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30 was adorned with a profusion of the elegant nothingnesses with which a feminine hand can turn a garret into a fairy temple.

“This must be my retreat, dear,” said Mrs. Lygon, seating herself and removing her bonnet and letting her beautiful dark hair fall in masses upon her shoulders. “Now, Bertha, sit down, and let us take counsel, for indeed we need all the wisdom we have, to save us in this peril.”

“And the children, Laura? How selfish you must think me not to have said a word of them.”

“Not a word of them now,” said Mrs. Lygon, with a quivering lip. “They are well. God grant I may be allowed—I tell you we will not speak of them now,” she repeated, struggling with her sobs.

Bertha gazed on her in astonishment, but seated herself as desired, and had there been a third person present the contrasted beauty of the two women would have been a sight worth his recollection on many another day.

“We must not be overheard,” said Mrs. Lygon, rising to close the door.

“Leave the door open, dear. It is always the best way.”

“Where has she been learning that lesson of caution?” thought Mrs. Lygon, returning to her seat, with a melancholy look at her sister.

“I will shut the doors of the further room,” said Bertha.

She did so, and came back, giving a furtive look round the bed-room. The look did not escape Laura, who immediately and suddenly threw back the curtain of the alcove bed.

“What thoughts you put into my head, Bertha,” she said, almost reproachfully.

Bertha smiled—but such a helpless smile!

“Now, Bertha,”said Mrs. Lygon, clearing back her hair from her forehead, and speaking in a firm under-tone, “listen to me. We must bring this persecution to an end.”

“O, if we could,” replied poor Bertha, feebly.

“If we could,” repeated her sister. “It must be done. Whatever price we have to pay for freedom from it, the price must be paid.”

“I told you how I am situated,” said Bertha. “Whatever money—” Mrs. Lygon laid her hand on the hand of Bertha.

“I do not know that I am speaking of money. I wish that money would do, for there is no sacrifice which I would not make to obtain it. But I have the solemn and deliberate assurance from the man’s own mouth that he will not be bought off, and that he prefers exacting a supply from time to time. He distinctly told me that he would never cease to persecute you.”

“I shall die.”

“Bertha,” said Laura, “I will hear no words of folly from you. I have come to France with the determination to save you, if it be possible, and you must not let your terrors and fears get the mastery over you. You must help me. Heaven knows that I shall want all the help I can have, in a struggle with the most detestable wretch, as I believe, in this world. Now, remember what is at stake, and be firm and rational.”

“I wish I had your courage and spirit,” sighed Bertha.

“I have neither courage nor spirit,” said her sister, “except what may have come suddenly to me under the most dreadful pressure. I know myself too well. They will tell you at home—Arthur will tell you, that I am one of the most timid and easily led persons in the world, and that his calm head and strong heart are my stay and support. I say this to you, Bertha dear, because the same cruelty that seems to have given me strength to act ought to do as much for you, and because you must be true to me and to yourself. You will, I know?” she added laying her hand kindly on her sister’s.

“I will do what I can,” said Bertha. “But what either of us is to do is a perfect mystery to me.”

“I do not say that it is much clearer to me,” replied Mrs. Lygon, “but it shall be, before many hours are over. I have heard of a poor stag, driven into a corner by the dogs, becoming desperate and dangerous, and if ever there were a case when two women might defend themselves, it is our case. It must be done.”

“What must,” asked Bertha, astounded at the energy of the sister whom she had known from childhood as the gentle creature she had described herself.

“Whatever will release us, I tell you,” replied Laura, in a low resolved voice.

“You begin to terrify me, Laura. Of what are you dreaming?”

“Dreaming is the right word,” said Laura, slowly. “And we do things in dreams that we should tremble to think of, were we awake. We will call it a dream, but we will dream it out.”

And she sat for some minutes silent and without moving eye or limb.

“Bertha,” she said, after this strange pause, “ours is a case in which the right of self-defence against horrid wickedness leaves us free to use any means which may come to our hands. When honour and happiness, and not only our own honour and happiness, but that of those we love beyond all words, is brought into peril by such a miscreant as that man, I do not believe that anything we may do can be blamed. But let that be as it may, I have decided, or I would not be here, and I will be deterred by no fear, if our one great fear can be ended for ever.”

“I can make you no answer, Laura,” said Bertha, “I feel like a child in your hands.”

“Answer me, then, as truly as a child would, dear. What do you know of his habits and associates?”

They spoke as if there was but one man in the world.

“Not much,” said Bertha. “I see him but seldom.”

“Ever in society?”

“Yes, and in society where I have been surprised to see him.”

“Better than he is entitled to enter?—I mean if he were an honest man instead of what he is.”

“In France, you know, it is not difficult for a gentleman, no matter what his means may be, to mix with a class that in England would not welcome a poor man, unless he were a singer, who came to amuse them, or something of that kind.