“Mr. Senhouse would never touch him,” she was sure. He dropped in Chevenix's estimation immediately.
“Quaker, eh? I didn't know that.”
Sanchia explained. “He can't be changed in those sort of things. He would only use force against wild beasts.”
“Well,” cried Chevenix, “what do you think Nevile's going to be? My advice to you is to get out as soon as you can. And when you're in town, command me.” They parted firm friends.
Mrs. Wilmot remained, against her inmost judgment, against her maid Purcell's clear advice, for one more day. The night of Chevenix's departure she was there, and on the morrow was to be conveyed to the Trenchards', across the county. Wanless had her steadily in its score pair of eyes for twenty-four hours, as Purcell, her maid, had foreseen. “You are doing a strange thing, ma'am, permit me to say.” Purcell was an elderly spinster, who only required her own permission to say what she pleased. “You will be watched and reported. I suppose I am not in the servants' hall for nothing.” Mrs. Wilmot said feebly that she supposed she was there for meals. Purcell stiffened her wiry neck. “Meals, ma'am! In the best houses there's a second table. The butler may be there, and perhaps the valet. The lady's maid, of course. But where there's no lady, one may put up with the cook, though the cook in such houses is rarely a female. But the housekeeper here! A Miss Percival! Dines alone—or is said to—and the cook sits at the head of our table. This is no house for you, ma'am.”
The lady gave a little cry and hoisted a white shoulder. “Oh, Purcell, you are hurting me dreadfully. Do be more gentle with me. You are tearing my hair out by handfuls. What can it matter to you where Miss—where the housekeeper dines?”
“Ho,” said Purcell, “little or nothing—to me, ma'am. I cannot help my thoughts. But I keep them to myself. Not one word in this house—downstairs—of Miss Percival. Not one word. They keep their mouths shut, I promise you, and their eyes open. But what you will, you will. As for Mr. Ingram, the less I say the better.”
“Much the better,” said Mrs. Wilmot, fretfully wriggling under the comb.
That fine afternoon—April budding into May—this lady listened to Ingram in the garden. Of all sounds in the world the sweetest music for her ear was made by a man's voice embroidering the theme—“You are lovely, you are cruel, I die.” Ingram's descant on the golden phrase was querulous, after his manner. He took his lover's smarts, as one must suppose them, hardly. As thus: “You are lovely—but what's that to me, if I can't touch you? You sting my eyes, you inflame, you wound—or I think you do; here am I, tied by the leg to a dead woman—for dead to me she is, the she-cat Sanchia—looking at you because I can't help myself. You are soft and lax, you purr when I stroke you; I could make a pet of you. Was ever a man of property and station in such a case?”
“You are cruel—because, though I could put out my hand and take you, yet you expect me to do it. That's all over, for me. I've done that sort of thing—Sanchia knows. Now I must trouble you to advance. I'm sick of life on these terms: you could make life worth living. I must really trouble you: sorry to seem languid, but I am languid. You, with your fine sensibilities, ought to be the first to feel that; but no: you wait, looking exquisite, with eyes like blue-black water, and a mouth, a mouth like a flower. You soft gossamer beauty, I could crush you where you hover; but you won't come and be crushed. Certainly, you are cruel.”