only because I fear that my natural anger at your harshness might be gratified by my giving you pain—and I hope I have learned to mortify such feelings.”
“Spare your apologies, Madam,” said Hawkesley, now losing his temper at her pertinacity, “and do not spare me. I will hear either from you or your husband, before I sleep, what it is that you charge against my wife’s sister.”
“We charge her!” said Mrs. Berry. “Heaven forbid! We would do anything to screen her—ask her child how her mother was spoken of under our roof.”
Mrs. Hawkesley was far too indignant to meet this unequalled effrontery as she desired, and Mrs. Berry went on.
“But since you are bent upon a course of wilfulness, which I would in all sincerity beg you to avoid, it is for me to remember that I have other duties beside those of friendship. My husband is old—much older than myself, and it is not well that at his time of life he should be disturbed by such a scene as you, Mrs. Hawkesley, would urge your compliant husband to make under our roof. I will reply for him; and, with tears in my eyes and sorrow at my heart, will tell you, if you still insist on my doing so, what we learned from Mr. Arthur Lygon.”
“Speak your worst,” said Mrs. Hawkesley.
“I pity you—I pity you, indeed, most deeply,” replied Mrs. Berry, “and you will bear me witness hereafter that I have spoken only upon such provocation—no, in answer to such an appeal as has seldom been made to a woman.”
“I will take the responsibility of having asked for plain words instead of hints and allusions,” returned Hawkesley.
“Then—and chiefly to spare my aged husband a painful scene—I answer you. Mr Lygon is pursuing an unfaithful wife.”
“Utterly, wickedly false!” exclaimed Hawkesley.
His wife turned deadly pale, moved restlessly on her chair, but made no reply.
“Unhappily it is true,” said Mrs. Berry; “and Mr. Lygon knows that it is so.”
“We must say no more while she remains, Charles, dear,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, in a faint voice. “Let her go.”
“Poor thing,” said Mrs. Berry, compassionately. “This was to be looked for. Why did you not let me go earlier, instead of wringing this disclosure from me? There is much—very much—that I would have endured rather than have caused this sorrow.”
“How dare you speak such words?” cried Beatrice, with an effort. “You have said that which you know to be false, and you exult in the torture you have caused. Charles, do you believe a word of this cruel slander?”
“I believe your sister to be as innocent as yourself. But what strange story may have been laid hold of, and twisted into a story of guilt, I cannot say, but Mr. Berry shall. I will not take Mrs. Berry’s word for his being associated in a plot against one of the best women in the world.”
“Surely you will not persist in your intention of persecuting an old man who can ill bear excitement,” pleaded Mrs. Berry.
“Excitement—who talks of excitement, when a foul and hideous charge is made against those we love?” cried Hawkesley “I have heard of Mr. Berry from Lygon, and if he is the friend Lygon has believed him, I shall hear the truth from his lips. Something tells me that I have not heard it from his wife’s.”
“You will go to Lipthwaite?”
“To-night. Meantime I have no more questions to put to Mrs. Berry.”
“She has one to put to you. I wish to speak a word to you, Mr. Hawkesley, but not in the presence of your wife.”
“I have no secrets from her.”
“Go with her, Charles, if she wishes it,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, “or I will go.”
Beatrice walked slowly, and as one who had been half stunned, towards the door, and supporting herself by it she said—
“Marion Berry, for some purpose of your own, you are acting a wickedness for which God will judge you. I shall see that judgment.” And she left the room.
“Even excited as she is, tell her, Mr. Hawkesley, that she should avoid such sinful language, such unholy appeals.”
“Do not speak of my wife, but let me hear what you wished to say.”
“Once more, I ask you whether you are bent on going to Lipthwaite?”
“Must I once more tell you that I will see Mr. Berry?”
“Then come. But be prepared to bring back with you a story twice as terrible as that which you struggle to disbelieve.”
“Do you think to deter me by such language?”
“I do not wish to deter you now. I have striven to spare you, and have met nothing but insolence and insult. I now invite you to come, for perhaps the humiliation you will undergo may be a wholesome chastisement of your pride and arrogance. Come to Lipthwaite, and hear from Mr. Berry into what kind of a family you have married.”
“I will come.”
“Mrs. Hawkesley will not accompany you. I trust that you will find her awaiting your return. She did not try to prevent my speaking to you alone. Most wives would have done so. She dared not.”
“Mrs. Berry,” said Hawkesley, struggling to suppress his rage, and using the most contemptuous manner he could adopt, “by what conceivable falsehood do you think to make me believe that the wife of Charles Hawkesley cares whether her husband spends five minutes—more or less—with any other woman in this world, young or old?”
“I have prayed to be strengthened to bear anything that may be said to me while I am doing my duty,” said Mrs. Berry, calmly, “but believe me, Mr. Hawkesley, such words as you employ in the hope of wounding me, go by me like the idle wind. They are meant to hurt, but are powerless. You, who have not the privilege of being a Christian, cannot comprehend the pity with