Beatrix did not know how to refuse the mother's prayer. She knew that
Laurel's heart was yearning for the child, and she did not really think
that it would do her any injury to see him. She made her promise that
she would not excite herself, and then she went after the little lad
who was as usual at play with Trixy upon the shore.
She made Laurence promise that he would be very gentle and quiet in his
mamma's room, and he very readily agreed to do so. She knew that he was
a little gentleman who would keep his word of honor, and so she sent
him in and waited outside patiently until that momentous interview was
over.
Laurel kept the child almost an hour. No one knew just what she said to
him or how much of the past she revealed to him, but the boy came out
with a face all glowing with joy and sought little Trixy.
To her he confided his joyous news:
"I have a real, live papa, Trixy. He is not dead as we thought. He is
good and handsome--as handsome as your papa, Trixy, dear, and when
mamma gets well she is going to take me to him."
Trixy was delighted at the good fortune that had befallen her boy
lover. It formed an inexhaustible theme with them. They discussed it
daily and compared notes on their papas in the most earnest fashion.
Laurence was very impatient to have his mamma get well. The vague
longing that had haunted him all his lifetime would be realized when he
went home to that splendid papa whom already he loved in anticipation.
Laurel convalesced very fast. Since she had heard that her husband
still lived, there was a great change in her. She was very grave and
thoughtful, even amounting to sadness. Beatrix could not understand
her. She was fonder than ever of her child; but there seemed to be a
sort of passionate sorrow mingled with her love. She would fondle and
caress him, and then she would weep bitterly over him.
"Why do you weep over your child?" Beatrix asked her, in wonder.
"I love him so dearly," answered Laurel, evasively.
"I cannot understand why that should be a reason for weeping over him.
You ought to be quite happy over such a beautiful boy," said impulsive
Beatrix, sighing, as she thought of her own little lad sleeping far
away beneath the skies of England.
"I _am_ happy over him," said Laurel. "But, oh, Beatrix, you do not
quite understand me. Hitherto my little Laurence has belonged only to
me. He came to me in a dark and troublous time, when I was alone and
friendless in the world. I worked for him, I made money for him, and I
filled up the void in my heart with his baby-love. But for him I should
have died. I could not have borne my life. And now we shall be parted,
I and my little son. I shall give him to his father; but, oh, Beatrix,
what shall I do without him?"
"I cannot understand you, indeed, Laurel," said simple Beatrix. "You
are going home to your husband, are you not, dear? Surely you will not
mind dividing the child's love with him. Think how selfishly you have
kept it to yourself all these years, and you will not lose him or be
parted from him. You know what the poet says: 'Half is his, and half is
thine.' Depend upon it, Laurel, you will be happier in the child's love
when his father shares it. It is only natural that you should be."
"You will understand my meaning better in a little while, dear
Beatrix," Laurel answered, gently, and then she abruptly changed the
subject.
"I have always wanted to ask you about Clarice Wells," she said. "What
has become of her?"
Beatrix laughed, sweetly and gayly.
"I am glad you have not forgotten Clarice," she said. "She was a good
girl, and she admired you very much. I was sorry to lose her when I
left England, but I could not forbid the bans."
"She is married, then?" asked Laurel.
"Yes, and her marriage was quite romantic. Should you like to hear
about it?"
"Very much," Laurel replied.
"You would scarcely believe it of one so devoted to the laws of Caste,
and who lectured you so roundly for aspiring above your station, but
Clarice is actually the wife of an English baronet," laughed Beatrix,
"and it all happened in the most romantic fashion. I always thought
that Clarice had a spice of romance in her nature. She betrayed it
when she lent herself so readily to the furtherance of our girlish
conspiracy."
"Yes," sighed Laurel.
"She met him--her baronet--in the Alps, where we were taking our little
summer holidays," continued Beatrix. "He was summering there, too,
and 'they met by chance--the usual way,' you know, Laurel. She saved
his life--he was rolling down a precipice and she adroitly caught
him back--she was always a quick-witted little thing. Well, he was
grateful, she was interested, and, next thing, they fell in love.
Clarice was very sensible at first. She refused to have anything to say
to him, and I applauded her. But, really, Laurel, it was not so bad. He
was not, 'to the manner born.' Until a year before he had been plain
John Bull, a briefless barrister. He had succeeded to the baronetage by
a series of accidental and unexpected deaths of heirs-presumptive, and
he was plain and sensible, and forty years old at least."
"I do not think his age was any objection," cried Laurel, hastily, and
blushing very much.
"No, indeed, and it did not prove so in this case," smiled Beatrix.
"He would not take her No for an answer. He never rested until he made
pretty Clarice 'my lady.'"
"It is very romantic. I shall make it a plot for a novel," declared
Laurel. "I dare say Clarice would not scold me now for aspiring above
my station," she added, with a pretty, pensive smile.
"I dare say not," said Beatrix, greatly amused. "Exceptions alter
cases."