“Mrs. Kynaston, do not be so angry,” said Vera, becoming almost bewildered by her violence; “you are really mistaken—­pray calm yourself.  I have no letters:  what I was going to give your husband was only a little parcel from a man who is abroad—­he is a foreigner.  I do not think it is of the slightest importance to anybody.  I have not opened it, I have no idea what it contains, and your husband himself said it was nothing—­only I have promised to give it him alone; it was a whim of the little Frenchman who entrusted me with it, and whom, I must honestly tell you, I believe to have been half-mad.  Only, unfortunately, I have promised to deliver it in this manner.”

Mrs. Kynaston was looking at her fixedly; her anger seemed to have died away.

“Yes,” she said, “it was Monsieur D’Arblet who gave them to you.”

“That was his name, D’Arblet.  I did not like the man; but he bothered me until I foolishly undertook his commission.  I am sorry now that I did so, as it seems to vex you so much; but I do not think there are letters in the parcel, and I certainly have not opened it.”

Helen was silent again for a minute, looking at her intently.

“I don’t believe you,” she said; “they are my letters, sure enough, and you have read them.  What woman would not do so in your place? and you know that they will ruin me with my husband.”

“It is you yourself that tell me so!” cried Vera, impatiently, beginning to lose her temper.  “I do not even know what you are talking about!”

“Miss Nevill!” cried Helen, suddenly changing her tone; “give that parcel to me, I entreat you.”

“I am very sorry, Mrs. Kynaston; I cannot possibly do so.”

“Oh yes, you can—­you will,” said Helen, imploringly.  “What can it matter to you now?  It is I who am his wife; you cannot get any good out of a mere empty revenge.  Why should you spoil my chance of winning his heart?  I know well enough that he loves you, but——­”

“Mrs. Kynaston, pray, pray recollect yourself; do not say such words to me!” cried Vera, deeply distressed.

“Why should I not say them!  You and I know well enough that it is true.  I hate you, I am jealous of you, for I know that my husband loves you; and yet, if you will only give me that parcel, I will forgive you—­I will try to live at peace with you—­I will even pray and strive for your happiness!  Let me have a chance of making him love me!”

“For God’s sake, Mrs. Kynaston, do not say these things to me!” cried Vera.  She was crimson with pain and shame, and shocked beyond measure that his wife should be so lost to all decency and self-respect as to speak so openly of her husband’s love for herself.

“I will not and cannot listen to you!”

“But you will not be so cruel as to ruin me?” pleaded Helen; “only give me that parcel, and I shall be safe!  You say you have not opened it; well, I can hardly believe it, because in your place I should have read every word; yet, if you will give them to me, I will forgive you.”