CHAPTER X.

_LAURA AND HER FATHER._

Oh, there is never sorrow of heart That shall lack a timely end, If but to God we turn and ask Of Him to be our Friend.

It was an awful moment for the bewildered landlady. The wildness of the night, the mystery of that empty room, the violence of the disappointed man, brought vividly to her mind that other night when, but for the interposing power of God, her hands might have been imbrued with the ineffaceable stain of crime. It had passed, it had been forgiven, but in this moment, her senses scarcely awake, the suddenness and mystery around her, it seemed almost as if the deed had been done, as if the accuser were before her.

Instead of answering she cowered and shrank, while Maurice in his agony, without ever relaxing that vice-like grasp, repeated his fierce inquiries. "You know; I can read it in your coward face. Great God, give me patience!" And as he spoke he shook her roughly, making the poor woman all the more powerless to utter a word.

Only a few moments had passed, but they seemed ages to them both, before Arthur came out among the trees. His face was very pale, for in the interval the old woman had been telling him all that had happened--at least all she knew. It appeared that they were totally unexpected, for although both Maurice and Arthur had written to announce their arrival, in the uncertainty of the winter-post from Switzerland they had preceded their letters.

The continued suspense after Mrs. Churchill's cheerful presence was withdrawn had been too much for Margaret to bear up against, but her sudden disappearance was as much of a mystery to the old woman as it had been to them; she connected it, however, with her illness, and the conclusions she drew were very gloomy. In the whole circumstance there was only one ray of hope--Margaret's faithful friend was with her, as Adele was missing too. But how had she allowed her to leave the house? why had she not called for assistance?

Arthur, as he went out to meet the disappointed man, felt hope sink down in his heart. But though pale and sad his face was resolute. It would be necessary to act, and to act at once. Taking Maurice by the arm, he drew away from his grasp the terrified woman. "Mr. Grey," he said, "listen to me. Your wife is out there in the night. Be calm or nothing can be done. My cousin is with her."

Maurice gave a sudden start. "What? how?" he gasped.

"I tell you," replied the younger man, "you _must_ command yourself. She has had a dangerous fever; it may be delirium--no one knows. In any case they must be instantly followed. We certainly did not pass them in the direction of the station. Take you the road to the sea; I with Martha will go inland. Mr. Grey, do you hear?" for Maurice was staring wildly about him.

"In the night, by the sea," he muttered, staggering blindly against the wall.

Arthur was in despair. This was worse than all; _how_ could he make him understand? But at that very moment help came from an unexpected source. A little soft hand was put into that of the bewildered man, large spiritual eyes looked up into his face. Laura had heard the last words. Her father's emotion had for the first time brought him near to her.

"Dear papa, you will find mamma. Come!"

He submitted to the leading hand, walked with the little one down the garden-path to the gate, outside of which the saddled horse was standing, quietly cropping the wayside grass.

The fearless child caught the bridle and put it into her father's hand. Then first Maurice seemed to understand what was wanted. He took the bridle from the child's hand and stooped to kiss her on the brow. "Pray for us, Laura," he whispered--"your father and mother."

A moment, and the good horse was spurred forward again, this time on the sandy road that led down to the sea.

Happily, the moon came out from a rent in the clouds.

The child looked up. "He will see mamma," she whispered; then, as the horseman disappeared behind the trees, her strong little heart failed.

She threw herself down on her knees in the wet grass by the garden-gate, and clinging to its posts poured out her sorrow: "O God, save mamma. O God, bring her back to Laura."

It was the landlady who found her there.

After her first terror about the strange events of the evening, Jane vaguely remembered to have caught a glimpse of the little one, and her first thought was to search for her in every direction, for she was alone in the house, Nurse Martha having at once started off with Arthur to look for the wanderers.

She found Laura at last by the garden-gate, and in spite of resistance carried her in to the warm fireside, for, practical in the midst of her excitement, Jane had rekindled the parlor fire, and it was blazing merrily.

"Miss Laura, my dear, think what your mamma will say if you're ill too; and you know you'll be ill if you stay out in the cold."

This made her submit at last to be wrapped up warmly and laid on the parlor sofa. It was well for her. The fatigue and subsequent excitement, the exhaustion of her sorrow, and the pleasant warmth combined to cause a drowsiness that could not be restrained.

Laura forgot all her troubles. While the fate of her parents still trembled in the balance she slept childhood's unbroken sleep, and Jane was set free to run up to her own little charge, who had been aroused by the commotion and was crying out for her lustily.

She found him so excited that as it was impossible to divide herself between parlor and bedroom, she thought it well to wrap him up warmly and bring him down.

The bright fire was as effectual with Willie as it had been with Laura. Jane laid him down on the sofa, and the hard, unsympathetic woman felt her eyes grow dim and her heart soft as she watched the quiet sleep of the little ones--the one round and rosy as the day, the other pale, with a troubled look even in sleep, but fair as one of God's angels.