“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.