h a frigid insolence as
it is, Harry? That's the way she treats me," he broke out, storming, and
his face growing red as he clenched his fists and went on. "I'm nobody
in my own house. I'm to be the humble servant of that parson's daughter.
By Jove! I'd rather she should fling the dish at my head than sneer at
me as she does. She puts me to shame before the children with her d--d
airs; and, I'll swear, tells Frank and Beaty that papa's a reprobate,
and that they ought to despise me."

"Indeed and indeed, sir, I never heard her say a word but of respect
regarding you," Harry Esmond interposed.

"No, curse it! I wish she would speak. But she never does. She
scorns me, and holds her tongue. She keeps off from me, as if I was a
pestilence. By George! she was fond enough of her pestilence once. And
when I came a-courting, you would see miss blush--blush red, by George!
for joy. Why, what do you think she said to me, Harry? She said herself,
when I joked with her about her d--d smiling red cheeks: ''Tis as they
do at St. James's; I put up my red flag when my king comes.' I was the
king, you see, she meant. But now, sir, look at her! I believe she would
be glad if I was dead; and dead I've been to her these five years--ever
since you all of you had the small-pox: and she never forgave me for
going away."

"Indeed, my lord, though 'twas hard to forgive, I think my mistress
forgave it," Harry Esmond said; "and remember how eagerly she watched
your lordship's return, and how sadly she turned away when she saw your
cold looks."

"Damme!" cries out my lord; "would you have had me wait and catch the
small-pox? Where the deuce had been the good of that? I'll bear danger
with any man--but not useless danger--no, no. Thank you for nothing.
And--you nod your head, and I know very well, Parson Harry, what you
mean. There was the--the other affair to make her angry. But is a woman
never to forgive a husband who goes a-tripping? Do you take me for a
saint?"

"Indeed, sir, I do not," says Harry, with a smile.

"Since that time my wife's as cold as the statue at Charing Cross. I
tell thee she has no forgiveness in her, Henry. Her coldness blights
my whole life, and sends me to the punch-bowl, or driving about the
country. My children are not mine, but hers, when we are together. 'Tis
only when she is out of sight with her abominable cold glances, that
run through me, that they'll come to me, and that I dare to give them so
much as a