The poetry of chivalry and romance has died out in a great measure from our "Merrie Land," but woe worth the day when selfishness becomes the rule, and what Mr. Robinson would term "stupid Quixoterie" the exception!
The rainbow dies in heaven, and not on earth;But love can never die: from world to world,Up the high wheel of heaven, it lives for aye.
Adèle was in despair. By that evening's post a letter had arrived from her mother. Mrs. Churchill was on her way to Scarborough, and her niece was travelling with her. They were sleeping at York that night. On the following day they would call for Adèle at Middlethorpe, and take her on with them. Again and again the date of her return to her mother's care had been deferred, in obedience to her wishes repeatedly and earnestly expressed.
Mrs. Churchill, always indulgent to what she looked upon as Adèle's whims, had in consequence spent the month of September in Brighton, but her forbearance would extend no further. It was high time, she thought, that her daughter's absurd seclusion should come to an end. Her letter was written in a very decided manner. She wished to leave no loophole for excuse or further delay.
It seemed to Adèle that the announcement had come just at the wrong time. In the long, heart-sickening anxiety of suspense, Margaret's strength was failing, and the young girl knew she was her chief comfort and help. She trembled to think how the much-tried endurance of her friend might fail if she were thrown suddenly on her own resources.
And Margaret had been given into her care by Arthur. The patient fulfilling of her task was a pledge of her love. It was not a hard task, for Adèle's affection, which had partaken of the fervid nature of passion in the admiration of her young heart for Margaret's beauty, in the pity which had arisen on that first day of their meeting at the sight of her distress, had taken perhaps a calmer tone during these weeks of close intimacy, but withal a much deeper and firmer root.
Adèle loved her friend so truly that she would willingly have sacrificed any happiness of her own for her good, and the idea of leaving her, of returning to the old rounds of tediousgayety, of knowing that in her absence the strong, brave heart was failing, the weakened spirit was giving way, even when the end might be very near, made her heart ache and throb.
She would not tell Margaret that night, for the business and discussion of the day had wearied her, but there was an almost unusual tenderness in her manner, which Margaret attributed to her fear of having unduly urged the non-signature of Mr. Robinson's papers.
Old Martha was ready at her post to help Margaret to bed. Adèle sent her away peremptorily. "No one shall touch you to-night but me," she said, stooping over the arm-chair in which Margaret was sitting, and loosening her hair with gentle fingers; then, as Margaret smilingly protested, "Just for this once," she pleaded; and her friend did not see, for the long, blinding tresses, that slow tears were falling one by one from the young girl's eyes.
There was exceeding comfort in the passing to and fro of those busy fingers, for their every touch spoke eloquently of love. This it was that Margaret felt. Once she caught one of the busy hands and pressed it to her lips.
"What should I do without you, Adèle?" she said softly. "Little one, I begin to fear I am loving you too much. My loves are unfortunate. It is the old story of the fair gazelle. Scold me well; I deserve it for my sentimental folly; still, the feeling is here—I can't get rid of it."
Adèle had to choke back her tears before she could answer. When she did her voice was slightly husky: "I don't think loves can ever be unfortunate—quite altogether, I mean—for you know to lose for a time is not to lose for always, and where there is love, real true love, there must be lasting." She paused for a moment, as if in earnest struggle to express herself worthily, and then her voice grew more earnest and her eyes seemed to deepen: "It is charity—love—that abideth—the only earthly feeling we can never do without."
She had finished brushing and combing Margaret's long hair; she was sitting on a stool at her feet gazing into the fire.
"Adèle," said Margaret, "you are wiser than I, or perhaps there's something altogether wrong about me. I cannot take the comfort you do out of these generalities. Child, child,"her voice grew intensely earnest, "it is not this beautiful something, this 'charity which abideth,' that I want; it is my personal loves—my husband, my child."
The young girl looked up into her eyes; she answered with the calm assurance of faith: "Margaret, be calm: you shall have them. But do you know I never look upon all these things as generalities; if love is to last, our personal loves are to last too." She sighed. "I know I express myself badly. I wish I could make you understand what I mean."
"I think Idounderstand," said Margaret thoughtfully. "Adèle," she said after a pause, during which perhaps almost the very same thought had been passing through their minds, "our love, yours and mine and your cousin's, the strange tangle which your straightforwardness and self-forgetfulness unravelled, is certainly of the lasting kind. The future may throw us widely apart, but I think that neither here nor hereafter can it ever be the same as if we had not loved."
This time Adèle did not answer, because she could not. The shadow of that dreadful separation was on her spirit. After a few moments' silence she said lightly that Margaret had talked quite enough—that it was time for her to rest; which dictum Margaret obeyed with great willingness.
The next day was that fixed upon by Mrs. Churchill for her visit. Adèle could no longer delay letting Margaret know that a summons from her mother had come; but the morning is generally more favorable to hopefulness than the evening. Adèle had begun to think matters were not so desperate as they looked. Possibly she might obtain further respite. She took in the unwelcome letter with Margaret's breakfast-tray, which had been delicately arranged by her own hands.
"Adèle, you must go," was Margaret's comment on the letter. And she tried not to show how sorely she would miss her comforter.
Adèle was slightly wounded: "Do you really mean it, Margaret?"
"I do indeed, dear. Your mother is quite right; you have sacrificed yourself too long."
"Andyoucan think I have been sacrificing myself!" said the young girl. "But no, you only mean to tease me."
There was something of the disquieting jealousy of that feeling which is always supposed to be more engrossing than mere friendship in her further words: "Perhaps you would not even miss me, Margaret?"
But the tears Margaret could not restrain, the sudden weariness in her pale face, spoke more eloquently than words. Adèle threw herself down on her knees by her friend's side: "Forgive me, darling, but if you only knew—"
"—All the tenderness of this warm young heart," and Margaret smiled faintly, resting her hand, as if in silent blessing, on the bowed head.
"But look, dear," she continued after a pause, "your mother is coming, and I am anxious to see her, so she must not find me in bed. Willyouhelp me to dress this morning?"
Adèle rose and brushed away her tears. "How stupid I am!" she cried, "and really I didn't intend to be so silly to-day, for, Margaret, I was just thinking—Mamma is so good and kind, she generally lets me do as I like; then, you see, she has never met you. I mean to dress you as you were dressed yesterday, and I want you to put forth all your fascinations. The result will be that mamma won't have the heart to carry me off."
"But, Adèle—"
"But, Margaret. Put yourself in my hands, madam. Remember I am responsible for your safe-keeping to somebody—my somebody, not yours, Margaret. By the bye, I will urge Arthur's wishes. Mamma never likes to offendhim."
