The Frenchwoman was commissioned, sorely to Laura's perplexity, to take

her to the station from which they were to start for Vienna according

to L'Estrange's plans. But she had full confidence in her friend, and

made no demur. He went in a separate conveyance, meeting them in the

waiting-room. Before he joined them he looked round searchingly. The

train was on the point of starting, and the first-class passengers,

penned up in expectation of the signal to take their places, were not

many. L'Estrange seemed to breathe more freely as at last he sat down

by Laura, and there was a light of triumph and hope in his face, which

the keen-eyed Frenchwoman remarked. She kept her own counsels, but

her eyes were moist as she bade them heartily farewell. Laura and her

companion sped onward for another weary journey. Travelling was life

to him, it had become his second nature, and the child was so tenderly

cared for, so constantly amused, that she scarcely knew how long the

time was.

A night and a day and another night, with only a few hours'

interval--for she cared no more for rest than her companion--and at

last Vienna was reached. There L'Estrange determined to rest for a few

days, because he feared that in spite of all his efforts the child's

health might suffer from the constant movement; besides, he had given

orders that letters should be addressed to a hotel in that city. Some

of these might possibly contain information which would greatly affect

their further movements.

L'Estrange was beginning to be cautious, for he saw he was

watched--that an effort was being made to follow him. This puzzled him

considerably. He could not imagine how the search had arisen. He had

thought that his letter would have explained everything to Margaret,

and that with the hope before her of the child being instrumental in

bringing back the father she would have acquiesced in his certainly

rather wild proceedings. She knew him well enough to be aware that,

heavy as his sins had been, from this sin he was free. He had never

hurt a weak thing. She had known and seen how in the past his

tenderness had carried him even too far sometimes, and she could not

believe him so utterly changed. He had imagined that when she knew

of his sudden repentance she would have been ready even to trust her

treasure in his hands, in full faith that he meant well by her and by

her child. And so far L'Estrange was right. If Margaret had received

that strange letter, penned, as it were, with his heart's life blood,

she would have been woman enough to have read its reality--she would

have waited patiently, trustfully for the issue. The misfortune was

that she did _not_ receive it.

He had written to her again from Paris, but this time he had been

still more bewildered about the address. Laura could not assist. Like

her friend, she could have found her way to her mother's cottage even

in the night, but she had never thought much about the name of the

place where she lived, and its spelling was quite beyond her. Fate was

inexorable. His second letter went astray like the first, and Laura,

who was hoping for an answer to her big letters, and L'Estrange, who

was looking passionately for one line to tell him that he was forgiven

and understood, were both destined to disappointment. There was a

letter, however, an English letter, which partially explained the

mystery of the attempt to recapture Laura on the Champs Elysées.

Mr. Robinson, that most respectable of solicitors, had been highly

satisfied with the contents of the mysterious little packet which

his foreign client had put into his hands at the Great Northern

Station. It confirmed him in his opinion that the Frenchman was

likely to be valuable. He determined at once to make himself useful.

And no one understood better how to make himself useful without

needlessly disturbing his conscience or compromising his character

for rectitude. He had scented a mystery in the fair-haired English

child, and Margaret's story, related to him on the day following his

meeting with L'Estrange, made him imagine that he saw through it.

Hence his lukewarmness in the pursuit entrusted to him. But the young

Arthur's vigorous championship alarmed him for his client. He saw that

everything would be done for the recovery of the child, whom it was

his firm conviction the Frenchman had stolen, from some motive utterly

unguessed at by himself.

After Arthur had left him the lawyer cogitated for a while. It would

not do for him, in his capacity of family lawyer to Mrs. Grey, and more

especially still in his character for even ultra-scrupulousness, to

appear to connive at such a deed as this of his client's, but he might,

by warning him of the search which was being set on foot, buy his

gratitude, and, what was better still, bind him to himself.

After much planning he resolved to give the little episode of Arthur's

visit and the search that was being inaugurated for the lost child as

a piece of gossip which might be interesting to his client on account

of his supposed connection with Laura's father. The letter was a grand

piece of lawyer's art, and Mr. Robinson chuckled over it with delight.

L'Estrange saw through the artifice, and as he read the letter his dark

face looked grim. Opposition was like food to his determined soul. He

set his teeth together, vowing inwardly that he would carry out his

project in spite of them all.

They were detained at Vienna. It was as he had feared: the constant

movement, the over-excitement, the strange, new life, had been too

much for Laura. She had a slight feverish attack, but her friend, who

knew a little of everything, had studied medicine in his early years,

not with a view of entering the profession, for as a profession he

despised it, but simply to increase and intensify his power over his

fellows. He knew how to treat the child, and was not even alarmed at

her sudden weakness. Rest and quietness were the best remedies, and

these he gave her, with some simple medicine whose efficacy he had

often tested. The child was inclined to be sorely fretted at the delay.

On the sixth day of their stay in Vienna (she was lying on a sofa in a

splendidly-furnished room that looked out upon the broad, grand Danube

flowing majestically through the city, and her friend for the first

time had left her a few minutes alone) this impatience grew almost too

great to be borne. She buried her head in the sofa-pillows, and the

wailing plaint for mamma came now and then, with heavy sobs, from her

child's heart. This continued for some little time. When she looked up

again, trying with the vain endeavor of a troubled child to stay her

weeping and think no more of her sorrow, L'Estrange was standing at the

head of the sofa looking down on her. His arms were folded, he stood

perfectly still, and there was on his face a look of such fixed and

hopeless sadness that, child as she was, she recognized it suddenly.

Her own tears ceased to flow, and for a moment she looked back into his

face as if, with the angelic intuition of her age (I wonder if angels

do whisper these secrets to the little ones?), she would find out and

understand what was the great woe that oppressed him. Then, as if she

had come to a partial understanding, she raised herself on the sofa and

tried with all her small strength to draw down his dark, weary-looking

face to the level of hers. He yielded to the sweet compulsion; kneeling

beside her, he suffered her to lay his head on the sofa-pillow and draw

his cheek to hers.

It was a very simple mode of consolation. She only whispered again and

again the name he had taught her to call him, and pressed her childish

lips to his forehead, and stroked back his hair with her small, hot

fingers; but it was very effectual. The dark look left her friend's

face. It was as though "a spirit from the face of the Lord" had visited

him.

He lifted the little one into his arms and held her there for a few

minutes, then, with a softness of tone and manner which none but the

pure child could awake in him, he told her a part, at least, of his

trouble. It was in the form of a parable. "Laura," he murmured--the

darkness was gathering, and two or three stars had begun to shine out

in the sky--"look up: what do you see?"

"The sky, mon père; and now, ah, see! the stars are beginning to

shine--one, two, three. I can see them in the water too."

"Do you know what it is that makes them so bright, fillette?"

The child shook her head.

"No, ma mie, nor do I very well, except that it is a transparent,

beautiful something we in this world call light: what this something is

I know not; I can only tell that the light is very good. Now, shall I

tell you a story that came into my head a little minute ago, about the

stars out there and the light?"

"Yes, yes!" Laura clasped her hands with delight.

In the joy of one of her friend's own stories even the trouble about

her mother was for the time forgotten.

He stopped as if to think. How often in the long after-time, when

L'Estrange was to the child only the memory of a strange dream, when

the knowledge that womanhood brought threw its light on this part

of her life, did Laura remember his look that evening. Even then,

in her childhood's ignorance, it touched and charmed her, till all

unconsciously she clung to him more closely and trusted him more

fully. He was looking up. The fitful twilight was playing on his

broad, massive brow, and on that brow was rest. But in the deep-set,

passionate eyes, in the quivering lips, the struggle could still be

read. A longing seemed to look out from his face--a longing that held

and enchained him till it could be satisfied.

They sat by the window, L'Estrange in a deep arm-chair, the child in

her favorite position on his knee. And after a pause, during which

they were both looking up, watching how one star after another lit its

small lamp in the sky, he began in a dreamy tone, rather as if he were

speaking to himself than to any listener: "They are all alive; yes,

must it not be so? for every body has a soul. Those bright ones that

walk in light amid the ceaseless music of the spheres are instinct with

the mystery that we of this world call Life. And why should this not

be? for life consists in the power of movement and volition. Surely

they move. Science proves that they revolve evermore in their grand

orbits, and surely they _will_ to shine, for it is only when we need

their light that the light appears. Yes, it is true--these bright

things live. They suffer pain, they know delight as well as we."

Then, as the clasping arms of the little one recalled him to the

remembrance of her presence, he smiled: "I promised a story, and ma

fillette will scarcely understand such philosophy yet. It was a prelude

to the tale. Listen, then, ma mie. Those bright things up there are

alive. Each one has its spirit, a being more beautiful than we of earth

can conceive. I must describe them, must I? Hélas, bébé! I fear it

is beyond me. I must tell, then, of things that have not for me the

beauty they once had--the golden dawn, and the silver twilight, and

the freshness of early youth, and the mildness of sunset skies. Put

all these together and thou hast a part only of the fairness of these

beings, who were placed by God thousands of ages since in the bright

stars up there. The spirits were given a work to do. They were to shine

when the sun, who was made to be king over them all, had gone away to

rest behind the sky. The stars were glad when they were told to shine,

for they were all good, and this shining, which is for the good of our

dark world down here, made them happy. Little children who look, as ma

fillette is doing now, at those stars up there, feel glad when they see

the light, but they do not know that the stars are glad too--that when

they shine out in the night they are singing aloud for joy."

Laura looked delighted, and put out her hand to stop her friend for a

moment: "They must be singing now. Oh listen! Perhaps we shall hear

them."

But he shook his head and smiled: "No, petite: long ago, when there

were very few people, this music was heard. Now there are too many

noises; but if any one could hear it would be such as thee."

Then he stopped again, and there came a sad look into his eyes. "There

are more stars up there than we can see," he went on, "for some are not

allowed to shine. They lie in the night like dead things, but still

they are alive, for sadness is in their hearts, and this sadness is

greatest now when all the others are shining and singing out for joy."

Laura's eyes looked sorrowful. "Why do they sing so loud?" she asked;

"they might be sorry for the poor little dead stars."

