mitted them to go to the school in your town. I might have done better to have kept them at home. Yet I am conscious that if I yielded, it was for their sakes, and that I never compromised my own belief that it is not for us to seek to form the natures and characters of one another. Had they not, dear things, gone to that school, they might have been saved from this grief and evil.”
And amid all his feeble folly, Vernon unwittingly spoke the truth in these last words.
“He is consoled,” said Berry, once more looking at his watch. “And it is under the time. So much for tears.”
“You bear this heavy blow well and manfully,” said Mr. Berry, “and I was right in saying that I would appeal to your head, not your heart.”
But either the tone, or some instinct of nature, made this speech unpleasing to Mr. Vernon, and he turned away in silence.
“I will waste little time on him,” said Mr. Berry, contemptuously.
He read the man, but it was in the coarse way, that takes no account of the foot-notes and marginal readings. Those who, early in our story, learned to know Vernon better, will perhaps have fuller knowledge of him. But that weak and superficial nature (inherited by his second child, Bertha, but in her case made painfully frivolous by the want of intellect, and made actively selfish by a feebler organisation than his own) was of the class which beyond most others excites the scorn and hate of a busy, practical mind. Judge Vernon by what we know of him, but do not judge Berry for knowing less.
“I have broken the news abruptly to you, Mr. Vernon,” he said, “for with such a story in one’s mouth, it is difficult to frame one’s lips to delicate language, and when one speaks to a man of resolution and character, the sooner one’s news is broken the better. But I beg your pardon if I have been hasty, and I will only say that if you knew what cause of sorrow I have in my own household, you would not be angry that I have few words to spare for the troubles of others.”
Mr. Vernon had waved his hand slightly as Mr. Berry began, but, as he concluded, Vernon came up to him, and placed his hand in Berry’s.
“You, too, are in affliction?”
“I have left a wife who is, I believe, dying.”
“Ah, my friend,” said Vernon, “I, too, have known that sorrow. But it came to me when such blows are bitterer.”
“I do not wish to speak of my own grief,” said Mr. Berry, “but you will remember it when you recall this conversation. But to return to your own family affairs.”
“I have heard enough for one sad day,” said Vernon, seating himself, with one hand on the end of the couch, and with his handkerchief shading his eyes.
“But you must hear me out, Mr. Vernon,” replied Berry, “for it is not probable that we shall meet again, and I have something to add.”
“You have no new sorrow to tell me—surely I have nothing to hear that will add to my sufferings?”
“You have asked me for no details, Mr. Vernon.”
“Nay, spare me those. I could not bear them. It is enough to know the terrible truth.”
“But you have imperfectly listened to what I said, or you would have been eagerly questioning me. I said that in the case of one unhappy person, there was—there were circumstances that would make any action on your part, or that of the family, worse than useless. But in the case of your youngest child you could not have heard me say that there is only a belief that she has forgotten her duty.”
“Did you say that? I was so stunned by the first intelligence that I did not catch your words. Pray—pray explain.”
“Without going into needless detail, accept this as a fact. Mrs. Lygon fled from her home, but it was partly to obtain the possession of certain letters, of which a dreadful use has been made. Mr. Hawkesley and Mr. Lygon are also in Paris, and they are endeavouring to get at those letters. If they or Mrs. Lygon obtain them, the first impulse will be to destroy them with all their foulness and treachery. If that be done, your child’s happiness is gone. Will you believe this from me?”
“Unquestionably. I have known you long and as a man of honour.”
“You believe this without asking more questions?”
“Fully.”
“And you love your child?”
“Love my own Laura!”
“And you have influence with her?’
“As much as a loving father can have. My youngest child, and perhaps my favourite, though dear Beatrice—”
“You have influence with Mrs. Lygon—pardon my abruptness.”
“I have indeed, I hope.”
“Then do not lose an hour, but go over to Paris as fast as possible, and see her, Lygon, and Hawkesley, and impress upon them with all the force in your possession that they must bring those letters to England. Do not wait to understand why—you will understand that too well when all is explained, but go at once—go by to-night’s train, and help to save your child.”
“By to-night’s train!” repeated Mr. Vernon, aghast.
“Yes, for a train lost may lose the object, and you will then repent the delay to the last hour of your life.”
“I am in no state to travel,” said Mr. Vernon, dropping each hand by his side, and looking exceedingly wretched. “Night travelling too. Besides,” he added, instinctively feeling that he needed some other justification, “I must see my daughter, Mrs. Hawkesley. I must consult and deliberate with her, and ascertain her convictions as to the propriety of this course.”
“I come direct from her, and she begs and implores that you will hurry off to Paris.”
This was said so emphatically, that Mr. Vernon received the announcement in helpless dismay.
“But Paris,” he stammered, “that is a wide direction—”