And so Adèle rattled on to hide her true, deep feelings, while once more she ministered tenderly to the friend she loved.
Mrs. Churchill, impatient as the time drew nearer to see her daughter again, had left York by an early train, and Margaret and Adèle had not been long seated over their work in the little parlor before a travelling carriage, heavily laden with luggage, drove up to the door. She had brought her carriage and horses so far by rail, her intention being to post for the remainder of the way.
It was long since Margaret had met any stranger, and she felt a little nervous when the rattle of wheels came to herears; but as from her station by the parlor-window she caught a sight of Mrs. Churchill's pleasant, kindly face, some of her painful anticipations fled.
Adèle had run down the garden-path. She brought her mother in to introduce her to her friend.
The good Mrs. Churchill had been rather curious to see Margaret. Adèle's enthusiasm and Arthur's boyish admiration had made her look for something remarkable, but she was scarcely prepared for the refinement, the style, the exquisite grace of her daughter's friend. It was a rare combination, even in those circles in which the rich and highly-connected widow moved.
Mrs. Churchill knew enough of the world to be quite sure at once that she was in the house of a lady—not only highly born and bred, but accustomed to the usages of society. Her good sense and kindly feeling led her to treat her hostess with all due deference.
"I have long wished to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mrs. Grey," she said when Margaret had persuaded her to divest herself of bonnet and shawl, "I have heard so much about you from these enthusiastic children of mine. I call them my children, because Arthur has been almost like my own son, and I presume you are in the confidence of this little girl, and that she has let out her secret." Mrs. Churchill looked at Margaret rather curiously.
"Yes," replied Mrs. Grey quietly, drawing down Adèle, who had been hovering about her nervously, to a seat by her side. "I heard long ago, both from your daughter and nephew, of this engagement; and much as I admire Mr. Forrest, I cannot but think, knowing your daughter as I do, that he is a very fortunate man."
Adèle blushed: "Margaret, be quiet; you shouldn't say such things." But her smile belied her words; it was so radiant that it transfigured her face.
Her mother turned to her: "Adèle, my dear, do you know that you ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grey for her long hospitality? Now I look at you I am surprised; I never saw such a change. When you left London you were colorless and sickly."
"Mamma, mamma!" protested Adèle, "how very uninteresting!"
But Mrs Churchill persisted: "Yes, my dear, I speak the bare truth; now your animation has come back, you have gained flesh and color, you areabsolutelya different being. Mrs. Grey, what have you been doing with her?"
Margaret smiled: "I am so glad you think her looking well, and that her visit here has done her good, for I was beginning to think myself selfish for keeping her so long in this lonely place. I suppose the fresh sea-air has worked the miracle."
"The cure is not quite accomplished, mamma," said Adèle coaxingly; but Margaret interrupted her:
"We can talk about that presently, dear; just now your mother wants rest and refreshment. Would you mind hurrying Jane on with lunch for me?"
She turned to Mrs. Churchill: "Our establishment is small, and I have been delicate lately, so your daughter kindly helps me in many little ways."
"Small indeed!" thought Mrs. Churchill, but she would not have said so for the world. She was far too much of the real lady to be able to take upon herself any fine-lady airs of superiority, and then she began to interest herself strangely in her daughter's friend. Mrs. Churchill would have been very much displeased could she have heard herself called impulsive; indeed, it was only in a certain way that she was so. Her impulses were generally inspired by some tolerably solid reasons. In this case her keen eye had instantly detected the lady, also the absence of all those qualities which go to make up theintriguante. This set her at ease at once, while the gentleness, the evident weakness, the traces of profound suffering, moved her kind heart as it had not been moved for long. She had not been in the cottage half an hour before, with true motherliness of intent, she made up her mind to take Mrs. Grey in hand.
"I am glad to hear Adèle has been of any service to you," was her answer to Margaret, cordially spoken, and then she looked at Mrs. Grey as she had looked at her daughter. "I am sorry to hear of this delicacy, Mrs. Grey; you certainly look far from well, but I think so lonely a place as thiswould kill me in a few months. Why not try a change—a little gayety, for instance? Now, if you would allow me to return your hospitality to my daughter by taking you with us to Scarborough, I really think you would find the change would do you good. Then a little cod-liver-oil, quinine and port-wine, steel—But perhaps you are taking some of these?"
Margaret smiled: "Thank you very much for your kind interest in my health. No, I take none of these things, and I scarcely think they could do me good. As to a change, you are very good to propose it; I fear at present I could enjoy nothing. I could not enter into general society; I should only be a burden on your hands."
Mrs. Churchill looked across at Margaret's pale face and warmed into sympathy and interest: "But this is a dreadful state of things, Mrs. Grey. Nothing so insidious, I can assure you, as the creeping on of general ill-health; you ought to do something. Have you consulted a doctor?"
"A doctor could do me no good. My dear Mrs. Churchill, pray don't distress yourself on my account; I think you know enough of my history to understand me when I say that my illness is far more mental than physical. These weeks, which are bringing me hope, have been almost more trying to me than the years that went before."
"And how long is this state of thing to be supposed to last?" cried the impulsive and warm-hearted lady. "Now, Mrs. Grey,willyou take my advice? I am many years older than you—old enough, I imagine, to be your mother. You look incredulous. Well, have it your own way. They say I bear my years well, and I believe that in this case theon ditsare more correct than usual. You will allow, at least, that I have larger experience of the world than you. Shall I give you my secret—the true elixir of life, my dear? Never allow yourself to feel too deeply. Feelings have been the ruin of some of the finest constitutions."
"But what if they cannot be helped?" said Margaret, who was smiling through a half inclination to tears.
"My dear (childI was about to say, but I don't wish to offend you), an effort should be made, for what does all the crying over spilt milk mean?" This was a favorite theme withMrs. Churchill. "Why, as I have told Adèle a thousand times, to fret one's self into a premature death because things don't go altogether as one could wish is clearly nothing more nor less than flying in the face of Providence; for how did we get our health and strength, and all the rest of it? and if we acknowledge that these are gifts of Providence, ought we to trifle with them? Come now, Mrs. Grey, what have you to say?" Her voice softened as she looked at the pale face and fragile form. "You must excuse me, my dear. You see I am given to speaking my mind, and I am interested in you; so it comes naturally somehow to speak to you as I might to this wilful little girl of mine." For Adèle had come in during the latter part of Mrs. Churchill's harangue. She was listening with real pleasure to the energetic words, for she knew her mother well enough to be aware that she never took the trouble of lecturing in this manner any one who had not first made great way in her affections.
