CHAPTER XXVIII.
It is the peculiar property of jealousy to "make the food it lives on;" and although poor Isabella hid not one point on which to hang an argument, save the evident uneasiness of her husband—though she did not know whether her supposed rival was dead or alive, whether the complaints she at once pitied and resented were those which "poppy and mandragora" might medicine, or "those written troubles of the brain" which were incapable of cure, she contrived to make up for herself a draught of most terrible infliction. If Glentworth, conscious of his late errors, struggled to appear cheerful, and explain, with his wonted ability, the situation of a temple in Pompeii, point out the finest portions of a landscape, or dilate on the character of the Neapolitans, she would suppose he had received pleasant letters, and endeavour to learn, by every indirect medium, if any had arrived. Her eye was ever restless and inquiring—she was suspicious that the servants knew more than they ought of their master's secrets—and when at length her misery had palpably affected her health, and Mary lamented it, she thought that "she also helped
