They did not often meet, for their lives were very differently spent, and McArthur was wise enough to know that for him to enter at all into his friend's pursuits or to frequent his circle would be sheer folly. This it was that occasionally hurt and fretted Arthur. But a meeting such as that of this day was a source of real pleasure to both.
During the short hour everything life held of weariness and discontent was forgotten. They rattled on as if they had been still school-boys, with no present care to oppress their lives and a brilliant future before them.
A man in love sees wonders.
A few hours later, and Arthur Forrest was lodged for the night in an hotel which looked out upon one of the quaint, old-fashioned streets in the ancient city of York.
The journey had by no means diminished his excitement. He was literally aflame with the fever of anxiety and suspense that consumed him, for this was his first young dream, and it mastered him with an absoluteness which only that first in the series that often diversifies the adolescence of humanity, male and female, can possess.
Afterward we know what to expect; then everything isnew, wonderful, incomprehensible—the sweet waking up to a heavenly mystery. And it comes generally at a time when life is at its fullest; when imagination, passion, sentiment reign in the soul with undisputed sway; when the heart is uncontaminated—at least partially so—by the influences which those to whom youth's Eden is a forgotten land delight to throw round the inexperienced, giving them lessons, they would say, in the great art of living—lessons, alas! which the young are only too ready to receive and put into practice.
Arthur was in this first ecstatic stage. No doubt to the experienced onlooker it might appear highly ridiculous; to himself it was intensely real. His very existence seemed to have changed in the dazzling glamour that the treacherous little god had cast over his vision. He saw all his past, his present, his future in relation to thisonething—his chances of success with the fair Margaret.
It was late when he reached York—too late for him to think of going farther that night.
He ordered a private sitting-room, for no particular reason but the necessity he felt for quiet meditation, that he might unravel the tormenting problems of the how, the why and the wherefore which, in spite of Adèle's encouraging assurance, had begun to embarrass him sorely. How should he present himself to Mrs. Grey? What could he give as a reason for having left London to seek her out? In what light would she look upon his intrusion? These thoughts perplexed him as far into the night he paced the floor of his sitting-room, resting himself by the continual movement, but sorely interfering with the rest of the gentleman who occupied the room below his. He had taken many turns up and down before any light had dawned upon his mind, and in final despair he was about to retire to his bedroom and try the effect of darkness, when suddenly his eyes fell on something that had hitherto escaped them. It was an Indian scarf of great brilliancy which had been left lying on a small low chair in one of the corners of the room.
It brought a certain memory to Arthur's mind. He took it up, handling it with reverential tenderness. Where had he seen it before? Why did the sight of it affect him so strangely? He looked at it, he touched it; he laid it downand retiring to some distance examined it again. Then by degrees the sought-for link returned. The pictures, the crimson-covered seat, the pale woman, her shabby dress, and in striking contrast with it, the costly fabric on her shoulders. It was a coincidence, he said to himself—a very strange one—that here, when he was seeking Margaret, he should find the fac-simile of what she had worn on the occasion of their first meeting. Could it be the same—hers, left behind her? If so, here was an opening thrown by kind Fate into his lap.
The silken scarf should be his excuse; with it he would present himself to Mrs. Grey. It was valuable in itself, and she had evidently had some other reason besides its intrinsic worth for prizing it. She would be grateful for its preservation, and the bearer of her treasure would have a certain claim on her consideration.
Arthur determined to discover the history of the scarf on the next day, and if he should find it at all fit in with his ideas to take it back to its owner in triumph. For that night it was too late to do anything. He looked despairingly at the little French clock over the chimney-piece. It was two o'clocka. m., and an absolute silence reigned in the house.
But he possessed the sanguine nature of youth. He could not doubt that he had found a solution to the problem which had been agitating his mind. His anxieties being thus partially set at rest, he began to feel tired. With the silk scarf close to his hand he fell asleep; its colors mingled in confusion inextricable with all his dreams; it was the first object that met his gaze on the following morning.
He felt inclined to ring at once and make inquiries, but on second thought he decided that to take such a step would scarcely be wise. Young men in Arthur Forrest's position are keenly susceptible to ridicule. Undue anxiety might possibly seem suspicious. He controlled himself so far as to dress, to walk into his sitting-room, and to restore the scarf to the place it had occupied on the previous evening; then he rang for breakfast.
While the waiter was busy about the table he looked across the room as though for the first time the appearanceof the scarf had struck him; then he took it up and examined it with apparent curiosity.
The waiter noticed his movement. "Ah! sir," he said briskly, "queer thing that."
"This scarf?" said Arthur carelessly; "it's certainly a very handsome one."
"I didn't mean the scarf, sir, but the tale, as one may say, that hangs on to it. It was left in this very room, identical, some four or five days ago, it may be, and I was the waiter as attended on the gentleman and little girl: a pretty creature she was too, with—"
"A gentleman and little girl?" broke in Arthur, forgetful of his prudence in his astonishment.
"Yes, sir; a gentleman not young, as one might say, to be the father of the little lady; and a lady she was, every inch of her, so pretty and well-behaved. It'smybelief"—here the waiter lowered his voice and looked confidential—"there was somethink there over and above what met the eye, as one might say, sir." Then he disappeared to fetch the tea-pot.
Arthur was strangely interested in the little tale. "Stop," he said as the waiter was about to leave the room again; "what makes you think there was something mysterious about these people?"
The waiter smiled pleasantly. His loquaciousness was natural to him, but it had so often received rude checks that he had long ago been taught to control it. "It interests you, do it, sir?" he said cheerfully. "Well, now, to speak confidential, it'smybelief as that gentleman wasn't father at all to that there little lady. She cried considerable that first night, for the chambermaid had been given somethink a little extra by the gentleman when he came into the hotel that every care might be taken of the little lady. And it was all on and off, so she says, the little lady a-crying and a-sobbing, and 'Oh, my mamma! I want my mamma; take me home.' Not much sleep had the little lady, or Jane either, for the matter of that. She has an uncommon soft heart, has Jane, and the little lady's sobs, she says, would have melted a heart of stone, let alone hers. Well, sir, as I was a-saying, it looked queer; but next morning the gentleman—Hewas a fine man, sir, he was, but had a look with him as if from foreign parts, which, as one may say, looked queer again, the little lady being very fair, with hair the color of that there frame, sir, all in curls over her face, and the loveliest complexion you ever see. What was I a-telling you of? Oh! The next morning the gentleman, he ordered breakfast, and heandthe little lady had it in this very room, as it might be now, sir, and certainly it wasn't no later, I being the waiter, Jane coming in now and again to see if little missy wanted for anythink. Seemed to us, Jane and me, that the gentleman said somethink in private, as it might be, to the little lady, for they seemed more friendlier-like, and after a bit little missy she write a letter and she look a deal cheerfuler, as one might say. The poor little dear hadn't so much—not as a change with her, sir." Again the waiter lowered his voice: "Looked queer, it did, and so says Jane to me in that very passage out there. Strange to tell, sir, the words is scarcely so much as out of our mouths before the bell rings violent-like, and Jane is sent out by that there gentleman, twenty pounds in her hand, and cart blank to get everythink ready made, and expense no object, as might be thought necessary for a young lady. It didn't take her long, I can answer for that. She come back with the things packed in a small portmanter, and her accounts made out all proper and business-like. It's Jane all over, sir. She do like to have everythink square and correct. 'But,' says the gentleman as grand as you please, 'I didn't want no accounts, and divide the change between yourself and the garçong;' by which he meant me, sir. It's the French way. They started that morning, and the little lady tell Jane, 'I shall come back very soon, I shall,' and then she puts her arms round her neck, 'Thank you,' she says in such a pretty way that Jane was quite upset like. And when she and the gentleman's gone there's this kind of shawl, as you have just remarked upon, sir, a-lying here in this room, and here it's been ever since. That's the story, sir, and I think you'll agree with me that it looks queer."
