impose our own. But if friendship, Christian friendship, means anything, it means that we are to seek counsel and comfort one of another. You came hither for that purpose; do not be afraid to carry it out. You will find no cold hearts here, in the hour of your sorrow, Arthur.”
“I am grateful, Mrs. Berry, for kindness supposed to be needful to me,” said Lygon, still desirous to hold out, and in his soul reviling Mr. Berry for not being present to make him aware how much and how little had been revealed, “and if”
“I will not have you say that for which you will reproach yourself hereafter,” said Mrs. Berry, earnestly. “If I have not hitherto had your confidence, it is perhaps because I am not one of those who seek a trust not willingly given, and perhaps, too, and very naturally, because my husband has been your friend for so many years more than myself; but this is not a time for worldly etiquette, or indeed for worldly feeling. You may trust me as a friend, Arthur.”
“And I am most grateful for your friendship, Mrs. Berry,” said Lygon, struggling between discordant emotions.
“If that is from your heart, I am satisfied,” said his companion, “and I hope and believe that it is. Poor darling little Clara!”
And Mrs. Berry hid her eyes in her handkerchief, and sobbed.
“He must have told her,” said Arthur to himself, for the words, touching upon a chord on which he had himself been harping throughout another miserable night, went straight to his heart. But again he rallied, aided by his instinctive dislike of the woman beside him, and resolved to resist her as long as he could.
“Have you seen her this morning?” he asked. “Does she not look lovely in her sleep, with all that dark hair about her young face?”
“I would not disturb her,” said Mrs. Berry, wiping her eyes. “To think what she may have to undergo, poor baby,” and again she wept.
“Not much, I trust,” said Arthur, determinately, and thinking, justly, how true and strong a friend and protector Clara had in himself.
“As for any plans for that dear child,” said Mrs. Berry, “they must, of course, be the subject of deep consideration, and for myself, I will say, of prayerful consideration, but they are not, perhaps, immediately necessary. But as regards Mrs. Lygon—”
Laura’s name and fame in Mrs. Berry’s keeping! The thought passing through Arthur’s mind caused a shudder like that given by the first wound from the surgeon’s steel. In a forced voice, he said,
“I have arranged with Berry for a conversation by-and by. It will, perhaps, be better not to speak upon its subject in the meantime.”
“You are quite right, quite right,” said Mrs. Berry, “and it was with no intention of increasing your trouble that I have endeavoured to prepare you for that conversation by the best means in our power”—a glance at the place where she had knelt explained her meaning. “And if you hear that which may wound your very heart to its depths, you will remember, dear Arthur, where I would guide you for healing.”
He turned upon her with irrepressible emotion.
“What should I hear,” he said, “that can give me such a wound?”
“Nay,” said Mrs. Berry, sorrowfully, “sterner lips than mine must tell you. I cannot undertake a task above my poor strength.”
“Do not fear to speak plainly to me,” said Arthur Lygon, suddenly forgetting his desire to postpone the conversation, and overmastered by his eagerness to snatch at the key of the mystery that was torturing him; “what I may have done, I can bear to hear.”
“You, my poor Arthur!” repeated Mrs. Berry, in a tone between surprise and compassion. “If there is anything to lay to your charge, I, at least, know nothing of it.”
“To my charge?” said Lygon, impetuously. “He has said so—or if not to my charge, there is something to be told of me—but we will speak of it presently—I would rather not talk now, if you please, Mrs. Berry,” he said, hurriedly, “and yet—yes—the sooner the better—if you can light up this strange mystery, do so, and pardon my abruptness.”
“Pardon, never ask pardon of me,” said Mrs. Berry, “but take this comfort to yourself, Arthur, that this sorrow is none of your causing, except in the sense in which we have all deserved affliction. There is not a word to be said against you, so far as I have ever heard.”
“Then for what am I to prepare myself—what is this wound you speak of?” he said, vehemently. “Ah I forgive me. I perceive that you have as much to learn as myself. Mr. Berry has not taken you into further confidence than he has given to me. Pardon my excitement. I have been exceedingly ill, and my nerves are not steady. I must try a course of walks in your Lipthwaite air, and see what that will do for me.”
“Arthur Lygon,” said Mrs. Berry, “it is impossible for me, with any poor words I may possess, to tell you how my heart bleeds for you. What you have just said about Mr. Berry, and about his withholding confidence from me is, I grieve to assure you, utterly beside the mark. All else that I would say to you, dear friend, is that you must nerve yourself to learn, not from me, but from my husband, that which will grieve you to the soul. But if, through his worldly, or shall I say his professional notion of a kindness, which unhappily will be a mistaken one, he should deem it right not to lay the whole truth before you”
“You intend to do so?”
“Grievous, bitterly grievous, dear Arthur, as such a duty would be, and much as I hope that I shall not be called upon to perform it, I feel that from it, if it must be done, I ought not to shrink.”
“Mr. Berry has confided to you, Mrs. Berry, the circumstances that have brought me to Lipthwaite?” asked Lygon, agitated.
“I have learned your sorrow from Mr. Berry’s lips,” said his companion, slowly, and then she touched his hand in sympathy.
“Ah, he is in the garden,” said Lygon, per-