CHAPTER XXVFate delights in playing mankind spiteful tricks.The present instance is no exception. Lauraine has sunk back into her chair, faint and spent with emotion; scarcely conscious, indeed, of what is going on around her; and in this state her husband's rough voice breaks upon her ear."What the devil's the matter? I met Athelstone flying out like a bomb-shell, and you look like a ghost. Have you been having a—fraternal quarrel?"She starts to her feet and looks at him with wild, wide eyes. "Francis, you—" she gasps."You don't seem very pleased to see me," says her husband, looking at her suspiciously. "What on earth have you been doing with yourself? You look as ill as possible." He takes her hand and kisses her carelessly on the cheek as he speaks."I have not been well," she falters, trying for composure, "and Etwynde asked me to come to her for a few weeks, and I thought the change would do me good. How is it you are in London? Did you know I was here?""Yes. I got your letter at the club and came on. I only arrived last night."He throws himself into a chair, and looks at her curiously. "What was the row with Athelstone?—you haven't told me." Lauraine grows very white."He is going abroad—away for years. His engagement is all over. He came to say good-bye."Sir Francis gives a long whistle."Nom de Dieu? Is that so? And have you had a hand in breaking it off, my lady?""What do you mean?" she asks, looking at him with grave surprise."Mean? Oh, you and Keith were such chums always. I thought he had done it because you—objected. I know you never liked the marriage.""It had nothing to do with me," says Lauraine coldly. "And the girl was very fond of him. I am sorry for her.""It strikes me that Jean wasn't so far out, after all," says Sir Francis, with a harsh laugh. "You and Keithdoseem to have a remarkably good understanding with each other."Lauraine looks at him, her eyes dark with anger. "Since when have you taken to speak so familiarly of Lady Jean Salomans?" she asks; "and by what right does she discuss my actions with you?""Come, that won't do," says her husband, throwing himself back in his chair, and looking at her defiantly. "It's rather too like the proverb of the pot and the kettle. You discuss me with Keith Athelstone, I have no doubt, and—other things too.""Do you mean to insult me?" asks Lauraine, rising from her seat, and looking steadily at him. He shrugs his shoulders."You are always so tragic. Insult you? No. Only before you question my actions, it might be as well to look at your own. Are they quite—blameless?"She stands there, and all the colour fades from her face; her limbs tremble. "I will not affect to misunderstand you," she says slowly. "But——"He interrupted her roughly. "Don't trouble to explain. Of course we all know you aresans reproche. Only don't turn the cold shoulder to other women, when you yourself are no better than they—seem. Were I a jealous husband I should have forbidden Keith Athelstone your presence long ere this.""There would have been no need," she says proudly. "I am not a woman to forget honour and self-respect.""Oh, fine words are easy," scoffs her husband. "To the untempted virtue is no merit. And although any one could see Keith Athelstone was making himself a fool about you, yet you never cared a straw for him. If you had——""Well?" she asks, very low, as he pauses.He laughs again. "You would have been no better than—others, I suppose. What you call self-respect is only another word for cold-heartedness."Lauraine thinks of the scene through which she has just passed. Cold-hearted? Well, if she be, she thanks God for the fact. That her husband should speak thus to her fills her with an intense shame. After all, would he have cared so very much, if—— The evil thought coils round her like a serpent, she feels sick and stifled, and full of pain and fear."I am going to my room," she says hurriedly. "Will you excuse me? I—I am not very well.""Ma chére," laughs her husband roughly, "one doesn't stand on ceremony after a few years of married life. Don't stay here for me. I'm off too, now. I have heaps of things to do.""Will you dine with us to-night?" asks Lauraine."To-night? Well, yes. I suppose it will look better, and I should like to see what sort of fellow your æsthetic friend has captured. Jove! if men only knew what fools they are to marry!"But Lauraine has left. Sir Francis takes up his hat. His face is dark and disturbed."Jean was right. There is something," he mutters. "But Lauraine is not like—her. Should I be better pleased if she were? Sometimes I think I would give the world for freedom; and yet——"The door opens. Lady Etwynde sweeps in, as radiant and fair a vision as eyes could wish to behold."Sir Francis! You here, and alone! Why, where is Lauraine?""Gone to her room. Not well, or tired, or something," he says, as he shakes hands. "I am glad you have had her here; she mopes herself to death down at the Chase. I can't see what she is so fond of it for. I detest it myself.""There are associations, you see," says Lady Etwynde. "Her child was born there, and there died."He feels