"Itisstrange," said Arthur very thoughtfully, "I can't understand it at all. Do you know," he continued, turning to the waiter, "I am almost sure I know the owner of this scarf.It is, I see, a thing of some value, but if the proprietor of the hotel will put it in my charge for a time, I will leave a deposit to any amount he may think fit in its place, and restore it to him faithfully if I should prove to have been mistaken."
"I can't see for myself as how he can make any objection, sir; however, with your permission I must leave you now—there's my bell."
The waiter did not stay away longer than he could possibly help. Arthur's interest in the scarf seemed to him a new link in the story which had so powerfully excited the curiosity of various members of the establishment. On his return he found the young man still holding the scarf in his hand, with a thoughtful look on his face. But his patient receptivity of the waiter's good-humored chat seemed to have passed. "I wish to speak to the proprietor of the hotel," he said shortly.
"At once, sir?" asked the man in a disappointed tone. He was full to the brim of fresh particulars, hastily set in order during his journey from one breakfast-table to another.
"As soon as possible," was the reply, "I must leave York by an early train."
For Arthur Forrest could scarcely control his impatience. The waiter's dramatic little tale had awakened his interest. He had a kind of fancy that it was connected in some way with Margaret.
The proprietor found him pacing the room excitedly. He was politely surprised at the interest taken by the young gentleman in this small item of property left in his house, agreed with him that it was an article of some value, but refused to receive any deposit in exchange for it, with the exception of the young gentleman's card, and his assurance that they should hear whether or no the owner had been found, and finally presented his little bill, swollen in various items to fit in reasonably with the importance the young gentleman appeared to attach to the discovery he had made in the establishment. The landlord might have asked for double the amount; Arthur would have been perfectly unconscious. He was only anxious to get away with his treasure—to unearth the mystery it seemed to hide.
In all haste he sent for the friendly waiter, pressed half asovereign into his willing hand, urging him to order a fly and get his traps together without delay.
In an incredibly short space of time the lumbering vehicle, as light as any that could be found in the ancient city, was bearing him through the narrow streets and overhanging gates to the station—a fresh stage on his journey toher.
Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer notMore grief than ye can weep for.
Margaret Grey was sitting in her garden. It was a warm day. A faint haze, born of the vapor, paled the deep blue of the sky; not a breath of wind stirred the languid foliage of the trees; the flowers were bathed in light and color; through a gap in the trees came the glimmer of the sea, and faintly on the still air rose the murmur of lulling waves—scarcely waves, perhaps only movement, stir, the manifestation of ocean's ceaseless life. It was a day to rejoice in—a day when the pulses quicken and the heart is glad with unconscious, unreasoning gladness; when lovers look into one another's eyes and creep more closely together; when children laugh and sing, and even the dumb creatures seem to rejoice in being.
Inherface was no sense of gladness. She sat under the trees, a book in her hand, a shawl wrapt closely round her shoulders.
Every particle of color had left her face, even her lips were pale. The golden coronal of hair with which Nature had endowed her seemed to throw a ghastly shade over her face. It looked unnatural, like the glory of youth when its life and gladness have gone by. Only her eyes retained their beauty, for through their mournful wistfulness, their sometimes wild eagerness, the beautiful soul still shone, and in the week of hope, of beauty, of life itself, that soul was learning, slowly and painfully, it is true, but learning still, thelesson that, consciously or unconsciously, all must learn,—submission to the Supreme Will first and above all; not the mild sentimental "Thy will be done" of which hymnists and sermon-coiners discourse so glibly, nor even that "grace of patience" which her solicitor had recommended her to seek as a panacea for all her ills, but a something far above and beyond these—a something that, perhaps, only those who have suffered keenly can ever know—the laying down of self-will altogether, the recognition, through sorrows and contradictions manifold, of a Divine Love
"Shaping the ends of life."
A book was in Margaret's hand, but she did not often look at it, at least not for long. There seemed to be a disturbing cause at work that prevented her from fixing her attention on anything but the absorbing anxiety which held her.
It was toward the afternoon of the long day, and she had been sitting there since early morning waiting and watching. From time to time she would take out her watch and consult it, and once she pressed her hand to her side, murmuring, "Patience, patience! My God, shall I ever learn it?"
And the song-birds flitted backward and forward over her head, and the sea smiled and the earth rejoiced. There was no answer to the cry of the lonely heart. Patience; yes, patience, poor stricken one! for "when night is darkest, then dawn is near." I wonder who thinks of it when the black darkness is closing around them? Certainly Margaret did not.
She was sitting in the back part of the little garden; from her position she could hear the door-bell and the click of the latch of the front gate, but she could not see those who came in or went out, and through that long day there had been no sound of outside life to break in upon her solitude. It had begun to sicken her as she sat under the trees looking out upon the sunshine.
There was a sound at last—the stopping of wheels at the garden-gate, the latch pushed back with something of impatience, a ring at the door-bell that echoed through the house.
Margaret leapt to her feet and tried to rush forward. Itwas surely that for which she had been looking—a telegram to tell her something had been done. He had promised to use all possible despatch.
Alas, poor Margaret! The "he" in question was at that moment exciting himself very little about her or her concerns. He was not very far from her. He could have been seen by any who had chosen to take the trouble of looking for him, seated on a strong little black pony, jogging along with great contentment—a conspicuous object on the yellow sands.
In moments of strong excitement physical power sometimes abandons us: perhaps it is that the spirit would master the body, and forgetting its bonds rush forward alone to meet the coming fate, and that then the weakness of its natural home draws it back to its humanity.
It was something like this Margaret experienced. She rose, she would have pressed forward. In an incredibly short time she would have had the message in her hands, but her limbs refused to bear her. She sank back on the garden-seat, compelled, whether she would or no, to wait—to wait.
