His voice was like a nutmeg-grater. "Miss Percival--here--at
once." It was all he said. She did her bidding, for servants must--but her
heart bled for Miss Percival, and she felt like fainting at any minute
when she waited at luncheon. He drank brandy--jerked his head towards the
sideboard when he wanted more. Never said a word. And how he ate,
wrenching at his food! Fit to choke him. How she had lived through the
luncheon she didn't know at all. But that Struan, that quiet in an
ordinary way, should have dared--with a stick in his violent hand! And the
Sergeant ready for his warrant--stiff in the hall.
"A villain has got his deserts," boomed Mrs. Benson. "My dear, you're
going, it seems, and I with you. This is no place for a young lady--no,
nor ever was, God be good! I know my place, to all parties; but I know
that better--and now it's come upon us like a thief in the night. Well,
well, well--my pretty young lady! Old women must put up with what they
get, we all know--but not murderers in gentlemen's seats: no, nor beastly
doings in and out of doors. I shall go, my dear, when you go--ah, me! When
the wicked man ... but he's got his deserts. What! a widower--with duty
and pleasure before him, combined for once, and no thanks to him!--to
dally with a French doll--movable eyes and separate teeth and all--when he
might have gone on his knees to a splendid young lady! And I'd have kept
him there to say his prayers, which he's never done before, not since his
mother died, poor old gentlewoman, worn out by the gnashings of a
tiresome, God-Almighty, wicked old man, and a slip of sin who nothing was
too good for.
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