wish to save other people from harm that I don’t set myself right in two minutes; but if Madame is much afraid of my coming to harm, she will, perhaps, be so good as to favour me with her leave to go and speak to Mr. Urquhart.”
“Henderson,” said poor Bertha, “Mrs. Lygon likes you very much, and I am sure would take you to England with her. Why should you not go with her, and Silvain could set up a shop in London, where he would be sure to succeed.”
“Begging your pardon, Madame, that will not suit. And if I was to be handed over to Mrs. Lygon, (and I don’t say that it wouldn’t be a pride and an honour to be with her,) if her character is to be taken away in France, I don’t see what place she could offer a respectable girl in England.”
“Would you like to marry Silvain, and I could assist you from time to time with money.” Such was Bertha’s next piteous proposal.
“It is very good, I am sure,” replied the inexorable Henderson, “for a lady to take so much thought about the welfare of poor people like me and Silvain; but if it is all the same, we should prefer to take care of ourselves in our own way. But if I might ask a favour of Madame, if I am not making too free—” she added.
“What can I do for you, Henderson?” asked Bertha, eagerly.
“It is not so much for me, Madame, as for yourself. I think if you was to go and see Mrs. Lygon, and tell her what has happened, it might be a good thing.”
The tone in which the last words were said, implied so much, that Mrs. Urquhart saw that this was what Henderson intended her to do.
“Yes, I might do that,” said Bertha, slowly. And even in that hour of trouble she instinctively cast a look into the mirror that was nearest to her.
“It would be a very good thing,” said Henderson. And in a moment she darted to a basketed flask of eau-de-Cologne that stood on a table, moistened her mistress’s handkerchief, and was bathing Mrs. Urquhart’s forehead and eyes as gently and sedulously as if the relations of mistress and maid had been of the most kindly character.
“Do you know Mrs. Lygon’s lodgings?” said Bertha, entirely surrendering.
“Quite well, Madame. I will show them to you.”
“Yes, but I must not be missed. In the temper in which Mr. Urquhart—”
“I understand, Madame. But we shall not be very long—and—I think you said that you would have no objection to give me a character.”
“Of course I will.”
“Mr. Urquhart has no objection to that, Madame?”
“On the contrary, he thinks that I have spoiled you a little, and the last thing he said was, that he did not wish to be hard.”
“I am sure he is very kind, Madame. Well, Madame, I do know an old French lady, who was brought up in England, and who would like to have an English girl who could read to her, and remind her of young days, and I think that she would take me. But, poor thing, she cannot come out of her room, to ask about my character. It would be a great thing for me, if Madame would have the condescension to visit her; and if I am to turn out of the house to-night, it would be necessary to see her at once. Mr. Urquhart would have no objection to that?”
The tale was told so glibly, that Bertha doubted for a moment whether it were not a true one. She did not repeat it quite so glibly to Robert Urquhart, but told it quite well enough to satisfy a man who was naturally unsuspecting, and who, at this moment, was almost resolutely so—for woman’s choicest time to deceive man is when he is generously regretful for having been harsh—and in half an hour Bertha was following Henderson, who, some distance in advance of her mistress, led the way to the lodging of Mrs. Lygon.
“I expected that,” said Ernest Adair to himself, as he observed Henderson moving down upon the house he was watching from a window. “And here is my lady, walking as fearlessly as if she were a Sister of Charity. I fear that I have undervalued her intellects, or have not pursued the best method of developing them. The woman who, after that pleasant scene to-day, calmly walks off to see the other woman, has shown either marvellous tact or unequalled courage, and I had not credited my poor Bertha with any extraordinary quantity of either. I am truly glad that I determined to be her guardian angel—I shall conduct her to a better destiny than I expected. So, the old lady of the house has no lady staying there—no lodger in the world, never let lodgings—I can see the lies, though I can’t hear them. Quite indignant, actually—her departed saint of a husband left her quite enough to live upon without turning lodging-letter—how the old head nods. But the advanced guard closes with the enemy, wants to say a word, enters, and the door closes—my lady looks doubtful, but she will not have to wait long—door re-opens, and Mrs. Urquhart is received with a kindly smile—Madame is up-stairs, and will be delighted to see her, and my lady enters—the old lady stands at the door—I wonder why. No, I see. Because that possibly holy, and certainly dirty, priest is coming by. To be sure; and she receives his benediction, and smiles thankfully—blessed are they that tell the truth, when it is quite convenient, for they shall be allowed to lie when it is not—did he mumble that beatitude to her? Now then, how long shall I give the amiable sisters for their interview?”
CHAPTER XLIV.
It was a quiet, neat little chamber in which Laura received her sister. The single window looked upon the street, but creepers had been trained upon wires that were drawn from the sill to the eaves of the two-storeyed house, and a pleasant light came through the green leaves, and a pleasant perfume from some flowers that showed among them.
“I had expected you sooner, dear Bertha; but I suppose that it was impossible for you to