“I am not complaining,” retorted Bertha. “You are always finding fault with me, and I wish I were dead.”
“Bertha,” said her sister, very gravely, “do not speak lightly of death. It may be that you will hear of it sooner than you expect.”
“Preaching does me no good, Beatrice, as you might know by this time. I am much obliged to you, of course, for all that you have done, and to Charles for having brought me home here, but what has happened has happened, and we cannot alter it by talking. I wish I were well enough to go away from you all, and not be a trouble and a shame to those who must hate me.”
“You have no right to talk in this unkind manner, Bertha, dear. I think that you are stronger and better to-day, and I want to speak to you very seriously, but not in the way of preaching, as you call it, though I am sure you have not heard much that deserves the name, and nothing that has not been meant affectionately.”
“Give me some of the lemonade. It is not fresh, and it is quite warm, but it is good enough for me.”
“Fresh is being made for you, dear. Now, can you listen to me for a few minutes, as I have something to say which you must hear?”
“If I must I must, and it is of no use asking. I dare say that I am as well to-day as I shall be to-morrow.”
“I have a letter from Paris, a very sad letter.”
“What has happened?” said Bertha, eagerly. “He is not coming over after me—do not say that.”
“Indeed he is not.”
“You are quite certain?”
“Bertha, I have a message for you which you will remember to the last hour of your life,” said Beatrice, desirous to bring her sister into a more fitting frame of mind to receive the fatal intelligence.
“It is of no use sending me reproaches. As soon as the doctor will let me, I will go away, and be out of the reach of you all.”
“And where will you go, Bertha?”
“I do not know. I suppose Charles will advise me. I suppose that he will do something for me when he has calmed down, and will not let his wife be without the means of living.”
“Whom do you mean by he?”
“Whom should I mean—my husband.”
“You have no husband, Bertha.”
“Beatrice,” said Bertha, clutching at her sister’s arm. “What do you mean? He has divorced me?”
“You are divorced indeed.”
“But that is impossible. It is not true, Beatrice; you are saying it to work upon me. There are no divorces in France. I know that, though you think I know nothing. It is wicked of you to play upon my feelings.”
“You are divorced for ever, Bertha. Mr. Urquhart is gone.”
“Gone!”
“He is dead.”
Mrs. Hawkesley turned away, that she might not see the agitation which she felt that her words must produce in the face of her sister. Beatrice even listened for the rapid breath, for the sob, but she heard nothing, and her immediate impression was that Bertha must have fainted. The next instance Beatrice was about to throw her arms round Bertha, but paused, so utterly different was the result of her words from that which she had expected.
Bertha was lying back on her pillow, but her cheek had not lost the fever flush, and her eyes, undimmed with tears, were even brighter than before. She was muttering something, but Mrs. Hawkesley was too much shocked to seek to hear what it was—and as she looked, the expression on her lip was assuredly not that of grief, and Beatrice struggled against the impression that it partook of an opposite character. There must have been seen in Beatrice’s face something of the indignation which she felt, or else Bertha’s own conscience must have accused her of heartlessness, for she raised herself, and said, though in no tone befitting the occasion—
“It is very shocking. How did it happen, Beatrice?”
“Suddenly.”
“Ah! He told me more than once, poor fellow, that he knew that it would be sudden when it came. Poor Robert!”
And she hid her face in her handkerchief, but when she withdrew it, there were no tears glistening on her cheek.
“It was sudden indeed, Bertha. He died a violent death.”
“My God! One of his railway accidents—was it so, Beatrice?”
“He died by the hand of a murderer.”
This time the face of Bertha became white indeed. The fearful news had found its way to her selfish heart, and in the agitation with which she clung to Beatrice there was no feigning.
“Don’t tell me that. Say it is not so, and that you were only trying me?”
“Do you dare to think that I would speak falsely on such a matter? Bertha, your husband, your noble husband, has been killed in his own house, in the house that was yours until you left it of your own will.”
“Do not speak to me so. I am too weak to bear it, I am indeed. Tell me—no, do not tell me until I am stronger. He has been killed. Was it a robber that broke in—yes, tell me that and no more.”
“He has been killed by the worst of robbers—by the man who robbed him of the heart of his wife.”
Bertha gazed at her for a few moments, and then, with a sort of cry, said,
“You are speaking falsely to me after all. He is dead—yes, and he has died of a broken heart—say it is so.”
“His heart was too proud to break for what you could do, Bertha,” replied her sister. “He has been killed, I tell you, and the man who has killed him is Ernest Adair.”
“Then Robert must have attacked him, and Adair must have acted in self-defence. It is very dreadful, but it must have been so, and every one has a right to defend himself. But it is very dreadful,” she repeated, shrinking from under the kindled eye of her sister.