The delay was not long, but it seemed to her as if the moments were ages, each laden with an agony of suspense, while she sat still in her forced inaction.
Jane crossed the lawn at last with something in her hand, and Margaret covered her face and moaned faintly. If this should be disappointment, how could she bear it? Itwasdisappointment. The message turned out to be a card which Jane put into her hands, explaining as she did so that the young gentleman had come on important business, and wished particularly to see her, if only for a few moments.
"A young gentleman—important business," said Margaret faintly; "then it is not a telegram?"
"Who said it were?" asked Jane rather rudely. She knew very well that speak as she might her mistress would take very little notice of her now. "I said a young gentleman was in the parlor," she continued in a higher key, as if Margaret had been deaf, "and I've too much to do to be wastingmytime argufying. Everybody can't set doing nothing all day likesomefolk I could tell of. Are you going to see him or are you not?"
"I will see him," replied Margaret quietly. "Ask him to wait a few minutes."
She had wondered only a moment before how she could bear the disappointment. It came, and she neither fainted nor wept, only there fell a chiller shadow over her heart—the darkness of her lot on earth seemed to deepen.
She watched with eyes from which all the light had gone out until Jane had re-entered the house, then she rose again, and this time no ultra-impetuousness delayed her. The name on the card puzzled her. She had a vague notion she had seen it somewhere before, but in her trouble her London remembrances were partially swamped. She scarcely knew even why she had decided to grant this young man an interview. She was only obeying a secret impulse: he might possibly be the bearer of a message.
She had not thought at the moment she left her seat that the parlor-window looked out upon the little garden; but so it was, and as languidly and with apparent pain she crossed the lawn its temporary occupant was gazing upon her.
Her appearance shocked him terribly. He had been in no way prepared for the change which that week of misery and loneliness had brought about. She did not look the same. Then, indeed, she had been sad, but the sadness had not absorbed her utterly—had not written on her face the haggard, weary hopelessness which it now bore.
The young man's heart contracted painfully; a sudden dismay seized him. He would have turned and fled. How could he bear to face this suffering? In its presence he felt weak and helpless as a child.
But he looked at her again, the white patient face with its halo of golden color, the weak languid steps, the beautiful outlines, the never-failing, unconscious grace, and as he looked the love of his heart surged in a great wave over his being. Unconsciously he clasped his hands, his brows knit, his form dilated.
"God helping me," he said in a low impassioned voice that swept upward from the innermost depths of his spirit—"God helping me, I will help her!"
Scarcely was the vow made before the door opened and Margaret and he were face to face. She looked at him for amoment, then held out her hand, smiling her recognition. "Sit down," she said with the quiet graciousness Arthur remembered so well, taking a seat herself at the same time; then suddenly she caught sight of what he brought, for Arthur had the scarf on his arm. Her quietness fled, she rose to her feet, and seizing his arm pointed to it eagerly: "Where did you find it? Whose is it? Why did you bring it here?"
She spoke and fell back on her chair, gasping for breath.
My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love;My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim,And I am all aweary of my life.
Arthur's instinct had not erred. There was something more than the recovery of what she valued that made the sudden reappearance of her scarf a matter of great moment to Mrs. Grey. The facts of the case were these: The voice of many-tongued Rumor had been busy in the village with the wonderful history of the disappearance of the pretty child, whose vivacity and pleasant friendly ways had made her well known in the neighborhood. Through the medium of her laundress and a little girl from the National School, who came in the morning to help Jane, some of these little bits of gossip had made their way to Margaret.
The laundress poured into her ears the tale of how the little one had been met on the sands with a gentleman and a big dog on the afternoon of the day of her disappearance; the little girl chimed in with a true, full, and particular account of every item of the dress and appearance of both. One of these items puzzled Margaret. The girl declared positively that Miss Laura had carried her mamma's scarf upon her arm. Now, Margaret could not but remember that on that ever-memorable day she had worn the scarf herself. She had reason for connecting it with the interview between herself and L'Estrange. Strangely enough, from that very moment she had missed it.
In her first horror at the discovery of Laura's departure the lesser loss had naturally escaped her; when the girl mentioned the scarf, however, she remembered that she had not brought it home with her. But how could Laura have obtained possession of it? Margaret wearied herself with conjectures, but at last she came to this conclusion—she had left it on her seat among the bushes, Laura had gone there with her father anxious to find her, they had seen the scarf, and the little one had picked it up to take it back, for that Laura had willingly left her Margaret never imagined for a moment. Either this or else that the girl had been mistaken altogether. It was thus she had dismissed the subject of the scarf from her mind. It did not afford any clue; it did not alter in the remotest degree the fact of the child being lost to her, of her husband having cruelly and wantonly wronged her. But when the scarf reappeared in this strangely unexpected manner it was like a message from her child, a link by which it might be possible to trace her, and the first revulsion of feeling which its sight occasioned was so great as almost to deprive Margaret of her small remnant of strength.
She did not faint, though Arthur, when he saw the deadly pallor of her face, was about to spring to the door and call out for assistance. She warned him by a rapid gesture to do nothing of the kind. This was her first impulse; she pointed then to a caraffe of water. He poured some into a glass and brought it to her. It revived her partially. The color struggled back into her pale cheeks, she sat up and tried to smile—such a faint watery attempt at a smile that her companion could have gone on his knees, then and there, imploring her only to weep.
"I am very foolish," she said faintly, "but since we last met I have suffered, and suffering has made me weak. Have patience with me for one moment. Give me your arm, that will be best; the fresh air may revive me; and—walls have ears."
She looked round with a sudden terror in her eyes. To describe the effect of her words, of her weakness, on the inflammable heart of the young man would be impossible. He was beside himself with the longing to take her to his heart, to proclaim himself, once and for ever, her protectorand champion. But love had taught him self-control. Trembling from head to foot, he still preserved an apparent composure. He took the hand she offered and raised it reverently to his lips, then placed it on his arm.
"Be calm, dear lady," he said gently, "I have come here with this express purpose to find some way out of your troubles, and, God helping me, I will."
The boy spoke slowly, deliberately. In his words there was all the fervor of a vow, all the hallowed binding power of a sacramental utterance; and to her for the moment it did not seem unnatural. He spoke again, after a short pause: "Mrs. Grey, do you think you can trust me?"
She looked up. There was a dreamy softness in her eyes and her voice was low: "Yes, I think I can. God knows I was sorely in need of a friend. But" (her voice changed, she looked round in a bewildered manner), "come out; I cannot speak to you here. I have a kind of feeling—dear me! how weak and childish I have become!—I hear voices, I see faces. I fancy sometimes I am being watched."
"You are weak and ill, Mrs. Grey; you should not be here alone. Let us go out to the shore; the sea-air will do you good. See! your hat is lying here."
