“But I doubt it would be wiser to follow him, and take them back; and if I wrung his neck in the process the work would be better done.”
“No, no, no,” said Bertha, clinging to his arm. “He might stab you, as he did the man yesterday, Robert, and what would become of me then?”
“Do not cry so bitterly, wife. The sorrow is great, but we must bear it. And if anything happened to me, she would be so lonely and sad, eh?”
“Why, whom have I in the world but you, dearest?”
“Aye. Well, we must try and be more to one another than we have been of late. If the sorrow draws us nearer together, it will not be so grievous. But that poor dear Arthur. I must write to him to-night, Bertha.”
“Not to-night, Robert.”
“Not at once?”
“No. I am sure that you are too much agitated to write the letter that should be written, and you always say that you wish to sleep over anything of importance.”
“Aye, but this is not a thing to sleep over. She may have joined him, have told her own story, been taken back to his honest arms, have had his children on her knee.”
“And if that were so, Robert, would it be for you to tear her from his arms again?”
“I would prevent her getting back to him.”
“But if she should have got back?”
“Bertha, you do not mean that you would have me possess this secret and keep it from him. You cannot for one moment entertain such a thought, or presume to utter it.”
“Do not be angry.”
“Angry. If I could think you serious, I would never be angry with you again. I do not see that we could ever have another thought in common.”
“Please do not make me cry any more. You know that I would sooner die than advise you to do anything against your honour. I only meant that if you thought, after considering everything over in your own wise, deep manner—you know I can never think in that way, and you ought never to be angry at my seeing only bits and pieces of things—”
“No, Bertha, I know you are incapable of unworthiness. Well, tell me what you thought.”
“Those letters—now please bear with me—those letters must have been written a long time ago, and since then there may have been repentance, and sorrow—real earnest repentance; and we know that since then has come marriage, and perhaps a better sense of what is good and right.”
“Grant all—and go on.”
“Well, the knowledge of the—the man came to you by an accident, and you certainly forced the secret out. I only want you to consider whether you are bound to act on knowledge that came in such a way.”
“I am still unable to understand you, Bertha. But while we are upon the subject, tell me how you learned that this Adair was in the prison-place.”
“He sent to tell me,” said Bertha, not knowing what other answer to make at the spur of the moment.
“He sent to tell you! Who was his messenger?”
“I do not know the man’s name, but he is a perfumer.”
“Do you mean the man who comes after Henderson?”
“Yes.”
“But you did not see him at that time in the morning?”
“He sent the message through Henderson,” said Bertha, uneasily.
Robert Urquhart rang violently, and Angelique entered.
“Send Henderson here directly.”
“Oui, Monsieur.”
“What are you going to say to the poor girl?” said Bertha, whose terrors were all aroused again, and who especially remembered Henderson’s excitability on the subject of her lover.
The lady’s-maid entered. It would be too much to say that she had not been prepared for a scene, for she had seen Ernest Adair enter the house, and knew that he had been for a long time with her employers, to whom such visit boded no good. But she was surprised, on coming in, to see Mr. and Mrs. Urquhart standing near together, and apparently on no hostile terms, and she was still more surprised at the greeting she received from her master.
“Henderson, I never judge anybody without giving him or her the chance of making answer. Did any Frenchman give you a message this morning, to be delivered to your mistress?”
“Yes, sir,” said Henderson, perceiving at a glance that her mistress had spoken the truth, and therefore that it was useless for her attendant to tell a lie.
“Who was it?”
“M. Silvain, sir.”
“That person wants to marry you, does he not? Don’t look impertinent, but answer the question.”
“I hope there is no harm in a poor girl listening to an honest man, sir.”
“This Silvain wishes to marry you? I ask once more,” said Urquhart, in a voice that made Henderson tremble.
“Yes, sir, he does,” she said.
“Then you had better tell him that the sooner he takes you away and does it, the better; and that if he has not made up his mind to take you into his own house, he will find you a lodging somewhere else, for you don’t sleep another night in mine.”
“Sir?” said Henderson, doubtful of her ears.
“And you may tell him, at the same time, that if ever he brings a message from another gaol-bird to any member of my family, I will kick him up and down the avenue like a foot-ball, and then hand him to the police. Explain that to the fellow in your best French, and now go and pack your boxes.”
“Might I speak to you, Madame?” Henderson contrived to say through her anger. “I think it would be best if I were to speak to you, Madame,