"This is mamma's pet subject, Margaret," she said; "what haveyouto say? I always find her arguments unanswerable, but then they never converted me."
Margaret smiled: "I have to say, Adèle, that your mother is perfectly right, that I deserve every word of her lecture, and that I intend to make an effort in the way of getting rid of these tiresome feelings and becoming strong again."
"Only if you have me to help you, Margaret," pleaded Adèle.
But Margaret shook her head: "No, no; I have no right to keep you longer from your mother."
Adèle turned pleadingly to Mrs. Churchill: "Mamma, mamma, leave me here alittlelonger."
"Your 'littles' are elastic, Adèle. For how many weeks have you been saying this?"
"And I suppose I shall say the same"—the young girl looked up saucily at her mother, blushing ever so slightly—"until Arthur comes back, mamma.Hewishes me to stay and take care of Margaret."
Mrs. Churchill was in a very good humor; she laughed outright: "You are certainly a pretty pair, and very well adapted to the task of taking care of yourselves. When that event, which you are always thrusting in my face, reallyhappens, I shall have to engage an elderly female of strong common sense to look after you both and keep you in order—a pair of babies!"
"But, mamma, you haven't answered me."
"Mrs. Grey says nothing, Adèle; perhaps she is tired of you, or perhaps—which to my mind would be the best of all—you could persuade her to change her mind and become our guest at Scarborough."
Adèle's eyes glistened. Certainly her mother must have taken a strong as well as sudden fancy to her friend: "Oh, mamma, you have asked Margaret to stay with us? How good of you!"
Mrs. Churchill turned to her hostess in mock despair: "I believe this foolish child thinks I had nothing but her fancies in view. You must excuse her, Mrs. Grey; the excitement seems to have put her slightly off her head. Let me assure you once more that, purely for your own sake, I shall be most delighted if you will become our guest until your future is a little more decided."
Margaret put out her hand; she was touched by Mrs. Churchill's delicate kindness. "Thank you a thousand times," she said gently; "if I were even in a fit state for travelling I should not hesitate to take advantage of your kind offer, so attractive in every way. But Adèle will tell you how it is with me at times; I cannot even dress myself. No; I must say good-bye to Adèle, with many thanks both to her and to you, and return to my lonely life. I hope it may soon be over."
"Whatmay soon be over?" Mrs. Churchill turned round sharply, for there was a sad ring in the voice, which Margaret had striven to render absolutely calm. She met Mrs. Grey's quiet smile. "I see you mean that you believe your husband will soon return, but I do wish people would say what they mean." There was something of fretfulness in Mrs. Churchill's voice; she did not like to be puzzled, and her daughter's friend was puzzling her.
"I really think," she continued meditatively, "that my best plan would be to put up here at the hotel for a few days. By the bye, Adèle, I left Mary there; I would not bring her on here until I knew more certainly about your arrangements.Yes, I think that will do. You and she could amuse yourselves together, and I should like very much to try the effect of quinine and port wine on Mrs. Grey. I brought a hamper of our own wine with me—exceedingly fortunate, as it turns out."
Margaret was weak. Do what she would she could not prevent the tears from filling her eyes. "You are too good to me," she said; "how shall I thank you?"
"By trying to get strong, my dear, and remembering first of all (you see you begin by breaking my rules) to take things quietly is the best policy. Now, Adèle, put on your hat and drive to the hotel. Make them unload the carriage and bring Mary back in it. Are we trespassing too much, Mrs. Grey? You young people will have plenty to talk about, so you need not hurry back. Mrs. Grey in the mean time must give me some account of her symptoms. It may be that the worldly wisdom of a worldly old woman will do as much to help her as the romantic enthusiasm of the young folk who in the present day rule the roast."
Adèle obeyed her mother to the letter. She left her and Margaret alone together for a good hour. She returned to find them fast friends. The cheerful optimism of the elder lady had strengthened the younger considerably, for Margaret wanted bracing, and Mrs. Churchill's sound common-sense was like a blast of north wind: it swept away sundry vapors, it invigorated the heart that a succession of evils had rendered distrustful of good. And Margaret's pathetic story, her truth, her goodness, her life of devotion—for all these had, insensibly to herself, shone out in her simple narrative—filled her hearer with admiration, elevated her conception of human nature, made her believe (a humanizing belief to many natures), in looking back upon her own mistrust, that her judgment was not always infallible.
For a whole week—and it was a real act of self-sacrificing friendship—Mrs. Churchill remained in the quiet village by the sea. The season was late, so she made up her mind to give up Scarborough and return from Middlethorpe to London. She dosed Margaret abundantly with quinine and port wine, she braced her mind by vigorous common sense, well-grounded cheerfulness and antipathetic banishment of anything approaching morbidness or so-called sentiment. When she left she had the satisfaction of seeing her patient better. It is almost needless to add that the kind-hearted lady had not the heart to deprive Margaret of her friend. Adèle remained at the cottage till the chill winds of early winter swept the waters, while still no certain tidings came to them of their wanderers.
Just as I thought I had caught sight of heaven,It came to naught, as dreams of heaven on earthDo always.
The Alpine mountains again—"silences of everlasting hills"—Nature and man face to face in the quiet, stealthy creeping on of night!
Maurice Grey sat in his little chalet alone; no friend was near to catch the outflowings of his heart—no watcher, not even a faithful servant, to note the changes that followed one another over his face. The untouched meal, prepared by old Marie, was on the table; he sat before his desk facing the little window, and looked out with sad, weary eyes.
For more than an hour he had been thinking, reviewing the tale Arthur had told him, trying frantically to rend the net of mystery that surrounded him, but trying in vain. A letter was under his hand. He had read it over by the failing light, and then crushed it together in his strong grasp. It was an old, faded, yellow paper which had evidently lain for years in his desk, but the sting of that it contained was still as fresh as on the first day when it had been read. The letter was one of those anonymous productions which perhaps show up in more lurid light than anything else the depths of cowardly spite that lie hidden in the hearts of men. This particular one, to give it its due, was well put together and plausible.
The writer began by acknowledging cordially the apparent cowardice of the step he had taken. Necessity and strongfeeling were urged as the excuse. He represented himself as one who owed a debt of gratitude to Mr. Grey; it was therefore peculiarly painful to see him imposed upon. For in purport it was an accusation, cleverly drawn up, implying more than it revealed against Maurice Grey's wife. The history of stolen meetings between her and her former lover, of whose residence in England Mr. Grey was aware, was circumstantially given. They coincided strangely, as Maurice remembered with a pang almost as bitter as that first one had been, with Margaret's comings and goings; but further, a certain test was offered. It was proposed that on that very evening the husband should profess to leave his wife, that instead of returning to London he should remain in Ramsgate, and that if, at a specified time, he should not find her and the foreigner together, he might throw aside all that the letter contained as unworthy of belief. Maurice was naturally jealous. His wife's unusual beauty, the difficulty of winning her, the knowledge that he had not been the first to possess her heart, combined to make him distrustful. Instead of showing her the letter or treating it with merited contempt, he was weak enough to fall into the snare.