"Some of them are so far away that it would take them thousands of

years even to know that the light of the poor dead stars had gone out,

and so they cannot tell that their singing makes the dead stars sad;

but those who are near are sad, and sometimes even try to help. My

story is about one of the dead stars. He was meant to be a beautiful

star, for his spirit was great and strong, with mighty wings and eyes

piercing like those of an eagle. Every day he knelt before God's white

throne, which is quite in the middle of those stars, and every night

he shone out into the darkness with a fair and glorious shining, and

sang more loudly and sweetly than any. But there came a time when

the star-spirit grew tired of this happy life: his light shone less

brightly than it had done, his voice was sometimes missed from the

night-chorus. A change had come over him, and this was what had caused

it. There had come to him at a time when he was resting idly on his

wings in that dark azure above--it was too early for his light to be

shining, and he had left the crystal throne--a being until then unknown

to him. It was dark and mournful, with black plumes covering it from

head to foot, and nothing of light about it but a last remnant that

shone from its eyes. This was the spirit of darkness, whose dominions

had been invaded and conquered by light. The spirit of the night let

her black plumes fall, and the star saw she was beautiful--with a

beauty that did not belong to the light, it is true, but that still

possessed a wild charm of its own. It was fascinating to him, perhaps,

because unlike anything he had ever seen before."

L'Estrange was getting past Laura, but he had almost forgotten the

child, and she listened, not understanding much, but entranced as she

might have been by some bewitching melody. Her friend paused for a

moment; when he continued his voice was low, and its tones were more

sad than they had been:

"The star-spirit and the spirit of the night met many times, and at

each time of their meeting the light of the star waned fainter. At

last, when the fascination with which she surrounded him had reached

its full force, he forgot, or omitted purposely, to light his lamp and

shine with his companion-spheres in the midnight heavens. Terrible

things happened that night, for our star, which was very bright and

large, had been well known upon the earth.

"Sailors had given it a name of their own, and often, when the sea was

all round them and they could not tell where they were, looking up they

had seen this star, and its light had guided them. On this night the

sea was running high, and as usual the sailors had looked up for their

star, that they might know no rocks were near. Think of their despair

when they found it not! Ah! there was one great ship full of women and

little children. The sailors had lost their way. They looked up for

the star which had guided them so often: hélas! its bright shining was

swallowed up by the darkness. They took a wrong path in the waters,

the big ship struck upon a rock, the women and little children were

drowned. The star-spirit did not know this. He felt no sadness that

night, for the spirit of darkness was with him; yet the next night,

when he would have shone out in his place, he found that the power of

shining had gone from him--that his star was a dead star in the sky.

Ah, mon Dieu! to tell of his sadness! He would have no more to say to

the night-spirit who had tempted him; he shut himself up in his dark

star; he waited, waited, night after night, thinking that the power

and gladness of shining might come back. It did not come; even, it

seemed, his star grew blacker as the ages passed, as if the dark spirit

were wrapping it round in her heavy plumes. So sad a change! No little

children looking up to him, no weary traveller blessing him for his

help, no pleasant music sounding from him in the evening; nothing but

darkness, sorrow, misery. The stars went singing about him, and he lay

there still, all his gladness gone out of him--a dead star in heaven.

At last there came a night when the singing was louder and more joyous,

and the spirit of the dead star, who had been hiding his head for shame

at his darkness, looked out to see what it meant. A baby-star had been

born into the sky, and all its sisters and brothers were rejoicing over

its birth. The spirit of the dead star saw that its light was very

near where his had been. It was feeble, but clear as dawn. The sight

of the tiny light recalled to him the time when he too had shone out,

a new joy and gladness, into the sky, and folding his wings he wept,

as only spirits can weep, for a time that we on earth should call

years. Perhaps his weeping made him better. It is impossible to say;

but suddenly in the midst of it he heard a sound. It was clear, like

the dripping of water from a fountain; it was silvery, like the ringing

of bells in the distance. The spirit lifted his head from his folded

wings, and there--even in his habitation, in the dead star whose light

he had been--stood a beautiful child-spirit, her head drooping, her

snowy wings folded over her breast, a small lamp in her hand. When the

spirit of the dead star looked at the child she trembled, as if with

fear at her own boldness; so the spirit could not be angry, although

he knew this was the baby-light that had caused his weeping through

those long dark years. Indeed, as he looked up he began to feel love

stirring in his heart; the child-spirit was so beautiful and good, and

her voice was like music. For she spoke when she saw she needed not to

fear. 'I have come to stay with thee,' she whispered, 'for thy darkness

and silence made my heart ache, and I have been praying to come for

all these years. At last I have been allowed. Must I go away into the

darkness?'

"He was moved with the child-spirit's humility and love. He rose, and

towering above her in his grandeur gathered her up into his breast.

'Thou shalt stay with me for ever,' he answered. It was the night-time.

Even as the spirit spoke he became conscious of a certain gladness

unknown to him for the ages of darkness that had passed, and the

everlasting song and music grew suddenly louder and more joyous. The

child had broken the spell of night's spirit, she had brought him of

her light, and he was born again, feebly but truly, into the sky."

L'Estrange stopped and looked down with a half smile, then his brow

contracted. Laura had been listening breathlessly. She could not

understand his tale, but its strangeness charmed her. "Is that all?"

she said with a long-drawn sigh.

"Not quite all," he answered; then, as if to himself, "the end has

yet to come. They were very happy together," he continued after a few

moments' silence, "the spirit of the star that had been dead, but was

gradually being restored to life and gladness, and the child whose

presence had wrought the wonder. Once more the spirit of the star bowed

down by day before the great white throne, and the child went with

him; her angelic purity made her welcome there. But one day when they

returned there was sadness at the heart of the spirit of the star, for

he had learned that the child who had restored him was not to be left

with him for ever; she had another work to do. He looked at her. _She_

could not be sad, for, unlike the other spirit, she had never sinned,

and perhaps this made his sadness the greater. Then it had been sweet

to shine and sing with his companion-spheres, and he hardly knew how

he would be able to shine and sing alone. But he would not keep her

back. Another one, sad, it might be, in his darkness, wanted her,

and with the life and gladness his child-messenger had brought him

love. So"--L'Estrange's voice sank--"he let her go, his beautiful, his

God-given--he let her go."

He said no more. For a few moments there was deep silence between them.

Something of his sadness and a knowledge of its cause had penetrated

the child's soul through his parable. Her eyes filled with tears. She

looked up at the starry multitude, shining out now in their full glory

above her, with a new love. At last she spoke, laying her head against

his breast: "But, mon père, the spirit of the star shone out still?"

He answered sadly: "Mon enfant, I know no more."

CHAPTER IV.

_MOSCOW._

Mind's command o'er mind,

Spirit o'er spirit's, is the close effect

And natural action of an inward gift

Given of God.

Laura was much better the next day; indeed, the improvement was so

great that her protector considered himself justified in pressing on

for another stage of their journey. She was not so joyful as might

have been expected. Perhaps his parable had calmed the little girl,

making her impatience less by the hint of possible separation. Laura

cared very much for her friend. She had become so united to him in

thought and affection that she could scarcely imagine a future without

him. We must remember that with little ones, especially when their

natures are impressionable like Laura's, it does not take long for

these attachments to be formed. With them habit passes quickly into

a necessity. It was thus with Laura. She had become so accustomed to

her friend's protecting tenderness that she could not bear to think of

being separated from him. But Laura was not untrue to her mother. She

thought as much as ever of her return to the little cottage by the sea.

Only in thus far her dreams and ideas were changed. She could not and

would not think of that return, of those pleasant days when mamma would

be happy and papa at home, without including in them all this kind

guide who was planning their happiness.

Her friend's look at the end of his tale had been so sad that she dared

not ask for an explanation, and indeed her own little heart had been

almost too full of sympathy with the bereaved star-spirit for her to

think of much else at the moment. But to this one thing in her after

reflections Laura made up her mind: her friend should go back with her

to her mother, he should not look so sad, they would make him as happy

as they would be. In fact, the child mapped out the future, as many of

her elders will do, in those long days of travelling that succeeded

their stay in Vienna.

They were very long and very wearisome, unbroken by incident of any

kind; the very passengers became few, and the towns scattered as

they advanced. It was not difficult to get a carriage to themselves,

but certainly some comforts were necessary to make the long journeys

tolerable. Laura, however, had no relapse. At every possible

resting-place her companion watched narrowly to see if fatigue were

taking any effect upon her. He was reassured. The child slept, ate and

made herself happy.

L'Estrange was not so fortunate. Anxiety, suspense, and a certain vague

uneasiness of conscience concerning even this late delight--which

seemed to have aroused the latent good that was in him--kept him

wakeful, and by the time Moscow was nearly reached the faithful child

noticed that he looked pale and ill. She told him so with a sweet

womanly concern that sat strangely on her child's face. But he only

smiled, and said rest would set him right. Evening had fallen on the

earth when at last Moscow the long-desired dawned on the sight of the

wanderers. It was from the midst of a desolate country, bleak and

half cultivated, that it rose suddenly, almost, as it were, by magic,

its glittering cupolas and myriad towers visible long before the city

itself came in sight.

L'Estrange, who knew all about this strange appearance (he had

travelled through Russia before), pointed it out to the child. Very

little could have surprised Laura much at this time; she had been

living ever since she had left quiet Middlethorpe in an atmosphere

of wonders; but amongst them all this arrival had been looked to as

something pre-eminent. For Moscow was the city where this wonderful

father was hiding. Laura was fully convinced that he would be the first

person they should meet in the streets, and it did not seem unnatural

that Moscow itself should be strange as any of the wonders in the

Arabian tales. Perhaps, Laura reasoned with herself, it was because it

was so beautiful and wonderful that her father had remained there. She

had heard of people who had gone to heaven, not wishing to come back,

and vaguely she blent the two ideas together till the feeling in her

mind was something like this: Moscow was like heaven, so beautiful and

delightful that those who went there never wanted to go home again.

The first sight of the ancient city was enough to justify her dreams.

It was to the child like a glimpse of Fairyland. Once at the window,

watching the gradual approach, out of the pale evening light, of

those dim, ghostly giants that lifted their stately heads from the

surrounding dimness, nothing would persuade her to leave it.

They drew nearer and the darkness gathered, so that Laura, though

straining her eyes into it, could see nothing. When they arrived

finally, and drove into the enchanted city, its wonders were hidden

by the dim, gray night of the North. From the magic and dazzle that

through the twilight had shone many-colored on the background of sky,

they passed to a hotel exceedingly like the others at which they had

put up.

It was a death to the child's first illusion. Her companion watched

her curiously. He noted how the dazzle of expectation and wonder died

out of her eyes, and how the real, growing weariness began to assert

itself after the excitement which had veiled it for the time. They were

together in the handsome, stately saloon--alone, for travellers at this

season were few; the short, bright summer of the North was nearly over,

the evenings were becoming gray, the nights black and dreary. There was

a large square black monument in the room they occupied that emitted a

close heat, and the process of shutting out carefully all external air

had begun.

