“I charge myself with the care of a lady who needs so much protection,” said Mrs. Berry, unpleasantly.
Mrs. Hawkesley withdrew.
“See that the door is closed, and put down the night-bolt,” said Mrs. Berry. “And do not look scared. The string is here, close to me, so that I can easily draw it, if your nerves should give way, and we should have to call in assistance. I thought that ladies who run over Europe alone were superior to that kind of weakness, and were only weak in their moral sense. Well, why are you here?” she asked, after Laura had complied with her directions.
“You know better than myself, Mrs. Berry.”
“It may be so. I will tell you, at all events, what it is that you think you have come to see and hear. You are prepared to hear a woman whose days or hours are supposed to be numbered, make what is called a death-bed atonement for certain wrongs which she has done, and supplicate forgiveness from a fellow-mortal, before she goes to the great account.”
“No such thought has brought me here. I know of no wrongs which you have done me, Mrs. Berry.”
“That sounds like truth, yet it must be false. Who sent you here?”
“I was advised to come by one who has wronged me wickedly.”
“You are speaking of Mr. Ernest Hardwick?”
The old name sounded so strangely to the ear of Mrs. Lygon that she hesitated one moment in reply.
“Mr. Adair, if you prefer the false name under which he has made himself so acceptable to married ladies.”
“It was his advice.”
“It was good advice, better than he has been in the habit of giving you and your family. What do you expect from following it?”
“I do not know.”
“Ah,” said Mrs. Berry, with a touch of the old venom. “I am right, then. You are to sit there, silent and dignified, to hear the old woman’s confessions, and then to forgive me or not, as your own judgment may dictate.”
“I repeat to you, Mrs. Berry, that I do not know that there is anything which I have to forgive you.”
“I think that you are speaking the truth, but sit there—no, there, more in the light. Yes, you are very obedient, in spite of that proud look. You show me that you expect much, or you would not put up with my speaking to you in this way.”
“If you knew what I have endured,” said Mrs. Lygon, quietly, “you would not be inclined to treat me unkindly.”
“What she has endured!” repeated the older woman. “True, we must spare her feelings—no one but herself has ever had to endure. Well, we must make it as easy for you as we can, Mrs. Lygon, but as you are playing a deep game, you must not be nice. You ran away from your husband, I am told, and now you want him to take you back again. Ah, you don’t even rise indignantly at such words—you are in earnest indeed, and I need not have cautioned you.”
“I am in earnest,” said Laura, calmly.
“And you can afford to despise another woman’s hard words, if you gain your point?”
“Can you, and will you aid me in my object, Mrs. Berry?” replied Laura, still calmly.
“We shall see,” said Mrs. Berry, her cold blue eye resting unpityingly on the speaker. “Is that the volume of your love-letters?”
Laura crimsoned with indignation, and answered,
“This is the collection of infamous writing which the man you have named dared to lay before my brother and sister as mine.”
“Be pleased to lay it before me. Nay, do not be afraid for it. If we had wished to destroy it, are you fool enough to imagine that you could have saved it for a day. Place it there, near me.”
Mrs. Berry reached out her thin arm, bared by the movement, and clutched at the book, looking Laura hard in the face as she did so. Then she began to turn slowly over the leaves, here and there pausing to read a passage, and then passing on, with a strange smile. She seemed purposely to protract this examination, and when she had reached the end, she turned back, and read anew from several pages. At last she said,
“We were very much in earnest, young lady, when we wrote these letters.”
Laura’s look of anger was her only reply.
“But the warmth and ardour of a first love, and the want of knowledge how much we increase our power by disguising our sentiments, are plausible excuses for young persons, even when they do forget themselves, and write down things which they ought not even to think. We must make all allowance.”
The studied malice of the speech defeated itself, and Laura remained in contemptuous silence.
“Penitence in our heart, if not on our lips,” said Mrs. Berry, after waiting some moments to see whether she had exasperated Laura enough for a reply. “And that is the true penitence, my love. Only as you come to claim a confession from me, I think you must not be so very obstinate. Well, are you very sorry for having written these letters?”
“How dare you, as you say on your death-bed, how dare you speak such words to me?” said Laura, trembling with anger.
“That, my love,” said Mrs. Berry, who seemed exulting at the agitation she had caused, “that is a question for myself. You must show a more fitting frame of mind, or I shall not be able to convince myself that you are the kind of person whom I ought to assist. Come, stoop the proud heart, and say that you are very sorry you were ever led into such evil ways, and that you are heartily ashamed of the sins of youth.”
“I am justly punished—”
“Yes, love, that is a very good beginning. You are justly punished—”
“Let me speak, Mrs. Berry. Punished, by this cruel insolence, for having listened to the advice of a villain. I ought not to have come here.”
“Why do you apply that name to my husband?