In her turn Laura smiled. "Which way will you go to find them?" she

asked. "Listen to me: I know all about it. Just now, when I wanted to

listen and you _would_ talk, God showed it to me in a dream. Mon père

is ill. He wants me--I'll take you to find him."

Marie stood at the door holding out her arms; the guide motioned

peremptorily that the child should return to the chalet. Arthur

stood irresolute. He felt half inclined to trust to the little one's

instincts, and in the delay, while the precious moments that might mean

life or death to one of the two men in the snow were passing, _that_

sound came to their ears again--a heavy groan, drawn, it would seem,

from a heart's agony.

It was more than Laura could bear, for she, and she alone of that

little company, knew the sound; she had heard it before.

In his excitement Arthur's hold on her hand relaxed. With a sudden cry

she wrenched herself free, and before the two men could seize her again

her white dress and scarlet cloak made a blot on the moonlit snow far

on in advance. What could they do but follow in her track? and when

they had come up with her, when she had allowed herself once more to

be caught, the light from the open door of the chalet gleamed far away

in the distance. The wilful little maiden was perched once more on the

shoulder of the stolid Swiss guide. She arrogated to herself the right

of directing her companions, and it was well. Once, at least, from her

tower of observation she scented danger and warned them away from the

brink of a ravine. But the men had a surer guide than the dreams of a

child. In a part of the meadow that was sheltered from the wind Arthur

had found the traces of footsteps in the snow.

Strange to say, the discovery was made in the very direction which

Laura had taken when she started on her wild flight. Had her loving

instincts guided her, or was there really something supernatural in her

knowledge?

Arthur asked himself this question repeatedly as he followed his guide

in silence. He never found an answer. The events of that night were

always wrapped in a partial mystery.

Was it so very unnatural? Who that has looked into the far-seeing eyes

of some children, who that has carefully noted their strange ways,

will be able to answer unhesitatingly that it was? They are nearer

to heaven, nearer to the invisible, than those who have weathered

a hundred storms, who have lost their faith in humanity, who have

travelled for long years along the dusty highways of the world,

tarnishing much of their soul's beauty, and forgetting too often the

grandeur of their high destiny.

What wonder that the little ones sometimes see farther than we? for the

invisible chord which binds their soul to heaven is, at their tender

age, free for the passage to and fro of the angels, and it may be that

they whisper to the children of the things that no eye can see. And the

child is ready for these beautiful intuitions. It does not question--it

believes.

CHAPTER VII.

_FOR THE SECOND TIME SAVED FROM HIMSELF._

Oh, unsay

What thou hast said of man; nor deem me wrong.

Mind cannot mind despise--it is itself.

Mind must love mind.

The two men and the child pressed on. They had left the path behind

them, they were winding between huge boulders, the débris from some

devastating avalanche; like a mighty wall the mountains rose above

them, hedging them in on the one side, while on the other was the

continuation of the pine wood.

The guide had given up the lantern to Arthur; he could not manage

both it and the child, and the young man, a few yards in advance, was

seeking on hands and knees for further traces of footsteps in the snow.

The groans had not been repeated, and from this Arthur augured badly.

It might be that the dying had passed into the dead. The young man's

heart was sad. He had reckoned so entirely on the success of his

enterprise, he had been so full of hope, and now it seemed as if the

whole--all his hopes, all his efforts--was to be swamped in this sudden

horror. For even if Maurice had escaped unhurt, even if the life of

his enemy had fallen by his hand in his first horror at the discovery

of that enemy's dark treachery, what would the result be on his own

mind, on those of others?--to Margaret, who above all things had

entreated that this man should be unharmed; to Laura, who loved him

with all the strength of her young soul; to Maurice himself, who would

feel when the deed was done that it was wrongly done, for this man

had thrown himself, alone and helpless, into his hands, carrying as a

peace-offering the act of expiation for his past wrongs, the confession

of Margaret's spotless innocence. Arthur had gathered from Laura's

words, beyond the possibility of a doubt, that this, and only this, had

been the intention of L'Estrange in seeking an interview with Mr. Grey.

If he could only have foreseen all this, he said to himself mournfully,

it might have been so different.

The voice of the child awoke him from his sad musing. It was very low,

but in the stillness of that snowy night the slightest sound wrote its

impress on the air. The earth itself seemed to be listening. "We're

very near them now," she said; "I am sure we are. There, there! listen!

The trees are shaking."

Almost instinctively the two men obeyed her imperative gestures. They

rounded a great shoulder of rock. It led them on to a kind of plateau,

studded here and there with stunted, snow-laden pines, ending abruptly

in a depth of darkness, for what lay beyond the ravine that bounded it

was hidden by the snow-vapors.

At first they saw nothing, but a certain feeling warned them to pause

and look round attentively.

"Put me down," cried the child, and as if in answer to her call the

branches of the pine that overhung the precipice crackled and stirred.

This excited Laura. She broke loose from the guide, and once more

outstripping her companions rushed forward over the snow. A moment

more, and her cry, partly of joy, partly of pain, drew Arthur to the

spot. It was on the very brink of the ravine, under an overhanging

pine tree, whose black shadow on the moonlit snow had prevented them

from discovering what lay beneath it.

L'Estrange was outstretched there, silent, motionless, to all

appearance dead. Laura was on her knees beside her friend, calling out

to him piteously to open his eyes and speak to her. In her excitement

the little one had not seen at first that there was another there--that

the head of her friend was on the knees of a man who sat upright on the

cold snow, his back resting against the stem of a pine tree. That man

was her father--Maurice Grey.

Just before they came up he had fallen into that most dangerous of

all states, a sleep among the snows--a dull, numb insensibility

induced by the constrained posture, the long watching, the extreme

cold. His child's wail aroused him. He opened his eyes, but his first

thought was that he was dreaming, for as Arthur's lantern was turned

slowly on the little group he saw in the golden hair from which the

scarlet hood had fallen back, in the fair, delicately-chiselled face,

in the dark, mournful eyes, so like his own, the little one he had

deserted--Margaret's child. How had she come there? Gradually, as the

film passed from his senses, he began to remember the events of the

night, and the latter part of L'Estrange's strange confession flashed

over his mind. While horror withheld Arthur from speaking, while the

guide, whose movements were slower than his, was coming up to their

assistance, a glimmering of the truth dawned upon Maurice's mind.

_His_ child had come out to seek this man, his enemy--_his_ child was

pouring out on her mother's betrayer the treasures of her young heart's

affection. It smote him with a sudden pang.

But no answer came from the stricken man to the child's impassioned

cries, and suddenly she raised her eyes. They met those of her father.

She looked at him for a moment in silence, and involuntarily Maurice

trembled. He was thinking of what might have been if the hand of God

had not forestalled his.

In his first burst of anger against this man, the destroyer of his

peace, the slanderer of her who was dearer to him than life, it had

seemed no crime to avenge himself once and for ever of his enemy. But

with the silence of that solemn night other thoughts had come. In the

unlooked-for ending of their strife that evening God had rebuked him.

"Vengeance is mine!" seemed to be crying in his ears. What was he, that

he should arrogate to himself the functions that belong to the Divine?

And say what one will, under any circumstances it is an awful thing--a

thing that can never be forgotten or put away--to destroy human life.

Maurice Grey was neither weak nor sentimental, but that night as he

hung over his enemy, tending as a brother might have done the man he

had intended to destroy, he shuddered at the remembrance of what might

have happened in the fever of his just indignation. And now, when the

child--his child--looked up at him, her eyes large with fear for his

enemy, asking him mutely for an account of this strangeness, Maurice

was thankful that his answer might be no revelation of a tragedy that

would have chilled her warm young blood and filled her with loathing of

him--her father.

"Who has hurt mon père?" asked Laura.

"Little one," replied Maurice gravely, "he is ill; he will be better

soon."

By this time Arthur was close beside them. He stumbled over something

hard, stooped, and found a pistol at his feet.

"Don't touch it!" cried Maurice hastily; "it is loaded."

"Loaded!" repeated the young man slowly; "then--"

"Foolish boy!" replied Maurice with meaning. "I tell you this man was

taken ill near my door. In the impossibility of getting assistance to

move him, I have been watching him ever since his first seizure; but,

for Goodness' sake, don't stand looking at us, or we shall die of cold

out here! Get your burly friend to help you, and between you perhaps

you may be able to carry this man as far as the chalet. As for myself,

I am so cramped and numb that it will be all I can do to creep."

Maurice spoke cheerfully. It was as if a great load had suddenly been

lifted from his soul.

Margaret pure, his hands free from blood-guiltiness, his little

daughter within his grasp! It was like the opening of heaven to a

spirit long tormented in the purifying fires.

Laura looked up triumphantly as she heard her father's words. "Didn't I

say so?" she cried; "mon père was ill, and my own papa was taking care

of him?" She stooped over L'Estrange: "Mon père, pauvre, cher père!"

Then to Arthur and the guide: "Oh, please, lift him very gently. We

must put him beside the fire. It will make mon père better."

She made an effort to raise his head on her small arm. And at her touch

L'Estrange opened his eyes. "Ma fillette!" he whispered. Laura was

satisfied.

"I have done him good already," she said, looking round at Arthur; "I

said I could."

It was only when she had seen her friend raised, the burly Swiss

supporting his head and shoulders, Arthur his feet, that she had eyes

or words for Maurice. He rose with difficulty, the little one standing

beside him and offering her small hand by way of assistance.

"Have you nothing to say to me, Laura?" he asked rather sadly as he

walked, painfully at first, after Arthur and the guide, the little one

trotting joyfully through the snow by his side.

She looked up at him: "You _are_ my own papa?"

"Yes, Laura."

"And you are coming back home with us?"

"Yes."

"And you really want to see mamma again?"

"Yes."

"Then"--the child gave a deep sigh--"I am very glad."

That was the end of the first conversation between Laura and her

father. They were obliged to look carefully to their footing, for two

or three times the child had fallen upon the frozen snow. She did not

seem to care much, but her father did; when at last the congealed

blood began to flow through his veins, and his wonted vigor to return,

Maurice Grey stooped and in his turn gathered her up into his arms.

