“I never listened at a door in my life,” cried Parsons, indignant. “And nobody ever named such a thing to me, my lady, but you!” “Oh, hold your tongue, do!” cried Lady Piercey. And she, too, like Sir Giles, was obliged to have a restorative when she had been safely conveyed to her room. She was the ruler upstairs, and he below. She had the advantage of him in being able to move about, notwithstanding her rheumatism, and the large share she had of those ills which flesh is heir to--all those which were not appropriated first by her husband--in which she took a certain satisfaction, not tempered, rather enhanced, by the attendant pain. The letters came in at the hour of luncheon, and were taken to Lady Piercey as they are usually taken to the master of the house. She opened all the family-letters, her husband’s as well as her own, and even the occasional bill or note that came very rarely for Gervase. Among them that day came a letter stamped with the Piercey crest, at which she gazed for a moment before opening it, with an indignant, yet scared look, as if she had beheld a blasphemy, and which made her, when she opened it, almost jump from her seat. She read it over twice, with her eyes opening wider and wider, and the red flush of surprise and horror rising on her face, then flung it violently across the table to Margaret. “Then he must go, that’s flat! and to-morrow morning, not one hour later,” she cried. Gervase was in the room, paying no attention to this pantomime, and caring nothing for what letters might arrive; but he was roused by what she said. He cried, “That’s me, mother; I’m going to-morrow,” with his loud and vacant laugh. CHAPTER XIV.