unless she had any distinct course to propose, in which case it was his duty to postpone any plan he might have formed.
“You will do nothing whatever without asking my leave,” said Mary. “It is not for you to presume to take other people’s affairs into your hands.”
M. Silvain must be the guardian of his own honour, but was ready to obey to the letter any order of Mademoiselle.
“I have no order to give at present, but we never speak again if you see that man any more without my permission.”
M. Silvain signified his assent by a grave bow, and another touch of Mademoiselle’s hand.
“Don’t bow at me,” said she, impatiently. “Swear it.”
“My word is as binding as an oath, Mademoiselle. Is it an English custom to require oaths from those we trust?”
“I do not know that I trust you,” said Henderson. “Well, yes, I do,” she added, observing his reproachful look, “but it is a satisfaction to have a solemn promise.”
“In homage to an English feeling, then, Mademoiselle, I swear to what you demand, but my heart, already your slave, needs no new sacrament.”
“Don’t talk in that profane manner,” said Mary, totally ignorant of her lover’s meaning. “But you have sworn, and that is enough. Now, I suppose you’ll go back to your shop?”
“For the moment, yes, unless Mademoiselle has commands.”
“Stay there until I come, or send to you.”
“I am at your orders, Mademoiselle.”
She gave him her hand, kindly enough, as they parted, and his look of intense gratitude and admiration touched her heart.
“After all,” she said, on her way to the avenue, “he is a brave and a true fellow; and as for his not fighting so well as that wretch, who, I dare say, has often got his living by teaching the trade, that is nothing. If Silvain had time and money to be always practising, he would be a splendid fencer, and even without his sword, and with his eyes sparkling, he looked much more noble than the white-faced creature opposite to him. Silvain’s figure is perfection, and if he only dressed”
But we need not delay over the affectionate meditations of the femme de chambre.
At the farther end of the ground-floor of the house of Mr. Urquhart, and opening into the large room of miscellaneous scientific matter which has been described, was a small apartment, nearly empty, and with a ground-glass French window looking upon the garden. This room could be approached by a small narrow staircase, from the first floor, but this approach was never used, and the door above was constantly locked. It had been Henderson’s suggestion that a little furniture should be taken into the room, and that while Mrs. Lygon should be in the house, it should be her place of refuge, one not likely to be thought of, and one which afforded a ready escape to the garden. Scarcely waiting for the assent of either of the ladies, Henderson, with stealthy rapidity, had discovered, oiled, and used the key of the stair, and without the knowledge of the other domestics had conveyed into the apartment enough to render it tenantable.
“The other girls are very ignorant, Madame,” said Henderson to Mrs. Urquhart, as the latter descended into the room, “and they believe in ghosts. I shall tell them, by accident, a ghost-story before bed-time, that will make them afraid even to look at the door of the big room as they go out and in.”
The sisters were alone in the secluded chamber, when a letter was thrown down the stair by the vigilant Henderson.
It was for Mrs. Urquhart, and was in the bold i free hand of her husband. i
Bertha trembled too much to open and read it, but Laura did both, and found that it contained a few lines from Robert Urquhart, in which he congratulated himself on having met with Lygon, and scolded Bertha for not having kept him. “As a punishment for such a violation of all the sacred duties of hospitality,” the writer went on, “we two gay young dogs intend to disport ourselves in the pleasures of Paris for a while, but if our hearts should relent, or rich Countesses should make very desperate efforts to carry us off, we I shall just drop down to Versailles at any hour that may seem good unto us, and it may promote peace and forgiveness should there be au adequate I supply of creature-comforts at the shortest notice.” Bertha was also ordered to revolve in her mind what would be fittest for a united present for Laura, which her husband should take over in the hope of appeasing her wrath at being abandoned, of which he seemed to be in wonderful terror.
“They have met,” gasped Bertha.
“It is always so,” said Laura, wiping tears from her eyes, as she again read the playful letter, just one which might have been looked for from either Lygon or Urquhart, had circumstances been as the latter supposed them.
“Arthur has said nothing to him.”
“And what could you dream that Arthur would say?” asked Laura, indignantly, a wife’s pride flushing her fair brow at the shadow of a suspicion that Lygon would willingly say aught to compromise herself or her sister.
“He left me in a fever of rage,” said Bertha. “He spoke quietly enough, but I know that he was in a rage.”
“And had he not a right to be? A right! There is nothing that he could do that could not be justified, but Arthur will never do anything to need justification,” said Laura, proudly. “O, if I could say the same,” she added. “But I will trust that he will trust me yet.”
“They may come at any time,” said Bertha, feebly.
“Arthur will not return here,” replied Mrs. Lygon. “They have met by accident. He could not escape from your husband, but will shake him off at the first moment. Perhaps he is now on his way to London—to his home,” she said, burying her face in her hands.
“I hope so,” said Bertha, whose nature saw something less of danger in the absence of one of those whom she dreaded.
