This was set aside for after-perusal. They did not reckon very much

upon his zeal and earnestness. But Margaret's letter from Arthur was

eagerly seized, almost too eagerly, for when she had opened it the

words swam before her eyes; she found it impossible to decipher it.

"Read it, Adèle," she said; "my eyes are dim this evening."

It was the letter that had been written in Moscow--the letter that had

begun so joyfully, that had ended in a cloud. Arthur had not let them

know in his letter the reason for the sudden discouragement, but the

two women read it and their hearts sank.

They had received one letter before this. It had told of the meeting

with Laura in Paris. In it, too, Arthur had announced, with all the

sanguine assurance of youth, that the next letter, to be written in

Moscow, would certainly bring positive news. He could see no reason

for doubting this. The second letter had met with certain delays _en

route_, and the very length of the interval had in her most courageous

moods filled Margaret with hope.

When, therefore, the long looked-for letter came, and heralded nothing

but another endless journey, another weary search, her heart sank, her

courage failed suddenly.

She turned her face to the wall and wept. "I shall never live to see

it," she moaned.

Adèle was bewildered; she scarcely knew how to comfort her friend, for

her own heart was sad. This unfolding of another weary age of suspense

and delay had disappointed her bitterly. In her despair she turned to

the lawyer's letter. It might possibly promise hope from another source.

She read it hastily, then, stooping over her friend, "Listen, Margaret

dear; you must be brave and not give way. Mr. Robinson is to be here

to-morrow; perhaps he may bring news about Laura."

But the mother shook her head: "No, no; my little one is lost--lost!

Child, I tell you, God is punishing me. I have sinned."

"Margaret, be calm. How have you sinned?"

But the young girl trembled as she spoke, there was so intense a

sadness in Margaret's face.

She raised her head from the pillow, and throwing back the long waves

of yellow hair from her face and eyes looked wildly at her companion.

And then she laughed--a low hollow laugh that made Adèle shiver.

"In bartering love, God's love, for man's!" she cried, and leaped from

the bed, for the madness of fever was on her. "And what is worse,

I do it still," she cried. "Yes, I would barter my soul--my soul,

do you hear?--only to see him once"--from a shriek her voice sank

into plaintive wailing--"to feel his hand upon my hair as in the old

days--to hear him call me love, wife. Oh, Maurice, Maurice!"

Adèle was frightened, but she would not call for assistance. Her tears

falling fast, she threw her arms round her friend and tried by gentle

force to make her lie down again.

But at first Margaret resisted. "Let me alone," she cried; "none of

them understand, for men cannot love like women. I must go myself and

tell him or he will never know. _He_ might have done wrong--_I_ should

have loved him still. Dear, I could never have left _you_ for these

long years without a word, a sign; and what had I done?" Her voice

sank, she fell back on the bed. "It was God's will. I loved him more

than Heaven--more than goodness."

The paroxysm had exhausted her. Adèle covered her feet with a shawl.

Margaret closed her eyes and fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted

about half an hour. When she awoke the room was in darkness, only the

white moonlight streamed in under the raised blind, and there was the

sound of bitter weeping by her bed. She put out her hand: "Adèle, are

you there? What is it, dear?"

"I thought you were fast asleep;" and the young girl choked back her

sobs courageously.

"But what has happened, Adèle? what makes you cry like this?"

"Don't ask me, please, but try to sleep again."

"Child, you must think me very selfish. Was it on my account you were

crying? I think I must have said some strange things before I went to

sleep, but I forget what they were--indeed, I sometimes fear my brain

is giving way. But, Adèle dear, I can't allow you to grieve for me in

this way. Perhaps it was something else. Tell me. Come, I intend to

know."

She drew one of Adèle's cold little hands from her face and held it

lovingly, then the young girl told out her trouble in a few simple

words.

Her religion was the growth of her loving heart; she had no particular

doctrines, for so-called theology always seemed to her too hard to be

understood, but she believed, in the full simplicity and truth of her

young soul, what many religionists by their harsh doctrine practically

deny--that God, the Father of spirits, is a merciful God, "tender,

compassionate, boundless in loving-kindness and truth." She wept that

night because the friend whom she loved so deeply would not take to her

soul the comfort of the truth that God loved her.

It had come over Adèle's sympathetic heart that evening like a kind

of agony that the loving God is for ever, through the long ages,

misunderstood and denied--that while He is calling in His tenderest

tones to the stricken, they will look to any comfort rather than His

for help in their trouble. "God is angry with them--God is punishing

them," when in reality "God is with them--God is loving them." She told

it all to Margaret in a voice often broken with tears, and her earnest

conviction gave a certain reality to her words.

Margaret's sore heart was soothed. "It may be," she said. "God grant

it! Dear, I was beginning to feel Him near, but now the earthly things,

the longings of youth, have come back with this delayed hope. They

stand between my soul and God; I must long for them more than I long

for Him."

"And who told you He would be angry, Margaret? Could He wish you to do

what is contrary to nature? He gave you these earthly desires, this

longing, this love. I sometimes think"--the young girl's voice sank,

she bowed her head reverently--"that Christ became a man for this,

not only that _He_ might understand us, but that we might know He

understands. It is such a good thing; it helps us to bear."

Margaret smiled: "I think it will come. I am better already; but, dear,

where did you learn all this wisdom?"

There was a knock at the door which prevented an answer. The landlady's

little nephew was standing in the passage, a few choice flowers in his

small hands. He wanted to say good-night to Mrs. Grey, and his auntie

had sent her some flowers.

It was the best possible diversion. The child's blue eyes smiled up

into those of the weary woman, and they brought her pleasant memories.

She took the child up on the bed kissed him tenderly and listened to

his infant prattle.

Then when the landlady appeared, quiet and respectful, but allowing

her honest sympathy to be seen, to ask whether the little boy were

troublesome and to say that it was his bed-time, Margaret turned to her

comforter with something like hope in her face. "Child," she said, "you

are right; God is merciful. I will trust Him."

They slept together that night, for Margaret's nerves were unstrung,

she could not bear to be left alone; but both of them slept calmly, and

a peace, verily Heaven-born, brooded over the small company of women in

their temporary home within the circle of the sea-sounds.

CHAPTER II.

_THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT._

With lips depressed as he were meek,

Himself unto himself he sold:

Upon himself himself did feed--

Quiet, dispassionate and cold.

Mr. Robinson in the mean time had not been idle. He could certainly

never have presented so unsullied a front before the world if he had

ever been idle where his own interests were concerned. During those

weeks, while L'Estrange and Margaret's child had been wandering--while

Arthur had been throwing himself into the task of unravelling the

mystery that surrounded Maurice Grey and his desertion--while Margaret,

sick at heart, had been waiting and watching--he had been putting all

his energy into the task of winding up her affairs in such a way as to

make it appear that in their management he had been guilty of nothing

but a little pardonable imprudence. He had been obliged to sacrifice

some of his own interests in the process, but this was a matter of very

small moment.

Mr. Robinson was careful, even as regarded trivial sums, but he was too

clever a man of the world not to know the impolicy of the "penny-wise,

pound-foolish system." A small sacrifice that would have the effect of

impressing the world with his upright character would, he knew, bring

in returns fully commensurate to the outlay. He did not, therefore,

hesitate to pay up, out of his own pocket, as he magnanimously put

it to some highly-impressionable lady clients, that amount of Mrs.

Grey's capital which had been lent on insufficient security to the

bankrupt trader; but (and this he did not tell the ladies) for the

whole transaction he made both sides pay heavily. The man of business

was kept under the lawyer's thumb for further use, and Mrs. Grey, out

of the capital sum, had to pay not only the expenses, which were heavy,

but also certain sundries, including various advances of twenty pounds

at a time for maintenance, setting on foot of a search for Mr. Grey and

his daughter, letters innumerable, railway journeys and interviews.

Mrs. Grey had even the pleasure of defraying the expenses of a trip

to Paris taken by her lawyer at the moderate charge of five guineas a

day, for the purpose of personally investigating the city with a view

to the recovery of Mrs. Grey's daughter. That she had not been met

with, either in the Bois de Boulogne or on the Boulevards, was not Mr.

Robinson's fault. He carefully frequented both. "Honesty is the best

policy." One of the ladies to whom Mr. Robinson mentioned this matter

quite incidentally (it illustrated aptly some of her own affairs) put

his name down instantly in her will for one thousand pounds; another

reported the story to a lately-widowed friend, who at once appointed

this upright man her solicitor and confidential adviser. Mr. Robinson

held his head higher, and at the next cottage-meeting he attended gave

out for the text, "Godliness hath the promise of this life and of that

which is to come"--a fact, he proceeded to say, which was strangely

borne out by his own late experiences. But this was incidental, a

providential side-wind. The real object of his attention at this time

was to get rid altogether of Mrs. Grey's affairs, which, as she had

the power in her hands of appointing another trustee, he knew it was

possible to do. He was anxious, therefore, to press the matter forward,

that he might gain her signature acknowledging full satisfaction with

his proceedings before any sharper eyes than hers could look into the

business and so a contrary advice be given.

It was to accomplish this purpose that Mr. Robinson had planned an

interview for the day succeeding that on which Arthur's letter had

been received. That morning Margaret was better. The first paroxysm

of disappointment had passed. Adèle's words of gentle wisdom had made

her almost ashamed of her own impatience. Better than all, perhaps, it

was a fine, clear October day. The sun was shining; the bare trees,

waving gracefully in the breeze, wrote their delicate tracery against

the clear blue sky, the sea had fallen to partial rest. Margaret's

excitement had exhausted her. She slept late. When she awoke the sun

was high in the heavens. Adèle had long left her side, but before she

could look round inquiringly the young girl had opened the door gently

and was creeping in to see if her friend were awake.

"Come in, Adèle," said Margaret. "Why, it must be late. How is it that

you allowed me to sleep so long?"

"I knew it would do you good, and I was right; you look better already.

Now, what do you intend to do? Mr. Robinson, you know, is to be here.

Do you feel able to see him, or shall I do it for you?"

"No, no, Adèle. You are spoiling me. I must exert myself."

But in spite of her brave words Margaret felt very weak. It was only

with old Martha's assistance that she could manage to make herself at

all presentable.