Laura had found her true place at last. After her wanderings, her

strange adventures, her fears and her dreams, she was able to lay her

head on her father's breast. He was a stranger to the child. As yet her

love for her false father was much stronger than any feeling for the

true; but the consciousness perhaps of this, that he _was_ her father,

that her task was ended, her childish work accomplished, made a deep

rest steal over her. With her arms round Maurice's neck and her head

upon his shoulder the child fell fast asleep after her fatigues. It was

childhood's sleep, dreamless and unbroken.

So Maurice brought her in to his house, solitary now no longer. He

would not give her up into Marie's care, but taking the blankets from

his bed, he arranged them with his pillows in a corner near the stove,

and laid the little one down. There was a soft look in his face as

he stooped over her. Where was all his cynicism? It had gone. He was

thinking of Laura's mother, and reckoning how long the time might be

before he could himself give back her child to her arms.

And in the mean time the cold dawn was beginning to creep over the

snow. Maurice turned to his companions and held a council of war. They

examined L'Estrange carefully, and found that one of his arms and part

of his side were perfectly dead and helpless. He seemed to be partially

paralyzed.

The question was, What should they do with him? In the solitude of

Maurice's little chalet it would be impossible for him to obtain the

necessary treatment, yet to move a man in his condition so far as the

hotel would be a serious matter, and required more hands than they

could muster.

They had improvised a kind of bed on the floor of the small

sitting-room; they were standing round him, Maurice and Arthur talking

earnestly, the guide only waiting for a sign to do anything that might

be desired of him, when suddenly, to their astonishment, the man they

had thought utterly insensible looked up and tried to raise himself.

He fell back helpless. Then he opened his lips and tried to speak.

Maurice stooped over him to catch the words, for his voice was thick

and changed. "La fillette!" he murmured; "I saw her." Then, as Maurice

pointed out the child fast asleep among the pillows: "It is well," he

said quietly, and his head fell back again. He was thinking.

Gradually the events of the night were shaping themselves out of

the mists which his long insensibility had thrown over his mind. "I

remember," he said at last in a faint, low tone. He beckoned to

Arthur, who wondered at the recognition which he read in the face of

the stricken man. But the dying have their privileges. Arthur overcame

his repugnance and stooped down to listen to his words. "Tell me--" was

all he said, pointing to the bed where Laura lay asleep.

The young man understood what he wanted. In as few words as possible he

told of his discovery, of Laura's anxiety, of their midnight journey,

and once or twice, as his tale went on, a tear rolled down L'Estrange's

face, for in spirit as in body the man was overcome.

When it was ended he called Maurice to his side, and held out the only

hand over which his will had any power, whispering as he did so, "Is it

peace?"

Maurice took the hand and held it in his own. "Forgive me--" he began,

but the man interrupted him with something of his old imperiousness.

"Young people," he said, "lie down--rest."

It was, after all, the most sensible, suggestion. They gave him some

brandy and hot water, which seemed to revive him; then, as utter

weariness had taken possession of Arthur and the guide, they thought

it best to obey, Maurice, who had piled fuel on the stove, declaring

his intention of watching it and L'Estrange. But he too gave way before

long, and the morning light streamed in upon the little chalet parlor,

full of prostrate forms stretched out on the floor and wrapped in every

kind of material.

Before the full morning light had aroused the weary men Laura had risen

from her bed, and had knelt down by her friend to place one of the

pillows her father had arranged for her under his head.

He was awake, and he opened his eyes with a smile, but the smile passed

into a frown, and Laura feared she had offended him. The fact was,

L'Estrange was steeling his heart and hers. He wanted to detach himself

from his darling--to accustom himself to do without her--to teach her,

if possible to care for him less.

But the little one put it down to pain, and tears filled her eyes "Mon

père is worse," she murmured.

She remained by his side till the full light, breaking in upon the

room, had aroused the sleepers.

Then another discussion took place. It was very strange. But the night

before Maurice Grey would have thought it no sin to deprive his enemy

of life. Another hand than his had smitten L'Estrange, and instead of

deserting him, as he might have done, leaving him to find his death

among the snows, Maurice Grey had risked his own life (for the numbness

which had been creeping over him when his friends came up might soon

have proved fatal) to watch over his. Perhaps the reason might be

found in his helplessness. On the previous evening he had stood before

Maurice as an accuser and a judge, arraigning him for the folly and

short-sightedness which, according to his showing, had been far more

instrumental than anything else in bringing about his suffering and

Margaret's. And his biting words had found their echo in Maurice's

own heart, being gifted with a double sting. In the man's attitude

there had been a certain power, and this it was that had inflamed his

opponent, till he had longed with a fierce, sudden passion of hatred to

punish him to the uttermost.

For the second time Maurice Grey had been saved from himself, and now,

as the man he had hated lay helpless at his feet--the brain that had

conceived and the hand that had written that cruel letter torpid, the

tongue which had given forth its biting irony silent--all his feelings

changed. The helplessness of the strong man recommended him to his

compassion; the remembrance of the service he had rendered him, the

consciousness of his penitence for the wrong he had committed, softened

Maurice toward him. He saw, for the first time, in L'Estrange's strange

conduct the return to itself of a soul that had wandered from his own

nobility. Bowing his head, the man who had been known as a bitter cynic

confessed his wrong to humanity, his distrust of God. Maurice Grey

was a changed man. He felt it in the lightness of heart with which he

rose that morning; for, say what we will, it cannot but be that this

hatred of their kind on which some men pride themselves is a bad and

heart-degrading thing. It recoils upon itself. A man cannot despise his

own nature and be happy. Maurice during these wretched years had been

heaping up misery to himself. But it was over, once and for ever. In

Margaret's faithful devotion and forgiving love, in his enemy's return

to a better mind, in his child's simplicity, in Arthur's high-hearted

chivalry, Maurice saw the other side of the picture he had so long been

contemplating.

In the course of his life of wandering he had been pleasing himself by

drawing out and marking the weaknesses of his fellows, and he had not

found his task difficult; but now in his God-given nature, the nature

he had despised, he began to see there was something underlying all

these superficialities For humanity had shown itself to him in its

beauty--the beauty which made God Himself pronounce it good on that

creation-dawn when "the morning stars sang together and all the sons

of God shouted for joy." Maurice Grey thanked God and took courage.

The discussion between himself and Arthur (for the guide was a silent

assistant) resulted in very little.

Something in the way of a litter would be necessary to take the

sufferer over the hills, and at least four strong men who could relieve

one another. They were only three, and it seemed perfectly impossible

to construct a litter out of the materials at hand.

The best plan seemed to be for the guide to return to the hotel and

bring back with him men and litter, also provisions of some kind, for

Marie's black bread and sausages had been so seriously besieged by her

numerous invaders that very little, even of this uninviting food, was

to be found in the small kitchen upon which Arthur made a raid. There

was fortunately enough coffee to supply them each with a strong cup,

only it had to be taken with goat's milk that had been standing for

some days in Marie's pans.

Arthur and Laura, the two most fastidious of the little party, made

many a wry face over the poor fare. These two had become fast friends;

indeed, the child was in a fair way to be spoilt. She reigned like a

queen among these men, so strangely met together in the solitary's

dwelling. The general devotion did not much impress her. Most of her

thoughts were given to one, and he seemed to take very little notice of

his darling. Once or twice the tears filled Laura's eyes as she noticed

how he would refuse what nourishment he could take when she offered

it, and then receive it from another hand. It gave the young heart,

premature in its development, a bitter pang to feel that the affection

of this friend might possibly cease. But of all this the child said

nothing. Breakfast--if breakfast it might be called--was over, the

guide was about to start for Grindelwald, Arthur was busying himself

about domestic matters, trying by his rapid movements to quicken the

perceptions of old Marie, who had been rendered even more stupid than

usual by the strange events of the night; Maurice sat by the side of

his stricken guest, with his little daughter on his knees, when over

the snow outside there came the sound of voices.

Laura ran to the window. "Four men," she cried, "and a mule, and one

of those chairs to carry people, and rugs, and a big bundle, and--Oh,

I hope there's some white bread; but perhaps they're not going to stop

here."

She appealed to Arthur, the person with whom she felt most on terms of

equality: "_Do_ go out and see if they'd give us just one little bit."

Her summons drew the whole of the little party to the door, just in

time to see the small cavalcade draw up, and to meet the questioning,

reproachful gaze of the good Karl.

To explain his appearance on the scene, it will be necessary to relate

how the ungrateful Arthur had quite forgotten his friend's servant,

who according to his own showing had earned for him the favor of that

tête-à-tête dinner at the hotel with the man to find whom he had

traversed Europe in its length and breadth.

It was only when the good German showed his round face, in which

sentiment and joy were struggling for the mastery, at the door of the

chalet that Arthur remembered his intention of letting him know of

his own return to the hotel and his master's whereabouts. The rapid

start with Laura and the guide, following on the interval of regretful

meditation in his own room, had put everything else out of his mind,

and Karl, who, as was his wont, had been making himself useful and

entertaining in the kitchen of the hotel, only found out when it was

too late to do any good that uneasy rumors were afloat in the house

about the two Englishmen, one of whom was his master.

Karl was eminently practical. He lost no time in dreaming about their

probable fate. Something--perhaps an accident to his master, since the

younger man had returned for assistance--was detaining them at the

chalet. The chalet was ill-provided with food and necessary comforts.

As soon as it could be possible to gather together a company large

enough to be useful in any emergency, he would find his way to his

master.

He spent the rest of the night in making every arrangement. Before

dawn he and his party of three stalwart men were on foot. Hence their

arrival at a comparatively early hour of the morning.

Karl's astonishment at the appearance presented by the chalet was very

great, and it was blended with reproach. His master and his master's

friend were on their feet, apparently uninjured; they seemed to have

plenty of assistants, for the guide, Marie, Arthur, Maurice and the

child made an imposing show in the small doorway; it was impossible

to tell how many more might be behind them. Why, then, had he, the

Englishman's faithful servant, been forgotten in this strange jubilee?