The event had been planned with a fatal accuracy. He found L'Estrange at Margaret's feet, and in the agony of wounded love, of despairing rage, left her altogether. For four long years he had wandered hopelessly and aimlessly, not daring, in case his worst fears should receive terrible confirmation, to find out anything about the woman whom through it all he loved so madly. And now, when, as he believed, his heart had grown callous, when he thought his retreat was surely hidden from all his former friends, this earnest champion came forward, sent evidently by her to plead her cause, to assure him of her continued love and unwearied faithfulness, to recall him to her side. But the mystery was unexplained. All she offered was a simple declaration of the falsehood of that of which Maurice believed he held incontrovertible proof.
What could it all mean? Was it, he asked himself—and his brows were fiercely knit—a plot to betray him? Did she wish to regain her position, only that she might the more surely carry on her intrigues? Had her paramour weariedher, and in his turn been cast off? He thought, but suddenly, as on the preceding evening, there came, like a gleam of light through his dark thoughts, the memory of that pale, pure face.
The strong man bowed his head, and tears such as only men can weep found their way to his burning eyelids. He covered his face with his hands. "It is possible," he cried—"possible! O my God, I may have been wrong." As he spoke he trembled like a child, this man who knew the world, whose wide experience had made him a cynic.
But if the thought held pain, it had also infinite sweetness. That first spasm past, Maurice gave way to it. He looked up again and the pale snows met his gaze. There was a soft, tender light in his dark eyes. Between them and those pale snows that fair, sad face was shining. "Margaret!" he whispered.
The man was weary with his mental struggles, overwrought by the physical exertions of the day. He allowed hope in its soft, tremulous beauty to take possession of his soul, old memories to steal over his heart. He leaned back in his arm-chair, folded his arms over his breast and fell into a kind of trance. Gradually, as his senses lost their hold upon the visible, the snow-laden pines, the white peaks, the swollen torrents passed away from his gaze, till at last it seemed that the sternness of winter had passed away—spring, life, green beauty took its place.
The four walls of his chalet fell; he was sitting on the green sward, innumerable delicious odors filled the air with fragrance, bright-eyed flowers were about him, the birds twittered gayly, everywhere was life and gladness; but in the midst of all was a something incongruous, like a minor chord in a fair melody—a sound of low, sad singing, the voice as of one in pain. Maurice thought he knew the voice; turning suddenly, he saw his wife. She was walking steadily forward with a gliding step; a black robe covered her from head to foot; her eyes were fixed on the distant horizon. He thought that he called her "Margaret!" but her eyes did not move, only her lips stirred as if in prayer. She glided past him, but before she had quite gone out of his reach he caught the hem of her dress. Then, while her heaven-turned facewas slowly moving, while he was yearning to catch the gleam of her eyes, the vision passed, as visions will.
The whole had only lasted a few minutes, though it seemed to Maurice as if he had been long insensible. When reality and consciousness began slowly to assert their cold superiority it was absolute pain. At first he tried to deny them, in the vain hope that closed eyes and utter stillness would bring back the fair vision; then suddenly the vague uneasiness a watchful presence brings awoke him fully.
He started up, and saw by the failing light that he was not alone—he was being watched. Between him and the window a dark form was standing; keen, searching eyes scanned his face; they were those of his enemy. L'Estrange had found his way to the chalet. At last these two were face to face.
It was a rude awakening from a pleasant dream, and the very contrast between the fairness of the vision and the blackness of that reality which to Maurice's inflamed heart this man personified made his hatred more intense. It took him but a moment to start to his feet. His first impulse was to seize the intruder by the throat and cast him out; his very presence seemed a wanton insult. But L'Estrange met his gaze calmly, and Maurice checked himself: "Before I touch him I will get to the bottom of the mystery, and if he have betrayed her as well as me—"
He clenched his teeth and involuntarily smote his knotted fists together. For a few moments the men looked at one another in silence. Maurice spoke first, and his voice was like the growl of an angry lion: "What has brought you here?"
A sneer curled the Frenchman's lips: "No love to you, Mr. Grey, but—listen to me patiently, or I vow I will be silent for ever—a late repentance for an old wrong."
"Then—" There was a whole torrent of wrath pent up in the opening syllable.
"I tell you not to speak," cried his visitor, "or what I have come to say shall never be told. Maurice Grey, you are my enemy. You married the only woman I ever loved. This I could have forgiven; it was my fault, it was in the course of Nature; but you won her heart, the heart thatonce was mine. Yes, short-sighted Englishman, of this I can speak, for you knew it; she told you, and this it was that filled you with proud jealousy, that made you torment yourself. Yet it is true your wife loved you as she never loved me. I did not believe it then: now I know it. You gasp: well you may. That was my snare, and you fell into it. I see the letter; give it to me. Is it true, then, that with all your boasted knowledge of the world you could not read jealousy and spite under these fine phrases, made for me by a lying English servant? But yours is a strange nation. Clever and far-seeing where your money is in question, you are in knowledge of character, in all that touches your affections, easy to take in as little children. You frown impatiently. I shall soon have done. I tell you, Monsieur Grey, the meeting you interrupted that day was the first and only one that had taken place between your wife and me since your marriage. And the attitude in which you found me? Mon Dieu! nothing simpler—got up for you—un tableau vivant motivé. She was more surprised than you, la pauvrette!" His voice sank. "Since that day four long years have passed by. I have spent them in seeking her—persecuting her, if you like; so it was, so it must be. Her hatred is strong and bitter. I deserve it for misunderstanding her. But women have been my study all my life, and I never metherlike before.Youhad less cause. What do you deserve? But do not answer me yet. Never fear, proud Englishman; your reckoning shall come by and by; my task must first be finished. She hid herself from me for a long time, but at last I came upon her in a miserable London lodging. The sight of me shocked and terrified her. She left London at once, and returned to the lonely place where she had lived in the closest retirement since your desertion. But, woman-like, she had left her address behind her. I found it out, followed her, forced myself upon her; and then at last, then first, I understood her. It was in the midst of deep loneliness—a loneliness which I saw by her face was killing her—that I found her out. She had one joy and consolation, a little daughter whom she had trained to loveyou, to wait and watch for your return. I spoke to her that day, but she repelled me with scorn and abhorrence.Maurice Grey, I offer for myself no excuse. I was mad with rage and pain. I determined to punish her. I stole her little one, and in such a way that she might think it had been done by you."
