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 16, 1861.] “We have not the least idea of its meaning,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, with vehemence.

“Then,” said Mrs. Berry, making good play with her handkerchief, “I am indeed most unfortunate. I must throw myself upon your mercy. I have said what I ought never to have said,—I have violated a trust I ought never to have broken. But I have erred in total ignorance that I was going astray. I could not have imagined that what had been confided to a stranger, a stranger at least in blood, would have been concealed from those who, as you say, are the nearest and dearest. And now what am I to do or say? Forget that I have said anything, and let me go.” And she wept.

“After what you have said, Mrs. Berry,” said Hawkesley, in the coldest tone, “it is, of course, clear that you are here for the purpose of saying more. We wait your explanation.” “Do not mistrust me—do not misjudge me,” she replied, earnestly. “I would not have entered this room, after being once assured of the safety of that dear child, if I could have foreseen this. Oh, I have been most foolish—most wicked. Spare me. I spoke heedlessly, and much too strongly,—forget all I have said, and let me leave you.”

“My avocations compel me to be a watchful observer of acting, Mrs. Berry,” said Hawkesley. “If I were in a mood for compliment, I would compliment you on yours.”

The light eyes were behind the handkerchief, so the evil glance that would have followed this speech was saved.

“Mr. Hawkesley,” said Mrs. Berry, with some dignity, “I have begged your forgiveness, and humiliated myself so earnestly, that I think I might have been spared insult. But I accept it as part of the penalty of my thoughtlessness, and I do not forgive myself in the least degree. There is no necessity for my saying anything else; indeed, now that I am calmer, I feel that I have no right to say anything else, and our interview must end. God bless poor dear little Clara.”

Hawkesley thought that she was going to rise, but his wife’s eye more truthfully interpreted Mrs. Berry’s fidget with her drapery.

“Mrs. Berry does not mean to go,” said Beatrice, in the most straightforward manner, “until she has tried to do more mischief than she can manage by lady-like conversations with servants and anonymous letters to tradespeople.

“Dear Mrs. Hawkesley,” replied Mrs. Berry, “do you think that I can be displeased with you for doing and saying everything in your power in favour of your poor sister, or for being hurt to the very soul at hearing anything on the subject. I should be a worse woman than I hope I am if I could cherish a spark of anger against one who is being so bitterly tried. I forgive as much as I understand of your unkind language, and I will forget the rest. I wish that poor Mrs. Lygon were worthier of your devoted affection.”

“How dare—” began Mrs. Hawkesley, with a kindling eye—but her husband laid his hand on her shoulder, and she restrained herself.

“Your husband is, I think, a solicitor, Mrs. Berry?” said Hawkesley.

“He was a solicitor,” replied the lady, quietly, “as Mrs. Hawkesley is very well able to inform you.”

“I never heard of him,” was Mrs. Hawkesley’s prompt reply.

“Yet your father has owed many a debt of kindness—pray do not think for a moment that I am bringing it up ungenerously—but Mr. Vernon has often been indebted to my husband for legal aid, and perhaps for aid of another kind.”

“I repeat that I never heard Mr. Berry’s name.”

“Oh, had he not added the name of Berry to that of Allingham?”

“Allingham—Berry,” repeated Mrs. Hawkesley, eagerly, “Then—then, you were Marion Wagstaffe,” she exclaimed.

“I thought that you recognised me at once,” said Mrs. Berry. “But as you did not say so, I forbore to make allusions to the past, which was not always pleasant.”

“No, I did not recognise you,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, in a low voice.

“I believe it, dear Mrs. Hawkesley, and that had you done so, many words of unkindness would have been spared. Now, do not let an old acquaintance be remembered only by bitter hours, but let me leave you, and pray that time may heal all sorrows.”

“I asked whether your husband were a solicitor,” said Hawkesley, in no way moved by this little episode. “You imply that he was, but is not now in practice. It will be necessary for me to communicate with him, in order to ascertain whether he takes upon himself the liability of answering for the slanders which his wife has been spreading, or whether he intends to repudiate them.”

“I fear,” said Mrs. Berry, preserving her temper with marvellous firmness, “that you do not quite understand the position of matters, Mr. Hawkesley, and that your zeal for your wife’s sister may lead you astray. I will not notice strong words at a time like this, but if there is anything to complain of, the person to complain is Mr. Lygon, and he is my husband’s most intimate friend. It was to Mr. Berry, and not to Mr. Hawkesley, that poor Arthur flew, when he heard of his dreadful sorrow; it was to Mrs. Berry, and not to Mrs. Hawkesley, that the distressed father confided his dearest child; and though doubtless two quiet country people are far less estimable in the eye of society than two London persons, of gay and worldly habits, it was to the country people that Mr. Lygon went for advice and consolation. To threaten us, therefore, is scarcely more wise than it is kind.”

“I cannot bear this,” said Mrs. Hawkesley, with energy. “If Mrs. Berry intends to equivocate and palter, instead of answering outright what it is that she dares to charge Laura with, she may. But now that I know who her husband is, I know too that he is incapable of being a party to any slander or meanness, and it will be for you, Charles, to go down to Lipthwaite to-night, and ask Mr. Berry for an explanation. Six words from him will be enough.”

“Fewer than that will be enough,” replied Mrs. Berry, “and if I do not speak them, it is