But his helpful nature reasserted itself when he found how very much

his services were needed. In the course of a few minutes he was

bustling about, acting as interpreter, preparing a substantial meal for

Maurice's half-starved little company, presenting everybody with shawl

or rug, and making himself generally useful.

Laura had her white bread and some sugar and milk. Arthur and Maurice

rejoiced in the dissection of a fowl, and the guide had a fresh and

unlimited supply of sausages; they were therefore soon sufficiently

strengthened to think with equanimity of a new start. The poles of the

_chaise-à-porteur,_ brought up in case of emergency by the provident

Karl, formed, with mattresses and ropes, an excellent litter. On this

they laid L'Estrange, well wrapped up in rugs and blankets.

Before the sun had risen very high in the heavens the little cavalcade

was in motion--Laura mounted on the mule which her father led;

L'Estrange, passive as an infant, in the litter they had prepared for

him; the rest of the party on foot.

As they entered the pinewood, Maurice turned, and shading his eyes from

the morning sun, took one last look at his temporary dwelling. It had

been the home of his solitude, the mute witness of despair that had

reached its climax in those last days when his life had seemed a burden

too heavy to be borne, and he was leaving it--leaving it and the past

life for ever.

His pride had been rebuked, his self-reliance had fallen. But a few

months before he had thought himself sufficient to himself: _that_

madness had gone; human interests had already begun to throw their

sweet influence around him; from the hermit's dwelling he was going out

once more into the great world. It had done its work. The trial-time

was over. He was stronger and better. His faith in God and humanity

had returned. He could now look forward with hope--not, perhaps, the

sanguineness of youth, which hopes simply because to despair would be

impossible, but hope resting on a well-grounded confidence in himself,

in humanity, in God.

Maurice Grey's after-life was not without its troubles, but through

them all he never lost sight of the lessons learnt in his hermit life.

Painfully gained, they were earnestly held.

CHAPTER VIII.

_A PARTING._

Thou whose exterior semblance doth belie

Thy soul's immensity;

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep

Thy heritage; thou eye among the blind:

Thou over whom thy immortality

Broods like the day, a master o'er a slave,

A presence which is not to be put by!

In the hotel they returned, for the moment, to their old arrangements.

The faithful child would not forsake her friend; his illness had, if

possible, only endeared him to her.

L'Estrange was better. The shock had only been very partial. On the

day following that of his return to the hotel he was already able to

speak intelligibly, and to understand everything that went on around

him. It was the morning of that day. Laura had been busy about the

room putting everything tidy, as she said in her childish way, for her

father had sent his servant to say that he would pay them a visit.

She noticed that the eyes of L'Estrange followed her painfully about

the room. There was a trouble in his face the child did not quite

understand. Except for his illness--which, childlike, Laura looked

upon as something very transient--she could not see in their present

circumstances any cause for sadness. Her mind was troubled with no

doubts about the right course to pursue. They were all to go back to

her mamma as soon as ever her friend could be moved. It had never

crossed her gentle mind that he was to be shut out of their happiness,

and, so far as she was concerned, she had no intention of leaving him.

The heart of the little child was light. Everything had come about as

she had hoped.

But Laura, young as she was, had been too often in the presence of

suffering not to recognize it, and her friend had taught her to

observe. She read the sorrow in his face and went to his bedside: "Mon

père, what is it? Are you worse?"

"Come to me, fillette," he answered, and with his left hand he drew her

face to his.

The child smiled: "Pauvre cher père, why do you look so sorry? You

ought to look glad, because we're all going back to mamma. Oh, I am so

happy! That night, mon père, you remember, when you were out in the

snow, and I thought you were lost, and I was to be left alone with

people who said cross things, I wasn't happy then; but now it's all

right. My papa is found--and," she lowered her voice as if speaking

in confidence, "I think I shall love him too--then we shall see mamma

again--"

She stopped suddenly, for the tears were falling one by one over her

companion's face. To a stronger heart than Laura's the sight would have

been pitiful. This stern, self-contained man did not often express

his feelings. Even the child he loved had trembled sometimes as she

looked at his dark, strong face--even she had feared to intrude upon

his silence; now all was broken down. Weakness as of a little child

had taken hold upon him. Laura was very much distressed. With tears

of sympathy in her own eyes, she stroked the dark, passionate face,

murmuring gentle words.

He spoke at last, and there was a sternness in his voice that might

have repelled the child had she not known her friend so well. "Laura,"

he said, "you must not again say such things as these; you must try and

understand, little one. What must be, must be; and thou and I _must_

part. Hush! hush!"

For Laura's face was averted; she had hidden it in the bed-clothes;

she was weeping in the silent, unchildlike way that once or twice

before had moved L'Estrange so deeply. In his weakness the man had much

difficulty in preventing himself from giving way once more and weeping

with her, but he controlled himself, for he was determined that no one

but himself should make her understand.

"Laura," he said very tenderly, laying his left hand on the soft,

golden head he loved so well, "it is necessary--you must go. I am not

worthy of this love, and your mother is waiting for you."

"But, mon père--" Laura lifted up her tear-stained face and met his

deep, stern eyes. Her voice faltered, for, child as she was, she read

his resolve. "You will be better," she said, "and come too."

"Never," he answered slowly. "Listen, little one." He put away the

hair from her face and looked at her long and tenderly: "In years to

come--ah, petite, long, long years--after your friend has been put away

under the ground, ma fillette will be a woman, tall and beautiful and

good; then she will know and understand that this thing is right; then

she will know that her friend, who loved her, acted for the best in

this--that what my Laura desires would not be possible. She must say to

her old friend good-bye; she must go away to those who love her; not

better--that could not be--but to those who have a greater right to her

love. Why do you care for me, fillette? Ah, mon Dieu! it is painful,"

he added as if to himself, for the child's sobs had never ceased.

He drew her face down to him again: "Little bird, it is not well. These

deep feelings give me grief. Thine is the age of laughter. Think then

of la pauvre maman--she is weeping too."

"Yes," replied the child through her tears. "I want to go back; but

oh"--a happy thought had struck her; she clasped her hands and looked

up into her friend's face--"if papa and I go away now, at once, you'll

get well and come afterward. This won't be saying good-bye for always:

_please, please_, say it won't."

He felt inclined to give her an indefinite answer, to let her think

that it should be as she wished; but when he looked into her dark,

imploring eyes--the eyes from which shone out the tenderest, most

innocent soul that had ever loved him in all his wild career--he felt

that to deceive her would be impossible. He answered slowly and calmly,

with the manner of one who for ever puts away some beautiful thing out

of his sight: "Thou hast said it, fillette. Good-bye for always."

"Always! always!" The child repeated the word, her large dark eyes

dilating as if with some hidden awe. "Mon père," she said almost in

a whisper, "it is so long--always, for ever. Do you mean that I am

_never, never_ to see you again?"

He looked at her curiously. In his old way he was analyzing. He was

trying to understand the sudden emotion that had blanched the little

one's cheek and brought that look of awe into her eyes. It was not

the first time that this vague terror of the unknowable had taken

possession of this strange child's mind.

She shivered slightly as, standing by her friend's side, she reasoned

out the matter with herself: "Mon père, what does it mean? To-day ends,

and to-morrow will end; and this year and next year, and every year,

I suppose, till we die; and then--after then--there is heaven and for

ever--always, always, for ever. I _can't_ understand it. Oh, mon père,

is it true?" The child was in an agony. This was the mental torture

that had, several times, racked her brain.

"And," she added under her breath, with the look and tone of one treble

her age, "in all this for ever--so long, so long--I must not see mon

père any more."

It was L'Estrange's turn to tremble. Rapidly as in a dream the

remembrance came of that first day when for his own purpose he had

implanted into the little one's mind thoughts and ideas too great and

strong for one of her years.

"Mon Dieu!" murmured the stricken man, "and must it always be thus? I

only love to blight and poison."

"Laura," he answered aloud--and his voice was grave and earnest--"you

take things too much to heart. Try now to understand me, little one.

Words have a certain meaning of their own, but people may give them

too much meaning or too little. When ma fillette is older she will

know that 'always' may sometimes mean a day, a week, a year--sometimes

indeed this for ever of which she speaks so earnestly, but _very, very_

seldom. Look up, petite. _My_ always is not at all so very terrible.

All I mean is this: you must go back home with your own father, and

leave your friend here. See! I have made a letter be written to Paris,

to the person whom you will remember there. Marie will come and help me

to move to her little house; then if ever ma fillette comes to Paris

she will know where to hear of her old friend."

"Oh, please let me have it," cried the child. She took the letter

from the hand of L'Estrange, sat down before the table, and copied

the address, letter by letter, in her large childish handwriting, her

friend spelling it over for her that there might be no mistake. Then

she folded up the paper and clasped it in both hands. "Mon père," she

said, "I will never lose it."

In the practical action Laura's dreamy fears had fled. Hope, the hope

of a young child, reasserted itself once more. "I will show it to

mamma," she said, "and we'll come together to see you; then perhaps--"

She was interrupted by a knock at the door. Her father was outside

waiting for admittance.

As might have been expected, Maurice Grey had lost no time in making

all needful preparation for their journey to England. He was in a fever

of anxiety to be moving once more, to be on his way to his injured

wife, to assure himself of her forgiveness and continued love. And

there had been certain points in the story told by Arthur which had

alarmed him. Margaret's poverty: the thought of this gave him perhaps

the keenest pang he had experienced. He could not understand it,

for, as has already been seen, Maurice Grey was not exactly to blame

for this; but in his after review of all the circumstances he blamed

himself bitterly for what he now looked upon as his own weak-minded

folly in preserving this total silence. He had thought of his own pain

in the event of all his fears receiving fatal confirmation, and his

wife, so tenderly reared, had been suffering.

Then her delicacy, the sudden collapse of her powers. The thought

of this was almost too hard to be borne, for if--if there should be

disappointment before him--if he could never ask her forgiveness for

the cruel wrong he had committed, never hold her again to his heart,

never let her know how deeply through it all he had loved her--the

man felt as if it would be better even to die himself. The bare idea

maddened him.