The old woman shook her head once or twice as the task of dressing

proceeded. "It was pitiable," as she afterward remarked to Jane, "to

see a body fallen away like that. Bless the poor soul!" she continued,

wiping her eyes, "if they don't find and bring back her folks pretty

soon, it's precious little of her'll be left, what with fretting and

one thing and another."

In these days Margaret would always be dressed with care. She had

a kind of feeling that her husband might return suddenly, and she

wished him to see her at her best. She had left off the black which

she had worn during her widowhood, and had returned to the pretty

morning-dresses, the soft flowing draperies that in the old days

Maurice had loved.

On this morning Adèle thought she had never seen her friend look so

fair. Her dress was of gray cashmere. It fitted closely to her slight

form and flowed round her in ample folds. Her hair, gathered up at the

back into thick coils, rippled off in waves of shimmering gold from

her brow, so that the pure outlines of her face were clearly marked.

It was held back by a broad band of blue ribbon, over which fell

lappets of choice lace. Her face seemed perfectly transparent, it was

so delicately fair; and the absence of color, the brightness fever had

given to her eyes, the general fragility of her appearance, made her

look many years younger than she really was.

When the tedious business of dressing was over she went into the little

sitting-room, and standing with her hands resting on the back of a

chair for support, looked earnestly into the mirror that hung over the

fireplace.

"Adèle," she said, "I am changed. There are lines in my face, there are

dark shadows under my eyes. I am a poor, pale, colorless thing. If he

were to come back now, what would he say?"

"That you are more beautiful than ever," replied the young girl

impulsively, looking at her friend with the enthusiastic admiration

that belonged to her susceptible nature and her eighteen years.

"Margaret, how can you say such things?"

But Margaret did not answer. She still looked meditatively at the

mirror: "_If_ he cannot love me, _if_ he have not loved me for these

long years, I would almost rather he did not come at all. It would be

dreadful to meet his indifference. Adèle, duty might bring him."

"And if it did, Margaret, something else would keep him."

"But it is such a long time! He may have forgotten. He may have--"

"formed other ties," she was about to add, but she checked herself

suddenly. "I am talking nonsense," she said hastily, "I must find

something to do."

She got her work. It was a child's frock, of the same delicate material

and color as that she wore.

"Maurice's favorite color," she said. "I want to have it ready for

Laura when she comes back. It will go well with her golden curls, and

she wants something new. Dear little one! I wonder has she forgotten

me? I scarcely think so."

Adèle walked to the window to hide her tears. In the vague uncertainty,

in the view of possible disappointment, there was something more

pathetic in this mood of Margaret's than in that of the preceding

night. She was just in time to meet Mr. Robinson's cold eyes. He

had found the garden-gate open, and was walking up the narrow

grass-bordered path.

One of the windows of the parlor where they were sitting opened on to

the garden; the lawyer bowed politely when he saw the young lady, and

with his usual obtuseness cut short the ceremony of ringing and gaining

admittance in the usual way, by crossing the greensward and tapping in

his peculiarly lively manner at the window.

Adèle turned round suddenly to prepare her friend for this summary

entrance and to recover her own inclination for tears. Margaret's

face reassured her. For the first time since Arthur had gone and the

fever of hope-deferred had taken possession of her, Margaret looked

really happy; her fingers, almost transparent, were flying backward and

forward with the busy needle; she was looking down upon her work, which

began to assume the appearance of a child's frock, with a smile. In her

whole attitude there was rest.

The woman's work had taken its effect upon her mind. To be working for

her lost darling made her recovery and return seem real and near to

her. It brought back the quiet days when the child had been her one

comfort and joy.

"Mr. Robinson is here," said Adèle, crossing the room. Margaret looked

up, and met a frank smile from the outside of the still closed window.

She rose, threw up the sash, and the lawyer entered, hat in hand.

"Good-morning, ladies," he said cordially. "I was beginning to fear,

from the stern appearance of our young friend here, that I was to be

left out in the cold. Ha! ha! not a pleasant position on a frosty

day. Mrs. Grey, you look thin; not fretting, I hope, though indeed I

can scarcely wonder. The absurd way in which your affairs are being

conducted is really enough to worry you."

At this point Adèle looked indignant and Margaret tried to protest.

But the lawyer waved his hand: "One moment, Mrs. Grey; I wish to make

no reflections. As I stated before, in my interview with Mr. Forrest

(he took up no less than two hours of my time on a very busy day; this

is the sole grudge I bear him);" the lawyer showed his teeth--"as I

stated before, Mrs. Grey, I wash my hands altogether of this part of

the business. I did my best; my poor services were rejected wholesale,

I may say. As a Christian I forgive; yes indeed, what I have come to

tell you of my after-conduct will prove that I bear no malice. But it

hit me hard--hit me hard."

He touched the region of the body where the centre of feeling is always

supposed to reside, and looked sentimental.

"Pray sit down, Mr. Robinson. I am sorry your feelings were hurt in

any way," said Margaret with gentle dignity; "and I know quite well

that my kind friend, Mr. Forrest, is apt to be a little impulsive. Let

me assure you that I am not ungrateful for the various services you

have rendered me." Poor Margaret! she was thinking, with a kind of

compunction, about that interview in London and the sundry advances for

maintenance which had been a great boon to her at the time. "His heart

is kind," she said to herself; "we may have judged him harshly." Then

to him: "I must honestly confess that I was inclined to blame you for

lukewarmness in the last matter I confided to you: I mean the search

for my husband and child."

"Lukewarmness, Mrs. Grey!" Mr. Robinson lifted his hands in a kind

of holy horror; and surely it was a superabundance of honesty that

shone out from his eyes. "You really astonish me. In fact I am at a

loss to understand you at all. Let me pass the facts of the case in

review"--his voice grew stern--"perhaps then the blame will rest upon

the right shoulders. If I remember rightly--Be so good as to correct

any misstatements; I like to be accurate, but naturally my mind is so

full of other matters. Well, as I was saying, you consulted me--in this

very room, I think. I promised to do my best, letting you know results.

Thereupon you placed in my care certain trinkets. I took them simply

because I thought them safer in my strong box than here with you in

this lonely place. As to making any use of them, why, Mrs. Grey, facts

prove the contrary. Mr. Forrest had only to demand them on your part.

Without hesitation I restored them intact. To proceed: as soon as I

return (remember, I have not the faintest clue), I consult a detective,

put him, as far as possible, on the track, and, further, demand

an interview with Mr. Grey's solicitor--perfectly unsatisfactory,

professes to know nothing. I take various other measures--needless

to enter into detail. The principles of what one may call the

private-inquiry business are not easy to explain, especially to ladies.

I think I obtain a clue, but is it for me to torture you with half

revelations? I wait for a little more certainty, and in the interval

in dashes Mr. Forrest, states that you have given over these matters

into his hands, that your confidence is shaken, that affairs would be

strictly looked into."

Here Mr. Robinson made a dramatic pause and looked sternly at his

repentant client. "Mrs. Grey," he continued, "do you know what was my

impulse at that moment? Your affairs, as you are well aware, are--or

I should say _were_--in a complicated condition. I felt inclined

to take no more trouble, to let your new friends have the burden

and responsibility; but"--he lifted his eyes sanctimoniously to the

ceiling--"I do nothing upon impulse. Further consideration showed

me that to act in so hasty a manner would be unworthy of myself,

inconsistent with my character as a Christian man. I _wish_ to 'adorn

my profession in all things.' Whether in this I am successful or no is

not for me to say."

Through all her penitence Margaret was growing impatient of this long

harangue, and Adèle's face showed that she, at least, would not hear it

much longer.

Mrs. Grey broke the little interlude short: "And pray, Mr. Robinson,

what did you do?"

"Set to work immediately to disentangle your affairs. But, mind you,

a man may go to a _certain_ length; self-respect forbids him to go

further. What I said to myself was this: I am distrusted, I must resign

my position."

Margaret was about to interrupt him.

"Allow me. Before you answer, I must give my reasons, both from my side

of the question and from yours, for the advisability of the step which

I may say is irrevocably determined in my own mind. We shall take

the reasons from your point of view first. Mr. Forrest has your full

confidence. You acknowledge so far as this?" Margaret bowed. "You took

measures with him totally unknown to me--a breach of confidence--but

this I should have been content to waive. Ladies are naturally

impulsive. To proceed with our reasons. Mr. Forrest distrusts and

dislikes me--impossible to say why. He is a worldling. It may be that a

few words of warning and exhortation which I felt it my bounden duty to

give him on the occasion of our last meeting have something to do with

it. It is a matter of small import, except in so far as it concerns

you. Mr. Forrest has inspired you with distrust; he will do so further;

possibly your husband also, for I hear he has succeeded in finding out

something through Mr. Edwards. But of this you doubtless know more

than I. Under such circumstances it will be far wiser for you to allow

me at once to give up the management of your affairs. My reasons for

desiring it are many of them personal. I will not enter into them, as

I fear I have tired you already. If you like I can proceed to open out

my accounts and give a rapid sketch of my proceedings, that you may

sign this document with your eyes open. Your friend looks dissatisfied;

I know ladies often object to signing. Let me reassure her: this is

nothing but a deed of release, to pave the way for transfer papers

which are now being prepared."

"You are quite right to withdraw, Mr. Robinson," replied Margaret

with dignity, "if you feel as you do, but in the mean time, until my

husband's return--"

The lawyer looked at her curiously. Then he was only just in time.

Certain news had arrived.

Margaret's face expressed nothing. "--Who," she continued, "will manage

my affairs?"

"It is on this very matter that I desired to consult you."

"Would it not be better to wait?"

"For the actual conclusion of the business?--yes, if you see fit. We

could even have the papers ready, leaving the names a blank, until such

time as you can consult your friends. Still, I must beg you to conclude

the business that has brought me here to-day. I am anxious, without

delay, to pay into your account at the bank the sum which has been

matter of question between us--deducting from it, of course, as was

previously arranged, the few trivial sums forwarded, the expenses of

search and the inevitable legal charges. Of these I have brought you a

full account, and shall be much obliged by your looking over it."

Margaret sighed: "I make no doubt it is all as it should be, Mr.

Robinson."