The Englishman could bear it no longer. He sprang forward, and seizing his enemy by the collar shook him vigorously:
"Villain! do you know what you deserve?"
"Patience!" replied the man when he had wrenched himself free from that strong grasp. "You shall have my life. Mon Dieu! it is worth little. But first you must listen to me."
He retreated to the side of the little window, the evening light shone full on his face. He fixed his enemy with his piercing eyes, to which the fever of his brain had given strange brilliancy. "You want to know what brought me here," he continued. "I have told you—no love to you, albeit my hand and voice may restore you to life and happiness—to all life holds most precious and dear. And yet it is love as well as penitence that has brought me to this. Love—a truer love than I have ever known—to the woman and child whom you have forsaken; for your little daughter changed my mood. I dare not speak ofher. It would make me soft when I should be stern. She has been with me ever since; she is with me now. See her for yourself. She is a living proof of what I tell." The man bowed his head. "I give her up to you. I have found you for this, that you may take my treasure. And now—for I read the fierce hunger of your eyes; you Englishmen are all alike, insatiate, uncontrolled—la revanche. Well! it is well. Monsieur Grey, I understand your nature, and my hand shall supply you with an instrument. I went into your room to-day. I found these; I have brought them with me."
He took from a chair on which he had laid them the pair of pistols, one of which Maurice had loaded and prepared for action only a few days before.
The sight inflamed him. It recalled to his mind what this man had done—how for these long years his life had been a blank of good—a burden from which he had even sought to free himself. He seized the offered case. "Yes," he saidsternly, "it is well. Villain, it were a good deed to rid the world of such as you."
The Frenchman shrugged his shoulders. "Soit donc," he said calmly; then folded his arms with the equanimity of a red Indian, who looks death and all its horrors in the face without shrinking.
It was too much for Maurice Grey's patience. He drew near to his enemy and shook him roughly: "Do you take me for an assassin? Come out, if you have any of the feelings of a man left in you, and defend yourself," he said hoarsely, and led the way to the door.
L'Estrange followed with a calmness that was no longer real, for his nervous system had given way suddenly. The tension that had supported him through these long weeks of wandering, the iron purpose, the self-constraining force, had given way suddenly when the necessity had gone by, when his tale had been told, when he had read in his enemy's face that it was counted true.
For this time Maurice could not help himself. Perhaps even in his passionate longing for this, a restored belief in the truth and purity of her who had once been to him the embodiment of all that was best and fairest in womanhood, had kept him incredulous through Arthur's tale. This strange confirmation of its every detail, wrung out from the very torture of his enemy's heart, commended itself to him as true.
He disbelieved her no longer. Rather, his soul was overflowing with passionate repentance and pity—repentance for the cruel blow he had dealt her, pity for those years of loneliness, anguish for his own mistakes, for a past that would ever remain the past, that no future, however blessed, could recall. All this was surging in his brain as he listened to those few but fate-laden words, and the first impulse was indignation against her betrayer. He could not detach his past from his present; out of his own mouth he was condemned. Persecutor, villain, torturer of weak women and helpless children (for Maurice had not seen his child; how could he tell thatshehad not suffered ill-treatment at his hands?), he should die the death of a dog, be cast out into the frozen valleys to sleep the sleep of bitter ignominy.
It may be that in the glance cast at him by his enemywhen he had seized him, when his pale face was close to his own, L'Estrange had read this wild determination, for as he followed his guide his knees trembled. He was no more the accuser, but the accused, the condemned.
Margaret was avenged. With head cast down and failing heart he followed his stern guide, while still the fitful twilight, reflected from the dazzling snow, shone cold and calm over the hills. The stricken man groaned in spirit. "It is the bitterness of death," he said to himself. "Mon Dieu! I am punished. I would have seen la petite. She will grieve for me."
His thoughts were broken in upon suddenly; they had reached the border of a deep ravine, and Maurice stopped. He looked round: "The light is uncertain, but we shall have the same chance. Whoever falls, falls there."
He pointed down to the abyss, fathomless in the dim evening light.
"We have no seconds—allow me to arrange everything."
He took out the pistols, examined their priming with minute care, and handed one to L'Estrange.
"I will give the word," he said; "we fire together."
With steady, measured tread he paced the distance that was to divide them, then took his place by the ravine, pale, calm, determined—the avenger.
Maurice Grey did not suppose for a moment thathewould fall, though, a true Englishman, he would give his enemy a fair chance for life. Evil as he believed this man to be, deserving death for the traitorous wrong he had consummated, he would yet give him the power of defending himself. But as this man of iron nerve counted out unfalteringly the seconds that divided one of them from death, he showed his belief in the issue by the defiance he shouted out across the shadows: "But yesterday I would have taken my own life, and with this very weapon; now I take yours. Traitor, coward, slanderer of the innocent, prepare for death!"
Was it the knell of fate? No answer came from the condemned man, but before the fatal ball could cleave the air, before the word that might have meant death to one of them had been spoken, he staggered strangely, gave utterance to a gurgling cry and fell forward to the ground.
What wert thou then? A child most infantine,Yet wandering far beyond that innocent ageIn all but its sweet looks and mien divine?
Lights were glittering in the hotel at Grindelwald—something more than the paltry allowance of which Arthur had feelingly complained was being displayed, for, late as it was in the season, there had been arrivals, and the landlord's heart was light.
He could not understand this fancy of people for keen winds, frost and snow, but it suited his purpose and he rejoiced. The dull season would be rendered shorter, and his winter expenses proportionately lightened. In the fulness of his heart he made a great display in the way of illumination, lighted the large stove in the small saloon, and did all he could to make his friends forget the dreariness and desolation that reigned outside.
For the evening that had fallen with a certain calm, autumnal beauty had deepened into a blustering, stormy night. The wind whistled among the hills, the loose snow-drifts were driven blindingly hither and thither; it would not have been a pleasant night to face. Decidedly, the fireside, or, as at Grindelwald, the stove-corner, was the most comfortable resting-place. And so the new arrivals, two young Englishmen and a German (the very same, by the bye, who had annoyed Arthur by his vigorous "wunderschöns" and his dutiful "enthousiasmus" in the course of their journey across the St. Gothard), appeared to think.
As the household was principally composed of men, sundry indulgences were permitted, and unchecked they discussed their cigars and drank their "lager bier" in the saloon, gathered together in a close circle by the stove, their feet filling up by turns its narrow opening. But apparently every one in the hotel was not of the same mind. Several times in the course of one short hour the Englishmen were driven to indulgein strong language, and the German to splutter and fume, by the inroad of a blast of chill air.
