"And what was the moral?" asked Arthur.
"An unloved life or some such sentimental rubbish."
He tried to laugh off the impression, but Arthur, who was deeply interested, said nothing to change the subject, and almost in spite of himself, as it were, Maurice returned to it.
"Strange how this haunts me!" he muttered. "'An unloved life!'—poets' trash. Women can always console themselves, and the misery of the fair is given rather to reclining on velvet and down than shivering out in the snow."
He laughed aloud, and raising his glass drained it at a draught; but there came a sudden change over his face, his brows knit, his hands worked convulsively. "If I had been mistaken—" he murmured, and his head sank upon his breast. Then, as the futility of his vague thoughts flashed over him, he raised it again. "There is no peace but in forgetfulness," he cried, and pouring out a glass of raw spirit he tossed it down his throat.
There followed a few moments of silence which Arthur feared to break, then Maurice looked across at him with a sad smile. "Young man," he said, "it is a good thing to be happy. Misery and remorse change a man woefully. Ah, it is wonderful," he continued, and there was a plaintive ring in his voice—"wonderful to think how entirely they can change us—how we become morose, dark, fretful—how we look for the old landmarks and find them gone, vanished like a dream—how we become absolutely others than ourselves!"
Arthur's voice was husky as he questioned: "Remorse! what have you to do with that?"
"I once thought nothing. Great God!"—he lifted his gleaming eyes; in the agony of the moment he seemed to have forgotten his companion—"we cannot all have patience like to Thine; and I thought I acted for the best. I took away my obnoxious presence, I left her to her chosen pleasures, I fled from my own disgrace."
His head sank. Emotion, fatigue, strong drink had combined to unnerve him utterly. "The face in the picture is hers," he continued in a low, broken voice; "last night I saw her so—pale, wasted by misery, an outcast—and I opened my arms to take her to a shelter, but she fled from me with horror."
Arthur was listening with an interest so deep and earnest that for a moment he forgot his self-imposed caution. He started forward impulsively, and gazing into the bloodshot eyes of the man who faced him, "It was a lying dream," he cried. "She—"
But he broke off suddenly, for Maurice looked at him in a strange, questioning manner. He could have bitten off his tongue for its betrayal. "I mean—I mean—" he explained falteringly, "it was a strange dream."
His explanation could not mend matters; the mischief was done. Maurice was sufficiently himself to be able to detect a certain reality in those first hasty words. He looked at Arthur with suspicion. Could it be possible that the young man knew something of his history? The bare idea made him hastily resume his cloak of proud reserve.
He drew himself up, composed his face, and threw out his hands with a yawn: "I really should crave your indulgence. Something has come over me to-night. I feel as if I had been talking a considerable amount of nonsense." He shook his fist at the whisky-bottle. "There's the traitor. Then," bending his head courteously, "it is long since I have enjoyed anything so pleasant as an evening gossip with a friend. Really, the worst of this kind of life is the difficulty of passing one's evening. Come! a recipe for killing the time: what do you advise?"
"I know no means but endurance," replied Arthur, trying to speak lightly, though his heart was full, for the earnestness had left Maurice's face, the smile of the cynic was playing round his lips.
Indignant and disappointed, Arthur turned away, in case his less manageable features should betray him. The sphere of his experience was narrow, and therefore it was that in this relapse to his indifferent mood he failed to sympathize with Maurice.
It is only when the world has given thrust upon thrust to the heart, it is only when the dreary cry, "Vanity of vanities!" has written itself in all its desolation on the spirit, that these rapid changes from grave to gay, from deep earnestness to bitter cynicism, can be understood; for they are the product of the world's harsh lessons, the carrying out into practice of a creed taught by repeated disappointments. They speak of the soul's fear of revealing itself. Its best and its highest it would cover over with the frost-work of frivolity and cynicism, lest the pearls of its spiritual being should be trampled under the feet of swine.
Too often, unhappily, the result is that the pearls are buried irrecoverably and for ever, that the soul gains the indifference it assumes—an undying heritage of bitterness.
Ah! it is sad, infinitely sad, to think of a soul torn, ruined, in its struggles with wayward fate—too sad, if there were no beyond. But if man be weak, God is merciful. It may be that for the disappointed there is a haven, after all, in the great Hereafter to which all humanity is hastening.
Oh, she was fair: her nature once all spring
And deadly beauty, like a maiden sword—
Startlingly beautiful. I see her now!
That was the end of anything like confidential intercourse between Maurice Grey and the young Arthur, so far as the evening passed in the chalet was concerned. They were both tired, and Maurice had once more allowed himself to take rather more strong drink than was good for him.
It was a new fault. Hitherto, in all his dark moods, through his dreary solitude, and, to him, almost as dreary times of gayety, he had always respected himself so far as to refrain from drowning his sorrows in so contemptible a way. Now, it seemed as though a crisis in his fate had come, as though he were destined to be swept away utterly in the numbing torrent of misery and loneliness.
Arthur had to assist him to bed that evening, for he was almost incapable of doing anything for himself. The young man recovered very soon from the indignant displeasure into which Maurice's cynicism had thrown him. He saw the weary man, overcome as much perhaps by emotion and fatigue as by what he had taken, sink into a deep sleep, and a dim idea of the truth dawned in upon his mind. It softened him so much that he could scarcely keep from tears as he looked on the face of his new friend, so fine in all its outlines, yet so evidently wasted by care. And this was the long-sought, the earnestly-desired—Margaret's husband, the arbiter of her destinies, the object of her changeless love.
Arthur felt a new love stirring in his heart; he treated his companion with a tender reverence.
He had some difficulty and met a few harsh words before he could rouse Maurice so far as to half lead, half drag him, into his small bedroom. When at last his efforts had been successful, when he saw him resting in the death-like immobility of sleep upon the pillow, he half trembled about the effect upon Maurice's morning mood of this little night-episode. Would he be humiliated at the remembrance of the weakness into which he had been betrayed, and shut up his heart still more from his companion?
Arthur might have spared himself the trouble of forming any conjecture on the subject. Maurice the next morning remembered very little of his strange revelations, and nothing whatever of the torpor that succeeded.
"I must have been tolerably done up last night," he said lightly when they met at the breakfast-table. "I don't really know how I got to bed. I think I must have undressed in my sleep."
"You seemed half asleep," said Arthur cautiously. "When we separated I was pretty far gone myself. I dare say this strong air has something to do with it."
"It has the effect of champagne upon one's spirits—at least, so they say. I feel anything but lively this morning. However, if you are still in the same mind, we had better try what high latitudes can do for us. Do you feel up to a good climb?"
"Thoroughly—in the very mood for exertion."
"Well, then, old fellow! set to work with a will, for if we intend to sup on anything more inviting than black bread and sausages, we must get back to the hotel this evening. That rascal Karl only half supplied us with bread and meat."
