“You will be ready to certify, hereafter, that such was the case,” said Mrs. Berry.
“Yes.”
“Then, Mrs. Arthur Lygon, and you, Mrs. Hawkesley, have the goodness to listen to me. In a few days, and perhaps in a few hours, I shall be past knowing or caring what is said or thought of Marion Berry. My own hopes for the future are based upon too secure a rock to leave me in the weak belief that any act of mine will conduce to my eternal welfare. I have made up that account, and the world has nothing to do with it. What I may choose to do now is done of my own free will, and you must not couple it with the thought that I am making an atonement for aught that I may have been led to do in other days. Of my own will and choice I tell you, I am about to make a statement which you will all remember to the day when you, like me, shall be waiting to die.”
She spoke in a low distinct voice, every syllable audible to them all. Mr. Berry’s thoughts were his own—Laura’s were selfish—but Beatrice somewhat less painfully interested, felt, if only for a moment, a sympathy with the hard and guilty woman, who in nature’s last hours was thus wilfully isolating herself, and who sat there almost defiant of those who surrounded her.
“I hold under my hand,” she said, “a book containing letters, the character of which you all know. I call upon Mrs. Arthur Lygon to point out which of those letters she admits to have written. Come here, Laura Lygon, and say which are Laura Vernon’s letters.”
Mrs. Lygon approached the table, and as Mrs. Berry turned the leaves, Laura placed her finger on a note. It was a little note, written in a beautiful and small hand, crossed and crossed.
“That is the first,” said Mrs. Berry. “Edward, take this pen, and mark the letter with your name, that you may hereafter identify it without hesitation.”
Mr. Berry obeyed in silence.
She continued to turn the leaves, and the same process was observed until six letters had been marked. Then Laura, without a word, resumed her seat.
“Nothing more in this volume was written by you?”
“Nothing.”
“Edward, place this Bible on the table.”
She beckoned to Laura, seized her reluctant hand, and held it on the book.
“As God shall judge you, in your dying hour, you have spoken the truth about these letters?”
“I have.”
“Then comes my turn,” said Mrs. Berry, laying her hand upon the Bible. “I call Him to witness the solemn declaration of a dying woman, that the remainder of these letters, twenty in number, were composed by myself, Marion Berry, and by Ernest Hardwick, or Adair, together, and were written, as they appear here, by him only. Take note of this declaration, and to you, Edward Berry, I deliver the volume for safe keeping.”
Mrs. Lygon listened with speechless astonishment to this statement. For a moment she glanced round at the faces of her companions, as if to be assured that they too had heard it. Upon the countenance of Mr. Berry there was nothing but stern composure, and he seemed as one whom no revelation could surprise or grieve. On the face of Mrs. Hawkesley had come the natural look of repugnance.
Mrs. Berry also surveyed the faces of her companions—and a defying smile rose upon the thin lips.
She seemed about to speak, when Mr. Berry said, rising,
“You have no more to say?”
“Nothing to you. Nothing to that lady, who is looking so kindly upon a dying woman.”
“God forgive you—I cannot trust my tongue,” said Beatrice, leaving the room hastily.
“It is well to be prayed for,” said Mrs. Berry, darting an angry glance after her. “Edward, you are the master of the house, attend to your guest. Mrs. Lygon, I have another word or two for you.”
Mr. Berry departed, preserving the silence he had sought to maintain throughout the interview.
“Now, you have something to ask me, or you are less than woman,” said Mrs. Berry, abandoning the cold, malicious tone which she had used, and speaking almost as one who is ready to exchange a confidence for a pleasant question.
“What can I ask you,” said Laura, “wicked, cruel woman. What had a helpless girl done to you that you should do her this wrong?”
“Nothing, it seems. But I believed that she had robbed me of the affections of the only man I ever loved in this world.”
“I?”
“You. I believed that you were the mistress of Ernest Hardwick.”
“You believed that?”
“Yes, I tell you. And he led me to believe it. But as I was more useful to him, from my possession of property, than you, a beggar, could be, he was willing to resign you for me, and I punished what I believed to be his perfidy to me by making him write these letters. Oh, he was well paid for every one. I always paid my debts. Each of those letters cost me gold.”
And she lay back and closed her eyes, exhausted with the last effort, and Laura gazed upon her—gazed as one spell-bound.
Mrs. Berry made no sign for some time, and her stillness might have induced the idea that she had fainted. But when Laura, now eager to escape from her presence, moved towards the door, the dying woman opened her eyes, and said,
“Stay.”
“Why should I stay?”
“Have you no thanks to me for a disclosure which has saved your reputation, by the sacrifice of my own?”
“Do you look for thanks, after the confession of a wrong so wicked that I can hardly bring myself to believe that one woman would inflict it on another. Make your peace with Heaven, Mrs. Berry, for indeed you have need of pardon.”
“You do not offer me your pardon, then?”
“It would be a grievous hypocrisy.”
“Yes, it would. Under the same circumstances, I would never have forgiven you. I would have revenged myself.”
“I do not think of revenge. Let me leave you.”
