Do not think that I have rushed on hastily. When I could no longer blind myself to the conviction that R. had chosen, for his own reasons, to retain in his own bosom his knowledge of the terrible truth, I fought against all the repugnance which such a thought calls up in a woman’s nature, and I tried with all my might to find excuses for his conduct. The natural thought of course was that he might say he had insufficient evidence, and that it was not for him to act until he had more, and that in the meantime he should defeat his own purpose by causing suspicion that he had discovered anything. That might be a humiliating position for a man—and there are men who would have died sooner than have borne it—but it might be in his stern nature to bear all things until the day of retribution should come. I clung to that view, Charles, I am sure for your sake more than because I could feel that it was right, but it is not true. You must take my word for what I must not write, but it is not true.
Then, dearest Charles, what becomes of all that follows? If it should be made clear to you that R. was acting this unmanly and treacherous part, if you come to the belief that while he was preaching to Arthur of love, and confidence, and domestic happiness, he was nursing up the materials of vengeance, what is to be said of his conduct as regards Laura? Are we to believe in one single word of his statements? He writes that evidence has been placed in his hands, and upon that evidence Arthur is to give himself up to a misery that will break his heart, and you, dearest, are silent, or only speak to confess that if R. is convinced, hope is over—and then it is our turn to make discoveries, and we learn that let him pretend to have what new proofs he may, he had long before had evidence that should have parted him and Bertha for ever. Can we continue to place any faith—the least faith in a man who has been living and acting what I call treachery, put what worldly name you like upon it? I am certain, as I write these lines, that my husband, as he reads them, will feel that we have been cruelly imposed upon. And for you to know of a wrong, Charles, is to hasten to do justice, and I love you for that and for all the rest.
Again I am interrupted, and Bertha asks, in a querulous voice, whether I am setting down things against her, and wishes that she was dead. Dr. Solmes also has come, and will not speak out upon the case, but sees no alteration for the worse, and wishes that she would sleep. Yet he appears to hesitate as to giving her any strong narcotic. I think that he is puzzled, and yet he is too honest a man to be afraid to say so, and he would desire another opinion if he thought that it would be useful. But if there is no change to-morrow, I will take upon myself to speak plainly.
Your letter was short, but very welcome. I do not ask you to write me long letters, but let me have a line every day—I am breaking off from what I most wanted to say. It is this. Let me beg of you not to be guided by any of the considerations which men think so much of, and, whether you have the sanction of Arthur or not, do you find out Laura, and see her. In one minute from the time you and Laura meet, you will know all. I would give thousands to meet her face to face for one minute. Pray, Charles, my own husband, give way to me in this, and let R. say what he may, or let A. urge that it is not for you to forestal him, do you think of me and my happiness, and go away and see Laura. And write me word that you have done so. Do this, dearest. I have more to say to you than I could get into my letter, but if you will only read carefully what I have scribbled so carelessly, I shall be sure that you understand me. I do not believe that R. is a man who should be called the friend of an honourable man; and if you are inclined to be angry with me for writing so harshly, do not be angry until I have told you all that I have to say.
There will be little rest for me until you return, but I am quite well, and so are the children. You need not be told what they would say, bless them, if they knew that I was writing to papa.
Beatrice.
In reference to this letter it is only necessary to say that the injunction of Mrs. Hawkesley had been obeyed, by anticipation, through the means of Charles Hawkesley’s accidental meeting with Mrs. Lygon in the gardens, and that his reply, in which that interview was described, crossed his wife’s letter. Hawkesley’s communication need not be given, but it should be said that it was brief, that he had touched very slightly upon anything that had occurred in Paris, but had sought to prepare his wife to be told that there was no hope of the reunion of Laura and her husband.
CHAPTER LXXV.
Mr. Aventayle left the Hotel Mirabeau, and with no great accession of good spirits wandered forth into Paris.
“Those fellows make me d—d melancholy,” said the kindly-natured manager, “and while they are all engaged upon business of that infernal kind, I swear I have no heart to go grinning at vaudevilles, as I ought to do. Just like me, always letting other folks’ affairs interfere with my own.”
Nevertheless he generally managed to attend to his own indifferently well; and it is satisfactory to know that the warm-hearted, open-handed man was a great deal more prosperous than he would allow, even in the confessional set up by the commissioners of income tax.
As he went lounging slowly along with a comprehensive grumble at the universe, he put his hand into his waistcoat pocket, and grumbled once more—this time at a concentrated grievance. He had scratched his hand with a stiff card, which he immediately drew out, and perceived that it was that which M. Wolowski had given him when they separated in front of the café on the Boulevard.
“He must be a snob,” said the incensed manager, “to use thick cards like that, when decent Frenchmen carry none much thicker than paper. But he asked me to go and call on him, if we did not see our way to doing any good without him. I see none, and I am rather thrown over