added, increasing her pace. “O, this is dreadful. But he dares not die thus.”
And they hurried on together.
CHAPTER LXXVIII.
“Formerly Allingham,” was very neatly written under the name engraved upon the card brought in to Mrs. Hawkesley.
She had availed herself of Bertha’s having fallen asleep, and had come down to the study to hurry off a few lines to her husband.
“Mr. Berry—certainly, yes. Here. And be sure to let me know the moment I am wanted.”
“It is many years since I saw you, my dear lady,” said Mr. Berry, “and I suppose that you will hardly remember me. Yet I think I should recognise something of the expression of the young lady who came to me two or three times about some alterations in her papa’s house—something which I had to obtain leave for him to do.”
“That must have been my sister Laura,” said Mrs. Hawkesley. “There were no alterations in my time: we were not rich enough then to make improvements,” she added, with her customary naïveté.
“Was it so?” returned the old gentleman, smiling for a moment, but immediately becoming grave again. “My eyes and my memory alike warn me that my work is nearly over. Can you spare me a few minutes for a little conversation?”
“Certainly,” replied Mrs. Hawkesley. “But have you come up from Lipthwaite? Let me offer you—”
Her hand was on the bell, but he stopped her, with the apologetic courtesy of what is called the old school, which means the school whose teaching included the lesson that though women, of course, are created to serve us, it is as well to make their servitude appear voluntary.
“I am staying in town,” he said, “and have recently breakfasted. At all events, let me say what I have to say at once. Mr. Hawkesley is in Paris.”
“You know that! You have no bad news for me! He is not ill?”
“No, no, certainly not, my dear lady. I was merely about to say that I know he is in Paris, and why.”
“Thank God. This is very foolish, but I have been under a great deal of excitement lately, and have not had much sleep. Do not suppose that I am a victim to nerves,” added Mrs. Hawkesley, smiling, but perceptibly relieved.
“I ought to beg pardon for my abruptness. But at my time of life, when one has something to say, one is too apt to make haste to say it. I should have been more careful in my old professional days, when you were one of the ornaments of Lipthwaite.”
“I will not hear that, after you have shown that you have quite forgotten me, Mr. Berry. Is it business that you came about—I mean that it is a pity Charles is away.”
“You had a visit, some time ago, from Mrs. Berry?” said he, without more direct reply to her inquiry.
“Yes, and I ought to have asked at once after her.”
“Forgive me, but I am aware of the nature of the interview you had, and that it was not likely to create any great friendliness of feeling. I am sure that you will, however, allow me to speak openly to you, and will not think that I have come needlessly to renew a painful discussion.”
“Such of us as have known you, Mr. Berry, know you too well to believe anything that you would not like believed.”
“Mrs. Berry is exceedingly, I fear dangerously ill, and under other circumstances I should not be in London. But I have a duty to do, and I am obliged to take the most direct means of doing it, in order to be able to return to Lipthwaite at the earliest moment. Your husband and Mr. Lygon being both absent from England, I am compelled to see you, Mrs. Hawkesley, upon the subject in question, and you will I know forgive me.”
“Mrs. Berry is so ill—?”
“Yes. But for her illness it would have been her own place to make certain explanations which are due, but this is entirely out of the question, unless those whom she ought to see could be summoned to Lipthwaite. Therefore, however painful it may be to me to be the medium of communication, and to you to receive it, we have no choice, and I am sure that you will hear me with all womanly forbearance.”
“Pray speak freely, Mr. Berry, and be sure that I know you mean kindly.”
“At all events, I mean justly. You are aware, Mrs. Hawkesley, that when your brother-in-law suddenly found himself placed in the most painful of circumstances, he came to consult me, as his oldest friend, and that acting upon impressions which he received in my house, he left England for France, placing his daughter under our charge during his absence. The little one, weary of the restraint of our quiet house—”
“Let me say a word for my little niece, Mr. Berry. Not weary of a quiet house, but unable to bear the continued stream of false and cruel things which she had to hear about her mother.”
The old man’s face assumed an expression of humiliation which it was painful to see upon his kindly features, and Mrs. Hawkesley hastened to add,
“But things which she never heard from you, Mr. Berry, as she has told me over and over again.”
“No matter,” said Mr. Berry. “Perhaps there has been no time to tell me everything, but no matter. I did not know—”
And his eyes dimmed, and his lips trembled for a moment or two. Then he said,
“I am glad that the little girl has not much to say against me.”
“She loves you heartily, Mr. Berry, and she shall tell you so herself before you go out of the house.”
“Let me go on,” he said, with a sad smile. “It is necessary that I should recall one or two things which you may never have heard, or having heard then, were not interested enough to recollect them. And remember, it is only as matter of duty, and at the special desire of her