She became afraid of being left alone, and even when
seated quietly with Selina, would suddenly start and look
apprehensively towards the door, as if she heard his footstep.
Imagination, when uncontrolled, can keep the mind on a mental rack,
to which that of the Inquisition was a bed of roses.
Selina was grieved at this state of things, and tried to argue and
comfort her mistress with the most amiable proverbs, but she was
quite unable to administer to a mind diseased, and Mrs Villiers'
life became a perfect hell upon earth.
'Are my troubles never going to end?' she said to Selina on the
night of the Meddlechip ball, as she paced restlessly up and down
her room; 'this man has embittered the whole of my life, and now he
is stabbing me in the dark.'
'Let the dead past bury its dead,' quoted Selina, who was arranging
the room for the night.
'Pshaw!' retorted Madame, impatiently, walking to the French window
at the end of the room and opening it; 'how do you know he is dead?
Come here, Selina,' she went on, beckoning to the old woman, and
pointing outside to the garden bathed in moonlight; 'I have always a
dread lest he may be watching the house. Even now he may be
concealed yonder'--pointing down the garden.
Selina looked out, but could see nothing. There was a smooth lawn,
burnt and yellow with the heat, which stretched for about fifty
feet, and ended in a low quickset hedge at the foot of a red brick
wall which ran down that side of the property.
Pages:
317
318
319
320
321
322
323
324
325
326
327
328
329
330
331
332
333
334
335
336
337
338
339
340
341