which you are regarded by those who know better things. If you come to Lipthwaite to-night, and can bow yourself at our family altar, you shall hear how little anger and how much love we bear for those who wrong and insult us. Farewell, Mr. Hawkesley.”
And Mrs. Berry withdrew as composedly as she had entered. As the servant was opening the street door for her she paused, and drew from her pocket a tract.
“Read this, my good girl, when you have time. I fear that little teaching of this kind comes in your way; but read it, and may it be blessed to you.”
It was called “Who is your Master?” When the girl, in some wonderment, showed it to her fellow-servant, and to Price, who had remained in the house, the latter personage looked at the title with considerable disfavour.
“I could tell her who her master is,” said Price, “only I don’t want to put my tongue to an ugly word.”
“I would rather the old girl had given me a shilling,” said Mrs. Hawkesley’s servant, simply and honestly. Meantime, Hawkesley went in search of his wife, and as he expected, found her in tears.
Beatrice looked up, with mute inquiry as to the secret which he had been told in her absence.
“She tells me that if I come to Lipthwaite, I shall hear something much worse than that we have heard from her.”
“Charles, dearest, I am very ill. While that woman was speaking, and especially when I found out who she really was, a cold chill came across me, and I could scarcely speak.”
“My dear one, such a tale, told of one whom you love, is surely enough to shock you to the heart.”
“But now I want to speak, and to say much to you, dear, and I am utterly unequal to the task.”
“How can it be necessary for you to say much to me, Beatrice. Have we come to a point in our lives when a dozen words are not enough between us.”
“I thought we never should come to it, dearest; but this woman seems to have brought it about. You trust me, Charles,” she said, taking both his hands and looking up at him earnestly; “you trust me, do you not, fully and implicitly?”
“I did not think I should ever feel so grieved with you,” he replied, “as I do at hearing such a question.”
“No, no, I have not grieved you—you shall not say that I have ever grieved you, my own one. But I told you that I could not speak as I ought. Sit down by me here, close to me, and let me try to say what is in my mind.”
CHAPTER XL.
It was very bad in the prisoner to have used a weapon, but then, on the other hand, he spoke French so admirably, that when he reached the place of captivity, instead of being thrust, as would have happened in the case of any other offender, and especially an English offender, into a gloomy cell, of very dungeon-like character, the officials placed him in a not very uncomfortable room, the uncleanliness whereof was simply an incident of the administration of justice, and not intended as any addition to the prisoner’s own punishment. It was late, and of course nothing could be done until the morning, but many an Englishman, taken into custody, in his own country, for a far lighter crime than that imputed to Adair, has been compelled to pass a much more miserable night than was spent by the latter. He was not locked up with ruffians, he was not put upon a stone floor, nor were his boots taken away; and if he had required food, or medical assistance, he would not have been told that nobody there was allowed to be hungry or ill until to-morrow morning.
Very early on the following day, and hours before Adair’s case could come before the authorities, he had summoned to his presence his host of the preceding night.
M. Silvain was not very long in obeying the summons, but when he entered the room, the windows of which were strongly barred, and he heard the door fastened heavily behind him, he rather felt as one who is introduced into the den of a wild animal. He was a brave man, too, but it was satisfactory to him to recollect that the weapon Ernest had used upon M. Haureau had been seized by one of the gendarmes who had interposed with such felicitous punctuality.
Adair rose from the bed on which he had been lying, half dressed, and glared viciously at his friend.
“So you have come,” said Ernest. “That was wise in you. I thought that you would have been too great a coward to come. But certainly it would have been braver in you to stay away, all things considered.”
“Am I sent for at this extremely inconvenient hour, to have injurious remarks addressed to me?” said Silvain, quietly.
“Remarks to you?” repeated Adair, savagely, and without a touch of the bantering manner he had been in the habit of manifesting in his interviews with Silvain. “No, do not alarm yourself.”
“I am not alarmed, M. Adair, and I should like to speak.”
“I forbid you to speak. Hold your tongue. You have not had time to learn any lesson of lies which could serve your turn with me; or, if you think you have, you may keep them until further notice.”
“With a prisoner,” said M. Silvain, with dignity, “it is impossible to quarrel.”
“Hold your tongue, I repeat,” said Adair, “or you may find that it is very possible for a prisoner to get you by the throat before you can make the fellows outside open the door for you. And if I do, it will not be worth their while to open the door for you.”
He looked so vindictive, and his eyes glared so, that Silvain instinctively placed himself in an attitude to resist a sudden attack. But Adair did not rise, and laughed scoffingly.
“I want you,” he said, “and you have nothing to fear while you can be of use to me. Now listen, and if you do not obey my orders, woe unto you.”
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