"I could sup on anything after a walk like yesterday's to give me an appetite. However, Master Karl evidently intended that we should return to-day. What a joke he is! If eyes could kill, I should certainly have been slain yesterday when I suggested that we could dispense with attendance."
Maurice smiled: "Poor old Karl! Well, I believe he is one of the few a man can trust. It is my chief reason for keeping him, for really, in some ways, he's an immense bore. That big fellow is as frightened of bogies as a baby. The dark weather we had sent him nearly out of his wits. It was chiefly in consideration for his feelings that I put up at the hotel the other day."
"Then I ought, certainly, to be very thankful to him," said Arthur warmly; "he will think I have made him a poor return. I suppose we may leave our knapsacks under the care of your old woman here?" he continued. "It's all very well to talk of their convenience and that kind of thing; I can only say that my shoulders ached considerably yesterday; they've not recovered yet."
Maurice laughed: "You are a young traveller, my dear fellow; however, I'll be merciful. Leave them here, by all means, and start this time untrammelled. But come! Are you ready? Now, if you take my advice—and I know something of the mountains—you should begin quietly. We can quicken the pace when we get into the swing and get up the wind—two very serious matters, I can assure you."
There had been sufficient thaw to make the roads practicable, at least to men with strong boots and leathern gaiters. Many of the steeper paths were nothing better than watercourses. But this was a matter of minor import to the two men. It took Arthur some time, as his friend had predicted, to get into the swing, and they plodded on for some miles in silence, Arthur turning over and over in his head that tale, so oft told in the silence of his heart, of his first love, which had come upon him like a kind of magic, awakening him to a truer comprehension of life, a fuller appreciation of beauty—the tale which he must tell, before many minutes should pass over, to another—to a man unsympathetic perhaps, and hard. Once or twice he ventured to steal a glance at Maurice. His face was inscrutable. For the moment he was really nothing more than the quiet English gentleman, patient and enduring, as becomes one of his race—manly in his way of meeting difficulties, determined when it is necessary to overcome them. In walking, more especially in climbing, there is abundant room for the display of character, and in Switzerland a young Englishman of breeding and degree may be known at once by his bearing.
Their route was very lonely. It would have shocked an American traveller, who does not care to pass over any but well-frequented roads, where pedestrians, chaises-à-porteur and heavily-laden mules are to be met with in numbers. But with the early break-up of the season these things had gone. Even the small sheds where light refreshments are temptingly displayed in the summer months were empty and deserted; the places of the men who for the small sum of fifty centimes had been wont to awaken the echoes of the everlasting hills, "knew them no more." Maurice and Arthur had the mountains to themselves. They reached about midday the point of which Maurice had spoken. He had not overpraised it. After a last little bit of climbing, so steep that it had taken all their attention to keep a footing on the slippery rock, they reached a kind of rocky plateau partly covered with snow, partly patched with the emerald green which belongs peculiarly to the Alps. Standing near a ragged pine tree, they looked up. The sky was of a deep unruffled blue, and against it, clear as crystal, shone out the dazzle of the snow-peaks; lower down, a glacier, rendered pure by the late snow-falls, swept a radiant ice-river between gray, cloud-like rocks, in whose crevices the rich soft moss had made a home; lower still, tier above tier, rose the straight stems and green crowns of the hardy pine; while far below, at an almost inconceivable depth, that which could not be seen made itself felt—a torrent had been making for its waters a way throughout the ages, and its roar and hiss rose evermore into the daylight.
Arthur gazed silently for a few minutes, then turned to his friend a pale and earnest face. "Beautiful!" he said in a low, impassioned voice. He bent his young head. "It make me think of her."
Maurice smiled. He was pleased with the frank expression of enjoyment, and in his answer there was an elder man's indulgence to the amiable weakness of a younger: "Come! here's a forsaken shed looks as if it had been left on purpose—faces the sunshine and sheltered from the wind. We can sit down and rest if you like, take our brandy and water, and eat the crusts we were provident enough to bring, for, by Jove! in these regions, at least, a man can't live on air; then you must tell me about this mysterious 'her,' in whom I really begin to take an alarming interest. Why, old fellow, what's come over you? Here, take some brandy. You've been doing too much. One oughtn't to overdo this kind of thing at first."
But Arthur put away the brandy-flask with an attempt at a smile. Not fatigue, but a sudden emotion had overcome him. Margaret's fate seemed in his hands. It was trembling in the balance, and he felt, for the moment, powerless by excess of feeling.
"I will drink nothing, thank you," he said; and he sat down on a stone bench in full view of the radiant snow-peaks. They were sheltered from the bleak wind by one of the walls; the opening of the shed let in a flood of sunlight. It might have been a summer's day.
Maurice spread his overcoat on the ground and stretched himself out luxuriously, with his face toward Arthur. "After labor, rest," he said lightly; "but come, I am impatient; let the mystic lady appear."
He laughed as he spoke, but there was no answering merriment in Arthur's face. He looked away from Maurice toward the mountains. "I wish to God she might!" he said earnestly. "If her sweet face were here my poor words would be useless. It would tell its own tale of long-suffering, of angelic patience, of truth, of purity. But—" he felt, though he did not dare to look round, that the face of his companion expressed calm philosophic wonder, that his lips were curled into the faintest possible sneer—"I did not intend to rhapsodize. My tale should speak for itself plain, unvarnished facts, which I defy the falsest being that ever lived to gainsay."
He paused, and Maurice sighed. "The young man is evidently cracked on this point," was the burden of his thought. "I am in for a good half hour of ecstasies. Well, I brought it on myself. Patience is the only remedy.—Permit me," he said aloud; "this promises to be rather exciting—I must hear it through the medium of my usual sedative." He lit a cigar, and the blue wreaths of smoke curled up into the sunshine, while Arthur, his task rendered all the more difficult by his companion's nonchalance, struggled to find the truant words in which he had thought to clothe his subject. "It is not very long since I first met her," he said quietly, "but it seems a lifetime, for the meeting changed me. In the light of her history I read that life has a certain reality; in the depths of her sad eyes I saw that endurance and self-denial are beautiful and good. It must have been early in the month of May—yes, I remember, the Exhibition of the Royal Academy had not long been open—I strolled in one day to amuse myself and pass an hour or two of the afternoon. My cousin and fiancée was to have met me there. She did not appear, and I was considerably indignant, for at that time I believed that all womankind owed me a debt of gratitude, simply for being and giving them the light of my countenance. You see, women had spoiled me from my babyhood upward. But enough about myself.
"As I was wandering about, discontented and cross, a picture took my fancy. I sat down on the seat that faced it to examine it in detail. There was only one other on the same bench (for it was tolerably late and the rooms were thinning), a lady, but I paid little attention to her, as her dress was shabby and she wore a close bonnet and thick crape veil. It had been my habit to ogle only the well-dressed ladies—others offended my fastidious taste; but when this stranger fell back suddenly in a deep faint I did my duty as a gentleman (there was no one else in the room at the moment)—I rose hastily to offer her assistance.
