Chapter XVII: Treacheries of Silence

——Slander, meanest spawn of Hell,
And woman’s slander is the worst...!
—TENNYSON (_The Letters_).

On the following morning Margery drew the curtains of Lady Lochore’s bed and looked down upon her.

It was ten o’clock, and not even the barred shutters, not even the heavy hangings, could keep shafts of sunshine from piercing through. Lady Lochore wanted to shut out the light and the day and the world: whatever the news might be that the morning was to bring, whether of life or of death, they were fearful to her. And now, though she knew well enough whose eyes were fixed upon her, she feigned sleep. Margery, on her side, perfectly aware of the pretence, drew a stool with ostentatious precautions to the bedside, sat down and waited. But the feeling of being watched became quickly intolerable. Lady Lochore rolled petulantly over on her pillows.

“What in God’s name do you want? Great heavens, one would imagine that you at least would know better than to disturb me!”

“My lady,” cooed Margery, “Sir David is awake.”

Lady Lochore sat bolt upright and, under the thin cambric and lace that fell in such empty folds over her bosom, the sudden leaping of her heart was visible.

“Awake!”

“Yes, my lady—awake and up. I thought it my duty to let your ladyship know.”

“You have seen him! You——?”

A horrible hope danced like a flame in her eyes; but even to Margery she dared not speak the question that would make it patent.

“Quite himself, yes, my lady,” went on the steady tones, answering as usual the unspoken thought. There was a lengthy silence. Then Margery began again: “Whatever drug Mrs. Marvel gave Sir David, it has done him good, my lady. I’ve not known Sir David look so well, nor speak so dear and sensible since before his—his great illness.”

Mrs. Nutmeg had respectfully shifted her gaze from her ladyship’s countenance to a knot of ribbons at her ladyship’s breast. But, nevertheless, Maud Lochore felt that her criminal soul was being mercilessly laid bare.

“Leave me alone,” she said faintly, leaning back on her pillow and turning her head away.

“I think your ladyship had better get up,” said Margery Nutmeg, and stood her ground.

By the time Maud Lochore, robed and tired, had sailed from her apartments, with head set high and determined step, to seek her brother, the housekeeper was able to retreat to her own room with the feeling that the morning’s eloquence of insinuation had not been altogether wasted. What though Fortune still seemed to favour Mrs. Marvel, the path of that would-be mistress of Bindon might yet, after all, be made rough enough to trip her.

Sir David turned his head as the door of the library opened, and Lady Lochore was involuntarily brought to a halt in her indignant entry. Those clear eyes! The steady, peaceful gaze was that of a man looking upon health returned after long sickness. Margery was right. She was right! Sir David was himself again; and the coiling, twisting serpents within her seemed to nip at her heart in their thwarted fury. Hers had been the hand to fill this magic cup! She could have laughed aloud for the irony at it. Then there came a second thought, lashing her with an unknown terror! Was God himself against her, that the poison which had uselessly brought death and madness to so many besides old Simon, should here have turned to a healing remedy?

Sir David and the rector had been engaged in earnest converse for the last hour. The matter of the challenge had first demanded their attention. Sir David had, with a contemptuous smile, perused the letter left on his table, had listened to Dr. Tutterville’s account of the interview without comment and briefly dismissed the subject with the announcement of his intention to send a messenger to Bath that day. His whole treatment of the affair was such as vastly pleased the old-fashioned spirit of the parson—a duly shaven parson, this morning, who could not keep the beam of satisfaction from his glance every time it rested upon his companion.

And yet it was a rare complication of troubles they had to face. Three deaths in the village, besides that of the poor old alchemist himself; a case of madness, and one or two of minor brain disturbance. And a general threatening resentment throughout the parish. Good cause indeed had the spiritual and the secular masters of Bindon for consultation together; little cause had they to welcome interruption. But both gentlemen rose with due courtesy; and while the parson placed a chair, Sir David took his sister’s hand and led her to it, inquiring upon her health.