somewhat ashamed. He thinks of his wife—how young, how sorrowful she looked; how all the life and radiance seemed crushed out of her heart. But then the old weariness and impatience assert themselves. Life with Lauraine has been so flat and monotonous."Well, at all events it does not agree with her," he says, brusquely. "I was glad to find her in town. I got her letter at the club.""Will you dine with us to-night?" asks Lady Etwynde. "We are quite alone, so it won't be very lively, and you have had so much brilliant society lately."He looks quickly at her. He is always suspicious of women's words; always given to looking under them for some hidden meaning. But Lady Etwynde's face is innocence itself."Thanks. Yes. I told Lauraine I would come," he says, not very cordially, for indeed an evening with these two women looks a dreary penance to him."And you will stay here, will you not?" says Lady Etwynde. "You won't go back to an hotel while Lauraine is in town?""Oh, I could not think of inflicting myself upon you," he says hurriedly: "and it is such a flying visit—thanks all the same. And now, good-bye till to-night.""Good-bye," says Lady Etwynde coldly. She thinks his behaviour both strange and callous, and very uncomplimentary to his wife. Then he leaves, and she goes to Lauraine, and finds her lying in a darkened room, white, and spent and exhausted."My dear, what is it?" she asks, in alarm. "Has anything happened? Are you ill?" For a moment Lauraine hesitates. Then the sight of the sweet, compassionate face melts the hardness that she fain would keep about her heart, and in a few broken words she relates the whole sad tale of that interview and farewell."My only comfort is that at last he will go—surely he will leave me," she says, in conclusion. "Indeed, it is time. The strain is more than I can bear. Besides, Sir Francis has noticed it—he said so; and his words were scarce a greater insult than I deserved, for if I have not sinned as the world counts sin, yet I have not been guiltless—far from it."Lady Etwynde looks at her wistfully. In her own great happiness she can feel tenfold the sorrowful fate of these sundered lives. "And he is going to break off his marriage?" she says anxiously."Yes," says Lauraine. "He says to go through with it is beyond his power.""Poor fellow!" exclaims Lady Etwynde, with involuntary compassion.She is angry with him, and yet sorry for him, for he has proved so faithful; and, after all, is any love quite unselfish if it be worth the name?"My poor Lauraine!" she murmurs involuntarily. "Your marriage has indeed been a fatal error; but, as I have said before, there remains nothing but to make the best of it. The only thing for you and Keith is separation. All other feelings except that one forbidden one are a poor pretence. I feared that long ago. I am glad you have been so brave, and he too. Believe me, hard as duty is, the very effort of doing it creates strength for further trials. The consciousness of right is a satisfaction in itself, even when one is misjudged."Lauraine listens, and the tears stand on her lashes, and roll slowly down her cheeks."My life is very hard," she says bitterly."Would it be less hard if you had ceased to respect yourself, if you had lost the creeds and faiths which still make honour your one anchor of safety? I think not.""I can think of nothing now save him and his unhappiness," cries Lauraine wildly. "I have never loved him as I love him to-day. Oh! I know it is wrong, shameful to say such a thing; but it is the truth, and I must speak it—this once. Why, do you know that when he said good-bye to me I could have flung myself at his feet and said, 'Let the world go by, let sin or misery be my portion for evermore—only do not you leave me!' It seemed as if nothing in life was worth anything beside one hour of love! And yet—well, how good an actress I must be, Etwynde—he called me cold-hearted.""Thank God he did!" exclaims Lady Etwynde. "Oh, Lauraine, your good angel must have saved you to-day. I did not think it had come to this; and I cannot find it in my heart to blame you, for—I love too.""And my husband taunted me with being no better than other women, simply because I had never been tempted," continues Lauraine presently. "Well, perhaps in heart I am not. He may have been right, and virtue is, after all, only a matter of—temperament.""Oh, hush! I cannot bear to hear you talk like that," cries Lady Etwynde. "Does he—does Sir Francis suspect anything?""He said he knew Keith loved me," answers Lauraine wearily. "Fancy hearing one's husband speak of the love of another man! I felt treacherous—shamed in his sight and my own. He could not understand—he would not believe in the long, long struggle, the pain, the suffering of it all. I feel as if conscience and honour had both suffered in the conflict, as if with my child I had lost all that was pure and of any worth in me. And now the world may say what it likes. I don't care even to contradict it.""That is not true," exclaims Lady Etwynde. "You have struggled nobly, you have done your best, and the fruits of the victory