L'Estrange seated himself on one of the massive couches and drew the

child to his side. "What is it, petite?" he asked as he noted her

disappointment.

"Where is papa?" she questioned sadly.

"We shall look for him to-morrow."

He threw off his hat as he spoke, and the child saw that his face was

very weary-looking and sad. Fatigue, anxiety and want of sleep were

gradually taking their effect on his strong frame, while the close air

of the room in his weak condition almost overpowered him.

"Mon père," she said, clinging to him, "how pale you look!"

He tried to rouse himself: "I am tired, fillette."

But suddenly the pallor spread till his very lips were blanched. He

sank back on the couch with a faint moan, yet even then the soul of

the man was strong enough to conquer partially the physical weakness.

He thought of her through the pain that was striving to master him; he

saw her face of despair, though a film seemed to be gathering over his

sight, and with a strenuous effort he half raised himself, his pale

lips parted in a reassuring smile: "I shall be better soon--water."

She brought it to him in a moment, all the woman in her risen to meet

the emergency, and then she placed a pillow under his head and chafed

his cold hands. By the time the waiter arrived to lay the cloth for

dinner L'Estrange was better. It was a kind of spasm that had robbed

him of his power for the moment. He had experienced something of this

kind before, and it alarmed him; understanding a little about the

science of medicine himself, he knew the danger of mysterious pains,

and he felt that it would not answer for him to be laid up until his

work was done.

When dinner was over they went out into the night together, and the

cool air revived him; but afterward, when real solitude had fallen over

everything, and the child had been committed to the care of one of the

women of the house, the fear of what might come quite mastered him.

L'Estrange was no coward, to shrink from physical pain. Whenever it was

possible he would escape suffering (though perhaps his real horror was

rather of mental than physical pain); when it was impossible he met it

like a man. But this time he felt his frame was weakening. The mental

rest he had craved so passionately would never come till his work was

over, and in the mean time another such paroxysm as the one through

which he had passed might lay him prostrate. In this case what would

become of Laura? How would he prove to his wronged Margaret that his

intentions with regard to her were good and true?

Even as he thought he felt the pain approaching with stealthy creeping,

like a thief come to rob him of his power. He rose with difficulty from

the couch on which he had been lying, and opening one of his packages

drew from it the small medicine-chest he always carried. His hand shook

as he turned the key, for he knew what he was doing, and had it not

been for his strange position would have dreaded it far more than the

physical pain, which he felt it could not cure, only put away for a

time. For L'Estrange had once been in the habit of putting into him

this enemy to steal away his soul. He had felt then that his intellect

was being weakened--that his bodily and mental powers were being

destroyed; he had fought with the weakness and had conquered it.

But as he took out the little well-known phial, with its dark liquid,

once so precious, he felt that another victory would be still more

dearly bought, and he trembled. Necessity, however, is strong and knows

no law. While he hesitated the pain gained ground.

Hastily he poured out a strong dose, drank it, and slept a heavy,

uneasy sleep, broken by dreams and distorted images of reality, while

through them all the keen finger of pain found its way, touching his

heart and chilling its warm life. But even this semblance of sleep was

better than the dismal wakefulness.

He got up better, and found that the pain whose ravages he had been

dreading had left him. He sighed as he rose. An inner consciousness

told him it was only for a time. Through that day the effects of

the potion of the night followed him. Even Laura, child as she was,

remarked the change. There was about her friend a certain languor, an

absence of vital energy. He could scarcely rouse himself, even to take

the steps needful for the accomplishment of the object that had brought

them so far.

Toward the next evening, however, the effects of his dose began to

lessen. He regained something of his physical energy, and in the

gathering twilight started, without the child, for the address of the

agent who held the information they required.

Laura had been restless and uneasy during the whole day, startled with

the slightest noise, watching curiously all who came in and went out;

for now that the time, as she believed, was very near for her meeting

with this unknown father, she began to feel vaguely afraid.

"You are going to find him," she said as her companion came booted and

cloaked into the room where she was sitting.

He looked at her earnestly: "And to give up my treasure."

She clung to him: "He won't take me away, mon père. We shall all go

home to mamma together."

Her friend smiled, but he shook his head, and Laura's heart sank and

the tears filled her eyes. She was too young for all this conflict of

feeling. L'Estrange felt it with a sudden sense of compunction. He

tried to comfort her as he would have comforted any ordinary child

under the circumstances: "No doubt it shall be all as my little girl

wishes."

But Laura looked up into his face with those mournful, searching eyes,

and then turned away from him. In her simplicity she had read the

hollowness of his efforts at consolation, and she was hurt that he

should tell her anything but the truth. Her friend stooped down to her

and took both her hands in his:

"You are a little witch, Laura. What am I to say to you, then?"

"I don't want you to say what I like," she answered in a low, tearful

voice; "I want you to say what is _really_ true." And then she began to

cry: "I love you, and I love mamma--oh, so much!--and I think I shall

love my papa when I see him. _Why_ can't we all be happy together?"

"Why, little wise one?" He settled his hat upon his brows and turned

away, leaving her unconsoled. "Ask the stars," he said from the door,

and Laura was left alone to think and wonder, for young as she was the

shadow that rests evermore on things human was closing her in its dark

embrace. The why, the dark mystery of human fate, had already begun in

her young soul its restless questioning.

Her friend felt this, and his heart ached for her, but the mischief was

wrought--he could do nothing. Action was the only cure for their common

sadness, therefore he would delay no longer. Hiring a droshki, he drove

through the modern Moscow, while ever before him rose that mighty

circlet of walls and battlements, enclosing, its forest of towers,

steeples and cupolas, gorgeous as an Eastern tale, fantastic as the

dream of a diseased imagination, that city within a city--the Kremlin.

He was gathering together the forces of his mind, and this helped

him in his task, for L'Estrange had ever been specially alive to the

influence of externals. Beauty of form and coloring had always been

able to sway his moods. This mighty monument, by strength formed and

endowed, seemed to brace his spirit as he looked out upon it and

thrilled to the memories it enshrined. The great impregnable, before

whom Napoleon and his legions melted, the strong abode of the Muscovite

giants--Ivan the Terrible and his court--the treasure-house of the

Czars, the representative of the history of a nation destined to great

things,--as he gazed upon it he felt the softness leave his heart. He

was trying to be great, and this monument of human greatness helped

him. He could not meet his enemy, although his words were to be, in

a certain sense, peace, with the tender voice of a child ringing its

sweet sadness into his ears, with the languor of sorrow and pain

stealing away his strength.

And gradually as he drove through the shadowy streets, by the walled

gardens and stone buildings, with the Kremlin rising ever before him

in the distance, his mind took a stronger tone. Not as the wrong-doer,

but as the representative of the wronged, he would stand before the

man he sought, arraigning his enemy for the crime to which, as he well

knew, his own conduct had lent a colorable pretext. L'Estrange could

scarcely believe that it was anything but a pretext. Margaret's fault,

if fault there had been, was so venial, her manner of life after the

separation--and L'Estrange was too much given to intrigue himself to

be able to understand how Maurice Grey could know nothing whatever of

that--had been so pure, so single in its aims, that the harshness of

her husband's judgment became great and vindictive in comparison.

L'Estrange found it by no means difficult to work himself up into

a state of suitable indignation, and as he reached the door of the

house indicated as that of the agent who held the knowledge of Maurice

Grey's hiding-place, he was once more the dark, stern man, strong and

self-contained.

His newly-formed resolutions were not yet destined to be fulfilled.

Time and distance still separated him from Maurice Grey.

He had gathered from the conversation overheard in the Champs Elysées

an approximation to the truth, though some diplomacy was necessary

before anything could be wormed out of the crafty Russian.

The golden key opened his lips at last, and L'Estrange applied it

liberally, but with a certain amount of caution, for he wished to be

sure his information was accurate.

At last, however, the man was conquered, and perhaps gold was not the

only or even the most potent agent. After many twistings and turnings

and sundry circumlocutions, which their common tongue, the French

language, so supple and delicate, could ably render, the wily Russian

told his visitor all he wanted to know. The English milord--so he

styled Maurice, probably because his pockets were well lined--had been

in Moscow, but had only remained there two days. He had put up at his

house, for he and the Englishman had met before, and their relations

one with the other were of the most friendly character; also, Mr. Grey

disliked hotels: for some reason he had seemed to desire the incognito.

Monsieur had unfolded to his friend his intention of wandering, and

under these circumstances had appeared to be in some perplexity about

his letters, which he wished sent to another address than his own. He

(M. Petrovski) had come to the help of monsieur (his readiness to help

travellers, more especially, perhaps, the English, had always been very

great), proposing that all communication with England should be carried

on through himself.

He did not say that as he was a kind of property-agent this was

altogether in his line of business, and that for everything he did

he was amply paid. Probably the Russian thought it well to leave

something to the imagination. And in this he was wise. L'Estrange's

imagination was all-embracing, in his species more especially. He

understood the position at once, and added so largely to the profit

on the transaction--demonstrated so clearly how in the whole matter

he would be a gainer--that the Russian's tongue, as by a species of

intoxication, wagged more freely than ever.

His small black eyes glittering above his hawk-like nose and long, dark

beard--he was a Russian Jew--he proceeded to assure his guest that

nothing but his full assurance of the fact that only friendliness was

intended to his dear friend Monsieur Grey would have persuaded him to

open his lips on the subject.

And L'Estrange entering into his motives and approving heartily of

his reticence, he showed his sincerity by leading him to a little

side-window which commanded the ante-room, and bidding him look out

carefully without allowing himself to be seen.

L'Estrange obeyed. He looked out, and treasured up what he saw for

further use.

It was a large, bare room, containing only a table and two or three

chairs. On one of these, in full relief, for the light from a small

oil-lamp shone on his face, sat a young man. He was evidently English,

and very young, almost a boy, for his face was clean shaven and his

short fair hair curled over a broad, open brow, upon which time had as

yet written no wrinkles. But what L'Estrange chiefly remarked in those

few moments of intense study was this: the earnestness of his face, the

purpose that shone out of his eyes, the manliness of his bearing and

attitude.

He turned from the window to find out how it was that this young

Englishman had been shown to him so mysteriously, and the Russian, who

had been observing him narrowly, took him by the arm: "The young man

has come by appointment on the same errand as yourself: apparently he

is very anxious--for some time since he has pestered me with letters.

