“A lie, is it?” cried Maria, with her hand to her lips. “Then you shall have it now without paying me for it. It’s a lie, I suppose, that he was going on with her all the time I was in hospital, and when he was down here and obliged to stay because of poor master’s hurt—plotted and planned to get her down here, too? That’s a lie, I suppose, miss? I’m not blind. I’ve seen a deal too much, and if that woman isn’t soon turned out of the house I’m not going to stop.”
“It—is—not—true,” cried Saxa hoarsely.
“And poor dear master lying there all helpless, and being cheated by ’em both. It’s shameful; and how you young ladies can put up with it—”
“It can’t be true,” said Saxa furiously.
“Very well, miss, you know best,” said Maria; “but I’m not going to stay here to be knocked about by the best lady as was ever born.”
“Stop!” cried Saxa fiercely; and she caught the malignant woman’s arm as she was making for the door. “I—I beg your pardon. Tell me, is all this true?”
“Yes, miss, it’s true enough,” said Maria, beginning to sob; and then, as her arm was loosened, she made for the door, trembling and frightened at what she had said in her bitter dislike to the woman who had almost saved her life.
“You had better go,” said Dana, who was startled at the change which had come over her sister’s face.
Maria waited for no more, but, repentant in her alarm, hurried out of the room, leaving the sisters alone.
Just then the great bell in the turret over the hall began to clang out its summons for dinner.