He paused, but there was no answer from Laura except a half-stifled sob.
“Laura, can you pity and pardon me? For God’s sake say that I am not utterly despicable in your eyes.”
“Despicable? no!” she said, lifting up her tear-stained face, ashy pale, and drawn with pain, “not despicable, John, You could never be that, in my eyes. But wrong, oh, so deeply wrong! See what shame and anguish you have brought upon both of us! What was Jasper Treverton’s fortune worth to either of us that you should be guilty of a fraud in your endeavour to gain it for me?”
“A fraud?”
“Yes. Do you not see that our first marriage, being really no marriage, was an imposition and a sham—that neither you nor I have a right to a sixpence of Jasper Treverton’s money, or an acre of his land, All is forfeited to the hospital trusts, We have no right to live in this home, We possess nothing but my income. We can live upon that, Jack. I am not afraid to face poverty with you; but I will not live an hour under the weight of this shameful secret. Mr. Clare and Mr. Sampson must know the truth at once.”
Her husband was kneeling at her feet, looking up at her with a radiant face.
“My love, my dearest, you have made me too happy. You do not shrink from me—you do not abandon me. Poverty! no, Laura, I am not afraid of that. I have feared only the loss of your love. That has been my ever-present fear. That one great dread has sealed my lips.”
“You can never lose my love, dear. It was given to you without the power of recall. But if you want to regain my esteem you must act bravely and honourably. You must undo the wrong you have done.”
“We will hold a council tonight, Laura. We will take Edward Clare’s cards out of his hands.”
“What? Does Edward know?”
“He knows that I and Chicot are one.”
“Ah, then I can understand the look he gave you on the night of our first dinner-party—a look full of malignity. He had just been talking of Chicot.”
She shuddered as she pronounced a name associated with such unspeakable horror. And that name was her husband’s; the man branded with the suspicion of a hideous crime was her husband.
“I am afraid Edward is your secret enemy,” she said, after a pause.
“I am sure he is—and I believe he is on the eve of becoming my open enemy. It will be a triumph in a small way for me to take the initiative, and resign the estate.”
XXXII
On His Defence
A letter was brought to the Vicar just as he was sitting down to his five o’clock dinner that Sunday evening in the bosom of his family. The Vicar dined at five on Sundays, giving himself an hour for his dinner, and fifty minutes for repose after it, before he left home for the seven o’clock service. There were those among his congregation who affirmed that the tone of the Vicar’s evening sermon depended very much upon his satisfaction with his dinner. If he dined well he took a pleasant view of human nature and human frailty, and was milder than Jeremy Taylor. If his dinner had been a failure the bitterest Calvinism was not severe enough for him.
“From the Manor House, sir,” said the parlourmaid. “An answer waited for.”
“Why do people bring me letters just as I am sitting down to my dinner?” ejaculated the Vicar, pettishly. “From Treverton, too. What can he have to write about?”
Edward Clare looked up, with an eager face.
“Wants to see me after church this evening—particular business,” said the Vicar. “Tell Mr. Treverton’s man, yes, Susan. My compliments, and I’ll be at the Manor House before nine.”
Edward was mystified. Was John Treverton going to throw himself upon the Vicar’s mercy—to win that good easy man over to his cause—and persuade him to wink at the fraud upon the trusts under Jasper’s will? Edward had no opinion of his father’s wisdom, or his father’s strength of mind. The Vicar was so weakly fond of Laura.
“I hate going out of an evening in such weather,” said Mr. Clare, “but I suppose Treverton has something important to say, or he would hardly ask me to risk a bronchial attack.”
Tom Sampson, sitting by his comfortable fireside, solacing himself for the Sabbath dullness with a cup of strong tea and a dish of buttered toast, was also surprised by a letter from the Manor House, asking him to go there between eight and nine that evening.
“I am sorry to trouble you about business on Sunday, but this is a matter which will not keep,” wrote John Treverton.
“I never did!” exclaimed Eliza Sampson, when her brother had read the brief letter aloud.
Eliza was always protesting that she never did. This fragmentary phrase was her favourite expression of astonishment.
And then Miss Sampson began to speculate upon the probable nature of the business which required her brother’s presence at the Manor House. People who live in such a secluded village as Hazlehurst are very glad of anything to wonder about on a
