CHAPTER X.

_ON THE BRINK OF MADNESS._

My eyes are full of tears, my heart of love; My heart is breaking, and my eyes are dim, And I am all aweary of my life.

Arthur's instinct had not erred. There was something more than the recovery of what she valued that made the sudden reappearance of her scarf a matter of great moment to Mrs. Grey. The facts of the case were these: The voice of many-tongued Rumor had been busy in the village with the wonderful history of the disappearance of the pretty child, whose vivacity and pleasant friendly ways had made her well known in the neighborhood. Through the medium of her laundress and a little girl from the National School, who came in the morning to help Jane, some of these little bits of gossip had made their way to Margaret.

The laundress poured into her ears the tale of how the little one had been met on the sands with a gentleman and a big dog on the afternoon of the day of her disappearance; the little girl chimed in with a true, full, and particular account of every item of the dress and appearance of both. One of these items puzzled Margaret. The girl declared positively that Miss Laura had carried her mamma's scarf upon her arm. Now, Margaret could not but remember that on that ever-memorable day she had worn the scarf herself. She had reason for connecting it with the interview between herself and L'Estrange. Strangely enough, from that very moment she had missed it.

In her first horror at the discovery of Laura's departure the lesser loss had naturally escaped her; when the girl mentioned the scarf, however, she remembered that she had not brought it home with her. But how could Laura have obtained possession of it? Margaret wearied herself with conjectures, but at last she came to this conclusion--she had left it on her seat among the bushes, Laura had gone there with her father anxious to find her, they had seen the scarf, and the little one had picked it up to take it back, for that Laura had willingly left her Margaret never imagined for a moment. Either this or else that the girl had been mistaken altogether. It was thus she had dismissed the subject of the scarf from her mind. It did not afford any clue; it did not alter in the remotest degree the fact of the child being lost to her, of her husband having cruelly and wantonly wronged her. But when the scarf reappeared in this strangely unexpected manner it was like a message from her child, a link by which it might be possible to trace her, and the first revulsion of feeling which its sight occasioned was so great as almost to deprive Margaret of her small remnant of strength.

She did not faint, though Arthur, when he saw the deadly pallor of her face, was about to spring to the door and call out for assistance. She warned him by a rapid gesture to do nothing of the kind. This was her first impulse; she pointed then to a caraffe of water. He poured some into a glass and brought it to her. It revived her partially. The color struggled back into her pale cheeks, she sat up and tried to smile--such a faint watery attempt at a smile that her companion could have gone on his knees, then and there, imploring her only to weep.

"I am very foolish," she said faintly, "but since we last met I have suffered, and suffering has made me weak. Have patience with me for one moment. Give me your arm, that will be best; the fresh air may revive me; and--walls have ears."

She looked round with a sudden terror in her eyes. To describe the effect of her words, of her weakness, on the inflammable heart of the young man would be impossible. He was beside himself with the longing to take her to his heart, to proclaim himself, once and for ever, her protector and champion. But love had taught him self-control. Trembling from head to foot, he still preserved an apparent composure. He took the hand she offered and raised it reverently to his lips, then placed it on his arm.

"Be calm, dear lady," he said gently, "I have come here with this express purpose to find some way out of your troubles, and, God helping me, I will."

The boy spoke slowly, deliberately. In his words there was all the fervor of a vow, all the hallowed binding power of a sacramental utterance; and to her for the moment it did not seem unnatural. He spoke again, after a short pause: "Mrs. Grey, do you think you can trust me?"

She looked up. There was a dreamy softness in her eyes and her voice was low: "Yes, I think I can. God knows I was sorely in need of a friend. But" (her voice changed, she looked round in a bewildered manner), "come out; I cannot speak to you here. I have a kind of feeling--dear me! how weak and childish I have become!--I hear voices, I see faces. I fancy sometimes I am being watched."

"You are weak and ill, Mrs. Grey; you should not be here alone. Let us go out to the shore; the sea-air will do you good. See! your hat is lying here."