Mark my confidence. I ask _you_ how I am to treat him?"

For a moment L'Estrange was perplexed, then suddenly came back to his

mind the remembrance of the lawyer's letter. This was Margaret's

messenger. He looked out again. Perhaps the manliness of the young

face pleased him; perhaps he saw in this strange search an access to

his strength--an instrument that he might use to confirm the absolute

truthfulness of what he was about to tell the mistaken husband; perhaps

he had a certain compunction at the idea of sending on a fruitless

search this young, disinterested champion of the woman who seemed to

win all hearts. Whatever might be the cause, the effect of his second

look was this. He turned from the window with a half smile: "Tell him

what you have told me, my good friend, but keep him about here for some

days."

The Russian bowed his assent, and after a few more courteous words

preceded his visitor to the door. How had L'Estrange obtained this

power over a nature so mercenary? Not by money alone, for others could

hold out the same inducement--Arthur had been ready to pour out gold at

his feet--nor indeed altogether by his superior diplomacy, though that

no doubt had contributed to bring about the result.

That there are certain men who have an extraordinary power over their

fellows is indisputable. Strength of purpose and character may be an

element in the formation of this power, but it is not altogether alone.

Such knowledge of the workings of the human mind as L'Estrange had

gained by means of keen observation and long study of his fellows is

perhaps the strongest element of all. For L'Estrange knew how to take

men, what chord to strike in their natures, often strange and complex,

to make them answer to his hand--how to render them actually desirous

of doing his will.

CHAPTER V.

_A GLIMPSE OF MARGARET'S CHILD._

To look upon the fair face of a child

Feels like a resurrection of the heart.

Children are vast in blessings; kings and queens

According to the dynasties of love.

Arthur, then, had found his way to Moscow. After days of wandering,

after vain efforts to entrap the wily Russian into sending him by

letter the information he desired, after keen and hungry searching in

the English quarter of every city through which he had passed, he had

gained the dim metropolis of the North, but only to be forestalled,

to have a watch set upon his movements, to play into the hands of the

man for whom, in his youthful enthusiasm, he cherished the bitterest

contempt, the most undying enmity.

Perhaps under any circumstances it would have been impossible for the

impulsive, straightforward young Englishman, headlong in his pursuits,

whether good or evil, to understand the complex, two-sided nature of

such a man as L'Estrange. Knowing what he did of him, it is scarcely a

matter of surprise that he felt his strong young arm tingle at times

to fell him to the earth, and if he should never rise again, so much

the better--there would be one villain the less in the world. All he

desired was to meet him face to face.

But Margaret had laid her commands upon him. His enemy, her enemy, was

to be respected. The remembrance of her words made Arthur tremble, for

in the holy indignation of his youth he felt that if they should meet

it would be difficult to restrain himself from dealing the well-merited

blow.

He consoled himself with the reflection that words have power to slay.

And words were ready on his lips for the disturber of Margaret's peace,

the maker of her misery, which in his inexperience he believed must go

to the heart of the worst villain that ever lived.

Arthur did not confine his search to Maurice. Wherever he went strict

inquiry had been instituted for the dark foreigner and fair-haired

English child. At Paris, as has been already seen, his agent was upon

the traces of the pair. There they had been lost altogether, for

L'Estrange's ruse had succeeded, and never again had Arthur or the

agent he employed been able to recover them.

The only consolation that could be derived from the chance encounter in

the Champs Elysées was in the relation that appeared to exist between

the child and this man. He was evidently kind to her, for the agent,

who reported their conversation accurately, told of her indignation

when he so foolishly began to abuse her friend, and also of her little

cry of delight when she saw him reappear.

In the long letter which Arthur was writing to Middlethorpe that

evening he related this incident, scarcely knowing whether or no it

would be a comfort to the bereaved mother--whether she would fear

the strange influence which this man seemed to have acquired over

her child, or be thankful that at least he was treating her kindly.

In any case, of one blessed fact she might rest assured--for the

child's companion had been seen, and dark as the night was the agent

had recognized the original of Margaret's miniature--her husband was

innocent of this last, this bitterest wrong and humiliation. _He_ had

not removed his child from her care. The letter was addressed to Adèle,

but it was written for Margaret. It told of that evening's interview,

of his wanderings up to that moment and of his further hopes.

He had ascertained Maurice Grey's hiding-place--that is to say,

the address was promised--but days of travelling would probably be

necessary before he could reach it. Arthur, however, was full of

courage and hope. He looked upon the success of his enterprise as only

delayed, not put from him altogether. And his young, strong spirit

of devotion shone out in every line of the letter which was to find

the two lonely women watching and hoping--_their trust in him_. To

know this was enough to brace the young man's mind, to drain him of

self-love, to make and keep him strong and pure.

He was in the heat of composition that evening (it must be confessed,

in spite of Arthur's literary dreams, the pen was not his strong

point), laboring to express enough, and not too much, of the hope his

partial success had generated in his mind--to give his friends new

courage without buoying them up with false hope; striving to give his

devotion to Margaret the delicate expression that might mean what it

really was, and yet not offend or alarm her; trying to consider duly

the feelings of his cousin and future wife--to prevent her from being

in any way hurt by his absorption in that which concerned another; and

through it all making his travels and adventures appear in the most

interesting and favorable light.

The combination was anything but easy, and once or twice Arthur threw

down his pen in despair. To frame a letter satisfactory in every way

seemed a hopeless task. On one of these occasions, as he was casting

his eyes round the room for inspiration, he was startled by the sound

of the door being softly opened. He looked round. A little girl,

dressed for travelling, was standing on the threshold and looking at

him earnestly. When she saw his face a cloud came over hers, and she

looked very much inclined to cry.

Arthur got up and went to the door, the kindliness of his nature

aroused by the sight of the child's distress. She threw off her hood

then, and shaking back her golden curls showed him one of the loveliest

child-faces he had ever seen; but it was not its loveliness that made

him start back with a sudden exclamation; it was a memory which that

face recalled.

In a moment he gathered his ideas together--where had he seen her

before?--and then, with the rapidity of thought, that last evening in

England, Margaret, the miniature, the child's likeness, came before his

mind. Fate had been kind to him. Margaret's treasure was within his

grasp.

Unfortunately, the idea agitated him so much that he could scarcely act

with the necessary coolness.

Laura had come into his room by mistake. She had lost her way in the

great house, and was looking for her friend, whose room, though in

another wing of the building, resembled in position that which Arthur

occupied.

Already the child was alarmed by his sudden exclamation. She retreated

hastily to the door, but Arthur caught her by the arm and tried

forcibly to detain her.

Then Laura really cried, and the young man, between his earnest desire

to secure her and his distress at her tears, scarcely knew how to act.

He tried gentleness, coaxing her by all kinds of bribes to remain with

him, only for a few minutes; but the child grew the more frightened;

crying bitterly, she tried with all her small strength to loosen his

grasp on her arm. It was in vain, and Laura in her despair called aloud

for help: "Mon père! mon père!"

Arthur began to think they had all been mistaken, that her father

had actually taken her away, but he had scarcely time to come to any

conclusion, for as he was still struggling with the child, drawing her

into the room with gentle entreaty, there came a dark figure into the

gloomy, unlit passage. Arthur was too much absorbed to see him; Laura

did, and with a sudden wrench she tore herself free from the young

man's grasp. The strong right arm of her friend received her, while

before the young man could recover from his surprise (he was at the

moment stooping forward to catch the small retreating form) the left

hand thrust him back with such violence that he fell, and lay at full

length on the floor of his room. Before he could leap to his feet he

had the mortification of hearing the key turned in the lock, and of

knowing that as his room was in a remote part of the house, Laura and

her protector, whoever that protector might be, would have time during

his forced inaction to put at least some of the tortuous streets of old

Moscow between themselves and his pursuit.

Arthur's position was ignominious in the extreme, and very difficult of

explanation. Rubbing his bruised shins, he thought over it woefully.

But thinking would not mend matters. He rang the bell violently.

No one came. Probably his violence defeated its own object. A long hour

passed, in which, his letter forgotten, he paced the floor of his room,

stamping and fuming like an imprisoned lion.

At last a waiter came. He was a Russian, naturally rather timorous, to

whom even French was an unknown tongue; and Arthur, from the other side

of the locked door, had great difficulty in making him understand in

what consisted the obstruction to its opening.

To tell the truth, his stamping and fuming and stormy gestures of

impatience had alarmed the poor man considerably. He had always

possessed a strong opinion about the violence of the English character,

and it was only with many an inward tremor that, seeing the thing was

inevitable, he slowly turned the key in the lock and released the young

man from his prison.

His alarm was almost justified by Arthur's subsequent behavior. The

delay, the ignominious failure, the blow from the hand of the man he so

keenly despised, had nearly maddened the unfortunate young Englishman.

Thrusting the waiter to one side with such violence that he staggered

back against the wall of the passage, Arthur rushed down the wide

staircase, three steps at a time, and demanded an interview with the

proprietor of the hotel.

The head man waited upon him, respectful in attitude, fluent in speech,

but chuckling inwardly at the Englishman's discomfiture.

L'Estrange had given his explanation of the little scene, and it had

been by the order of the head-waiter himself that the young man had

been detained so long in his prison.

The flood of bad French in which Arthur poured out his indignation

was listened to with quiet deprecation, and answered by a multitude

of well-turned apologies; but when the young man moderated his tone,

and began to think prudence would be advisable if he wished to get

anything from the people of the house about the movements of those who

had escaped him, he could scarcely be surprised that diplomacy, bribery

and a harrowing tale of wrong proved alike unavailing. He was obliged

to give up the effort in despair. Through all the polite assurances,

the smooth phrases, the courteous attention of the head-waiter he could

read incredulity and indifference.

Arthur spent that night in haunting the railway-stations to extract

information from the officials, and in knocking up the drivers of

droshkies, trying to make them understand that he wished to find out

whom they had driven that evening. It was hopeless. They were very

civil; Arthur made it worth their while to be communicative. They were

ready with highly-colored accounts of their passengers of the evening,

but amongst them all he could find none answering to the description

of those he sought. He returned to the hotel baffled and worn-out,

longing to leave Moscow at once (the hotel and the smooth-faced

head-waiter had become so utterly distasteful to him), but detained

by an interview for the following day. M. Petrovski had promised him

some further details about the residence of his client. He professed

to expect letters which would let him know the Englishman's final

resting-place.

