Madam Tutterville shook her head in troubled fashion, sighed and withdrew. 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.