room after the
dressing-bell had rung. No; that would agitate her, and unfit her for
appearing at dinner, and passing the evening calmly. He would defer it
till bed-time. After prayers, he contrived to lead her back to the
drawing-room, and to put a letter in her hand. She carried it up to her
own room, wondering, and there read,--

'Dear Caterina, Do not suspect for a moment that anything Sir Christopher
may say to you about our marriage has been prompted by me. I have done
all I dare do to dissuade him from urging the subject, and have only been
prevented from speaking more strongly by the dread of provoking questions
which I could not answer without causing you fresh misery. I write this,
both to prepare you for anything Sir Christopher may say, and to assure
you--but I hope you already believe it--that your feelings are sacred to
me. I would rather part with the dearest hope of my life than be the
means of adding to your trouble.

'It is Captain Wybrow who has prompted Sir Christopher to take up the
subject at this moment. I tell you this, to save you from hearing it
suddenly when you are with Sir Christopher. You see now what sort of
stuff that dastard's heart is made of. Trust in me always, dearest
Caterina, as--whatever may come--your faithful friend and brother,

'Maynard Gilfil.'

Caterina was at first too terribly stung by the words about Captain
Wybrow to think of the difficulty which threatened her--to think either
of what Sir Christopher would say to her, or of what she could say in
reply. Bitter sense of injury, fierce resentment, left no room for fear.
With the poisoned garment upon him, the victim writhes under the
torture--he has no thought of the coming death.

Anthony could do this!--Of this there could be no explanation but the
coolest contempt for her feelings, the basest sacrifice of all the
consideration and tenderness he owed her to the ease of his position with
Miss Assher. No. It was worse than that: it was deliberate, gratuitous
cruelty. He wanted to show her how he despised her; he wanted to make her
feel her folly in having ever believed that he loved her.

The last crystal drops of trust and tenderness, she thought, were dried
up; all was parched, fiery hatred. Now she need no longer check her
resentment by the fear of doing him an injustice: he _had_ trifled with
her, as Maynard had said; he _had_ been reckless of her; and now he was
base and cruel. She had cause enough for her bitte