No one can tell what it cost me to drag out these words to her arch enemy, who was taking them in, like a draught of nectar, not only for the fact—which she had known when it occurred—but for the anguish they were costing me. But she kept her countenance, like a mighty actress, that she might quaff her enjoyment at leisure to the dregs. “I cannot understand what you say, Mr. Orchardson. It is simply impossible that poor Kitty, that your bride, that your dear wife you were so wrapped up in, should—should have run away from you.” “I cannot say whether she ran, or walked, or how she went—but she is gone.” “You astound me. Geraldine, you had better leave the room. Such things are not fit for good young girls to listen to. Now, Mr. Orchardson, tell me all about it. But first accept my sincere condolence. Although, as you know, I was against the marriage, mainly for your sake, I can assure you. I knew her so well—but so soon, oh, so soon! I could not have expected it, even of her. And did she inflict these sad wounds, before she went? A tender remembrance? Oh, it is so sad! But one thing I must beg of you—do not be soured by it. Do not conclude, as most young men would—that all women are bad, because this one has proved so ungrateful to you. And after seven years of desertion, I believe you will be at liberty to take a better wife.” “I want no better wife. There could be no better wife. I love her with all my heart, in spite of this mistake. And I will never look at another woman, while I live.” “What a noble husband! How could she run away? And doubtless with some ignoble wretch—no other would have taken her from your arms. But when did it happen? Do tell me all about it. And who has supplanted you, so very, very quickly? One would hardly believe it in any story-book. And you so devoted—oh, how your heart must ache! Do let me order you a glass of wine.” “No wine, thank you. And I cannot tell the story, which would only increase your affliction, madam. Only one thing, in justice to my wife. No one has supplanted me in her affection. She is as true to me, as I am to her. She has been misled by some despicable trick. And, by the God in heaven, I will kill the man who did it.” “No horrible oaths before me, young man!” Her face, lips and all, turned as white as a sheet, as I spoke with the whole fury of my soul in voice and eyes,—the wrath of a quiet man wronged of his life. Then we gazed into one another’s eyes, until she was obliged to turn away. “I could not expect you to have good manners,” she said, after sitting down, and expecting me to begin; “if you behaved like this, before your wife, there might be some excuse for her running away. She has been used to the society of gentlemen.”