“Madame?” replied Henderson, who had heard perfectly what her mistress said.
“You say that he kissed his hand as he went away.”
“No, Madame, he did not go away then.”
“Not until they saw you coming?”
“Yes, Madame. Then I suppose Mrs. Lygon desired him to go, but I was too far off to hear her.”
There came a flush over Bertha’s fair face. The lady’s-maid of course observed it—interpreted it, no doubt, in her own way, and no doubt wrongly, but she was not one of those who are content to allow any riddle to remain without a reading.
“Henderson,” said Bertha, after a pause, “Mrs. Lygon has had a good deal of conversation with you upon certain matters—she has told me so.”
Mary Henderson could see here no cue for reply.
“Don’t you hear what I say to you?” said her mistress, impatiently.
“Certainly, Madame.”
“Well, I preferred that she should speak direct to you, because my sister is a woman of business, and two are better than three in business matters. But everything that concerns her concerns me equally; you quite understand that?”
“Quite, Madame.”
“You say that she sent me no message.”
“If she had, Madame, I should have delivered it at once,” said Henderson, rather pertly. “Madame has not found that I neglect to deliver messages, I hope.”
The rebuke that should have followed such a speech to one’s mistress was not given. Both mistress and servant well knew why. The latter, however, if not the first to feel ashamed of the situation, was the first to express herself so.
“I beg your pardon, Madame, I am sure. I did not mean to say that, and I ought not to have said it, but knowing that it was very important for you to hear anything Mrs. Lygon had to send, I felt hurt that you should think me capable of neglecting. But Mrs. Lygon had no message to send, only I think—but perhaps I have no business to think, leastways not to talk.”
“We both trust you, as you know,” said Bertha, covering her retreat with a piece of unreal dignity, which, of course, did not for a second deceive her attendant.
“And I hope I am trustworthy, Madame. Mrs. Lygon is good enough to think so, Madame.”
“And you know what I think, Henderson. What were you going to say?”
“Madame was saying that Mrs. Lygon had talked to me a good deal. I hope that it was quite right in me to listen to her. Being your sister, Madame, I supposed that it must be quite right, but if I have made a mistake, I hope you will overlook it, as I had no intention to offend, quite the contrary.”
Perfectly well as Mrs. Urquhart knew this to be said only for the purpose of provocation, or, at the best, as a means of discharging the speaker’s ill-humour, she made the gentlest reply:—
“I wished you to obey my sister as you would obey myself.”
“And I was too happy to do it, Madame; not in regard of being turned over from one mistress to another, which is not what I understood was in my place and my duty, but quite the contrary, but because Mrs. Lygon is a lady every inch of her, and if she is proud, which I am not saying she is not, a lady without pride is not the lady for me, and she knows her place and station, and I know mine. But if I might speak, Madame”
The permission did not seem exactly needful, but Bertha gave it.
“Well, then, Madame, I think it is right for me to say that it would be a pity if any bad feelings, if you will excuse the word, should grow up between two ladies who are sisters.”
“Bad feelings, Henderson!”
“Yes, Madame, that is my word, and it might be out of my place to look in a lady’s face when she is reading another lady’s letter, but as I could not help looking in Mrs. Lygon’s face, my eyes told me that something was going wrong.”
“My note appeared to displease my sister?”
“Quite that, Madame.”
“But she had no right to be displeased at it,” said Bertha, in a reproachful tone. “How could I help what happened?”
“No, Madame, only I thought it right to let you know.”
“She shall go and see her, now then,” was the girl’s muttered speech, as she was rectifying the orbit of a wreath which had been favourably noticed by Mr. Urquhart, and which his affectionate wife had therefore desired her servant to select from her well-stocked wreathery.
“Of course it was right to let me know, but I can do nothing. Mrs. Lygon is going back to England, and I will write to her when she gets there. In the meantime she must get over her displeasure.”
“Yes, Madame, and though Mr. Adair is a very bad man, he is no fool, and I dare say that he will give her the best advice.”
“What has Mrs. Lygon to do with taking advice from him?”
“I am only a servant, Madame, and it is not for me to know more than I am told.”
“After what has happened in this house, Henderson,” said Bertha, angrily, and surprised out of her ordinary tone of almost deference towards one who knew so much, “it is ridiculous in you to speak in that manner. There, I did not mean to speak unkindly, but you ought not to provoke me—you would not speak in that way to Mrs. Lygon.”
“I don’t think Mrs. Lygon would fly out at me, Madame, when I was only trying to speak for her good in my humble way.”
“Well, well, speak for my good. I know you mean it. What made you say that about Mr. Adair giving advice to my sister?”
“I suppose, Madame, that they had made friends, they seemed to be upon such good terms in the garden, and when I left Mrs. Lygon she walked off