The artful girl met this with extreme meekness and servility; the only
reply she ever hazarded was an adroit one; she would take this
opportunity to say, "How much better master do get ever since I took in
hand to cure him!"
This oblique retort seldom failed. Lady Bassett would look at her
husband, and her face would clear; and she would generally end by
giving Mary a collar, or a scarf, or something.
Thus did circumstances enable the lower nature to play with the higher.
Lady Bassett's struggles were like those of a bird in a silken net;
they led to nothing. When it came to the point she could neither do nor
say any thing to retard his cure. Any day the Court of Chancery, set in
motion by Richard Bassett, might issue a commission _de lunatico,_ and,
if Sir Charles was not cured by that time, Richard Bassett would
virtually administer the estate--so Mr. Oldfield had told her--and
that, she felt sure, would drive Sir Charles mad for life.
So there was no help for it. She feared, she writhed, she hated
herself; but Sir Charles got better daily, and so she let herself drift
along.
Mary Wells made it fatally easy to her. She was the agent. Lady Bassett
was silent and passive.
After all she had a hope of extrication. Sir Charles once cured, she
would make him travel Europe with her.
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