Muttering a curse, he turned from her and left the house.  The rage of a husband who is only restrained by the fear of disgrace from striking his wife, is impotent.  His only resource is to fly from the object of indignation.  So felt and acted William Beauchamp.  A mere wordy contention with his wife, experience had already proved to him, would be an inglorious one.

Fearing, from his knowledge of his brother’s character and disposition, a result, sooner or later, like that which had taken place, Charles Linden, although he had no correspondence with any of his family, had the most accurate information from a friend of all that transpired at P—.

One evening, on coming home from business and joining his wife and sister, between whom love had grown into a strong uniting bond, he said—­“I have rather painful news from P—.”

“What is it?” was asked by both Ellen and Florence, with anxious concern on both their faces.

“Mother has separated herself from William and his wife.”

“What I have been expecting to hear almost every day,” Florence replied.  “Antoinette has never treated mother as if she had the slightest regard for her.  As to love, she has but one object upon which to lavish it—­that is herself.  She cares no more for William than she does for mother, and is only bound to him by external consideration.  But where has mother gone?”

“To the house of Mrs. R—–.”

“An old friend?”

“Yes.  But she must be very unhappy.”

“Miserable.”  And tears came to the eyes of Ellen.

“In the end, it will no doubt be best for her, Florence,” said the brother.  “She will suffer acutely, but her false views of life, let us hope, will be corrected, and then we shall have it in our power to make her last days the best and happiest of her life.”

“Oh, how gladly will I join in that work!” Mrs. Linden said, with a glow of pure enthusiasm on her face.  “Write to her, dear husband, at once, and tell her that our home shall be her home, and that we will love her with an unwavering love.”

“Not yet, dear,” returned Charles Linden, in a voice scarcely audible from emotion, turning to Ellen and regarding her a moment with a look of loving approval.  “Not yet; the time for that will come, but it is not now.  My mother’s heart is full of haughty pride, and she would spurn, indignantly, any overtures we might make.”

Much conversation passed as to what should be their future conduct in regard to the mother.  Ellen was anxious to make advances at once, but the husband and his sister, who knew Mrs. Linden much better than she did, objected.

“Time will indicate what is right for us to do,” her husband said.  “Let us keep our hearts willing, and we shall have the opportunity to act before many years pass by.”

“Years?” said Ellen, in an earnest, doubting voice.

“It may be only months, dear, and yet it may be years.  It takes time to break a haughty will, to humble a proud heart; but you shall yet see the day when my mother will love you for yourself alone.”