“Yes.”
“I guessed so. I trust that I shall never know her name, for if she belonged to us, I—I should hate her.”
She spoke almost viciously.
“You will never know her name, my lady.”
“Ah! Now I understand your devotion to us. I see you more clearly than ever, Ben. Out of a great disappointment and sorrow you have risen to heights. I am proud indeed to be your friend.”
She stood up. He rose with her. Some subtle strength, radiating from her, infused itself into him. More and more she marvelled that this man could have been content with a subordinate position. And the wretched conviction shook her that never could he return to the pantry as a servant. She heard his voice thanking her with no taint of obsequiousness. They confronted each other as equals.
“There!”
The exclamation was one of relief. She had spoken, relieved herself of a responsibility. Her tone became lighter, more persuasive.
“I have obeyed Sir Geoffrey’s injunction in the letter. Now for the spirit. He will be lost without you. He was lost this morning. I have never seen him look so wretched. And he will make everybody else as wretched as himself. To ask you to do what he expects, to apologise, to take up your faithful service again as if nothing had happened—that is impossible. Not even to keep you with us would I dare to suggest such a humiliation. But—can nothing be done?”
To her surprise, he made no response to an appeal which she could see plainly had moved him tremendously. Her surprise deepened as he half turned, staring intently at the portrait of Sir Rupert. Then he said abruptly: