turned to go, spoke most distinctly of a savage determination to wreak her wrong.
“Help comes when we least expect it, Bertha dear,” said her sister, as soon as Mary had emphatically closed the most distant of the doors.
“I have no idea what you mean to do,” said Mrs. Urquhart, who really seemed bewildered by the scene she had witnessed.
“No, I suppose not,” said Mrs. Lygon.
“But you ought to be very careful,” said Bertha, wisely.
“And I will,” returned her sister. “Trust me, dear. Would you order something to be sent up to me, for I am growing rather faint, and let Henderson bring it?”
“Certainly, dear. I ought to have thought of it sooner.”
People of Bertha’s temperament have, it may be remarked, a habit of forgetting to think of the possible wants and comforts of others, but easily forgive themselves for what they euphuistically call absence of mind—some people save a good deal of trouble and expense by that convenient furlough. However, Mary Henderson’s zeal made up for any slackness on the part of her mistress, and Mrs. Lygon was tended with the utmost care and consideration. Henderson had much to tell her, and something to hear from her.
CHAPTER XIX.
But Bertha herself was doomed that day to sustain, single-handed, an interview of a far more embarrassing character. To sit and witness her sister’s triumph, in the conversion of a hostile spy into a useful ally, was not an exertion that drew much upon her mental resources; but, about two hours later, and while deeply musing upon the questions whether she should dress for dinner that night, and if so, what dress she should wear, Angelique brought in the card of Mr. Lygon.
Mrs. Urquhart’s mind, suddenly recalled from her toilette, was in such a state of bewilderment that she had already issued the slightly contradictory orders to admit him, and to say that she was in the country, when she found herself holding his hand, and declaring how glad she was to see him.
Arthur Lygon was in no mood to be critical upon his reception. He had hurried to Versailles, and thought only of again seeing Laura. He scarcely allowed his hostess time to falter out her welcome.
“And where is Laura?”
Poor Bertha strove to put on a surprised air, and, with a heightened colour, was about to reply, when Arthur’s kind feeling, united with his eagerness to meet his wife, hastened to save her from embarrassment.
“My dear Bertha,” he said, taking her hand, and speaking low, “there is no need for any attempt at secresy. If I had been trusted sooner, I might have saved and been saved from great pain. But nothing need be said, dear, but this. Certain things—they need not be recalled”—and he looked away from her as he spoke—“have come to my knowledge, and my only complaint, as I have said, is that I was not trusted. Now, I have no complaint to make—I know all.”
With a gentleman’s instinct, and in order to give his sister-in-law time to recover from the effect of such a communication, Lygon, pressing her hand kindly, crossed the room, looked from the window for a moment, and said:
“She is here, I suppose?” and he entered the little boudoir.
No, Laura was not there; but on the table was the note which she had sent to Mrs. Urquhart, announcing her arrival in Paris, and upon the writing the husband’s eye immediately fell. He snatched it up, and smiled as he read it, and returned to the drawing-room.
Bertha was gone. Perhaps the best thing for the weak creature to do was to fly.
He was not surprised. For he had been pondering, of course, over the information which he had received, and it was by no means a pleasant thing to have to apprise a woman, who had hitherto been unsuspected by him, that he knew of the errors of her early life. He was glad to have cut the knot in the abrupt way he had done so, and he concluded that though Bertha would not remain to continue such a conversation, she had gone to communicate it to Laura, who, in another minute, ought to be in the room.
Three minutes elapsed—perhaps five—and then, regardless of all the conventionalities, Mr. Lygon ran into the dining-room, and, finding no Laura there, mounted the staircase leading to the bed-rooms.
“Can she be afraid to meet me,” he said, “Laura afraid of me!”
And he opened the first door that he reached, half expecting to find Bertha and her sister crying together, and one urging the other to lose no time in coming down.
No, the room, Mrs. Urquhart’s, was untenanted.
His hand was on a second handle, when Mary Henderson stopped him.
“Mr. Lygon, sir. That is my room.”
“Ah, Henderson, how do you do. Where is Mrs. Lygon?”
The girl’s quick eye saw that he held his wife’s note in his hand, and her quick brain instantly suggested that it was useless to affect surprise at his words.
“Why, did you not meet her, sir?”
“Meet her—where, where?” said Arthur.
“Which way could you have come, sir?”
“Straight from the railway.”
“Ah, but which?”
“How should I know. What do you mean? Is Mrs Lygon Stop. Don’t be surprised, Henderson, but”
Surprised or not, she saw the excited Lygon, breaking off short in his speech, rush in succession to each of the doors on that floor, and look into the rooms. He hastily penetrated into the little bed-room in which five minutes earlier he would have found his wife.
But she was no longer there.
Bertha had flown to Laura with his name upon her tongue, and the latter, certain that he would be stayed by no obstacle, had darted down a second staircase, Bertha following, but managing to say a word to Henderson, scarcely needed by her.