"Then for the first time I saw her face, as the bonnet and veil had fallen back. Such a face! I wish I could describe it—-its purity of outline, its exquisite marble-like coloring, its deep sadness. She had a quantity of golden hair: as I tried to raise her it fell down in a perfect shower over my arm. I was paralyzed—a sudden fever possessed me. I could have carried off the mysterious lady there and then, and hidden her away from every eye. But do what I would I could not restore her to consciousness, and I began to tremble. I had a kind of objection to calling in the assistance of any passing stranger. At the critical moment, however, like the good genius in a fairy-tale, my kind little cousin appeared, and in a very few moments took the matter out of my hands altogether. She was as enthusiastic as I had been, and far more successful. In a few moments we had the pleasure of seeing our fair lady restored, and of taking her back to her home, which turned out to be only a miserable lodging in the gloomiest part of London.
"If I had been in love with her in her fainting condition, I tell you honestly that when I saw her eyes open, when I heard her voice—above all, when I read that deep sadness in her face—I was ten times more in love than before. But such was the influence of her gentle womanly dignity I dared express nothing either by word or sign. She thanked us with all the cordiality of a lady, but utterly and absolutely denied herself to us for the future, and I could not think of disobeying. In accepting our services she was like a queen dispensing her favors. All I could hope was that kindly chance would favor me. For the next few days I could think of nothing else: her face followed me like a dream of beauty that haunts the soul. My one hope was in the picture-galleries. As you may believe, I attended them daily, and some days later I saw her again in the same place. This time she did not see me. I watched her, myself unseen. Unhappily, a false counsellor was at hand. He had traced the direction of my glance before I knew he was near. I took his odious advice; I was weak enough to believe him. In disobedience to her express commands I visited her at the address to which we had taken her."
Maurice's cigar had died down; he was listening with apparent interest. "And you received a rebuff for your pains," he said lightly.
Arthur flushed: "A rebuff! say rather a rebuke; and such a gentle, womanly one that it cut me to the very soul. I felt that, coûte que coûte, I must know more of her; but I could not do it in that way, you know. I was puzzled and baffled, doubtful how to act. Then came in the gentle self-denial, the noble trustfulness of another woman to my assistance. My cousin Adèle read my sadness, and was not long in putting her finger on the cause. She helped me; she made herself Margaret's friend—"
Arthur stopped suddenly. He had let out the name, which he had intended to bring in at the end of his tale—a grand finale.
His sudden and evidently conscious pause gave the error significance. In a moment Arthur saw what he had done. A tremor passed through Maurice's frame. He turned round sharply and fixed the young man with his stern eyes. "Why do you stop?" he said. "Go on, if your tale be worth the telling."
And Arthur continued falteringly: "We were able to give her some assistance—that is, my cousin did. In her lonely and unprotected condition she had been tortured by the persecutions of the man who, as I afterward found out, had wrought the wrong from the effects of which she had been suffering during those long years. To live out her solitary life in peace, she had hidden herself in an out-of-the-way seaside village. Her visit to London had been made for the purpose of gaining some employment, her income proving insufficient for the education of her only child, a daughter, whom she had brought up in strict seclusion."
Maurice's face was turned from Arthur, but as, almost insensibly to himself, the young man's voice grew stern and deep, he saw that his companion winced and cowered. It was almost as though he had received some unlooked-for blow.
"In London," continued Arthur, "the ruffian came upon her traces. Mrs. Grey feared and hated him—the very sight of him was odious to her. It was only to save her name—her husband's name, as I afterward learnt—from public notice that she refrained at this time from calling in the strong arm of the law.
"To baffle him and preserve her privacy she took refuge in flight; my cousin helped her, and from that day dated their warm friendship. She returned then to her own home—the little village by the seaside. Adèle knew her address. I was not taken into their confidence; I was suffered to be useful, but I knew nothing, and yet even in that usefulness I reckoned myself happy.
"After this weeks passed by of which I can scarcely give an account—weeks during which my life might have been summed up in one short sentence—I was in love. I felt it was hopeless. My cousin, who knew more of Mrs. Grey's history than I did, let me feel this whenever—and it was very often—she was the topic of conversation between us. She herself had not given me the faintest encouragement, yet I hoped against hope. I thought, I studied, I planned, I put off my idleness. My dream was to gain fame and distinction by my own efforts. It was all for her. Ah!"—once more the young man was warming to his subject—"words fail when I try to express what her influence was. I became a different man; the memory of her goodness and beauty, of her life of self-denial, changed me utterly. But at last the craving to see her face again, to know more certainly that my hope was vain, became almost too great to be borne. You see, I was young, and had not been accustomed to this kind of thing. It preyed upon my health and spirits. Besides all this, certain disagreeable and—as I must always maintain—utterly unfounded rumors with regard to Mrs. Grey were flying about."
Again Maurice winced and shrank, but this time Arthur did not pause.
He went on rapidly: "These things maddened me: if she had been an angel from heaven I could not have believed more steadfastly in her truth. I longed to make myself her champion, to gain from herself the right to protect her. Then once more my cousin helped me. She gave me the address I wanted, she sent me to find our friend, she told me to offer her my services.
"As you may imagine, it was not necessary to urge the matter. I found my way to the seaside village. I entered the little cottage where her quiet, lonely life had been lived out, and there I learned the secret of her sadness. It had wrought upon her fearfully since we parted in London. When first I saw her she was sitting in her garden; I was at the window of her drawing-room. I thought that death was written on her face, it was so worn and wasted, so utterly forlorn, but beautiful still. Another trouble had come to overwhelm her: her little child, a girl, in whom all the affection of her heart was centred, had been stolen from her in some mysterious way."
In his earnestness Arthur's voice grew husky: "I forgot my own desires; all I had come to say passed away from my mind; only I threw myself heart and soul at her feet, imploring her to use me for her service, and"—the boy's voice sank—"she trusted me; she told me something of her history; she let me know that she had one craving, one longing desire."
He paused. Maurice had risen to a sitting position; his face was buried in his hands, his great frame was convulsed. "It was—?" he asked, fixing his eyes suddenly on his companion's face. "Speak, and at once."
Arthur rose and stood before him. "Maurice Grey," he said, "your wife is pure as an angel, white as the snow up there. Her one thought through these long years has been of you. The name she teaches her child to lisp is yours. She loves you only; her heart is single. All she asks is this—to speak to you face to face, to see you again before she dies. This is the quest that brought me here, for I have hunted for you through the length and breadth of Europe—sought you as a man seeks his enemy. It was to tell you this, to bring you a message from your wife."
He bowed his head: "God knows it has been done in singleness of heart. All I wish or seek is her restoration to happiness. I have not said half I intended. I greatly fear I am a poor pleader, but, Maurice Grey, I call upon you to listen to me. Return to England, see your wife, judge for yourself; you will find then that you have both been the victims of some terrible mistake."
