nature of Lygon, Urquhart trembled for the future of Laura’s husband from the first moment when he had doubted her. Devoted, thoughtful, cheerful, proud of his wife as well as earnestly attached to her, affectionate in his manner as well as in his heart, and, in brief, what is rightly considered the model of a husband, Arthur Lygon, blessed with health, energy, and worldly prosperity, seemed a man destined to a long life of tranquil but not stagnant happiness. But Urquhart, who knew all this, knew more. He knew that Lygon, admirably and lovingly as he estimated his wife, was by no means unconscious of his own high qualifications, and that though nothing could be more removed from his nature than a vulgar self-complacency, Arthur Lygon placed on himself as just and liberal an estimate as he formed of another. He was proud of himself, of his successes, of his good fortune, and though he had far too much taste to permit this pride to appear, it was not the less potent for being latent. He was thoroughly sensible of, and we may add grateful for the numerous advantages of his lot, but he was not hypocrite enough to affect to say that he had not deserved them, and that they were not the legitimate reward of intellect and resolute will. Among the prizes of his life the chiefest was the beautiful woman whom he had loved and won, and for whom he retained so warm an affection; but beautiful, and gifted, and good as Laura was, her husband did not esteem himself rewarded above his deserts in possessing the first and only love of that pure and gentle heart. I do not say that this self appreciation was a fault, but it is needful to heed that it was a characteristic, and Robert Urquhart was well aware of its existence.
From this habit of mind would naturally arise—should circumstances evoke it—a sense of wrong done to himself, should aught that appertained to Arthur Lygon in the way of love, friendship, good fortune, deteriorate—or seem to be deteriorated—by any of the events of life. Having made up his mind, or rather holding an instinctive belief that he deserved all that he had obtained, the diminution of this wealth, by one jot or tittle, was depriving him of a portion of his deserts. And, thought Robert Urquhart, as he moodily pondered over the story, and wished that he had used even stronger or more reiterated arguments, when Arthur Lygon shall have had all this strange business explained to him, when he shall have declared himself satisfied, and gently rebuked Laura for not having at once confided in him, and their hands and lips have again met in token of perfect reconciliation, will he be again the happy, confiding husband of other days? Reason would bid him resume his old, calm happiness; but when did reason ever make the heart hear her? Rather, thought Urquhart, will Lygon become thoughtful and moody. He will mentally cast up a private balance-sheet of his dealings with Providence, and he will convince himself that in one of the items he has not been fairly dealt by. The wife who was supposed to be all love, frankness, prudence, has wounded and mystified him, and has done one of those weak, wild things that might be expected from a romantic school girl, not a thoughtful matron. He has had nights of sorrow, days of harassing travel and search, and he was sent home to England in a state of doubt and gloom. This wife is not what she was taken for, and the admirable husband has been grievously wronged. When that is the form taken by a husband’s meditations, she must be a wife strong indeed in her love and truth who can lay such ghosts—for they are not mere fantastic phantoms, but the spectres of things that were.
Not in words like these, but in his own shrewd language did Robert Urquhart mutter his forebodings, and he ended by saying:
“I doubt he’ll never quite forgive her. They’ll never be quite one again.”
He had business in Paris, and determined to remain there another night, so he sent on Lygon’s letter to Bertha, putting a word or two on the cover, to intimate that Mrs. Urquhart was not to expect him. And then he should have gone about his business, but Laura was still uppermost in his thoughts, and it was in vain that he essayed to work out, in his head, the calculations which were at other times so easy to his cool intellect. After three or four attempts, and as many discoveries that he was not doing himself justice, he resolved, with characteristic caution, to postpone the interview he had desired, which was one of importance. “For I’ll be sure to forget some point,” he said, “and then the beggars will have an advantage over me. I’ll see them when we are on even terms.”
Nor was his own wife entirely omitted in his consideration of the circumstances. He had nothing to lay to her charge, except that she had not written and told him that Laura had arrived, and as there was a general understanding between himself and Bertha that he was to hold no news to be good news, and not to be troubled with letters, which he hated, except in case of necessity; and as, moreover, he had been moving from place to place, and might easily have missed a letter, he really had not much ground for complaint. Doubtless Bertha would have plenty to tell him next day. But as regarded Laura, his wrath against her became hotter and hotter the more he meditated on her conduct, and I fear that with some adhesion to the doctrine of special judgments, as understood in the north, he brought himself to say, with an ominous shake of the head, that it would be but meet and right if, when she reached her own door, she found one of her children almost at that of death. But he grew more placable as he realised this image, and thought of what he had seen of the idolatrous affection of Laura for her little ones. “I hope that the woman is with them,” he growled. “Perhaps they will plead for her with Arthur better than I could do myself,” a supposition which mothers may not consider irrational.
The letter from Lygon was duly delivered in the avenue, but Bertha, though in some measure recovered from her bewilderments and terrors, was unable to comprehend its meaning, and sought counsel of her sister.
Laura was in the secluded apartment that has been described, and was writing.
“A letter from Arthur, but I cannot tell what it means.”
