Mrs. Bread sat with a dull, oblique gaze fixed upon the lights of the château. “They worked on her feelings; they knew that was the way. She is a delicate creature. They made her feel wicked. She is only too good.”
“Ah, they made her feel wicked,” said Newman, slowly; and then he repeated it. “They made her feel wicked,—they made her feel wicked.” The words seemed to him for the moment a vivid description of infernal ingenuity.
“It was because she was so good that she gave up—poor sweet lady!” added Mrs. Bread.
“But she was better to them than to me,” said Newman.
“She was afraid,” said Mrs. Bread, very confidently; “she has always been afraid, or at least for a long time. That was the real trouble, sir. She was like a fair peach, I may say, with just one little speck. She had one little sad spot. You pushed her into the sunshine, sir, and it almost disappeared. Then they pulled her back into the shade and in a moment it began to spread. Before we knew it she was gone. She was a delicate creature.”
This singular attestation of Madame de Cintré’s delicacy, for all its singularity, set Newman’s wound aching afresh. “I see,” he presently said; “she knew something bad about her mother.”
“No, sir, she knew nothing,” said Mrs. Bread, holding her head very stiff and keeping her eyes fixed upon the glimmering windows of the château.
“She guessed something, then, or suspected it.”
“She was afraid to know,” said Mrs. Bread.
“But you know, at any rate,” said Newman.