That letter whose commencement had caused Arthur such pleasant tremors

of anxiety was abruptly concluded. He could not make up his mind to

relate to his friends in all its ignominious details the incident of

that evening, although he longed to let Margaret know that he had

actually seen and held her child. Several times he even tried to frame

an account of this his first meeting with the little one, but always in

vain. He sent off the letter as it was, and curses not loud but deep

followed the swiftly-retreating enemy who had foiled him.

L'Estrange did not altogether deserve them. He had purposely treated

the young man gently. He might have dealt him a far severer blow, but

that glimpse of his face had taught the man of the world something

about his character and purposes, had made him respect the boy, and so

long as he did not interfere with himself he was ready to spare him.

Laura, however, and her share in the task of restoring the wanderer

to his home and wife, L'Estrange reserved to himself. He would bring

her forward at his own time, and in the mean while he would show this

young man, brave with the temerity of youth, that his guardianship, if

tenacious, was strong.

Laura had acted instinctively in the occurrence of the evening,

but when it was over, when she and her protector were once more in

the train, travelling rapidly southward, she was agitated at the

remembrance of what had passed.

"Mon père," she said, clinging to him fearfully, "why do they all try

to take me away from you?"

He looked down at her earnestly: "Because they know not how much I love

thee."

The child clasped her hands: "I hope, oh I hope, papa will know."

"Why, Laura?"

"Because then he won't wish to take me away."

"But you, ma belle enfant--you will wish to go back with your father.

Is it not so?"

"Back to mamma?" said the child. "Oh yes, mon père, but you must go

too."

He looked down upon her with a sudden pain in his eyes: "Kiss me,

fillette, put your arms round my neck. There, so--it is easier now.

Little wise one, what shall I do without thee?"

Laura did not answer, only with her gentle womanly ways she soothed her

friend, while in her small heart rose a certain determination. It was

this. Not even for her father would she leave her friend. He should

go back with them to her mother, for her mother could do him good. It

was the determination of a woman, for a woman's tenderness and depth

of feeling were becoming prematurely developed in the young girl, who

would never perhaps in all her life be a thoughtless child again. Had

she gained or lost by the exchange? It was for the future to say.

But my readers will be impatient; and truly it seems that in looking

back on this strange story, which the past has evolved out of its

mists, an undue prominence has been given to this part. It has been

altogether unconsciously done, and only because of the enchaining

nature of the subject.

There was something so touching in the confidence and affection of this

innocent child's heart, that with the instincts of truth itself found

beauty where others might have only been able to find its opposite;

there was something so beautiful in the surrender of the strong man's

soul to the guiding influence of the poor child, in whose tenderness

the heavenly side of him had read a possibility of salvation for his

whole nature; and in all the sweet mystery there was so evidently

present the working of an unseen Power, preparing this man, who had

missed his right aim in the world, for the reception of a pure ideal,

for the vision of undying truth. Time presses. We must linger no more

over the tender scenes that marked the intercourse between Laura and

her strange protector, but pass on our way, leaving them together.

On the following day, while Laura and L'Estrange were putting

vast tracts of country between themselves and the ancient city of

Moscow, Arthur Forrest, jaded and worn-out by a sleepless night, and

considerably discouraged at the total failure of this his first effort

to restore Margaret to her own, prepared himself for another interview

with Petrovski.

He wished to be calm and cool, for what, he said to himself, if he

were to be sent on a fool's errand?--what if the man who had dealt him

that mysterious blow could have been really Laura's father? He found

it difficult on such a supposition to assign a motive for his conduct,

unless indeed he could have heard of his search, and have believed he

was simply an agent sent by his wife to entice the child back to her.

On the other hand, what could have led L'Estrange, if it should be he,

to Moscow?

Arthur was very much perplexed. He determined to call the calmest,

clearest judgment to his aid in sifting the information which the

agent was ready to proffer. Alas! when did an old head sit upon young

shoulders? If ever they have been united, the combination has not

produced such a pleasing whole as Arthur Forrest, who, in spite of

the knowledge of this world on which he prided himself, was above all

things young and confiding.

Petrovski might have deceived him, might have sent him to the

antipodes, if he had seen fit, but his master in the art of

dissimulation had advised him to be truthful. Arthur, therefore,

after some days' delay, was told the simple truth--that Maurice Grey,

disgusted with his life in St. Petersburg, had made up his mind to

turn his back on society altogether. With this view he had sought the

mountains, and had established himself, one servant his only companion,

in a chalet hastily fitted up with a few necessaries in one of the

higher Swiss valleys.

The agent professed to have just received letters from this

remote point. In them Mr. Grey had directed that his money and

business-letters from England should be sent to the hotel nearest to

his temporary home, and this was the address which was given to Arthur,

which had previously been given to L'Estrange.

By the following night's mail Arthur left Moscow. As may well be

supposed, he lost no time on the way.

Of this strange flight through almost the entire breadth of Europe

he never thought afterward save in the light of a feverish dream. It

seemed like a vision. Sleeping and waking he was flying still, with

all manner of various impressions, multitudes of scenes and strange

faces, flitting before him like a kind of phantasmagoria. Glimpses of

grand cities, appearing but to vanish, vast solitudes, uncultivated and

barren wastes, mountain-country and soft pastoral scenes passed before

him in an ever-varying succession. At last the train had to be left

behind; he had gained the mountains, and with them a mode of travelling

that seemed painfully slow and wearisome to his brain, in a whirl with

swift movement and tumultuous thought.

Arthur was haunted through those long days, and, strange to say, it

was not Margaret's face that haunted him, nor even that of his gentle

cousin who was pining in distant England for his return. The lovely

child's face followed him day after day and night after night. It

reminded him of failure, brought back in vivid colors the memory

of what he looked upon as a species of ignominy, and yet, do what

he would, he could not banish it. The bright golden hair, the dark

mournful eyes, the fair contour, the childish grace returned again and

again.

At times it was like a nightmare. He would see the child, even touch

her, and as he touched her she would vanish. Once or twice during those

long nights of travelling Arthur seriously interfered with the comfort

of his fellow-voyagers by his strange proceedings. Reaching forward at

one time, he would seize upon the hand or knee of the person who sat

in front of him, laying himself open, if the individual were of the

feminine order, to serious misconception--if of the masculine, to a

rude rebuff and rough awakening; at another he would passionately grasp

the window-blind, giving rise to an irresistible titter among those of

his companions who did not find sleeping in a train such easy work as

he did. But whenever Laura's face came before his mind, in sleeping or

waking moments, Arthur looked at it with a strange reverence. To him it

was scarcely a child's face. It seemed almost as if behind the fairness

and beauty there was a meaning.

Arthur could not analyze character. He did not sufficiently understand

human nature's diversity to be able to explain to himself why this

child was so different from other children, but he felt it; and

stronger almost than his longing to restore Maurice Grey to faith in

his wife's perfections became his desire to rescue that child from him

who had taken her, he firmly believed, with some bad motive, and to

lead her back to her mother.

The strange thing was that she loved this man (for Petrovski had so

impressed Arthur with a belief in his veracity that once more he had

settled with himself the identity of Laura's companion). Could it be,

then, that there was some good even in him? But Arthur would not follow

out this line of reasoning. He was more than ever confirmed in his

hatred of L'Estrange.

"There is something in the Bible," he said to himself, "about Satan

putting on the form of an angel of light. This man has only followed

the example of his forerunner in all evil. He is deceiving the innocent

darling, and she thinks him good."

He was driving in an open sledge--for the season was late and snow had

begun to fall on the mountains--when these thoughts crowded in upon his

brain.

It was tolerably cold in these high latitudes, but the young man was

wrapped up in a fur-lined travelling cloak, the thick leather apron

of the sledge covered his knees, and a cigar emitting fragrant blue

clouds, whose ascent into the pure air he watched curiously, was

between his lips.

Arthur Forrest had not been bred in Belgravia altogether in vain. He

understood very thoroughly how to make himself comfortable.

In this thing he considered himself fortunate. The crowd of Britons

that yearly fill the Swiss solitudes with their all-engrossing presence

had fled at the first breath of winter, "like doves to their windows."

Two or three hardy Swiss returning to their mountains, an adventurous

German desirous of studying the aspect of Switzerland in winter, a

Pole who wished to put the mountains, soon to be an almost impassable

barrier, between himself and his enemies, the vigilant and all-powerful

Russian police,--these, with a conductor and driver, formed the whole

of the small cavalcade that crossed the St. Gothard on this bleak

autumnal day.

In spite of the glorious scenes through which they had been passing,

the beauty of Italy rising into the grand desolation of the country

that belongs to the snow-kingdom, and that again descending into the

awful grandeur of rugged precipices, hissing torrents and shaggy

pines, the little party was gloomy. The Pole shivered, and folding his

fur-cloak around him cursed the ancestral enemies of his race; the

Swiss rubbed their hands, stamped their feet and looked defiantly at

a threatening storm-cloud that was rising up behind them; the German

tried to get up a shadow of enthusiasm. He stared, with what was

meant to be earnestness, through his spectacles, emitted a series of

"wunderschöns and wunderhübschs," and strove dutifully to think that

this was seeing life and entering sympathetically into Nature's most

secret joys--the joy of the torrent, the delight of the snow-whirl.

Perhaps it was scarcely matter for surprise that his enthusiasm left

rather a dreary effect upon the minds of his companions.

Arthur was the only one who really enjoyed, for this was novelty to

him, and in his fashionable life he had long been craving for something

out of the common. Then, too, there was about this kind of travelling a

certain necessity for endurance which braced his nerves. He was doing

this for Margaret, and as each keen blast of wind, sweeping with biting

force from the ice-fields, touched his young face, he felt the blood

tingle in his veins. He was full of satisfaction, strong to endure.

With an Englishman's insight into possibilities he had forgotten

nothing that could possibly conduce to an approximation to comfort in

such a situation as that in which he found himself. This being so,

he was able to enter more thoroughly into Nature's strange caprices,

as exhibited in this land of wonders, than the sentimental German,

who shivered in a threadbare coat. For--there can be no doubt about

it--physical comfort frees the mind: when the body is irritated by

discomfort, the mind, sympathetic, is occupied by itself.

In the intervals of meditation on his plans and further attempts for

Margaret, and efforts to take in and write upon his brain some at

least of the wonderful combinations of form and coloring through

which they were passing, Arthur looked with a dreamy philosophy at his

fellow-travellers.

