no need to explain the world of meaning in the simple word. “Now I am one of those who do nothing by halves. When I give my confidence, I give it wholly, and when I am deceived, I punish with my full power. If you will take my advice, Arthur, you will return to your home. In all likelihood you will find your wife there before you. But whether or not, it is upon your own hearthstone that you should be waiting her.”
“It may be so,” replied Lygon, sadly.
“It is so,” replied Urquhart. “You have not told me the reasons why you think poor Bertha was deceived, nor do I care a rush to hear them, now that you have declared the rest. But if Laura is doing what is right, it matters little where she is. If your presence were necessary to her she would not have left you without a clue. Trust the wife of your bosom, the mother of your children, and go home, and wait for her where she has so often waited for you.”
“I think,” said Arthur, after a pause, “that your judgment is a safer guide to me than my own, in my present state of mind.”
“That means that you will go.”
“Yes.”
“That is well. It is the first time I ever tried to send you away,” said Urquhart, his hospitable instinct refusing, even under such circumstances, to be entirely silenced. “But you’ll not misjudge me for that, my man.”
“My dear Robert.”
“Another word, though. I shall go home as soon as I have seen you off.”
“Yes,” said Arthur, anxiously.
“I see what you are thinking about. But don’t I tell you that I never do things by halves? I regard all that you have said to me as mere idle talk, and certainly I should not think it worthy to be repeated to anybody, least of all to my own wife.”
“But,” said Arthur, “you will of course mention that I told you of Laura’s visit to her sister?”
“If Laura has given Bertha her confidence, as I make no doubt she has,” said Urquhart, “Bertha will tell me whatever it is meet and right I should know. But I shall ask her no questions, and I shall wait patiently for your letter to inform me of your being satisfied on every point, and I know you’ll not let me wait for that any longer than is needful”
“Mot an hour.” “There is one thing, Robert,” said Arthur, who, gladly clinging to the resolute assurances of the Scot in regard to the innocence of Laura, had thoughts for the weak and terrified woman at Versailles, whom he had so recently beheld in her agony of fear. What if Urquhart should, by some mistaken or half understood words, drive her into a sudden revelation.
“What is that, my man?”
“Why,” said Arthur, resolved on preventing danger even to one who had given him but little cause to care for her welfare, “the fact is—and I ought to tell you—I was rather rude—at least I was abrupt in my manner to Bertha.”
“We will make all allowance—nay, Arthur, you don’t think so ill of her or of me as to think that when a man is half distracted about his wife, his looks and words are to be counted up against him by either of us as if he were a stage-player. For shame!”
“I own that expecting, hoping, to find Laura, and learning that she was gone, I allowed my feelings to manifest themselves—”
“If you say another word about it, I shall think that Bertha was less kind and considerate than it was her duty to be.”
“No, you must not think that, but I fear she was perhaps hurt at my impatience.”
“I will make her an ample apology for you, then.”
“Do so, then.”
“Or if you like to make it for yourself, though I am heartily angry with you for thinking it necessary, we’ll just step back to the hotel, and you may write her a bit of a note.”
“And I will,” said Arthur, catching at the proposal which he himself had been on the point of hazarding.
They returned to the house, and Arthur wrote as follows:
“My dear Bertha,
“I am leaving for England, but feel that I ought to say half a dozen words to you in apology for my hasty manner on leaving you. I have explained, however, to Robert, that having traced Laura to your house, and receiving from you the rough shock given by your information that she had gone off to England, I expressed myself somewhat unkindly, but though he assures me that you will overlook it, I cannot help making my personal request to you to do so. He does not think that I can be of any use in aiding anybody in the matter with which Mr. Vernon was said to have been connected, and therefore my remaining in Paris would be idle. I trust to find that Laura has not been over-fatigued by her hurried journey. So with renewed apology, and adieux,
“Yours affectionately,
“Arthur Lygon.
“Paris.”
“This is what I have written,” said Lygon.
“You have written all that is right I dare swear,” said Urquhart. “I have too many letters of my own, and don’t want to hear anybody else’s. Seal it up, my man, and I will be your faithful postman.”
This will surely be hint enough to her, poor wretch, thought Lygon, as he enveloped the letter. If not, she must take her chance. I am in no mood for further precaution. “Here it ia, Robert.”
“It shall go, even if I do not return at once,” said Urquhart. “And see, there is a train in an hour, and I would have you depart by that. We have not met for many a day, my dear Arthur; and I little thought, when the time did come, that we would have had such a conversation; but who knows what will happen to any of us? But I hope that you will look back, many a happy day to come, upon our present trouble, and be thankful that we were brought out of it so completely. Go home, my man, and once more take the comfort with you that you have a good and loving wife, and that all this will pass away like a dream; and one day, when it’s nearly forgotten, and the story