“All will be arranged. I feel that it will, and that my bridal present will be worthy of the occasion. On the day after to-morrow my copy of Frankenstein will be returned to me, enriched with notes—the notes representing twenty pounds.”
“Twenty pounds, Ernest!”
“That will be the amount. You have already seen your amiable way to funds—the sum is a mere detail. I had nothing more to say that need detain you from your warm fire-side—unless, indeed—”
He, in wily fashion, dashed out in the middle of his speech, as if to clasp her—but she was gone.
Ernest Hardwick had the money on the day he had appointed.
Did Mr. Berry know of this meeting, or the circumstances that made it what it was?
CHAPTER VIII.
The excellent Mrs. Berry had firmly resolved that her husband and his friend should have no further confidential talk that night at least, and that whatever mischief might have been done by the shell which she had so deliberately pitched into the enemy’s fortress should not be repaired, until she had endeavoured to follow up the attack. We shall see what became of her resolution.
Clara was speedily directed to go to her room, with a solemn injunction not to forget her prayers, and to put out her candle before getting into bed. The first injunction made the child open her eyes, for it was very needless, but she looked wistfully at her father to obtain a revision of the second.
“Mamma takes her light away,” said Arthur.
“Then,” said Mrs. Berry, calmly, “there may be many reasons why she should learn to do without such assistance.”
“Nonsense,” said Mr. Berry, ringing the bell. “Tell Hester to fetch the candle.”
“Of course you will give your servants what directions you please, Mr. Berry,” said the lady, putting the thin lips together, and assuming her favourite attitude of a wronged wife.
“In my time,” said old Mrs. Empson, whom Mrs. Berry possibly desired to enlist for active service, “in my time gentlemen did not take upon themselves to meddle in such matters.”
“Ah,” replied Mr. Berry, who with all his forbearance had no idea of foreign troops being levied to fight against him, “but that was such a very long time ago, Aunt Empson, and we have improved the fashions. Or perhaps your memory don’t serve you as well as it did. I dare say, now, that poor Mr. Empson had his own way at home.”
“Poor Mr. Empson,” retorted the incensed old lady, “I don’t know what call you have to use such words, Mr. Berry. Mr. Empson may not have chose to squander the money that by rights should have been his wife’s in building gingerbread houses, and buying Brummagem buttons, but he was not so poor as all that comes to.”
“As all what comes to, my dear lady?” asked the provoking attorney.
“You needn’t talk to me,” replied Mrs. Empson, venomously.
“But I think that you were kind enough, Aunt Empson, to begin by talking to me, or rather at me, and my respect for you compels me to answer.”
“Mrs. Empson is my aunt, Mr. Berry,” said Mrs. Berry, in a toneless voice.
“You needn’t take my part, Marion,” said the ungrateful recruit. “It is not a bit of snip-snap impertinence, as I would whip that child for using to her betters, that will frighten me.”
“But Clara has not spoken,” said her father, angrily, and lighting a candle for the child, he conducted her from the room, with a kind hand upon her shoulder, and consigned her to Hester, who was coming to answer the bell. He then returned to his sofa, in a humour to speak his mind on small provocation, for he was savage that such an idea as that Clara could be beaten for anything should have been put into his child’s head.
“Children were not brought up in that way in my time,” said Mrs. Empson, with all the pertinacity of a disagreeable old woman.
“By Jove! I should think not,” was the instant reply of Mr. Lygon. “To judge by what one sees now, I should think not. As Mr. Berry very well remarks, we have improved the fashions.”
“Really,” said Mrs. Berry, with a laugh which the others were to accept as playful; “really. Mr. Lygon, absence from your wife does not seem to sweeten your temper. It is so creditable to you as a married man, that we cannot complain of it, and I must add a postscript to my letter, telling Laura how uncomfortable you are when she is away.”
“If the gentleman will let his friends know where to write to her,” added Aunt Empson.
Mrs. Berry opened a neat little book, but over it she keenly watched the effect of this impertinence. Arthur’s legal adviser, however, deemed it time to take up his client’s case.
“What, Aunt Empson, do you want to write to Mrs. Lygon? I am sure she will be delighted. Do you recollect what fun we had over one of your notes last year, and how we were obliged to send for Hester from the kitchen to come and read it, the spelling being more like hers than ours?”
Mrs. Empson’s head waggled laterally in token of her excessive anger, but did not supply her with words meet for the occasion. Mr. Berry pursued his revenge.
“What was that one word that beat us all—you remember it, Marion, your memory is so good for little things—something about heavenly wretches?”
“I beg that no such reference may be made to me,” said Mrs. Berry, in some little discomposure, for she knew the temper of her relative, and by no means desired to be thought she had amused herself at Mrs. Empson’s expense. “I can always read any note my aunt is kind enough to send me, and that you know perfectly well, Mr. Berry.”
“No, no,” said her husband, pleased at having effected a diversion, “you gave it up, and it was only Hester, at last, that found out that aunt was recommending us to lay up heavenly riches;