t was impossible
that she could be also a delicately scrupulous, generous, and
high-minded creature. But just as passion will make one singularly
quick-sighted, it can also make one dense and stupid. Considering that
Mary was madly in love with her own husband, it was absurd she should
suppose it impossible that Bertha should take the slightest interest in
hers. Of course Mary had heard that they were very devoted--if she had
not, what would have been the use of writing the letters?--but she chose
to believe that it was only on the husband's side, and that Bertha must
of necessity be, of course, sly and deceitful. She hated Bertha
violently, and yet she was by nature the kindest of women; only this one
mania of hers completely altered her, and made her bitter, wild, hard
and unscrupulous, stupid and clever, cowardly and reckless. A woman's
jealousy of another woman is always sufficiently dreadful, but when the
object of jealousy is hers by legal right, when the sense of personal
property is added to it, then it is one of the most terrible and
unreasonable things in nature.

CHAPTER XV

CLIFFORD'S HISTORICAL PLAY

Bertha was sitting with her little brother-in-law. She was to give him
half-an-hour, after which she expected a visit from Nigel.

"What on earth is it, old boy?"

She saw he had some rather untidy papers in his hand and was looking
extremely self-conscious, so she spoke kindly and encouragingly.

"Well, I daresay you noticed, Bertha, in my report, that history was
very good."

"I think I did," she said gravely. "If I recollect right the report
said: 'History nearly up to the level of the form.'"

"Oh, I say, was that all? Gracious! Well, anyhow, I've read a lot of
history, and I'm fearfully keen about it. And, I say, my idea was, you
see, I thought I'd write a historical play."

"Oh! what a splendid idea!" cried Bertha, jumping up, looking very
pleased, but serious. "Have you got it there, Cliff?"

"Yes. Well, as a matter of fact, I have got a bit of it here."

"Are you going to let me read it?"

"Well, I don't think you can," he answered rather naively. "It's not
quite clean enough; but I'll read a bit of it to you, if you don't mind.
Er--you see--it's about Mary."

"Which Mary?"

"Oh, Bertha! what a question! As if I'd write about William and Mary,
or--er--er--I beg your pardon--I mean the other Mary. No, Mary, Queen of
Scots, is the only one who's any good for a play."

"Well, go