‘Say an invention, Reginald.’
‘An invention—a cursed lie of that confounded girl! Hallo!’
There was a sudden crash and fall. The children all rushed to see, and Mrs. Blencarrow stood with the light streaming upon her, and the gilt bar of the screen in her hand. She had crushed it in her agitated grasp; the pretty framework of gilded wood and embroidery lay in a heap at her feet. The sound and shock had brought the blood rushing to her ghastly tragical countenance. She stood looking vaguely at the bar in her hand; but none of the children had any eyes for her—they were all on their knees in a group round the gilded ruin. Save Mr. d’Eyncourt and Emmy, no one noticed the terrible look in her face.
‘Come and sit down here while they pick up the pieces,’ said Roger. ‘Joan, I am afraid you are very angry, and you have reason; that we should have believed such a slander—of all the women in the world—of you! But, my dear, we are heartily ashamed of ourselves, if that is anything.’
‘Most penitent,’ said the Colonel, ‘thoroughly ashamed. I said to Roger, “If ever there were men who had reason to be proud of their sister——”’
‘And yet we gave a moment’s credence to such a barefaced lie!’
She heard them dimly as from a far distance, and saw them as through a fog; but the voices thus echoing and supplementing each other like a dull chorus gave her time to recover. She said sedately, not with any enthusiasm:
‘I am glad that you have found out—your mistake.’
Oh, heaven! Oh, miserable fate! But it was no mistake.
Mrs. Blencarrow found herself after a time taking Kitty’s defence.