When Sir Charles told Lady Bassett all this, with a face of agony, and a broken voice, her heart almost burst: she threw every other consideration to the winds. “Charles,” she cried, “I can't bear it: I can't see your heart wrung any more, and your affections blighted. Tear that young viper out of your breast: don't go on wasting your heart's blood on a stranger; HE IS NOT YOUR SON.” CHAPTER XXXIX. AT this monstrous declaration, from the very lips of the man's wife, there was a dead silence, Sir Charles being struck dumb, and Lady Bassett herself terrified at the sound of the words she had uttered. After a terrible pause, Sir Charles fixed his eyes on her, with an awful look, and said, very slowly, “Will--you--have--the--goodness-- to--say that again? but first think what you are saying.” This made Lady Bassett shake in every limb; indeed the very flesh of her body quivered. Yet she persisted, but in a tone that of itself showed how fast her courage was oozing. She faltered out, almost inaudibly, “I say you must waste no more love on him--he is not your son.” Sir Charles looked at her to see if she was in her senses: it was not the first time he had suspected her of being deranged on this one subject. But no: she was pale as death, she was cringing, wincing, quivering, and her eyes roving to and fro; a picture not of frenzy, but of guilt unhardened. He began to tremble in his turn, and was so horror-stricken and agitated that he could hardly speak. “Am I dreaming?” he gasped. Lady Bassett saw the storm she had raised, and would have given the world to recall her words. “Whose is he, then?” asked Sir Charles, in a voice scarcely human. “I don't know,” said Lady Bassett doggedly. “Then how dare you say that he isn't mine?” “Kill me, Charles,” cried she, passionately; “but don't look at me so and speak to me so. Why I say he is not yours, is he like you either in face or mind?” “And he is like--whom?” Lady Bassett had lost all her courage by this time: she whimpered out, “Like nobody except the gypsies.” “Bella, this is a subject which will part you and me for life unless we can agree upon it--” No reply, in words, from Lady Bassett. “So please let us understand each other. Your son is not my son. Is that what you look me in the face and tell me?” “Charles, I never said _that._ How could he be my son, and not be yours?” And she raised her eyes, and looked him full in the face: nor fear nor cringing now: the woman was majestic. Sir Charles was a little alarmed in his turn; for his wife's soft eyes flamed battle for the first time in her life. “Now you talk sense,” said he; “if he is yours, he is mine; and, as he is certainly yours, this is a very foolish conversation, which must not be renewed, otherwise--” “I shall be insulted by my own husband?” “I think it very probable. And, as I do not choose you to be insulted, nor to think yourself insulted, I forbid you ever to recur to this subject.”