She consented readily—all the more so, perhaps, because of the power it would give her of watching the matter—to what Arthur had been almost afraid to mention, that she herself should become for the time being a kind of confidential servant to the lady, supposing Margaret herself would permit it. In any case she would not shrink from the office of messenger and from the task of observation, for with her young master she was of opinion that the landlady was a dangerous person.
It was a tolerable amount of work for one day, and Arthur was satisfied. He felt that the stone was set rolling at all points, and that it would reach its destination in time if human skill and human energy could accomplish anything.
One equal temper of heroic hearts,Made weak by time and fate, but strong in willTo strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.
Mr. Robinson was virtuously indignant and highly incensed at the turn matters had taken. He talked loudly at home and among his religious friends—who were accustomed to small roughnesses in his style, but attributed them to the manly nature of his Christianity—about the young jackanapes, another of your fine gentlemen, who impudently meddled with what could not possibly concern him; but in presence of Arthur Forrest's young chivalry he was rather more subdued than usual. Not that he appeared to be crestfallen—that would have been a tacit acknowledgment of feeling himself to be in the wrong: he only took the matter as was becoming to a man and a Christian to take it, laying himself down ostentatiously for his young friend to tread upon, but bringing in from time to time unexpected hints about the youthfulness of the course of conduct he was pursuing, about the necessity for common sense in dealing with the world, and the certainty he felt that sooner or later his young friend would find out his mistake.
Arthur left him with no victory but such as was represented by the casket, which Mr. Robinson had willingly surrendered.
The lawyer assured Arthur Forrest, showing his teeth and smiling pleasantly, that when he knew more of the world he would be aware that what Mrs. Grey had done was a thing done every day. He could show—and he opened drawer after drawer to substantiate his statement—pounds' worth of jewelry left, and left wisely, by ladies who had no need for it for the moment, in the keeping of their solicitor. If Mrs. Grey had ceased to repose confidence in him—he shrugged his shoulders to prove his entire indifference—he could only say that the sooner she took charge of her own valuables the better, both for her and for himself. Certainly, she had actedrather strangely after all the trouble he had taken in the affair for very inadequate remuneration—andhistime, as all the world knew, was valuable; but one must not expect gratitude in this world. He only trusted—for he could not help still taking a certain interest in the matter—that everything would be far better managed.
Arthur left the office, in fact, with a very bewildered feeling about his brain. He had known Mr. Robinson well by rumor, but hitherto he had not been brought into very close contact with him. This interview shook him considerably. He was at a loss to account for the strange mixture in the man—his apparent frankness and bonhomie, his real selfishness and hypocrisy. Before men and women know the world well they find it difficult to understand mixtures. People, with them, are ranged into two vast classes, each class bearing written on its brow in legible characters the legend of its belonging. The good are in their imagination all frankness, courage, ingenuity; the bad have the malignant scowl of a villain in a play. They are totally unprepared for the frank address, the words of common sense and true wisdom, which men whose hearts are bad have picked up in intercourse with their betters, and which they use daily in the world as a kind of current coin whose worth is incalculable. Mr. Robinson had plenty of this, and it somewhat staggered Arthur. But the recollection of his friend strengthened him, and he cast aside as unworthy all the lawyer's hints.
Quietly he requested Mr. Robinson to use neither time nor money in the effort to find Mr. Grey, and to prepare for having Mrs. Grey's affairs most thoroughly looked into, as she had friends who would see justice done to her. The lawyer's parting shrug and voluble assurance of entire indifference were lost on the young man. He had a more satisfactory interview later in the same day. His own man of business, Mr. Golding, was shrewd and well versed in character. He knew where his own interests lay, and when it was possible he guarded them carefully; but he was actually—what Mr. Robinson made a loud profession of being—a God-fearing, conscientious man. He, or the firm he represented, and which had succeeded to him from his father, had taken charge of the property inherited by Arthur Forrest for some generations.Naturally, then, he took a deep interest in it, and it was a matter of some moment to him that the young heir should place the same confidence in the firm as his father had done before him.
When, therefore, he came with his tale—a tale that to the man of the world sounded rather romantic and far-fetched—Mr. Golding listened patiently. He did not fail to represent to his client that the business on which he was embarking was of a highly delicate nature; that action of his might very possibly be looked upon as an impertinent interference; that in any case his success—in one at least of the objects he had set before him—was extremely doubtful. Not that there could be much difficulty in finding Mr. Grey. If he should still be above ground he would be found; if not, the fact could easily be ascertained. The question was, whether, in the first place, there had not been some motive beyond that imagined for his long absence (it was difficult for a hard-headed man of business like Mr. Golding even to imagine how any man could behave so impulsively in such an emergency), and in this case his return was certainly improbable; whether, in the second place, should he have left England solely on this account, his belief in his wife's unworthiness would not be too deeply rooted to yield to a few enthusiastic words; whether, in the third place, granted even that his mood toward his wife had softened in the interval, he would not resent the intervention of a stranger, and be inclined to feel annoyance at a stranger's intimate knowledge of his affairs.
To all this Arthur only answered, "I know there are difficulties: I am prepared for them. I will set to work with great prudence, but set to work Imust. The question is this, Do you feel inclined to help me?"
The shrewd man of law saw that his young client was in earnest, and he demurred no longer. "I will help you willingly," he said. "I only wished to prepare you for certain difficulty and very probable disappointment. And now to work. This gentleman was last heard of at St. Petersburg?"
"Yes. He left there ill and evidently dissatisfied. His friends feared he had some intention of committing suicide."
The lawyer's lip curled ever so slightly: "The ladies werein want of a bit of sensation. Probably Mr. Maurice Grey is forgotten by this time. More likely, I should say, late hours and a gay life had knocked him up. There is no city where a man can live faster than in St. Petersburg. He left, probably, to get a little rest, and would not write for fear of another pressing invitation. But he can't live on air, wherever he may be. Can you tell me if he derives his income from property in England?"
"I believe he does, and that he communicates from time to time with his solicitor in London. I havehisname too. But I believe he is close, or has been recommended to secrecy by his client."
Arthur passed a card to Mr. Golding, who glanced at it and gave a sudden exclamation: "ThatGrey! Why, I know all about him. You have a mortgage on his property, Mr. Forrest, and a very first-rate security it is, too; we could not wish for better. I will write at once to my friend Edwards appointing an interview. There's a little matter of business between us, so he will suspect nothing. Then I shall draw him on to Mr. Grey. He has once or twice entertained me with an account of his eccentricities. You must not betoosanguine. I believe Mr. Grey has a kind of objection to letting any one know his true address; so, even upon the authority of Edwards, I may be sending you off on a wild-goose chase. However, if we hear something of his whereabouts, we shall have less difficulty in tracing him."
"How strange," said Arthur meditatively, "that I should have had something to do with him all this time without knowing it! But about the other matter, Golding—the child?"
