She never slept all that night, and next day, clinging in her helpless
agony to the nearest branch, she told Mary Wells what Bassett was
doing, and said, "What shall I do? He is not mad; but he is in so very
precarious a state that, if they get at him to torment him, they will
drive him mad indeed."
"My lady," said Mary Wells, "I can't go from my word. 'Tis no use in
making two bites of a cherry. We must cure him: and if we don't, you'll
never rue it but once, and that will be all your life."
"I should look on myself with horror afterward were I to deceive him
now."
"No, my lady, you are too fond of him for that. Once you saw him happy
you'd be happy too, no matter how it came about. That Richard Bassett
will turn him out of this else. I am sure he will; he is a hard-hearted
villain."
Lady Bassett's eyes flashed fire; then her eyes roved; then she sighed
deeply.
Her powers of resistance were beginning to relax. As for Mary Wells,
she gave her no peace; she kept instilling her mind into her mistress's
with the pertinacity of a small but ever-dripping fount, and we know
both by science and poetry that small, incessant drops of water will
wear a hole in marble.
"Gutta cavat lapidem non vi sed saepe cadendo."
And in the midst of all a letter came from Mr.
Pages:
212
213
214
215
216
217
218
219
220
221
222
223
224
225
226
227
228
229
230
231
232
233
234
235
236