There is one character still more irritating than that of an _ex post facto_ prophet, and that is a person who, not waiting for events, begins, while they are yet pending, to foresee disastrous issues in the interval between causes and effects, without casting a shadow of blame upon themselves for having acquiesced in that very conduct, on the failure of which their angry sagacity is afterwards employed too late to prevent whatever may be its result. Mrs. Hartland was of this description. The mob principle, that every one must be wrong who does not glide with full sails before the wind, influenced all her decisions of every kind; and though in the present case it was obvious, that while Lord Marchdale _lived_ she could not receive the joyful information of his _death_, she could not impute the silence of Mr. Humphries to any other source than offence at the frigid style of Zorilda's reply to his letter. "I _saw plainly_ how it would be. I _knew_ that Mr. Humphries would be affronted. We have evidently lost a friend who would have watched over our interests, and all because I was too much agitated to write myself. I should have conciliated this worthy man, and flattered his vanity with assurance of my entire reliance on his zeal and discretion; but people who know nothing of the world will put in a word of advice, and woe to all who give ear to their stupid counsels." To these, and such like taunts, Zorilda had to listen, whenever her evil genius brought her within hearing of Mrs. Hartland's unceasing complaints; which were now received with less submission by her husband, as he began to feel himself rising in the scale of human dignity, and remembered that it was through _him_ that the expected honours were to come. "For Heaven's sake," he would sometimes say, "let my relation die in peace, my dear. Would you have Mr. Humphries administer a dose of poison to hasten your victim out of the world, in order to accommodate your ambition?" "Mr. Hartland you are becoming insufferable. Your torpor is more exasperating than the rage of a lion. I am sure, were it not for the sake of posterity, I wish that your relation may recover, and keep you out of an earldom which you are not fit for, and have too little feeling to value. My _son_, however, will one day grace a coronet of which his father is little worthy." "I suppose that you would kill me also, to make way for your idol," retorted Mr. Hartland; "but we may all prove too tough for your wishes. Mind, I tell you that a paralytic stroke is not always a stroke unto death; and you may be punished yet for committing murder in your heart, if not with your hands. Take my advice, good lady, and keep yourself cool; or in vulgar phrase, do not reckon your chickens before they are hatched."