"There I disagree with you entirely. That any man can have taken so stupid a revenge is really absurd, even to imagine. No: Mrs. Grey's first impression was correct. Her husband wished to overlook the education of his daughter. He carried out his purpose in a most unwarrantable manner; but evidently the man is soured—Ishould say scarcely responsible. Perhaps he sent an agent to secure the child, and this would account for the gray hair and foreign appearance. More probably still, a good deal of this was put on for effect by your informant."
"I don't think so," returned Arthur. "It is just possible, as you say, that Mr. Grey deputed some one to fetch his child, but it would be a very strange kind of proceeding."
"Not half so strange as your foreigner encumbering himself with such a charge out of mere jealousy. However, all this remains to be proved. Southampton, you say? I will send a clerk there to make inquiries—a sharp fellow; he has often done me good service in this line. He shall start this afternoon. It's a pity it has been delayed so long. If Robinson had understood his duty, he would have set this search on foot at once. In eight days no one knows what can be done with a child. However, I have great hope of a clue from Southampton. As you say, they must be conspicuous travellers. And now, my dear sir, you are interesting yourself very much about your neighbors, but are you aware that in three weeks' time we shall have to give an account of our proceedings during your minority? It is quite necessary that you should make some provision for the transaction of your business, especially as, if you follow out your present plans, your whereabouts for the next few months may be doubtful."
"I have thought of it," replied Arthur gravely, "and I hope I am not totally unaware of the responsibilities of my position. For the present, however, I shall ask you to continue to take the entire management. When this affair which occupies me so much is over, I shall be ready to receive your statement, which I know will be satisfactory in every way." He smiled as he spoke and held out his hand.
Mr. Golding was surprised as well as touched. It was pleasant to the man of business—whose labor in the cause of young Forrest's family had been to a certain degree a labor of love—to find his client able to take a practical, common-sense view of his position, and to appreciate his upright and assiduous care.
He smiled in return, and shook the young man's hand warmly: "You gratify me, my dear sir. Yes, indeed, I have done my best, my very best, for the estate, as my father did before me; and the day upon which I shall deliver up my accounts and those of your guardians into your hands is one to which I have long looked forward with pleasant anticipation. In the mean time I may say, in the name of your guardians,that you can draw upon us in excess of your ordinary allowance. There are certain accumulations of income which we always thought would serve for some such purpose as this projected journey. We could have wished, of course, that it had been delayed, but as matters stand for you to anticipate their receipt by a few days can be an affair of no great moment to us."
And thus it was arranged. Arthur's way was smoothed, and nothing remained to be done but the attainment of some clue to Maurice Grey's place of refuge.
If that there be one scene in life wherefromEvil is absent, it is pure early love.
Adèle's languor increased with the summer. The heat, which had grown intense in and about London, the fatigues of the season, the anxiety about Arthur and their mutual friend Mrs. Grey,—all these worked upon a constitution in which the seeds of delicacy were deeply rooted.
Mrs. Churchill began to be anxious, and to cast about for some suitable method of giving her daughter change of air. Nothing presented itself for the moment. It was too early for Scarborough or Whitby; only plebeians frequented Brighton in July; against the Continent, Switzerland, Germany or the Italian lakes Adèle protested loudly, and the good Mrs. Churchill felt a certain sinking of heart at the prospect of putting the breadth of the Channel between herself and England during the London season. The little gossip of society, theprojets de mariage, the whispers of political complications, the scandals of high life were dear to Mrs. Churchill's soul. And at this special time, when the air was rife with rumor, it would have been irritating, to say the least of it, to go out into the blank of an existence from which theMorning PostandCourt Journalwould of necessity be excluded. But none of these things could alter the fact. Adèle was pining in the great city; she wanted change of air.
Indecision and anxiety are not improving to the temper. The good-natured Mrs. Churchill became sharp and irritable. She was annoyed with Adèle for being ill, and with Fate for not delaying her illness by a few weeks, when London could be left without a pang, and the bracing climate of Scarborough would have been open to them; she was angry with Arthur for his new independence and mysterious course of conduct, and especially with that absurd Mrs. Grey, who seemed, by means of her romantic story and inexplicable power of fascination, to be at the root of all the inconvenience. The worst of it was that this internal effervescence could be allowed very little external vent, for Arthur and Mrs. Grey were out of reach, and the doctors, several of whom had been consulted, had given express orders that Adèle should be kept as quiet as possible. Of course it was idle to rave against Fate, for Fate is calm and impersonal, and only bruises the breasts of the tumultuous. The servants were the only sufferers, but they took their mistress's ill-temper with great equanimity, knowing their personal comforts would not be one jot diminished, and that this storm would pass as others had passed before it. But Mrs. Churchill could not always keep her annoyance from her daughter, and on one of these hot days her feelings became quite too much for her.
Adèle was on the sofa again, deeply engrossed in one of her pet volumes with the calf-skin binding. Her mother had been wandering about from one position to another in the vain effort to cool herself; she had tried at least a dozen different fans, she had bathed her face and hands again and again in eau-de-cologne, she had read a little and worked a little, had taken up the paper and thrown it down again, had sighed and fumed and bustled till her state was really pitiable.
"Adèle," she cried at last, "for Goodness' sake put down that book. Whatever the doctor may say about your not being crossed, I'm quite sure—and so I told him only yesterday—that so much reading is very bad for the mind, especially in hot weather. Why,Ican't even get through the paper;and you look as pale as a ghost. Oh," wringing her hands in desperation, "if I only knew what to do with you!"
"Only don't excite yourself, mamma," said Adèle languidly.
"Excite myself? That is not a very dutiful way of addressing your mother, Adèle, especially when what you call my excitement is solely on your account."
"I know it, mamma dear," said Adèle gently, putting down the obnoxious volume. "Forgive me if I annoyed you, but really I wish so much that you would cease being anxious about me. I shall be better as soon as ever the weather is a little cooler."
"And how long may we suppose that will be?" Mrs. Churchill panted, and began again agitating desperately the latest fan, a feathered one. "I tell you what it is, if this goes on I shall shut up the house and leave London altogether."
She spoke defiantly, as if London would be greatly the sufferer by such a step.
Adèle shook her head: "You would certainly not like it, dear. No: I'll tell you what to do. You must get Mary Churchill to stay with you here. It will be pleasant for her to see a little of London, and you know Aunt Mary will be charmed. Send me away somewhere for a fortnight. I have a kind of longing for the sea." The young girl closed her eyes. "I can imagine it, mamma, always so fresh and beautiful—Lord Byron's 'deep and dark blue ocean.' How nice it would be after the tiresome, dusty streets and squares! I shall get better there directly; I feel it."
