ceiving his friend. “I must speak to him on the instant.” And he hastened to the door.
“A moment,” said Mrs. Berry, with her hand at the bolt. “Listen to me.”
“I am listening.”
“You know my husband’s true friendship for you.”
“I have known it for years. I am here because I know it,” said Lygon impatiently.
“That is right, that is well. You have trusted him fully?”
“Fully.”
“Do not hurry. A minute more or less is not of importance, and I am speaking for your good, believe me, I am. Go into the garden, and have your interview. I am only too thankful that I have not to be present at it. But remember what I have said of his possible reserve.”
“He will have none from me, I hope and believe, or, I repeat it, I would not be here.”
“Of all persons in the world, Arthur, I am the last who would cast a doubt upon his earnestness to serve you. But while I believe that truth and straightforwardness are not only the commanded ways of serving a friend, but the best and kindest, my husband has some of the ways of his old calling—all I would say is that I do not think he is prepared to tell you all that you should know.”
“Why do you say this to me?”
“Because it is right to say it. I have no sentimental reasons to give you, Arthur Lygon. I profess no ardent love for those of whom I know but little—now—and if my heart has warmed to your child, it is for her own sake, not that of others. But you shall not be deceived, if I can prevent it. Go to my husband—hear what he has to say to you, and I, when we meet, shall know, without any words from you, whether he has been candid. If not”
“You will be.”
“Again, I say, from the bottom of my heart, may I be spared the necessity! But do not manifest to him any conviction that he is not telling you the truth. Go, and may you be strengthened for your trial, my poor Arthur!”
She released him, and in a few moments he had joined Mr. Berry. She saw them shake hands, and turn towards the little wooden bridge over the boundary stream.
CHAPTER XI.
But concealment or reserve, where he professed to give faith and heart, were not in Arthur Lygon’s nature, and he resolved, whether his friend had or had not adhered to their compact, that Mr. Berry should have no right to complain of withheld confidence.
“I have been speaking with Mrs. Berry in the library,” said Lygon; and then paused to give Mr. Berry the opportunity of placing himself so far right as he could do by explaining that he had thought it best to take his wife into the secret.
“Ah,” said Mr. Berry, “that is well. You have smoothed over any little irritation from last night.”
“That was instantly put out of the way,” replied Lygon, “as you must be sure it would,” he added, warmly. “And now, my dear Berry, speak out, and speak quickly. I am manned for anything but suspense. There is something I am to hear, which I am told you will hardly dare to tell me. You should have dared to do so yesterday; but now, in a word, tell me.”
He nerved himself, as—once more to borrow comparison from the surgeon’s art—the blindfold patient sets himself to receive the steel. But the stroke did not come.
“Arthur,” said Mr. Berry, in a troubled voice, “are you repeating my wife’s words?”
“Their meaning, at least,” said the younger man. “You would expect to hear them. Now, then, for the truth.”
“Mrs. Berry has given you to understand that I have a painful secret which you ought to hear, and which I may be reluctant to disclose.”
“Yes, yes. But no more preliminaries. I tell you that I can bear it.”
“There is no such secret, Arthur.”
“This denial, too, I was told to expect. Berry you have proved yourself my friend too often for me to doubt you. It is only that you think I am too cowardly to hear bad news. I am no coward, and I am ready for the worst. In Heaven’s name, speak!”
“And as Heaven is my judge, Arthur Lygon,” said the old man, earnestly, “I have no such secret to reveal.”
“You had yesterday,” said Lygon, almost fiercely. “You told me that there was something in my past life that bore upon the disappearance of my wife. I knew not how to believe that; but I trust your word as I would have trusted my father’s. Berry, you are paltering with me, out of kindness—that must end now. Tell me the truth.”
“What I said yesterday, Arthur,” replied Mr. Berry, “was said upon the spur of the moment, and when you pressed me for some help to your own mind. It was based upon something that occurred to me as possible, but which, upon reviewing it calmly, I perceive must have been an utterly foolish fancy. I will tell it you, or not, as you please: it is not worth a moment’s serious thought. But it gave us time for reflection—”
“And you for consultation with Mrs. Berry.”
“Arthur, do you mean upon your affairs?”
“Mrs. Berry has just told me so. I am not complaining—but I would have given the world that you had not done so.”
“And I have not done so,” said Mr. Berry, with dignity, and speaking in the undertone in which a man of advanced age, indignant, and conscious that he is in the right, usually replies to an accusation.
“What am I to think?” said Lygon. “It is not half an hour since I received Mrs. Berry’s solemn assurance that she had learned my sorrow from your own lips.”
Berry’s face grew ashy white, and his lips quivered.
“Arthur,” he said, “spare me words on this; spare me the pain of saying what a husband is loth to say. But believe two things: first, that I have not spoken a syllable to Mrs. Berry on your affairs; and secondly, that I have no secret