“I know that I could live with my husband happily in any house, so long as we had clear consciences.”
“My love, have you considered what a pittance your poor little income would be? Two hundred and sixty pounds a year for two people, at the present price of provisions; and one of the two an extravagant young man.”
“My husband is not extravagant. He has known poverty, and can live on very little. Besides, he has talents, and will earn money. He is not going to fold his hands, and bewail his loss of fortune.”
“My dearest Laura, I shudder at the thought of your facing life upon a pittance, you who have never known the want of money.”
“Dear Mr. Clare, you must think me very weak—cowardly even—if you suppose that I can fear to face a little poverty with the husband I love. I can bear anything except his disgrace.”
“My poor child, God grant you may be spared that bitter trial. If your husband is innocent of all part in his first wife’s death, as you and I believe, let us hope that the world will never know him as the man who has been suspected of such an awful crime.”
“Your son knows,” said Laura.
“My son knows. Yes, Laura; but you cannot for a moment suppose that Edward would make any use of his knowledge against your interest. It was his regard for you that prompted him to the course he took last Sunday night.”
“Is it regard for me that makes him hate my husband? Forgive me for speaking plainly, dear Mr. Clare. You have been all goodness to me—always—ever since I can remember. My heart is full of affection for you and your kind wife: but I know that your son is my husband’s enemy, and I tremble at the thought of his power to do us harm.”
The Vicar heard her with some apprehension. He, too, had perceived the malignity of Edward’s feelings towards John Treverton. He ascribed the young man’s malice to the jealousy of a rejected suitor; and he knew that from jealousy to hatred was but a step. But he could not believe that his son—his own flesh and blood—could be capable of doing a great wrong to a man who had never consciously injured him. That Edward should make any evil use of his knowledge of John Treverton’s identity with the suspected Chicot was to the Vicar’s mind incredible, nay, impossible.
“You have nothing to fear from Edward, my dear,” he said, gently patting the young wife’s hand as it lay despondingly in his, “make your mind easy on that score.”
“There is Mr. Gerard. He, too, knows my husband’s secret.”
“He, too, will respect it. No one can look in John Treverton’s face and believe him a murderer.”
“No,” cried Laura, naively; “those cruel people who wrote in the newspapers had never seen him.”
“My dear Laura, you must not distress yourself about newspaper people. They are obliged to write about something. They could put themselves in a passion about the man in the moon if there were nobody else for them to abuse.”
Laura told the Vicar about the telegram received from Auray, with its promise of good news.
“What can be better than that, my dear,” he cried, delightedly. “And now I want you to come to the Vicarage with me. Celia is most anxious to have you there, as she says you won’t have her here.”
“Does Celia know?” Laura began to ask falteringly.
“Not a syllable. Neither Celia nor her mother has any idea of what has happened. They know that Treverton is away, on business. That is all.”
“Do you think Edward has said nothing?”
“I am perfectly sure that Edward has been as silent as the Sphinx. My wife would not have held her tongue about this sad business for five minutes, if she had had an inkling of it, or Celia either. They would have been exploding in notes of admiration, and would have pestered me to death with questions. No, my dear Laura, you may feel quite comfortable in coming to the Vicarage. Your husband’s secret is only known to Edward and me.”
“You are very good,” said Laura gently, “I know how kindly your invitation is meant. But I cannot leave home. John may come back at any hour. I am continually expecting him.”
“My poor child, is that reasonable? Think how far it is from here to Auray.”
“Think how fast he will travel, when once he is free to return.”
“Very well, Laura, you must have your own way. I’ll send Celia to keep you company.”
“Please don’t,” said Laura quickly. “You know how fond I have always been of Celia—but just now I had rather be quite alone. She is so gay and lighthearted. I could hardly bear it. Don’t think me ungrateful, dear Mr. Clare; but I would rather face my trouble alone.”
“I shall never think you anything but the most admirable of women,” answered the Vicar, “and now put on your hat and walk as far as the gate with me. You are looking wretchedly pale.”
Laura obeyed, and walked through the grounds with her old friend. She had not been outside the house since her husband’s departure, and the keen wintry air revived her jaded spirits. It was along this chestnut avenue that she and John Treverton had walked on that summer evening when he for the first time avowed his love. There was the good old tree beneath whose shading branches they had sealed the bond of an undying affection. How much of uncertainty, how much of sorrow, she had suffered since that thrilling moment, which had seemed the assurance of enduring happiness! She walked by the Vicar’s side in silence, thinking of that curious leave-taking with her lover, a year and a half ago.
“If he had only trusted me,” she thought, with the deepest regret. “If he had only been