She obeyed him. It almost seemed as if his voice had a certain power over her for the moment. He took her hand again and led her from the room and from the house, half supporting her from time to time. Neither spoke until the cottage was left far in the background, and then they were on the sands close by the sea.
"Shall we sit down here?" asked Arthur.
"Yes," she said, "we are alone; sea and sky—sea and sky." Then she paused with a bewildered look: "What am I saying? I know I wanted to speak to you, and now everything has gone."
This was far more bewildering to Arthur than her former state, for there was a wild, appealing look about her eyes which made him fear for her reason; but with the emergency came a certain power. It was truly a transformation. The boy was changed into a man. He stood up and taking both of Margaret's hands into his own, looked steadfastly into her eyes.
"Mrs. Grey," he said slowly and distinctly, "try and remember what has brought you here. Your child, little Laura!"
She put her hand to her head: "Laura! Laura! Do you know where she is, poor child? The heat has tired her; she must be lying down."
Arthur trembled, but he kept his eyes still fixed on those of his companion, which wandered hither and thither like restless stars.
"Mrs. Grey," he said again, "do you wish to find your child?"
Her eyes had begun to feel the power of his; they were falling under the spell of his steadfast gaze. Now was Arthur's time of trial, for the unmeaning wildness grew gradually into surprised displeasure. "Dear lady!" he said pleadingly, but not for a moment removing his gaze, "you have been patient; be so still. Do not let your sorrow overcome you utterly."
There spread a faint color over the dead whiteness of her face. The young man saw that for this time the danger had gone by. He had the tact to release her suddenly and to turn away for a walk along the shore. His true, unselfish love had given him eyes to see and a heart to understand. He knew that the return to a sense of her position would be painful to Margaret for more reasons than one. He left her to recover herself alone. Presently she called him. He went to her, and took his place by her side as if nothing had happened to disturb their conversation.
"Thank you," she said, gently raising her dark, troubled eyes to his face, "I understand you—you are my true friend;" and then a few tears that she could not keep back flowed over her pale cheeks. "Oh," she said, slowly and painfully, "if God will I shall learn; but, young man, it is a dreary time for learning. In our days of happiness and youth we put all this away, and the hour of trouble finds us without a refuge. You see I bore all the trouble," she continued, smiling faintly; "it is the glimmer of hope you have brought me that so nearly upset my poor, weak brain. But tell me, have you seen my little one?"
In reply Arthur gave, as clearly as possible, the story givento him by the waiter at the hotel in York, to all of which Margaret listened with rapt attention. Once or twice she was on the point of interrupting him, but she controlled herself to the end, and there was disappointment in the heavy sigh with which she answered him. "It is certainly my scarf," she said, taking it up and examining it attentively; "I could not possibly be mistaken, and as certainly that little child was my daughter—my lost Laura. Yes, it is all so probable. My little one's grief, the love of those around her, and her letter—it was to me—he never sent it. I am deceived, betrayed. Oh, Maurice! Maurice!"
Her grief seemed to overcome her. She covered her face with her hands, and once more, in his perplexity and distress, Arthur was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, of declaring his boundless love.
Before he could decide she looked up again and spoke with apparent calm: "There are some difficulties in the story. Are you sure the waiter said he was old and like a foreigner?"
"Perfectly certain; I could not possibly be mistaken."
"Then he must have changed wonderfully in the short time."
"Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Grey, but whom do you suspect of this atrocity? I would not be intrusive for the world; I only wish to be your friend." The young man's voice trembled; he went on more rapidly: "You must know, you must have seen, that I take no common interest in your concerns. I feel this is neither the time nor the place to force my own feelings upon you; but, Margaret, when I see you alone, friendless, when I know it is in my power to give you everything, to devote myself to you utterly, even to bring back perhaps those days of happiness of which you spoke, how can I resist the temptation of letting you know all? Since first I saw you your fair, sad face has haunted me; I can think of nothing else. Ah! I have been idle, good-for-nothing, but all that has passed away. Give me hope, and I will yet make myself worthy of you."
He spoke with such impetuosity that it was almost impossible to stop him. But when he paused for lack of breath, Margaret drew herself away, putting back gently his pleading hand. Perhaps it was well for her that this new excitementcame. It seemed to restore her strength of mind, her gentle, womanly dignity. "Hush!" she said quietly; "you must not speak to me in this way. If you really care for me you will respect my lonely position. Arthur, I am married, and my one absorbing anxiety is to see my husband again before I die. Come, I do not mean to lose you as a friend; you have shown yourself a man, and a noble man, to-day; you will soon overcome this weakness."
Arthur was looking away over the sea. He was staggered for a moment, and yet he was not really surprised. His voice was a little husky as he answered, for after all he was only a boy, and he had taught himself to hope. "Forgive my folly and presumption," he said.
She put her hand on his shoulder with the caressing gesture of an elder sister. "I want a friend," she said, smiling into his downcast face. "You shall be my brother, Arthur. I have never had a brother, for I was an only child, and my sole friend in the wide world is my solicitor. He is a man of position and character, and yet—do you know? my loneliness makes me so sensitive—I sometimes feel inclined to distrust even him."
"Can you tell me his name?"
"It is rather a common one. Very likely you will not know it. Mr. Robinson—James, I think, is his Christian name."
"Of the firm of Robinson and ——?"
"Yes."
"Then, Mrs. Grey, your suspicions were only too well founded." He gnashed his teeth. "The old hypocrite! I trust you have not given him your confidence to any great extent."
Margaret turned pale: "Everything I have is in his hands. Only two days ago I gave him some valuable jewelry to ensure the speedy carrying out of my instructions."
"And he took it away with him, I suppose," Arthur smiled sardonically—"recommended patience and resignation. Ah! I know him well. But forgive me; I am allowing my feelings to run away with me and frightening you. The fact is that I happen to know something of your solicitor, and the very mention of his name excites me. Mrs. Grey, wemust save you from him. Tell me once more, do you trust me?"
Margaret looked up into his frank, open face and smiled. "As I would my own brother," she replied heartily; "and in proof of it, if you can listen to a long, painful story, I will tell you my history, and how it is that you find me here in this little village alone and unprotected. You have given me the full confidence of your young, true heart; you have trusted in me, Arthur, in spite of much that must have seemed strange and mysterious. I will give you my confidence in return. But I think for to-day the exertion would be almost too much for me. Can you come again to-morrow, or must you go away at once?"
"I shall not leave this place until I have found out some way of helping you, Mrs. Grey; but if you really mean to trust me as your brother, will you let me say that I don't like the idea of your staying by yourself in this solitary house? You want some one with you upon whom you can thoroughly depend. I rather distrust your landlady; I can scarcely say why." They had risen from their seat on the sands, and were walking toward the little cottage. "As I came in," continued Arthur, "she entertained me—a perfect stranger, at least as far as she knew—with the story of your child's disappearance and your fainting-fit of that evening, seeming to expect me to give my errand in return."