She opened it listlessly, and the long rows of figures swam before her

eyes.

"I should not have ventured to bring it had it not been so, Mrs.

Grey. Still, it would be satisfactory. You will observe that I have

myself paid up the sum so unfortunately invested. It may be I shall

be reimbursed out of the debtor's property--it may be not; this I am

content to leave. You will also observe that out of the capital sum I

have deducted the total of this account. All is clearly stated in this

document, which I am anxious for you to sign."

Adèle, while the lawyer was stating his views, had been listening and

observing. At the moment when he brought his last harangue to a climax,

Margaret was sitting at her writing-table. The account lay open at her

side. The deed of release, fairly copied on parchment, was under her

hand. She felt too utterly indifferent to all these business-matters to

be able to question anything that was told her. All she desired was the

cessation of this wearisome importunity. She dipped her pen in the ink.

Adèle saw how it was with her. Her younger, stronger spirit recoiled

from the oppression. She leaned forward suddenly and drew the pen from

her friend's hand:

"Margaret, take my advice--sign nothing."

Margaret smiled, and then she sighed wearily. In this matter she would

have preferred taking her own way, but she gave in.

"Impulsive child!" she said, a slight tone of irritation in her voice;

then, turning to the lawyer, "Perhaps, Mr. Robinson, even for form's

sake it will be wiser for me to try and make out what all this means.

But for the moment I feel slightly bewildered. You must allow me to

think over it. You are staying at the hotel, I suppose? If you will

give us the pleasure of your company to lunch we can further discuss

this in the afternoon."

The lawyer rose. Margaret's invitation was a dismissal. He was obliged

to submit to the delay, although it was a matter of great importance

to him that the business which had brought him to Middlethorpe should

be settled at once; but Adèle's sharp eyes, rendered far-seeing by

love and anxiety, were watching him narrowly, and he would show no

sign of anxiety. "Take your own time, my dear Mrs. Grey," he replied

benignantly. "You must have seen and understood all along that my

special object in my business dealings with ladies is to persuade them

to do everything intelligently--comprehending, that is to say, the

why and the wherefore of the step they are advised to take. I find

some _too_ ready. They throw themselves entirely on their lawyer's

superior knowledge, increasing, of course, our responsibility, and this

I deprecate. Others"--he looked across at Margaret with his charming

smile--"are inclined to be too timorous. They take fright at the sight

of parchment, and when asked to sign imagine they are being defrauded

of some right. Your position, Mrs. Grey, is the wisest--indeed I

may say the most satisfactory to one's self, for when, by repeated

explanations, I have made all this perfectly clear to your mind, my

position will be the more tenable. Then if in the future subject of

discussion should arise--which, understand me, I do not apprehend--I

shall be able to call upon you and our young friend here as witnesses

to the truth of what I assert--namely, that you did everything with

your eyes open."

The lawyer bowed himself out of the room. This time he had struck the

right chord. To Margaret, in her state of bewilderment, the "repeated

explanations" sounded like a kind of threat. Her thoughts and hopes

were all engrossed, given to the one absorbing subject, and this forced

attention to foreign matters was very irksome.

"If Maurice come back," she said to herself, "he will manage everything

for me. If not"--and at the bare supposition all her life and energy

seemed to pass, leaving her cold and spiritless--"if not, what does

anything matter?"

She turned to the table. Mr. Robinson, it should be observed, had

pocketed the papers. He had not thought it well, probably, that the

ladies should examine them without the commentary of his instructive

explanations. Mr. Robinson professed to think little of the female

intellect, probably because, as a general rule, he found ladies

gullible.

Not finding the papers, Margaret arose and walked to the window.

"Adèle, my dear," she said after a few moments' pause, "I _must_ sign

this." In her voice were the querulous tones of weakness. "That man's

explanations will send me wild. Can you give me any solid reason for

objecting?"

"Only, that he has no right, in the present state of affairs, to ask

you to sign anything. It all sounds plausible enough, but _I_ think

that if the man were really honest he would wait for this 'winding up,'

as he calls it, until your husband's return."

"You see he wishes to pay over this sum, whatever it may be, at once,"

returned Margaret. She was inclined to take the lawyer's part. "I

really think the man is honest, and certainly until just lately he has

been a very kind friend to me--a friend in need."

"But why does he come in this sneaking way," persisted the young girl,

"to make you write that you are satisfied with him? I may be wrong,

but it seems to me that he only wants to stop your mouth and prevent

accounts from being looked into by your friends."

"My dear child, are you not a _little_ unjust? Confess, now, that

Arthur prejudiced you. Mr. Robinson's vulgarity is, I know, quite

enough to account for your cousin's dislike, and some of the things he

did had a bad appearance; still, that need not make us all put him down

as dishonest."

"But, Margaret, what can be his motive?"

"How can I tell?" Again Margaret's voice sounded querulous. She said

nothing more for some time, and Adèle forbore to press the subject; she

feared that already she had gone too far. It was Margaret who opened

it again, for her mind had been working. "Allowing," she said, almost

apologetically, "that this signature is unnecessary, I think I may

as well oblige Mr. Robinson, if only in acknowledgment of his former

kindness."

"Kindness!" The young girl shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly,

but all further discussion was stopped by the return of Mr. Robinson

and the appearance of lunch. During the meal the lawyer made himself,

as he thought, perfectly charming, but after it was over he returned to

the attack.

Margaret, as it will be seen, was predisposed in favor of what he

desired; Adèle had done her best to prevent it, but in vain. The wily

man gained his point. Margaret signed the deed with full knowledge of

its contents. Mr. Robinson was protected, and his mind was once more at

rest.

It was thus with him always. His escapes were wonderful. As at this

point his connection with Margaret's history ended altogether,

for that cooked-up account and the transactions which led to its

concoction continued to be a sealed book, it may be as well, perhaps,

to let him once for all disappear from our pages. He is practicing

still, and it is more than probable that the Robinson name, on whose

lustre he prides himself, has never been dimmed by action of his,

although among solicitors of a higher class he has the name of being

a sharp practitioner. He may be known by his frank address, his manly

appearance, his deep and outspoken conviction of the necessity of not

living for this world alone. He has been an actor in the play so long

that at last he has almost come to believe he is what he makes so loud

a profession of being.

Let him go on his way rejoicing. If other and more really honest people

understood, as he does, the grand art of taking care of themselves,

there would be less misery in the world. It may be, however, that it

would be a doubtful advantage.

The poetry of chivalry and romance has died out in a great measure

from our "Merrie Land," but woe worth the day when selfishness becomes

the rule, and what Mr. Robinson would term "stupid Quixoterie" the

exception!

CHAPTER III.

_THREATENED SEPARATION._

The rainbow dies in heaven, and not on earth;

But love can never die: from world to world,

Up the high wheel of heaven, it lives for aye.

Adèle was in despair. By that evening's post a letter had arrived from

her mother. Mrs. Churchill was on her way to Scarborough, and her niece

was travelling with her. They were sleeping at York that night. On the

following day they would call for Adèle at Middlethorpe, and take her

on with them. Again and again the date of her return to her mother's

care had been deferred, in obedience to her wishes repeatedly and

earnestly expressed.

Mrs. Churchill, always indulgent to what she looked upon as Adèle's

whims, had in consequence spent the month of September in Brighton, but

her forbearance would extend no further. It was high time, she thought,

that her daughter's absurd seclusion should come to an end. Her letter

was written in a very decided manner. She wished to leave no loophole

for excuse or further delay.

It seemed to Adèle that the announcement had come just at the wrong

time. In the long, heart-sickening anxiety of suspense, Margaret's

strength was failing, and the young girl knew she was her chief comfort

and help. She trembled to think how the much-tried endurance of her

friend might fail if she were thrown suddenly on her own resources.

And Margaret had been given into her care by Arthur. The patient

fulfilling of her task was a pledge of her love. It was not a hard

task, for Adèle's affection, which had partaken of the fervid nature

of passion in the admiration of her young heart for Margaret's beauty,

in the pity which had arisen on that first day of their meeting at the

sight of her distress, had taken perhaps a calmer tone during these

weeks of close intimacy, but withal a much deeper and firmer root.

Adèle loved her friend so truly that she would willingly have

sacrificed any happiness of her own for her good, and the idea of

leaving her, of returning to the old rounds of tedious gayety, of

knowing that in her absence the strong, brave heart was failing, the

weakened spirit was giving way, even when the end might be very near,

made her heart ache and throb.

She would not tell Margaret that night, for the business and discussion

of the day had wearied her, but there was an almost unusual tenderness

in her manner, which Margaret attributed to her fear of having unduly

urged the non-signature of Mr. Robinson's papers.

Old Martha was ready at her post to help Margaret to bed. Adèle sent

her away peremptorily. "No one shall touch you to-night but me," she

said, stooping over the arm-chair in which Margaret was sitting, and

loosening her hair with gentle fingers; then, as Margaret smilingly

protested, "Just for this once," she pleaded; and her friend did not

see, for the long, blinding tresses, that slow tears were falling one

by one from the young girl's eyes.

There was exceeding comfort in the passing to and fro of those busy

fingers, for their every touch spoke eloquently of love. This it was

that Margaret felt. Once she caught one of the busy hands and pressed

it to her lips.

"What should I do without you, Adèle?" she said softly. "Little one,

I begin to fear I am loving you too much. My loves are unfortunate.

It is the old story of the fair gazelle. Scold me well; I deserve it

for my sentimental folly; still, the feeling is here--I can't get rid

of it."

Adèle had to choke back her tears before she could answer. When she

did her voice was slightly husky: "I don't think loves can ever be

unfortunate--quite altogether, I mean--for you know to lose for a time

is not to lose for always, and where there is love, real true love,

there must be lasting." She paused for a moment, as if in earnest

struggle to express herself worthily, and then her voice grew more

earnest and her eyes seemed to deepen: "It is charity--love--that

abideth--the only earthly feeling we can never do without."

She had finished brushing and combing Margaret's long hair; she was

sitting on a stool at her feet gazing into the fire.

"Adèle," said Margaret, "you are wiser than I, or perhaps there's

something altogether wrong about me. I cannot take the comfort you do

out of these generalities. Child, child," her voice grew intensely

earnest, "it is not this beautiful something, this 'charity which

abideth,' that I want; it is my personal loves--my husband, my child."

