Devereux had told her young friend that she was
uncomfortable, there had been no need of the words; but the slow answering
"I know" with which Mrs. Wilmot expressed sympathy was not intended to
imply that she shared the feeling. She herself was not at all
uncomfortable, because, while she saw the whole state of affairs, she was
not unhopeful of coping with it. Touching the place where the tender point
of her breast lay nestling, she assured herself that she could hope. But
Mrs. Devereux, moving about in worlds not realised, was incensed. Nothing
that followed during the next few days served to clear the surcharged air.
It is hard to say what vexed her most, where all was as it should not be.
Ingram, bluntly unconscious of her sufferings, gloomed over his own;
Chevenix spied about for what he could not find, spy as he would, and made
the cause of woe more conspicuous than ever. As for her, the disastrous
fair, the deliberation with which she went about her duties, and ease with
which she did or caused them to be done; her self-possession, gentleness,
suavity, yes! and benevolence, were sights to make angels weep. Tears of
blood! If Mrs. Devereux, by any means, could have compressed tears of
blood, they had been shed.
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