not but dislike her incessant antagonism; a sincere man (attorneyism deducted), and must have been annoyed by her mysteries and reticences. However, they married, and it is just to say that the unamiable woman became a most foolishly indulgent and devoted mother, and that the blow which took her children from her was more terribly felt than the world believed that Marion Berry could feel. Nevertheless, it did not soften her, though it went well nigh to crush her. The cold smile was almost as ready on the thin lips as of old. Such was the person who was looking at Mr. Lygon, and waiting further explanation of Mrs. Lygon’s absence from London.
“Why, papa,” broke in Clara, “you told Walter that the lady had never been at our house.”
“No, no, dear,” said Mr. Lygon, calmly. “I told him that he did not know her. But I thought, Mrs. Berry, that you had met Mrs. Cateaton. What put that into my head? However, she is exceedingly—dangerously—ill, and she telegraphed for Laura to go down and see her.”
“What part of the country?”
“Herefordshire.”
“My aunt Empson comes from Herefordshire. She will be here in the course of the afternoon, and perhaps knows the lady. What—”
“Ah!” said Lygon, quickly, for he wanted, of course, to ask a question just here instead of answering one. “What part of the country does your aunt come from?”
Did he expect to win the trick? Mrs. Berry suspected nothing, but habit induced her always to take every conversational advantage.
“Why,” she said, “—um—dear me—tst—tst—I hope that I am not losing my memory as well as my eyesight—what is the place called? I shall be able to tell you in a minute. What is the name of Mrs. Cateaton’s place—that may bring it to me?”
“Long Edgecombe,” said Mr. Lygon, who thought an invented name was safer than a real one.
“I don’t remember that name; but we’ll look at the map presently, and that will remind me of aunt’s place.”
“Meantime we’ll have some lunch,” said Mr. Berry. “You can’t think how glad I am to see you, Arthur. And one word’s as good as a hundred—we’re not going to have a fly-a-way visit from you this time, especially as you have brought Miss to see her mamma’s country. To-day we’ll have a chat and a ramble, but to-morrow we’ll give her a long drive, perhaps to Bingley, and Saturday we’ll talk about by and by. Lord Annonbury’s grounds are open on Saturdays, but I’m afraid not the house, and that’s the best part of the sight—but I’ll ascertain.”
And over these and other of the kindly schemings of a host who is delighted to see his guests, Mr. Berry talked during the lunch.
“Do you like leaving your house to the care of servants only?” said Mrs. Berry. She did not mean to be inhospitable, but it was in her nature to take the least pleasant view of everything.
“One would rather not, of course,” replied Mr. Lygon. “But Price is quite a person to trust at need.”
“But there was no need for you to leave until Mrs. Lygon came back.”
“Civil speech, my dear,” said Mr. Berry, “considering that Arthur left town to come to us.”
“I don’t imagine that Mr. Lygon suspects me of intending to be uncivil, Edward,” said Mrs. Berry, putting on the grievance-look which some women assume with such promptness. “I suppose that he would have too much self-respect to visit where the lady of the house was capable of anything of the kind.”
“Well, take some wine with him, then,” said Mr. Berry, laughing, “and show him that you are very glad to see him.”
“I am taking bitter ale, as you know I always do in the morning, Mr. Berry, but Mr. Lygon wants no assurance that he is welcome.”
“Then he shall take wine with me,” said Mr. Berry. “Your health, Arthur, and the missus’s, and yours, Miss Clara, and may you make as pretty and good a woman as mamma.”
“As good and as pretty, I should have said,” observed Mrs. Berry, “if it had been necessary to say anything about prettiness at all. May you be a good girl, Clara, as far as any of us can be said to be good, and never mind about the looks.”
And Mrs. Berry sipped at her bitter mixture. Those may call it ale who have no national feelings, no love of national traditions, and no sense of the responsibilities of language, but there is one pen that shall never so disgrace its Mother Goose.
“Never mind about the looks!” repeated Mr. Berry, cheerily. “But I do mind about the looks, and I mind about them a great deal. I hate ugly people, and I always used to like them to be on the other side of a case in which I was engaged. One made out one’s costs with such gusto when one thought what a hideous face the enemy would twist over a good bouncing item.”
“Mr. Lygon knows best,” said Mrs. Berry; “but if I had a child of that age in the room I should desire her to go and walk in the garden rather than hear such teaching.”
Clara’s eyes turned to her father’s, and they exchanged that look of love and confidence, that all but suppressed smile, which mean perfect mutual understanding, and leave little need for words.
“Not a bad notion, though,” said Mr. Berry, “as we seem to have done lunch. Let us all go and look at the garden. Take another glass of the Madeira, first, Arthur. You may trust it.”
It might not appear to an ordinary observer to be of much consequence whether Mrs. Berry became freckled or not, but as that person herself entertained a different opinion, and saw fit to go away and provide herself with a brown hat and a blue sun-shade, she afforded Arthur Lygon an opportunity of saying a word or two, in an undertone, to Mr. Berry.
“Of course,” replied his friend.
“It is very rude to whisper in company, papa,” said Clara, laughing saucily.
“So it is,” said Mrs. Berry, re-entering, duly