The man was killing her. To be his spoiled and adored wife, knowing she was unworthy of his love and tenderness, was not happiness--it was grinding misery, bringing death into her soul. If he had blamed her for her incompetence; if he had scolded her for making his home cheerless; nay, if he had beaten her, she could have borne with life, and taken her outward sufferings for her inward punishment. She fell into fits of hysteria, sat whole hours listless, with her feet on the fender. Pete's conduct exasperated her. As time went on and developed the sweetness of Pete, the man grew more and more distasteful to her, and she broke into fits of shrewishness. Pete hung his head and reproached himself. She wasn't to mind if he said things--he was only a rough fellow. Then she burst into tears and asked him to forgive her, and he was all cock-a-hoop in a moment, like a dog that is coaxed after it has been beaten. Her sufferings reached a climax--she became conscious that she was about to become a mother. This affected her with terrible fears. She went back to that thought of a possible contingency which had torn her with conflicting feelings on the eve of her marriage. It was impossible to be sure. The idea might be no more than a morbid fancy, born of her un-happiness, of her secret love for Philip, of her secret repugnance for Pete (the inadequate, the uncouth, the uncongenial) but nevertheless it possessed her with the force of an overpowering conviction, it grew upon her day by day, it sat on her heart like a nightmare--the child that was to be born to her was not the child of her husband. VI. In spite of Pete's invitations, Philip came rarely. He was full of excuses--work--fresh studies--the Governor--his aunt. Pete said “Coorse,” and “Sartenly,” and “Wouldn't trust,” until Philip began to be ashamed, and one evening he came, looking stronger than usual, with a more sustaining cheerfulness, and plumped into the house with the words, “I've come at last!” “To stay the night?” said Pete. “Well, yes,” said Philip. “That's lucky and unlucky too, for I'm this minute for Peel with two of the boys to fetch round my Nickey by the night-tide. But youll stay and keep the wife company, and I'll be back first tide in the morning. You'll be obliged to him, won't you, Kate?” he cried, pitching his voice over his shoulder; and then, in a whisper, “She's a bit down at whiles, and what wonder, and her so near--but you'll see, you'll see,” and he winked and nodded knowingly. There was no harking back, no sheering off on the score of modesty before Pete's large faith. Kate looked as if she would cry “Mercy, mercy!” but when she saw the same appeal on Philip's face she was stung.