“The exact directions are written down on this paper.”
“This is most extraordinary. I really feel that I must have time for reflection.”
“You have said that you fully believe all I have told you, and that you have influence with Mrs. Lygon, and your daughter Beatrice urgently entreats you to go—you speak of self-sacrifice for the sake of your children, and I am sure that you will not hesitate when you see what vital interests are concerned.”
“I would do anything—that is—anything that is reasonable”—said the now thoroughly unhappy Vernon. “But surely a letter—if I were to write to her—it would arrive at the same time, and it would be kinder to her, and more delicate. It would be painful to her to meet her father’s eye under the circumstances, and clearly it seems to me that a strong letter—I will write it immediately—”
“It would not reach her, and all will be lost. You, on the contrary, will be with her in a few hours.”
“If there were no other difficulty,” said Mr. Vernon, “and I see many objections which must be removed before I admit that there is no other, the journey is a long one, and it so happens that—”
“There are twenty pounds, in sovereigns,” said Mr. Berry, placing a packet on the sofa beside Mr. Vernon. “You have only to call at this address for a pass, which will be given as a matter of course, and you have nearly all the day before you.”
“But my preparations,” said Vernon feebly, for he felt heartily ashamed of his attitude of resistance, and yet could by no means bring his mind to the idea that in a few hours from that time he should, of his own will, order a conveyance, and depart for France.
“Preparations—for a night’s journey? Take nothing, and get what you want in Paris. The train leaves London Bridge—there, I have written down the exact hour for you. I will say no more. If you go, you may save your daughter—if you do not, believe that it is destiny that has destroyed her, and see what kind of comfort that thought will be upon your death-bed. Do something to atone for the system of neglect that has brought about such misery.”
He went out as he spoke. And he had better have left the last words unspoken. For Archibald Vernon was ever one of those who think more of words than things, and who think last words of more significance than the first.
Vernon echoed that last sentence, and pondered upon it, and the longer he did so the more comfort it brought him in his present trouble. Not for the trouble, not the sorrow that the tidings of Berry had caused—for those he had an ample recognition, and they were to be considered and deplored in due course—but his own immediate exigency now demanded all his thought. Before Berry had left, Mr. Vernon had fully resolved that he would write, at all events, before thinking of moving—but how to justify this to himself? He had nearly succeeded, by dint of the hundred objections to action which ever spring to the aid of one who seeks them—when the charge of Beatrice, the direct, urgent charge of the daughter who chiefly ministered to his own comforts came upon him, and he had almost yielded to the belief that he should depart on the errand.
But Berry’s last words came to save him.
“‘Atone for the system of neglect that has brought about such misery,’” he repeated once more. “How dares he, how dares any man speak thus of the convictions of another? This man, of all, whose whole life has been given to the coarse and selfish prosecution of a pursuit for which there would actually be no place at all, were society what it should be. First, a hard and greedy lawyer, and then, when I knew him, the puppet-official of a miserable borough, a man who blustered at the poor, and fawned upon the rich, and made his gain by it, building himself a house, and buying the land of some client whom he had oppressed into selling it. That man dares to come to me, and in my own room to tell me that my system has brought my children to wrong. And am I to bow to his bidding, and hurry to Paris as if I were his clerk? No. I will not stoop to that humiliation; and dear Beatrice, though she may be angry at first, will own that I was right to vindicate myself. This money is, of course, hers, and I will return it the first time I can get over to Maida Hill. But I will write to Laura—and to make sure that she receives the letter, I will send a copy to Charles and to Arthur. That will be the most prompt and secure method of acting. Dear Beatrice wishes me to go, but her busy mind has not had time to comprehend the delicacy of Laura’s position. Beatrice does not, at the moment, see how painful it would be for Laura to meet my eye, but will feel this when I explain the reasons for my course. I will go over to her the first thing to-morrow—or rather, I will write and tell her what I have done, and ask her to come to me, and take away her money. That is clearly my course, and I regret that Berry left the house before I had time to announce to him what it should be. I will, however, write to him also, in a few days, perhaps when I receive a reply from Paris. A coarse, greedy, ignorant man—yet useful enough in his way, I doubt not. Poor Bertha, poor dear child. I should like to hear her own story of her life. When the fitting time comes, I will ask her to send it me—that vulgar lawyer has but one word for every shade of error, and who is he that he should judge a gentle, sensitive woman?”
Many more reflections of this kind occupied Archibald Vernon. Did he deceive himself, or did he endeavour to do so? One would not decide. But as the letters for France could not depart till the evening, a reader will scarcely be surprised at hearing that, after a sigh for the sad things that had come upon his family, Mr. Vernon read to the end of the American Message, or that the letters required too much consideration to be dispatched that day. What the father had been in his youth, he proved in his age.
Mr. Berry had no further business in London, and yet he seemed in no haste to leave it. He chose to walk from Canonbury to the city, although a young walker must have stepped out