“It was hard to realise that he _was_ her husband,” she thought, as very, very bitter tears welled up into her eyes. With what distant politeness and formality he treated her! If he unintentionally touched her, or brushed against her, he apologised as ceremoniously as if she were a stranger. He treated her as such, even though he had promised to be her friend. What would she not give to recall the reception she had given him? Too late to think of that now! he had taken her at her word--they were strangers. How would it all end? No matter what occurred, she could not well be more miserable than she was--a despised, disowned, detested wife! CHAPTER VIII. MARY JANE’S DISCOVERY. “All yet seems well, and if it ends so meet, The bitter past more welcome is the sweet.” It is a sultry August evening; Mary Jane, the upper housemaid, much refreshed by her comfortable tea, is sitting at an open window, gossiping with the head laundry-maid, and unpicking a brown merino dress, which she is praising to the skies. “Real French, four shillings a yard. We all got dresses when Sir Reginald was married. I’ve had this three winters, and thanks to the lining, there’s a good three winters’ more wear in it yet. I would have left it as it is, only it’s old-fashioned you see,” holding it up with a deprecating gesture. “Parker is going to lend me one of Lady Fairfax’s for a pattern, that cream-coloured one; she had it on on Sunday.” “Eh,” said her companion--whose fingers were equally busy, giving some startling finishing touches to a Dolly Varden hat--“but it will never suit _you_. You’re too plump, Mary Jane; what looks well on a slip of a girl like her is nothing to go by; one of Miss Ferrars’ dresses now would be more your style. That rose and gray thing, with the kilted skirt, and the plaster up the front, for instance. This brown, piped with red, and red bows like hers, would look fine and fashionable.” “Maybe you are right,” replied Mary Jane, putting her thimble in her mouth and looking at her friend reflectively. “I’ll have a look at it this evening whilst they are at dinner. The gray one did you say?” “See, here they come! the whole riding party!” exclaimed the laundry-maid with animation. “Just look, Polly, and you’ll see Sir Reginald will never offer to lift my lady off her horse, he leaves it to Mr. Geoffrey. See, there, I told you so! Ain’t they just a queer couple? I can’t make them out. If they were old, or if one of them was ugly even, you might understand. They do say,” she continued confidentially, “as how Sir Reginald never meant to marry her, nor anyone, only she was his ward and he thought that it would be the best way to look after her, but that he don’t care two straws about her; he hates womankind, Cox says.”