She looked up at him without speaking, an exceedingly bitter smile on her lips. Yes, there was no doubt about it: her brother stood before her, master of himself, master of his fate once more.

In the silence, the two men exchanged a glance as upon some pre-decided arrangement. Then the rector spoke:

“These sad events have necessarily postponed your departure; but, believe me, my dear Maud, you will do well, and it is also David’s opinion, to delay it no longer than this afternoon.”

Lady Lochore clutched the arms of her chair.

“We anticipate some excitement among the villagers,” pursued the parson. “Then there is the ceremony to-morrow. You are unfortunately in no state of health to risk painful emotions. And, in fact, David would not be doing his duty did he not insist upon your being safely out of the way.”

Lady Lochore rose stiffly.

“And Mrs. Marvel?”

The rector fell back a pace; the hissing word had struck him like a stone. But Sir David stepped forward, a light flame mounting to his brow.

“Does David consider it his duty to have Mistress Marvel also removed from this dangerous house?” she inquired, and her voice broke on a shrill laugh.

“Maud,” said her brother, almost under his breath, “have a care!”

But Lady Lochore had let herself go; the serpents were hissing, ready to strike. Glib words of venom fell from her lips:

“His duty! Touching solicitude all at once for my humble self! ’Tis vastly flattering, my God! What a model host, so preoccupied about his guests! Excellent Rector, is this your work? A conversion you may well be proud of: but is it not a little abrupt for security?” A hard cough here cut the thread of her tirade. And the acrid taste of blood, loathsome reminder of doom, brought her suddenly from irony to open rage: “Yes, turn your sister out of the house! Turn your flesh and blood from your doors! But house the wanton, cherish the abandoned wretch that dares to call herself our kin, that brought under Bindon’s roof practices that would disgrace Cremorne! Keep Mrs. Marvel, Sir David Cheveral, put her tarnished honour in our mother’s place and you—and you—you sanctimonious old man, give the blessing of the church upon that degrading union! Oh, Mistress Marvel is a young, comely woman, and David is indeed converted! This time, I am glad to see, he has been more practical than with his other—lady!”

“Silence!”

It was not that the word rang very loud, or that Sir David’s mien was threatening; but, as she herself had grasped the truth a little while ago, that he was master. It seemed to her now as if she must wither before him. Her voice, her laugh sank into the silence bidden. Then Sir David turned:

“She is mad!” he said, addressing the rector, and made a gesture with his hand as if dismissing a subject painful in the abstract, but unimportant to himself.

His sister’s glance followed his movement to alight upon Dr. Tutterville. Then the cowering snakes reared their crests again. If he had to be slain for it, the parson could not have kept a look of perturbation, almost of guilt from his countenance; and the woman was quick to see it. She pointed her finger at him:

“Ask the reverend gentleman if I am so mad. Ask him if some account of the virtues of his niece has not already reached his consecrated ears! Oh, brother David, the mere stretching of a cloak is not quite sufficient to hide scandal.”

Scandal!—that evil word again! The more burningly it stung the parson, the more gallantly he resisted the doubt.

“Maud,” said he firmly; “hearing is one thing, believing, thank Heaven, is another. Those who would assail Ellinor Marvel’s honour, I should be inclined to rebuke much more severely than David has done. Madness? No, Lady Lochore, but deliberate falsehood, the fruit of Envy, Malice and all uncharitableness.”

“Ellinor Marvel’s honour!” said Sir David. He repeated the words steadily, then threw up his head and slightly uplifted his eyes and looked away as if fixing some entrancing vision.

Health of body and health of mind had, it seemed, been restored to him by the cup of strange mixing. The morbid doubt, the fever, the long oppression—all were gone. He had faith where he loved. The expression of his face drove the furious woman nigh to the madness he had proclaimed.

“Ellinor Marvel’s honour!” she repeated in her turn, “the honour of a woman, who receives her lover in her room at midnight!”