Mrs. Churchill sighed impatiently: "One would think to hear you, Adèle, that a young lady could live at the seaside by herself, without any protection. Pray, little Miss Wisdom, how am I to send you to this sea which you describe so romantically? I do believe those poetry-books are at the root of all the mischief. I wish they were all drowned in that same blue ocean. Blue, indeed!Inever see it anything but a dirty gray. I suppose I want the fine poetic insight. And instead of helping me you have started another difficulty. I promised your aunt Mary to show your cousin a little of the world this season; of course it would have beenpleasanter for you to have gone out together; you are such different styles that it might have been very safely done. I must say it is extremely tiresome to have all one's plans upset. I wouldn't mind so much if I could see any way out of all this, but really and truly I was never so utterly at sea in my life."
"Write to Aunt Mary," said Adèle cheerfully, "and leave me to manage the rest."
"Leave you, indeed! I might as well leave a baby. I know your unpractical schemes of old. Dear me! I wish I could think of some feasible plan."
"Only don't fret yourself, dear," said Adèle, kissing her mother affectionately; "and listen! is that not Arthur's knock? I dare say he can help us."
"Verylikely!" said Mrs. Churchill in a manner that was meant to be splendidly satirical. "However," she continued, "I must dress now, but I shall come down again before I go out; and remember, Adèle, if I find he has excited your mind by any of his absurd romances, I shall forbid him the house at once."
Adèle's eyes twinkled pleasantly at this awful threat. She knew her mother too well to have even the faintest fear of its fulfilment.
When Arthur came in she saw in a moment that he was changed. The languid, quasi-sentimental look had gone from his face, his step was brisk and vigorous, he held himself erect; he even seemed to his cousin's partial eyes to have grown since she saw him last. For the moment as she gazed she trembled. It was all over, then. He had come to tell her of success; but, reproving herself for the selfishness of the thought, she held out her hand with a smile: "The sea-air has done you good, Arthur; you look a different person."
He looked down upon her kindly: "I think I am better, Adèle, and in more ways than one; but, my poor little cousin, I can't return the compliment; you look as pale as a ghost. What in the world has Aunt Ellen been doing with you?"
Adèle flushed painfully, for she was impatient to know what his experience had been: "Please don't mind my looks, Arthur. Remember I am curious. Be kind to me, dear,"she smiled faintly; "keep me no longer in suspense. Your eyes tell me something has been done."
Arthur sat down, and took one of her hands in his: "What do you read in them, Adèle?"
She looked away, shading her face with her hand: "That you have something to live for at last—that she, the woman whom you love—and I believe she is worthy of your love"—it was bravely said, though there was a certain rebellious rising in the poor little throat; she paused a moment to choke it down, then continued very calmly—"that Margaret has chosen you for her protector, that you are already busy planning to restore her to happiness."
Arthur smiled again, then stooped over his cousin's sofa: "Why do you look away, Adèle? If I should say that all this is true, that you are the most penetrating little lady in the world, would you not be glad, seeing that I have only obeyed you?"
"Don't, Arthur, don't," was the stifled answer, for he was struggling with the hand which hid her averted face, and tears were in her eyes, tyrannous exponents of a secret she would have died rather than reveal. Arthur might have descanted with reason on the capriciousness of woman's character, but he did not; he only smiled very tenderly, and drew the tear-stained face to a surer shelter as he told in a few earnest, manly words of the experiences of the last few days, and of the task he had set himself.
"Adèle," he whispered in conclusion, "I am cured. When I left you my brain was full of mad ideas.Sheshowed me their folly, and now I can admire her, I can honor her, I can even love her, as a brother might, with the purest desire for her happiness, which I still earnestly hope to restore by giving her back her husband. For myself, my dream has changed. Listen, Adèle, dear. Look up at me once: my present hope is this—to strive by every means in my power to make myself worthy of the gentlest, the most womanly, the noblest—"
She read the rest in his eyes, and with a smile that irradiated her face till it was absolutely beautiful she looked up and put her finger on his lips: "Hush, dear, hush! say no more; you make me ashamed of myself, I have been soimpatient and foolish. But, Arthur, I am happy now,sohappy!"
She rested her head on the sofa and looked up at him, her blue eyes shining and her cheeks glowing with soft excitement; a little smile of contentment was playing about her lips, her golden hair fell back from her forehead in rippling waves; she was fairer than ever before, for nothing is so beautifying as happiness, especially to women of Adèle's type.
Her cousin felt it. He looked at her with a smile. "Do you know, Adèle," he said gently, "I never thought you beautiful before, but youarebeautiful. What is it that is new to me in your face, little cousin?"
She shook her head: "I can't tell, dear, unless perhaps it may be that never in all my life have I been sovery, very happy."
By which answer it will be seen that Adèle was but a novice in the ways of the world. She was not afraid, now she knew her love was returned, of letting its fullness be seen.
Let him love her little or much, that he loved her was enough. From the moment that was known she could not help letting him see she was his without reserve.
And Arthur's was not a nature to abuse such confidence "She trusts me fully. She shall never regret it," he said to himself. The consciousness of love and confidence unreservedly given is ennobling to some natures. His cousin's simple trust was a new rock of strength to the young man.
He stooped and kissed the young girl's ruddy lips, and there went from her warm, glowing life and love a thrill of something reciprocal through his being. He loved her, not with the first unreasoning love of the boy throwing his wilful soul into a dream that has come he knows not how—that is beautiful, fascinating, enthralling, he knows not why—but with a riper, better feeling, for those weeks' experience had served to form the young man's character, and it may be that for the time he was even in advance of his years.
He loved his cousin for herself, with a love founded on the sure basis of unwavering respect. He had seen her as she was, and he admired her with all his soul for her beautiful unselfishness. Besides,sheloved him with a force of lovingthat only a few weeks before would have been utterly incomprehensible to him. Arthur's suffering had taught him something, and he was able to understand his cousin.
After the mutual revelation they chatted together pleasantly, formed plans by the thousand for Arthur's guidance in the difficult task that was before him and for Adèle's demeanor in his absence. They were as happy as two birds in a nest, for Arthur was at rest in his heart and in his conscience, and in the light of her own happiness and pride Adèle could not even be distressed at the indefinite separation before them. For with the sanguine nature of youth she could not bring herself to believe it would be long.
But as they talked the glow faded from her face. She was still weak, and the glad excitement that had lent so soft a bloom to her cheek for a time was itself exhausting.
Arthur was alarmed as he looked at her, she was so pale and fragile. This friend, whose affection he had almost despised, was becoming infinitely dear to him, and with a sudden pang he thought that perhaps this delicacy might mean more than they had imagined.
"Adèle," he said in a startled tone, leaning over her sofa and gazing anxiously into her eyes, "you must keep nothing from me; remember I am to be your husband. Tell me the whole truth, or I shall go away from you with a haunting fear. Is anything seriously wrong with you? Does the doctor seem alarmed?"
She smiled a glad smile. It was sweet to be so cared for.
"In all honesty I believe not, dear. All I want is change of air. You see I am weak," she sighed, "and all these people coming and going tire me. Oh, Arthur, if you knew how I long for the sea sometimes! It is like a kind of home-sickness. I feel as if I should be well at once if I could only hear the waves. Don't you know—that nice, fresh, restful sound?"
