“But you charge her with folly, and with deceit, which is worse than anything in the world.”
“Let us suppose that her butterfly mind, such as it is, has risen above dress and the opera, and settled on a sort of perfumed religion, which tells her, through the mouth of her confessor, that the deceit is pardonable, or even laudable, if truth-speaking would render her less useful to the church.”
“Butterfly, indeed. That would be far too mild a name for her.”
“Nay, nay, she is not wise. You know that. But, then, for Laura.”
“She is no butterfly, dear.”
“No, indeed. But Laura has been a very young girl, who was left very much to herself, without a mother’s guidance, and who made this silly Bertha her friend and confidant.”
“If I saw things as you suggest them, how I ought to reproach myself, Charles, for not having been more of a mother to her, poor child.”
“And who had been a mother to you, dearest, and where should you have learned the value of such counsel? Besides, you must share the guilt, if there is any, with me, who deprived your sister of your companionship.”
“You always try to make me believe I am right, Charles.”
“When I find you wrong, I will tell you so—rely on me,” said Hawkesley, pressing her hand. “But just let me finish my chapter of possibilities. Bertha, now entirely in the hands of her priest, has been worked upon to send him, or one of his brethren, over here, and has prevailed on Laura, by what arguments we have yet to learn, to visit her sister in a haste which has, of course, to be accounted for, but which is quite reconcileable with the exacting demands of the Church—when you are in its power.”
“You make out a story before my eyes,” said Beatrice, “and I hardly know whether to wish to believe it or not.”
“Do neither, until we know more.”
“What was the other thing you said we had to do?”
“To ascertain for ourselves whether Laura has gone to her sister.”
“Do you mean by writing?”
“I am afraid to write.”
“Ah! then you do not believe a word of your own story.”
“Why do you say so?”
“Because, Charles, if she should not be there, and your letter should miscarry—that is what you are thinking of. You are suspecting something far worse than even the folly you think may have been committed.”
“You shall have all my thoughts. I should be inclined, Beatrice, to accept this wild theory of mine, while we waited for news, but for one consideration.”
“Laura’s strong sense?”
“Laura’s strong love.”
“Yes, there would be the chain to bind her to her home.”
“Why, Beatrice, do you think that if a score of sisters were to summon you, through the mouths of a whole college of Jesuits, to leave my house in my absence, they would have power to move you from this hearthstone?”
“Not all the sisters and priests in the world.”
“Not if, when a girl, you had taken all the vows of the Church?”
“I know one vow only, Charles.”
“I know it, wife. And I thought that Laura had no other.”
“Say, for my sake, that you think so still. Let us believe anything, no matter how improbable—that the story of the lady who was dying, and which that servant dared to tell Walter not to believe—if I were Price, I would have turned her into the street in five minutes—”
“Price had no authority.”
“Don’t tell me—I would have given her to the police. I daresay that she will turn out to have been a thief.”
“Your anger against her is just, but do not blame Price, who had really no more right to put Eliza into the street than I have.”
“No, dear, no. But it puts one in a rage to think that she should dare tell a child not to believe his own father, when he is speaking about the child’s own mother. I wonder Walter did not strike her.”
“He can strike at the proper time, as I ought to tell you.” And Hawkesley told of Walter’s vengeance on the caluminator.
“A darling, noble boy!” exclaimed his aunt. “That was the Vernon blood.”
“Possibly,” said Hawkesley, smiling. “And there is some of that article on his hand, and perhaps you may as well see to it.”
“Is he hurt? Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Were we not speaking on a graver subject till this moment?”
“Yes, yes,” said Beatrice, “but you made the tears come into my eyes by telling me of his courage in the cause of his mother. Let us, who know her even better than the poor child does, Charles dear, let us be as courageous, and utterly refuse to listen to the least thing against her. Believe me, we shall be right.”
“I am only too rejoiced to see you take that view,” said Hawkesley.
“Did you expect me to condemn her because I do not know where she is, and because some wretches spread scandals against her? Do you think that Laura would judge me so, Charles?”
“I love you for standing by her. And as we are thoroughly agreed about this, you can bear to hear, and to recollect, that appearances are most fatally against her.”
“Indeed they are. But all will be explained, and we shall have the happiness of telling her, on this very hearthstone you spoke of, that we knew from the first all would be well.”
“Is that one of your presentiments?”
He asked it quietly enough, and Beatrice’s lips were parting, in the act of reply, when she turned pale, and looked round at him with eyes that suddenly brimmed with tears.
“I dare not say yes,” she whispered, and broke into a convulsive fit of crying.
“Come, come,” said her husband, “you must be calm, dear, and remember how many things