of the
female heap: subjection no longer, doubtless, and yet a stain of the
past flush, often colouring our reveries, creating active phantasms of a
passion absolutely extinct, if it ever was the veritable passion.

The plot--formless plot--to get release by the sacrifice or at least a
crucial temptation of the woman, that should wash his blood clean of
her image, had a shade of the devilish, he acknowledged; and the apology
offered no improvement of its aspect. She might come out of the trial
triumphant. And benefit for himself, even a small privilege, even the
pressure of her hand, he not only shrank from the thought of winning,-he
loathed the thought. He was too delicate over the idea of the married
woman whom he fancied he loved in her maidenhood. Others might press her
hand, lead her the dance: he simply wanted his release. She had set him
on fire; he conceived a method for trampling the remaining sparks and
erasing stain and scars; that was all. Henrietta rejected her wealthy
suitor: she might some day hence be seen crawling abjectly to wealth,
glad of a drink from the cup it holds, intoxicated with the draught.
An injured pride could animate his wealth to crave solace of such a
spectacle.

Devilish, if you like. He had expiated the wickedness in Cistercian
seclusion. His wife now drove him to sin again.

She had given him a son. That fluted of home and honourable life. She
had her charm, known to him alone.

But how, supposing she did not rub him to bristle with fresh
irritations, how go to his wife while Henrietta held her throne?
Consideration was due to her until she stumbled. Enough if she wavered.
Almost enough is she stood firm as a statue in the winds, and proved
that the first page of her was a false introduction. The surprising
apparition of a beautiful woman with character; a lightly-thrilled,
pleasure-loving woman devoted to her husband or protected by her
rightful self-esteem, would loosen him creditably. It had to be
witnessed, for faith in it. He reverenced our legendary good women,
and he bowed to noble deeds; and he ascribed the former to poetical
creativeness, the latter operated as a scourging to his flesh to yield
its demoniacal inmates. Nothing of the kind was doing at present.

Or stay: a studious re-perusal of Gower Woodseer's letter enriched a
little incident. Fleetwood gave his wife her name of Carinthia when he
had read deliberately and caught the scene.

Mrs. Wythan down in Wales