"I can't conceive why Aunt Ellen keeps you here," said Arthur with the indignant impatience of youth. A few days before he had not been so boundlessly considerate for his cousin himself. But human nature is ever the same. We would wish all our neighbors to view the landscape from ourown standpoint; indeed, we are sometimes highly incensed if they persist in looking at it from theirs.
"Poor mamma!" said Adèle, "she is quite put out and puzzled about me. You see, she never likes to leave London at this time; and then she promised to have Cousin Mary here, and there is so much going on."
"But why needshego?" persisted Arthur. "Now, if she would only agree to the arrangement, and if you could stand the journey, I would willingly see you as far as Middlethorpe. Mrs. Grey has plenty of spare room, she would be delighted to see you, and old Martha is travelling there to-day, so that you would be well taken care of; then later in the year Aunt Ellen could pick you up on her way to Scarborough."
Adèle shook her head: "Ishould like it very much, but I fear mamma won't. She will call it one of our unpractical schemes."
"But that's all nonsense," said Arthur impatiently; "she must either take you away herself or let some one else do it, and surely I am as fit a person as any one to decide on what is fitting for my future wife."
Adèle laughed out merrily then, for as the last words were spoken in a tone of indescribable importance, the door opened and Mrs. Churchill appeared, radiant with smiles and good-humor. She had caught the latter part of Arthur's sentence, and its decisive tenor set her mind completely at rest. Evidently these ridiculous young people had at last settled matters to their own satisfaction and hers.
"Treason in the camp!" she said, gayly, repulsing her nephew's offered hand. "No, no, sir; before I have anything whatever to say to you I must hear the burden of your complaint, and understand from your own lipswhatis fitting for your future wife."
"Mamma!" "Aunt Ellen!" Adèle and Arthur were covered with confusion in a moment.
"Blushing, too!" said that lady unpityingly. "Come, Master Arthur, your confusion is becoming, and Adèle's blushes particularly charming, butIam not answered. What are your lordship's commands? for I suppose they must be obeyed."
"Must they, Aunt Ellen?tant mieux," answered the youngman lightly; "then I shall lay them upon you without delay. This young lady"—he took one of Adèle's hands and held it in his—"my future wife, as you observe, is looking wretchedly ill and worn; she requires change of air at once."
Mrs. Churchill's face clouded: "Easily stated, my dear nephew; the difficulty is at the present moment to give it to her."
"The difficulty can easily be overcome, Aunt Ellen, if you will only have confidence in my judgment. You have heard something about Mrs. Grey—"
"And quite enough, Arthur; pray don't begin uponthatold story."
"But I must, indeed, Aunt Ellen, if you are to understand what I want. Mrs. Grey has been good enough to put all her affairs in my hands. I have learned from her that the separation between herself and her husband was brought about by a misunderstanding which she has been allowed no opportunity of explaining.Mybusiness now is to find out her husband and make him understand the true state of affairs."
"All very well," broke in Mrs. Churchill impatiently; "and I'm glad to hear she had the good taste and honesty to let you know at least that her husband is living. But, pray, what has this to do with Adèle?"
"Patience for one moment, Aunt Ellen. I only trouble you with all these details that you may know my scheme for my cousin is not so unpractical as it may seem. Mrs. Grey, I am firmly convinced, is an honorable, high-minded lady, or else indeed I could not wish to entrust her, even for one day, with the keeping of any one so near and dear to me as Adèle must be under any circumstances; for (pleaselet me go on for one more moment) my scheme is this: Mrs. Grey has a charming little house on the Yorkshire coast; the air is splendid, the neighborhood is quiet."
Mrs. Churchill could not help smiling: "Don'ttake a leaf out ofMurray, Arthur."
But the young man continued seriously: "She will be delighted to receive Adèle for a time. If you agree to this, I can take her to Middlethorpe before I go abroad, and you, on your way to Scarborough in the autumn, can bring her onwith you. Old Martha will be there, for I sent her on to-day with some jewelry belonging to Mrs. Grey which I have reclaimed from her lawyer. You know Martha will look after Adèle's comfort as well as you could. Come now, Aunt Ellen, is this such a very unpractical scheme?"
"Perhaps not, since your Mrs. Grey has turned out to be a respectable matron after all; but what warrant have we that her story is true?"
"Mamma!" began Adèle indignantly, but Arthur stopped her:
"My moral conviction of her truth is enough for me, Aunt Ellen, and for Adèle; I believe it would be for you if you had once seen her. But for your satisfaction I can tell you that her story has been rather strangely confirmed. I went to see Golding about it this morning, for I wished to set him on the track of Mrs. Grey's child, who, I should tell you, was mysteriously stolen away from her about a week ago. He knows Mrs. Grey's solicitor, and had heard from him all the leading points of the story."
Mrs. Churchill sighed: "Ah, well! I hope no harm will come of it. I must say it's a queer state of affairs altogether, but as far as I can see it seems the best plan. Adèle is certainly old enough to take care of herself, and Mrs. Grey could scarcely have any ulterior design in asking her to stay at the house. Then old Mrs. Foster being there is a great thing; she is a most trustworthy person. I suppose it will be necessary for me to write to Mrs. Grey, but how am I to put it? Is she supposed to have sent an invitation by you?"
Adèle's eyes were glistening with delight at this happy termination. "Never mind about that, mamma," she said gayly. "I will write a little note to Margaret to prepare her for my coming, and, let me see, if you like, Arthur, I can start the day after to-morrow."
"My dear child, how impetuous you are!"
"The day after to-morrow, Aunt Ellen," said Arthur decisively; "that will give me to-morrow for further inquiries in town, the day after for our journey, then on the day following, if at all possible, I shall start for the Continent."
"Well, well," said Aunt Ellen, good-humoredly, "youyoung people have taken the law into your own hands, so all I have to do is to submit." And thus the matter was arranged to the mutual satisfaction of the cousins.
There's somewhat in this world amiss,Shall be unriddled by and by.
The sultry afternoon was closed by a stormy evening. As Arthur and Adèle sat together in the library—for Mrs. Churchill, who was herself at a large dinner-party, had been graciously pleased to leave them alone together in this coziest corner of the comfortable house—the clouds began to gather and a moaning, sighing wind to sweep up the street.
"There is going to be a storm," said Adèle with a little shiver; "close the curtains, like a good old fellow, and come to tea."
"Don't you like storms, Adèle? I thought you were so brave."
"Sometimes, but not to-night."
She rose from her seat at the table and stood by his side, leaning her hand on his shoulder and her little rounded chin on her hand.
"How the clouds are driven about, and how wild they look! Oh come away, Arthur. I am so glad I am not alone!"
"Why, my little cousin? Is lightning more dangerous in solitude?"