The rector gave a short groan; it might have been horror or indignation. Sir David merely turned to stare at his sister; then he smiled in contemptuous pity.

“Oh, David, David!” cried Lady Lochore, shaking in an agony of laughter and rage, “whom do you think to take in with these hypocritical airs, this ostrich concealment? It is, of course, your interest to hush things up. Naturally! But—”

He would not permit her to finish:

“Naturally it is my interest,” he said, hotly, “to defend a woman whom I know to be as innocent of what you accuse her as I am myself; in whose honour I believe as in my own.”

In the diplomacy of life, how often does the course of fate turn to unexpected channels upon the mere speaking of one word. At the strenuous instant of the conflict of purpose, how far-reaching may be the consequence of one phrase, perhaps pronounced too soon, or left unsaid too long!

Had David not thus cut short the speech on his sister’s lips, her very next word would have rendered the object of her hatred the best service that at such a strange juncture could have been devised; and she would at the same time have dashed for ever the success of her last desperate scheme. The revealing accusation that still hung on her tongue was barely arrested in time. With her familiar gesture, she had to clap her hand to her mouth.

“Why, great God! He knows nothing! he remembers nothing! First madness, then long, long sleep! Old man, I thank thee for that fantastic drug!”

Over her gagging hand Lady Lochore’s eyes danced with a flame so fierce and unholy that the bewildered and unhappy parson shuddered. He felt instinctively as if the meshes of the web which seemed to have been skilfully flung round Ellinor were tightening in remorseless hands. The very deliberation, the sudden calmness which presently came over Lady Lochore filled him with a yet deeper foreboding. She dropped her hand, stood a moment, tall and straight and dignified, as if wrapt in thought, her countenance composed: a noble looking woman, in spite of the ravages of disease, now that the unlovely mask of fury had fallen from her. Then she turned to Sir David, who had deliberately seated himself at his papers as if for him the discussion were ended, and said:

“Since neither brother nor kinsman believe my word worthy of credit, I am forced to bring other testimony—much as I should wish to spare myself and this house the humiliation.”

She stretched her hand to the bell-rope, and the parson upon an impulse of weakness for which he immediately chided himself, stretched out his own to arrest her. But David, without looking up from his writing, said gently: “Let her call up whom she will.” And Lady Lochore demanded Mrs. Nutmeg’s appearance.

“My friends,” she added, after a spell of brooding silence, once more addressing her brother, “have been so summarily turned out of this house that their immediate evidence is unobtainable. A letter to Bath, however, would produce their attendance or their answer by writing if——”

But at this point Margery knocked at the door. Slowly Sir David looked up:

“I may as well tell you at once,” said he, “that were you to fetch witnesses from the four corners of the globe, there is but one person’s word which I would be willing to take in this matter—and hers I do not intend to ask for.”

The rector gazed in astonishment upon the determined speaker. This confidence, he thought, showed almost like a new phase of eccentricity; it was as exaggerated in its way as the previous universal distrust of humanity and more likely to be followed by a reaction. Sir David had but shortly before informed him that since the moment when he had received the sleeping draught from Ellinor’s hand, he had not met her. His attitude seemed the more inexplicable. But Dr. Tutterville was now all anxious to clear up this strange matter; for, since Lady Lochore’s excited entrance upon the scene, he had become convinced that Ellinor was the victim of some cunning conspiracy, and was increasingly ashamed of his own previous misgivings.

“Nay, David,” he cried, interposing sudden authority, “that is not fair to Mrs. Marvel. She must have the opportunity of self-vindication; she must be urged to speak that word which we indeed do not need, but without which, slanderous tongues will continue to wag. See, yonder she goes,” he added, pointing through the window.

David then, without a word, rose and went to the open casement; he beckoned and called:

“Ellinor! Can you come to me?”

Margery Nutmeg took a few humble steps aside and remained in a shadowy corner.