enough to say that there could be no more for us. Arthur, if ever woman loved deeply and truly, it is Laura. She has been devoted to you, and so proud of you that even when things have been said at which other wives might have taken fire—I might and should—I own it—Laura has been silent in her scorn of them—she knew you, and that was enough. If you could not see her love in her whole life, if you wanted the incessant assurance of it, indeed, Arthur, you did not deserve such a treasure as Laura. But even then you might think of her as a mother, and ask yourself whether one who so idolised her children, who watched over them with such perfect and patient love, had no place for their father in her large, warm, true heart. Oh, you know not what wild, wicked folly has entered your brain, what bitter tears you will one day pay for having been so wilfully blind.”
“I honour your sisterly love, Beatrice; in return, believe in my suffering. Now we will say no more on this. I had wished to spare you such an interview, but I was forced by your husband to assent to meet you. You have said nothing that I was not prepared to hear—do you need to be told that I would give my right hand to feel as you would wish me to feel?”
“See Laura,” sobbed Beatrice.
“Why inflict needless pain? She cannot desire to see me, after what has passed, and it is better for both that we should make our arrangements through others. Your sister, Beatrice, will have no reason to complain of me. I leave all in the hands of Charles and yourself.”
“Arthur, she will die.”
“Spare such appeals, Beatrice, because they force from me answers which I am grieved to make.”
“She will die.”
Arthur Lygon made no answer.
“Yes, Arthur,” said Beatrice, “it is true. But I will not say that her heart should break for one who has shown how little he deserves her love. You will destroy her in another way.”
“Beatrice?”
“Yes. Those children, whom she adores—”
“A word, Beatrice. Are you already so unjust towards me? Are you suspecting me of an intention to avenge myself—to repay Laura for her deceit, to punish her, in short? Think better of me. Your husband will tell you how far was such an idea from my mind—ask him.”
“It is due to Lygon,” said Hawkesley, “to say that his own resolution, taken without a word on the subject from me, is to leave to Laura the entire custody of the three children, with the single condition that they visit him when he desires it.”
“Or at times of her own appointment—when she can best part with them,” added Mr. Lygon.
“And men make law for women, and understand them no better!” exclaimed Beatrice Hawkesley. “Oh, Arthur, how little do you know Laura. How, if God is good to you—better to you than you deserve—you will look back with shame and humiliation upon what you have said to-day. Charles, dearest, I am not accusing you—it was not your province to know the depth of that loving heart, and yet you know it more truly than he who should have treasured it like his life. The custody of the children is to be entrusted to Laura,” she repeated, bitterly. “Oh, if you knew! And you shall know it,” she added, impetuously, “and I care not what follows.”
Beatrice hurried from the room.
“Do not reproach yourself, Charles,” said Lygon. “You did what you deemed right in bringing me here.”
“If I reproach myself, Arthur, it is because I am helping you to inflict pain where it is undeserved,” said Hawkesley. “I am in my own house, or I might say more.”
The door opened, and Mrs. Hawkesley led in Laura to the presence of her husband.
She was pale as snow, and she trembled visibly.
One glance, it was scarcely furtive, and yet timid as the look of a girl. She saw the worn and weary look on the handsome features of her husband, and then her eyes were turned away, and sought his no more. She had read enough, in failing to find that which woman reads with a glance of lightning.
Arthur Lygon bent his head in silence.
Mrs. Hawkesley spoke, and it was almost with solemnity—in a tone very rare in that cheery, kindly voice:
“Do not let us take one step more in a course which has begun in error, but which should not end in misery. Surely it is enough that one of three sisters is a miserable widow, through a fatal persistence in mystery and wrong. At least let the dead be mourned for, before we heap new sorrow on the living. Arthur, and Charles, I have brought Laura here, not that anything may be unsaid that has been said in this room to-night, but that you may understand something that was said by me. Arthur, your wife was in this house this morning, and refused to let me send for her children. Those children are in the house now, and their mother has not seen them.”
“May I—may I not see them, Arthur?” said Laura, faintly.
“My God!” said Arthur Lygon, pained to the very heart at her tone. “Why have you not seen them? Why do you not see them? Could I know this?”
“Yes,” said Mrs. Hawkesley.
“Beatrice!” said Lygon, in astonishment.
“Let me speak for her,” said Beatrice. “Let nothing come from her lips that can add to the painful recollections of this time. How painful they will be, even when we are all happy, who can tell. Arthur, you do not need to be told how a mother’s heart is throbbing to feel her children pressing to it—you love them, but what is a father’s love to a mother’s?”
“Why are they not with her?” replied Arthur Lygon, almost angrily.
“Because Laura will not look upon the faces of her children—yes, and you may sever them if you will, until her heart has broken—but she will not see her children until her husband has forgiven an error which, when she dares, she will explain—which meant, as he will one day believe, that she loved him too well to be wise.”
“May I see my children, Arthur?” said a sweet voice, broken by sobs.
