much taken up with you. Laura, what does your look mean?”
“Thank him! Did you not know him?”
“No. Laura, while you speak the truth flashes on me. It was that man. It was Adair! You have returned with him?”
“No, no, no!” cried Laura, clinging yet more closely to Beatrice. “You have not heard—they did not tell you?”
“I see—I see it all—I understand your terror—it is you whom they have not told. Charles’s letter said that, and it was all driven from my mind at seeing you. Laura, you do not suppose—you have no such foolish thoughts—no. That was Ernest Adair at the door?”
“Then you have not heard,” said Laura, in pitiable agitation.
“Yes, I have heard all. I was to have broken it to you gently, but in your state of mind—there, my dearest, do not look so ghastly—it is sad, but we must strengthen ourselves for all our strange fate. Laura, you have been told that Ernest Adair was dead.”
“What?—what?—Beatrice, for Heaven’s love speak very quickly!”
“He escaped—it is poor Robert Urquhart who died.”
With a wild cry—yet it was no cry of despair—Laura buried her face in the cushion of the couch, and wept aloud.
“That is best,” murmured Beatrice. “Anything but another minute of that terror.”
And she allowed Laura’s tears to flow. And then gradually and with all sedulous fondness, Beatrice addressed herself to soothe her, and after a time Laura recovered her self-possession, and laid her head on her sister’s bosom. They did not speak, but each knew the thoughts of the other.
Two hours later the sisters were on their way to Lipthwaite.
“You were right, dear,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, after they had travelled some miles, fortunately alone. “It was better not to see her. What could you have said to her?”
“Much, very much, Beatrice, but this is not the time to say it. And perhaps she could not have borne to hear it.”
“She bears bad news well,” said Beatrice, with some bitterness. “It is for your own sake, not hers, that I am glad we came away without your seeing her. When you come back, you will consult your own feelings.”
“Ah, I see that you have understood Bertha.”
“Yes, and as I never thought to do. I wish that she were well enough to leave us. But we will speak of that to-morrow.”
When they reached Lipthwaite, Mr. Berry was on the platform. He hastily scanned the faces that passed him, and instantly recognising Mrs. Hawkesley, was at the carriage door as it was opened. He raised his hat to the sisters, and merely said,
“The carriage is waiting.”
“The carriage!” repeated Mrs. Hawkesley.
“Certainly. I had your telegraph.”
“I sent none. Laura could have sent none.”
“He sent it,” whispered Mrs. Lygon.
Mr. Berry looked at them in some surprise, but seemed to consider the matter not worth conversation, and led them to the carriage.
“She will see you,” he said to Mrs. Lygon.
No other words passed until they reached Mr. Berry’s house, and the sisters found themselves in the room where Arthur Lygon had had those strange passages of war with her who now lay in the last chamber she was to enter alive.
“There is little time to waste,” said Mr. Berry. “I will let her know that you have arrived.”
But before he could leave the room, Hester entered with a message, desiring Mrs. Lygon to come up-stairs.
“Yes, yes, with me,” said Laura, hurriedly, almost imploringly, to her sister.
Mrs. Hawkesley rose to follow.
“It is not for me to interfere,” said Mr. Berry, “my part is done. But I do not think, Mrs. Hawkesley, that you will be permitted to remain in the room.”
“We will see,” replied Beatrice, quietly.
They were conducted to Mrs. Berry’s room. It was large and cheerful, and there was little to indicate the chamber of sickness. The curtains of the window were drawn back as far as possible, the blinds were raised, and the sashes thrown open, so as to afford the inmate the largest view of the beautiful hill scene before the house. Flowers were upon the tables, and the sunshine, streaming in, did much to banish the thoughts with which a stranger naturally crossed the threshold.
“Lay in that chamber,” has been written.
But it was not so when the sisters entered. Mrs. Berry, if she had been upon the bed, had quitted it, and, enveloped in wrappers, sat in an easy chair, but upright, and as one whose last thought would have been to seek sympathy, or to succumb to reproach. Her hard features had scarcely wasted with illness, and the cold eye, if not as keen as of old, was as unshrinking. Something of a mechanical smile came upon her thin lips as she watched the entrance of Laura and Beatrice, and a slight inclination of the head to the latter intimated that the dying woman was mindful of the proprieties of life, and of the courtesy due to a stranger. Of Laura she took no notice, except that Mrs. Berry pointed to a chair, an attention which she withheld from Beatrice.
“Mr. Berry is below, I believe?” she said, in a distinct voice.
“Yes,” replied Mrs. Hawkesley.
“Will you, madam, do me the favour to sit with him for a short time? We shall not detain you long.”
“My sister has been and is very ill,” said Beatrice, gently, “and she requires assistance.”
“I have been and am very ill,” returned Mrs. Berry, “and I require compliance. That is, if this visit is not one of mere attention to a sick woman. In that case I am obliged, and will detain neither.”
Her tone was one which conveyed an unmistakeable decision, and the sisters felt it.
“It must be as Mrs. Berry wishes, of course,” said Mrs. Hawkesley; “but you will ring for me, dear Laura, if you are in need of me.”