He ceased, but Maurice did not answer, and once more his face was averted.
Arthur's heart sank. "It has been all in vain," he said to himself. "Oh, how shall I tell Margaret?"
Mechanically the two rose, and Maurice preceded Arthur, without a single word passing between them, until they stood where two roads met. There Maurice stopped and turned to his companion. "You must pardon me," he said, "if I say very little just now; I must be alone." He put his hand to his head. "I must think. The hotel is over there; you cannot possibly miss the road. I must return to the chalet." He seemed to be passing through some severe mental struggle, for he paused, then added, "In the mean time, for your kind intention to her and to me I thank you."
He turned away, and in a few moments was lost to Arthur's following gaze in the intricacies of the mountain-paths. Sadly, yet with a certain rising of hope in his spirit, the young man went on to the hotel.
Look? I would rather look on thee one minute
Than paradise for a whole day—such days
As are in heaven.
Autumn had fallen upon the little village by the seaside where Margaret was waiting and hoping and longing, with still no tidings, or but very scant ones, of her lost. She and Adèle were left almost alone, for the bleak winds and stormy seas had driven away the few visitors. It was a very different scene from the one which Arthur had looked in upon on that sunny August day not so many weeks before, for now the balmy summer winds had given place to strong blustering gales; the trees, almost bare, shivered in their nakedness; and instead of the soft, continuous murmuring of rippling waters, there came ever and anon to the ear the boom of waves breaking in upon the shore. It was a dreary time. Chill mists and equinoctial gales divided the sea between them, while the dank earth-smell of decaying leaves and dying blossoms made the earth desolate.
The two women in the little cottage, knit together by so strange a tie, fought vigorously against the influence of the season, but there were times when it was too strong for them—times when Adèle would read danger in the stormy seas and long passionately for Arthur's safe return—times when Margaret would fear that her hope had been vain, that never, in all the long life that lay before her, would she see her husband again or know the mystery of his long forgetfulness.
Through it all Margaret and Adèle clung to one another; their mutual friendship was a source of great comfort to both. Adèle was unlike many others of her sex. The knowledge that Margaret was the woman who had first called out her cousin's force of character, instead of making her sick with jealousy, filled her soul with loving reverence for her who had been the cause of this awakening. She never hid her frank admiration, her untiring love and sympathy, from her companion; and what wonder that Margaret returned her feelings, honored her as she deserved, and reckoned her friendship the most precious thing her years of suffering had brought her? They were different, these two who had been thrown in so strange a manner upon one another's society—as different in character as they were in appearance; and perhaps, strange as it may seem, the younger of the two, who seemed little more than a child with her flaxen hair and bright blue eyes and general fragility, was stronger in some ways than the woman of queenly stature, of much experience, of many woes.
In any case, since that evening when Arthur left them the relations between them were partially reversed, for now it was Margaret who leaned upon Adèle for support and comfort. When her courage was about to fail utterly; when, weary and heart-sick, she was ready to arraign God himself for cruelty and injustice; when the long days which would have to pass before anything certain could be known seemed so hard to live through that she would clench her hands and pace up and down, seeking rest and finding none,—then the younger and more inexperienced would bring her strength, would speak with a calm assurance she was far from feeling, would use a gentle authority in enforcing rest that Margaret found it difficult to resist.
"I wonder how it is, Adèle," she said one day when, after a paroxysm of bitter weeping, the young girl had soothed her into something like rest—"I wonder how it is that you have such power? A few moments ago everything seemed hopeless. You tell me to hope, and my courage comes back. What makes you so certain?"
"I scarcely know," replied the young girl; she was silent for a few moments, then added in a low tone, "I believe in God."
Margaret put out her hand; it had grown thin and transparent during these last days: "Darling, I know, but He allows wrong."
"Not for ever," replied Adèle firmly, taking the offered hand in her warm grasp. "Margaret, be patient—your wrong will end—the truth will be known."
"But if he does not know it, what will be the use? And perhaps he is dead. Ah, listen!" She raised her hands and pressed them against her ears.
"Only the wind, dear; but why need you mind that? October is a stormy month, and those we love are far inland. Come! I see I must read Arthur's last letter to convince you that the meeting has not taken place on the stormy seas, with only a plank between them and destruction. Confess, now, something like this was working in your brain."
"I am very foolish—I know it."
Adèle stooped and kissed her friend: "You are weak, darling. Remember how patient you were with me when my strength seemed as if it would not come. Now it is my turn to keep your courage up; you are wasting away to skin and bone with fretting, Margaret. Have faith!"
"In what, Adèle?"
"In yourself—in God—in the future," replied the young girl quietly.
She rose from her seat by Margaret's side and fetched her Bible. We learn in very different ways. To this young girl, trained from her babyhood to think of nothing better and higher than dress and gayety, than self-pleasing in some form, religion had come of itself.
Adèle had always loved to think of the something that for ever lies beyond this world and its fleeting joys; so it was not strange that in her hour of perplexity she should turn instinctively to this for comfort and help.
The afternoon of that chill October day waned, the last flickering rays of light fled, while the young girl read softly of that beyond—the city that hath no need of the sun, the fair land where night is not.
"Patience," she had said.
"I will have patience," whispered Margaret, "even to the end," she added faintly, "for the morning cometh." She paused for a few moments, as if in enjoyment of new rest; but suddenly, as it were, the full import of her thought broke over her: "Earth holds my treasures," she cried passionately. "God forgive me! I cannot wish to leave them yet. Adèle, light the lamp and bring that green book from my table. An old story is haunting me to-night. It has followed me in my strange life, for sometimes it seems to me that I have loved the human too much. Will you read it for me, dear?"
She repeated some of the lines in a low tone:
"Then breaking into tears, 'Dear God,' she cried, 'and must we see
All blissful things depart from us or e'er we go to Thee?
Ay, sooth we feel too strong in weal to need Thee on that road,
But woe being come, the soul is dumb that crieth not on God.'"
Adèle's eyes filled with tears: "Not to-night, dear, it sounds so dreary."
"Yes, to-night. I feel as if the good and evil were struggling together in my heart, and I have a certain craving to hear the old story, which long ago, when I was an uncomprehending child, used to move me to tears:
"'Onora! Onora! her mother is calling.'"
Adèle said no more. She began to read the "Lay of the Brown Rosary" in a soft low voice, that trembled often from excess of feeling. It seemed real and possible in the tremulous half light of the little room, the sound of boisterous winds and breaking waves running through it like a vivid illustration of its imagery; Margaret's fair face, in its pure delicate outline, her pale patient hands folded calmly, giving a kind of witness to its truth. She listened with apparent calm, but once or twice her face flushed, and now and then the tears would roll one by one down her pale cheeks.