"I rather distrust her myself," replied Margaret; "but one cannot always tell. Her manner certainly is unfortunate. I believe, however, that she is really a good kind of person, and her character stands high in the neighborhood. I do not like the idea of a change just now, but thank you all the same for the kind thought. You saw me, you must remember, at a weak moment; I am not always so foolish, and to-night I shall have something to think about. Here we are at the gate. Come in and have a cup of tea. By the bye, where are you staying?"
"At the hotel, Mrs. Grey; it's not very far from here. I think if you even called out to me from the window of your dining-room, I should hear you."
Margaret smiled: "I shall have no occasion, I hope, for the assistance of my champion till to-morrow; then you musthear my story, and help me to devise some plan for communicating with my husband and child."
"You think your husband has taken the child?" said Arthur, stopping suddenly.
"To-morrow, Arthur, to-morrow; before we discuss that point I must rest."
We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths;In feelings, not in figures on a dial:We should count time by heart-throbs.
And Margaret rested that night, for the first time since the evening when exhausted Nature had failed utterly and she had slept at the foot of her lost child's bed. There was a new feeling of rest and hope in her spirit; the events of the day had stimulated her; there was an uprising of the dormant courage and energy in her nature; she began to feel that something might yet be done. Jane was astonished that evening to find some small impertinence on her part rebuked by her mistress with all her old dignity, and to hear that if matters did not mend very considerably she would run the chance of losing her lodger. She was slightly alarmed, not only on this account, but also because this sudden resurrection of spirit might notify a change in her lodger's circumstances; but she kept her own counsel.
Breakfast was to be prepared for two. "Strange goings on," muttered Jane to herself, but this time she did not dare to express her feelings.
Arthur arrived early in the morning. He was excited and restless. With the impulsiveness of youth he had thrown himself heart and soul into the task that appeared to be opening out before him, and until some light had been thrown upon it he could not rest. He and Margaret breakfasted together, but by mutual consent nothing was said about the subject which engrossed them both until they had again left the house behind them, and were able to talk quietly, without need for caution, under the broad open sky.
She seemed so quiet, so self-contained, that Arthur began at last to fear that she had forgotten her promise, or rather that it had been given impulsively and withdrawn after calmer thought. And something of curiosity—which, by the bye, is pretty highly developed in the male portion of humanity—mingled with the true interest he took in Margaret's concerns. But she had not forgotten.
They had been sitting for a few moments by the sea-shore, talking of indifferent matters, when all at once she turned to him. "You ask me no questions," she said; "you are not curious to know more about me?"
Arthur reddened: "Not curious, Mrs. Grey. I am ready to hear whatever you wish to tell me. I know it can be nothing unworthy of yourself, and pray do not imagine that I wish to hear anything you care to conceal or that would give you pain to tell. I only desire to help you to the best of my ability."
For Arthur was a little hurt by the question. She smiled and rested her hand on his shoulder as she had done the day before, and her touch stirred the young man's heart to a strange mixture of feelings—pride, for it seemed to show that she depended on him, that his presence was a comfort to her, and yet a certain mortification. "She would not treat him in this way," he said to himself with somewhat of bitterness, "if she could understand in the slightest degree the feelings that had brought him to her—if she felt the remotest danger to her own heart in the companionship. He was a boy to her, nothing more."
But Margaret spoke, and her voice had a salutary effect. In its sweet sadness, the remnant of selfishness was rebuked.
"Love took up the harp of life and smote on all the chords with might—Smote the chord of self, that, trembling, passed in music out of sight."
Thus it was with Arthur. Self trembled, but self passed. He was ready to do everything for the sake alone ofherloveliness, of his love.
"You don't seem to care to ask me questions," she said gently, "so I suppose I must take the matter into my ownhands, and unasked let you know something of my past life. I feel very old, Arthur—more fit to be your mother than even your elder sister, as I called myself just now; for life"—she looked across the sea, and her voice was low—"life should be reckoned not by the years, the days, the moments, but by the heart-pulses, the living, the battling, that the years and moments hold. I am not really old. I married at the age of nineteen, and then I had lived, I was older than my years; my little one was born when I was twenty, just seven years ago; that gives you my age—an easy piece of arithmetic. Many women are young at twenty-seven. I am old, old; hush, Arthur! you must not protest. When life has lost all its beauty and gladness, what can it be but dreary? And dreary days pass slowly. The last eighteen months might have been eighteen years, and that would make me old, even according to your reckoning. But I do not seem to get on very fast with my story. Ah! I must go back—such a long way—to the time when I was a girl, with a girl's freshness and ignorance of life, and fervent belief in herself and the future. I lost my parents even before that. I scarcely remember my mother. After her death my father left me at school and took to wandering. He did not survive her very long. But I was not left alone to battle with life. An aunt, my mother's only sister, took her place with me. She, too, had one daughter, and my cousin and I became like sisters; more than sisters—friends. She was younger than I, but she was everything to me. I don't think it can often be said of any woman that she loves another verily better than herself, but this was actually the case with my poor Laura. My loves, my accomplishments, my success were far more to her than her own. We were one, absolutely one—never a breath of discord between us; and now," Margaret paused and sighed deeply, "she has gone, and my after-sorrows have been so bitter that I have not even a tear to give to the memory of my first grief, the worst, I thought then, that I could ever encounter. We had a passion for travelling—Laura and I—and when she was about sixteen and I seventeen my aunt, who was then a widow, indulged us by a six months' trip on the Continent. It was to be strictly educational. My poor aunt! I can hear her now talking about all we should do,the regular hours of study, the steady application. Music was to be taken up in Germany, singing in Italy, languages everywhere. She was too gentle for the management of such volatile young ladies as we were. Laura and I had pretty much our own way. It was a pleasant time. How intensely we enjoyed the fresh, new life, the constant variety, the enlargement of ideas! Ah, if that could have been all! But I must hasten on. You see," she smiled faintly, "I am like a shivering mortal; afraid of the first plunge into icy waters, I hover about the brink."
"If it is painful to you, say no more, Mrs. Grey," said Arthur earnestly; "nothing you could possibly tell me would alter my feelings toward you."