He would willingly have cut through the air to reach her, and the

necessary delay chafed his spirit. Since the moment of their return to

the hotel the Englishman had been busy in making every preparation for

departure.

Happily for him, the season had not yet entirely closed. Sledges

would have to be used in various parts of the journey, and guides and

drivers would probably require to be highly feed; but this was a matter

of very small import. All he desired was speed. Arthur seconded his

efforts ably. As the diligence had ceased running between Grindelwald

and Interlachen, and the steamers no longer made their daily journey

on the lake, a visit to Interlachen had been necessary, that special

arrangements might be made as well for this as for their further

journey; the railway connecting Thun with Berne had not then been

completed.

It was arranged that Arthur should act as courier, preceding them

to Thun to have relays prepared, and that Maurice should return to

Grindelwald for Laura.

The child had not seen him since their journey through the snow from

his solitary chalet in the mountains. She was a little shy of this new

father, though inclined, as she had expressed herself to L'Estrange, to

think that she should love him.

The fact was, that Laura, too much given to reason upon every point,

could not quite reconcile to herself his love for her mother and his

long absence. This had tormented the little one considerably during

these last days. She took his caresses that morning very calmly.

She would have run away then and left her father and friend alone

together, but L'Estrange detained her. She obeyed his gesture and sat

down again by his side.

Maurice drew her toward him, "Laura," he asked, "are you ready to come

home?"

"Now?" said the child, "at once?"

"You want to go back to mamma, Laura?" he said gravely.

The child stood silent, trembling from head to foot. She was afraid to

show what she felt before her father.

"Come," said Maurice, "we must thank your friend who has been so kind

to you, and say good-bye to him."

Laura looked at L'Estrange. The proud face was turned to the wall. Weak

as he was, he would yet show nothing before Maurice Grey. She went

close up to his side. He motioned her away from him, and the heart

of the little child could bear no longer. "Mon père will die if I go

away," she cried piteously. She covered her face with her hands and

began to cry. It was difficult for Maurice to know what to do. The

child's tears made him feel perfectly helpless. He was not accustomed

to little ones, and he felt inclined not only to wonder, but to feel

rather angry, at the strange power this man, her mother's bitterest

enemy, had gained over the child's mind.

He answered her with a man's impatience. Like others, he forgot for

the moment, in her strange womanliness, that Laura was only a little

child. "My dear Laura," he said sternly, "I must have no more of this.

Leave off crying at once, and do as I tell you. Say good-bye to Mr.

L'Estrange, find your cloak and hat and come with me. I have told the

maid to put your things together, and a sledge is waiting at the door."

Her father's voice checked the child so suddenly that the moment he had

spoken he reproached himself for having spoken too strongly.

She left off crying at once, looked up with a pale, resolute face, and

went into her own room to get ready for the journey. Then, when the

scarlet cloak and hood had been put on by the sympathetic Gretchen,

Laura returned and stood once more beside her friend.

"Papa," she said, turning to Maurice, "I'm quite ready, and you may go

down now. I shall come presently. Please, I want to say good-bye to mon

père alone."

Maurice could not have been more astonished if he had suddenly seen his

little daughter put on her womanhood than he was at this calm demand.

He even hesitated a moment. But the little one stood her ground.

Laura's instincts had told her what it was that had made her friend so

suddenly cold and distant. She could not leave him without _one_ more

kind word; then, on the other hand, the presence of her father, and

his stern forbidding of her ready tears, prevented her from letting

her friend see some at least of the love and gratitude that filled her

small heart.

Maurice looked at the tiny figure and smiled: "My daughter has her

father's will. Well, little one, I suppose I must give in this time. It

is natural, perhaps, that you should feel this, only don't be too long

about your adieus."

He turned to L'Estrange, thanked him for his kindness to the child,

asked if he could do anything for him before he went away; then, when

the question had received a decided negative, bade him a courteous

farewell.

Once more, and for the last time, the child and the man--the

child so near heaven in her simplicity, the man world-weary and

travel-stained--were left alone together, and now the little one felt

that it was really for the last time.

He turned his face toward her. She threw herself down on her knees by

his side, sobbing convulsively. "Mon père," she cried piteously, "is it

for ever?"

For a few moments he was silent. In the sorrow of parting from this

only creature in the world who purely loved him, the memory of that

night when God's peace had been shed abroad in his soul, when the

tumult of his heart had been stayed by the consciousness of a presence

above and around him, returned to his mind. He was alone and hopeless

no longer. "Little one," he answered, drawing her soft cheek to his,

"you must look for me there--in heaven."

"I will, I will," answered the sobbing child, for heaven at this moment

seemed near and real to her.

She was about to rise, but he drew her down again: "Laura, remember,

if I go there ever it will be through thee. My child! my child!"--his

voice broke down suddenly--"the great God bless thee, now, every day of

thy life, and even for ever!"

A knock at the door; the child's father was becoming impatient. Laura

rose, kissed her friend once more, smoothed his bed-clothes as she had

been accustomed to do, then turned away, choking back her sobs. The

little one could not trust her own father yet. She was afraid he would

be angry. She did not dare to look back at the door: she went, and

L'Estrange was left alone.

The excitement had been almost too much for him in his weak state.

That night L'Estrange thought that he would die. They were very kind

and attentive to him in the hotel, did everything that could be done

to lighten his sufferings, but all he wished was to be left alone,

that he might die in peace. He was mistaken, however, as he had often

been before. This stroke did not mean death. A few days after Laura's

departure he was able to sit up, a day or two later he was trying

to teach his left hand to do the duties of the right, and before a

fortnight had passed his friend from Paris had arrived.

Sorely in those days of enforced solitude he had missed his little

comforter, but Marie's bright, helpful presence did much toward

restoring him. He recovered in time to a certain measure of health and

strength, and yet the man was changed.

The spirit that had faced the world's storms, that had made joys for

itself wherever fate had thrown him, was broken down. He had no aims,

and to begin again his life of wandering seemed desolate beyond measure.

Perhaps his intercourse with Laura, and that parting which had wrung

both their hearts, had stung him in this: it had brought before

his mind the torment of that "might-have-been" which lurks in the

background of pleasure and self-seeking to seize upon the remnant of a

wasted life. It was his retribution, the portion he had prepared for

himself, but none the less was it bitterly hard to be borne.

L'Estrange never regained his former vigor of body or strength of mind.

He spent the rest of his life in wandering, for no ties held him to

any particular place, and he was restless.

He wrote to Margaret as soon as ever he had acquired sufficient power

over his left hand (the right remained for some time comparatively

helpless). The letter was a pouring out of his heart, a confession of

her wrongs. He took no merit to himself for having been instrumental

in restoring her to happiness. He only offered this as a proof of his

sincerity, he only asked for a line to let him know he was forgiven.

They never met again; indeed, L'Estrange did not live very much longer,

but his end was peace.

"After the burden and heat of the day,

The starry calm of night."

CHAPTER IX.

_THE NEST IS EMPTY._

The warm sun is failing, the bleak wind is wailing,

The bare boughs are sighing, the pale flowers are dying,

And the year

On the earth, her deathbed, in a shroud of leaves dead,

Is lying.

One evening--it must have been in the month of November, when the days

had grown short and the nights long, when the autumn winds whistled

bleakly and the waves were given to lashing the shore--a young girl sat

alone at the window of a room which only the red fire and flickering

twilight redeemed from total darkness. She was looking out, gazing

with dreamy eyes that saw very little of that upon which they were

apparently fixed, at the desolation of the world that lay outside. And

yet that desolation was writing its impress on her brain, giving to

the inner life the images of dreary hopelessness that belonged for the

moment to the outer.

The young girl scarcely saw the leafless giants shivering in their

nakedness, or the leaden clouds driving restlessly over the sky, or

the dark sea moaning, plunging like a mighty thing tied down--a power

compelled by a higher power to miserable inaction; yet these things

were with and around her; they helped to call that deep look into

her eyes, to cause the impatient sigh that escaped her now and then.

Inside, there was nothing to disturb her meditation. In the room and

in the house was an utter stillness. It was the stillness of watchers

engaged in a hand-to-hand struggle with man's last and darkest foe.

For that struggle had been going on in the little house during three

or four long days and nights, and now, at last, a lull had come. The

patient slept.

Poor Adèle! It could scarcely be matter for wonder that her cheek

looked pale and her blue eyes deep, that impatient sighs broke from

her, that she was ready to sympathize with the gray desolation of a

winter night. For Adèle had been passing through a time of anxiety such

as she had never before experienced.

Margaret dying, Arthur gone--no word, no line to let them know the fate

of the wanderers--no possibility of being able to give the sufferer

the news for which her soul was craving--nothing in all the here and

hereafter but vague uncertainty, but cruel delay.

And Adèle, in the bitterness of her spirit, had begun to doubt about

everything. It had been so hard to watch the patient sufferer, to

know that in any moment she might be the prey of death--that the

pure, noble life, worn away by sorrow, might pass into the invisible

without one gleam of light to cheer it on its progress; it had been so

hard to listen in the sombre light of the sick room to the passionate

ravings of the faithful wife, and to realize the utter impossibility of

bringing her that for want of which her life was waning.

These things preyed upon Adèle's mind. In the darkness and solitude, in

the suspension of immediate anxiety, her heart sank, her spirit began

with itself humanity's dreary questioning.

Everywhere, everywhere--in the angry cries of the young child, in the

quiet sorrow of those of riper years, in the patient sadness of the

aged, in the pallor of young faces--_it_ can be read--the why that

rises evermore to Heaven, the great mystery of human woe. Shall it be

answered one day? Ah, who can doubt it? Else were we wretched beyond

compare.

The _why_ was in Adèle's heart that evening, welling up from its

innermost depths, proving itself too strong and terrible for her young

brain to fathom. And still she sat there, her arms folded and her pale

face looking seaward, thinking, thinking.

Once or twice she turned to look at her companion. Margaret was on the

sofa. For the first time since that attack of brain-fever which had so

terrified her devoted nurses she was dressed, and her dress was of the

soft, pale material which Maurice loved.