"Everythingseemsmore dangerous when one is alone; but you don't understand me, Arthur. I never feel as if a storm were dangerous. It's not fear, but a kind of feeling rather difficult to explain, as though bad things were about and near us."
"Witches on broomsticks and malignant fairies," suggested Arthur.
Adèle laughed: "Not exactly. I lost my faith in them a few years ago; indeed, by the bye, I never believed in them. My fairies were always pretty and good. This storm makes me think of wicked people more than wicked spirits. There! look! That yellow, sinister-looking flash brought before me as distinctly as if I had seen him at the moment the face of Margaret Grey's tormentor, the tall dark man who smiled in at the window so insolently. Oh, I do hope and trust I shall never meet him anywhere!"
"How funny!" said Arthur lightly: "the storm made me also think of some one connected with Mrs. Grey. That horrid old landlady's face came in a most contorted manner before my mind. I fear that woman is no better than she ought to be; however," he drew out his watch, "if Martha has followed out my directions she ought to be at the cottage now. Let me see: the train is due in York at half-past four, by six she should be at Middlethorpe Station, then a two hours' drive. I hope it is all right, but I can't help wishing I had got the old woman to start last night."
"What are you afraid of, dear?" said Adèle nervously.
Arthur laughed, but there was something forced in his mirth: "We'll draw the curtains, Adèle. You have infected me with your fancies. I really feel as if something uncanny were abroad to-night." They sat down together to the tea-table luxuriously spread with rich plate and china. There were no hot fumes of gas to poison the atmosphere, but a silver reading-lamp cast its warm light upon the table, leaving the heavy crimson curtains in their long folds, the tall stately bookcases and the oaken cabinet in shadow. It was a pleasant room, restful to the senses. Adèle looked round her. "How comfortable we are here to-night, Arthur! and," as a sullen crash of thunder and the splash of falling rain came from outside, "how desolate it must be out there! Oh, Arthur, why can't every one be as happy and comfortable as we are?"
For the sound of the tempest had brought the eternal shadow that lurks in the background of every human joy to the young girl's soul, and she was ready to reproach herself for her own exuberant gladness.
"It's much better not to think of it at all," said Arthurlightly—"at least not to disturb one's self;" and then he added more gravely, "I think if we each do our best to lessen the amount of human suffering, we may safely enjoy our own happiness."
"And you are doing yours," said Adèle, looking admiringly at the young face ennobled by its transient gravity; "if you succeed in bringing back happiness to thatonelife, it will be something to have lived for."
"If I succeed!" Arthur sighed; some of the rebellious thoughts of the preceding evening were troubling him once more. He rose and paced the room. "I feel so restless, Adèle," he said in explanation. "When this storm has cleared off a little I shall go out for a stroll."
Was there a reason for his restlessness? Had some electric current, flashing through the troubled air, notified him of the terrible scene that was being enacted under the storm-sounds in the distant little village, where the woman to whom the first love of his boyhood had been given was, as he fondly believed, resting calmly in her dwelling, cheered by the hope and confidence he had brought her?
Who can tell? for life has many chords, and Nature has agents infinite and varied to work her strange will, and humanity is a complex thing that no philosopher has yet been able to resolve into all its component parts. Matter he may hold, but mind defies him, and these strange coincidences, these half-revelations, are all of the impalpable spirit, humanity's crown and power.
It will be remembered that in the course of the last conversation between Margaret Grey and her young protector he had expressed in very strong terms his distrust of her landlady, and had even hinted some suspicion of her false dealing in the information she had given about the lost child.
That conversation had been overheard by Jane Rodgers. Something of this she had suspected, and with ear applied to the keyhole she had been listening to every syllable of the conversation. Much of it had been inexplicable. It required the disclosures of the morning, which had been given on the sea-shore utterly out of reach of her ears, to give any meaning to much that passed between Mrs. Grey and her visitor; but this one thing clung to Jane's mind with a sullen persistency.The young man had seen through her—her lodger distrusted her.
Jane was conscious of this: that she had been guilty of double-dealing, that she had received a bribe for carrying out a certain purpose, that she had given the cunning of a clever brain to helping forward the commission of what she knew to be a crime. And this she had done, not for the money's sake, though Jane was fond of gold, but for the gratification of a hatred which was daily strengthening in her narrow mind. Jane had not many passions or affections; she had, as she thought, outlived the gentler ones, she had grown hard in a hard school; and this hatred had taken all the deeper root. It grew, in fact, till it absorbed her, and drowned in its turbid depths every other emotion.
She had long disliked her mistress—at first she could scarcely have told why. Perhaps it was Mrs. Grey's peculiar beauty and grace and the quiet dignity of her manner that made her so utterly antipathetic to her landlady. Little natures are apt to be jealous in a wild, unreasonable kind of way. Jane in the course of her life as a servant had come often into close contact with beauty, wealth, happiness, but none of these had affected her so strongly as the constant presence of this patient lady, who, she had taught herself to believe, was "no good," and yet whose quiet dignity and calm superiority made her universally respected and admired.
Another element went to the forming of this deadly hatred. Her mistress was kind and gentle, but she never descended to Jane's level. The landlady might think as she would of her lodger's antecedents; there remained in spite of all as immeasurable a distance between them as had ever separated Jane Rodgers the servant from her haughtiest mistress. It was a something that daily fretted the woman's spirit—in a great measure, it may be, because it was incomprehensible.
Jane was no communist or republican; the barriers of rank and fashion she could thoroughly understand. She had never bruised herself by attempting to beat against those iron bars. "Providence," she would piously remark to such of her equals as complained in her presence of inequality of lots—"Providence had ordained as there should be rich and poor, high and low, which, as far as she could see, was judicious, for whatwould a servant do as a fine lady, and how could a fine lady do for herself?"
But in the refinement that independently of circumstances and surroundings raises one above another, Jane could not see the hand of Providence so directly.
Mrs. Grey seemed to have no particular position in the world, few people knew her, her clothes were often shabbier than Jane's. The landlady believed, and probably with reason, that she could have bought up her mistress's possessions with very little trouble. Where, then, was the difference between them? Why was it that Jane had instinctively stood in the presence of her lodger, and treated her (until the last access of rage and hatred) with the same respect as she had treated mistresses who were high in the scale of the world's honor? She could not understand it, and it galled her proud spirit till dark, brooding evil took full possession of her.
This it was that had prompted her strange behavior in Mrs. Grey's absence. This it was that had caused her last and basest treachery.
Jane had not, indeed, objected to the bribe, which had been tolerably large, but for the money's sake she would not have compromised herself. It was against Jane's principles. That she had gone through life tolerably clean-handed was chiefly owing to this. She had a mind capable of looking beyond the paltry bribe to the consequences involved in its reception. Anxiety of mind, care, terror of discovery,—she was given to comparing the relative value of these with that of the gold which would buy her concurrence in some underhand scheme, and generally the decision was against the gold. But this time the danger of discovery was not great and the service rendered was small, scarcely amounting, so Jane reasoned with herself, to complicity in the deed. The money was acceptable and the revenge was sweet.