The young man was inclined, from the depths of his magnificent cloak,

to wonder lazily why Providence had bestowed the world's allowance of

common sense upon our nation. The experience of foreigners which he had

been gaining during those weeks of travelling had only confirmed Arthur

in his preconceived idea. One and all they were absurd. The absurdities

might differ in kind and degree--this the young man would not attempt

to deny--and no doubt there were clever people among them; still, as a

rule, were they to be compared to Englishmen?

He looked at the sturdy, commonplace Swiss, the shivering Pole (only

half a man he pronounced him), the sentimental German, trying so

conscientiously to enjoy, and with a feeling of self-gratulation that

actually helped to send a warm glow through his frame answered the

question by a decided negative. No wonder they pronounced the young

Englishman supercilious; he had intended to be very condescending. From

the heights of his superior nationality it was so easy to look with a

calm pity upon those who had been less highly favored by Nature. It

need scarcely be considered matter for surprise that they regarded

his condescension in another light, and were inclined to repel his

spasmodic efforts to be very pleasant and friendly.

All the travellers were glad when the foot of the mountain was reached.

Even the indefatigable Arthur, when he found himself so near his

destination, thought it well to take a night's rest at Amsteg, where

he broke off from the St. Gothard route for Meyringen and Grindelwald.

It was somewhere between these two places that the chalet occupied by

Maurice Grey was supposed to be situated.

Once in the neighborhood, the young man felt that it would not be

difficult to find it. The very fact of a stranger having made for

himself a lonely habitation in the mountains would be sufficient to

render his home a celebrated place.

Arthur's only difficulty now was what it had been at York before his

interview with Margaret--the framing of some reason which might account

for his seeming intrusiveness. He formed a thousand plans. He would

wander in the direction of the chalet, he would put himself in the

position of a benighted traveller thrown on the hospitality of the

hermit; finally, he determined to torment himself no longer--Fate would

perhaps befriend him as before. That evening Arthur sent another letter

to Margaret and his cousin. There was not much in it of the impressions

which the grand scenes among which he was sojourning had written on his

mind, but it held a courage and hope that might inspire the lonely wife

and bereaved mother with a kindred sentiment.

Arthur was an inexperienced traveller, and the plan of his route had

been principally traced in obedience to the suggestions of the few

English people he had met. It is more than possible, therefore, that

the route chosen was not the most direct; for although it had not

been possible for L'Estrange in any way to emulate his swiftness in

travelling (he was obliged to suit himself to Laura's capabilities),

yet on that night when, from the small village in the valleys, Arthur

sent his second letter to Margaret, the child and her protector were

already at the address given by Petrovski, in the close vicinity of the

child's father, of her friend's most bitter and unrelenting enemy. She

was utterly unconscious of the strange position, though a change had

come over her in those last days of travelling. There was about her

even more of the sedateness of the thoughtful woman, still less of the

child's merry unconcern. For the shadows that had threatened this young

life's joy were gathering thickly around her. She was in the centre of

emotions too strong, of a life too earnest, for her tender youth, and

her friend saw with concern how the color faded from her face, how her

brow grew transparent, how the quiet gestures of a woman became more

and more habitant.

But he could do nothing; the mischief had been wrought in that hour

when his passion had overpowered his judgment, when he had consummated

the rash deed of taking a tender little one from the mother's fostering

care. He had done what he could to obviate the evil, and in the

interval the child had grown dear to him as his own soul. This it

was that added a tenfold poignancy to the pain with which L'Estrange

sometimes looked at her.

Once or twice in the course of this later journey L'Estrange had

further accesses of the pain he dreaded, and more than once he had been

forced to resort to his kindly enemy, entrancing opium, to stay his

fierce pangs for a time. It produced its true effect upon him. Moments

he had of joys too great for earth--moments when his imagination played

freely, when his heart expanded, when all the dark places of his past

life's journey were irradiated with a golden light, and when the

growing uneasiness of the present strangeness and the certain future

pain passed into calm security and pleasant rosy dreams. But the false

potion brought other moments in its train--moments when his whole being

seemed weak and nerveless, when deep depression possessed his soul,

when even the higher life and nobler possibilities of existence which

he had been learning in the child's pure presence became to his languid

soul unattainable as the dreams of a weak visionary.

At such times he would sit with folded arms and knit brows looking out

and away to the far stretches of horizon that were fleeing evermore

before them. Only the child had power to arouse him from one of these

gloomy fits of abstraction, though sometimes his mood was so dark that

even she scarcely ventured to break in upon it. But she never really

feared him; there was a strange sympathy between the two that made her

understand him in some wonderful way.

As they neared the end of their journey and rest became a possibility,

L'Estrange once more tried to refrain from his death-winged potion. He

felt that languor and weakness were possessing themselves of his being,

and strength of mind would be more needful than strength of body for

the work he had to do.

Only those who have known what this refraining means can understand

his sufferings. Racked with pain, that reckless gnawing pain which

seems to be verily eating into life, he lay for two nights and days

on a bed in the hotel at Grindelwald, where he had decided to remain

for a few days. And still during the long hours the patient child, his

ministering angel in very truth, sat by his bedside helping her friend

to bear, and waiting for him to be better.

CHAPTER VI.

_THE LIFE OF A SOLITARY._

And soon we feel the want of one kind heart

To love what's well, and to forgive what's ill

In us.

Maurice Grey had at last been successful in his weary seeking after

loneliness. Whether he had gained happiness thereby is scarcely so easy

to say; certainly his surroundings could not possibly have been more

beautiful or peace-inspiring.

On an Alpine meadow green with a vivid brightness, spangled in the

spring and early summer with many-colored fragrant flowers, bounded on

one side by a wood, the home of ferns and moss and lovely things of

every shape and hue, overtopped on the other by a ridge of mountains

that, rising sheer from the soft greenness, towered into white

ice-fields and shoulders and pinnacles of virgin snow, he had found

in the summer of that year a tumble-down chalet. It was large and

tolerably commodious, evidently intended to be something superior to

the ordinary dwelling of the Swiss herdsman.

Maurice Grey was tired of hotel-life when he came upon this treasure

trove. Life in the mountains, with the constant companionship of

ignorant tourists, would-be enthusiasts and _blasé_ fashionables (for

Maurice, though touched and charmed by Nature's beauty, had not arrived

at the higher point of seeing beauty in humanity), was scarcely the

life of solitude he had been seeking.

In the inane vapidity of travellers' talk all the impressions which

Nature's loveliness had been writing on his soul seemed to pass

into cynicism and irritability. He would get away from the charmed

circle--he would break loose once and for ever from the galling fetters

with which his kind would chain him. This chalet was the very thing to

suit him. He had come upon it in the course of a long, solitary ramble

which was taking him into ground untrodden apparently by the ordinary

tourist. It led to no point of special interest, there was nothing

remarkable to distinguish it from thousands of Alpine meadows in the

vicinity, it was intersected by no well-frequented path.

Maurice Grey set inquiries on foot. He found that the neglected chalet

had been intended for a small pension; that the proprietor, who was a

farmer, had sustained an unexpected loss in cattle, and had thus been

unable to complete and furnish it; that he would be only too delighted

to let it on very moderate terms to any one who would take the trouble

of making it habitable.

On the very next day Maurice found out the farmer, and an arrangement

was entered into highly to the satisfaction of both. It took a very

short time to fit up the small abode, or two rooms on the ground floor,

with the few articles an Englishman would find necessary--a wooden bed

and a large bath, a table and chair, one leather-backed arm-chair,

rough shelves with a selection of books that he had ordered in one of

the German towns through which he had passed, writing-materials and his

beloved pipe, sole companion of his solitude.

These were all, save the kitchen utensils, which his new servant, a

German who could do everything, had procured for him, and with these

Maurice Grey settled down to a hermit's life. It was scarcely the life

to suit him. There was too much vigor and manhood in his frame, too

many cravings in the heart he had thought dead, for the death-in-life

of one cut off from the society of his fellows to be bearable for any

length of time. During the long hours of the day, when even his servant

was absent seeking at the nearest village for the daily necessaries

of their life, Maurice Grey, the sociable, lively Englishman, would

sit like a patriarch at the door of his tent and look out--not on his

children and children's children playing on the green sward, but on the

savage grandeur of the mountains, on shaggy pines rising head above

head like a great army on the hillside, on the flash of torrents, their

fall scarcely heard in the far distance, scattering their white foam

into the sunshine, on radiant ice-rivers sweeping down between dark

gray rocks. And the wonder entered into his soul. But the illusion

faded, for, all grand and glorious as it was, there was yet in it

nothing to lay hold upon the heart or satisfy its wants.

Sometimes the stillness would grow so oppressive that even the tinkling

of the cattle-bells, notifying the approach of the sleepy, quiet

animal, would be a relief to the man's brain And then he would rush

into the wood. There was sound enough there--the rustling of leaves,

the chirping of grasshoppers, the movement and ceaseless murmur of life

various and multiform.

At times Maurice Grey would enjoy it, but not always, for in the midst

of this rich profusion of Nature his was a life apart. More than once

he was mortified, even in those first days, when solitude had a certain

novelty, to discover how instinctively his step would quicken and his

heart grow lighter when in the evening, his hour for dinner drawing

near, he could look forward to seeing at the door of his chalet the

familiar face of his servant and only companion. He was too proud,

however, to betray himself even to Karl, and in spite of everything

was determined to persevere. He would give the new life a fair trial.

Happily, Maurice had a resource in his pen. In his youth he had

cherished ambitious dreams of distinguishing himself in the world of

letters. In these hours of solitude the desire returned--not, indeed,

with a like force, for the cry of the miserable, the _cui bono?_ of a

sick soul, was at the heart of it.

If the grandeur of Nature could inspire him with high thoughts--if as a

poet he could breathe out any one of these, sending it forth a living

image of beauty into the world--why and for whom should he do it? For

men and women? For _their_ enjoyment, _their_ false praise? Maurice

Grey, as it will be seen, had not lost his cynicism in his solitude.

But he wrote as he had never written before. He transcribed his

strange, wild dreams that were formed in the ice-caverns, and clothed

the woods and hills with legends, dismal, gloomy, awe-inspiring, that

had drunk from the bitter waters of his own dark soul.

