“And the secret,” gasped Arthur, “and the secret”
Berry stole a look at his wife’s face. It was marble; but in the marble was the hungry, unpitying look, that told him there was no mercy there. One of them must assuredly speak, and therefore it had better be himself.
“The secret, Arthur,” he said, “is that a woman was weak, and a man was a villain.”
That was a strange effect which came over the face of Arthur Lygon at the words. The eyes lighted up with pleasure, a smile came to the lips, and a half sob proclaimed that a weight was suddenly lifted from his heart. The voice, though broken, was almost cheerful, as he replied—
“And Laura has kept the secret from me! Well, she knew all, and what there was to pity—and—she should have told me. I might have been trusted.”
Watch, Marion Berry, O, watch, as the statue watches the place where the treasure is hidden.
“I need name no name,” said Berry, hurriedly.
“No, no. I understand all that I need know. This accounts for the residence in France?” said Arthur, in an undertone.
“Yes.”
“And Laura has hurried off there.”
“Why, is the mystery.”
“Which shall soon be no mystery. I will follow by the next train. You will take care of my child.”
“Stay,” said Mr. Berry, “stay.”
“When I have a clue to Laura!”
“Still, stay.”
“Are you mad, Berry?” said Arthur, smiling. “I shall be with her at this hour to-morrow—sooner—sooner. Why, I am on the road, man; I think there is a mid-day boat.”
“But consider one thing,” said Mr. Berry.
“I can consider nothing, except the quickest way to her.”
“Which may not be the blindly rushing after her,” said Mr. Berry. “You do not seem to remember all that you told—that you showed me.”
“Showed you?” said Arthur, bewildered, for the one idea had blotted out all the recollections.
“A note,” said Mr. Berry, though with reluctance, for he had not wished his wife to hear of this.
“A note. True,” said Arthur, hastily taking a paper from his pocket. “A foolish, mad note; but what does it matter now. Ah! Look at it, Berry, and tell me. Is it—is it her husband’s writing?”
Mrs. Berry darted to her husband’s side, and a glance at the writing was enough for her.
“I scarcely know his hand,” said Berry.
“He calls her Vernon, her maiden name,” said Lygon eagerly. “He is Scotch, and they often do that
“It is not Mr. Urquhart’s writing,” said Mrs. Berry.
“You are certain?” asked Arthur.
“I am certain.”
“That’s strange. No, it might have been stranger if it had been,” said Arthur. “But we will clear up all mysteries together. Dear, dear child, why was she so wild, so untrustful—I have not deserved it, I swear to you, Berry—but I can comprehend her heart—they had been so closely attached, in sorrow as well as in happiness. Silly child—she shall pay me for this—God bless her.” And the strong man’s eyes fairly ran over will tears.
Can you hear that prayer, Mrs. Berry, you who are in the habit of praying—and can you keep your eyes so steady and tearless?
“I must see about the trains,” cried Arthur, hastily dashing his hand over his face—not that he was ashamed of his emotion, or at that moment had a thought for anything except the recovery of Laura. “Let us go in. I will give Clara a kiss, and be off at once on the chance of catching what conveyance I can.”
And he hurried with a light step to the porch, leaving his host and hostess to themselves.
“You are happy, now, I trust, Marion,” said Mr. Berry, reproachfully.
“This is not a world for happiness, Mr. Berry,” was the icy reply. He thought it was but one of the pietist’s ordinary formulas. But he should have looked at her eyes.
CHAPTER XIII.
The carriage in which Mrs. Lygon was conveyed from the boat was speedily out of Boulogne, and proceeded with unusual rapidity along the high road, whence it turned, after about two miles of progress, down a wide lane, at the end of which a second turning brought the vehicle before the door of a plain, almost mean-looking, two-storied, steep-roofed house, that looked like a third-rate English inn. There was no garden or lawn in front, the ground before the door was carelessly kept, and fowls were busy on various heaps of rubbish, chiefly of a vegetable character, that had been flung out at the door. The green outside blinds were all closed, with the exception oi on. that was falling from its place, and which it might have been dangerous to disturb on its single rusty hinge. The door had been white, but it was warped and split, and it looked unusually in want of priming and painting, and the stone before it was lamentably cracked. Yet, somehow, squalid as the house really was, it had a cheery, French look in the sunshine, and a pretty paysanne, with much colour in her dress and more in her cheeks, was an additional and improving feature, as she stood, leaning against the opened door, and singing very loud to some apples, as rosy as herself, which she was busily peeling.
At the sight of Adair the song ceased like tb jet of a suddenly cut-off fountain, and the face of the girl assumed an almost sullen expression. To a few words, which he addressed to her in French, she made no reply, but obeyed them by entering the house and opening a door on the other side of the large room which served for hall and kitchen. The opening the further door showed a mass of green foliage beyond, shining in the bright sunlight.
Ernest Adair alighted, and opened the carriage-door.
“I need not recal the house to your recollection, madame,” he said. “It was much used, in other days, for pleasant little parties, at some of