believe a syllable of it, and if it were true, there is something at the bottom that we know nothing about, but I believe it to be all a wicked lie. But some of the tradespeople that we deal with have had a hint that Mrs. Lygon will not come back.”
“I should like six words with any of them who have dared to circulate such a slander,” said Hawkesley, “and you will tell me their names.”
“It is very strange, sir, that three of them should all have heard of it at once, that is Turton, the baker, and two others. But what is strangest is that Watkins, the grocer, should have heard it, because we have dealt with him only for about ten days, and my mistress has been there only once, with Miss Clara.”
“That would certainly look as if—but, Price, you may speak frankly to me, indeed it is your place to do so. What do you understand to be meant by ‘not coming back?’”
“Well, sir, people who like to spread such stories are generally cowardly as well as base, and take great care what words they use that may be brought against them. I dare say that if my mistress were home to-morrow, as I heartily hope she may be, and anything was said to one of the tradesmen about the report, he would pretend to be horridly shocked at being accused, and swear that he had never dreamed of such a thing, and very likely want to punish any poor servant who had mentioned what he said. But a good deal can be said without many words. I am ashamed to repeat such a thing, sir, but the story is that Mrs. Lygon has gone off with a gentleman.”
“Run away from her husband?”
“It comes to that.”
“What scoundrels these fellows must be! One wonders that their own interest does not shut their mouths.”
“I thought of that, sir, but it seems the notion is that Mr. Lygon will give up the house and go away, so there will not be much more to be got out of us. But not a shilling from this house shall be spent in any of their shops again, unless my mistress chooses to do it after she has heard of their slandering tongues.”
“Well, Price, you know as well as I do that the story is a confounded and malicious lie, and we will think hereafter about punishing those who have dared to spread it. Meantime, you had better adhere to what Mr. Lygon told you, and say, from me if you like, that as there is no change in the condition of the lady whom your mistress went to visit, she has to remain in the country.”
“That I certainly will, sir, and gladly.”
“And for fear such a notion should reach the children, I will take them back with me. Send them over a carpet-bag to my house with what they will want for three or four days. I trust that their mother will be back, before that, to see after them.”
“It would be too bold in me to ask you, now I have told you everything, whether this news breaks on you for the first time, sir?”
“Price, you are a faithful and trustworthy person, and deserve every confidence I can place in you. Your mistress has no more gone away with a gentleman, in the sense in which these rascals use the word, than you have, but I have a reason of my own for thinking that she has made an enemy of a very bad and malicious person, who has somehow heard of her absence, and takes advantage of it to spread lies. When the time comes, we will punish that person in a way that shall satisfy everybody. Meantime, we must be prudent.”
“My mistress have an enemy! I am sure, sir, that she has never done anything to deserve one.”
“Never, but that is no rule, Price.”
“I will pack the carpet-bag for Master Fred, sir, and Master Walter, if he will go.”
“What makes you think that he will not wish to go?”
“You heard what he said, sir.”
“Ah, yes; he is a very good affectionate lad, but he must not stay moping here, especially under the circumstances.”
Mr. Hawkesley intimated to the boys that they should accompany him to Maida Hill. Usually such an announcement from him was a subject of exultation, for in addition to the enjoyments of his cheerful house (one in which, as Mr. Vernon had written, there was a hermetically sealed study, which prevented Hawkesley from being the terror and bugbear of everybody who played a tune or laughed a laugh during the author’s hours of work), the evening was often made brilliant by a visit to some theatre, and the still more exquisite delight of a manly supper with uncle at some oyster-room or other place of terrible Sybaritism.
“Would you take Fred, uncle?” said Walter, “I had rather stay at home.”
“My dear boy, your parents would much prefer your coming to us.”
“They have not told you so, uncle.”
“No, my dear Walter. But you must be quite sure that your aunt and I know what would please them.”
“I think you only say it in kindness, uncle, because you think that we are dull here. Fred is, and I wish you’d take him off; but I am not dull at all, and I am writing out something that I know papa will like.”
“But you can write at my house as well as here—better, as you have said more than once, sir, don’t you recollect?”
“Ah, that was in the days when this house was happy,” said Walter, bursting into a paroxysm of tears, and throwing himself into his uncle’s arms.
“When this house was happy,” repeated Charles Hawkesley, holding the sobbing boy kindly, and striving to calm him. “Why, this house has always been happy, and is going to be happy for many a long day to come. What can you be thinking of, Walter?”
“Will she ever come back?” faltered Walter, shaken with his agitation.
“Mamma. Why, of course she will. What has put such a strange idea into your head? For shame, Walter. It is a baby’s question when its mother goes out of the room, not the question of a schoolboy who reads Eutropius.”
“Whisper, uncle,” said Walter, clutching Hawkesley’s hand convulsively, “and don’t let little Fred hear. A boy I know told me that it was all about London that mamma had run away.”
