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——?”