If Sewell were to fall! She shuddered to think what the world would say of her! One judgment there would be no gainsaying. Her husband certainly believed her false, and with his life he paid for the conviction. But would she be better off if Trafford were the victim? That would depend on how Sewell behaved. She would be entirely at his mercy,--whether he determined to separate from her or not. _His_ mercy, seemed a sorry hope to cling to. Hopeless as this alternative looked, she never relented, even for an instant, as to what she had done; and the thought that Lucy should not be Trafford's wife repaid her for all and everything. While she thus waited in all the feverish torture of suspense, her mind travelled over innumerable contingencies of the case, in every one of which her own position was one of shame and sorrow; and she knew not whether she would deem it worse to be regarded as the repentant wife, taken back by a forgiving pitying husband, or the woman thrown off and deserted! “I suppose I must accept either of those lots, and my only consolation will be my vengeance.” “How absurd!” broke she out, “are they who imagine that one only wants to be avenged on those who hate us! It is the wrongs done by people who are indifferent to us, and who in search of their own objects bestow no thought upon us,--these are the ills that cannot be forgiven. I never hated a human being--and there have been some who have earned my hate--as I hate this girl; and just as I feel the injustice of the sentiment, so does it eat deeper and deeper into my heart.” “A despatch, ma'am,” said her maid, as she laid a paper on the table and withdrew. Mrs. Sewell clutched it eagerly, but her hand trembled so she could not break the envelope. To think that her whole fate lay there, within that fold of paper, so overcame her that she actually sickened with fear as she looked on it. “Whatever is done, is done,” muttered she, as she broke open the cover. There were but two lines; they ran thus:-- “Holyhead, 12 o'clock. “Have thought better of it. It would be absurd to meet him. I start for town at once, and shall be at Boulogne to-morrow. “Dudley.” She sat pondering over these words till the paper became blurred and blotted by her tears as they rolled heavily along her cheeks, and dropped with a distinct sound. She was not conscious that she wept. It was not grief that moved her; it was the blankness of despair,--the sense of hopelessness that comes over the heart when life no longer offers a plan or a project, but presents a weariful road to be travelled, uncheered and dreary.