They had been afraid of the fatigue, for Margaret was very ill.

Emotion, anxiety, suspense had told upon her to such a degree that at

last her life had been despaired of.

For three days her mind had been wandering. Such strange, pathetic

wandering it was that often and often tears had poured down the cheeks

of those who watched over her. But early in this evening her senses

seemed suddenly to return. There came a light into her eyes; she sat

up and looked round her. And then she insisted upon being dressed and

taken into the little parlor. They could not refuse her, though the old

woman shook her head ominously. "It's well to be seen," she whispered

to Adèle, "what the end of it a' will be. Puir leddie!" and she wiped

her eyes, "the sair heart hae dune it. Humor her bit fancies, bairnie;

'twill be the same, ony gait."

Weeping in spite of herself, Adèle obeyed the old nurse. They

dressed Margaret with minute care, combed the waving hair--short

now, alas!--from her white forehead, put on her the trailing

lavender-colored dress and the pretty lace ruffles, wrapped the Indian

scarf round her shoulders, and laid her down, exhausted but happy, on

the parlor sofa.

She thanked them with her gentle smile, gave a sigh of intense

contentment; then, after a few moments, fell into a quiet, healthy

sleep.

It was this sleep which Adèle had been watching in the dark room until,

so quiet and peaceful had been the sleeper's face, the tension on her

watcher's nerves was partially relaxed. She turned from that earnest

gazing at the pale face, so beautiful in its pure outlines, to look at

the outside world--to think and dream and hope. For in the heart of the

young hope is ever rampant. It is only when years of experience have

shown hope's futility that the radiant companion forsakes the soul.

Forsakes! Ah, in thousands of instances scarcely forsakes--rather takes

a higher ground, shows a larger prospect. In the dreariness of wintry

age hope is still busy, gilding not the transitory _here_, but the

lasting beyond.

Adèle had not reached that stage of experience. Her young heart, though

ready at times to look forward even to that shadowy beyond, was yet

very busy with the _here_, the sweet earthly happiness which all young

humanity is earnestly craving.

That evening there seemed very little to feed her persistent

hopefulness. Another day and yet another, with no line from Arthur,

the consciousness of his devotion, of his thoughtful affection,

making his silence the more strange and ominous; winter in its dreary

desolation looking in at her from sea and land, telling loudly of the

difficulty--even perhaps the danger--of travelling; the life of her

friend waning, passing in its miserable famine of all that makes a

woman's joy. These were the gloomy thoughts with which the hopefulness

of the young soul struggled that evening.

For a few moments they overpowered her. In a dark phalanx rose before

her mind tales of sorrow and wrong; pallid faces passed her by, tones

of bitter misery rang in her ears. She covered her face with her hands.

"They are the many," she cried, "the great multitude! Why should any

think to be happy? God help us! for this is a dreary world." The words

were spoken half aloud, for in the momentary despair she had forgotten

everything but this--the aching of her own heart, the sadness of a

hope-forsaken world.

She was aroused by a slight rustling among the leaves outside.

The house was very solitary, and the lonely women had more than once

experienced that nervous terror which shudders at a sound and sees an

intruder in every shadow. However, they kept nothing of great value

in the house, and they had hitherto had no real cause for uneasiness.

But Adèle in all her night-terrors had never heard anything so meaning

as this stealthy rustling among the branches. She leaped to her feet

and peered out into the night. This time she had not been deceived. At

the gate there was a vision of fluttering garments. Adèle thought she

recognized the form that was passing out into the night. With blanched

face and trembling limbs she flew, rather than ran, across the room.

It was almost too dark to see, but feeling on hands and knees the

young girl discovered, to her horror, that the sofa was empty. Those

fluttering garments were Margaret's. An access of fever had come on. In

its delirium she had rushed out to meet certain death in the cold and

desolate night.

For a moment Adèle was almost paralyzed by this new misfortune--fruit,

as she told herself bitterly, of her own carelessness; then gathering

her wits rapidly together, she threw a shawl round her head and rushed

out in pursuit of the fugitive. She did not even wait to let the

landlady and the old nurse know of their patient's flight. Time was the

great consideration. Margaret might be stopped and brought back before

any serious mischief should have happened.

And thus it came about that the two elder women, who were in the lower

part of the house enjoying a cup of tea and a chat, in the pleasant

relaxation of that anxiety which had been oppressing them all, knew

nothing whatever of the strange commotion, of the mysterious flight of

the two younger, for whose safety either of them would have staked her

life.

The little parlor was deserted, the red fire flickered and waned, the

door of the house stood open, through the dark hall the wind whistled

and shrieked; while all the time, outside in the darkness, by the

shores of the moaning sea, life and death, reason and madness, love and

folly were carrying on their fierce, impatient strife.

* * * * *

Had Adèle waited for one more moment, she might have been startled

by another sound. Scarcely had she left the little house, wild with

anxiety, to discover and bring back her friend, before there came from

the direction opposite to that she had taken the sound of horses' hoofs

that echoed through the silent night.

For this was what had been happening in the mean time. A carriage had

been driving as rapidly as a very poor horse could take it in the

direction of the cottage. Inside it were a young man and a child,

neither of whom spoke a word for the intensity of their outlook into

the night.

A horseman rode beside them, and at times it seemed as if his

impatience could scarcely be restrained, as if it were impossible for

him to suit himself to the slow movement of the carriage.

There was a cry at last from the child, which the horseman heard. He

half stopped and bent over her, then rose again erect and vigorous,

for the little hand had pointed out his goal, and the dark spot, still

in the distance, but faintly showing against the background of sea by

the solitary lamp that shone before it, was the shrine that held his

treasure. A moment, and Maurice Grey was tearing wildly along the road.

Would that faint light ever grow nearer? Maurice was wont to say in

after years that those minutes spent in rushing through the darkness

were the longest he had ever known.

But the longest minutes have an end. The panting horse was drawn up

at last before the solitary lamp. Blindly and madly, not thinking of

what might become of it, Maurice threw himself from his saddle, burst

open the little garden-gate, and trying, but in vain, to steady his

trembling nerves, walked up the path.

But as he looked at the cottage his fierce pace slackened, and a sudden

horror seized him, for in its dreary solitude it looked like death.

Maurice stopped for a moment. The heart of the strong man, the heart

that had borne so much, beat violently. He thought he must have fallen

to the ground, but gathering himself together he pressed forward,

trying to reassure his coward heart.

"They are in the back part of the house, of course," he muttered. The

door of the cottage stood wide open. "Strange," he thought, "on so cold

a night!"

Noiselessly the husband, who was a stranger in his wife's house, passed

into the little hall, and still that sickening silence, that dreariness

of solitude, met him. A faint light glimmered from the remnants of

the parlor-fire. He peered into the room; it was dark and seemingly

empty. Maurice struck a match and looked round him. The red ashes, the

position of the chairs, the tumbled covers, the crushed sofa pillow,

all told of recent occupation; and indeed the two fugitives could

scarcely have gone many yards from the house. As he gazed the haggard

face relaxed. Crossing to the sofa, he stooped and pressed his lips to

the pillow, for something told him that Margaret's head had been there.

But his match died down; he was left again in darkness.

"Was anything stirring," he asked himself, "in this house of death?

Where was she the traces of whose presence he was finding in the

deserted room?"

He decided to remain there for a moment. It could not but be that

before many moments should pass the music of her voice would meet

his ears, and then he could discover himself. But waiting met with

the same fate as searching. Not a sound, not a breath broke the

stillness. It was a strange coincidence. In the very room, by the very

spot where the deserted wife, the bereaved mother had thrown herself

down, almost lost, even to herself, in her anguish, he stood, he

waited, his heart sinking with vague dread, his spirit fainting in its

sickening suspense, the man who had deserted her, the husband who had

misunderstood, who had lightly judged her.

The first sound which met Maurice's ear was the rattling of the wheels

that announced the approach of his companions. He rose and went to the

door of the room. Surely this new sound would be heard. In the little

hall, on the narrow staircase, he might catch the fluttering of her

dress. Before she knew of his coming he might clasp her in his arms.

As the little Laura sprang from the carriage, and danced rather than

walked along the path, up the steps, through the hall, the driver rang

the outside bell with some violence, and this at last proved effectual.

Maurice's hungry ears detected movement, but it came from below. There

was the sound of chairs being pushed back, of steps on the lower

passages and stairs.

The fact was this: Jane and the old nurse, worn out by nursing and

anxiety, having ascertained that Margaret was sleeping calmly, had

allowed themselves to be beguiled by the pleasant fumes of tea and

the kindly warmth of the kitchen fire into giving way themselves.

During Margaret's flight and Adèle's pursuit, during the arrival of

Margaret's husband and the subsequent drawing up of the carriage, they

had been sleeping, one on each side of the kitchen fire.

Jane was the first to be aroused--the first, that is to say, to gain

full possession of her senses, for the violent ringing of the outside

bell had startled the old woman so much that at first she scarcely knew

where she was. Jane got up at once, straightened her sprightly figure,

smoothed her hair and apron and struck a light. "Who in the world may

it be?" she muttered indignantly: "I'd be bound it's one of them boys.

The mistress just gone off too, and frightening her out of her wits.

Them sort hasn't got a spark of feeling about them."

She walked leisurely up the stairs with her candle, and opened the door

that led into the hall. She had scarcely done so before a blast of wind

sweeping through the hall put it out. In the next moment her arm was

seized, she was dragged into the semi-light outside and confronted with

Maurice's fierce eyes. For while Jane was preparing herself to answer

the importunate bell the child had been up and down; she had opened

the door of the different rooms, all well known to her; she had come

down trembling and weeping to say that they were dark and empty, and

where--where was mamma?

There was reproach in the wailing cry; in her rapid journey, in her

enforced separation from L'Estrange, in her weariness, in her childish

sorrow, this had been the one consolation: at the end of it she should

see her mother, she should rest in her arms. And now, when the end

had come, when the home so intensely longed for had been found, the

promised remained unfulfilled.

