Laura hastily took the letter, and her heart throbbed as the well-known handwriting met the wife’s eyes.
“There! See how you wronged him,” she said, her face in a glow.
“I wronged him?” said Bertha.
“Yes. You were afraid that he might, by accident or design, say something to Robert that would compromise you. Not only has he not done so, but in all his own trouble he has had thoughtfulness enough to plan a letter that should tell you exactly how much it has been necessary to say. He is kindness itself, Bertha.”
“But what does he tell me?” said Bertha. “Please to explain, for I cannot understand him.”
“You really do not deserve the pains which is taken for you, Bertha,” said her sister, impetuously. “No, I don’t mean that, dear, but how can you fail to see his object? You told a story about papa having got into difficulties here, and this he has passed on to Robert—Heaven knows whether Arthur was deceived or not—but he writes to let you know that such is the story Robert is prepared to hear.”
“Oh, does it mean that?”
“Of course, and you had better consider how to tell the same thing to your husband.”
“To-morrow will do for that,” said Bertha.
“It may,” said her sister, looking compassionately at her.
Laura used the word without much intention in it, but some hours later it was recalled to her recollection.
She was still occupied in writing when Mrs. Urquhart came hurrying down the little staircase.
“He is come—he is come,” said she in a tremble.
“Who—Arthur returned?” said Laura, starting up in almost as much agitation. “My husband?”
“No, Robert.”
“Well—well, dear child,” said Mrs. Lygon, recovering her breath, and her firmness, after a moment or two of pause, “now you must be calm, and very likely you will find that there is nothing to be feared. You have not spoken to Robert.”
“No; I saw him from the window, and darted down here.”
“What madness! Go up and receive him.”
“I told Henderson to say I was out walking. There, do not look so displeased. The sight of his face drove all my thoughts out of my head, and I know that if I had attempted to talk to him, I should have betrayed you.”
“HI were certain that Arthur had returned to England,” said Mrs. Lygon, “I would confront Robert myself.”
“Oh, if you could!” said Bertha.
“I dare not run that risk,” said her sister, turning pale.
The two women remained together, and the heavy footsteps of Robert Urquhart were heard, as he paced the apartments above. Henderson had, no doubt, answered him as satisfactorily as might be, and would have the sense to come down, in due course, with bonnet and shawl, and manage that her mistress should appear as from a walk. Meantime Laura did her best to re-assure her sister, and to impress upon her by every argument in the world that the secret which Arthur had learned, Arthur had kept. But that a more immediate and encircling terror hemmed herself round, Laura would have been in an agony over the fatal addition to their sorrows, but her heart had its own bitterness, and aught that was more remote menaced her in vain.
After some time, Robert Urquhart, weary of waiting in the rooms above, descended to his own large room on the ground floor, and the sisters could hear him trampling to and fro, and apparently in no amiable mood, clearing a table, and sending a clattering cataract of miscellaneous articles down to the floor. Then they heard him execrating the dust, and vigorously opening the window, to let in ventilation. All was then comparatively silent, and he might be supposed to be laying a sheet of drawing-paper, and preparing to sketch.
“Henderson should come now,” said Mrs. Lygon, in a low voice. “He is drawing, and you might go into the room. Indeed, I think you had better do so without waiting for her—go upstairs, and it will seem that you had taken your things off.”
“I am afraid,” said Bertha. “No, let us wait for Henderson.”
“Are you sure that you have a coherent story?” said Laura. “I am sadly afraid that you will fail. I am sure that you will fail. If I were only assured that Arthur had gone to England, and had not merely evaded Robert, and returned to search for me!”
“Robert can answer that.”
“How can Robert do so? Even if he saw him off, as most likely he did, what is to hinder Arthur from getting out at the first station, and coming back? Well, dear, you must do your best, and we must trust to be delivered. There, listen, Robert is whistling at his work. Now, go up-stairs, and then run down to him. Such a way of receiving him will take away much of your flurry, he will be so glad.”
“Stop, I hear Henderson, I think.”
“Never mind her. Go up.”
Bertha, however, listened for a few moments, and the next sound she heard was a dissatisfied exclamation from Urquhart, and something dashed on the floor. Then Laura and Bertha heard him say in a loud voice:
“There’s no seeing anything in this d—d dark room. I’ll have those trees cut down, every one of them. Eh! I’m a fool. There’s a capital west light in yon room.”
He made three strides to the door between the two rooms. It was locked, and the key was not in the door. There was an angry exclamation, and an exertion of a strong man’s power, and in another moment the door had given way, and Robert Urquhart stood in the presence of Bertha and Laura.
Bertha uttered a faint cry as her husband entered. His look of surprise, as he perceived her, had nothing of an alarming character about it, and had she been alone, Robert would have