The hotel had not been constructed in such a way as to exclude draughts, and whenever the outer door was opened the cold air sweeping up the passages made itself felt in the saloon.
"Donner wetter!" said the German at last as the blast of cold air came in a continued stream, "I must find out all about zis. What can, zen, be ze meaning of it?"
"Some one out in the snow," suggested a mild young man with auburn hair and pale whiskers.
"But, my good friend, why not bring him in?" asked the puzzled German.
"Lost, pewhaps," replied the young man, puffing calmly.
"Lost, lost! but what may zat have to do wid ze door?"
"Anxious fwiends," replied the Englishman calmly—"excitable foweigners, I should say."
The German looked at him in a helpless way, scarcely certain whether, as a unit in that generic body known by the English under the name of foreigners, he ought to take notice of the implied slight. His indecision ended in a walk to the door of the room. It was clearly useless to regard the eccentricities of those proud islanders, he said to himself. If theywouldpersist in looking down on other and worthier nationalities, why so they might; they would find out their mistake some day. So absorbed was the German in his mental soliloquy that in passing out from the room he left the unhappy door open, and curses not loud but deep followed him from the proud islander he had left behind. The German found out in the mean time that his sensitive nature had not betrayed him. That the outer door was open became evident to him at once by the blast of keen air which swept up the dimly-lit passage.
Two figures were standing in the doorway, faintly shown by the light of the little oil-lamp that hung over the entrance. One was a fair-haired child, wrapped from head to foot in a scarlet cloak, the other was the landlord of the hotel.
He was stooping over the child, his face very red in the extremity of his effort to make her understand that it was impossible for her to go out in the snow.
"Mademoiselle—not go—snow cold—mademoiselle bewander—lose—nicht finden—" he was saying spasmodically, holding the door shut, while she, with her small strength, was struggling to open it.
"But—we can no permit—" he began more fluently.
The child interrupted him with tears and sobs: "Please let me only see if they are coming. Mon père said he would come back to-night. He is lost. I thought yesterday he was going to die. Oh, please, I know the way he went. It's not very dark. I can always make him better."
The landlord was in despair. He wanted the assistance of some interpreter, and yet he was afraid to leave the child, lest she should give him the slip and run out into the snow.
The appearance of the German was a great relief, for this young man had not been accustomed to hide his light under a bushel. Wherever he went he exhibited his knowledge of English. Already that day the landlord had been astonished by his fluency in this most intricate and embarrassing tongue.
In a few words he described the situation to the new-comer. The German immediately addressed himself to the weeping child: "Yourpapais out in ze snow, my leetle maid."
The child's tears stopped; she raised her dark eyes pleadingly to his face: "Not my papa—mon père. Oh, please take me to find him."
This was rather embarrassing. The compassionate German looked out into the snowy night: "Wid all my heart I would help you, liebe fräulein, but you will no doubt perceive I know none of ze paths, and you—" He looked down at the tiny figure.
Almost unconsciously these two men had been answering that strange womanliness in the little face by treating this child as if she had been three times her age.
The German smiled and looked at the landlord: "Es ist nur ein kindlein." Then to Laura, with an assumption of sternness, "Leetle maids are sometimes weelful. Zey should understand zat ze elders know best. Come now wid me to ze fire."
He put out his hand to lead her, but Laura shrank back, her eyes growing large with fear. She did not understand being so treated by a stranger. It made her long all the more for her friend's protecting tenderness. She rejected thehand held out to her with all the dignity of one double her age: then suddenly her child-heart failed. She threw herself on her knees on the cold stones, pressed her forehead against the door and wailed out her childish plaint: "Mon père! mon père! come back to Laura."
The landlord shook his head helplessly, but the young German, who had always prided himself on a certain determination of character, looked stern. "Dis ees all folly," he said; "as I said just now, leetle maids must not be weelful. Komme mit, mademoiselle; or, as I should say, come wid me, mees."
He stooped to the little figure, all huddled together on the stones, and tried to raise it in his arms, but with sudden agility the child escaped him. She stopped crying and stood upright against the wall of the passage, facing her tormentor, her eyes and cheeks on flame.
"Go!" she cried, stamping her little foot. "Why do you speak to me? why do you touch me?"
And in spite of his boasted determination the German stood back abashed.
Proceedings were at this stage—the landlord helpless, the German doubtful about the next step that ought to be taken in the task of subduing this child, who partook so early of that proud island-nature which had already called for his reprobation, and Laura looking up at them both with more than a child's determination in her small face—when another actor appeared upon the scene.
Arthur had been sitting during all that afternoon alone in his room, thinking over the occurrences of the past days—now hoping, now despairing, as he reviewed in all its minutest details the interview of that day. He was torturing himself by recalling the eloquent words he had intended to use, but had not—the conclusive reasons he might have brought forward had he only remembered them at the right time—when there came to his ears the sound of a child's cry.
The voice was strangely familiar; at first he could not recall why it was so, for the memory of his humiliating defeat at Moscow had been swamped by the succession of exciting events that had followed it.
Curiosity led him to investigate the matter. He went downstairs, and the first sight of the little flushed face told its tale. This was Margaret's child. The second prize he had been seeking was actually within his grasp, and in his first excitement Arthur felt inclined to seize the child and carry her off whether she would or not. But experience, the two failures that preceded this most unlooked-for meeting, had taught him caution. This time he would not attempt to coerce the strange little being whom Fate had thrown in his way, but it was quite possible that he might win her over to confidence. Acting on this determination, he stood back in the shadow and bided his time.
The German was half ashamed of his irresolution. "Leetle maids must be sensible," Arthur heard him say, and as he spoke he tried once more to raise the child in his arms.
Laura gave a little frightened cry and turned hastily to run up the staircase, but only to find her way blocked by one she looked upon as another enemy. For even by that uncertain light she recognized in Arthur the man who had made an attempt upon her liberty at Moscow. But this time the child was desperate. She stood and faced him like a wild animal at bay.
"Let me pass, let me pass!" she cried.
He did not attempt to touch her, but, standing aside on the staircase, looked at her with kind, gentle eyes. "What is it, dear? is any one hurting you?" he asked.
The child looked up into the frank, boyish face and trusted him. "Perhaps you can help Laura," she said; "but—"
"I was foolish the other day," he said quietly; "I did not quite understand; you must forgive me."
"You wanted to take me away from mon père, and now"—the child burst into tears—"mon père is lost. Please, please take me to find him!"