She shook her head: "It is kind of you to wish to spare me, but Imustgo on. You know you are to be my friend, and if you are ever to help me you must know all. Laura and I were admired. Young English ladies are thought much of abroad. And very innocently, I think, we enjoyed the attention we excited. One of our admirers was continually appearing and reappearing. He seemed to find out our plans as if by intuition, was always on the spot when we wanted assistance, and on more than one occasion saved us much trouble and annoyance by a little timely help. A strange man who interested and puzzled us all, though to this day I fail to understand him. As far as we could make out, he was half Spanish, half French. Certainly he had the ease and grace belonging so peculiarly to France, with the fire and enthusiasm of the Spaniard. My aunt, I imagine, had full confidence in him, because his hair was gray, though at that time he could not have been more than forty, and his face was particularly plain. She could not have thought of his cherishing anything but friendly feelings for girls like Laura and me; indeed, I always have a kind of suspicion that she took his manifold attentions to our party as a tribute of homage to herself, for my aunt was a pretty woman, and by no means old to be Laura's mother. M. L'Estrange did everything he could to foster this feeling. How clever he was! his delicate flatteries! his personal kindnesses! his assiduous courtesy! Laura and I enjoyed them often, for we were wiser:weknew that he thought himself neither too oldnor too ugly to fascinateles demoiselles Anglaises. And we both fell in love with him, though in different ways. Laura had no scruple in speaking of her affection. He was her 'bon père, her frère ainé;' she liked him better than any one she had ever seen; and he in return petted and caressed her, brought her cakes and bon-bons, took and demanded a thousand and one little daughterly attentions, at all of which my good aunt smiled complacently. Butshedid not know whatLauraknew—that he seized every opportunity for speaking to me of love. She made opportunities—my sweet little cousin—for in her beautiful, unselfish way she could imagine nothing more delightful than this love-making ending in marriage, her sister and herbon pèreliving together, with her for their little one, their 'chère fillette'—this last being one of his pet names for Laura.
"We met in Paris, we met again in many of the Italian towns, and he and I corresponded. I was very young; I knew nothing whatever of the world; it seemed to me strange that with all his professions of devotion he never mentioned marriage; but I believed his mode of living was precarious and that as soon as something settled should be offered him he would ask me to pledge myself. This was Laura's view, too, for my little darling was older than her years, and she and I discussed the matter frequently. But at last we—or I should say I—found out what he was. Laura would scarcely believe anything against her bon père, butIknew that of him which I could not tell her. He and I parted, and were to one another as if we never had been even so much as friends.Isuffered, for though I believe now that my imagination rather than my heart had been touched, still he had formed so large a part of my life that the parting could not but be painful for the time. I should have told you that all this had filled about two years; we had been twice in England, and twice again on the Continent, before I could make up my mind to break finally with my lover.
"It was in the course of the winter following my second visit, when my heart was still aching with the kind of loneliness which the withdrawal from my life of the one who had made all its romance for so many months could not but cause, that I met my husband, Maurice Grey. There could nothave been a greater contrast. He had the fire of the Frenchman, but he lacked his dissimulation. He was in those days—God only knows how this trial may have changed him!—a true gentleman, frank, manly, courageous, but with none of the delicate finish, the courtly ease, the wily fascination of L'Estrange. I soon saw he loved me—so deeply that my refusal to become his wife would cause him the intensest pain—And when he made me an offer I accepted him at first only because I was sorry for him and tired of my solitary position; but I came to love him, and with afardeeper, truer love than the former had been, for that had a certain sense of dissatisfaction about it. I never thoroughly understood M. L'Estrange; Maurice I honored as well as loved, and with my whole heart. Ah!"—she covered her face with her hands and moaned—"ifhe could only have known! But to return: I told him the whole story of my former love. It did not affect his feelings toward me. We were married, and two, three years passed by happily. I don't say we hadneverlittle breaks. I suppose in every married life these occur; and Maurice had one fault: he loved me too much—he was inclined to be jealous of my affection. I think, when I look back over that time, that the old story rankled in his mind; he could not quite shake off the idea that my duty was his, my love still another's. There came a time when our little child took ill. It was scarlet fever, and after it was over the doctors recommended sea-air. This was in the height of the London season, and my husband could not leave town. He took lodgings for us in Ramsgate, and came to see us whenever it was possible.
"Now comes the strange part of my story. Up to that time I had neither seen Monsieur L'Estrange nor heard of him since my marriage.
"Of course I thought of him sometimes, and my poor Laura before she died spoke of him often with lingering affection. At times I had a kind of morbid curiosity about him. I felt as if I should like to meet him, only to know whether I was perfectly cured—whether in my mature age he could exercise the same strange fascination over me as in my girlhood. This idea I never ventured to mention to Maurice. Would to God I had! I was walking one day onthe Ramsgate pier when suddenly I saw him. My little girl and her nurse were with me. He recognized me instantly, looked at me in his curious way and lifted his hat politely. This chance meeting made a tumult in my brain, but I tried to treat it as a matter of very small importance. On the next day Maurice was to arrive, and here was my first false step. I said nothing to him of the meeting. I noticed him once or twice look at me strangely, as if trying to read my heart; but he said nothing and I said nothing. He went away, and on that very morning arrived a letter in the small, well-known handwriting. I knew it was fromhim, and yet, and yet—God forgive me!—I opened and read it. It was a simple matter, after all, claiming common acquaintanceship, asking permission to call on me. He was waiting at the hotel; if I chose to forbid him he would go no further; if he received no answer he would be with me in the course of the afternoon. I persuaded myself that this meant nothing; we should meet once more—meet as strangers. I should have the opportunity of proving to myself how foolish my girlish weakness had been. And to forbid his coming, what would it be but a tacit acknowledgment that he still possessed a certain power over my heart? I decided to allow him to come, and through the afternoon I sat indoors, waiting with (I will always maintain) no stronger feeling than curiosity in my mind. It was nearly evening before he arrived. I was in some trepidation, but he behaved perfectly; his manner was easy and natural; he seemed to forget there had been anything but simple friendship between us. We chatted pleasantly for about half an hour, and then he rose to take his leave. The room was in half darkness; I had sent my little one to bed. I put out my hand carelessly, as I would have done to any ordinary stranger, but a sudden change seemed to have come over him. To this day I have never been able to account for it. He who had been so calm only a few moments before was trembling with excitement. He seized my offered hand, and before I knew where I was he was kneeling at my feet, pouring out words that he had no right to speak nor I to hear. Before I could thrust him away, before I could give voice to my indignation—ah! shall I ever, ever forget that moment?—the door opened slowly, andI saw my husband's face as I had never seen it before—dark, threatening, suspicious. It all passed in a moment. I was conscious of sinking down in a chair, and covering my face with my hands to hide my burning shame, for my husband suspected me. I heard high words, and when I looked up again Maurice and I were alone.
"'That man has escaped with his life,' he said sternly; 'he has you to thank for it.' I tried to explain, but he stopped me harshly. It was a stormy night. The wind was blowing about the house in fierce gusts. Oh how every detail of that terrible time clings about my brain!
