“And you said— If you do not answer I will have him fetched.”
“I said nothing,” sobbed Bertha, in her sister’s grasp. “I had no words and no voice. But he spoke. Was it my fault that he said what he did.”
“Your fault! What did he say?”
“That I had come to beg him not to injure a certain person.”
“He made no such weak, foolish speech; and if he had made it, Robert would have given him the lie. He said that you had come to beg safety for me—me—he named me?”
“Could I prevent it?”
“Am I accusing you? And you listened, and confirmed his falsehood by your silence?”
“It was not quite a falsehood.”
“Bertha!”
“I had been begging him on my knees not to do anything at all. I had told him that we were trying to get the money for him, and that we should do so very soon, and I was imploring him not to ruin us both—this was when Robert came in.”
“There is no quarrel between you and Robert. I could see that by a glance at your face. The shame—the guilt—has been transferred to me. Do not dare to deny it—let me know all—give me a chance for my life, Bertha.”
“Do not speak so. O! why did you not go to England?” said Bertha, crying bitterly.
“I will go to England,” replied Mrs. Lygon, in a strange tone, “only I must know exactly how I stand with friends and enemies. Perhaps I will go to-night.”
“O! do, do.”
“Then there is a reason why I should go at once—escape.”
“Yes—at least there may be—I do not know what Robert will do. He may send for—”
“Do not you mention that name,” replied Laura. “Tell me what passed between your husband and that man.”
“He is a bad man, a very cruel man—”
“I know what he is—say what he did.”
“He had a book of letters.”
“Letters!” gasped Mrs. Lygon, her face once more becoming ashy white.
“And he gave them to Robert to read. O! do not look so dreadfully.”
“Never mind my looks,” said Mrs. Lygon, with a distorting smile. “So he gave Mr. Urquhart a book of letters?”
“A book, yes,” said Bertha. “You have seen the book, then?”
“I have seen it—yes, I have seen it,” repeated Mrs. Lygon, slowly, and gazing intently into the eyes of her sister. “And you saw Robert read it?”
“He read every word.”
“Then he said—what? Do not fear to tell me exactly.”
“He called me to him, and showed me some of the—the letters.”
“And you read them?”
“A few words, here and there, only, Laura.”
“And you said—what did you say for your sister, Bertha?”
“What could I say, with those letters before my eyes?”
“True—very true—what could you say with those letters before your eyes,” repeated Mrs. Lygon, slowly. “What could be said? There was no one to dash the book on the ground, and cry out that wickedness was at work, and that God was just—no one to speak for me, and to demand that I should be heard before I was judged. A sister was there, but there was no one to do this.”
“O, Laura, Laura, remember who was in the room.”
“Yes, Ernest Adair was there. And Robert Urquhart was there. And I will tell you who else was there. A wife, who, if her husband had laid his strong hand upon Ernest Adair, and had sworn to kill him on the spot, as he would have done, had he known all—a wife was there, who even now keeps a place in her heart for that villain, and would have tried to stay her husband’s hand, at the price of her sister’s honour.”
“It is false that I care for Ernest Adair,” said Bertha, terrified, and crying.
“It is true,” replied her sister. “I was not long in discovering that. You were wearied with his importunities, and frightened at his menaces, and you would gladly have been separated from him by some shift, some accident. But the moment that you found this could only be done with peril to him, old, evil feelings came back, and you would have saved him.”
Bertha flushed angrily under these words, and angrily she replied.
“It is not for you to speak to me thus. You had better think of your own position, and escape to England as soon as you can. Mr. Urquhart intends to write to Mr. Lygon to-night, and you know best whether you wish to meet him.”
“Was this what you came to tell me, Bertha?” said Mrs. Lygon, calmly. “I heard nothing of this from you until that girl had been with us.”
“It is not pleasant to tell such things, but I have told you now.”
“It is not pleasant. No, you are quite right, Bertha. Let us speak of something else. Let us speak of your position.”
“Leave me alone. I must manage for myself, as I have done before, and as I suppose I can do again.”
“You wish for no further assistance from mo?”
“I do not know what assistance I have had. You have made every day a terror to me, and I have wished myself dead a thousand times.”
“You may have to wish it again, poor child, before all is over. Do you suppose that such men as your husband and—Mr. Lygon—are likely to leave this terrible story where it is? Do you think that Ernest Adair will not sacrifice you, when he is pressed, and the time comes?”
“No, he will not,” said Bertha, promptly. “I am not defending him—”
“Yes, defend him; why not? You have already saved his life—will you shrink from doing him a smaller service! Why should you not defend him—he will need defenders soon.”
“Then you are going to persevere in your plans,” said Bertha. “I think that it is very wicked