will be yours in time. At least you hold the hope of meeting your little child, innocent and unshamed, despite fierce tempting and all the weariness and sorrow of your life."Lauraine's tears fall faster and more fast."My child! Oh, why was he not left to me? The touch of his innocent kiss, the sound of his voice, the clasp of his arms were strong as all the chains of duty cannot be. And now there is no one—no one. And I am so lonely, so desolate, and life looks so long, and death so far away!"The tears rush to Lady Etwynde's eyes. "Oh, my darling! What can I say to comfort you? Do you know, Lauraine once—in years that are gone—when I felt reckless and despairing as yourself, I left the house, and went out full of some wild resolve too terrible to mention. It was a Sunday evening, I remember well. The bells were sounding everywhere, and I walked on through the quiet streets with madness in my heart. Suddenly, as I passed the open door of a church, I heard a voice singing. Involuntarily I stopped, listened, entered. It was a large church, and full of people. Some one gave me a chair, and I sank down wearily enough. Then, pealing above the chords of the organ, floating up to the great vaulted roof, I heard again the beautiful voice, and it sang these words: 'O rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart's desire.' You know them, do you not, and the music that weds them so exquisitely from the 'Elijah'? I knelt there with my head bowed on my hands, and the tears falling down my cheeks. I remembered nothing; neither place nor presence. It only seemed as if an angel's voice was breathing comfort to my passion-wrecked soul, as if that beautiful promise fell over my spirit and brought peace, and healing, and rest.' 'Thy heart's desire!' Oh, Lauraine, think of that! Twelve long years ago that message came to me, and I was comforted! Twelve years, and now Godhasfulfilled His promise. My heart's desire is mine."Lauraine has listened, stilled and awed."Thy heart's desire." The words sink into her very soul, and wake a thousand varied emotions."But my 'heart's desire' is all wrong—all sin—whichever way I look at it," she says, half despairingly."God can make it right," whispers Lady Etwynde drawing the white, sad face down upon her bosom, and softly kissing the weary lips. "If you can take those words home to your heart as I did, my darling, your burden will grow easier to bear; the strength you ask for will be given. Oh, life is hard, terribly hard, I know! There is so much sorrow, so little joy; and then the errors, the sins which beset, the weakness that shackles us!—but still, still, we are not triedbeyondour strength, and we may be able at last to look back and see it was all for the best!""What would I not give to recall these last four years!" cries Lauraine bitterly. "How different my life might have been!""There's no turning back," says Lady Etywnde solemnly. "Errors, once committed, are irrevocable; for them we must suffer; by them we must abide. Ah, my dear! who would not live their time again if they might, and by the light of the present alter all the mistakes of the past? But it cannot be done. All the remorse and all the regret are so futile. Tears of blood cannot wash away one memory, take out the sting of one mistake. We must just bear life as it is, till Death seals all its woes into forgetfulness.""You are so good," cries Lauraine sadly. "I am not like you. I am wicked and rebellious, and I cannot accept my fate with patience, even though I know my own past weakness is to blame for all my present misery.""I am not good. Do not praise me," says Lady Etwynde humbly. "And I know I do not deserve my present happiness. It makes me fearful of my great joy. For I was so wicked and rebellious once, and I wonder often that God did not take my life instead of sparing it, and blessing it as He has done. Now, darling, you look worn out, and must need rest. I will leave you for awhile. If your husband suspects anything you must try and banish such suspicions, or your married life will grow yet more unhappy. The great wrench is over, the worst is past. Time, and the consciousness of having done what is right, will give you peace and comfort at last. Youth and strength are yours still, and many good gifts of life, and if you throw yourself into others' sufferings, and widen your sympathy with the interests and trials of those around you, believe me it will do much to making your own troubles less. I speak from an experience as bitter as, if less hopeless, than your own." And once more kissing the closed lips which seem too weary for tears, she lays Lauraine back on the pillows, and softly leaves the room."'Thy heart's desire!'" Lauraine cries to herself. "Oh, God—not that—not that should be my prayer. Teach my heart to say, 'Thy will, not mine!'"
Fate delights in playing mankind spiteful tricks.
The present instance is no exception. Lauraine has sunk back into her chair, faint and spent with emotion; scarcely conscious, indeed, of what is going on around her; and in this state her husband's rough voice breaks upon her ear.