The young girl looked up into her eyes; she answered with the calm

assurance of faith: "Margaret, be calm: you shall have them. But do you

know I never look upon all these things as generalities; if love is to

last, our personal loves are to last too." She sighed. "I know I express

myself badly. I wish I could make you understand what I mean."

"I think I _do_ understand," said Margaret thoughtfully. "Adèle," she

said after a pause, during which perhaps almost the very same thought

had been passing through their minds, "our love, yours and mine and

your cousin's, the strange tangle which your straightforwardness and

self-forgetfulness unravelled, is certainly of the lasting kind. The

future may throw us widely apart, but I think that neither here nor

hereafter can it ever be the same as if we had not loved."

This time Adèle did not answer, because she could not. The shadow

of that dreadful separation was on her spirit. After a few moments'

silence she said lightly that Margaret had talked quite enough--that

it was time for her to rest; which dictum Margaret obeyed with great

willingness.

The next day was that fixed upon by Mrs. Churchill for her visit.

Adèle could no longer delay letting Margaret know that a summons from

her mother had come; but the morning is generally more favorable to

hopefulness than the evening. Adèle had begun to think matters were not

so desperate as they looked. Possibly she might obtain further respite.

She took in the unwelcome letter with Margaret's breakfast-tray, which

had been delicately arranged by her own hands.

"Adèle, you must go," was Margaret's comment on the letter. And she

tried not to show how sorely she would miss her comforter.

Adèle was slightly wounded: "Do you really mean it, Margaret?"

"I do indeed, dear. Your mother is quite right; you have sacrificed

yourself too long."

"And _you_ can think I have been sacrificing myself!" said the young

girl. "But no, you only mean to tease me."

There was something of the disquieting jealousy of that feeling which

is always supposed to be more engrossing than mere friendship in her

further words: "Perhaps you would not even miss me, Margaret?"

But the tears Margaret could not restrain, the sudden weariness in her

pale face, spoke more eloquently than words. Adèle threw herself down

on her knees by her friend's side: "Forgive me, darling, but if you

only knew--"

"--All the tenderness of this warm young heart," and Margaret smiled

faintly, resting her hand, as if in silent blessing, on the bowed head.

"But look, dear," she continued after a pause, "your mother is coming,

and I am anxious to see her, so she must not find me in bed. Will _you_

help me to dress this morning?"

Adèle rose and brushed away her tears. "How stupid I am!" she cried,

"and really I didn't intend to be so silly to-day, for, Margaret, I

was just thinking--Mamma is so good and kind, she generally lets me do

as I like; then, you see, she has never met you. I mean to dress you

as you were dressed yesterday, and I want you to put forth all your

fascinations. The result will be that mamma won't have the heart to

carry me off."

"But, Adèle--"

"But, Margaret. Put yourself in my hands, madam. Remember I am

responsible for your safe-keeping to somebody--my somebody, not yours,

Margaret. By the bye, I will urge Arthur's wishes. Mamma never likes to

offend _him_."

And so Adèle rattled on to hide her true, deep feelings, while once

more she ministered tenderly to the friend she loved.

Mrs. Churchill, impatient as the time drew nearer to see her daughter

again, had left York by an early train, and Margaret and Adèle had

not been long seated over their work in the little parlor before a

travelling carriage, heavily laden with luggage, drove up to the door.

She had brought her carriage and horses so far by rail, her intention

being to post for the remainder of the way.

It was long since Margaret had met any stranger, and she felt a little

nervous when the rattle of wheels came to her ears; but as from her

station by the parlor-window she caught a sight of Mrs. Churchill's

pleasant, kindly face, some of her painful anticipations fled.

Adèle had run down the garden-path. She brought her mother in to

introduce her to her friend.

The good Mrs. Churchill had been rather curious to see Margaret.

Adèle's enthusiasm and Arthur's boyish admiration had made her look

for something remarkable, but she was scarcely prepared for the

refinement, the style, the exquisite grace of her daughter's friend.

It was a rare combination, even in those circles in which the rich and

highly-connected widow moved.

Mrs. Churchill knew enough of the world to be quite sure at once that

she was in the house of a lady--not only highly born and bred, but

accustomed to the usages of society. Her good sense and kindly feeling

led her to treat her hostess with all due deference.

"I have long wished to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance,

Mrs. Grey," she said when Margaret had persuaded her to divest

herself of bonnet and shawl, "I have heard so much about you from

these enthusiastic children of mine. I call them my children, because

Arthur has been almost like my own son, and I presume you are in the

confidence of this little girl, and that she has let out her secret."

Mrs. Churchill looked at Margaret rather curiously.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Grey quietly, drawing down Adèle, who had been

hovering about her nervously, to a seat by her side. "I heard long ago,

both from your daughter and nephew, of this engagement; and much as I

admire Mr. Forrest, I cannot but think, knowing your daughter as I do,

that he is a very fortunate man."

Adèle blushed: "Margaret, be quiet; you shouldn't say such things." But

her smile belied her words; it was so radiant that it transfigured her

face.

Her mother turned to her: "Adèle, my dear, do you know that you ought

to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grey for her long hospitality? Now I

look at you I am surprised; I never saw such a change. When you left

London you were colorless and sickly."

"Mamma, mamma!" protested Adèle, "how very uninteresting!"

But Mrs Churchill persisted: "Yes, my dear, I speak the bare truth; now

your animation has come back, you have gained flesh and color, you are

_absolutely_ a different being. Mrs. Grey, what have you been doing

with her?"

Margaret smiled: "I am so glad you think her looking well, and that

her visit here has done her good, for I was beginning to think myself

selfish for keeping her so long in this lonely place. I suppose the

fresh sea-air has worked the miracle."

"The cure is not quite accomplished, mamma," said Adèle coaxingly; but

Margaret interrupted her:

"We can talk about that presently, dear; just now your mother wants

rest and refreshment. Would you mind hurrying Jane on with lunch for

me?"

She turned to Mrs. Churchill: "Our establishment is small, and I have

been delicate lately, so your daughter kindly helps me in many little

ways."

"Small indeed!" thought Mrs. Churchill, but she would not have said so

for the world. She was far too much of the real lady to be able to take

upon herself any fine-lady airs of superiority, and then she began to

interest herself strangely in her daughter's friend. Mrs. Churchill

would have been very much displeased could she have heard herself

called impulsive; indeed, it was only in a certain way that she was so.

Her impulses were generally inspired by some tolerably solid reasons.

In this case her keen eye had instantly detected the lady, also the

absence of all those qualities which go to make up the _intriguante_.

This set her at ease at once, while the gentleness, the evident

weakness, the traces of profound suffering, moved her kind heart as it

had not been moved for long. She had not been in the cottage half an

hour before, with true motherliness of intent, she made up her mind to

take Mrs. Grey in hand.

"I am glad to hear Adèle has been of any service to you," was her

answer to Margaret, cordially spoken, and then she looked at Mrs.

Grey as she had looked at her daughter. "I am sorry to hear of this

delicacy, Mrs. Grey; you certainly look far from well, but I think so

lonely a place as this would kill me in a few months. Why not try

a change--a little gayety, for instance? Now, if you would allow me

to return your hospitality to my daughter by taking you with us to

Scarborough, I really think you would find the change would do you

good. Then a little cod-liver-oil, quinine and port-wine, steel--But

perhaps you are taking some of these?"

Margaret smiled: "Thank you very much for your kind interest in my

health. No, I take none of these things, and I scarcely think they

could do me good. As to a change, you are very good to propose it; I

fear at present I could enjoy nothing. I could not enter into general

society; I should only be a burden on your hands."

Mrs. Churchill looked across at Margaret's pale face and warmed into

sympathy and interest: "But this is a dreadful state of things, Mrs.

Grey. Nothing so insidious, I can assure you, as the creeping on of

general ill-health; you ought to do something. Have you consulted a

doctor?"

"A doctor could do me no good. My dear Mrs. Churchill, pray don't

distress yourself on my account; I think you know enough of my history

to understand me when I say that my illness is far more mental than

physical. These weeks, which are bringing me hope, have been almost

more trying to me than the years that went before."

"And how long is this state of thing to be supposed to last?" cried the

impulsive and warm-hearted lady. "Now, Mrs. Grey, _will_ you take my

advice? I am many years older than you--old enough, I imagine, to be

your mother. You look incredulous. Well, have it your own way. They say

I bear my years well, and I believe that in this case the _on dits_ are

more correct than usual. You will allow, at least, that I have larger

experience of the world than you. Shall I give you my secret--the true

elixir of life, my dear? Never allow yourself to feel too deeply.

Feelings have been the ruin of some of the finest constitutions."

"But what if they cannot be helped?" said Margaret, who was smiling

through a half inclination to tears.

"My dear (_child_ I was about to say, but I don't wish to offend you),

an effort should be made, for what does all the crying over spilt milk

mean?" This was a favorite theme with Mrs. Churchill. "Why, as I have

told Adèle a thousand times, to fret one's self into a premature death

because things don't go altogether as one could wish is clearly nothing

more nor less than flying in the face of Providence; for how did we get

our health and strength, and all the rest of it? and if we acknowledge

that these are gifts of Providence, ought we to trifle with them? Come

now, Mrs. Grey, what have you to say?" Her voice softened as she looked

at the pale face and fragile form. "You must excuse me, my dear. You

see I am given to speaking my mind, and I am interested in you; so

it comes naturally somehow to speak to you as I might to this wilful

little girl of mine." For Adèle had come in during the latter part of

Mrs. Churchill's harangue. She was listening with real pleasure to the

energetic words, for she knew her mother well enough to be aware that

she never took the trouble of lecturing in this manner any one who had

not first made great way in her affections.

"This is mamma's pet subject, Margaret," she said; "what have _you_

to say? I always find her arguments unanswerable, but then they never

converted me."

Margaret smiled: "I have to say, Adèle, that your mother is perfectly

right, that I deserve every word of her lecture, and that I intend to

make an effort in the way of getting rid of these tiresome feelings and

becoming strong again."

"Only if you have me to help you, Margaret," pleaded Adèle.

