to believe, on the word of one who may never rise again, that she spoke falsely. That is a fitting message for a husband to bring from his wife!”
“Did she ever say to you,” asked Mrs. Hawkesley, in a low voice, though her eyes were shining with excitement, “that either Charles or myself believed one word of her tale?”
“Your husband believed it, in spite of his affected indignation with her,—so run my instructions,” said the old man.
“He did not,” replied Beatrice, “and it is needless to say that I knew it to be false. It is right that the retractation should be made, but it is utterly unnecessary.”
“This, of course, I expected to hear. Yet you will do well not to throw away a single link in the chain of evidence that is required to establish the innocence of your sister.”
“We want no evidence, Mr. Berry, and I wish that she were here, that you might see how much credence we have given to the wicked slanders that have been spoken against her.”
“You speak well, and nobly, dear lady,” said Mr. Berry, looking at her animated face with some admiration; “but what says Mrs. Lygon’s husband?”
“By this time, I trust, he has told Laura herself that he never really doubted her.”
“You picture her in his arms, and all forgiven?”
“God is just, and it surely will be so.”
“Ay, He is just; but not with such justice as we measure out. Do not deceive yourself. I should not have come here to assure you of that which you believed without me, unless I had more to tell you. You imagine that Arthur Lygon has forgiven his wife. How, then, do you suppose that she has answered the one question which must have gone before forgiveness?”
“What question?”
“The first that must spring to the lips of a husband, abandoned by his wife. Why did she fly to France?”
“Bertha is in this house, and has told me,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, calmly.
“Mrs. Urquhart? She is here!”
“She is here.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Hawkesley,” said the old man, in much agitation, “tell me, for Heaven’s sake, and in a word—you know that I ask only for the good and happiness of you all—Mrs. Urquhart is here—but—but—let me speak plainly—she has not persuaded you that she is innocent?”
“My husband brought her here,” said Beatrice, with dignity.
“You evade my question, or it is as I suspect, and Laura is made the sacrifice,” exclaimed Mr. Berry, eagerly.
“It is not so,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, moved by his evident sympathy with Laura. “We will not speak of Bertha.”
“Ah, so far I am answered.”
“And she has declared that Arthur has nothing to forgive.”
“Nothing to forgive—is she mad? Will she say that to Arthur Lygon when he demands why his wife went away, and hid herself from him, and sent him no word of explanation, or petition, or apology. Nothing to forgive!”
“I have said enough,” replied Mrs. Hawkesley, quietly. “The rest will be set right in Paris, and I shall hear that it has been set right.”
“You are one of the best of women, I see that,” said the old man, so earnestly that the strangeness of the speech was lost in the sincerity of the speaker. “But here is nothing but misery in store, unless we clear up the mystery, and you will not hear me, or be convinced that there is anything to be done. Do you not know that Mrs. Lygon is accused, on solemn evidence, of being that which you will not believe her?”
“Yes,” answered Mrs. Hawkesley, promptly, “and her husband and mine are gone over to tear that evidence to pieces.”
“And will that destroy its effects?”
“I do not understand.”
“Will tearing up those papers cancel the testimony they bore?”
“Ah! you take up my words literally—I meant that Charles and Mr. Lygon would disprove all.”
“And that is what they cannot do.”
“Cannot?”
“Without the aid which I have come to bring. It is this which has hurried me up to town from the house in which a woman, who bears my name, is lying, probably on a death-bed, and it is this which you must accept, or all that may be attempted in Paris will be worse than failure—worse, for if the breach be not now closed, it will be so widened that it will close no more until the judgment.”
“What do you come to tell me?” asked Beatrice, partaking his agitation.
“Do you know the evidence against your sister?”
“There are some letters, I am told. There is a book of letters, and it is a wicked lie to say that she wrote a word of them.”
“It is not.”
Mrs. Hawkesley looked at him with indignation for a moment, but his face expressed so much unfeigned sorrow, and was so utterly divested of anything like the triumph which a vulgar nature permits to be visible when an apparent advantage has been gained, even in a sad discussion, that she was almost disarmed. Yet she could not help replying,
“Mr. Berry, you have the kindest meaning, and I should be ashamed to answer you with a word of unkindness. But you have told me that you come only as a messenger, and there is no offence to you in my saying that you bring a false message. This is another malignant effort made by one who, if she is so prostrated as you say, should be repentant, and not give you falsehoods to bring us, and try to create fresh wretchedness.”
“It is natural—very natural, that you should say this,” said the old man, quietly. “I have heard enough, and far more than enough, to make me well aware that you must hate her who has sent me here to-day. But do not blind yourself, even with a natural passion. You have heard the truth from me.”
“I am writing to my husband. I will write