It was very bewildering to Jane's mind and rather destructive to her peace that as soon as ever the affair had occurred Mrs. Grey's friends came flocking to the place. First the lawyer; but Jane was shrewd enough to see thathewas not dangerous to her—rather, perhaps, to her mistress. After him, however, came the young Arthur, a man of very different type, and even before the overheard conversation Janehad caught the young man watching her very closely. She knew then that Margaret had told her troubles to a sympathizing listener, who was ready to devote himself to her service. She had a shrewd suspicion, too, that he would succeed in unearthing the mystery. And then her share in the abduction of the child might very possibly come to light.
Her suspicions were confirmed by the few decided words in which Arthur alluded to his fears for Margaret and his earnest desire that she should choose another residence. If they had seen the white look of fear and hatred which overspread the face of the listener, Margaret would probably have come to a very different decision. Jane's hatred had been great before. The penetration of the young man and the quiet acquiescence of her lodger increased it tenfold; while joined to these was a sudden fear lest the salutary advice should be followed, lest Mrs. Grey should leave the house and the schemes of her young protector be carried on wholly out of her reach.
Her fears were set at rest, but Margaret's calm answer inflamed her once more. She read in it a quiet contempt at the bare idea of Jane being able to inflict any kind of annoyance upon her, with the exception of a stupid insolence.
The woman crept from the door with the spirit of evil in her heart. She spent the next day brooding.
I said that I was dying. God is good:The heavens grow darker as they grow the purer;And both as we do near them; so near deathThe soul grows darker and diviner hourly.
The storm that had looked so wild among the streets and terraces of London broke in absolute fury over the northern ocean. The waves were lashed into violence under the fierce rushing of the winds, the great yellow clouds sent out vivid flashes that lit up the desolate scene, and ever and anon came the sullen crash of thunder through the darkness.
The sun had gone down, the twilight had passed into the storm-darkness; it was about the time when Adèle and Arthur had been discussing the mental effects produced by tempest in the closely-curtained library, and sending out the warm compassion of their young souls to the world's great army of mourners. Margaret Grey sat beside her parlor-window looking out upon the storm. She looked very desolate in the silent, half-dark room, with its white curtains and ghostly holland draperies. Her hands were folded listlessly, her eyes were full of sadness. She had been much happier and far more hopeful since Arthur's visit, but on this evening, she could not have told why, the deep depression from which his presence and her own strenuous exertions had aroused her seemed to be settling down upon her once more.
She felt so absolutely alone and uncared-for in the dreary tumult upon which she gazed that she began to feel as if it were impossible for anything but this to be her lot. Every sweet human tie that had once rejoiced her had been loosened, and she told herself she only was to blame, and therefore they might never, never be reknit. It was a curse upon her, and she could not believe it would be removed.
She bowed her head upon her hands as she thought of the past—as she felt within herself the rich, boundless capabilities of loving—as she looked out upon her own desolation.
And while she was brooding the darkness gathered. In the distance the white foam of the waves gleamed through it, and from time to time it was disturbed by the lightning; but for that it was deep indeed. A dark night has terrors for the imaginative: Margaret looked out with a shudder.
"It was into such a darkness that he went out," she murmured. "Oh, my darling! my darling!"
And then she turned, and began to feel with a certain creeping sense of uneasiness that the house was very still. She drew down the blind with a hasty impulse. The outside world made her think too painfully of that wanderer in his first desolation. Alas! he would have recovered from that—perhaps he was even rejoicing in his liberty. The thought was too bitter. She felt her overstrained mind must have relief. A book might bring it, so she rose to ring for lights.
But before she could reach the bell-handle the door openedslowly, stealthily, as if ashamed of its own creaking, and a figure that in the half darkness she did not recognize crossed to the window, and taking a seat gazed at her across the interval of shadow. There was something defiant in the action, and for a moment Margaret was frightened. Who was this that had dared to intrude upon her?
But she and her landlady were alone in the house. Her fears, she told herself, were puerile; crossing the dark room, she looked her intruder in the face. By the faint light which still struggled through the window-blind she recognized Jane Rodgers. But could she be right? Was not this rather a distorted creature of her own imagination that had taken the landlady's face and features to mock her? This being was very unlike the quiet and eminently respectable landlady, for the face was so livid that it seemed to gleam out of the darkness, the eyes were wild and lurid, and the lips and tongue seemed to be moving convulsively, as though the woman were agitated with burning thirst.
Margaret started back in momentary alarm; but she was naturally brave—she would assure herself that this was no dream conjured up by a diseased imagination, but actual, living flesh and blood. She put her hand on her landlady's shoulder. "Jane," she said, "is this you? My good woman, what is wrong? Has the storm alarmed you?"
Her touch was flung off with such violence that she staggered and nearly fell, for the torrent of this woman's wrath and hatred had been so long suppressed that now no bounds would hold it. "Leave me alone!" she cried. "How dare you put a finger on me? No," with a wild laugh as Margaret retreated quietly to the door. She thought the woman was mad, and so Jane was in a sense. "I've turned the key. We're alone together, at last, my fine lady; you shall hear me out; you shall know what's in my power—what I'll do, by ——! It's a fine night, dark as pitch; a body could be easily put out of the way—made quiet and then tossed out there!"
She lifted the blind, and even as she did so came a lurid flash. It showed the outside tumult, the black, restless waves, seeming in their unrest to hunger for a victim, and for one moment it showed in bold relief what was more dreadful still, a dark human face distorted with hideous passion. The eyesof the landlady seemed to be starting from their sockets, her strong sinewy hands were clenched, her body was stooping forward; the attitude was that of a cat about to spring upon its prey. Margaret saw and shrank back in sudden terror, the sight was so repulsive. But she recovered herself. They were woman to woman. Why should she fear? Again she touched the landlady on the shoulder. "Jane," she said in a low voice that trembled in spite of her strong effort to be calm, "you must be mad or dreaming. What does all this mean?"
"It means ——." The woman hissedoneword into her ear, and then for the first time Margaret realized her position. She had not much physical strength, for the severe mental struggles through which she had been passing had slowly but surely sapped at the springs of her life. Alone! She had thought of it with sadness only a few moments since; now she felt herself alone, and in the power of a hatred rendered strong and brutal by human passion. In the presence of the dark reality her small remnant of strength deserted her. She felt weak and faint with sheer terror of what might be before her.
In one moment it all seemed to flash upon her—the horror, the mystery, the sickening details. She closed her eyes and instinctively cried out for help to the one Presence that alone was near her in this awful moment. The lightning flashed in again upon the strange scene. It showed her kneeling, with clasped hands and calm face and eyes raised up to heaven.
Heaven! God! We think of them little in our hours of peace and gladness, but in the storm-sounds, in the terrors of darkness, in physical weakness brought home to our souls, perhaps we are all somewhat alike. Weak women and strong, self-dependent men instinctively look up, involuntarily call on the awful name. How often, how often, the Name has proved a Power! Even in this case it seemed for a moment effectual.