"My husband left me in the room alone. I sat there for it might be an hour, as darkness had come before he returned. When he came in a carpet-bag was in his hand; he was evidently dressed for travelling. I sprang to my feet. I threw my arms around him; I implored him to stay and listen to me, but he only answered with that dark suspicious look. He loosened my hold at last—he reached the door; as he opened it there swept a great blast of wind into the room. I shall always feel thankful for that, for he saw me shivering as I lay exhausted on the sofa, and he came back suddenly to cover me from head to foot in his travelling-rug; then he kissed me—my poor Maurice!—and I saw something like relenting in his sad eyes, but I was too weak to tell him all: the soft moment passed, and I have never seen him since."
Margaret's voice sank into a wail. Her story had carried her away, so much so that she had almost forgotten her companion, and when Arthur, who had been listening intently, sprang suddenly to his feet, she was almost startled.
"It is as we thought," he cried impetuously—"my cousin's very words; she said it was some dreadful misunderstanding. But it shall be set right. Mrs. Grey, you have given me your confidence nobly and truly. It shall not be in vain. I have a kind of feeling that it will be given to me to disentangle this coil."
And then he knelt down before her on the sands. "Margaret," he said—and as he spoke the name with all a boy's timidity his young face flushed and his eyes seemed to burn with a steady, lustrous shining—"long ago, in the days of chivalry, ladies used to send out their knights wearing theircolors to fight for them and for truth and for justice. Make me your knight, let me fight your battles. So help me God, I will stand by you as your own brother might do; I will seek through the world till I find your husband, I will never rest till I have righted you! Will you accept my service?"
She smiled, and bending forward kissed him on the brow.
"It is the accolade of knighthood," she said. Then they rose together and went toward the cottage, for the sun was high in the heavens.
This world is the nurse of all we know,This world is the mother of all we feel,And the coming of death is a fearful blowTo a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel.
They had further discussion that evening. Margaret told her young protector, after she had rested a little, how from that day she had been persecuted by the attempts of L'Estrange to force himself upon her. How at last she had found this little seaside village, and had rested there with her child, hoping its isolation and retirement would hide her. She told of her adventures in London, of the escape so ably managed by Adèle, of the discovery of her hiding-place, of that interview, and of her persecutor's concluding words, which, as she believed, had foreshadowed her present trouble.
"This is the mystery," said Mrs. Grey in conclusion, looking down at the scarf, "for a vague idea begins to dawn on me that I didnotleave it on that seat on the sandhills. I remember, or I think I remember—all that night is in a kind of maze—looking for it, and being annoyed by the belief that M. L'Estrange had taken it away with him for some reason best known to himself."
"What!" said Arthur eagerly; "then, after all, this might be explained. Mrs. Grey, do you know I begin to have a dawning suspicion that your husband was not the person who took away your child? In the first place, to act in this waywould be very unlike an English gentleman, such as, from your account, I imagine Mr. Grey to be; then that threat of the villain who was annoying you wasun peu fort—one might possibly see daylight through it; then—"
He stopped, for Margaret was giving no attention to his reasons. "Notmy husband!" she cried, and there came a sudden light into her face. "If I could only think so, but even to wish it would be wrong. Think of my poor little darling in strange hands!"
"That need scarcely alarm you. The person with whom your child was seemed to take every care of her."
"And you think that person was—?" Margaret fixed her eye on Arthur. The dreadful wildness was gathering there once more.
"Dear Mrs. Grey," he said earnestly, "I only say I have my suspicions. Trust me, I will leave no stone unturned to find your husband and child. Ihavea clue to both."
"What do you mean?"
Arthur gave in answer the story of the Russian, omitting, of course, the suspicion of the fair St. Petersburgers.
"My first step," he said, "shall be to look up Count Orloff. He has set the Russian police to work, and I believe has found out something through Mrs. Grey's solicitor in England. Your child and the gentleman with whom she is will certainly be conspicuous travellers. I made inquiries at York, at the hotel and station, and found that about a week ago they must have taken the train from York to Southampton, so it is highly probable they were bound for some foreign port. We must set agents to work at Cherbourg, Havre, Lisbon and Gibraltar, for I think it scarcely likely they can have left Europe. Courage, my dear Mrs. Grey! I think we shall light upon them.Iwill follow the track most likely to have been taken by your husband, leaving the recovery of the child in the hands of my solicitor—a very different person, I can assure you, from Mr. Robinson—for if, as I suspect, this villain has taken his revenge by depriving you of your child, remember, it is an offence punishable by law, and he shall be hunted down till his crime is discovered and himself traced."
The young man's form dilated, he stood erect, he looked what he was—an Englishman, strong, vigorous, full of nobleimpulse, of physical power, of untiring energy. The languor of the fashionable, the elegant good-for-nothingness, the nonchalant indifference, had all gone; he had found an object and was ready to throw himself heart and soul into its pursuit.
Margaret listened to his hope-inspiring words, and she felt herself animated with a new courage. She turned to her young protector with glistening eyes: "And you are ready to do all this for me? How shall I thank you?"
"By being strong and courageous," he answered; "but, Mrs. Grey, it is I who should talk of gratitude. You have changed me from an idle good-for-nothing into a man with an object before him, an aim to which all his soul is given. I know it is a good thing. I feel it. It will be my first battle with the world's injustice. God grant it may succeed! I believe it will. There is one thing more. You tell me that your landlady, in relating the story of your child's disappearance, described your husband. Now, either one of two things. My theory, supported by the waiter at York and suggested by the man's own words, is wrong altogether, or else she has been bribed to give you false information. In the latter case—which, I must say, rather fits in with my own ideas—she ought to be watched; and certainly this is no place for you. Who knows what she might not do in dread of discovery? Here you are more or less in her power. Think a moment. Have you no friends?"
Margaret turned pale. "Jane has certainly acted strangely of late," she said, after a pause; "she has even been insolent once or twice when, as she thought, I was too weak to notice it; but I cannot think her quite so bad as you seem to imagine. I do not wish to leave this place yet; you see, I have become accustomed to it. Then I have a kind of feeling that here, if anywhere, my trouble is to end. You remember that picture which was the first link between you and me? Do you know why it appealed to me so strangely? It was like a kind of dream I have often had. I used to say in the old days that I had what Goethe called the second sight. Sometimes at superstitious moments I was inclined to think this dream a kind of vision of the future, and it comforted me beyond measure. It has come so often and in such differentforms, but it always ends in the same way—Maurice coming back to me over the sea, and living here in my quiet corner. If I could tell you how much I have built on this small foundation! But the dream only comes with the sea-sounds. In those miserable London days I used even to pray for it at night, I was so utterly hopeless; it never came."
Arthur looked thoughtful: "I shall see my cousin before I go; she has been very delicate lately, and my aunt, I believe, is very anxious for her to have change of air. Perhaps she would allow her to come here and stay with you for a time."
Margaret shook her head: "I cannot hope for that, though of all things I think it would be the pleasantest; but do not be uneasy on my account. No doubt I shall manage very well by myself; and you will let me hear whenever any trace has been found?"
"Indeed I will, Mrs. Grey; and cheer up, for I believe that will be soon."