Adèle read well. She knew how to put the true spirit of the scene into the words that represented them. She came to the third part, the spirits of good round the maiden's bed:
"How hath she sinned?
In bartering love,
God's love, for man's,"
when she was suddenly interrupted.
Margaret had started up, her eyes and cheeks on flame, "There are steps outside. Adèle! Adèle! go and see."
Adèle went to the window, while Margaret shaded the lamp. "A man standing outside," she said, "hunting for the latch of the gate. Be calm, dear; it's only the postman. He promised to come if there should be any letter to-night. He's very good not to have forgotten. And such a night, too! Poor old fellow! I must tell Martha to give him supper."
"But the letter! the letter!" said Margaret, sinking back upon her pillow. The flush of excitement had died out from her cheeks, leaving them deadly pale.
Adèle forgot the letter and the postman. She rushed to her friend's side.
"I thought he had come back," said Margaret faintly. "Don't look so frightened, dear; this is nothing," but she moaned as if in pain, "O God! if this is to last much longer I cannot, cannot bear it!"
Adèle stooped to raise her friend, and her warm clasping arms spoke boundless love and sympathy: "Be of good courage, Margaret; perhaps this is to say that they are near."
But the young girl's heart sank. What if, after all, their sacrifices and suffering should be in vain? for Margaret was visibly sinking.
It sometimes happens so. The brave heart that has borne unflinchingly a weary weight of woe fails suddenly when hope—but hope that must be waited for—succeeds. And Margaret had been tried almost past endurance by her life of solitude. A glass of water revived her for the moment. She did not faint, and in the interval Martha brought up three letters. Two were from Arthur, the other from Mr. Robinson, who was still acting, or professing to act, as Margaret's legal adviser.
This was set aside for after-perusal. They did not reckon very much upon his zeal and earnestness. But Margaret's letter from Arthur was eagerly seized, almost too eagerly, for when she had opened it the words swam before her eyes; she found it impossible to decipher it.
"Read it, Adèle," she said; "my eyes are dim this evening."
It was the letter that had been written in Moscow—the letter that had begun so joyfully, that had ended in a cloud. Arthur had not let them know in his letter the reason for the sudden discouragement, but the two women read it and their hearts sank.
They had received one letter before this. It had told of the meeting with Laura in Paris. In it, too, Arthur had announced, with all the sanguine assurance of youth, that the next letter, to be written in Moscow, would certainly bring positive news. He could see no reason for doubting this. The second letter had met with certain delays en route, and the very length of the interval had in her most courageous moods filled Margaret with hope.
When, therefore, the long looked-for letter came, and heralded nothing but another endless journey, another weary search, her heart sank, her courage failed suddenly.
She turned her face to the wall and wept. "I shall never live to see it," she moaned.
Adèle was bewildered; she scarcely knew how to comfort her friend, for her own heart was sad. This unfolding of another weary age of suspense and delay had disappointed her bitterly. In her despair she turned to the lawyer's letter. It might possibly promise hope from another source.
She read it hastily, then, stooping over her friend, "Listen, Margaret dear; you must be brave and not give way. Mr. Robinson is to be here to-morrow; perhaps he may bring news about Laura."
But the mother shook her head: "No, no; my little one is lost—lost! Child, I tell you, God is punishing me. I have sinned."
"Margaret, be calm. How have you sinned?"
But the young girl trembled as she spoke, there was so intense a sadness in Margaret's face.
She raised her head from the pillow, and throwing back the long waves of yellow hair from her face and eyes looked wildly at her companion. And then she laughed—a low hollow laugh that made Adèle shiver.
"In bartering love, God's love, for man's!" she cried, and leaped from the bed, for the madness of fever was on her. "And what is worse, I do it still," she cried. "Yes, I would barter my soul—my soul, do you hear?—only to see him once"—from a shriek her voice sank into plaintive wailing—"to feel his hand upon my hair as in the old days—to hear him call me love, wife. Oh, Maurice, Maurice!"
Adèle was frightened, but she would not call for assistance. Her tears falling fast, she threw her arms round her friend and tried by gentle force to make her lie down again.
But at first Margaret resisted. "Let me alone," she cried; "none of them understand, for men cannot love like women. I must go myself and tell him or he will never know. He might have done wrong—I should have loved him still. Dear, I could never have left you for these long years without a word, a sign; and what had I done?" Her voice sank, she fell back on the bed. "It was God's will. I loved him more than Heaven—more than goodness."
The paroxysm had exhausted her. Adèle covered her feet with a shawl. Margaret closed her eyes and fell into a troubled sleep, which lasted about half an hour. When she awoke the room was in darkness, only the white moonlight streamed in under the raised blind, and there was the sound of bitter weeping by her bed. She put out her hand: "Adèle, are you there? What is it, dear?"
"I thought you were fast asleep;" and the young girl choked back her sobs courageously.
"But what has happened, Adèle? what makes you cry like this?"
"Don't ask me, please, but try to sleep again."
"Child, you must think me very selfish. Was it on my account you were crying? I think I must have said some strange things before I went to sleep, but I forget what they were—indeed, I sometimes fear my brain is giving way. But, Adèle dear, I can't allow you to grieve for me in this way. Perhaps it was something else. Tell me. Come, I intend to know."
She drew one of Adèle's cold little hands from her face and held it lovingly, then the young girl told out her trouble in a few simple words.
Her religion was the growth of her loving heart; she had no particular doctrines, for so-called theology always seemed to her too hard to be understood, but she believed, in the full simplicity and truth of her young soul, what many religionists by their harsh doctrine practically deny—that God, the Father of spirits, is a merciful God, "tender, compassionate, boundless in loving-kindness and truth." She wept that night because the friend whom she loved so deeply would not take to her soul the comfort of the truth that God loved her.
It had come over Adèle's sympathetic heart that evening like a kind of agony that the loving God is for ever, through the long ages, misunderstood and denied—that while He is calling in His tenderest tones to the stricken, they will look to any comfort rather than His for help in their trouble. "God is angry with them—God is punishing them," when in reality "God is with them—God is loving them." She told it all to Margaret in a voice often broken with tears, and her earnest conviction gave a certain reality to her words.
Margaret's sore heart was soothed. "It may be," she said. "God grant it! Dear, I was beginning to feel Him near, but now the earthly things, the longings of youth, have come back with this delayed hope. They stand between my soul and God; I must long for them more than I long for Him."
"And who told you He would be angry, Margaret? Could He wish you to do what is contrary to nature? He gave you these earthly desires, this longing, this love. I sometimes think"—the young girl's voice sank, she bowed her head reverently—"that Christ became a man for this, not only that He might understand us, but that we might know He understands. It is such a good thing; it helps us to bear."
Margaret smiled: "I think it will come. I am better already; but, dear, where did you learn all this wisdom?"
There was a knock at the door which prevented an answer. The landlady's little nephew was standing in the passage, a few choice flowers in his small hands. He wanted to say good-night to Mrs. Grey, and his auntie had sent her some flowers.