But Margaret shook her head: "No, no; I have no right to keep you

longer from your mother."

Adèle turned pleadingly to Mrs. Churchill: "Mamma, mamma, leave me here

a _little_ longer."

"Your 'littles' are elastic, Adèle. For how many weeks have you been

saying this?"

"And I suppose I shall say the same"--the young girl looked up saucily

at her mother, blushing ever so slightly--"until Arthur comes back,

mamma. _He_ wishes me to stay and take care of Margaret."

Mrs. Churchill was in a very good humor; she laughed outright: "You are

certainly a pretty pair, and very well adapted to the task of taking

care of yourselves. When that event, which you are always thrusting in

my face, really happens, I shall have to engage an elderly female of

strong common sense to look after you both and keep you in order--a

pair of babies!"

"But, mamma, you haven't answered me."

"Mrs. Grey says nothing, Adèle; perhaps she is tired of you, or

perhaps--which to my mind would be the best of all--you could persuade

her to change her mind and become our guest at Scarborough."

Adèle's eyes glistened. Certainly her mother must have taken a strong

as well as sudden fancy to her friend: "Oh, mamma, you have asked

Margaret to stay with us? How good of you!"

Mrs. Churchill turned to her hostess in mock despair: "I believe this

foolish child thinks I had nothing but her fancies in view. You must

excuse her, Mrs. Grey; the excitement seems to have put her slightly

off her head. Let me assure you once more that, purely for your own

sake, I shall be most delighted if you will become our guest until your

future is a little more decided."

Margaret put out her hand; she was touched by Mrs. Churchill's delicate

kindness. "Thank you a thousand times," she said gently; "if I were

even in a fit state for travelling I should not hesitate to take

advantage of your kind offer, so attractive in every way. But Adèle

will tell you how it is with me at times; I cannot even dress myself.

No; I must say good-bye to Adèle, with many thanks both to her and to

you, and return to my lonely life. I hope it may soon be over."

"_What_ may soon be over?" Mrs. Churchill turned round sharply, for

there was a sad ring in the voice, which Margaret had striven to render

absolutely calm. She met Mrs. Grey's quiet smile. "I see you mean

that you believe your husband will soon return, but I do wish people

would say what they mean." There was something of fretfulness in Mrs.

Churchill's voice; she did not like to be puzzled, and her daughter's

friend was puzzling her.

"I really think," she continued meditatively, "that my best plan would

be to put up here at the hotel for a few days. By the bye, Adèle,

I left Mary there; I would not bring her on here until I knew more

certainly about your arrangements. Yes, I think that will do. You and

she could amuse yourselves together, and I should like very much to try

the effect of quinine and port wine on Mrs. Grey. I brought a hamper of

our own wine with me--exceedingly fortunate, as it turns out."

Margaret was weak. Do what she would she could not prevent the tears

from filling her eyes. "You are too good to me," she said; "how shall I

thank you?"

"By trying to get strong, my dear, and remembering first of all (you

see you begin by breaking my rules) to take things quietly is the best

policy. Now, Adèle, put on your hat and drive to the hotel. Make them

unload the carriage and bring Mary back in it. Are we trespassing too

much, Mrs. Grey? You young people will have plenty to talk about, so

you need not hurry back. Mrs. Grey in the mean time must give me some

account of her symptoms. It may be that the worldly wisdom of a worldly

old woman will do as much to help her as the romantic enthusiasm of the

young folk who in the present day rule the roast."

Adèle obeyed her mother to the letter. She left her and Margaret alone

together for a good hour. She returned to find them fast friends.

The cheerful optimism of the elder lady had strengthened the younger

considerably, for Margaret wanted bracing, and Mrs. Churchill's sound

common-sense was like a blast of north wind: it swept away sundry

vapors, it invigorated the heart that a succession of evils had

rendered distrustful of good. And Margaret's pathetic story, her truth,

her goodness, her life of devotion--for all these had, insensibly to

herself, shone out in her simple narrative--filled her hearer with

admiration, elevated her conception of human nature, made her believe

(a humanizing belief to many natures), in looking back upon her own

mistrust, that her judgment was not always infallible.

For a whole week--and it was a real act of self-sacrificing

friendship--Mrs. Churchill remained in the quiet village by the sea.

The season was late, so she made up her mind to give up Scarborough and

return from Middlethorpe to London. She dosed Margaret abundantly with

quinine and port wine, she braced her mind by vigorous common sense,

well-grounded cheerfulness and antipathetic banishment of any thing

approaching morbidness or so-called sentiment. When she left she had

the satisfaction of seeing her patient better. It is almost needless to

add that the kind-hearted lady had not the heart to deprive Margaret of

her friend. Adèle remained at the cottage till the chill winds of early

winter swept the waters, while still no certain tidings came to them of

their wanderers.

CHAPTER IV.

_A DREAM INTERRUPTED AND A STRANGE REVELATION MADE._

Just as I thought I had caught sight of heaven,

It came to naught, as dreams of heaven on earth

Do always.

The Alpine mountains again--"silences of everlasting hills"--Nature and

man face to face in the quiet, stealthy creeping on of night!

Maurice Grey sat in his little chalet alone; no friend was near to

catch the outflowings of his heart--no watcher, not even a faithful

servant, to note the changes that followed one another over his face.

The untouched meal, prepared by old Marie, was on the table; he sat

before his desk facing the little window, and looked out with sad,

weary eyes.

For more than an hour he had been thinking, reviewing the tale Arthur

had told him, trying frantically to rend the net of mystery that

surrounded him, but trying in vain. A letter was under his hand. He had

read it over by the failing light, and then crushed it together in his

strong grasp. It was an old, faded, yellow paper which had evidently

lain for years in his desk, but the sting of that it contained was

still as fresh as on the first day when it had been read. The letter

was one of those anonymous productions which perhaps show up in more

lurid light than anything else the depths of cowardly spite that lie

hidden in the hearts of men. This particular one, to give it its due,

was well put together and plausible.

The writer began by acknowledging cordially the apparent cowardice of

the step he had taken. Necessity and strong feeling were urged as the

excuse. He represented himself as one who owed a debt of gratitude to

Mr. Grey; it was therefore peculiarly painful to see him imposed upon.

For in purport it was an accusation, cleverly drawn up, implying more

than it revealed against Maurice Grey's wife. The history of stolen

meetings between her and her former lover, of whose residence in

England Mr. Grey was aware, was circumstantially given. They coincided

strangely, as Maurice remembered with a pang almost as bitter as that

first one had been, with Margaret's comings and goings; but further,

a certain test was offered. It was proposed that on that very evening

the husband should profess to leave his wife, that instead of returning

to London he should remain in Ramsgate, and that if, at a specified

time, he should not find her and the foreigner together, he might throw

aside all that the letter contained as unworthy of belief. Maurice was

naturally jealous. His wife's unusual beauty, the difficulty of winning

her, the knowledge that he had not been the first to possess her heart,

combined to make him distrustful. Instead of showing her the letter or

treating it with merited contempt, he was weak enough to fall into the

snare.

The event had been planned with a fatal accuracy. He found L'Estrange

at Margaret's feet, and in the agony of wounded love, of despairing

rage, left her altogether. For four long years he had wandered

hopelessly and aimlessly, not daring, in case his worst fears should

receive terrible confirmation, to find out anything about the woman

whom through it all he loved so madly. And now, when, as he believed,

his heart had grown callous, when he thought his retreat was surely

hidden from all his former friends, this earnest champion came

forward, sent evidently by her to plead her cause, to assure him of

her continued love and unwearied faithfulness, to recall him to her

side. But the mystery was unexplained. All she offered was a simple

declaration of the falsehood of that of which Maurice believed he held

incontrovertible proof.

What could it all mean? Was it, he asked himself--and his brows were

fiercely knit--a plot to betray him? Did she wish to regain her

position, only that she might the more surely carry on her intrigues?

Had her paramour wearied her, and in his turn been cast off? He

thought, but suddenly, as on the preceding evening, there came, like a

gleam of light through his dark thoughts, the memory of that pale, pure

face.

The strong man bowed his head, and tears such as only men can weep

found their way to his burning eyelids. He covered his face with his

hands. "It is possible," he cried--"possible! O my God, I may have been

wrong." As he spoke he trembled like a child, this man who knew the

world, whose wide experience had made him a cynic.

But if the thought held pain, it had also infinite sweetness. That

first spasm past, Maurice gave way to it. He looked up again and

the pale snows met his gaze. There was a soft, tender light in his

dark eyes. Between them and those pale snows that fair, sad face was

shining. "Margaret!" he whispered.

The man was weary with his mental struggles, overwrought by the

physical exertions of the day. He allowed hope in its soft, tremulous

beauty to take possession of his soul, old memories to steal over

his heart. He leaned back in his arm-chair, folded his arms over his

breast and fell into a kind of trance. Gradually, as his senses lost

their hold upon the visible, the snow-laden pines, the white peaks, the

swollen torrents passed away from his gaze, till at last it seemed that

the sternness of winter had passed away--spring, life, green beauty

took its place.

The four walls of his chalet fell; he was sitting on the green sward,

innumerable delicious odors filled the air with fragrance, bright-eyed

flowers were about him, the birds twittered gayly, everywhere was life

and gladness; but in the midst of all was a something incongruous, like

a minor chord in a fair melody--a sound of low, sad singing, the voice

as of one in pain. Maurice thought he knew the voice; turning suddenly,

he saw his wife. She was walking steadily forward with a gliding step;

a black robe covered her from head to foot; her eyes were fixed on the

distant horizon. He thought that he called her "Margaret!" but her eyes

did not move, only her lips stirred as if in prayer. She glided past

him, but before she had quite gone out of his reach he caught the hem

of her dress. Then, while her heaven-turned face was slowly moving,

while he was yearning to catch the gleam of her eyes, the vision

passed, as visions will.

The whole had only lasted a few minutes, though it seemed to Maurice as

if he had been long insensible. When reality and consciousness began

slowly to assert their cold superiority it was absolute pain. At first

he tried to deny them, in the vain hope that closed eyes and utter

stillness would bring back the fair vision; then suddenly the vague

uneasiness a watchful presence brings awoke him fully.

