desk in my bed-room, for one has no private room here, and in the fine weather I write at my window, which gives me a view of the trees.”
“Will you get it, or shall I run up?”
“I believe that the room is being arranged by the domestic—.”
“What does that signify, dear? Please get it.”
“I know you of old, my dear, and that to obey is the least trouble where you are concerned,” said Mr. Vernon, leaving the room with another smile.
He returned in a few minutes, declaring himself unable to find the letter, at which announcement his daughter’s impatience was manifested with little restraint.
“Not find it, papa—you cannot have half looked.”
“Yes, dear, I have managed to mislay it. The fact is that we—I mean myself and two gentlemen who are staying here—got into an interesting discussion last night, and perhaps we grew too warm, at least they did, for I will never affect to be only half in earnest on subjects of political importance. We separated in some heat, and—”
“But what has a ridiculous political squabble to do with an important letter about Laura?” said Beatrice, irritated. “Never mind that; tell me who the letter was from, and what was in it.”
“My dear Beatrice, I wish you would emulate your husband’s calmness and patience.”
“He was as angry as myself that you had left out the letter, and would have been more angry if he had supposed that you had done it on purpose. But what is it—you can tell me what was in it. Who was it from?”
“That, my dear, I certainly cannot tell you.”
“Why not?”
“Because it is anonymous.”
“Oh, an anonymous letter,” said Beatrice; “that is a relief.”
“I don’t understand why, my dear—”
“Yes,” said Beatrice, impetuously, “because any one who could send an anonymous letter is a creature whose words are not worth a moment’s attention, except to find him out and punish him.”
“I do not feel entirely with you, my dear,” said Mr. Vernon, blandly; “I think such a view is common-place and even coarse. I can quite understand that a person may be desirous that a fact should be known to another person, and yet may not wish to be known as the informant. If, of course, he states falsehoods, he is an unworthy person, but in simply laying a truth before another, and yet remaining shrouded, he may only wish that the truth should be looked at, abstractedly, and without the colouring derived from the other’s possible opinion of the writer.”
“An anonymous letter-writer is a wretch,” returned the prompt and unconvinced Mrs. Hawkesley; “and to think of such a one writing to you about Laura? What did he say, papa?”
“You beg the question of sex, my dear; but from my own impression of the letter, which I much regret to have mislaid in the way I was about to explain to you, I am inclined to think the writer was a lady.”
“Not a lady, certainly. A woman, perhaps.”
“Waiving that aristocratic distinction, my dear, I would say that the hand was very neat, and of the kind which is usually supposed to denote education.”
“And the words?” asked Mrs. Hawkesley, compressing her lips, and filially trying not to be in a rage with the author of her being. “What were they?”
“I will not affect to quote them accurately, but the main point was what I mentioned in my letter. I was recommended to watch over Laura's children, as some danger—as a heavy evil—was impending over them.”
“And that was all?”
“No. I was further advised to visit Gurdon Terrace, and endeavour to ascertain, if possible, where Mrs. Lygon had really gone, as the writer had very good reason to believe that there had been an endeavour to place everybody on the wrong scent—or something to that effect.”
“I must have that letter, papa, directly, if I ransack the house from top to bottom with my own hands. How very wrong in you not to have sent it us.”
“I do not know where else to look for it, my dear. And I may as well add,” he said, with some firmness, “that if I could lay my hand upon it at this moment, I do not know that I should feel it my duty to give it you.”
“I am sure you would. Charles would do his utmost to have the writer traced out.”
“For that very reason, my dear, I am not clear that I should not be betraying the confidence of a person who had written to me with the best intentions.”
“What, and accusing Laura of deceit!”
“I do not read any such charge, my dear. The allegation is that there is deceit somewhere. Were the accusation more specific, I do not know that I ought to hand over the writer to the unreasonable anger of others, even though they are members of my own family.”
“I have no patience with such hair-splitting, papa.”
“I am aware, my love, that patience is not exactly your forte, nor do you seem to have cultivated it much.”
“How can you speak so coolly, when such a charge is made against Laura? She is all truthfulness, as you know. Do you mean to say that you in your heart believe that she is gone anywhere but where Arthur says she is? I never heard anything so wicked in all my life.”
“I have no means of forming any opinion on the subject, my dear. I am very little consulted by my children as to what they do, and I cannot tell what Arthur’s course in life may be. Perhaps he has got into difficulties.”
“I am sure he has not,” returned she, indignantly.
“As upright men as Mr. Lygon have done so,” replied her father; “nor need you repel the suggestion with so much violence.”
“You make me quite angry, papa, when you talk in that wild, fanciful way, at the same time imputing the worst things to the best people whom you know. You do not care what you say. Was it all a fancy that the letter hinted something
