CHAPTER XII.

_"I SHALL LIVE AND NOT DIE."_

This world is the nurse of all we know, This world is the mother of all we feel, And the coming of death is a fearful blow To a brain unencompassed with nerves of steel.

They had further discussion that evening. Margaret told her young protector, after she had rested a little, how from that day she had been persecuted by the attempts of L'Estrange to force himself upon her. How at last she had found this little seaside village, and had rested there with her child, hoping its isolation and retirement would hide her. She told of her adventures in London, of the escape so ably managed by Adele, of the discovery of her hiding-place, of that interview, and of her persecutor's concluding words, which, as she believed, had foreshadowed her present trouble.

"This is the mystery," said Mrs. Grey in conclusion, looking down at the scarf, "for a vague idea begins to dawn on me that I did _not_ leave it on that seat on the sandhills. I remember, or I think I remember--all that night is in a kind of maze--looking for it, and being annoyed by the belief that M. L'Estrange had taken it away with him for some reason best known to himself."

"What!" said Arthur eagerly; "then, after all, this might be explained. Mrs. Grey, do you know I begin to have a dawning suspicion that your husband was not the person who took away your child? In the first place, to act in this way would be very unlike an English gentleman, such as, from your account, I imagine Mr. Grey to be; then that threat of the villain who was annoying you was _un peu fort_--one might possibly see daylight through it; then--"

He stopped, for Margaret was giving no attention to his reasons. "_Not_ my husband!" she cried, and there came a sudden light into her face. "If I could only think so, but even to wish it would be wrong. Think of my poor little darling in strange hands!"

"That need scarcely alarm you. The person with whom your child was seemed to take every care of her."

"And you think that person was--?" Margaret fixed her eye on Arthur. The dreadful wildness was gathering there once more.

"Dear Mrs. Grey," he said earnestly, "I only say I have my suspicions. Trust me, I will leave no stone unturned to find your husband and child. I _have_ a clue to both."

"What do you mean?"

Arthur gave in answer the story of the Russian, omitting, of course, the suspicion of the fair St. Petersburgers.

"My first step," he said, "shall be to look up Count Orloff. He has set the Russian police to work, and I believe has found out something through Mrs. Grey's solicitor in England. Your child and the gentleman with whom she is will certainly be conspicuous travellers. I made inquiries at York, at the hotel and station, and found that about a week ago they must have taken the train from York to Southampton, so it is highly probable they were bound for some foreign port. We must set agents to work at Cherbourg, Havre, Lisbon and Gibraltar, for I think it scarcely likely they can have left Europe. Courage, my dear Mrs. Grey! I think we shall light upon them. _I_ will follow the track most likely to have been taken by your husband, leaving the recovery of the child in the hands of my solicitor--a very different person, I can assure you, from Mr. Robinson--for if, as I suspect, this villain has taken his revenge by depriving you of your child, remember, it is an offence punishable by law, and he shall be hunted down till his crime is discovered and himself traced."

The young man's form dilated, he stood erect, he looked what he was--an Englishman, strong, vigorous, full of noble impulse, of physical power, of untiring energy. The languor of the fashionable, the elegant good-for-nothingness, the nonchalant indifference, had all gone; he had found an object and was ready to throw himself heart and soul into its pursuit.

Margaret listened to his hope-inspiring words, and she felt herself animated with a new courage. She turned to her young protector with glistening eyes: "And you are ready to do all this for me? How shall I thank you?"

"By being strong and courageous," he answered; "but, Mrs. Grey, it is I who should talk of gratitude. You have changed me from an idle good-for-nothing into a man with an object before him, an aim to which all his soul is given. I know it is a good thing. I feel it. It will be my first battle with the world's injustice. God grant it may succeed! I believe it will. There is one thing more. You tell me that your landlady, in relating the story of your child's disappearance, described your husband. Now, either one of two things. My theory, supported by the waiter at York and suggested by the man's own words, is wrong altogether, or else she has been bribed to give you false information. In the latter case--which, I must say, rather fits in with my own ideas--she ought to be watched; and certainly this is no place for you. Who knows what she might not do in dread of discovery? Here you are more or less in her power. Think a moment. Have you no friends?"

Margaret turned pale. "Jane has certainly acted strangely of late," she said, after a pause; "she has even been insolent once or twice when, as she thought, I was too weak to notice it; but I cannot think her quite so bad as you seem to imagine. I do not wish to leave this place yet; you see, I have become accustomed to it. Then I have a kind of feeling that here, if anywhere, my trouble is to end. You remember that picture which was the first link between you and me? Do you know why it appealed to me so strangely? It was like a kind of dream I have often had. I used to say in the old days that I had what Goethe called the second sight. Sometimes at superstitious moments I was inclined to think this dream a kind of vision of the future, and it comforted me beyond measure. It has come so often and in such different forms, but it always ends in the same way--Maurice coming back to me over the sea, and living here in my quiet corner. If I could tell you how much I have built on this small foundation! But the dream only comes with the sea-sounds. In those miserable London days I used even to pray for it at night, I was so utterly hopeless; it never came."

Arthur looked thoughtful: "I shall see my cousin before I go; she has been very delicate lately, and my aunt, I believe, is very anxious for her to have change of air. Perhaps she would allow her to come here and stay with you for a time."

Margaret shook her head: "I cannot hope for that, though of all things I think it would be the pleasantest; but do not be uneasy on my account. No doubt I shall manage very well by myself; and you will let me hear whenever any trace has been found?"

"Indeed I will, Mrs. Grey; and cheer up, for I believe that will be soon."

"God grant it!"

Margaret clasped her thin hands together. She looked so frail, so shadow-like in the failing light, that Arthur's heart gave a sudden bound. What if she were fading--if, before he could gladden her by the news she craved, her spirit should have passed from earth? The thought made him impatient. He longed to be up and doing, taking the first step at least in his self-set task. And here would be a plea to urge with her husband. If he had ever loved her, surely, surely he would forget everything and fly back to her side when he should hear of her state.

Arthur was ready with youth's burning eloquence to plead for her. He felt he could paint her in such colors that not the stoniest heart could resist him. And while he was thinking it all out, already at his goal, pouring into the ears of the man he sought the history that had come upon his own youth like a life-giving power, of the beautiful, patient lady wasting her fair life away in faithful solitude, she turned from the open window, crossed the little room and sat down by his side.

"God has been good to me," she said gently. "I thought He would take me away in my sadness, life's broken entangled threads lying loosely in my hands, but now He has given me back my hope. I shall live and not die, at least not yet. Young man, there is something in the Bible about the 'blessing of those who are ready to perish.' Surely in the sight of the All-pitiful that must be a good thing. It is yours. Poor that I am, I can offer you no more."

Arthur's eyes glistened. "I hold it more precious than gold," he said, stooping over her hand and raising it to his lips; "with this I think I could engage the world."