He started up, and saw by the failing light that he was not alone--he

was being watched. Between him and the window a dark form was standing;

keen, searching eyes scanned his face; they were those of his enemy.

L'Estrange had found his way to the chalet. At last these two were face

to face.

It was a rude awakening from a pleasant dream, and the very contrast

between the fairness of the vision and the blackness of that reality

which to Maurice's inflamed heart this man personified made his hatred

more intense. It took him but a moment to start to his feet. His first

impulse was to seize the intruder by the throat and cast him out; his

very presence seemed a wanton insult. But L'Estrange met his gaze

calmly, and Maurice checked himself: "Before I touch him I will get to

the bottom of the mystery, and if he have betrayed her as well as me--"

He clenched his teeth and involuntarily smote his knotted fists

together. For a few moments the men looked at one another in silence.

Maurice spoke first, and his voice was like the growl of an angry lion:

"What has brought you here?"

A sneer curled the Frenchman's lips: "No love to you, Mr. Grey,

but--listen to me patiently, or I vow I will be silent for ever--a late

repentance for an old wrong."

"_Then_--" There was a whole torrent of wrath pent up in the opening

syllable.

"I tell you not to speak," cried his visitor, "or what I have come to

say shall never be told. Maurice Grey, you are my enemy. You married

the only woman I ever loved. This I could have forgiven; it was my

fault, it was in the course of Nature; but you won her heart, the

heart that once was mine. Yes, short-sighted Englishman, of this I

can speak, for you knew it; she told you, and this it was that filled

you with proud jealousy, that made you torment yourself. Yet it is

true your wife loved you as she never loved me. I did not believe it

then: now I know it. You gasp: well you may. That was my snare, and

you fell into it. I see the letter; give it to me. Is it true, then,

that with all your boasted knowledge of the world you could not read

jealousy and spite under these fine phrases, made for me by a lying

English servant? But yours is a strange nation. Clever and far-seeing

where your money is in question, you are in knowledge of character, in

all that touches your affections, easy to take in as little children.

You frown impatiently. I shall soon have done. I tell you, Monsieur

Grey, the meeting you interrupted that day was the first and only one

that had taken place between your wife and me since your marriage. And

the attitude in which you found me? Mon Dieu! nothing simpler--got up

for you--_un tableau vivant motivé_. She was more surprised than you,

la pauvrette!" His voice sank. "Since that day four long years have

passed by. I have spent them in seeking her--persecuting her, if you

like; so it was, so it must be. Her hatred is strong and bitter. I

deserve it for misunderstanding her. But women have been my study all

my life, and I never met _her_ like before. _You_ had less cause. What

do you deserve? But do not answer me yet. Never fear, proud Englishman;

your reckoning shall come by and by; my task must first be finished.

She hid herself from me for a long time, but at last I came upon her

in a miserable London lodging. The sight of me shocked and terrified

her. She left London at once, and returned to the lonely place where

she had lived in the closest retirement since your desertion. But,

woman-like, she had left her address behind her. I found it out,

followed her, forced myself upon her; and then at last, then first, I

understood her. It was in the midst of deep loneliness--a loneliness

which I saw by her face was killing her--that I found her out. She had

one joy and consolation, a little daughter whom she had trained to love

_you_, to wait and watch for your return. I spoke to her that day, but

she repelled me with scorn and abhorrence. Maurice Grey, I offer for

myself no excuse. I was mad with rage and pain. I determined to punish

her. I stole her little one, and in such a way that she might think it

had been done by you."

The Englishman could bear it no longer. He sprang forward, and seizing

his enemy by the collar shook him vigorously:

"Villain! do you know what you deserve?"

"Patience!" replied the man when he had wrenched himself free from that

strong grasp. "You shall have my life. Mon Dieu! it is worth little.

But first you must listen to me."

He retreated to the side of the little window, the evening light shone

full on his face. He fixed his enemy with his piercing eyes, to which

the fever of his brain had given strange brilliancy. "You want to know

what brought me here," he continued. "I have told you--no love to you,

albeit my hand and voice may restore you to life and happiness--to

all life holds most precious and dear. And yet it is love as well as

penitence that has brought me to this. Love--a truer love than I have

ever known--to the woman and child whom you have forsaken; for your

little daughter changed my mood. I dare not speak of _her_. It would

make me soft when I should be stern. She has been with me ever since;

she is with me now. See her for yourself. She is a living proof of

what I tell." The man bowed his head. "I give her up to you. I have

found you for this, that you may take my treasure. And now--for I

read the fierce hunger of your eyes; you Englishmen are all alike,

insatiate, uncontrolled--_la revanche_. Well! it is well. Monsieur

Grey, I understand your nature, and my hand shall supply you with an

instrument. I went into your room to-day. I found these; I have brought

them with me."

He took from a chair on which he had laid them the pair of pistols, one

of which Maurice had loaded and prepared for action only a few days

before.

The sight inflamed him. It recalled to his mind what this man had

done--how for these long years his life had been a blank of good--a

burden from which he had even sought to free himself. He seized the

offered case. "Yes," he said sternly, "it is well. Villain, it were a

good deed to rid the world of such as you."

The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "Soit donc," he said calmly; then

folded his arms with the equanimity of a red Indian, who looks death

and all its horrors in the face without shrinking.

It was too much for Maurice Grey's patience. He drew near to his

enemy and shook him roughly: "Do you take me for an assassin? Come

out, if you have any of the feelings of a man left in you, and defend

yourself," he said hoarsely, and led the way to the door.

L'Estrange followed with a calmness that was no longer real, for his

nervous system had given way suddenly. The tension that had supported

him through these long weeks of wandering, the iron purpose, the

self-constraining force, had given way suddenly when the necessity had

gone by, when his tale had been told, when he had read in his enemy's

face that it was counted true.

For this time Maurice could not help himself. Perhaps even in his

passionate longing for this, a restored belief in the truth and purity

of her who had once been to him the embodiment of all that was best and

fairest in womanhood, had kept him incredulous through Arthur's tale.

This strange confirmation of its every detail, wrung out from the very

torture of his enemy's heart, commended itself to him as true.

He disbelieved her no longer. Rather, his soul was overflowing with

passionate repentance and pity--repentance for the cruel blow he had

dealt her, pity for those years of loneliness, anguish for his own

mistakes, for a past that would ever remain the past, that no future,

however blessed, could recall. All this was surging in his brain as he

listened to those few but fate-laden words, and the first impulse was

indignation against her betrayer. He could not detach his past from his

present; out of his own mouth he was condemned. Persecutor, villain,

torturer of weak women and helpless children (for Maurice had not seen

his child; how could he tell that _she_ had not suffered ill-treatment

at his hands?), he should die the death of a dog, be cast out into the

frozen valleys to sleep the sleep of bitter ignominy.

It may be that in the glance cast at him by his enemy when he had

seized him, when his pale face was close to his own, L'Estrange had

read this wild determination, for as he followed his guide his knees

trembled. He was no more the accuser, but the accused, the condemned.

Margaret was avenged. With head cast down and failing heart he followed

his stern guide, while still the fitful twilight, reflected from the

dazzling snow, shone cold and calm over the hills. The stricken man

groaned in spirit. "It is the bitterness of death," he said to himself.

"Mon Dieu! I am punished. I would have seen la petite. She will grieve

for me."

His thoughts were broken in upon suddenly; they had reached the border

of a deep ravine, and Maurice stopped. He looked round: "The light is

uncertain, but we shall have the same chance. Whoever falls, falls

there."

He pointed down to the abyss, fathomless in the dim evening light.

"We have no seconds--allow me to arrange everything."

He took out the pistols, examined their priming with minute care, and

handed one to L'Estrange.

"I will give the word," he said; "we fire together."

With steady, measured tread he paced the distance that was to divide

them, then took his place by the ravine, pale, calm, determined--the

avenger.

Maurice Grey did not suppose for a moment that _he_ would fall, though,

a true Englishman, he would give his enemy a fair chance for life.

Evil as he believed this man to be, deserving death for the traitorous

wrong he had consummated, he would yet give him the power of defending

himself. But as this man of iron nerve counted out unfalteringly the

seconds that divided one of them from death, he showed his belief in

the issue by the defiance he shouted out across the shadows: "But

yesterday I would have taken my own life, and with this very weapon;

now I take yours. Traitor, coward, slanderer of the innocent, prepare

for death!"

Was it the knell of fate? No answer came from the condemned man, but

before the fatal ball could cleave the air, before the word that

might have meant death to one of them had been spoken, he staggered

strangely, gave utterance to a gurgling cry and fell forward to the

ground.

CHAPTER V.

_ES IST NUR EIN KINDLEIN--ONLY A CHILD._

What wert thou then? A child most infantine,

Yet wandering far beyond that innocent age

In all but its sweet looks and mien divine?

Lights were glittering in the hotel at Grindelwald--something more than

the paltry allowance of which Arthur had feelingly complained was being

displayed, for, late as it was in the season, there had been arrivals,

and the landlord's heart was light.

He could not understand this fancy of people for keen winds, frost and

snow, but it suited his purpose and he rejoiced. The dull season would

be rendered shorter, and his winter expenses proportionately lightened.

In the fulness of his heart he made a great display in the way of

illumination, lighted the large stove in the small saloon, and did all

he could to make his friends forget the dreariness and desolation that

reigned outside.

For the evening that had fallen with a certain calm, autumnal beauty

had deepened into a blustering, stormy night. The wind whistled among

the hills, the loose snow-drifts were driven blindingly hither and

thither; it would not have been a pleasant night to face. Decidedly,

the fireside, or, as at Grindelwald, the stove-corner, was the

most comfortable resting-place. And so the new arrivals, two young

Englishmen and a German (the very same, by the bye, who had annoyed

Arthur by his vigorous "wunderschöns" and his dutiful "enthousiasmus"

in the course of their journey across the St. Gothard), appeared to

think.

As the household was principally composed of men, sundry indulgences

were permitted, and unchecked they discussed their cigars and drank

their "lager bier" in the saloon, gathered together in a close circle

by the stove, their feet filling up by turns its narrow opening. But

apparently every one in the hotel was not of the same mind. Several

times in the course of one short hour the Englishmen were driven to

indulge in strong language, and the German to splutter and fume, by

the inroad of a blast of chill air.