It was the best possible diversion. The child's blue eyes smiled up into those of the weary woman, and they brought her pleasant memories. She took the child up on the bed kissed him tenderly and listened to his infant prattle.
Then when the landlady appeared, quiet and respectful, but allowing her honest sympathy to be seen, to ask whether the little boy were troublesome and to say that it was his bed-time, Margaret turned to her comforter with something like hope in her face. "Child," she said, "you are right; God is merciful. I will trust Him."
They slept together that night, for Margaret's nerves were unstrung, she could not bear to be left alone; but both of them slept calmly, and a peace, verily Heaven-born, brooded over the small company of women in their temporary home within the circle of the sea-sounds.
With lips depressed as he were meek,
Himself unto himself he sold:
Upon himself himself did feed—
Quiet, dispassionate and cold.
Mr. Robinson in the mean time had not been idle. He could certainly never have presented so unsullied a front before the world if he had ever been idle where his own interests were concerned. During those weeks, while L'Estrange and Margaret's child had been wandering—while Arthur had been throwing himself into the task of unravelling the mystery that surrounded Maurice Grey and his desertion—while Margaret, sick at heart, had been waiting and watching—he had been putting all his energy into the task of winding up her affairs in such a way as to make it appear that in their management he had been guilty of nothing but a little pardonable imprudence. He had been obliged to sacrifice some of his own interests in the process, but this was a matter of very small moment.
Mr. Robinson was careful, even as regarded trivial sums, but he was too clever a man of the world not to know the impolicy of the "penny-wise, pound-foolish system." A small sacrifice that would have the effect of impressing the world with his upright character would, he knew, bring in returns fully commensurate to the outlay. He did not, therefore, hesitate to pay up, out of his own pocket, as he magnanimously put it to some highly-impressionable lady clients, that amount of Mrs. Grey's capital which had been lent on insufficient security to the bankrupt trader; but (and this he did not tell the ladies) for the whole transaction he made both sides pay heavily. The man of business was kept under the lawyer's thumb for further use, and Mrs. Grey, out of the capital sum, had to pay not only the expenses, which were heavy, but also certain sundries, including various advances of twenty pounds at a time for maintenance, setting on foot of a search for Mr. Grey and his daughter, letters innumerable, railway journeys and interviews. Mrs. Grey had even the pleasure of defraying the expenses of a trip to Paris taken by her lawyer at the moderate charge of five guineas a day, for the purpose of personally investigating the city with a view to the recovery of Mrs. Grey's daughter. That she had not been met with, either in the Bois de Boulogne or on the Boulevards, was not Mr. Robinson's fault. He carefully frequented both. "Honesty is the best policy." One of the ladies to whom Mr. Robinson mentioned this matter quite incidentally (it illustrated aptly some of her own affairs) put his name down instantly in her will for one thousand pounds; another reported the story to a lately-widowed friend, who at once appointed this upright man her solicitor and confidential adviser. Mr. Robinson held his head higher, and at the next cottage-meeting he attended gave out for the text, "Godliness hath the promise of this life and of that which is to come"—a fact, he proceeded to say, which was strangely borne out by his own late experiences. But this was incidental, a providential side-wind. The real object of his attention at this time was to get rid altogether of Mrs. Grey's affairs, which, as she had the power in her hands of appointing another trustee, he knew it was possible to do. He was anxious, therefore, to press the matter forward, that he might gain her signature acknowledging full satisfaction with his proceedings before any sharper eyes than hers could look into the business and so a contrary advice be given.
It was to accomplish this purpose that Mr. Robinson had planned an interview for the day succeeding that on which Arthur's letter had been received. That morning Margaret was better. The first paroxysm of disappointment had passed. Adèle's words of gentle wisdom had made her almost ashamed of her own impatience. Better than all, perhaps, it was a fine, clear October day. The sun was shining; the bare trees, waving gracefully in the breeze, wrote their delicate tracery against the clear blue sky, the sea had fallen to partial rest. Margaret's excitement had exhausted her. She slept late. When she awoke the sun was high in the heavens. Adèle had long left her side, but before she could look round inquiringly the young girl had opened the door gently and was creeping in to see if her friend were awake.
"Come in, Adèle," said Margaret. "Why, it must be late. How is it that you allowed me to sleep so long?"
"I knew it would do you good, and I was right; you look better already. Now, what do you intend to do? Mr. Robinson, you know, is to be here. Do you feel able to see him, or shall I do it for you?"
"No, no, Adèle. You are spoiling me. I must exert myself."
But in spite of her brave words Margaret felt very weak. It was only with old Martha's assistance that she could manage to make herself at all presentable.
The old woman shook her head once or twice as the task of dressing proceeded. "It was pitiable," as she afterward remarked to Jane, "to see a body fallen away like that. Bless the poor soul!" she continued, wiping her eyes, "if they don't find and bring back her folks pretty soon, it's precious little of her'll be left, what with fretting and one thing and another."
In these days Margaret would always be dressed with care. She had a kind of feeling that her husband might return suddenly, and she wished him to see her at her best. She had left off the black which she had worn during her widowhood, and had returned to the pretty morning-dresses, the soft flowing draperies that in the old days Maurice had loved.
On this morning Adèle thought she had never seen her friend look so fair. Her dress was of gray cashmere. It fitted closely to her slight form and flowed round her in ample folds. Her hair, gathered up at the back into thick coils, rippled off in waves of shimmering gold from her brow, so that the pure outlines of her face were clearly marked. It was held back by a broad band of blue ribbon, over which fell lappets of choice lace. Her face seemed perfectly transparent, it was so delicately fair; and the absence of color, the brightness fever had given to her eyes, the general fragility of her appearance, made her look many years younger than she really was.
When the tedious business of dressing was over she went into the little sitting-room, and standing with her hands resting on the back of a chair for support, looked earnestly into the mirror that hung over the fireplace.
"Adèle," she said, "I am changed. There are lines in my face, there are dark shadows under my eyes. I am a poor, pale, colorless thing. If he were to come back now, what would he say?"
"That you are more beautiful than ever," replied the young girl impulsively, looking at her friend with the enthusiastic admiration that belonged to her susceptible nature and her eighteen years. "Margaret, how can you say such things?"
But Margaret did not answer. She still looked meditatively at the mirror: "If he cannot love me, if he have not loved me for these long years, I would almost rather he did not come at all. It would be dreadful to meet his indifference. Adèle, duty might bring him."
"And if it did, Margaret, something else would keep him."
"But it is such a long time! He may have forgotten. He may have—" "formed other ties," she was about to add, but she checked herself suddenly. "I am talking nonsense," she said hastily, "I must find something to do."
She got her work. It was a child's frock, of the same delicate material and color as that she wore.
"Maurice's favorite color," she said. "I want to have it ready for Laura when she comes back. It will go well with her golden curls, and she wants something new. Dear little one! I wonder has she forgotten me? I scarcely think so."
