“I don’t want you to say what you don’t believe in the hope of stiffening me, but I’d be glad if you’d help to prevent my believing it, too. I don’t want to, and I don’t intend to. I’m tremendously in earnest about all this. The reason is that I know I haven’t got the right kind of mental machinery. It would break me all up, while on the contrary it is perfectly natural for you. All I want to do is to carry on here in the ordinary way and make it as easy as possible for you to work. That’s a woman’s job, Jack, and I’m satisfied with it and don’t want to go beyond it. If there’s anything that you’re forced to tell me, well, tell me, but don’t do any more. All this may sound rather hysterical, but it isn’t; and it’s because I know myself better than I begin to think I know you, even after all these years. So don’t try me more than you can avoid.”
While she was speaking, Perkins entered as silently as before. Edith steadied herself, wondering how much the woman had heard. She took the handkerchief and made an indefinite gesture to her brother.
“I say, Perkins,” he put in, “this garden is running wild, and I’ve got to get some one at once or there’ll be nothing worth while in the summer. Do you know of any good man in the neighborhood?”
“I’m sorry; I don’t, sir.”
“What about the village? Any chance there?”
“I can’t say, sir. I haven’t been to the village for more than a year.”
“Mr. Thursby’s man seems to have been very capable. Think you could find him?”
“I don’t know where he is, sir. He came once a week for the past year, but left the village about a month ago. There’s been no one since.”
“Did Mr. Thursby take over Mr. Millicent’s man?”
“No, sir.” Perkins’s expression changed ever so slightly. “He could not.”