that I was not to be turned out of the house like a dog.”
“What could I say to Mr. Urquhart in the state of mind in which you saw him, Henderson?”
“It is not for a poor servant to counsel or advise her mistress what she ought to say to her master, Madame,” returned Henderson, with elaborate affectation of humility; “it is quite enough for her to answer when she is asked questions.”
“Mr. Urquhart’s determination is very distressing, no doubt, Henderson,” said Bertha, “and I am sure as much so to me as to you, for you suit me exceedingly well, and how I shall be able to replace you, I have not the least idea in the world. But who can say anything to him when he has made up his mind?”
“If I did not take that liberty, Madame, it wasn’t because I had not anything to say, or was afraid to say it, but because I thought and hoped that you would say it much better than me. Is Mr. Urquhart gone out, Madame?”
“No, he is not,” said Bertha; “but what do you mean by asking?”
“My character, Madame, is as dear to me as any lady’s is to her, and perhaps more so, as she has everything in the world, and I have got nothing but my good name. And though Mr. Urquhart’s tongue is very rough, he has a good heart, and he will do what is just and right.”
“I tell you that he is ready to make you compensation for your going away hastily, and I will do a good deal besides.”
“You don’t understand me, Madame, or you don’t want to understand me, but it is not about money I was speaking, after such words as were said to me in the drawing-room, and which I never thought to hear said to me, least of all in your house, Madame; and I know right well that if such words had been unjustly used to a poor girl in the service of Mrs. Lygon, she would never have rested until they were called back, and it is not a gentleman’s angry voice and black looks that would have frighted her.”
“I do not see why you should speak of Mrs. Lygon, Henderson. You are perfectly aware of the trouble which has come to us all by her visit to France, and I heartily wish that it had not happened.”
Henderson’s anger suddenly gave way to a feeling of superiority, which it became impossible for her not to manifest by a smile of exceeding insolence.
“What I may know about Mrs. Lygon, Madame, and what I may not know, and what she may have thought proper to tell me, or not to tell me, is not the business now. I only meant to say that she would have stood by a servant that had stood by her, and would have saved her from the disgrace and shame of being turned out of doors.”
“There is no turning out of doors,” said the humiliated Bertha, “and everything is done to si-are your feelings. Of course you would not think of repeating to Silvain the angry nonsense which Mr. Urquhart told you to repeat to him, and you will be able to show him the proof that you were well thought of here. If you like, you can say that you left of your own accord.”
It was not in the Hendersonian nature to abstain from trampling on a defeated antagonist.
“Thanking you very much for your advice, Madame, I beg your pardon if I choose to say to Silvain what I choose to say to him. It is for ladies and gentlemen to have secrets between one another, and tell one another the thing that is not, but poor persons are taught that man and wife is one flesh, and that what concerns one concerns the other. Humbly thanking you for your advice, Madame, I don’t intend to deceive a man who never deceived me.”
Yet, in this speech, Bertha—a woman—heard but a woman’s taunt, and a woman’s ungovernable tongue, and was saved by instinct from feeling the full force of words that might have shamed her to the soul.
“Your indignation at being sent away makes you very angry, Henderson, but you ought to feel that you have no cause of complaint against me. I have always treated you with the greatest kindness; and trusted you.”
“Yes, Madame, and you have trusted me with things that have brought me to this, and for aught I know may ruin me, with poor Silvain. It is a pretty state of things when a lady’s conduct not only puts herself in danger, but destroys people about her, who can’t help themselves. I don’t want to say too much, Madame, for I pity you very sincerely, but I can’t have my comfort and happiness broken to pieces because a lady that I live with chooses to play a dangerous game, and has not got the wisdom to play it properly.”
“What do you want to do, Henderson—what do you want me to do?” said Bertha, quailing.
“I don’t see what you can do, Madame, though I should be ashamed of myself if I was afraid to say anything to my husband—when he had no proof against me.”
Bertha gazed, with mixed feelings of fear and of insulted womanhood, upon the inferior who dared address such words to her.
“I think you had better go and consult with Mrs. Lygon before you take any step at all,” said Mrs. Urquhart.
“And if it is not making too bold to ask, Madame, what would you like me to say to Mrs. Lygon? I am not a great coward, Madame, but I should shiver in my shoes to stand up before that sweet lady, and tell her what I think, or, I may say, what I know.”
“And what do you know, Henderson?” cried the persecuted Bertha, recklessly.
“At least, Madame, I know this much, that one lady is kindly making herself the scape-goat for another lady, but does not think what a wicked burden is being laid upon the scape-goat’s back,” said Henderson, making, in her lofty anger, au unusual diversion into the regions of imagery.
“My sister knows her own business,” said Bertha, in a low voice. “All I say is, that I think you had better consult with her before doing yourself any harm.”
The word was not well chosen.
“I am not afraid of doing myself any harm.” retorted Henderson. “It is only because I should