She obeyed him. It almost seemed as if his voice had a certain power over her for the moment. He took her hand again and led her from the room and from the house, half supporting her from time to time. Neither spoke until the cottage was left far in the background, and then they were on the sands close by the sea.

"Shall we sit down here?" asked Arthur.

"Yes," she said, "we are alone; sea and sky--sea and sky." Then she paused with a bewildered look: "What am I saying? I know I wanted to speak to you, and now everything has gone."

This was far more bewildering to Arthur than her former state, for there was a wild, appealing look about her eyes which made him fear for her reason; but with the emergency came a certain power. It was truly a transformation. The boy was changed into a man. He stood up and taking both of Margaret's hands into his own, looked steadfastly into her eyes.

"Mrs. Grey," he said slowly and distinctly, "try and remember what has brought you here. Your child, little Laura!"

She put her hand to her head: "Laura! Laura! Do you know where she is, poor child? The heat has tired her; she must be lying down."

Arthur trembled, but he kept his eyes still fixed on those of his companion, which wandered hither and thither like restless stars.

"Mrs. Grey," he said again, "do you wish to find your child?"

Her eyes had begun to feel the power of his; they were falling under the spell of his steadfast gaze. Now was Arthur's time of trial, for the unmeaning wildness grew gradually into surprised displeasure. "Dear lady!" he said pleadingly, but not for a moment removing his gaze, "you have been patient; be so still. Do not let your sorrow overcome you utterly."

There spread a faint color over the dead whiteness of her face. The young man saw that for this time the danger had gone by. He had the tact to release her suddenly and to turn away for a walk along the shore. His true, unselfish love had given him eyes to see and a heart to understand. He knew that the return to a sense of her position would be painful to Margaret for more reasons than one. He left her to recover herself alone. Presently she called him. He went to her, and took his place by her side as if nothing had happened to disturb their conversation.

"Thank you," she said, gently raising her dark, troubled eyes to his face, "I understand you--you are my true friend;" and then a few tears that she could not keep back flowed over her pale cheeks. "Oh," she said, slowly and painfully, "if God will I shall learn; but, young man, it is a dreary time for learning. In our days of happiness and youth we put all this away, and the hour of trouble finds us without a refuge. You see I bore all the trouble," she continued, smiling faintly; "it is the glimmer of hope you have brought me that so nearly upset my poor, weak brain. But tell me, have you seen my little one?"

In reply Arthur gave, as clearly as possible, the story given to him by the waiter at the hotel in York, to all of which Margaret listened with rapt attention. Once or twice she was on the point of interrupting him, but she controlled herself to the end, and there was disappointment in the heavy sigh with which she answered him. "It is certainly my scarf," she said, taking it up and examining it attentively; "I could not possibly be mistaken, and as certainly that little child was my daughter--my lost Laura. Yes, it is all so probable. My little one's grief, the love of those around her, and her letter--it was to me--he never sent it. I am deceived, betrayed. Oh, Maurice! Maurice!"

Her grief seemed to overcome her. She covered her face with her hands, and once more, in his perplexity and distress, Arthur was on the point of throwing himself at her feet, of declaring his boundless love.

Before he could decide she looked up again and spoke with apparent calm: "There are some difficulties in the story. Are you sure the waiter said he was old and like a foreigner?"

"Perfectly certain; I could not possibly be mistaken."

"Then he must have changed wonderfully in the short time."

"Forgive me for asking, Mrs. Grey, but whom do you suspect of this atrocity? I would not be intrusive for the world; I only wish to be your friend." The young man's voice trembled; he went on more rapidly: "You must know, you must have seen, that I take no common interest in your concerns. I feel this is neither the time nor the place to force my own feelings upon you; but, Margaret, when I see you alone, friendless, when I know it is in my power to give you everything, to devote myself to you utterly, even to bring back perhaps those days of happiness of which you spoke, how can I resist the temptation of letting you know all? Since first I saw you your fair, sad face has haunted me; I can think of nothing else. Ah! I have been idle, good-for-nothing, but all that has passed away. Give me hope, and I will yet make myself worthy of you."