"Come up stairs and tell me all about it, Laura. I will help you if I possibly can."
Then to the German, who was gazing at him open-mouthed, "Sir, this is the child of one of my dearest friends; I take her under my protection."
"As you like," replied he, and shrugged his shoulders. "Ze young man is offended," he muttered, "because I did not treat ze bébé like one great princess."
He returned to the stove, while Arthur drew from Laura all he desired to know. She had come there with "mon père," as she always called L'Estrange. They were looking for papa. Early that day he had told her that he knew where her father was—that he would go away alone, and return in the evening to let her know if her father had been found. He was not very far away, he had said, and the little Laura had been waiting and watching all the evening. The evening had deepened into night, and still her friend had not come back. He must be lost.
This was the burden of her simple tale. It made Arthur think. What could be the meaning of this? Had a sudden repentance seized this man? Had he really determined to find Maurice Grey and tell him the actual truth about his deserted wife? Or could any other motive have moved him to seek his enemy? No, no; human wickedness could not surely go so far. With this man's child in his grasp, this child, whose pure affection he had undoubtedly won, it was not possible; and yet if the enemies had met alone, face to face, in the great solitude—The young man shuddered.
"Laura," he said, turning to the little one, "I must find them at once."
The child clung about his knees: "Oh, take me with you! Please, please take me! I can make mon père well when no one else can—he says so."
Arthur did not answer at first. He was thinking. He rang the bell and made inquiries about a guide, for it would have been dangerous on such a night to have made the attempt alone. He ascertained that it would be possible to obtain one with very little delay.
The distance which separated them from the chalet was not great. They would be two men. The child might easily be carried between them, and it was more than probable that her presence would do more than anything else to allay the fever-heat of the two men, one of whom must love her instinctively, while the other evidently loved her deeply already. The only fear—and it shot through Arthur's heart like a pain—was that they might be too late—that already in the fierce anger of that moment, in the awful solitude one of these two might have taken the life of the other.
"If I had only known, if I could only have guessed, I should never have left him," he said to himself.
But Laura was still looking up at him anxiously. He answered her with a smile: "If you will wrap yourself up well, little one, and submit to be carried."
"Yes, yes," answered the child joyfully; "mon père carries me sometimes; but"—she stopped, and there came a cloud over her face—"I will tire you; I am heavy."
She was answered by a knock at the door. There appeared on the threshold the burly figure of one of the true sons of the soil. He was accustomed to much heavier burdens than the little Laura, wraps and all. The honest Swiss was at a loss to understand why this little maiden should go with them on such a search, but he did not express his feelings in any way. He lifted her as lightly as if she had been a bird, placed her on his shoulder, and in a few moments the hotel, the astonished landlord, the hurt German and the glimmering village-lights were left in the distance.
The little party—the two men and the child—were threading the dark, lonely mountain-path that led to the chalet.
It was a strange experience for a child like Laura, but happily for herself she did not understand its strangeness. All she knew was that her wish was being accomplished—that, guided and befriended, she was hastening through the night to find her two fathers.
Blessed is the faith of earth's little ones!
I wonder if the reason for it is that "in heaven their angels do always behold the face of the Father"?
Digging thine heart and throwingAway its childhood's gold,That so its woman-depth might holdHis spirit's overflowing?(For surging souls no worlds can boundTheir channel in the heart have found.)
Arthur would not allow his guide to do all the work. He wanted to know this strange child—Margaret's child; he wanted to try and understand what was this power, savoring to his mind of dark magic, that her mother's enemy had gained over her. After they had walked in total silence for about half an hour he insisted on a change.
Laura wished to walk, but upon Arthur pointing out to her that her small feet would be swamped in the snow, she submitted again. She was very grateful to this new ally for his prompt carrying out of her wishes, and with that strange woman-insight which belonged so peculiarly to this child she read in the face of her new guide that in submitting to his wishes she could best show her gratitude.
In Arthur's manner to her there was something of the reverent devotion that had been one means of drawing her heart so completely to the friend she was seeking in the desolate Alpine solitudes. The German had insulted Laura by treating her like a little child, for her late experiences had drawn her on, not from the sweet simplicity of childhood—for in this had consisted her power over the wild heart of L'Estrange—but from many of its feelings; Laura had become sensitive beyond her years, and this under the circumstances was scarcely wonderful. She had shared, and probably understood, her mother's sorrows; she had lived for her sake a life too intense for one of her tender years; she had taken a part in struggles of whose existence she ought to have known nothing; she had thought and dreamed and reasoned till the woman-nature that lies hidden in the heart of every girl-child had become unhealthily developed. Her childhood, inthis sense, had passed by; Laura would never return to the gay carelessness of early youth.
Gravely she allowed Arthur to gather her up into his arms, and as, in their momentary stoppage, the light of the guide's lantern shone upon her pale fair face and deep earnest eyes, the young man wondered. He wondered at her unchildlike beauty—he wondered at his own instinctive reverence.
"Are you quite comfortable, Laura?" he inquired as he drew her cloak over her tiny feet.
"Quite, thank you," replied the child; "and you are very kind. Mon père will thank you; but oh, I wonder shall we find him soon?"
"Do you know that we are going to find some one else, Laura?" asked Arthur, rather shocked to find her head so full of her false father that she had no thoughts to spare for her true one.
"Yes, I know," she answered gravely; "and sometimes I'm sorry that I can't love my own papa so much as mon père; but, you see, I've never seen him: at least, mamma says I have; I don't remember at all." She paused a moment, then added in a grieved, puzzled tone, "Oh,pleasetell me—for I want so much to know—oughtI to love my own papa as well as mamma and mon père?" The question had evidently been tormenting her.
"Yououghtto put such ideas out of your little head," said Arthur lightly.
"But Ican't," replied the child in a grieved tone; and Arthur, quite perplexed, tried a new set of tactics:
"What makes you love this person so much whom you call mon père?"
"Whatmakesme?" Unconsciously Arthur had started another bewildering question. She raised her head and knit her small brows: "It's not because he's good to me, for other people have been good to me, and I didn't love them. You know loving and liking are different. Mamma told me I ought to love my papa, but you see there isn't anyoughtin love, and I must love mon père best. Oh, I wonder why!"
This was certainly a strange child. Arthur had not laid his hand upon the magic; her answer only made it appearthe more mysterious. He put another leading question: "Is he very good to you, Laura?"