"What the devil's the matter? I met Athelstone flying out like a bomb-shell, and you look like a ghost. Have you been having a—fraternal quarrel?"
She starts to her feet and looks at him with wild, wide eyes. "Francis, you—" she gasps.
"You don't seem very pleased to see me," says her husband, looking at her suspiciously. "What on earth have you been doing with yourself? You look as ill as possible." He takes her hand and kisses her carelessly on the cheek as he speaks.
"I have not been well," she falters, trying for composure, "and Etwynde asked me to come to her for a few weeks, and I thought the change would do me good. How is it you are in London? Did you know I was here?"
"Yes. I got your letter at the club and came on. I only arrived last night."
He throws himself into a chair, and looks at her curiously. "What was the row with Athelstone?—you haven't told me." Lauraine grows very white.
"He is going abroad—away for years. His engagement is all over. He came to say good-bye."
Sir Francis gives a long whistle.
"Nom de Dieu? Is that so? And have you had a hand in breaking it off, my lady?"
"What do you mean?" she asks, looking at him with grave surprise.
"Mean? Oh, you and Keith were such chums always. I thought he had done it because you—objected. I know you never liked the marriage."
"It had nothing to do with me," says Lauraine coldly. "And the girl was very fond of him. I am sorry for her."
"It strikes me that Jean wasn't so far out, after all," says Sir Francis, with a harsh laugh. "You and Keithdoseem to have a remarkably good understanding with each other."
Lauraine looks at him, her eyes dark with anger. "Since when have you taken to speak so familiarly of Lady Jean Salomans?" she asks; "and by what right does she discuss my actions with you?"
"Come, that won't do," says her husband, throwing himself back in his chair, and looking at her defiantly. "It's rather too like the proverb of the pot and the kettle. You discuss me with Keith Athelstone, I have no doubt, and—other things too."
"Do you mean to insult me?" asks Lauraine, rising from her seat, and looking steadily at him. He shrugs his shoulders.
"You are always so tragic. Insult you? No. Only before you question my actions, it might be as well to look at your own. Are they quite—blameless?"
She stands there, and all the colour fades from her face; her limbs tremble. "I will not affect to misunderstand you," she says slowly. "But——"
He interrupted her roughly. "Don't trouble to explain. Of course we all know you aresans reproche. Only don't turn the cold shoulder to other women, when you yourself are no better than they—seem. Were I a jealous husband I should have forbidden Keith Athelstone your presence long ere this."
"There would have been no need," she says proudly. "I am not a woman to forget honour and self-respect."
"Oh, fine words are easy," scoffs her husband. "To the untempted virtue is no merit. And although any one could see Keith Athelstone was making himself a fool about you, yet you never cared a straw for him. If you had——"
"Well?" she asks, very low, as he pauses.
He laughs again. "You would have been no better than—others, I suppose. What you call self-respect is only another word for cold-heartedness."
Lauraine thinks of the scene through which she has just passed. Cold-hearted? Well, if she be, she thanks God for the fact. That her husband should speak thus to her fills her with an intense shame. After all, would he have cared so very much, if—— The evil thought coils round her like a serpent, she feels sick and stifled, and full of pain and fear.
"I am going to my room," she says hurriedly. "Will you excuse me? I—I am not very well."
"Ma chére," laughs her husband roughly, "one doesn't stand on ceremony after a few years of married life. Don't stay here for me. I'm off too, now. I have heaps of things to do."
"Will you dine with us to-night?" asks Lauraine.
"To-night? Well, yes. I suppose it will look better, and I should like to see what sort of fellow your æsthetic friend has captured. Jove! if men only knew what fools they are to marry!"
But Lauraine has left. Sir Francis takes up his hat. His face is dark and disturbed.
"Jean was right. There is something," he mutters. "But Lauraine is not like—her. Should I be better pleased if she were? Sometimes I think I would give the world for freedom; and yet——"
The door opens. Lady Etwynde sweeps in, as radiant and fair a vision as eyes could wish to behold.
"Sir Francis! You here, and alone! Why, where is Lauraine?"
"Gone to her room. Not well, or tired, or something," he says, as he shakes hands. "I am glad you have had her here; she mopes herself to death down at the Chase. I can't see what she is so fond of it for. I detest it myself."
"There are associations, you see," says Lady Etwynde. "Her child was born there, and there died."
