of any kind to impart. You have known me from your childhood.”
There was something pathetic in the appeal of the old man to be saved from the humiliation of accusing his wife of falsehood. But Arthur Lygon was by this time wrought to a pitch of excitement that deprived him of sensitiveness to the emotion of another.
“Berry,” he said, sternly, “I would not willingly wrong you by word or deed, but my own position is too terribly painful to allow me to waste time on a mere matter of delicacy. It is evident that you and Mrs. Berry, or one of you, know that which I ought to know, and that you disagree as to the fitness of letting me hear the truth. If I am not to hear it from you, Mrs. Berry permits me to ask it of her, but deprecates the being compelled to reveal it. You force that painful duty upon her.”
“Mr. Lygon,” said the old man, “at whatever cost of feeling, we will at once give you the satisfaction you require.”
“Is that the way to put it, Berry?” said Arthur, hurt at his old friend’s tone, but too much agitated to pause and remonstrate. “I am offered the confidence which you seem to wish to deny me.”
“Let us go to Mrs. Berry,” was her husband’s only answer.
And as if she had foreseen the result of their conference, or had been watching it, Mrs. Berry came from the house to meet them on their way. There was just distance enough to be crossed to leave each party time to consider how the conversation should begin, but Arthur Lygon, as most impatient, was naturally most prompt, when they met.
“May I recal to you, Mrs. Berry, the conversation we had, a short time ago, in the library?”
“I expected to have it recalled,” was the reply.
“Before which, Marion,” said Mr. Berry, with severity, “you will have the kindness to disabuse Mr. Lygon, before my face, of a mistake which he has founded upon some words of yours.”
“It is my misfortune if I express myself inadequately,” said Mrs. Berry, with something of her manner of over-night—a manner which she had discarded during her interview with Lygon. In truth, at this instant, though she came to do that which it was near her heart to do, she felt more nervous than was her custom, and took refuge in her artificial defences.
“Mr. Lygon, Marion, came down here upon a painful errand. Be good enough to assure him that you now hear this, for the first time, from me.”
“I cannot state a falsehood, Edward, even to please you. My duty to you is solemn, but I owe a still higher duty.”
“Dare you assert,” said Mr. Berry, “that I told you why Arthur Lygon was here?” And his tone evinced a concentrated anger which his wife had never seen him manifest during all the years of their union. She would have trembled, perhaps, but had that to say which sustained her.
“I made no such assertion,” she answered, “nor will Mr. Lygon allege that I made it. What I said I am prepared to justify, if justification is required of me; but it appears to me, and if a woman’s feelings lead me astray I cannot help it, that we are wasting time over a comparatively insignificant question, and neglecting a very important one.”
“Marion,” said her husband, “you do not see, or you will not see, that I am accused of violating a confidence reposed in me by a friend and a client; yet you dare to speak of the charge as an unimportant one.”
“Edward!” said Mrs. Berry, almost passionately, “that you should think of a mere quarrel of words when Arthur Lygon is waiting to hear a revelation that so deeply affects his happiness and his home! I know that he is waiting for it. I know that you have not had the courage to make it. Is it worthy of you, is it kind to him, to say nothing of so insignificant a person as myself, that he should come here for counsel, and should have it kept from him?”
“Is this madness?” said Mr. Berry, in apparent bewilderment.
“No,” said Mrs. Berry, “this is not madness. The madness was some years ago, when two friends of Mr. Arthur Lygon’s—they stand, I shame to say, upon this grass plot—allowed him to enter into the most sacred relation of life without apprising him of things within their knowledge. If one of those two friends is self-forgiven the other is not, and never will be.”
Arthur Lygon could but turn from one face to the other, in his bewilderment. Mrs. Berry’s countenance was as pale as woman’s could well be, and she seemed prostrated by the weight of the revelation she was endeavouring to make. Mr. Berry’s face had assumed a certain appearance of terror which Arthur Lygon had neither will nor leisure to analyse.
“What is your dearest wish at this instant, Arthur?” she asked suddenly.
“To discover her—can you ask?” was his equally rapid reply.
O the light that gleamed once more in those light eyes! It could not have escaped either of the spectators. It did not. But each had his own excitement, and had no leisure to heed hers. Nor could either, if possessing the finest ear ever bestowed, have caught that low hiss that followed, and the woman herself could not have certified whether two words were spoken or only thought.
“So, eloped!”
But all this took but a second, and Mrs. Berry was instant in answer:
“Let Mr. Berry give you his clue.”
“This malice is actually criminal!” exclaimed Mr. Berry. He would have given anything to recal the word the moment after it had been said. It was the enemy’s prize.
“Malice! No, no,” said Mrs. Berry, mournfully. “That is not the word to apply, though you have always insisted, Edward, on wronging me in connection with the unhappy history. I have never had any malice. If I had borne any, which Heaven forbid, I might have induced you to make better use of the knowledge you possessed, before it was too late. But if Arthur is bent