"Mon père, do you mean? Oh, he is so good! I want him to come back with me to mamma, but when I talk about it he looks at me in that sad way, like people do when they are going to say good-bye. Do youthinkI shall be able to get him to say he will come? Oh"—the child's face brightened, a happy thought seemed to have struck her—"willyouask him to come? Perhaps he will do it for you." She went on rapidly, for the child-nature was beginning to assert itself: "He left a great big dog in the village—big enough to carry me on its back, mon père says. And just fancy! it's to be all mine. I wonder how long we shall be getting back to mamma, andwon'tshe be pleased?" For at the thought of the great dog, the sea, the village and mamma the painful questioning had passed away from Laura's mind. She was the child again—her mother's darling—the tender little one whom Margaret loved.
Arthur's throat contracted strangely as he listened. It was such a contrast. The night, the darkness, the desolation around them, the horror that might only too possibly be before them, and the child's innocent dreams, her unconsciousness of evil, her calm certainty of hope. The idea made him press forward almost fiercely for a few moments, but his stolid guide called him back to reason. The torch-bearer would not hasten; he went forward with quiet, plodding step, and to distance him would have been in the highest degree dangerous.
Laura's question remained unanswered, for Arthur had not L'Estrange's strength of muscle or iron nerve, and he was passing through a mental experience intense enough to draw away some of his physical force. His arms began to ache and his knees to tremble. He was obliged to give up Laura to the guide, and to stop one moment to gather up his strength for a new effort.
Laura was concerned. "I knew I was too heavy," she said.
But the young man answered with a smile, and again they plodded on in silence. Their task was not an easy one. In some places the ice had gathered in a thin frost-work overthe snow, so that where they thought to find sure footing they sank to their knees in the soft, white mass; in others, the path intersecting a meadow was almost undiscoverable by reason of the white unity that did away with all known landmarks. But happily, their guide was a good one and the path was well trodden. He knew it thoroughly; then, before midnight had chimed from the village-clock the mists had partially risen, the wind had fallen, and the glamour of moonlight shone cold over the snow. By its light Arthur saw a thin wreath of blue smoke rising from beyond the pine wood they were nearing. He pointed it out to Laura, his heart almost standing still with the conflict of fear and hope that possessed him.
The child smiled up into his face. "Mon père is there," she said.
"Yourfatheris there," was the answer sternly spoken, and the little one was checked. She said no more, but watched till the dark pines, looking weird and gaunt in the moonshine, rose high above their heads, shutting out that first glimpse of Maurice Grey's dwelling.
"I will go first," said Arthur; "I know the way."
He began to think he had been wrong in bringing the tender child. He feared the effect upon her mind of some terrible discovery, she was so utterly unprepared for the horror that had been in his mind during the latter part of that weary journey.
The chalet was on the outskirts of the wood, just where an Alpine meadow opened out. As Arthur drew near he looked up earnestly. No light shone from the little window. He trembled, but there was no time for delay; he knocked long and desperately, as one might do who had come on an errand of life and death.
Marie in her night-cap appeared at the window. Her face had a scared look; she shook her head and refused to let him in.
Arthur had forgotten, in his impatience to press on, that if those he sought should not be within, the old woman, obtuse at the best of times, might fail to recognize and refuse to admit him.
He was obliged to wait until his guide, a person well known to Marie, could come up with Laura. His decided summonsbrought out the old woman again; she obeyed her countryman, and opened the door after very little further delay.
They entered, and Arthur found that his fears had been only too well grounded. The chalet was empty. It was clear, further, from the excited signs made by the old woman as she told her story to the guide, that there had been some kind of quarrel, and that the enemies had gone out together.
Arthur wrung his hands. For the first time his heart failed him. Had Maurice been found only for this—either that his own life should fall a prey to his enemy, or that the stain of blood-guiltiness should rest for ever on his head?—for their departure, their long absence, the scared looks of the old woman, all pointed to one suspicion; the two men had left the solitary dwelling with no friendly motive actuating them. It was more than probable that a fierce conflict had taken place—that the meeting in the snows had been fatal to one, perhaps to both of them. And then—what then? He scarcely dared to think.
The old woman had lit Maurice's lamp in the interval. Its light shone upon the face of his child. She was gazing with lips parted, and eyes in which a certain instinct of some unknown horror was gleaming, into Arthur's face. She went up to him and touched his arm with her small hand. "Why does the old woman look at me like that?" she whispered, lifting up a pale, scared face. "And what have they done with mon père? He's not here." And she looked round inquiringly.
"I am afraid they have lost themselves in the snow," replied Arthur as calmly as he could. "Laura, we must leave you here and go out again to look for them."
"Them?" repeated she in a low tone. "Then my own papa is with him. But what's the matter? why do you all look so frightened? Is mon père dead? Oh, please, please, let me go to him!"
"Laura, you must be sensible. We cannot take you, my poor child! Stay here with Marie! Listen, dear! We may go into dangerous places; we may be lost."
But the child did not seem to hear him. There had come a strange, sudden look into her face, as though she could see more than others saw. She held up her hand. "Hush!"she said in a tone that made Arthur shiver, it was so unchildlike in its earnestness; and even as she spoke that dawning consciousness of a certain mysterious horror paled her cheek and made her dark eyes large and deep. "Mon père is calling me," she said. "They are hurting him. Come, come!"
She rushed to the door, and opening it stood for a moment on the threshold, mute, in the attitude of deep attention, her hands plunged forward into the darkness, as though she were appealing to some unseen power, her golden hair thrown back from her uncovered head, her face peering out into the night.
Within, no one stirred. It almost seemed as if they were waiting for the development of a mysterious power in this strange child. And as they stood, silent, motionless, watchful, there came to their ears a sound. It was distinct from the moaning of the wind among the trees, distinct from the rush of the torrents, distinct from the rattle of the leafless pine-branches. The sound was a groan. It spoke as plainly as words of human anguish.
For a moment none of them stirred, and yet the sound had fallen on the ears of all, but this certainty of an unseen, nameless horror acted on them like a spell. It was only when the child started forward into the night that Arthur was aroused from the momentary inaction to a sense of the necessity for immediate exertion.
He rushed after Laura, caught hold of her, and for the second time gathered her up into his arms. "My child," he said hoarsely, "youmustcome back. God only knows what we may find out there! Be calm. We shall do our best to bring them to you." The child looked up at him; she never struggled when she knew all struggling would be useless, and there was wonder as well as a certain awe in her gaze.
"What do you mean?" she asked; "none of you understand. Mon père is ill, and papa is taking care of him; and it's cold out there in the snow, but he won't leave him. He wants us to help him."
"Us!" Involuntarily Arthur smiled as he held the tiny figure in his grasp.
"We can find them without you, Laura," he said. Theguide had joined them with the lantern. "Go in, like a good child."
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 youwouldtalk, 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,thatsound 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.