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.