He addressed himself gently and respectfully to his sister-in-law. She refused to hear him. The indignation which Mrs. Presty had roused in her made no allowances, and was blind to all sense of right.
"Don't trouble yourself to account for your silence," she said, most unjustly. "You were listening to my mother without a word of remonstrance when I came into the room. You are concerned in this vile slander, too."
Randal considerately refrained from provoking her by attempting to defend himself, while she was incapable of understanding him.
"You will be sorry when you find that you have misjudged me," he said, and sighed, and left her.
She dropped into a chair. If there was any one distinct thought in her at that moment, it was the thought of her husband. She was eager to see him; she longed to say to him: "My love, I don't believe a word of it!" He was not in the garden when she had returned for the parasol; and Sydney was not in the garden.
Wondering what had become of her father and her governess, Kitty had asked the nursemaid to look for them. What had happened since? Where had they been found? After some hesitation, Mrs.
Linley sent for the nursemaid. She felt the strongest reluctance, when the girl appeared, to approach the very inquiries which she was interested in ******.
"Have you found Mr. Linley?" she said--with an effort.
"Yes, ma'am."
"Where did you find him?"
"In the shrubbery."
"Did your master say anything?"
"I slipped away, ma'am, before he saw me."
"Why?"
"Miss Westerfield was in the shrubbery, with my master. I might have been mistaken--" The girl paused, and looked confused.
Mrs. Linley tried to tell her to go on. The words were in her mind; but the capacity of giving expression to them failed her.
She impatiently made a sign. The sign was understood.
"I might have been mistaken," the maid repeated--"but I thought Miss Westerfield was crying."
Having replied in those terms, she seemed to be anxious to get away. The parasol caught her eye. "Miss Kitty wants this," she said, "and wonders why you have not gone back to her in the garden. May I take the parasol?"
"Take it."
The tone of the mistress's voice was completely changed. The servant looked at her with vague misgivings. "Are you not well, ma'am?"
"Quite well."
The servant withdrew.
Mrs. Linley's chair happened to be near one of the windows, which commanded a view of the drive leading to the main entrance of the house. A carriage had just arrived bringing holiday travelers to visit that part of Mount Morven which was open to strangers. She watched them as they got out, talking and laughing, and looking about them. Still shrinking instinctively from the first doubt of Herbert that had ever entered her mind, she found a refuge from herself in watching the ordinary events of the day. One by one the tourists disappeared under the portico of the front door. The empty carriage was driven away next, to water the horses at the village inn. Solitude was all she could see from the windows; silence, horrible silence, surrounded her out of doors and in.
The thoughts from which she recoiled forced their way back into her mind; the narrative of the nursemaid's discovery became a burden on her memory once more. She considered the circumstances.
In spite of herself, she considered the circumstances again. Her husband and Sydney Westerfield together in the shrubbery--and Sydney crying. Had Mrs. Presty's abominable suspicion of them reached their ears? or?--No! that second possibility might be estimated at its right value by any other woman; not by Herbert Linley's wife.
She snatched up the newspaper, and fixed her eyes on it in the hope of fixing her mind on it next. Obstinately, desperately, she read without knowing what she was reading. The lines of print were beginning to mingle and grow dim, when she was startled by the sudden opening of the door. She looked round.
Her husband entered the room.
