fancy her, may have her
and welcome: you may, by Jove, and my blessing into the bargain!"

'I--hem--someone asked if he really meant what he said; upon which he
solemnly swore he did, and no mistake. What do you think of that, Mrs.
Huntingdon?' asked Mr. Hargrave, after a short pause, during which I had
felt he was keenly examining my half-averted face.

'I say,' replied I, calmly, 'that what he prizes so lightly will not be
long in his possession.'

'You cannot mean that you will break your heart and die for the
detestable conduct of an infamous villain like that!'

'By no means: my heart is too thoroughly dried to be broken in a hurry,
and I mean to live as long as I can.'

'Will you leave him then?'

'Yes.'

'When: and how?' asked he, eagerly.

'When I am ready, and how I can manage it most effectually.'

'But your child?'

'My child goes with me.'

'He will not allow it.'

'I shall not ask him.'

'Ah, then, it is a secret flight you meditate! but with whom, Mrs.
Huntingdon?'

'With my son: and possibly, his nurse.'

'Alone--and unprotected! But where can you go? what can you do? He will
follow you and bring you back.'

'I have laid my plans too well for that. Let me once get clear of
Grassdale, and I shall consider myself safe.'

Mr. Hargrave advanced one step towards me, looked me in the face, and
drew in his breath to speak; but that look, that heightened colour, that
sudden sparkle of the eye, made my blood rise in wrath: I abruptly turned
away, and, snatching up my brush, began to dash away at my canvas with
rather too much energy for the good of the picture.

'Mrs. Huntingdon,' said he with bitter solemnity, 'you are cruel--cruel
to me--cruel to yourself.'

'Mr. Hargrave, remember your promise.'

'I must speak: my heart will burst if I don't! I have been silent long
enough, and you must hear me!' cried he, boldly intercepting my retreat
to the door. 'You tell me you owe no allegiance to your husband; he
openly declares himself weary of you, and calmly gives you up to anybody
that will take you; you are about to leave him; no one will believe that
you go alone; all the world will say, "She has left him at last, and who
can wonder at it? Few can blame her, fewer still can pity him; but who
is the companion of her flight?" Thus you will have no credit for your
virtue (if you call it such): even your best friends will not believe in
it; because it is monstrous, and not to be credi