but assuredly it is not at their hands that we must look for the reward of our deeds.
“I feel for you, and with you, Bertha,” said her husband, kindly. “It is not often that I have I brought the tears to your eyes.”
“No, dear, no,” sobbed Mrs. Urquhart.
“And right glad I would have been to save them now. But there is no mid-course between right and wrong, and Laura Lygon must leave this house at once, and without further speech with you.”
“You are wronging Laura, I am certain, Robert,” said Mrs. Urquhart, sadly.
“She has succeeded in so deceiving you, that you believe I am wronging her, and your love, your natural love and affection, helps her in preserving the delusion. We will say no more upon it while she remains under my roof, and that shall not be long. Now, Bertha, accept my counsel, and go to your room.”
As he spoke, Mrs. Lygon entered.
Urquhart looked at her sternly, and Bertha, who had risen, and had been standing beside her husband, sank upon a couch.
“I heard angry voices,” said Laura, with as much firmness as she could muster. “My being here has caused unhappiness, and I am very sorry for it.”
“There were no angry voices, Mrs. Lygon,” said Urquhart, “nor have you any right to interpose between myself and your sister. As for your sorrow, there is no doubt abundant cause for it, but it need not be expressed to me.”
His haughty manner awakened the pride of Laura, and it was with a calm loftiness of bearing that she replied—
“While you are in entire ignorance, Robert, of the circumstances, you will do well to avoid saying that which you will hereafter be sorry for.”
“You ought to be on your knees, Laura, imploring your Maker to forgive you,” said Urquhart.
“Be silent, Robert, until you have heard me,” said Laura.
“I have no wish to hear you,” he replied. “It is your wronged husband who has to be your judge. I have only to take care that the contamination of your example does not injure my own happiness and honour.”
She flushed over face and brow, and with difficulty said,
“You must be mad, to use such words.”
“I am not mad, Mrs. Lygon. What your husband may become, in consequence of your conduct, I dare not think.”
“You have been with him. He is not ill?” gasped Laura.
“Were you in the home you have abandoned you would know. But I could wish to cut this short. I shall order a carriage for you.”
“This must not be,” said Bertha, roused, in very shame, by the presence of her sister, “Laura must not be wronged. It is my duty to speak for her.”
“Silence, Bertha,” said her husband.
“No, it would be wicked, Robert. Laura will not tell you—”
“I too say—silence, Bertha,” said Mrs. Lygon, approaching her sister, and taking her hand.
A terrible expression came again upon the face of the husband as he beheld this action. He strode across to the couch, removed Laura’s hand from that of her sister, and led the former to a chair at some distance.
“Let the innocent hand hold off from the guilty one.” And turning, he rang the bell violently.
So, there were confronted the husband, the wife, the sister. The man believed himself to be acting wisely and justly. What the women knew, neither dared to utter, but in the look each turned on the other might have been read an agonizing comment on the judgment that had been given. Then, overcome by her conflicting emotions, Bertha again sank sobbing on the couch, and Laura, after one long, compassionating look upon her sister, turned to Mr. Urquhart, and regarded him for a moment with a quiet and searching gaze, like that of one who would fix something for perpetual remembrance. In silence, but with the calm and almost proud bearing natural to her, Laura then withdrew.
CHAPTER XXXIII.
It had been Mr. Urquhart’s intention to have the carriage brought round for Laura, but this courtesy was rendered unnecessary by Mrs. Lygon’s leaving the house in a few minutes after the interview which has been described. In going out, Laura took the precautionary measure of mentioning to Henderson, that she should probably walk in the gardens of the palace for an hour, before taking the train for Paris.
In the gardens, therefore, she awaited the explanation which it was impossible that her sister should not endeavour to send. Her watch for a messenger from Bertha was a long one, but it did not surprise her that it should be so. Bertha was timid and irresolute, and might herself be watched. But it will easily be surmised that Mrs. Lygon had more than enough at her heart to make the time seem alternately to pass with strange rapidity, and to drag with a wearisome, torturing slowness. The scene which she had gone through—its sudden occurrence, and its hasty conclusion, would have made it seem a dream, but for the vividness of its chief incident, and the unspeakable humiliation which it had brought.
Judged, her conduct was to be, she knew, but she had thought of the judgment as something deferred, until at least her errand should be fulfilled or abandoned. But suddenly and rudely her husband’s most valued friend had taken her case in hand, and she was already driven out of the presence of her sister, and pronounced unworthy of her companionship. No wonder the woman’s heart shrunk under the blow so unexpectedly delivered.
But, she asked herself, what did Mr. Urquhart know, that he had presumed to judge? Had the enemy been at work with him, too? And was this but the prelude to a final and fearful stroke?
It seemed to the over-wrought mind and dimmed eye of Laura so natural a thing that the enemy should appear, that when Ernest Adair