He feels somewhat ashamed. He thinks of his wife—how young, how sorrowful she looked; how all the life and radiance seemed crushed out of her heart. But then the old weariness and impatience assert themselves. Life with Lauraine has been so flat and monotonous.
"Well, at all events it does not agree with her," he says, brusquely. "I was glad to find her in town. I got her letter at the club."
"Will you dine with us to-night?" asks Lady Etwynde. "We are quite alone, so it won't be very lively, and you have had so much brilliant society lately."
He looks quickly at her. He is always suspicious of women's words; always given to looking under them for some hidden meaning. But Lady Etwynde's face is innocence itself.
"Thanks. Yes. I told Lauraine I would come," he says, not very cordially, for indeed an evening with these two women looks a dreary penance to him.
"And you will stay here, will you not?" says Lady Etwynde. "You won't go back to an hotel while Lauraine is in town?"
"Oh, I could not think of inflicting myself upon you," he says hurriedly: "and it is such a flying visit—thanks all the same. And now, good-bye till to-night."
"Good-bye," says Lady Etwynde coldly. She thinks his behaviour both strange and callous, and very uncomplimentary to his wife. Then he leaves, and she goes to Lauraine, and finds her lying in a darkened room, white, and spent and exhausted.
"My dear, what is it?" she asks, in alarm. "Has anything happened? Are you ill?" For a moment Lauraine hesitates. Then the sight of the sweet, compassionate face melts the hardness that she fain would keep about her heart, and in a few broken words she relates the whole sad tale of that interview and farewell.
"My only comfort is that at last he will go—surely he will leave me," she says, in conclusion. "Indeed, it is time. The strain is more than I can bear. Besides, Sir Francis has noticed it—he said so; and his words were scarce a greater insult than I deserved, for if I have not sinned as the world counts sin, yet I have not been guiltless—far from it."
Lady Etwynde looks at her wistfully. In her own great happiness she can feel tenfold the sorrowful fate of these sundered lives. "And he is going to break off his marriage?" she says anxiously.
"Yes," says Lauraine. "He says to go through with it is beyond his power."
"Poor fellow!" exclaims Lady Etwynde, with involuntary compassion.
She is angry with him, and yet sorry for him, for he has proved so faithful; and, after all, is any love quite unselfish if it be worth the name?
"My poor Lauraine!" she murmurs involuntarily. "Your marriage has indeed been a fatal error; but, as I have said before, there remains nothing but to make the best of it. The only thing for you and Keith is separation. All other feelings except that one forbidden one are a poor pretence. I feared that long ago. I am glad you have been so brave, and he too. Believe me, hard as duty is, the very effort of doing it creates strength for further trials. The consciousness of right is a satisfaction in itself, even when one is misjudged."
Lauraine listens, and the tears stand on her lashes, and roll slowly down her cheeks.
"My life is very hard," she says bitterly.
"Would it be less hard if you had ceased to respect yourself, if you had lost the creeds and faiths which still make honour your one anchor of safety? I think not."
"I can think of nothing now save him and his unhappiness," cries Lauraine wildly. "I have never loved him as I love him to-day. Oh! I know it is wrong, shameful to say such a thing; but it is the truth, and I must speak it—this once. Why, do you know that when he said good-bye to me I could have flung myself at his feet and said, 'Let the world go by, let sin or misery be my portion for evermore—only do not you leave me!' It seemed as if nothing in life was worth anything beside one hour of love! And yet—well, how good an actress I must be, Etwynde—he called me cold-hearted."
"Thank God he did!" exclaims Lady Etwynde. "Oh, Lauraine, your good angel must have saved you to-day. I did not think it had come to this; and I cannot find it in my heart to blame you, for—I love too."
"And my husband taunted me with being no better than other women, simply because I had never been tempted," continues Lauraine presently. "Well, perhaps in heart I am not. He may have been right, and virtue is, after all, only a matter of—temperament."
"Oh, hush! I cannot bear to hear you talk like that," cries Lady Etwynde. "Does he—does Sir Francis suspect anything?"
"He said he knew Keith loved me," answers Lauraine wearily. "Fancy hearing one's husband speak of the love of another man! I felt treacherous—shamed in his sight and my own. He could not understand—he would not believe in the long, long struggle, the pain, the suffering of it all. I feel as if conscience and honour had both suffered in the conflict, as if with my child I had lost all that was pure and of any worth in me. And now the world may say what it likes. I don't care even to contradict it."
