said she. "I blame nobody," said he. "Indeed, I never meant to offend you, Richard," she urged. "Of course not; no, no; I never said so," he interrupted, sarcastically;
"what could you gain by that?" "Oh! Richard, better feelings have governed me," she said, in a
melancholy and reproachful tone. "Well, well, I suppose so," he said; and after an interval, he added
abstractedly, "This cannot, however, go on; no, no--it cannot. Sooner or
later it must have come; better at once--better now." "What do you mean, Richard?" she said, greatly alarmed, she knew not why. "What are you resolving upon? Dear Richard, in mercy tell me. I implore
of you, tell me." "Why, Gertrude, you seem to me to fancy that, because I don't talk about
what is passing, that I don't see it either. Now this is quite a
mistake," said Marston, calmly and resolutely--"I have long observed your
growing dislike of Mademoiselle de Barras. I have thought it over; this
fracas of today has determined me; it is decisive. I suppose you now wish
her to go, as earnestly as you once wished her to stay. You need not
answer. I know it. I neither ask nor care to whose fault I am to
attribute these changed feelings--female caprice accounts sufficiently
for it; but whatever the cause, the effect is undeniable; and the only
way to deal satisfactorily with it is, to dismiss mademoiselle at once. You need take no part in the matter; I take it upon myself. Tomorrow
morning she shall have left this house. I have said it, and am perfectly
resolved." As he thus spoke, as if to avoid the possibility of any further
discussion, he turned abruptly from her, and left the room. The extreme agitation which she had just undergone combined with her
physical delicacy to bring on an hysterical attack; and poor Mrs.
Marston, with an aching head and a heavy heart, lay down upon her bed. She had swallowed an opiate, and before ten o'clock upon that night, an
eventful one as it proved, she had sunk into a profound slumber. Some hours after this, she became in a confused way conscious of her
husband's presence in the room. He was walking, with an agitated mien, up
and down the chamber, and casting from time to time looks of great
trouble toward the bed where she lay. Though the presence of her husband
was a strange and long unwonted occurrence there, at such an hour, and
though she felt the strangeness of the visit, the power of the opiate
overwhelmed her so, that she could only see this apparition gliding
slowly back and forward before her, with the passive wonder and curiosity
with which one awaits the issue of an interesting dream. For a time she lay once more in an uneasy sleep; but still, throughout
even this, she was conscious of his presence; and when, a little while
after, she again saw him, he was not walking to and fro before the foot
of the bed, but sitting beside her, with one hand laid upon the pillow on
which her head was resting, the other supporting his chin. He was looking
steadfastly upon her, with a changed face, an expression of bitter
sorrow, compunction, and tenderness. There was not one trace of
sternness; all was softened. The look was what she fancied he might have
turned upon her had she lain there dead, ere yet the love of their early
and ill-fated union had grown cold in his heart. There was something in
it which reminded her of days and feelings gone, never to return. And
while she looked in his face with a sweet and mournful fascination, tears
unconsciously wet the pillow on which her poor head was resting. Unable
to speak, unable to move, she heard him say--"It was not your fault,
Gertrude--it was not yours, nor mine. There is a destiny in these things
too strong for us. Past is past--what is done, is done forever; and even
were it all to do over again, what power have I to mend it? No, no; how
could I contend against the combined power of passions, circumstances,
influences--in a word, of fate? You have been good and patient, while
I--; but no matter. Your lot, Gertrude, is a happier one than mine." Mrs. Marston heard him and saw him, but she had not the power, nor even
the will, herself to speak or move. He appeared before her passive sense
like the phantasm of a dream. He stood up at the bedside, and looked on
her steadfastly, with the same melancholy expression. For a moment he
stooped over her, as if about to kiss her face, but checked himself,
stood erect again at the bedside, then suddenly turned; the curtain fell
back into its place, and she saw him no more. With a strange mixture of sweet and bitter feelings this vision rested
upon the memory of Mrs. Marston, until, gradually, deep slumber again
overcame her senses, and the incident and all its attendant circumstances
faded into oblivion. It was past eight o'clock when Mrs. Marston awoke next morning. The sun
was shining richly and cheerily in at the windows; and as the remembrance
of Marston's visit to her chamber, and the unwonted manifestations of
tenderness and compunction which accompanied it, returned, she felt
something like hope and happiness, to which she had long been a stranger,
flutter her heart. The pleasing reverie to which she was yielding was,
however, interrupted. The sound of stifled sobbing in the room reached
her ear, and, pushing back the bed-curtains, and leaning forward to look,
she saw her maid, Willett, sitting with her back to the wall, crying
bitterly, and striving, as it seemed, to stifle her sobs with her apron,
which was wrapped about her face. "Willet, Willett, is it you who are sobbing? What is the matter with you,
child?" said Mrs. Marston, anxiously. The girl checked herself, dried her eyes hastily, and walking briskly to
a little distance, as if engaged in arranging the chamber, she said, with
an affectation of carelessness--

"Oh, ma'am, it is nothing; nothing at all, indeed, ma'am." Mrs. Marston remained silent for a time, while all her vague
apprehensions returned. Meantime the girl continued to shove the chairs
hither and thither, and to arrange and disarrange everything in the room
with a fidgety industry, intended to cover her agitation. A few minutes,
however, served to weary her of this, for she abruptly stopped, stood by
the bedside, and, looking at her mistress, burst into tears. "Good God! What is it?" said Mrs. Marston, shocked and even terrified,
while new alarms displaced her old ones. "Is Miss Rhoda--can it be--is
she--is my darling well?" "Oh, yes, ma'am," answered the maid, "very well, ma'am; she is up, and
out walking and knows nothing of all this." "All what?" urged Mrs. Marston. "Tell me, tell me, Willett, what has
happened. What is it? Speak, child; say what it is?" "Oh, ma'am! Oh my poor dear mistress!" continued the girl, and stopped,
almost stifled with sobs. "Willett, you must speak; you must say what is the matter. I implore of
you--desire you!" urged the distracted lady. Still the girl, having made
one or two ineffectual efforts to speak, continued to sob. "Willett, you will drive me mad.