The blow to Laura was all the more cruel that it was utterly

unexpected. No sad forebodings had crossed _her_ young mind. She had

pictured the little parlor and the lighted lamp and her mother's gentle

face and open arms, and then the rest in those arms, the telling out of

her pent-up woes.

The cottage had been found, but within it was only empty darkness.

Laura threw herself down on the sofa, and her wailing cry reached

the ears of her father as he dragged the landlady out into the

light: "Mamma has gone, and mon père is dead." That and his own

disappointment made him almost mad for the moment. Seizing Jane by the

shoulder, he shook her roughly as he looked down into her white face:

"What have you done with her, woman? Speak, or by Heaven I will make

you!"

CHAPTER X.

_LAURA AND HER FATHER._

Oh, there is never sorrow of heart

That shall lack a timely end,

If but to God we turn and ask

Of Him to be our Friend.

It was an awful moment for the bewildered landlady. The wildness of the

night, the mystery of that empty room, the violence of the disappointed

man, brought vividly to her mind that other night when, but for the

interposing power of God, her hands might have been imbrued with the

ineffaceable stain of crime. It had passed, it had been forgiven, but

in this moment, her senses scarcely awake, the suddenness and mystery

around her, it seemed almost as if the deed had been done, as if the

accuser were before her.

Instead of answering she cowered and shrank, while Maurice in his

agony, without ever relaxing that vice-like grasp, repeated his fierce

inquiries. "You know; I can read it in your coward face. Great God,

give me patience!" And as he spoke he shook her roughly, making the

poor woman all the more powerless to utter a word.

Only a few moments had passed, but they seemed ages to them both,

before Arthur came out among the trees. His face was very pale, for

in the interval the old woman had been telling him all that had

happened--at least all she knew. It appeared that they were totally

unexpected, for although both Maurice and Arthur had written to

announce their arrival, in the uncertainty of the winter-post from

Switzerland they had preceded their letters.

The continued suspense after Mrs. Churchill's cheerful presence was

withdrawn had been too much for Margaret to bear up against, but her

sudden disappearance was as much of a mystery to the old woman as it

had been to them; she connected it, however, with her illness, and the

conclusions she drew were very gloomy. In the whole circumstance there

was only one ray of hope--Margaret's faithful friend was with her, as

Adèle was missing too. But how had she allowed her to leave the house?

why had she not called for assistance?

Arthur, as he went out to meet the disappointed man, felt hope sink

down in his heart. But though pale and sad his face was resolute. It

would be necessary to act, and to act at once. Taking Maurice by the

arm, he drew away from his grasp the terrified woman. "Mr. Grey," he

said, "listen to me. Your wife is out there in the night. Be calm or

nothing can be done. My cousin is with her."

Maurice gave a sudden start. "What? how?" he gasped.

"I tell you," replied the younger man, "you _must_ command yourself.

She has had a dangerous fever; it may be delirium--no one knows. In any

case they must be instantly followed. We certainly did not pass them

in the direction of the station. Take you the road to the sea; I with

Martha will go inland. Mr. Grey, do you hear?" for Maurice was staring

wildly about him.

"In the night, by the sea," he muttered, staggering blindly against the

wall.

Arthur was in despair. This was worse than all; _how_ could he make

him understand? But at that very moment help came from an unexpected

source. A little soft hand was put into that of the bewildered man,

large spiritual eyes looked up into his face. Laura had heard the last

words. Her father's emotion had for the first time brought him near to

her.

"Dear papa, you will find mamma. Come!"

He submitted to the leading hand, walked with the little one down

the garden-path to the gate, outside of which the saddled horse was

standing, quietly cropping the wayside grass.

The fearless child caught the bridle and put it into her father's hand.

Then first Maurice seemed to understand what was wanted. He took the

bridle from the child's hand and stooped to kiss her on the brow.

"Pray for us, Laura," he whispered--"your father and mother."

A moment, and the good horse was spurred forward again, this time on

the sandy road that led down to the sea.

Happily, the moon came out from a rent in the clouds.

The child looked up. "He will see mamma," she whispered; then, as the

horseman disappeared behind the trees, her strong little heart failed.

She threw herself down on her knees in the wet grass by the

garden-gate, and clinging to its posts poured out her sorrow: "O God,

save mamma. O God, bring her back to Laura."

It was the landlady who found her there.

After her first terror about the strange events of the evening, Jane

vaguely remembered to have caught a glimpse of the little one, and her

first thought was to search for her in every direction, for she was

alone in the house, Nurse Martha having at once started off with Arthur

to look for the wanderers.

She found Laura at last by the garden-gate, and in spite of resistance

carried her in to the warm fireside, for, practical in the midst of

her excitement, Jane had rekindled the parlor fire, and it was blazing

merrily.

"Miss Laura, my dear, think what your mamma will say if you're ill too;

and you know you'll be ill if you stay out in the cold."

This made her submit at last to be wrapped up warmly and laid on

the parlor sofa. It was well for her. The fatigue and subsequent

excitement, the exhaustion of her sorrow, and the pleasant warmth

combined to cause a drowsiness that could not be restrained.

Laura forgot all her troubles. While the fate of her parents still

trembled in the balance she slept childhood's unbroken sleep, and Jane

was set free to run up to her own little charge, who had been aroused

by the commotion and was crying out for her lustily.

She found him so excited that as it was impossible to divide herself

between parlor and bedroom, she thought it well to wrap him up warmly

and bring him down.

The bright fire was as effectual with Willie as it had been with

Laura. Jane laid him down on the sofa, and the hard, unsympathetic

woman felt her eyes grow dim and her heart soft as she watched the

quiet sleep of the little ones--the one round and rosy as the day, the

other pale, with a troubled look even in sleep, but fair as one of

God's angels.

CHAPTER XI.

_UNITED AT LAST._

One moment these were heard and seen--another

Past; and the two who stood beneath that night,

Each only saw or heard or felt the other.

Adèle had been swift--swift as the wind. Instinctively in her rapid

departure she had chosen their favorite road, that which led down to

the sea, but at first it seemed as if all her efforts were destined to

be in vain. The fluttering garments had disappeared; on the white road,

stretching away into the distance, was no sign of the wanderer.

Choking down the horror which possessed her, the young girl tried to

collect her senses. A few moments ago their patient had been sleeping

so peacefully that their fears had been set at rest, they had believed

her out of danger; now--Adèle was inexperienced, but rapidly in her

despair old stories of disease, madness, delirium, unnatural strength

crowded in upon her mind.

What if at last the long anguish had destroyed the fair mind? What if

a dull horror was to swamp their hopes for ever? If--if--She dared

not look this last woe in the face. Impulsively she pressed on, her

trembling limbs endowed with a new strength, her young heart breathing

out its resolves upon the night: "I will save her--I. Great God, in Thy

mercy help me."

She had come to a turn in the road. Rounding it, she made an eager

bound forward, for there through the darkness she could distinguish at

last the outlines of Margaret's form.

Pressing her hands to her head, Adèle tried to think. If only the old

nurse had been with her, or their landlady! How was she to act? how in

her single strength to arrest and bring back the fugitive?

Yet there was something in Margaret's gliding movement which made the

girl think rather of somnambulism than of delirium. If this should

be the cause of her flight Adèle knew that a sudden awakening might

possibly be dangerous to health or reason.

Struggling with her terror, trying to come to some right conclusion,

she at last reached her friend. Close by was a little path which Adèle

and Margaret know well. It led off from the road, through a wilderness

of stunted grass and tangled weeds, to the sea.

Here Margaret paused a moment, as if in hesitation. During that

moment's pause Adèle looked at her fixedly. The young girl's last

suspicion had been true. By the wide-open, sightless eyes, by the

groping of the hands, by the soft, continuous murmuring of the lips,

she saw her friend was asleep.

Straining her ears, she distinguished through the moaning wind and

sobbing sea some of the words that were falling from Margaret's lips.

"Which way?" And then groping forward, with that blind, pitiful

movement of the hands, "To the sea? Cold, so cold, but," with a smile

that made Adèle weep, "Maurice is there."

As she spoke, Margaret turned into the winding path, and Adèle

shivered. What awful dream was bewildering her brain?

Throwing her arm gently round the sleeper, she tried to draw her back

to the road.

"Maurice is here," she said in a tone as dreamy as her own; "come."

To her intense relief, Margaret obeyed her guidance, the shore was

left behind, they were passing on to their quiet home; but the relief

was transient. Scarcely had they lost sight of the sea before Margaret

stopped--the bewildered look returned to her face--there began that

dark, dreary groping of the hands. "I have lost him," she cried in a

voice pitiful as a child's wail, and turning once more she pressed

forward to the sands with a swift-gliding step. What could the young

girl do? In her powerlessness the tears rolled down her face.

Her arms were still round her friend, but she did not dare to constrain

her. "Margaret," she whispered pleadingly, her lips close to her

friend's ear.

Quietly Margaret turned her pale face, over which a strange, sweet

smile was beaming. "Coming, my beloved," she answered softly.

They had left the grass and tangled weeds behind them; they were

treading the soft yellow sands; behind them was the warm earth, touched

by the light of a young crescent moon, set like a silver bow in the

parting clouds; before them, dark and hungry, roaring evermore like a

monster chained, lay the awful sea.

Adèle groaned. If indeed a conflict were before them, she wished it

had taken place above, while those terrible waters were comparatively

distant, and Margaret was now pressing forward as though _they_ were

her goal. "Margaret, my darling! for pity's sake awake!" she cried in

her desperation.

But Margaret only answered the voice of her dream. Again came that

strange, sweet smile--again her lips moved: "Coming, Maurice, coming."

Then, as Adèle with all her force tried to drag her back to the path,

"Patience, my beloved!" and as she spoke the young girl felt in her

quiet resistance the strength of madness.

Lifting up her heart in a passionate prayer for help to the one Being

who seems in these awful moments near and real to weak humanity, Adèle

made another effort. "Margaret!" she cried, and the ring of her young

voice sounded clear above the tumult of wind and waves--"Margaret,

listen to me."

