escape. Did you come alone?” said Laura, embracing her.
Mrs. Lygon had been writing, and several sheets covered with manuscript lay upon the table. As she put them together, Bertha suddenly turned away her eyes, as if some recollection had come upon her. Mrs. Lygon misconceived the action.
“These are scarcely secrets, dear, and you know them.”
“I wish I did not,” said Bertha, seating herself.
It was a childish exclamation, and produced only a look of calm pity from her sister, who, having placed her writing in a drawer near her, sat down opposite to Bertha.
“Have you any news to tell me?” asked Laura.
A simple question, to elicit such an answer as Bertha might have given. But, in truth, she had come with the hope that, though at the bidding of Henderson, she would be compelled to tell her sister of the girl’s discharge, and perhaps of the earlier portion of the scene that had led to it, the more terrible revelation might be spared. If any sort of a peace should be made with Henderson, and if Laura should be induced to leave France, Bertha would have temporised to her heart’s content.
“Yes,” said Bertha, “two or three things have happened, but I hoped that you would take my advice, and go home.”
“Your advice, dear?”
“Yes, I wrote to you to go home. You had my note in the garden, I know, for Henderson told me that she had delivered it into your hand.”
“My dear Bertha, you need not be energetic on such a matter. Of course I had your note, and I have not gone home.”
“It is very easy for you to be calm, but if you had to go through the scenes that I experience, you would not be quite so composed. Are you going to stay here?”
“That may depend upon what you have to tell me.”
“I do not know why it should,” replied Bertha, “because what I have to tell you does not concern yourself, but me.”
“And I came to France on my own concerns, not yours?”
“If you are going to reproach me with that, I wish that I had not come to you,” said Bertha. “It is too much that I should be attacked on all sides in the way I am.”
“Bertha,” said her sister, calmly, “if you consider the circumstances under which I left the house of your husband, and yet think that this is a tone which you ought to use to me, I too, shall be compelled to wish you had not come. But do not cry, dear. I know your nature, and I do not reproach you that while you think nothing of the sacrifices others make for you—sacrifices you can scarcely understand, Bertha, the smallest affliction to yourself makes you petulant. You are my sister, and I am true to you in spite of all. Now, tell me your news.”
“Well, Robert has taken a strong dislike to Henderson.”
“I am not surprised at that. Of course he thinks that she was party to my returning to the house, and even if he thinks that she was not to blame,—a man does not like the presence of any one who reminds him that he has been deceived. We must not let her suffer.”
“That is what I told her; and I said that I thought you would take her to England with you.”
“You must make no engagements for me. I know not what my course may be, but we can do something for her.”
“It must be done soon, for Robert insists on her leaving.”
“When did he tell you so?”
“To-day,” said Bertha.
“Then it is Henderson’s affairs that have brought you, not mine or your own, and yet you knew that I was here, Bertha.”
“What good could I do by coming?” replied Bertha, “and then I was afraid of exciting Robert’s suspicions, after what had happened. But what can be done for Henderson?” she persisted, anxious to evade any closer inquiry.
“You must try and find her another place.”
“But there is no time. Robert is so resolved on her leaving, and she is naturally unhappy about it.”
“But he does not wish to discharge her at a moment’s notice—surely we have much more pressing matters to consider than what is to be done with Henderson.”
“Yes—but you don’t know her,” said Bertha, reddening. “She is afraid for her character, and something must be done.”
“She brought you here, did she not?” said Mrs. Lygon.
“Yes.”
“Henderson!” said Mrs. Lygon, opening the door quickly.
The girl was seated at the foot of the stair leading up to the room. Laura might have been excused for supposing that Henderson had been pursuing her trade of listener, but even Tasso’s Erminia could hardly have “precipitated” from the door to the spot which Henderson occupied.
“I am here, m’m,” said the girl, springing up. “You might think, m’m,” she hastened to say, “that I was listening at the door, but far from that, m’m, if you’ll believe me, I was determined that nobody else should listen.”
“I did not suspect you, Henderson,” replied Mrs. Lygon, quietly. “Come in. We were speaking of you. Mrs. Urquhart tells me,” said Laura, resuming her seat, “that Mr. Urquhart does not wish you to continue in his service.”
Henderson darted a quick glance at her mistress.
“Those are the quiet words in which ladies put things, m’m. Mr. Urquhart has turned me out of his house.”
“No, no, not that,” said Bertha.
“I am ordered to be out of the house, to-night, m’m,” said Henderson, addressing Laura, “which is one and the same thing.”
“I did not understand you, Bertha, to say that the discharge was so immediate.”
“I said there was no time to lose,” stammered Bertha.
