“Tell me!” cried the countess nervously, as the speaker paused.
“Why, it is said that you had somehow got into the snares of the Papists. That an old priest and a nun in disguise had made their way into Dashleigh Hall; and, some affirm, had a private mass there. That the earl discovered amongst your papers a prayer to the Virgin, or something of that sort, and that he was so much disgusted by what he called your apostasy, that tearing the paper into a thousand fragments, he turned you out of the room.”
“Did any one believe such a senseless tale?” cried Annabella.
“It was said to come from the best authority, and is very generally credited.”
“Did you not give it indignant refutation?”
“My dear lady, you forget that I am in utter darkness upon the subject myself. I could stake my life that you had good cause for what you did, but of that cause I know no more than this chair.”
“Then you shall know all,” exclaimed Annabella, “that you may be able to give an answer to such idle calumnies as these;” and with rapid utterance she gave the doctor an account of what had occurred, her narrative following truth in the main, though coloured by prejudice and passion.
Bardon’s face showed gloomy satisfaction as he listened to the excited speaker. “So then,” he exclaimed as she concluded, “your crime is having drawn so faithful a portrait, that he who sat for it would not own it! What a fool he was to quarrel with one who has him so completely at her mercy!”
“What do you mean?” said Annabella quickly.
“You carried your desk with you, did you not?” said Bardon, with an expressive glance at that on the table; “and you carried with you the wit that can sting. Write out that paper again; give it to the public;—the world will laugh, and the earl will wince. No one who reads but will understand (I will do my best to enlighten dull comprehensions) why the peer was so angry with his wife—why he who stood trembling on the mountain was afraid of the wit of a woman.”