basin in which stood and stands the sea-compelling Poseidon.
It was, however, no more repulsive an object than the well-dressed and striking-looking man who had been interesting himself so deeply in her movements, and he approached her with a newspaper in his hand, and apparently without seeing her.
Yet he might well have been excused for lowering his “Galignani,” and noticing the beautiful woman who advanced.
Exquisitely fair, and with features of singular regularity, Mrs. Urquhart was permitted, even in Paris, to pass for a beauty. Her walking costume prevented much display of her golden tresses, or of the symmetry of her head and bust, but the delicate mouth and the blue eyes came with a double and instant charm upon you, and you felt thankful, and content to wait for other revelations. Of middle height, her figure was full and rounded, and to-day her anxiety to meet her sister had given her step an elasticity which it did not usually evince, and had also imparted some addition of colour to her almost too pale complexion. A lovelier creature had seldom paced through those proud gardens, even in the days when they were consecrated to all that was noble and gay—and perhaps, even in those days of levity, never had a lovely woman walked towards the Fountain with more sadness at her heart, or better reason for such sadness.
Ernest dropped his paper at the right moment, recognised Mrs. Urquhart, and raised his cap. He noticed that her lips suddenly compressed, and then formed themselves into a half-smile, which had nothing in it beyond the stereotype courtesy of society. She would as soon have been without her charmingly-fitting gloves as without that smile when she met an acquaintance. That was all.
But not quite all in the case of Ernest Adair. Mrs. Urquhart’s smile disappeared even sooner than usual, and in its place came a strange shade over the beautiful face. The effect was painful—it was really like that of the sudden fading away of sunshine from a bright river or a glowing flower-plot. The features themselves were not perhaps capable of much expression, but the whole face yielded to the sensation of the moment, and a story was told—one which there was no need to tell to the man who stood before her.
Stood, but for a moment. His only object has been told by himself, and that was already attained.
He passed her with a bow, and the ordinary words of greeting, and would have gone on.
But Bertha was a weak woman, and even while she feared, dreaded, almost hated, she could not bear to pass by the man whom she had so much reason to abhor. Before finally judging her, note her nature.
“Reading, in the retirement of Versailles?” she said, with a forced smile and a slight laugh which was aught but cheerful, and had something in it that should have suggested pity—those who have heard such laughs often have spent a life which should trouble them when it comes to the ending.
“I was looking for English news,” said Adair, in that artificial voice which implies a desire to forbear from any earnest talk—men are, perhaps, cowards when using it,—women, when they speak in it, are either to be feared or pitied, or both. “But I find,” he continued, “news which affects friends here. Is this railway accident serious?”
“No, no, I believe not. I do not know. I do not understand such things. Mr. Urquhart has gone to the place.”
“Let us hope that he will not be detained long.”
And he was again about to pass on, when Bertha said, harshly:
“You received my note?”
“With the gage d'amitié. It is here,” and he touched his finger, and pressed it to his lips. “All thanks. But I must not detain you from your walk.”
And then he passed on in spite of a word which still sought to stop him, and which he seemed not to hear. Perhaps he left the gardens, perhaps he entered the palace, and from some window gazed out eagerly, as many a jealous lover or furious husband may have done in the old days, for there is not a corner of that strange place but has clinging in it a story of a bad man and a foolish woman.
In a few minutes more, the sisters met.
Words of affection, looks from moistened eyes, warm pressure to the heart—and Laura and Bertha were again, as of old, in counsel against the common enemy.
“Did you meet him?” was Bertha’s first question.
“No. What, has he followed you here?” asked Laura.
“I spoke to him this moment. I thought that you must have seen us.”
“It is the same thing for his purpose. He knows that you will have told me. O Bertha, Bertha, my darling, how we are hunted!”
And for a few moments the two women did look tearful and helpless enough, as they stood each holding the other’s hand convulsively.
Mrs. Lygon was the first to speak.
“It must not last, and shall not,” she said, brushing away her tears. “I have risked too much,—O! I know not yet what I have risked, but come what will of it now, this torture must be ended.”
“Torture, indeed,” said Bertha, “but what can we do? If I were rich, I might go on supplying him, though, since he has taken to play, I could never know where his demands would end. But whether Robert has fancied that I am extravagant, or whether he has calls upon him which make it necessary for him to spend less, I know not, but he has supplied me far less liberally of late, and I have been driven to strange devices to obtain the money.”
“Nothing that would be
“Would be disgraceful if known, darling, you mean. No, not disgraceful—at least nothing wrong—I am told that other women do such things. I have no secrets from you. I have pawned a great many of my jewels.”
“Dearest Bertha.”