As days and weeks passed on that soul grew darker. Even the faithful

Karl, who was strongly attached to his English master, began to fear

his strange moods and wonder vaguely at his caprices, recalling the

weird märchen that had fed his boyhood in his Black Forest home--of

men haunted with the spirit of evil, condemned to wander for ever,

seeking rest and finding none; of ghosts that had taken to themselves

a fleshly home, and living with human beings had been considered human

themselves, till the dark fear of betraying their origin in some

unwary moment had driven them to the wilds, there to batten on horrors

till the startled flesh should forsake, once and for ever, the naked,

shivering ghost.

Karl grew afraid of his own shadow. Indeed, only his visits (and he

took care they should be of daily recurrence) to inhabited places kept

him sane and capable. So absolute is the truth, old as humanity itself,

that "it is not well for man to dwell alone."

For Maurice Grey where was the helpmate to be found? Not upon earth,

if perfection such as he sought in his lofty idealism was to be its

necessary accompaniment. He had broken his idol for a flaw in its

fair whiteness, and what wonder that he found it difficult--nay,

impossible--to replace it?

Not that Maurice, to do him justice, had ever sought to replace his

idol by any creature outside of him in the world of men and women. It

may be, however, that his dream was wilder and more vain. For he looked

within instead of without--looked to the poor trembling self for that

satisfaction and peace which life with one who was (though he had not

known it) verily his other self, by reason of her tenderness and warm

womanly sympathy, might have brought him.

Maurice and Margaret had been alike wrong in this, that they had

sought in the transitory and fleeting what is impalpable and enduring.

Happiness springs not from the dust, and happiness abiding is only to

be found outside of ourselves, outside of humanity, outside even of the

world.

This they were learning, the husband and wife, each in the secret place

of a stricken heart--learning it with stormy seas and vast plains and

snow-clad mountains between them. Sometimes it would dawn upon Maurice,

in the midst of a dream of impossible bliss, that he had been seeking

the good in a wrong channel--that perhaps it might be found when and

where he least thought to meet it. And the idea would make him tremble

as with a sudden inspiration his eyes would seek the blue vault above,

so restful in its calm transcendent purity.

And so the long summer months, laden with beauty, passed by him. Days

he had of musing, when his soul, entering in upon itself, would

strive painfully for the secret of Nature's abiding joy--days of

inspiration, when after a restless night dreams and imaginings would

shape themselves into burning words which he would trace with a poet's

tremulous joy--days of moody abstraction, when even the blue heavens

irritated him by their calm beauty, when the white snow-peaks glared

and dazzled and robed themselves in dark palls: days too he had when a

better spirit seemed to be taking possession of him, when the spirit of

good brooded over his soul, when from the everlasting pæan of hill and

vale, of rustling leaves, rushing torrents and tuneful birds the shadow

of a peace that might yet be his descended on his soul. And still Karl

came and went, leaving the hermit in the morning, returning with early

evening, ministering to his necessities and preventing him from feeling

the hardships that might have been his lot in the strange life he had

chosen.

If the truth must be told, the imaginative German half expected

at times, as he entered the dark gorges which led to his master's

dwelling, to find that in his absence companion-ghosts had spirited him

away. But such an occurrence never happened, and the man began to take

heart and breathe more freely.

Unhappily, the summer-time could not last for ever. Autumn came, and on

this particular occasion an early autumn fell upon the valley. Bleak

winds began to moan and sigh among the hills, the mountains robed

themselves in gray, impenetrable mist, the leaves shuddered and fell by

myriads.

Maurice Grey was an Englishman. He had always prided himself on his

independence of externals, but hitherto he had been well occupied,

mentally or physically, in such a season. This coming on of autumn was

very different from any former experience. To be absolutely alone,

or shut up with a servant who only at intervals shows a scared face;

a blanket, damp, white, clinging, about the house, and entering in

by every nook and cranny; nothing visible but walls of chilly vapor

rising in billowy folds about dark, formless giants, that are known

to be snow-mountains only because they have been visible before,--is

sufficiently depressing; but add to all this a mental life unhealthily

alive and sensitive, an absence of present joys, with the memory of

past happiness rising at times to mock the heart by its fairness, the

sting of a remorseful conscience, physical powers fast decaying under

the unspeakable horrors of a lonely, unloved life, and I think it will

be allowed that Maurice Grey would have been more than human if even

his intellect had not begun to fail him.

It was such a morning as that I have been describing; he sat before his

desk; his pipe was on the table before him, books were scattered on

every side, a manuscript was open, the pen was in the ink; but he was

doing literally nothing, not even attempting to beguile his dreariness

with that friend of the forlorn--a pipe. His folded arms rested

listlessly on the table; he was looking out into the thick mists with a

dreary hopelessness that in a man seemed miserable beyond compare. He

was not even thinking. It was as though a gloomy abstraction had seized

upon his soul.

The door grated on its hinge--it was not particularly well hung--but

Maurice did not hear the sound. He was like a man who was under the

influence of some strong narcotic, plunged in visions that shut out

the external world. Karl was the intruder. He peeped cautiously into

the room, took a back-view of his master's position, then steered

noiselessly round to the front (Maurice was painfully irritable in

these moods) and gained a side-view of his face. It resulted in an

ominous shake of the head and a bold move. Creeping still nearer, Karl

touched his master on the arm, then sprang back, for the angry frown

gathered on his brow.

Karl had been observing him, and Maurice had a vague fear that in his

moody fit he had been ridiculous. An Englishman hates to be absurd,

even to a valet, and Maurice Grey, as he glanced at the repentant

German brimful of apologies that were only waiting a suitable outlet,

felt his choler rising. "How many times have I ordered you," he said

angrily, "not to come in here without knocking?"

"Meinherr did not hear," replied the submissive youth.

"Then you should have knocked again or gone away. By Heaven! do you

think me incapable of taking care of myself? Speak, idiot! what is the

meaning of this intrusion?"

The frightened German extended his arms apologetically: "Meinherr must

condescend to hear that, as this weather has lasted some days, we are

nearly out of provision."

"Go to Grindelwald to-day."

"Impossible. Meinherr will please to take the trouble of observing how

thick are these mists."

"Then why, in the name of all that's sensible, do you annoy me? Can I

make provisions?"

"No, but meinherr might wish to know why his table shall be so poorly

provided this day, and--" The man hemmed.

"And--what? Go on, can't you?"

"Meinherr should also know that weather like this at present never

lasts very long about here."

"So much the better. Is that all you wished to tell me?"

"Meinherr would for the few days be so much better at the hotel. If he

should please we might go there to-morrow and rest till the weather

shall be a little more clear. There are not a great many people

travelling just now. Meinherr would have a good apartment and would be

very little annoyed."

The poor man's voice trembled with fear and anxiety. It was one word

for his master and several for himself. Karl was beginning to feel

that he could scarcely bear another week of such horrors as those to

which he had lately been exposed. His master himself, by his dark

moodiness and mysterious surroundings, peculiarly awe-inspiring, his

only companion; the dark gorges and mountain-caverns yawning round him

like so many graves; no creature to whom he could unfold the tale of

the fears that beset him,--nothing less than such a combination could

have emboldened the submissive Karl to make the proposition which he

had advanced in so timorous a manner.

After the murder was out he stood silent, aghast at his own audacity,

waiting for the torrent of angry words with which the Englishman would

answer him.

To his surprise no such answer came. Maurice rose from his seat and

burst into a loud laugh. The diversion had been salutary: "You would

make a first-rate special pleader, Karl. A word for me and a dozen for

yourself, eh? Well, what are we to do? Some one must be left in charge

here. Since you are so anxious about my welfare, I had better go to

Grindelwald and leave you behind me."

Karl smiled pleasantly. Matters were taking a favorable turn.

"Meinherr is pleased to joke. He would most certainly require the

services of a valet in Grindelwald as well as here, and no one else

would understand his ways so well. I spoke--it is perhaps a few days

since--to an old woman who is well known in the village. She would

be very glad for a small sum to look after the chalet. Meinherr will

excuse this liberty. I feared for him the severity of the winter

season."

"All right, Karl. Poor fellow!" he added, gently, "I fear you lead a

hard kind of life here, and you are a faithful servant. Well, let it be

so. You shall have a little change."

By these sudden flashes of kindliness, these glimpses of a better

nature, Maurice had endeared himself to his servant. To be harshly

treated was too common to the German to be in any way food for

complaint, but for a master to consider him, to take a kindly interest

in his feelings, was something quite new. His heart warmed to this

proud Englishman who was considerate enough to give him his due meed of

thanks and praise.

At Maurice's last remark he pressed eagerly forward, his eyes

glistening: "Not for worlds if at all inconvenient to meinherr. What is

good enough for him should, it is quite certain, be good enough for his

servant."

Maurice smiled: "I begin to think you are right, my good Karl; a change

will do me good, as well as you. I left a portmanteau at the hotel, so

we shall not require to take anything with us. If by to-morrow the mist

has at all cleared we shall start for Grindelwald."

The next day rose bright and clear. Maurice and his servant left the

chalet early in the morning, locking the door carefully, as Maurice had

a deep regard for his books and manuscripts, and taking with them the

key, which was to be given to the old Swiss woman, destined heiress to

the horrors of the lonely place.

Happily, Marie was endowed neither with an overflow of imagination nor

highly-strung nerves. With her small grandchild to wait upon her, and

plenty of coffee, sausage and black bread, she could be happy anywhere.

CHAPTER VII.

_THE WORK OF MARGARET'S MESSENGER BEGUN._

Sometimes we feel the wish across the mind

Rush like a rocket tearing up the sky,

That we should join with God and give the world

The slip; but while we wish the world turns round,

And peeps us in the face--the wanton world!

We feel it gently pressing down our arm.

Maurice and his servant reached the hotel in safety. Its situation was

fine, though not to be compared with that of the Englishman's chosen

dwelling. It was perhaps too much shut in with the great giants that

enclosed the valley in their apparently indissoluble embrace, too

much under their shadow for their true grandeur to be felt. In the

summer and early autumn it was a busy place, for it was a favorite

resting-point and suitable centre for many excursions. But at this

time, as Karl had wisely predicted, it was nearly empty. The flock of

guides who during the summer months had been accustomed to haunt its

approach had gone home to their families and their winter-life among

the herds of cattle and goats; the _dépendances_ were entirely closed,

and many of the windows of the hotel itself showed white blinds and a

general appearance of being shut up for the time.

Nevertheless, in the village of Grindelwald a slight commotion seemed

to be on foot, of which the hotel was apparently the centre. Curious

men in white ties were discussing volubly with the few rough outsiders

who, in the vague hope of further spoil, were haunting the outskirts

of the hotel with bare-backed mules and alpenstocks; from the little

shop where carvings and views were temptingly exhibited the ancient

proprietor was looking curiously across at the hotel; and the village

people were gathered together in small knots, evidently discussing some

object of common interest. Into the midst of this excitement Maurice

Grey and his servant walked quietly about noon on this bright autumnal

day.