"That is not true," exclaims Lady Etwynde. "You have struggled nobly, you have done your best, and the fruits of the victory will be yours in time. At least you hold the hope of meeting your little child, innocent and unshamed, despite fierce tempting and all the weariness and sorrow of your life."
Lauraine's tears fall faster and more fast.
"My child! Oh, why was he not left to me? The touch of his innocent kiss, the sound of his voice, the clasp of his arms were strong as all the chains of duty cannot be. And now there is no one—no one. And I am so lonely, so desolate, and life looks so long, and death so far away!"
The tears rush to Lady Etwynde's eyes. "Oh, my darling! What can I say to comfort you? Do you know, Lauraine once—in years that are gone—when I felt reckless and despairing as yourself, I left the house, and went out full of some wild resolve too terrible to mention. It was a Sunday evening, I remember well. The bells were sounding everywhere, and I walked on through the quiet streets with madness in my heart. Suddenly, as I passed the open door of a church, I heard a voice singing. Involuntarily I stopped, listened, entered. It was a large church, and full of people. Some one gave me a chair, and I sank down wearily enough. Then, pealing above the chords of the organ, floating up to the great vaulted roof, I heard again the beautiful voice, and it sang these words: 'O rest in the Lord; wait patiently for Him, and He shall give thee thy heart's desire.' You know them, do you not, and the music that weds them so exquisitely from the 'Elijah'? I knelt there with my head bowed on my hands, and the tears falling down my cheeks. I remembered nothing; neither place nor presence. It only seemed as if an angel's voice was breathing comfort to my passion-wrecked soul, as if that beautiful promise fell over my spirit and brought peace, and healing, and rest.' 'Thy heart's desire!' Oh, Lauraine, think of that! Twelve long years ago that message came to me, and I was comforted! Twelve years, and now Godhasfulfilled His promise. My heart's desire is mine."
Lauraine has listened, stilled and awed.
"Thy heart's desire." The words sink into her very soul, and wake a thousand varied emotions.
"But my 'heart's desire' is all wrong—all sin—whichever way I look at it," she says, half despairingly.
"God can make it right," whispers Lady Etwynde drawing the white, sad face down upon her bosom, and softly kissing the weary lips. "If you can take those words home to your heart as I did, my darling, your burden will grow easier to bear; the strength you ask for will be given. Oh, life is hard, terribly hard, I know! There is so much sorrow, so little joy; and then the errors, the sins which beset, the weakness that shackles us!—but still, still, we are not triedbeyondour strength, and we may be able at last to look back and see it was all for the best!"
"What would I not give to recall these last four years!" cries Lauraine bitterly. "How different my life might have been!"
"There's no turning back," says Lady Etywnde solemnly. "Errors, once committed, are irrevocable; for them we must suffer; by them we must abide. Ah, my dear! who would not live their time again if they might, and by the light of the present alter all the mistakes of the past? But it cannot be done. All the remorse and all the regret are so futile. Tears of blood cannot wash away one memory, take out the sting of one mistake. We must just bear life as it is, till Death seals all its woes into forgetfulness."
"You are so good," cries Lauraine sadly. "I am not like you. I am wicked and rebellious, and I cannot accept my fate with patience, even though I know my own past weakness is to blame for all my present misery."
"I am not good. Do not praise me," says Lady Etwynde humbly. "And I know I do not deserve my present happiness. It makes me fearful of my great joy. For I was so wicked and rebellious once, and I wonder often that God did not take my life instead of sparing it, and blessing it as He has done. Now, darling, you look worn out, and must need rest. I will leave you for awhile. If your husband suspects anything you must try and banish such suspicions, or your married life will grow yet more unhappy. The great wrench is over, the worst is past. Time, and the consciousness of having done what is right, will give you peace and comfort at last. Youth and strength are yours still, and many good gifts of life, and if you throw yourself into others' sufferings, and widen your sympathy with the interests and trials of those around you, believe me it will do much to making your own troubles less. I speak from an experience as bitter as, if less hopeless, than your own." And once more kissing the closed lips which seem too weary for tears, she lays Lauraine back on the pillows, and softly leaves the room.
"'Thy heart's desire!'" Lauraine cries to herself. "Oh, God—not that—not that should be my prayer. Teach my heart to say, 'Thy will, not mine!'"