The hotel had not been constructed in such a way as to exclude

draughts, and whenever the outer door was opened the cold air sweeping

up the passages made itself felt in the saloon.

"Donner wetter!" said the German at last as the blast of cold air came

in a continued stream, "I must find out all about zis. What can, zen,

be ze meaning of it?"

"Some one out in the snow," suggested a mild young man with auburn hair

and pale whiskers.

"But, my good friend, why not bring him in?" asked the puzzled German.

"Lost, pewhaps," replied the young man, puffing calmly.

"Lost, lost! but what may zat have to do wid ze door?"

"Anxious fwiends," replied the Englishman calmly--"excitable

foweigners, I should say."

The German looked at him in a helpless way, scarcely certain whether,

as a unit in that generic body known by the English under the name

of foreigners, he ought to take notice of the implied slight. His

indecision ended in a walk to the door of the room. It was clearly

useless to regard the eccentricities of those proud islanders, he

said to himself. If they _would_ persist in looking down on other and

worthier nationalities, why so they might; they would find out their

mistake some day. So absorbed was the German in his mental soliloquy

that in passing out from the room he left the unhappy door open, and

curses not loud but deep followed him from the proud islander he had

left behind. The German found out in the mean time that his sensitive

nature had not betrayed him. That the outer door was open became

evident to him at once by the blast of keen air which swept up the

dimly-lit passage.

Two figures were standing in the doorway, faintly shown by the light of

the little oil-lamp that hung over the entrance. One was a fair-haired

child, wrapped from head to foot in a scarlet cloak, the other was the

landlord of the hotel.

He was stooping over the child, his face very red in the extremity of

his effort to make her understand that it was impossible for her to go

out in the snow.

"Mademoiselle--not go--snow cold--mademoiselle be wander--lose--nicht

finden--" he was saying spasmodically, holding the door shut, while

she, with her small strength, was struggling to open it.

"But--we can no permit--" he began more fluently.

The child interrupted him with tears and sobs: "Please let me only see

if they are coming. Mon père said he would come back to-night. He is

lost. I thought yesterday he was going to die. Oh, please, I know the

way he went. It's not very dark. I can always make him better."

The landlord was in despair. He wanted the assistance of some

interpreter, and yet he was afraid to leave the child, lest she should

give him the slip and run out into the snow.

The appearance of the German was a great relief, for this young man

had not been accustomed to hide his light under a bushel. Wherever

he went he exhibited his knowledge of English. Already that day the

landlord had been astonished by his fluency in this most intricate and

embarrassing tongue.

In a few words he described the situation to the new-comer. The German

immediately addressed himself to the weeping child: "Your _papa_ is out

in ze snow, my leetle maid."

The child's tears stopped; she raised her dark eyes pleadingly to his

face: "Not my papa--mon père. Oh, please take me to find him."

This was rather embarrassing. The compassionate German looked out into

the snowy night: "Wid all my heart I would help you, liebe fräulein,

but you will no doubt perceive I know none of ze paths, and you--" He

looked down at the tiny figure.

Almost unconsciously these two men had been answering that strange

womanliness in the little face by treating this child as if she had

been three times her age.

The German smiled and looked at the landlord: "Es ist nur ein

kindlein." Then to Laura, with an assumption of sternness, "Leetle

maids are sometimes weelful. Zey should understand zat ze elders know

best. Come now wid me to ze fire."

He put out his hand to lead her, but Laura shrank back, her eyes

growing large with fear. She did not understand being so treated by a

stranger. It made her long all the more for her friend's protecting

tenderness. She rejected the hand held out to her with all the dignity

of one double her age: then suddenly her child-heart failed. She threw

herself on her knees on the cold stones, pressed her forehead against

the door and wailed out her childish plaint: "Mon père! mon père! come

back to Laura."

The landlord shook his head helplessly, but the young German, who had

always prided himself on a certain determination of character, looked

stern. "Dis ees all folly," he said; "as I said just now, leetle maids

must not be weelful. Komme mit, mademoiselle; or, as I should say, come

wid me, mees."

He stooped to the little figure, all huddled together on the stones,

and tried to raise it in his arms, but with sudden agility the child

escaped him. She stopped crying and stood upright against the wall of

the passage, facing her tormentor, her eyes and cheeks on flame.

"Go!" she cried, stamping her little foot. "Why do you speak to me? why

do you touch me?"

And in spite of his boasted determination the German stood back abashed.

Proceedings were at this stage--the landlord helpless, the German

doubtful about the next step that ought to be taken in the task of

subduing this child, who partook so early of that proud island-nature

which had already called for his reprobation, and Laura looking up

at them both with more than a child's determination in her small

face--when another actor appeared upon the scene.

Arthur had been sitting during all that afternoon alone in his room,

thinking over the occurrences of the past days--now hoping, now

despairing, as he reviewed in all its minutest details the interview of

that day. He was torturing himself by recalling the eloquent words he

had intended to use, but had not--the conclusive reasons he might have

brought forward had he only remembered them at the right time--when

there came to his ears the sound of a child's cry.

The voice was strangely familiar; at first he could not recall why it

was so, for the memory of his humiliating defeat at Moscow had been

swamped by the succession of exciting events that had followed it.

Curiosity led him to investigate the matter. He went down stairs, and

the first sight of the little flushed face told its tale. This was

Margaret's child. The second prize he had been seeking was actually

within his grasp, and in his first excitement Arthur felt inclined

to seize the child and carry her off whether she would or not. But

experience, the two failures that preceded this most unlooked-for

meeting, had taught him caution. This time he would not attempt to

coerce the strange little being whom Fate had thrown in his way, but it

was quite possible that he might win her over to confidence. Acting on

this determination, he stood back in the shadow and bided his time.

The German was half ashamed of his irresolution. "Leetle maids must be

sensible," Arthur heard him say, and as he spoke he tried once more to

raise the child in his arms.

Laura gave a little frightened cry and turned hastily to run up the

staircase, but only to find her way blocked by one she looked upon

as another enemy. For even by that uncertain light she recognized in

Arthur the man who had made an attempt upon her liberty at Moscow. But

this time the child was desperate. She stood and faced him like a wild

animal at bay.

"Let me pass, let me pass!" she cried.

He did not attempt to touch her, but, standing aside on the staircase,

looked at her with kind, gentle eyes. "What is it, dear? is any one

hurting you?" he asked.

The child looked up into the frank, boyish face and trusted him.

"Perhaps you can help Laura," she said; "but--"

"I was foolish the other day," he said quietly; "I did not quite

understand; you must forgive me."

"You wanted to take me away from mon père, and now"--the child burst

into tears--"mon père is lost. Please, please take me to find him!"

"Come up stairs and tell me all about it, Laura. I will help you if I

possibly can."

Then to the German, who was gazing at him open-mouthed, "Sir, this is

the child of one of my dearest friends; I take her under my protection."

"As you like," replied he, and shrugged his shoulders. "Ze young man is

offended," he muttered, "because I did not treat ze bébé like one great

princess."

He returned to the stove, while Arthur drew from Laura all he desired

to know. She had come there with "mon père," as she always called

L'Estrange. They were looking for papa. Early that day he had told her

that he knew where her father was--that he would go away alone, and

return in the evening to let her know if her father had been found.

He was not very far away, he had said, and the little Laura had been

waiting and watching all the evening. The evening had deepened into

night, and still her friend had not come back. He must be lost.

This was the burden of her simple tale. It made Arthur think. What

could be the meaning of this? Had a sudden repentance seized this man?

Had he really determined to find Maurice Grey and tell him the actual

truth about his deserted wife? Or could any other motive have moved him

to seek his enemy? No, no; human wickedness could not surely go so far.

With this man's child in his grasp, this child, whose pure affection he

had undoubtedly won, it was not possible; and yet if the enemies had

met alone, face to face, in the great solitude--The young man shuddered.

"Laura," he said, turning to the little one, "I must find them at once."

The child clung about his knees: "Oh, take me with you! Please, please

take me! I can make mon père well when no one else can--he says so."

Arthur did not answer at first. He was thinking. He rang the bell and

made inquiries about a guide, for it would have been dangerous on such

a night to have made the attempt alone. He ascertained that it would be

possible to obtain one with very little delay.

The distance which separated them from the chalet was not great. They

would be two men. The child might easily be carried between them, and

it was more than probable that her presence would do more than anything

else to allay the fever-heat of the two men, one of whom must love her

instinctively, while the other evidently loved her deeply already.

The only fear--and it shot through Arthur's heart like a pain--was

that they might be too late--that already in the fierce anger of that

moment, in the awful solitude one of these two might have taken the

life of the other.

"If I had only known, if I could only have guessed, I should never have

left him," he said to himself.

But Laura was still looking up at him anxiously. He answered her with a

smile: "If you will wrap yourself up well, little one, and submit to be

carried."

"Yes, yes," answered the child joyfully; "mon père carries me

sometimes; but"--she stopped, and there came a cloud over her face--"I

will tire you; I am heavy."

She was answered by a knock at the door. There appeared on the

threshold the burly figure of one of the true sons of the soil. He

was accustomed to much heavier burdens than the little Laura, wraps

and all. The honest Swiss was at a loss to understand why this little

maiden should go with them on such a search, but he did not express

his feelings in any way. He lifted her as lightly as if she had been a

bird, placed her on his shoulder, and in a few moments the hotel, the

astonished landlord, the hurt German and the glimmering village-lights

were left in the distance.

The little party--the two men and the child--were threading the dark,

lonely mountain-path that led to the chalet.

It was a strange experience for a child like Laura, but happily for

herself she did not understand its strangeness. All she knew was that

her wish was being accomplished--that, guided and befriended, she was

hastening through the night to find her two fathers.

Blessed is the faith of earth's little ones!

I wonder if the reason for it is that "in heaven their angels do always

behold the face of the Father"?

CHAPTER VI.

_HADST THOU THE SECOND SIGHT?_

Digging thine heart and throwing

Away its childhood's gold,

That so its woman-depth might hold

His spirit's overflowing?

(For surging souls no worlds can bound

Their channel in the heart have found.)