The woman with the deadly purpose in her eyes shrank back, awed by the secret witness evoked by prayer. But darkness hid the calm, resolute face, and the cruel heart was steeled once more. "What's the use of praying?" she cried in a transport of fury; "them as prays should practice—that'smycreed; and, look you here! if there's a heaven and hell, as the pious says, you've killed my soul, for I was never wicked tillyoucame our way; andcurseyou for it, I say, with your milk-white face and your smooth ways and your pride! But I'll do for you yet. I didn't intend it," she continued, her voice rising almost to a shriek, "leastways, not to-night; but the look of you, the feel of you, makes memad." She had seized Margaret's delicate wrists and was holding them in a vice-like grasp as she glared into her eyes. "Your fine young gentleman suspects me—you haven't that confidence. I was insolent, was I? but not nothing to be afraid of. Perhaps you'll cry another cry now, if I let you cry at all."
She laughed a savage laugh that made Margaret shiver, but she had not lost all her power; with a sudden wrench she threw off the woman's grasp, and springing to the window unloosened and opened it. It was on the ground floor, but even a fall would have been better than this life-and-death struggle in the darkness. The cool, keen night-air was refreshing. She drew a long breath and threw herself forward. It was in vain.
Jane had recovered from the momentary paralysis which Margaret's unexpected effort had caused her. She caught her round the waist, and dragging her back into the room threw her down upon the ground.
Then for a moment Margaret's consciousness deserted her. With a deep sigh she closed her eyes, but not even her weakness would come to her relief. Horror kept her senses alert. She opened her eyes to feel the cool night-air bathing her face, and to see the face of her enemy very close to her own.
Jane's knees were on Margaret's chest, her hand was uplifted to strike, but her victim opened her eyes and the hand fell. "You're not quite gone," she said—"only a sham, like t'other night. No more shams for you, fine lady; but, listen! a big one for me, and it'll help your last moments to hear it. You've destroyed yourself is to be my story to-morrow when the neighbors inquire—went out in the storm unbeknown to me—wasn't heard of no more."
Margaret closed her eyes again, but no cry for mercy came from her lips.
Jane Rodgers waited. It would have been a triumph to have heard the passionate prayers for which she had prepared herself to answer with mocking reference to former times. She stooped down. "Have you nothing to say?" she asked.
Still not a word, only the dark eyes opened, and the pure spirit seemed to look out calmly on the passionate, sin-stained mortal.
And still Jane waited. It seemed almost as if an invisible power had held back her hand.
In the moment given her Margaret was preparing to die. She looked her position calmly in the face. She could not struggle. All her strength seemed to have gone out of her in that last effort. Nothing was left but submission. It was hard. For the sake of others, for the sake of the future which was beginning to take fairer colors, she would have wished to live; and then in this kind of death there was something so revolting. To be put out of sight, to be cast like a dog into the waters, to leave behind her as a memory either the stain of self-destruction or the horrible nine days' wonder of a sickening murder. But would not words be thrown away? and strength she had none.
She could only pray with passionate intensity for help. With the prayer came calmness, and after it a strange thought that utterly absorbed her.
For the moment Margaret Grey forgot herself, forgot even the horror of her situation. She looked up into the haggard, desperate face bending over her, and her very soul was filled with a deep, boundless pity. Her thought was no more to save herself; it was to save this woman from the commission of a crime. A sudden sense of responsibility seemed to crush her down, a feeling that if this woman's soul were lost she would be to blame. It was a madness, a noble madness, but it gave her strength.
With an irresistible force she threw off the knees that were pressing out her life, and rising to her feet looked in her turn into the eyes of her bitter foe—a look that so astonished Jane as to render her for the moment helpless, for she saw her mistress's face as the face of an angel. Through the semi-darkness of the room those kind, sad eyes looked into hers, and seemed to draw away half her venom.
Then Margaret spoke in a soft, low tone that contrasted strangely with the fierce, savage words to which she had been forced to listen: "Poor foolish woman! why do you hate me so?"
Her words fell clear and unanswered in the silence. She went on gently, "If I have suspected you wrongfully, if I have caused you any kind of evil, I am heartily sorry; but oh, for your own sake, for the sake of all you hold dear, pause now before you do a deed that can never, through all eternity, be undone."
She paused a moment to gather strength: "I did not intend to ask you to spare me, but as I lay there helpless it came into my mind that if I suffered this deed to be done your blood-guiltiness would be on my head. You cannot hurt me much," she continued with a noble truthfulness, "for what is death? I have looked it in the face more than once—a bitter pang, no doubt, but a short one. I plead not formysake, but for yours—for your poor soul, which is perishing this night. In God's name I beseech you to spare it. Be wise in time, or at least—for the long night is before us—take an hour to consider. I will not escape—I will sit here in your sight. You were mad for the moment—these feelings of hatred had taken possession of you—God would not suffer—" She broke off suddenly, "Hark! what is that?"
"A knocking at the gate," said Jane, turning very pale. "Now's your time. You have gained time with your false tongue. I sha'n't be able to escape. You will have your revenge."
"Stop," said Margaret, holding her back, and there was heavenly forgiveness in her face. "Believe that I wish you no ill. Look at me, Jane. Do you see hatred or vengeance in my face? Forget these few awful moments. I will forgive, and we shall both thank God for ever for having saved as from an unspeakable horror. This is His hand; go down an your knees and thank Him."
"It is—it is!" said Jane, shivering, for her superstitious nature had been touched by the strange coincidence. Governed by a stronger will than her own, she knelt, while the tears rained down her face.
But the knocking began to grow desperate.
"You had better go," said Margaret quietly; "our visitor is impatient."
Obedient as a child, the woman who but a few moments before had been foaming with rage got up and went out. The cause of the noise was soon explained. A chaise was standing at the gate, the sound of whose approach had been unheard in the tumult of the night: an elderly woman had dismounted.
"Sae ye're not all deed and buried," she said briskly as the landlady showed her scared face at the gate. "I was rating the laddie here for misguiding o' an auld wife that micht hae bin his mither, for, thinks I to myself, sure and certain there's not a soul within, and a awfu' nicht it is to keep a body outside"—the old woman spoke quite reproachfully—"but noo I think on't," she continued, "ye're not living here your lane. One Mrs. Grey is lodgin' wi' you, for, as I tak it, you're the landleddy."
Jane was scarcely able to speak, but as silence gives consent the old woman proceeded to pay the boy, to gather up her parcels and to walk rapidly along the garden-path.
"An' hereisMrs. Grey her ainsel', as I canna doobt," she continued cheerfully, for Margaret had lighted the hall-lamp and was standing underneath it.