Adèle walked to the window to hide her tears. In the vague uncertainty, in the view of possible disappointment, there was something more pathetic in this mood of Margaret's than in that of the preceding night. She was just in time to meet Mr. Robinson's cold eyes. He had found the garden-gate open, and was walking up the narrow grass-bordered path.
One of the windows of the parlor where they were sitting opened on to the garden; the lawyer bowed politely when he saw the young lady, and with his usual obtuseness cut short the ceremony of ringing and gaining admittance in the usual way, by crossing the greensward and tapping in his peculiarly lively manner at the window.
Adèle turned round suddenly to prepare her friend for this summary entrance and to recover her own inclination for tears. Margaret's face reassured her. For the first time since Arthur had gone and the fever of hope-deferred had taken possession of her, Margaret looked really happy; her fingers, almost transparent, were flying backward and forward with the busy needle; she was looking down upon her work, which began to assume the appearance of a child's frock, with a smile. In her whole attitude there was rest.
The woman's work had taken its effect upon her mind. To be working for her lost darling made her recovery and return seem real and near to her. It brought back the quiet days when the child had been her one comfort and joy.
"Mr. Robinson is here," said Adèle, crossing the room. Margaret looked up, and met a frank smile from the outside of the still closed window. She rose, threw up the sash, and the lawyer entered, hat in hand.
"Good-morning, ladies," he said cordially. "I was beginning to fear, from the stern appearance of our young friend here, that I was to be left out in the cold. Ha! ha! not a pleasant position on a frosty day. Mrs. Grey, you look thin; not fretting, I hope, though indeed I can scarcely wonder. The absurd way in which your affairs are being conducted is really enough to worry you."
At this point Adèle looked indignant and Margaret tried to protest. But the lawyer waved his hand: "One moment, Mrs. Grey; I wish to make no reflections. As I stated before, in my interview with Mr. Forrest (he took up no less than two hours of my time on a very busy day; this is the sole grudge I bear him);" the lawyer showed his teeth—"as I stated before, Mrs. Grey, I wash my hands altogether of this part of the business. I did my best; my poor services were rejected wholesale, I may say. As a Christian I forgive; yes indeed, what I have come to tell you of my after-conduct will prove that I bear no malice. But it hit me hard—hit me hard."
He touched the region of the body where the centre of feeling is always supposed to reside, and looked sentimental.
"Pray sit down, Mr. Robinson. I am sorry your feelings were hurt in any way," said Margaret with gentle dignity; "and I know quite well that my kind friend, Mr. Forrest, is apt to be a little impulsive. Let me assure you that I am not ungrateful for the various services you have rendered me." Poor Margaret! she was thinking, with a kind of compunction, about that interview in London and the sundry advances for maintenance which had been a great boon to her at the time. "His heart is kind," she said to herself; "we may have judged him harshly." Then to him: "I must honestly confess that I was inclined to blame you for lukewarmness in the last matter I confided to you: I mean the search for my husband and child."
"Lukewarmness, Mrs. Grey!" Mr. Robinson lifted his hands in a kind of holy horror; and surely it was a superabundance of honesty that shone out from his eyes. "You really astonish me. In fact I am at a loss to understand you at all. Let me pass the facts of the case in review"—his voice grew stern—"perhaps then the blame will rest upon the right shoulders. If I remember rightly—Be so good as to correct any misstatements; I like to be accurate, but naturally my mind is so full of other matters. Well, as I was saying, you consulted me—in this very room, I think. I promised to do my best, letting you know results. Thereupon you placed in my care certain trinkets. I took them simply because I thought them safer in my strong box than here with you in this lonely place. As to making any use of them, why, Mrs. Grey, facts prove the contrary. Mr. Forrest had only to demand them on your part. Without hesitation I restored them intact. To proceed: as soon as I return (remember, I have not the faintest clue), I consult a detective, put him, as far as possible, on the track, and, further, demand an interview with Mr. Grey's solicitor—perfectly unsatisfactory, professes to know nothing. I take various other measures—needless to enter into detail. The principles of what one may call the private-inquiry business are not easy to explain, especially to ladies. I think I obtain a clue, but is it for me to torture you with half revelations? I wait for a little more certainty, and in the interval in dashes Mr. Forrest, states that you have given over these matters into his hands, that your confidence is shaken, that affairs would be strictly looked into."
Here Mr. Robinson made a dramatic pause and looked sternly at his repentant client. "Mrs. Grey," he continued, "do you know what was my impulse at that moment? Your affairs, as you are well aware, are—or I should say were—in a complicated condition. I felt inclined to take no more trouble, to let your new friends have the burden and responsibility; but"—he lifted his eyes sanctimoniously to the ceiling—"I do nothing upon impulse. Further consideration showed me that to act in so hasty a manner would be unworthy of myself, inconsistent with my character as a Christian man. I wish to 'adorn my profession in all things.' Whether in this I am successful or no is not for me to say."
Through all her penitence Margaret was growing impatient of this long harangue, and Adèle's face showed that she, at least, would not hear it much longer.
Mrs. Grey broke the little interlude short: "And pray, Mr. Robinson, what did you do?"
"Set to work immediately to disentangle your affairs. But, mind you, a man may go to a certain length; self-respect forbids him to go further. What I said to myself was this: I am distrusted, I must resign my position."
Margaret was about to interrupt him.
"Allow me. Before you answer, I must give my reasons, both from my side of the question and from yours, for the advisability of the step which I may say is irrevocably determined in my own mind. We shall take the reasons from your point of view first. Mr. Forrest has your full confidence. You acknowledge so far as this?" Margaret bowed. "You took measures with him totally unknown to me—a breach of confidence—but this I should have been content to waive. Ladies are naturally impulsive. To proceed with our reasons. Mr. Forrest distrusts and dislikes me—impossible to say why. He is a worldling. It may be that a few words of warning and exhortation which I felt it my bounden duty to give him on the occasion of our last meeting have something to do with it. It is a matter of small import, except in so far as it concerns you. Mr. Forrest has inspired you with distrust; he will do so further; possibly your husband also, for I hear he has succeeded in finding out something through Mr. Edwards. But of this you doubtless know more than I. Under such circumstances it will be far wiser for you to allow me at once to give up the management of your affairs. My reasons for desiring it are many of them personal. I will not enter into them, as I fear I have tired you already. If you like I can proceed to open out my accounts and give a rapid sketch of my proceedings, that you may sign this document with your eyes open. Your friend looks dissatisfied; I know ladies often object to signing. Let me reassure her: this is nothing but a deed of release, to pave the way for transfer papers which are now being prepared."
"You are quite right to withdraw, Mr. Robinson," replied Margaret with dignity, "if you feel as you do, but in the mean time, until my husband's return—"
The lawyer looked at her curiously. Then he was only just in time. Certain news had arrived.