He spoke with such impetuosity that it was almost impossible to stop him. But when he paused for lack of breath, Margaret drew herself away, putting back gently his pleading hand. Perhaps it was well for her that this new excitement came. It seemed to restore her strength of mind, her gentle, womanly dignity. "Hush!" she said quietly; "you must not speak to me in this way. If you really care for me you will respect my lonely position. Arthur, I am married, and my one absorbing anxiety is to see my husband again before I die. Come, I do not mean to lose you as a friend; you have shown yourself a man, and a noble man, to-day; you will soon overcome this weakness."

Arthur was looking away over the sea. He was staggered for a moment, and yet he was not really surprised. His voice was a little husky as he answered, for after all he was only a boy, and he had taught himself to hope. "Forgive my folly and presumption," he said.

She put her hand on his shoulder with the caressing gesture of an elder sister. "I want a friend," she said, smiling into his downcast face. "You shall be my brother, Arthur. I have never had a brother, for I was an only child, and my sole friend in the wide world is my solicitor. He is a man of position and character, and yet--do you know? my loneliness makes me so sensitive--I sometimes feel inclined to distrust even him."

"Can you tell me his name?"

"It is rather a common one. Very likely you will not know it. Mr. Robinson--James, I think, is his Christian name."

"Of the firm of Robinson and ----?"

"Yes."

"Then, Mrs. Grey, your suspicions were only too well founded." He gnashed his teeth. "The old hypocrite! I trust you have not given him your confidence to any great extent."

Margaret turned pale: "Everything I have is in his hands. Only two days ago I gave him some valuable jewelry to ensure the speedy carrying out of my instructions."

"And he took it away with him, I suppose," Arthur smiled sardonically--"recommended patience and resignation. Ah! I know him well. But forgive me; I am allowing my feelings to run away with me and frightening you. The fact is that I happen to know something of your solicitor, and the very mention of his name excites me. Mrs. Grey, we must save you from him. Tell me once more, do you trust me?"

Margaret looked up into his frank, open face and smiled. "As I would my own brother," she replied heartily; "and in proof of it, if you can listen to a long, painful story, I will tell you my history, and how it is that you find me here in this little village alone and unprotected. You have given me the full confidence of your young, true heart; you have trusted in me, Arthur, in spite of much that must have seemed strange and mysterious. I will give you my confidence in return. But I think for to-day the exertion would be almost too much for me. Can you come again to-morrow, or must you go away at once?"

"I shall not leave this place until I have found out some way of helping you, Mrs. Grey; but if you really mean to trust me as your brother, will you let me say that I don't like the idea of your staying by yourself in this solitary house? You want some one with you upon whom you can thoroughly depend. I rather distrust your landlady; I can scarcely say why." They had risen from their seat on the sands, and were walking toward the little cottage. "As I came in," continued Arthur, "she entertained me--a perfect stranger, at least as far as she knew--with the story of your child's disappearance and your fainting-fit of that evening, seeming to expect me to give my errand in return."

"I rather distrust her myself," replied Margaret; "but one cannot always tell. Her manner certainly is unfortunate. I believe, however, that she is really a good kind of person, and her character stands high in the neighborhood. I do not like the idea of a change just now, but thank you all the same for the kind thought. You saw me, you must remember, at a weak moment; I am not always so foolish, and to-night I shall have something to think about. Here we are at the gate. Come in and have a cup of tea. By the bye, where are you staying?"

"At the hotel, Mrs. Grey; it's not very far from here. I think if you even called out to me from the window of your dining-room, I should hear you."

Margaret smiled: "I shall have no occasion, I hope, for the assistance of my champion till to-morrow; then you must hear my story, and help me to devise some plan for communicating with my husband and child."

"You think your husband has taken the child?" said Arthur, stopping suddenly.

"To-morrow, Arthur, to-morrow; before we discuss that point I must rest."