the drawing-room, and Mr. Urquhart placed a chair for his wife, which she took without a word.
“Why is Mrs. Lygon in my house?” was his demand.
“I thought—I believed—that she had gone home, Robert, indeed I did,” said Mrs. Urquhart, trembling.
“I know that you thought so, Bertha, for you told her husband so,” said Mr. Urquhart, sternly. “Do you suppose that I am suspecting you of a falsehood?”
“You ought not,” said his wife, whose feeble courage was restored by a word, and as easily dispelled.
“I know that I ought not, and I do not. Now, why is she here, or what does she tell you is her reason for being here?”
Thus urged, and in some measure reassured by the language of her husband, from whom she had expected far different treatment, Bertha rallied as well as she could, and answered with some firmness:
“You know what she came about, and why she went to Paris. She has come back to say that she has succeeded, and is going to return to England directly.”
“Is going to return to her home?”
“Yes, certainly, Robert, dear. Where else should she go?”
“Anywhere else,” he said, to himself, however, rather than to his wife.
“Anywhere else?” she repeated. “What can you mean?”
He came up to her, and took her hands in his own.
“Bertha,” he said, gravely, not harshly, “I have always done a husband’s duty by you. Maybe I have loved you so well that there was no merit in that. But you have nothing to lay to my charge.”
“I, Robert? You have been kindness itself! Have I ever said anything in my life in the way of accusing you? Why do you say this to me? I owe you everything in the world, and I only wish that I were worthier of you.”
And, if a shallow nature can be truthful, she was, at the moment, speaking truth in those last words.
“Nor have I ever complained of you,” he replied, without noticing those words. “It will be an ill day for us when I complain, but it will be a short one.”
“Robert!”
“All that I would say to you, Bertha, is, that I am sorry you have weakly allowed yourself to be the dupe and tool of your sister. She is a much cleverer woman than yourself, as you have often said to me; and this should have made you cautious. But I know full well that she has not dared to tell you what my wife ought not to have heard.”
“Indeed she has not, Robert; but I cannot understand the mystery in your words.”
“Better so.”
“You frighten me to death, Robert! Tell me what you mean.”
“I will not. That is not our business now. How long has she been here?”
“She came back yesterday,” stammered Bertha, unable to consider what would be the best reply, and answering at random.
“Ay. Just so. She remains here, when she might have been by this time where a wife and a mother would long to be, if she were lit to be there. So she has slept in the house again. I am sorry for it.”
“Sorry that Laura should sleep in this house!” echoed Bertha. “There is some dreadful thought in your mind. And you will not tell it to me?” said Bertha, who, now that she felt herself safe, ventured on a tone of wifely reproach.
“It is not so to be spoken of,” returned Urquhart, darkly. And he gazed on Bertha, for some moments, in silence. Then he said,
“She must leave the house instantly.”
Slight as were Bertha’s reasoning faculties, her instinct told her that she must make some stand against such a decree. Her own sister must not be turned from her house without some reason assigned for the act. Submission to it would imply that Mrs. Urquhart believed in the existence of a cause for such treatment of Laura.
“Robert,” she said, “you are the master here, and have a right to say who shall stay with us. But Laura is my sister, and must not be insulted.”
Something, resembling a smile of satisfaction, came over his face for a second, and disappeared.
“Insult means wrong treatment, Bertha,” he said, “and I never willingly do wrong. You are right to protest, but, as you say, I am the master, and for once I must ask to be obeyed without dispute. In some time to come I am afraid you will have to thank me. Now, you must be content to obey me. But I will spare you all the pain I can. Go to your room, and I will dismiss Laura Lygon.”
“Robert, I cannot behave to my sister in that way. What you mean I know not, and you refuse to tell me. But I must speak to her, and make her feel that if I am to part from her, it is in obedience to your wishes, and that I kuow nothing to blame her for.”
“Nothing to blame her for? She has deceived you, and caused you to deceive her husband, and make him the victim of a trick. Is that not enough to separate you for the rest of your lives? If that were all, Bertha, I would be sorry indeed to hear you call that woman sister again.”
Here failed Mrs. Urquhart’s power of resistance. Unable longer to defend the position she had taken up, she burst into tears. They were tears of real sorrow, but the cowardly and selfish nature would make no further effort for the sake of another. Let Laura go. What did it matter what Robert thought of her—she would be far away. And these schemes which Laura was trying, it would be better if they were at an end. Bertha could not understand them, and they would lead only to scenes of terror and agitation—let Laura go.
Such were the sisterly thoughts of the woman crying behind her handkerchief, and such was the repayment she meditated for what, so far as she knew, was a perilous and loving effort in her own behalf. We are commanded to help the weak-hearted, and we must obey the merciful command;