Had she been understood at last? Was the terrible moment over?

Certainly her voice had pierced the films of sleep. Into the fixed eyes

came a sudden meaning. Margaret shivered, and pausing in her mad flight

looked before her wildly. But not yet was the danger over--rather it

was prolonged and intensified. The quiet somnambulism had given place

to the worst kind of delirium.

With a shriek Margaret threw her hands above her head and tore herself

free from the detaining grasp. "Maurice!" she cried in the strange

exaltation of this madness. "I saw him there--they shall keep me from

him no longer. Beloved, wait for me; I am coming."

One despairing glance Adèle threw around her; no human being was in

sight; she felt numb and powerless, while the frail being, the faint

pulsations of whose ebbing life they had been watching through those

anxious nights and days, seemed endowed suddenly with a giant's

strength. Sobbing convulsively, Adèle threw herself upon Margaret, and

seizing her by the waist dragged her backward with all her remaining

strength. A moment of struggle; then she felt herself being borne along

the sands, her arms still round Margaret, but all her weight as nothing

in comparison with this fierce energy of disease. Cooler and damper

blew the wind, nearer and nearer came the sound of beating waves; at

last the light foam began to sprinkle their faces; yet the faithful

girl would not loosen her grasp--rather she would die with her friend.

A moment, and memory, grown acute in the death-agony, showed her

pleasant scenes and soft home-pictures, children's faces, blazing

fires, fair poetic dreams of beauty and use, Arthur and the to-come

which was to have been so bright,--all to pass away for ever in the

pitiless suction of those on-creeping waves.

Another moment, and she felt the crawling foam about her; a wave fell

thundering even at their feet, throwing over them its cold salt spray;

and the young girl moaned. There would still be time to escape, to

return to life and its warm beauty. Would she draw back? A thousand

times no. In the numbing of every faculty, in the passing away of every

joy, that grasp of the slender arms grew only the mightier. She would

save her friend if she could. If not, all she had left was to die with

her. Like a black cloud that wave hung over them. What delayed its

onward sweep? Adèle used to say afterward that it was a miracle, for if

it had fallen they were lost, beyond the possibility of salvation.

But while they stood, their feet in the foam and that ominous cloud

above them--for Margaret's impetuous rushing had ceased, and Adèle

lacked power to drag her backward--there was a shout, a cry. Another

of those long moments, and a strong arm was extended; they were drawn

on to the dry sands, and even as they stood there shivering the

mighty wave fell, sucking back into the watery waste that lay beyond

the treacherous foam where their feet had been. Margaret fell back

unconscious, while Adèle for the moment scarcely thought either of her

or their preserver.

As she felt the solid ground beneath her feet and the cool air around

her she fell on her knees. "Saved, saved!" she cried, and the labored

hysteric sobs showed how terrible her excitement had been.

But then came other thoughts. Had they escaped the sea only to meet

worse dangers? Who was this deliverer? She turned round to look at him.

By the light of the moon, which still struggled through the clouds, she

was able to see his face. There was about it a wildness that seemed

to confirm her worst fears, and his arms were about Margaret--he was

gazing into her face.

She did not seem to be aware of it. She was all but inanimate, for,

although not alive to the terrible danger of her situation, Margaret

had been exhausted by the struggle.

The sight aroused Adèle. Though her knees were trembling under her from

fatigue and exhaustion, though her bosom was heaving with sobs that

refused to be choked down, the brave little champion had still a work

to do. Her friend was helpless; she must defend her.

Adèle got up, and showing a pale but resolute front touched the

stranger on the arm. He turned to her with a sudden start and muttered

apology for his neglect; he did not seem to have been aware of her

presence, and as she caught a nearer view of the dark face, lined with

suffering, convulsed with emotion, some suspicion of the truth began to

dawn upon her mind.

A flutter of hope, more exciting than all the previous agitation,

nearly choked her; the dignified little sentence in which she had

intended, while thanking him for his timely assistance, to rebuke

his presumption and recall him to a sense of his duty as a man and

a gentleman, died away on her lips; she could only stammer out

incoherently, "Who are you? For pity's sake tell me!"

The dark eyes which had been scanning the pale calm beauty of

Margaret's face were turned on her. "I am her husband," he said

simply; his voice trembled, he spoke with difficulty. "And you have

saved her," he added softly. But this Adèle scarcely heard. She had

turned away. She was passing as fast as her wearied limbs could carry

her along the path that led to the road. She would leave them alone

together, and--the cottage held her Arthur.

* * * * *

They were united at last. By the shores of the surging sea, the

desolate night around them, they stood together, and at first, so

overpowering were the emotions that swept over the man's soul, he

could think only of this--that they were together, that she was in his

arms, safe from harm and danger--that once more he was gazing into her

face--a face so calm and pure that even in this moment Maurice cursed

himself for not having understood better the strong purity, the beauty,

the loveliness of the soul it revealed.

After the delirium which had so nearly been fatal a great calm had

fallen upon Margaret. With the touch of Maurice's hand, with the

encircling of his arms, the unrest seemed to have fled. She did

not look up, apparently she did not know him; but her eyes closed,

her breathing became soft and regular, she lay back in his arms

contentedly, like a weary child that has found its resting-place.

In times of intense feeling a life seems to be condensed into a moment.

Scarcely more than a moment had Maurice been holding her to his

throbbing heart before he recovered from his stupor to a knowledge of

the necessity for immediate action.

The winds of the wintry night were beating about his darling. She was

ill, unconscious, it might be dying. Her clothes were drenched with

the sea-foam that had besprinkled them in their wild flight, her hair,

damp with the night vapors, was clinging about her face, the shoes in

which she had started from the cottage had been carried out to sea,

the delicate lavender dress and soft lace ruffles with which she had

adorned herself that she might look fair in the eyes of the husband she

had gone out to meet in her delirium, were torn in the struggle that

had taken place, were bespattered with mud and sea-sand. It was not in

such a plight as this that Margaret had thought of presenting herself

to the long-absent. But when does anything in this world correspond

with those same dreams and ideas of ours? In Maurice's eyes she was

fair--perhaps all the fairer for her weakness. Hastily he took off his

fur-lined cloak and wrapped it round her, then he raised her in his

arms to carry her up the road.

This time the horse had been tethered. Maurice had caught sight of

the light dresses in the moonlight just at the moment when Adèle had

succeeded in arousing Margaret from the dangerous sleep, and there

had been a moment's hesitation. Totally unprepared for the impetuous

rush upon the sea, he had taken the precaution, before following the

fugitives on foot, of tying up the horse, that it might be ready for

any emergency.

He was glad he had done so, for the emotion of that evening seemed to

have affected his physical power. Under the weight of his wife, his

recovered treasure, he staggered and almost fell.

Margaret remained unconscious, and Maurice fervently hoped that for

the moment she would continue in the same state. He was fearful of the

effect upon her mind of a sudden awakening in his arms: but it was not

to be. Just as they reached the point of junction between the path and

high-road a faint tremor convulsed her; she opened her eyes and turned

them on the dark face that was stooping over her.

Maurice was afraid the delirium was about to return; but gazing at her

anxiously he saw, to his astonishment, that there was no bewilderment

in her eyes; only, as she met her husband's gaze, she glided from his

arms, and before he knew what she meant to do she was kneeling at his

feet on the moonlit road. Her hands were clasped, her pale face looked

haggard in its earnestness. "Maurice! Maurice, forgive me!" she cried.

At the sight of her husband the memory of that one moment of weakness

had flashed over her soul with such a bitter force that until his

forgiveness had been gained, she could not forgive herself.

But Maurice! If an angel had knelt to him he could scarcely have been

more astonished. In his agitation he seized her almost roughly, and

raising her from the ground pressed her once more to his breast, while

the hot tears fell on her face and neck.

"Margaret, you will kill me! Beloved, it is I who should kneel--I who

should make my life one long repentance."

Then she twined her arms about his neck and laid her head upon his

shoulder, but she was not altogether satisfied. To the craving of her

weakness his answer was like an evasion: she persisted in her demand:

"You are good to me, dear, but you have not answered. Tell me, tell me!

Is my miserable folly forgiven?"

"Margaret, for pity's sake--" he began.

But she stopped him, and in her look and tone there was some of the

wildness of disease. "I see how it is," she moaned; "he is too kind to

say it, but I know my folly was beyond forgiveness. Have I not felt it?

O God! O God! pity!" Her voice sank into a moan. Her head fell heavily

on her breast: she began to cry plaintively, like a child that has been

crossed in its whim.

They were close now to the spot where the horse had been tethered; the

moon shone brightly above them; their dark shadows made a blot on the

whiteness of the moonlit road. Maurice paused a moment, and the drops

of agony stood on his brow.

He felt the urgent necessity for getting her home with as little delay

as possible, but in the state in which she was he dared not put her

out of his arms. He bowed his head over her till his cheek touched

hers: "Be comforted, my wife, my own--mine now and for ever. Forgive

you?--yes, yes." And then looking up he turned his pale face to the

skies, as if calling Heaven for a witness to his extremity: "I have

forgiven her--I who wronged her, who tortured her, who vexed her pure

soul by mistrust! God preserve my reason!"

But Margaret took his answer to her heart. She smiled again, the

wildness left her eyes, and a deep, restful calm took its place. She

said no more, but for the first time since their meeting by the waters

she pressed her lips to his.

Without demur she allowed him to lift her into the saddle and to

support her with his one hand, while with the other he took the bridle

and led the horse at a quick walk to the cottage, which was about half

a mile distant from the little path that led down to the sea.

Before they had gone very far Margaret had relapsed into total

unconsciousness, and Maurice was obliged to mount the horse himself,

taking her before him on the saddle.

Meanwhile, Adèle had reached the cottage, just in time to stop Arthur

and the old nurse from starting on another fruitless search.

As the horse with its double burden paced along the road, she and her

cousin, their arms lovingly intertwined, stood at the gate of the

cottage-garden waiting for its approach out of the shadows. They were

together and alone--Nurse Martha and the landlady being busy indoors,

making everything ready in Margaret's room, for the young girl had

told her tale of horrors, and they feared it would be impossible for

Margaret to survive so much.