Karl pricked up his ears. "Something has happened, meinherr," he

ventured with the familiarity of a favorite attendant; then, perceiving

no sign of disapproval, "Travellers lost in yesterday's mist. Ach! wie

schrecklich!" he continued, lapsing into German as exciting scraps of

one of the many conversations reached his ears. "Meinherr has without

doubt heard. 'II ne peut pas se consoler.' An Englishman, it may well

be, who has lost his son, perhaps even two. Will meinherr permit that I

make inquiry?"

Maurice could not help laughing at the man's overweening curiosity.

"Ask about my room and luggage first," he said, "then you may do as you

like."

But by this time the landlord had seen the Englishman, and had

advanced, hat in hand, to ask his pleasure. The rarity of new arrivals

in this season made an extra coating of politeness desirable.

"Is anything wrong?" asked Maurice when the trivial matter of

accommodation had been settled.

The landlord answered in French; he had never been able to acquire

English: "Ah, monsieur, a sad event indeed; but come within and you

shall hear of it. We are idle now, and my people have nothing better

to do than to talk about these things. Better not--better not," and he

shook his head seriously.

"But why?" asked Maurice, his curiosity aroused. "Is there anything

particularly mysterious about this event, which seems to have excited

you all so much?"

"Mysterious! Monsieur has truly chosen a right word to describe this

occurrence."

And he proceeded to pour into Maurice's ear some account of the

sensational event which had that day formed the one topic of

conversation in the little village.

It will be as well, perhaps, to take the story out of his hands and

to give in a few words a _résumé_ of what, with interruptions and

circumlocutions manifold, the landlord made comprehensible at last to

his new guest.

It seemed that a few days before the Englishman's arrival several

travellers had put up at the hotel, apparently with the intention of

staying there some time.

The first party consisted of only two, an elderly gentleman who

appeared to be in a bad state of health, and a child strikingly lovely

if the impassioned description of the landlord was at all worthy of

belief.

They took three rooms _en suite_, and the little lady was to be

constantly attended by one of the chambermaids.

Later in the same day the second party arrived. It consisted of two

gentlemen and a lady, all of whom gave Austria as their country. The

lady, a peculiarly proud and beautiful woman, seemed to be the wife of

one of the gentlemen, but they both treated her with a tolerable amount

of carelessness.

For two days these different families had remained in the hotel without

meeting or having any intercourse one with the other, for the elderly

gentleman had been suffering so acutely that he never left his room,

and the child would not leave his side.

On the third or fourth day he appeared at the _table d'hôte,_

accompanied by the little girl, and seats were placed for them exactly

opposite to those occupied by the Austrians. The lady and one of the

gentlemen were already seated when they entered.

One of the waiters, it appeared, was a particularly observant

character, though, indeed, there are always observant characters at

hand when such are found convenient, and a waiter's life at some large

hotel is specially favorable to the cultivation of this habit of mind.

Many a waiter might frame exciting romances, the materials drawn simply

from the sphere of his own observations. The waiter in question was

German, a man of an inquiring turn of mind, and specially given to the

study of character. Some peculiarity of countenance, as he afterward

declared, led him to look rather attentively at the dark, handsome face

of the Austrian lady. Lost in his favorite study, he forgot to notice,

by the necessary bustle, the drawing out of chairs and readjustment

of knives and forks, the entry of the elderly Frenchman and his

fair-haired child. He could not, therefore, have been mistaken in his

assertion that as the lady lifted her eyes from her plate and caught

a glimpse of the new arrival, her face became suddenly convulsed. She

started violently, first flushed crimson, then turned as pale as death.

This circumstance made the intelligent waiter think. He turned his

attention instantly from the strangely-affected lady to the apparent

cause of her agitation, but here he was partially baffled. There

seemed to have been a kind of flash of recognition in the face of the

gentleman with the iron-gray hair as he seated himself opposite to her;

even this, however, was so slight that possibly he might only have

imagined it, for the Frenchman's conduct during the time allotted to

dinner was absolutely natural. Once or twice he even looked across at

his companions with that quiet species of scrutiny which is allowable

between perfect strangers meeting in this way, and several times he

addressed himself in French to one or other of the gentlemen who faced

him. The lady made no further sign, only to the far-seeing German she

seemed to be making a violent effort to control herself. On the evening

of that day something--he did not explain what--led this particular

waiter to the part of the house in which the suite of rooms taken by

the gentleman (who will have been recognized as M. L'Estrange) was

situated. He stated afterward that he had been chained to the spot--the

spot being the outside of the door of the Frenchman's apartment--by

strange and unusual sounds. He heard a woman's voice, interrupted

often with tears and sobs; she was speaking in tones of entreaty or

expostulation, raising her voice violently from time to time as her

excitement grew with her theme. What that was the waiter could not

precisely say. He was an exact man, who never liked to go beyond

his authority. In fact, as he was eminently practical and had never

cultivated his imaginative faculties, perhaps he chose the easiest

course.

Stern, low tones answered from time to time the woman's impassioned

appeals, and at last, very suddenly as it seemed, the door was thrown

violently open, and cloaked and hooded, her face covered by a thick

black veil, there walked out the proud Austrian lady. He recognized her

by her exceptional height and her stately carriage.

The door was closed softly from the inside, and the lady walked rapidly

through the passage to her own rooms, which were situated in another

part of the house.

This happened two days before the arrival of Maurice. In the night the

lady had disappeared. A French waiter went at the same time, whether

as her attendant or not no one could discover. One thing alone was

certain--the deed had been cleverly done. During the whole of those

days the lady had been sought, but sought in vain.

"We thought her husband careless," said the landlord in conclusion,

"but ever since he has been like a madman. We dare not tell him what

monsieur knows about the conversation that has been overheard: the

life of the French gentleman, who seems still very ill, would scarcely

be safe; and, after all, who can say? He seems to have acted well. A

woman's caprice, an old attachment. Monsieur will doubtless be of my

advice. It would be useless to arouse ill feeling without just cause."

And so saying, the landlord shrugged his shoulders. Why should he

affect himself at all with the miseries of forsaken husbands or runaway

wives? It is an ill wind that blows nobody good, and the landlord, to

speak truly, was not discontented with the kind of notoriety which this

romantic tale, told and retold as it might very probably be--especially

if the _dénouement_ should turn out to be tragic--would bring upon his

house.

Maurice Grey read something of this in the man's eyes, and in his turn

he shrugged his shoulders, a sign with him of bitter contempt.

Not "What fools," but "What knaves these mortals be!" was the constant

cry of his sick soul. It was meeting him again as he emerged from his

solitude.

When the landlord left him to answer some summons, Maurice Grey looked

out upon the mountains, and laughed a laugh that was sad to hear, for

under the mirth lay a weary weight of misery and bitterness. Women

inconstant, man faithless--everywhere self-interest the great ruling

motive of life, and in all the green earth no spot where he could lay

his head, feeling "Here I may rest with a perfect confidence." The

man's heart contracted painfully; from such a standpoint as his the

outlook on humanity is gloomy indeed. He felt for a moment that he

would fain be out of it all. The frank, round face of Karl aroused him

to a sense of his position, and to the recollection that while such

simple souls as his were left all honesty had not passed away from the

earth. It was certainly a relief.

"Meinherr's rooms are ready, his fire lit and his clothes airing. Will

he please to see if everything is to his liking?" said the German.

"Where is my room?"

"In the best part of the house, eccellenz, close to the apartments

occupied by the gentleman of whom he has doubtless heard."

"The inconsolable husband?" Maurice's lips were curled into a kind of

sneer as he asked the question.

"No, meinherr; the other person concerned, as they say, in this sad

business--a Frenchman, I believe."

"So all these details are the common talk of the place," said Maurice

to himself. "Unfortunate man!" And then he set his teeth together. "I

acted wisely," he muttered; "such a scandal as this would have killed

me."

He said nothing more to Karl, and the honest soul, who had rejoiced

in the interest his master was taking in sublunary affairs, who had

been congratulating himself, in fact, on the very rapid success of his

plan for drawing his master out of his dark moods, was distressed and

perplexed to see the old frown gather on his brow, to hear his fierce,

impatient sigh, and to find himself banished summarily from his room

with the curt abruptness to which Karl had become accustomed.

Left alone, Maurice sat down by the little wood-fire, which had been

kindled solely in consideration for his feelings as an Englishman,

and returned to his sad pondering. He was playing a dangerous game

with himself, for he was in that mood which has often tempted a man to

tamper with his humanity--to put out his rash hand and experimentalize

on the nature whose fearful beauty and hidden mystery it is impossible

for him to understand. It would have been better, a thousand times

better, for the Englishman at such a moment as this to have thrown

himself into any kind of work, to have sought society, however

humble, to have looked for some interest in the outer world; anything

would have been better, indeed, than this giving way to the spirit

that possessed him--this looking for and searching into what no son

or daughter of humanity may fathom. Like a fiend's temptation ran

backward and forward through his mind, haunting him with its dull

rhythm, the burden of a song that he remembered to have heard in some

bygone time:

"A still small voice, it spake to me--

Thou art so full of misery,

Were it not better not to be?"

And again, with an added force--

"Thou art so steeped in misery,

Surely 'twere better not to be--better not to be."

As he repeated these words half aloud, Maurice rose and paced the room

excitedly.

"Yes," he said to himself, "a wise counsel. Men, women, what are they?"

He knit his brows and his eyes looked fierce. "What are we?--miserable,

and our misery makes us bad. God!--if there be a God!"--he lifted

his pale, agitated face, but underlying his wretched, wild doubts

might have been read there the reverence of a fine soul--"why are we

miserable, seeking good for evermore, and finding evil, inconstancy,

falsehood? Why is our fair world the abode of fiends incarnate, who

burden the ages with their folly? And if we were happy"--again he

lifted his pale face, and the dazzling snow-peaks against their azure

background met his gaze--"if we were happy," he repeated slowly--"if

_she_ had been happy--O God! she would have been good, for the soul of

purity was in her; but misery brings madness to the blood and thoughts

of evil to the heart; and for misery there is no cure under the sun."

For a few moments he remained perfectly still and silent, his arms

folded, his brow contracted, looking out upon the snow-fields; then

added, this time half aloud, "_But one!_"