The old Scotchwoman looked round her scrutinizingly as she passed into the lighted hall. There was a certain appearance of repressed excitement about both Margaret and the landlady that did not escape her shrewd old eyes. "Bless me, how wild they look!" was her mental ejaculation, but she refrained from all expression of her feelings.
Mrs. Foster understood her manners. She prided herself on this, that she knew a lady the moment she set her eyes upon her. Whatever Mrs. Grey might turn out to be, old Martha was satisfied at once that she was a lady, and she acted accordingly. She dropped a little old-fashioned curtsey, and the excitement of her first arrival having in a measure passed, brought forward her best English to do honor to the occasion:
"You'll be astonished, madam, and with reason, to see an old woman drop down from the skies, as we may say, and at this hour of the night, too. But I've brought my credentials with me, and, like mony anither, my young gentleman likesto do everything in a hurry. Here's the letter which will explain a sight better than I can."
"Come in, come in," said Margaret; then to Jane, who was looking at her in a strange scrutinizing manner, "Bring the candles into the parlor, Jane; then come in and consider how we are to provide for our guest. I am sure she is heartily welcome, for I see Mr. Forrest has sent her."
Margaret's words had the desired effect. They set Jane's mind at rest. She saw it was not her mistress's intention to make any revelation about the scene that had preceded the old woman's arrival. Bewildered and dazed, she found her way to the kitchen, mechanically did as she was told, and returned to the parlor to find the old woman quietly divesting herself of bonnet and shawl and looking round with the air of one who had taken possession.
Old Martha seemed in fact to be the only capable person in the house, for Margaret had fallen back on the sofa white and trembling. Up to the moment of the old woman's arrival she had been sustained by her overpowering excitement. In the pleasant, warm security she began to feel a certain reaction, a sudden collapse of power.
And the landlady, notwithstanding her vigorous efforts to recover her self-possession, looked rather scared. It was such a contrast—from the horror and darkness to the light and pleasant security. But our life is strange; the common things seize and silence the dramatic crises, and we drop naturally into the old channels. The first access of alarm over, Jane Rodgers put on her apron, smoothed back her hair and set about the common tasks of relighting the kitchen fire, preparing tea and airing sheets for the old woman's bed, just as if that awful night's experience had never been. And Margaret swallowed a glass of wine, fought down her longing for tears, and found herself in a few moments looking with tranquil pleasure at her old treasures, the rings and bracelets which Martha Foster had returned, and listening quietly to the old woman's lively description of Mr. Arthur's babyhood and early youth. Martha never imagined this could be anything but interesting, and to have begun so soon on her pet subject was a high mark of the old woman's favor.
Margaret believed she had conquered Jane Rodgers's fiercehatred—for the moment at least—yet it was with a feeling of devout thankfulness that she noticed how, of her own accord, the landlady had arranged for Martha Foster to sleep in the little closet which opened from her bedroom.
They all retired early, and the stormy evening closed in peace.
Oh, trust me, never fellBy love a spirit or earthly or of heaven:Rather by love they are regenerate.Love is the happy privilege of mind—Love is the reason of all living things.
Margaret's work was not over. In that transcendent moment when death was staring her in the face she had made a certain resolution, and the security that followed the danger did not make her shrink from carrying it out. Strange but true; the words in which she had striven with the desperate spirit of evil that had taken possession of Jane Rodgers actually represented her state of mind at the time. Margaret had thrown herself out of herself. With the renovating power of the intensest pity she had looked into the troubled spirit which was revealing itself in all its unutterable depths of misery, and she had resolved to save it even from itself. Hence it was that instead of the abject cries self-pity would have drawn from the proudest heart at this supreme crisis, her words had been calm, self-contained, spoken with an authority which to the half-crazed brain of the desperate woman was so strange as to seem mysterious and supernatural.
This it was that had saved Margaret at least from severe bodily harm. In sheer astonishment the woman's hand had been stayed, and before the wicked impulse could return help was at the door. The help had come so strangely that Jane's superstitious fears were confirmed. She began to think her mistress possessed some secret power. The idea cowed her. She became abject in her dread. She looked upon the womanshe had injured as one surrounded by invisible protectors, ready at a moment's notice to come to her assistance.
Even on that first evening Margaret had read a part at least of this in her landlady's face. The sullen frown did not leave Jane's brow, but the defiance had gone. It was a change for the better, yet Margaret was not satisfied; she wanted more than this. She had felt on that night like one in actual contact with the wild powers of darkness, struggling at the very mouth of the bottomless pit for a lost soul; and the impression continued. With the perseverance of a dominant idea that haunts the mind it followed her through her sleep. She seemed to hear the despairing cries of a dying soul; she seemed to see the mocking smiles of fiends who were waiting, like the vultures of the sandy wastes, till the last convulsive throes should be over to claim the lost thing for their own; she seemed to feel the last speechless agony, the outer darkness of despair.
Once she awoke, for the oppression was choking her, and when the waking reality of the dream came back in all its fulness she rose and knelt by her bed. "Thou hast savedme, my God," she prayed; "givemethe power of saving, of helping to salvation, this wandering spirit." After that she was calmer; she was able to lie and watch, as she scarcely cared to sleep again, for the breaking of the morning, and to think and plan about the best method of carrying out her noble work.
"Love is the antidote of hatred," thought Margaret; "I will teach this woman to love, and perhaps love may be a ladder of life to her soul."
The morning broke slowly. She threw open her window and watched how it spread itself over sea and sky. Then there was a stir in the village. Windows and doors were opened, carts began to move heavily in the streets, and the steps of passing laborers could be distinctly heard.
Margaret bowed her head upon her hand. "They come from homes," she murmured; "they will go back to them to-night. My home is not."
But a rosy light spread itself over the sea; the waves that were rolling steadily in to the shore caught on their rebound a glow as of sapphire. It was the sun, and the sun broughthope. Then came movement in the house; it showed that Jane was astir. Margaret's mind went back to its planning. After a few moments' thought she wrapped her dressing-gown round her and crept on tip-toe to the door of the room where Martha Foster slept. The old woman was sleeping the sleep of the righteous. Margaret closed the door of communication; and then she rang the bell. Before her landlady could harden her heart against her Margaret wished to make some impression. While the scene of the past night was still fresh in her mind she might be more ready to hear the words of love and forgiveness Margaret had prepared herself to utter.
Some minutes passed before Jane appeared. She was at a loss to imagine what the object of her mistress could be. Jane had awoke that morning like one who has been under the power of a fearful nightmare. She could scarcely believe at first that shewasherself, and that she was actually free from crime. But when she did, she felt for the first time in her life an emotion of earnest thankfulness to the Power, visible or invisible, which had withheld her hand.
For Jane had always been a prudent woman. As a general rule her passions had been kept in check by some stronger motive-power. Cupidity, self-love, interest, a strong desire for that paradise of a certain class, respectability and independence, keen common sense that showed the folly of a momentary gratification of passion, followed by a life-long repentance,—these had hitherto kept her from all the grosser forms of sin.