used to laugh at her native stories of occult powers, though she knew that he had seen some strange things done, as most foreigners had.  He always explained such things contemptuously on grounds which presupposed in the performers of the mysteries powers of agility, dexterity, and universal knowledge quite as marvellous as anything occult could have been.  He did not like her to show belief in the “tricks of the natives,” as he called them.  It made a woman look a fool, he said, to be so credulous.

During the last few months a new fever had tormented her.  Feelings had awakened in her which were new.  She thought things she had never thought before.  She had never cared for children or suspected herself of being the maternal woman.  But Nature worked in her after her weird fashion.  She began to care less for some things and more for others.  She cared less for Osborn’s moods and was better able to defy them.  He began to be afraid of her temper, and she began to like at times to defy his.  There had been some fierce scenes between them in which he had found her meet with a flare of fury words she would once have been cowed by.  He had spoken one day with the coarse slightingness of a selfish, irritable brute, of the domestic event which was before them.  He did not speak twice.

She sprang up before him and shook her clenched fist in his face, so near that he started back.

“Don’t say a word!” she cried.  “Don’t dare—­don’t dare.  I tell you—­look out, if you don’t want to be killed.”

During the outpouring of her frenzy he saw her in an entirely new light and made discoveries.  She would fight for her young, as a tigress fights for hers.  She was nursing a passion of secret feeling of which he had known nothing.  He had not for a moment suspected her of it.  She had not seemed that kind of girl.  She had been of the kind that cares for finery and social importance and the world’s favour, not for sentiments.

On this morning of the letter’s arrival he watched her sobbing and clutching the tablecloth, and reflected.  He walked up and down and pondered.  There were a lot of things to be thought over.

“We may as well accept the invitation at once,” he said.  “Grovel as much as you choose.  The more the better.  They’ll like it.”

Chapter Eleven

The Osborns arrived at The Kennel Farm on a lovely rainy morning.  The green of the fields and trees and hedges was sweetly drenched, and the flowers held drops which sparkled when the fitful sun broke forth and searched for the hidden light in them.  A Palstrey carriage comfortably met them and took them to their destination.

As they turned into the lane, Osborn looked out at the red gables and chimneys showing themselves among the trees.