Her judgment proved right; Sir Charles was no better the next day, nor the day after. He brooded for hours at a time, and, when he talked, there was an incoherence in his discourse; above all, he seemed incapable of talking long on any subject without coming back to the fatal one of his childlessness; and, when he did return to this, it was sure to make him either deeply dejected or else violent against Richard Bassett and his son; he swore at them, and said they were waiting for his shoes.
Lady Bassett's anxiety deepened; strange fears came over her. She put subtle questions to the doctor; he returned obscure answers, and went on prescribing medicines that had no effect.
She looked wistfully into Mary Wells's face, and there she saw her own thoughts reflected.
“Mary,” said she, one day, in a low voice, “what do they say in the kitchen?”
“Some say one thing, some another. What can they say? They never see him, and never shall while I am here.”
This reminded Lady Bassett that Mary's time was up. The idea of a stranger taking her place, and seeing Sir Charles in his present condition, was horrible to her. “Oh, Mary,” said she, piteously, “surely you will not leave me just now?”
“Do you wish me to stay, my lady?”
“Can you ask it? How can I hope to find such devotion as yours, such fidelity, and, above all, such secrecy? Ah, Mary, I am the most unhappy lady in all England this day.”
Then she began to cry bitterly, and Mary Wells cried with her, and said she would stay as long as she could; “but,” said she, “I gave you good advice, my lady, and so you will find.”
Lady Bassett made no answer whatever, and that disappointed Mary, for she wanted a discussion.