Arthur would not allow his guide to do all the work. He wanted to know

this strange child--Margaret's child; he wanted to try and understand

what was this power, savoring to his mind of dark magic, that her

mother's enemy had gained over her. After they had walked in total

silence for about half an hour he insisted on a change.

Laura wished to walk, but upon Arthur pointing out to her that her

small feet would be swamped in the snow, she submitted again. She

was very grateful to this new ally for his prompt carrying out of

her wishes, and with that strange woman-insight which belonged so

peculiarly to this child she read in the face of her new guide that in

submitting to his wishes she could best show her gratitude.

In Arthur's manner to her there was something of the reverent devotion

that had been one means of drawing her heart so completely to the

friend she was seeking in the desolate Alpine solitudes. The German

had insulted Laura by treating her like a little child, for her

late experiences had drawn her on, not from the sweet simplicity of

childhood--for in this had consisted her power over the wild heart of

L'Estrange--but from many of its feelings; Laura had become sensitive

beyond her years, and this under the circumstances was scarcely

wonderful. She had shared, and probably understood, her mother's

sorrows; she had lived for her sake a life too intense for one of her

tender years; she had taken a part in struggles of whose existence she

ought to have known nothing; she had thought and dreamed and reasoned

till the woman-nature that lies hidden in the heart of every girl-child

had become unhealthily developed. Her childhood, in this sense, had

passed by; Laura would never return to the gay carelessness of early

youth.

Gravely she allowed Arthur to gather her up into his arms, and as, in

their momentary stoppage, the light of the guide's lantern shone upon

her pale fair face and deep earnest eyes, the young man wondered. He

wondered at her unchildlike beauty--he wondered at his own instinctive

reverence.

"Are you quite comfortable, Laura?" he inquired as he drew her cloak

over her tiny feet.

"Quite, thank you," replied the child; "and you are very kind. Mon père

will thank you; but oh, I wonder shall we find him soon?"

"Do you know that we are going to find some one else, Laura?" asked

Arthur, rather shocked to find her head so full of her false father

that she had no thoughts to spare for her true one.

"Yes, I know," she answered gravely; "and sometimes I'm sorry that I

can't love my own papa so much as mon père; but, you see, I've never

seen him: at least, mamma says I have; I don't remember at all." She

paused a moment, then added in a grieved, puzzled tone, "Oh, _please_

tell me--for I want so much to know--_ought_ I to love my own papa as

well as mamma and mon père?" The question had evidently been tormenting

her.

"You _ought_ to put such ideas out of your little head," said Arthur

lightly.

"But I _can't_," replied the child in a grieved tone; and Arthur, quite

perplexed, tried a new set of tactics:

"What makes you love this person so much whom you call mon père?"

"What _makes_ me?" Unconsciously Arthur had started another

bewildering question. She raised her head and knit her small brows:

"It's not because he's good to me, for other people have been good to

me, and I didn't love them. You know loving and liking are different.

Mamma told me I ought to love my papa, but you see there isn't any

_ought_ in love, and I must love mon père best. Oh, I wonder why!"

This was certainly a strange child. Arthur had not laid his hand upon

the magic; her answer only made it appear the more mysterious. He put

another leading question: "Is he very good to you, Laura?"

"Mon père, do you mean? Oh, he is so good! I want him to come back with

me to mamma, but when I talk about it he looks at me in that sad way,

like people do when they are going to say good-bye. Do you _think_ I

shall be able to get him to say he will come? Oh"--the child's face

brightened, a happy thought seemed to have struck her--"will _you_

ask him to come? Perhaps he will do it for you." She went on rapidly,

for the child-nature was beginning to assert itself: "He left a great

big dog in the village--big enough to carry me on its back, mon père

says. And just fancy! it's to be all mine. I wonder how long we shall

be getting back to mamma, and _won't_ she be pleased?" For at the

thought of the great dog, the sea, the village and mamma the painful

questioning had passed away from Laura's mind. She was the child

again--her mother's darling--the tender little one whom Margaret loved.

Arthur's throat contracted strangely as he listened. It was such a

contrast. The night, the darkness, the desolation around them, the

horror that might only too possibly be before them, and the child's

innocent dreams, her unconsciousness of evil, her calm certainty

of hope. The idea made him press forward almost fiercely for a

few moments, but his stolid guide called him back to reason. The

torch-bearer would not hasten; he went forward with quiet, plodding

step, and to distance him would have been in the highest degree

dangerous.

Laura's question remained unanswered, for Arthur had not L'Estrange's

strength of muscle or iron nerve, and he was passing through a mental

experience intense enough to draw away some of his physical force. His

arms began to ache and his knees to tremble. He was obliged to give up

Laura to the guide, and to stop one moment to gather up his strength

for a new effort.

Laura was concerned. "I knew I was too heavy," she said.

But the young man answered with a smile, and again they plodded on

in silence. Their task was not an easy one. In some places the ice

had gathered in a thin frost-work over the snow, so that where they

thought to find sure footing they sank to their knees in the soft,

white mass; in others, the path intersecting a meadow was almost

undiscoverable by reason of the white unity that did away with all

known landmarks. But happily, their guide was a good one and the path

was well trodden. He knew it thoroughly; then, before midnight had

chimed from the village-clock the mists had partially risen, the wind

had fallen, and the glamour of moonlight shone cold over the snow. By

its light Arthur saw a thin wreath of blue smoke rising from beyond

the pine wood they were nearing. He pointed it out to Laura, his heart

almost standing still with the conflict of fear and hope that possessed

him.

The child smiled up into his face. "Mon père is there," she said.

"Your _father_ is there," was the answer sternly spoken, and the little

one was checked. She said no more, but watched till the dark pines,

looking weird and gaunt in the moonshine, rose high above their heads,

shutting out that first glimpse of Maurice Grey's dwelling.

"I will go first," said Arthur; "I know the way."

He began to think he had been wrong in bringing the tender child. He

feared the effect upon her mind of some terrible discovery, she was so

utterly unprepared for the horror that had been in his mind during the

latter part of that weary journey.

The chalet was on the outskirts of the wood, just where an Alpine

meadow opened out. As Arthur drew near he looked up earnestly. No light

shone from the little window. He trembled, but there was no time for

delay; he knocked long and desperately, as one might do who had come on

an errand of life and death.

Marie in her night-cap appeared at the window. Her face had a scared

look; she shook her head and refused to let him in.

Arthur had forgotten, in his impatience to press on, that if those

he sought should not be within, the old woman, obtuse at the best of

times, might fail to recognize and refuse to admit him.

He was obliged to wait until his guide, a person well known to Marie,

could come up with Laura. His decided summons brought out the old

woman again; she obeyed her countryman, and opened the door after very

little further delay.

They entered, and Arthur found that his fears had been only too well

grounded. The chalet was empty. It was clear, further, from the excited

signs made by the old woman as she told her story to the guide, that

there had been some kind of quarrel, and that the enemies had gone out

together.

Arthur wrung his hands. For the first time his heart failed him. Had

Maurice been found only for this--either that his own life should fall

a prey to his enemy, or that the stain of blood-guiltiness should rest

for ever on his head?--for their departure, their long absence, the

scared looks of the old woman, all pointed to one suspicion; the two

men had left the solitary dwelling with no friendly motive actuating

them. It was more than probable that a fierce conflict had taken

place--that the meeting in the snows had been fatal to one, perhaps to

both of them. And then--what then? He scarcely dared to think.

The old woman had lit Maurice's lamp in the interval. Its light shone

upon the face of his child. She was gazing with lips parted, and eyes

in which a certain instinct of some unknown horror was gleaming, into

Arthur's face. She went up to him and touched his arm with her small

hand. "Why does the old woman look at me like that?" she whispered,

lifting up a pale, scared face. "And what have they done with mon père?

He's not here." And she looked round inquiringly.

"I am afraid they have lost themselves in the snow," replied Arthur as

calmly as he could. "Laura, we must leave you here and go out again to

look for them."

"_Them?_" repeated she in a low tone. "Then my own papa is with him.

But what's the matter? why do you all look so frightened? Is mon père

dead? Oh, please, please, let me go to him!"

"Laura, you must be sensible. We cannot take you, my poor child! Stay

here with Marie! Listen, dear! We may go into dangerous places; we may

be lost."

But the child did not seem to hear him. There had come a strange,

sudden look into her face, as though she could see more than others

saw. She held up her hand. "Hush!" she said in a tone that made Arthur

shiver, it was so unchildlike in its earnestness; and even as she spoke

that dawning consciousness of a certain mysterious horror paled her

cheek and made her dark eyes large and deep. "Mon père is calling me,"

she said. "They are hurting him. Come, come!"

She rushed to the door, and opening it stood for a moment on the

threshold, mute, in the attitude of deep attention, her hands plunged

forward into the darkness, as though she were appealing to some unseen

power, her golden hair thrown back from her uncovered head, her face

peering out into the night.

Within, no one stirred. It almost seemed as if they were waiting for

the development of a mysterious power in this strange child. And as

they stood, silent, motionless, watchful, there came to their ears a

sound. It was distinct from the moaning of the wind among the trees,

distinct from the rush of the torrents, distinct from the rattle of the

leafless pine-branches. The sound was a groan. It spoke as plainly as

words of human anguish.

For a moment none of them stirred, and yet the sound had fallen on the

ears of all, but this certainty of an unseen, nameless horror acted on

them like a spell. It was only when the child started forward into the

night that Arthur was aroused from the momentary inaction to a sense of

the necessity for immediate exertion.

He rushed after Laura, caught hold of her, and for the second time

gathered her up into his arms. "My child," he said hoarsely, "you

_must_ come back. God only knows what we may find out there! Be calm.

We shall do our best to bring them to you." The child looked up at him;

she never struggled when she knew all struggling would be useless, and

there was wonder as well as a certain awe in her gaze.

"What do you mean?" she asked; "none of you understand. Mon père is

ill, and papa is taking care of him; and it's cold out there in the

snow, but he won't leave him. He wants us to help him."

"_Us!_" Involuntarily Arthur smiled as he held the tiny figure in his

grasp.

"We can find them without you, Laura," he said. The guide had joined

them with the lantern. "Go in, like a good child."