"God grant it!"
Margaret clasped her thin hands together. She looked so frail, so shadow-like in the failing light, that Arthur's heart gave a sudden bound. What if she were fading—if, before he could gladden her by the news she craved, her spirit should have passed from earth? The thought made him impatient. He longed to be up and doing, taking the first step at least in his self-set task. And here would be a plea to urge with her husband. If he had ever loved her, surely, surely he would forget everything and fly back to her side when he should hear of her state.
Arthur was ready with youth's burning eloquence to plead for her. He felt he could paint her in such colors that not the stoniest heart could resist him. And while he was thinking it all out, already at his goal, pouring into the ears of the man he sought the history that had come upon his own youth like a life-giving power, of the beautiful, patient lady wasting her fair life away in faithful solitude, she turned from the open window, crossed the little room and sat down by his side.
"God has been good to me," she said gently. "I thought He would take me away in my sadness, life's broken entangled threads lying loosely in my hands, but now He has givenme back my hope. I shall live and not die, at least not yet. Young man, there is something in the Bible about the 'blessing of those who are ready to perish.' Surely in the sight of the All-pitiful that must be a good thing. It is yours. Poor that I am, I can offer you no more."
Arthur's eyes glistened. "I hold it more precious than gold," he said, stooping over her hand and raising it to his lips; "with this I think I could engage the world."
Wait, and Love himself will bringThe drooping flower of knowledge, changed to fruitOf wisdom.
And so Arthur Forrest's little love-dream was dispelled. In Margaret's presence, with her calm, saddened beauty before him, her gentle words in his ears, he had not seemed to feel it; for as at the first her beauty had come upon him like a heaven-sent message, arousing dormant emotion, awaking his spirit from youth's self-worship, so now it continued its work by slaying absolutely the still dominant self within him. He had thought and hoped and longed and chafed through the weeks of London life, haunted by her presence and by the dream of gaining her. He saw her again, he recognized that she was not for him, and he submitted, without a single wish to drag down the goddess of his idolatry from her seat in the clouds to a lower seat by his side. Arthur was young. Had the dream come later he might have acted differently, but as yet he was tolerably free from the world-wisdom which so many able teachers were ready to impart; besides, there was that in her quiet dignity, in her ready confidence, in her natural way of accepting his knight-errantry, that would have effectually checked any presumption. She did not even seem to imagine that the passion she had inspired in the breast of this man, so much her junior, could be anything but transitory, and in her presence he acquiesced calmly.
The reaction came when he was alone in the hotel that night. To lose no time he had started for York in the evening, and the officious waiter, his friend of the day before, had procured for him the same rooms which he had occupied then. Peopled they had been with the creations of his fancy evoked by her, and the prospect of seeing her again; he returned to them disappointed, denuded of hope, and there was a rue look in his young face as once more he inflicted the echo of his restlessness on the innocent occupant of the room below. For when all had been said and done—when he should have compassed heaven and earth to restore her to happiness and peace—when (for Arthur never dreamt of failure) through his efforts, and his alone, she should be enjoying once more the position from which by no fault of her own she had been torn—when her husband should return to his faith and devotion, and her child be given back to her arms,—then for himself, what? A grateful remembrance at most. Their lives would drift apart, ever more widely: he who believed he should be able to make her joy would yet form no part of it. His very love would have to be smothered—to be as if it had not been. With all the grand sentiments in the world to set against it, this is not an easy thing to bear.
The greatest hero, the most self-abnegating being that ever lived, must, I think, have had these moments of reaction—moments when the heart, looking inward, aches a little for the poor trembling self which must be buried, hidden away out of sight, if the life would be whole and consistent.
And Arthur Forrest was no hero; only a young gentleman trained in the school of luxury and self-pleasing, and for the first time brought face to face with necessity. One thing in his favor was that it was necessity—that there could be no beating about the bush, no half measures. As a gentleman and a man of honor he was bound to serve the lady of his choice, and to serve without hope of recompense—such recompense, at least, as he had pictured to himself only twenty-four hours before.
Perhaps nothing better could have happened to the young man than this early enforced lesson of submission to the law of necessity. Young men start off on life's race like well-fed stallions, scenting the goal afar off, and if the world be moderatelysubmissive they ride over her rough-shod till her weeds and nettles sting them and they fall back panting from the course. But if the yoke be borne early, submission becomes a habit and its difficulty is infinitely less. Arthur, however, could not be expected to be thankful for the salutary lesson, and what wonder that when the first excitement of planning and scheming, of playing the grandrôleof disinterested benefactor was over, he looked a trifle blue and crestfallen, called himself hard names, and quarrelled with what he was for the moment pleased to look upon as his "ridiculous age!"
There is something in the forced inaction of night, when it is not occupied entirely with its legitimate tenant, Sleep, to nurture morbid thoughts and gloomy ideas. Like misshapen ghosts they flee with the daylight—when, that is to say, their sources are not very deep in the spirit, imbedded there by cruel, unbending circumstance, for then night is the relief-bringer, morning has the pale terrors of reality in its train. Arthur's woes were rather of the imagination than the heart. Morning and action dissipated them.
He was up early, and before midday had satisfied the proprietor of the hotel about the ownership of the Indian scarf, had gathered fresh particulars from the waiter, had cross-examined Jane, the soft-hearted chambermaid, with all the acumen of a barrister, had caught the morning mail, and was far on his way to London.
The fruit of his first day's exertions—for he could not rest until something had been done—was that he had obtained the permission of his guardians (merely nominal, for he was within three weeks of attaining his majority) for a lengthened absence from England, and that by the next morning's mail a messenger was ready to start for Middlethorpe, with a hopeful missive from himself and a little casket containing the jewelry which had been left to the grasping hands and predatory instincts of Mr. Robinson.
The messenger was an elderly woman, with gray hair and a pleasant, homely face. She had been Arthur Forrest's nurse, and his mother had left her a pension amply sufficient to keep her in comfort and supply her few wants. The old woman's affection for her nursling was so great that she hadnever lost sight of him, and the young man, who knew how much he owed to her tender care, had gratified her in his youth and manhood by visiting her from time to time.
Old Mrs. Foster had been the recipient of Arthur's confidence more than once, and she had helped him out of many a boyish scrape. In this dilemma he thought of her. The kind old woman took an interest in his tale, especially because there seemed to be no scheme attached to it for the entrapping of her darling. That he should be led away by the snares of womankind was a subject of constant terror to Mrs. Foster.
"Tak' tent of the lassies, my bairn," she would say to him at times; "they're an awfu' sight tae deep for the lads."
But on this occasion there seemed to be no lassie in the question; only a suffering lady, who, in the very teeth of her bairn's most dangerous admissions (over these the old woman shook her head solemnly), had confessed to a husband still, as it seemed, in the land of the living.