The Countess turned to her sharply.
“Woman, woman,” she cried. “Dinna ye ken that a man likes a cheerfu’ face aboot him, and a house that is warm and well-lighted, not a great auld barn like this, which would disconcert ony but ghosts?”
A faint flush crept into Lady Dalrymple’s face.
“And am I to give all the service? I am to supply all the gaiety, the life, the care against his mere tolerance?”
“Yes,” was the calm answer. “It comes to about that if ye want a life that is worth living—ye must give somewhat your side; remember he has more on his mind than ye will ever ken.”
As she spoke the Countess lifted her eyes to a portrait over the bureau, it was of Sir John and taken in his May of life; he wore a cuirass and plumed hat and smiled out of the canvas, as handsome a face as a man may have.
His wife followed the Countess’s glance.
“He is not like that now,” she said bitterly. She rose. “Did you ever hate any one, madam?” she asked. Then, without waiting, she answered herself. “It is terrible to hate,” she said hoarsely. “And terrible to be hated.”
She turned wildly about and caught up the cage of bullfinches. She held them close to her bosom.
“They eat from my hand,” she said wistfully. “I think they like me.”