But Adèle had seen her calm face, and she answered the doleful

prophecies of the nurses by a smile: "You'll see, nurse; our Margaret

will soon be better now."

They had been extremely anxious to seize the young girl, after her

breathless entry and thrilling tale, and put her to bed as an invalid,

but Adèle decidedly refused submission. The sight of Arthur was like

a tonic to her trembling nerves. She would only allow her poor little

wet feet to be dried and warmed by the parlor fire, close to which the

children were still sleeping, and her wet clothes to be changed. As to

shutting herself out from Arthur when she had just found him, it was

simply cruel to ask it.

She was the heroine of the moment, for although her own tale had

barely done justice to the self-forgetfulness with which that terrible

struggle had been conducted, they yet heard enough to know that in her

faithful devotion she had risked her own life, and Arthur, the old

woman, the landlady looked upon the young girl with a new respect.

"What did you think of, Adèle," asked her cousin as, wrapped up warmly,

she stood clinging to him by the garden-gate--"what did you think of

when that ugly wave was so close to you?" Doubtless, Arthur knew what

the answer would be. Of course the heroine had thought about her hero.

How could it possibly have been otherwise?

"Dear," she replied softly, and the ready tears flowed down her cheeks,

"I thought of you, and how miserable and lonely you would be. Margaret

gone, and--and--"

"My Adèle gone," he said very softly, filling up the pause.

And then--ah yes--and then all kinds of foolish things no doubt were

said and done, for these young people were, as it will be seen, very

young, and what is more very much in love; and as we all know the kind

of things, perhaps it is scarcely necessary to put them down in black

and white.

Black and white is not the dress for lovers' nothings, especially the

sweet almost childish nothings that would flow from lips like Adèle's

and Arthur's. They should be written in such colors as the blushing

east can give, inscribed by the pen of one of God's angels.

For young as Adèle and Arthur were, they knew what they were doing.

They had passed through the hand of the Great Instructor, so terrible

in His aspect, so wise, even loving, in His ways of dealing with weak

humanity. In the furnace of suffering their hearts had been tried, and

they knew how to value their happiness, how to prize one another.

CHAPTER XII.

_A LONG SLEEP._

O wind!

If winter comes, can spring be far behind?

Everything was ready in Margaret's room--warm blankets, steaming cans

of water, hot fomentations, cordials of many a different kind--for her

nurses were afraid that the unconsciousness of which Adèle had spoken

might, after her previous excitement, be very difficult to conquer.

They were surprised, then, when Maurice at last carried her in and laid

her down, to find that she bore every appearance of being wrapped in a

quiet, healthy sleep; indeed, so convinced was her husband that this,

and this only, was the cause of her unconsciousness, that he would

allow no means to be used for her restoration, at least until the

morning, when the doctor from the neighboring town had already promised

to look in upon them.

Nurse Martha shook her head. There was something mysterious about it

all. "Who ever heard," she asked Jane in whispers, "of a body sleeping

awa' that gait, and she in a dangerous fever that had wellnigh ta'en

her life?"

But in spite of protest Maurice's wishes were obeyed, Margaret's wet

things were removed as quietly as possible by the experienced old

woman, and she only stirred once during the process. Her husband

watched her sleep that night. Kindly but peremptorily he sent everyone

away, and sat himself by his wife's side, counting the very pulsations

of her heart as the hours of the night passed by. The old nurse and

the landlady (they had insisted upon sending the younger people to

bed) watched by turns during the night in the little parlor adjoining

the bedroom, for neither of them had much belief in the efficiency of

this new care-taker. But no sound came from the room where the husband

was watching the death-like repose of her he had wronged and deserted,

the woman who was suffering, as he told himself bitterly, for his

uncomprehending folly. Once or twice during that long watch he grew

alarmed, the rest was so deep; but putting his ear to her heart he

heard the pulsations, faint yet regular, and he was comforted.

So the night went by, and in the morning he could no longer keep his

treasure to himself; they would all come in to know how she was, to

watch and wonder. The little Laura was the first to creep into the

room. She had been told on the preceding night that her mother had been

found, but was too ill to see her--that she would doubtless be better

in the morning. Submitting to the inevitable had become a habit with

Laura. She had allowed herself to be undressed and put to bed, but very

early, in night-dress and bare toes, she made a voyage of discovery to

find out where her mamma could be.

When, as she softly opened the door of Margaret's room, the little

child saw her father sitting dressed on a chair by the bedside, and

her mother, so white and silent, in the bed, she stopped suddenly,

trembling from head to foot. Laura had heard of death, though she had

never seen it, and this solemn hush, this silent watching, struck like

a chill upon her heart; she turned very pale, and seemed half afraid to

cross the room, but her father called her: "Mamma is asleep, darling;

come here and see her." He took her up and laid her down on the bed

beside Margaret, telling her to be very still. Laura scarcely required

the warning. She crept close to her mother. The strange child could

not have spoken at that moment, she was so absolutely content. And

Maurice had to turn away from her searching gaze; he would not have his

child see that tears were gathering in his eyes at the sight of them

together--the mother and child united one to the other, given back to

his arms.

But still that sleep went on, and all but Maurice grew uneasy. The

doctor came in at a tolerably early hour, but went away again after

giving utterance to a few commonplaces. It was evident that he was

puzzled. He asked repeatedly whether any narcotic had been given to

her, and when he was answered in the negative shook his head ominously.

She had better, he said, be left to herself; it might possibly be

dangerous to arouse her. Nature in some cases was the best guide; he

would call again.

The hours of the day passed by--morning, noon, evening, and still

Maurice watched, and still he hoped, while still there was no cessation

of that death-like trance. Evening passed into night, and all but

Maurice gave up hope. They were allowed to come into the room and

share the watch, for there was not one in the little house who did not

enter deeply into the anxiety. The night deepened, and still no sign

of life from the sleeper. Adèle's cheeks became pale and her eyes red

with frequent weeping; this seemed so desolate an ending to their hopes

and anxieties. On the child's young face the shadow deepened. She had

found her mother, but that mother was deaf to her little one's voice,

unconscious even of her presence; the old nurse's gestures grew more

and more mysterious, only Maurice retained his quiet confidence.

The hours of the night passed by; none of them would go to bed. If

those eyes were ever again to open, each one wished to be the first to

hear the joyful news. The night waned, and even Maurice grew restless.

His face resumed the old haggard look; oftener and oftener he applied

to her lips the testing mirror, which still at each trial gave the

answering dimness. The night passed into morning, the night-lamp showed

a yellow flame, the white dawn began to struggle with the darkness;

only Laura and her father were in the room. The child was watching her

mother's face, Maurice had turned away to draw up the blind; perhaps

the breaking of the morning-light might arouse the sleeper; they were

afraid as yet to use stronger means. Suddenly the child gave a cry. He

looked hastily at the bed; Margaret was in the same position. There was

the same death-like immobility of face, the same rigidity of attitude.

But Laura's eyes were rapt and eager. "Mamma moved, she will soon

awake," she cried, and before her father could stop her she had danced

out of the room to proclaim the joyful news.

Adèle was dozing on the parlor sofa, Arthur was pacing the room

restlessly. He saw the light in the little one's eyes and stopped.

Laura to Arthur was a kind of prophet, a superior being.

"Mamma will soon awake," she said, and passed on to tell the old nurse,

who was in the kitchen preparing restoratives of various kinds, for she

had made up her mind that some means would have to be used to break

this death-like sleep.

Adèle had heard the child's voice. She started from the sofa. "Let us

go to her," she cried, and Arthur and she went into the room together.

They were joined after a few moments by the child, the nurse, the

landlady, all eager to find the happy news confirmed.

The child was right. Margaret was certainly waking. The death-like

stillness had gone from her face, her hands moved, she sighed now and

then.

Maurice hung over her, breathless in his anxiety; he would meet her

first glance. Adèle and Arthur stood together at the foot of the bed;

the child had crept on to it, and lay very silent close beside her

mother. It seemed a long time that they waited there together, but when

the end came it was like a shock to them all.

A shiver convulsed her, her eyelids quivered; slowly she raised them,

and first fixed her eyes upon her husband, then looked in a bewildered,

half-frightened way about the room.

Maurice raised her on his arm. "Margaret," he whispered, and she looked

at him again.

"Is it morning?" she asked, and when he had answered in the

affirmative, "I knew it would come," she said, then lay silent, smiling

calmly.

Evidently as yet she did not know where she was, and Maurice was

perplexed.

Adèle came to the rescue. Motioning to him to give up his place, she

stooped over her friend. "Margaret darling," she whispered, "Maurice

has come, and little Laura and Arthur."

The familiar face and well-known voice seemed to arouse her. "It is not

a dream, then," she said. "No," for the little Laura's clasping arms

were about her neck, "my child is here, and Maurice; I thought I saw

him last night and that he forgave me. Was it true, Adèle?"

Her voice sank, for she was very weak, but the old nurse came forward

with a cordial, which restored her so much that her mind began

gradually to take in all that had happened.

Later in the day they dressed her and laid her down once more on the

parlor sofa. Until then she had not spoken much, she had been in a

quiet, passive state, but with the familiar surroundings a full sense

of the reality of her dream-like happiness seemed to come to her. The

first person for whom she asked was Arthur.

In his boyish timidity he had vanished as soon as ever he had become

certain that she was really awake. Adèle found him and brought him into

the room. Margaret held out her hand. "How can I ever thank you, my

best, my most untiring friend?" she said.

And then--for he seemed as if he did not know how to answer--she drew

Adèle toward her and joined their hands.

"You will be happy," she said smiling--"perhaps all the happier

for this. Maurice"--he was sitting close beside her, his arm round

her shoulders--"we shall be happier too, for if God will we shall

understand better." Her voice sank, she looked dreamily over the sea:

"Morning is all the fairer for the black night that goes before. Dear,

we should thank Him even for our darkness."

THE END.

End of Project Gutenberg's Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow, by Charlotte Despard