Margaret's face expressed nothing. "—Who," she continued, "will manage my affairs?"
"It is on this very matter that I desired to consult you."
"Would it not be better to wait?"
"For the actual conclusion of the business?—yes, if you see fit. We could even have the papers ready, leaving the names a blank, until such time as you can consult your friends. Still, I must beg you to conclude the business that has brought me here to-day. I am anxious, without delay, to pay into your account at the bank the sum which has been matter of question between us—deducting from it, of course, as was previously arranged, the few trivial sums forwarded, the expenses of search and the inevitable legal charges. Of these I have brought you a full account, and shall be much obliged by your looking over it."
Margaret sighed: "I make no doubt it is all as it should be, Mr. Robinson."
She opened it listlessly, and the long rows of figures swam before her eyes.
"I should not have ventured to bring it had it not been so, Mrs. Grey. Still, it would be satisfactory. You will observe that I have myself paid up the sum so unfortunately invested. It may be I shall be reimbursed out of the debtor's property—it may be not; this I am content to leave. You will also observe that out of the capital sum I have deducted the total of this account. All is clearly stated in this document, which I am anxious for you to sign."
Adèle, while the lawyer was stating his views, had been listening and observing. At the moment when he brought his last harangue to a climax, Margaret was sitting at her writing-table. The account lay open at her side. The deed of release, fairly copied on parchment, was under her hand. She felt too utterly indifferent to all these business-matters to be able to question anything that was told her. All she desired was the cessation of this wearisome importunity. She dipped her pen in the ink. Adèle saw how it was with her. Her younger, stronger spirit recoiled from the oppression. She leaned forward suddenly and drew the pen from her friend's hand:
"Margaret, take my advice—sign nothing."
Margaret smiled, and then she sighed wearily. In this matter she would have preferred taking her own way, but she gave in.
"Impulsive child!" she said, a slight tone of irritation in her voice; then, turning to the lawyer, "Perhaps, Mr. Robinson, even for form's sake it will be wiser for me to try and make out what all this means. But for the moment I feel slightly bewildered. You must allow me to think over it. You are staying at the hotel, I suppose? If you will give us the pleasure of your company to lunch we can further discuss this in the afternoon."
The lawyer rose. Margaret's invitation was a dismissal. He was obliged to submit to the delay, although it was a matter of great importance to him that the business which had brought him to Middlethorpe should be settled at once; but Adèle's sharp eyes, rendered far-seeing by love and anxiety, were watching him narrowly, and he would show no sign of anxiety. "Take your own time, my dear Mrs. Grey," he replied benignantly. "You must have seen and understood all along that my special object in my business dealings with ladies is to persuade them to do everything intelligently—comprehending, that is to say, the why and the wherefore of the step they are advised to take. I find some too ready. They throw themselves entirely on their lawyer's superior knowledge, increasing, of course, our responsibility, and this I deprecate. Others"—he looked across at Margaret with his charming smile—"are inclined to be too timorous. They take fright at the sight of parchment, and when asked to sign imagine they are being defrauded of some right. Your position, Mrs. Grey, is the wisest—indeed I may say the most satisfactory to one's self, for when, by repeated explanations, I have made all this perfectly clear to your mind, my position will be the more tenable. Then if in the future subject of discussion should arise—which, understand me, I do not apprehend—I shall be able to call upon you and our young friend here as witnesses to the truth of what I assert—namely, that you did everything with your eyes open."
The lawyer bowed himself out of the room. This time he had struck the right chord. To Margaret, in her state of bewilderment, the "repeated explanations" sounded like a kind of threat. Her thoughts and hopes were all engrossed, given to the one absorbing subject, and this forced attention to foreign matters was very irksome.
"If Maurice come back," she said to herself, "he will manage everything for me. If not"—and at the bare supposition all her life and energy seemed to pass, leaving her cold and spiritless—"if not, what does anything matter?"
She turned to the table. Mr. Robinson, it should be observed, had pocketed the papers. He had not thought it well, probably, that the ladies should examine them without the commentary of his instructive explanations. Mr. Robinson professed to think little of the female intellect, probably because, as a general rule, he found ladies gullible.
Not finding the papers, Margaret arose and walked to the window.
"Adèle, my dear," she said after a few moments' pause, "I must sign this." In her voice were the querulous tones of weakness. "That man's explanations will send me wild. Can you give me any solid reason for objecting?"
"Only, that he has no right, in the present state of affairs, to ask you to sign anything. It all sounds plausible enough, but I think that if the man were really honest he would wait for this 'winding up,' as he calls it, until your husband's return."
"You see he wishes to pay over this sum, whatever it may be, at once," returned Margaret. She was inclined to take the lawyer's part. "I really think the man is honest, and certainly until just lately he has been a very kind friend to me—a friend in need."
"But why does he come in this sneaking way," persisted the young girl, "to make you write that you are satisfied with him? I may be wrong, but it seems to me that he only wants to stop your mouth and prevent accounts from being looked into by your friends."
"My dear child, are you not a little unjust? Confess, now, that Arthur prejudiced you. Mr. Robinson's vulgarity is, I know, quite enough to account for your cousin's dislike, and some of the things he did had a bad appearance; still, that need not make us all put him down as dishonest."
"But, Margaret, what can be his motive?"
"How can I tell?" Again Margaret's voice sounded querulous. She said nothing more for some time, and Adèle forbore to press the subject; she feared that already she had gone too far. It was Margaret who opened it again, for her mind had been working. "Allowing," she said, almost apologetically, "that this signature is unnecessary, I think I may as well oblige Mr. Robinson, if only in acknowledgment of his former kindness."
"Kindness!" The young girl shrugged her shoulders ever so slightly, but all further discussion was stopped by the return of Mr. Robinson and the appearance of lunch. During the meal the lawyer made himself, as he thought, perfectly charming, but after it was over he returned to the attack.
Margaret, as it will be seen, was predisposed in favor of what he desired; Adèle had done her best to prevent it, but in vain. The wily man gained his point. Margaret signed the deed with full knowledge of its contents. Mr. Robinson was protected, and his mind was once more at rest.
It was thus with him always. His escapes were wonderful. As at this point his connection with Margaret's history ended altogether, for that cooked-up account and the transactions which led to its concoction continued to be a sealed book, it may be as well, perhaps, to let him once for all disappear from our pages. He is practicing still, and it is more than probable that the Robinson name, on whose lustre he prides himself, has never been dimmed by action of his, although among solicitors of a higher class he has the name of being a sharp practitioner. He may be known by his frank address, his manly appearance, his deep and outspoken conviction of the necessity of not living for this world alone. He has been an actor in the play so long that at last he has almost come to believe he is what he makes so loud a profession of being.
Let him go on his way rejoicing. If other and more really honest people understood, as he does, the grand art of taking care of themselves, there would be less misery in the world. It may be, however, that it would be a doubtful advantage.