He rang the bell when he had compelled me to repeat every word I had overheard, and sent for the housekeeper. I heard the whispering, but not the words—there was a long, angry conversation. I heard Sir Roland say "that Alice and every one else who had shared in those kind of conversations should leave." Then he kissed me.

"Papa," I cried to him, "will you send Miss Reinhart away? No other change is of any use."

"My dear Laura, you are prejudiced. You must not listen to those stupid servants and their vile exaggerations. Miss Reinhart is very good and very useful to me. I cannot send her away as I would dismiss a servant—nor do I intend."

"Let her go, that we may be happy as we were before. Oh, papa! she does not love mamma. She is not good; every one dislikes her. No one will speak to her. What shall we do? Send her away!"

"This is all a mistake, Laura," he said; "a cruel—I might say wicked—mistake. You must not talk to me in this way again."

Perhaps more might have been said; it might even have been that the tragedy had been averted but for the sudden rap at the door and the announcement that the rector wished to see Sir Roland.

"Ask him to step in here," said my father, with a great mark of discomposure. "Laura, run away, child, and remember what I have said. Do not speak to me in this fashion again."

I learned afterward that the rector had called to remonstrate with him—to tell him what a scandal and shame was spreading all over the country side, and to beg of him to end it.

Many hours elapsed before I saw my father again. I saw him ride out of the courtyard and did not see him return. When I had gone to his room in the morning I had taken with me one of my books, and I wanted it for my studies in the morning.

It was neither light nor dark. I went quietly along the broad corridors to my father's study. I never gave one thought to the fact that my father might be there. I had not seen him return. I went in. The study was a very long room with deep windows. Quite at the other end, with the firelight shining on his face, stood my father, and by his side Miss Reinhart, just as I had seen him stand with my beautiful mother a hundred times; one arm was thrown round her, and he was looking earnestly in her face.

"It must be so," he said; "there is no alternative now."

She clung to him, whispering, and he kissed her.

I stole away. Oh! my injured, innocent mother. I do not remember exactly what I did. I rushed from the house out into the great fir wood and wept out my hot, rebellious anger and despair there. At breakfast time the next morning just a gleam of hope came to me. Miss Reinhart said that, above everything else, she should like a drive.

Whether it was my pleading and tears or the rector's visit which had made my father think, I cannot tell, but for the first time he seemed quite unwilling to drive her out. The tears came into her eyes and he went over to her and whispered something which made her smile. He talked to her in a mysterious kind of fashion that I could neither understand nor make out at all—of some time in the future.

An uneasy sense of something about to happen came over me. I could feel the approach of some dark shadow; all day the same sensation rested with me, yet I saw nothing to justify it. At night my mother called me to her side.

"Laura, you do not look so cheerful this evening. What makes my daughter so sad?"

I could not tell her of that scene I had witnessed; I could not tell her of what was wrong.

On the morning following this, to me, horrible day, I could not help seeing that there was quite a new understanding between my father and Miss Reinhart. I overheard him say to her:

"It would have been quite impossible to have gone on; the whole country would have been in an uproar."

All that day there seemed to me something mysterious going on in the house; the servants went about with puzzled faces; there were whisperings and consultations. I heard Patience say to Emma:

"It is not true. I would not believe it. It is some foolish exaggeration of the servants. I am sure it is not true."

"Even if it should be I do not know what we could do," said Emma. "We cannot prevent it. If he has a mind to do such a bad action, he will do it, if not at one time, surely at another."

What was it? I never asked questions now.

One thing I remember. When I went into his room that evening to say good-night, my father's traveling flask lay there—a pretty silver flask that my mother had given him for a birthday present. He bade me "good-night," and I little thought when or how we should meet again.



CHAPTER XII.

I do not judge or condemn him. I do not even say what I should say if he were any other than my father. His sin was unpardonable; perhaps his temptation was great; I cannot tell. The Great Judge knows best. I will tell my miserable story just as it happened.

The day following—another bright, sunny, warm morning, all sunshine, song and perfume, the birds singing so sweetly and the fair earth laughing. It was so bright and beautiful that when I went out into the grounds my troubles seemed to fade away. I hastened to gather some flowers for my mother; the mignonette was in bloom, and that was her favorite flower. I took them to her, and we talked for a few minutes about the beauty of the day. She seemed somewhat better, and asked me to get through my studies quickly, so that we might go through the grounds. I hastened to the school-room. Miss Reinhart was not there. I took my books and sat down by the window waiting for her. As I sat there, one after another the servants looked in the room, as though in search of something, then vanished. At last I grew tired of waiting, and rang to ask if Miss Reinhart was coming to give me my lessons. Emma came in reply.

Miss Reinhart would not be there yet, she said, and it would be better for me to go out now with my lady and to attend to my books afterward.

It struck me that every one seemed in a hurry to get us out of the house. Patience King was not to be seen, and Emma did not like to come near us because of her tear-stained face. Just as we were leaving the house my mother turned to the footman, who was at the back of her chair:

"John," she said, "go and ask Sir Roland if he will come with us."

I saw the man's face flush crimson, but he went away and returned in a few minutes, saying that his master was not in.

My mother repeated the words in some wonder.

"Have you seen papa this morning, Laura?"

"No; Emma brought my breakfast to me."

"I have not seen him either," she said. "He has not been to say good-morning to me yet. John, leave word that when Sir Roland comes in we shall be on the grass plot near the sun-dial!"

Why did they all look at us with such scared faces, with such wondering eyes? And I felt sure that I heard one say to the other:

"I have sent for the rector."

We went—as unconscious of the doom that hung over us as two children—went my mother's rounds. She looked at all the flowers, but turned to me once or twice and said, uneasily:

"I wonder where Sir Roland is? It seems strange not to have seen him."

We talked about him. There was nothing she liked more than speaking of him to me. We were out, I should think, at least three hours, and then my mother felt faint, and we went back.

The good rector met us and shook hands very kindly with us, but he was pale and agitated, not like himself in the least. Patience was there, and Emma; the other servants were huddled in groups, and I knew something very terrible had happened—something—but what?

The rector said Lady Tayne was tired, and must have some wine. My mother took it, and was placed upon her couch once more. She turned to the footman and asked if my father had returned. The answer was—no. Then the rector said he wished to speak to her alone. He held a letter in his hands, and his face was as pale as death. She looked up at him and said, quickly:

"Is it bad news?"

"Yes," he answered, gravely; "it is very bad news. Laura, go away and leave your mother with me."

But my mother clung to me.

"No, if I have anything to suffer," she cried, "let Laura stay with me—I can bear anything with her."

"Let me stay?" I asked.

He covered his face with his hands, and was silent for some minutes. I wonder if he was praying Heaven to give him strength—he had to give my mother her death blow. I can never remember how he told her—in what language or fashion—but we gathered the sense of it at last; my father had left home, and had taken Miss Reinhart with him!

The blow had fallen—the worst had come. Oh, Heaven! if, sleeping or waking, I could ever forget my mother's face—if I could close my eyes without seeing its white, stony horror! The very tone of her voice was changed.

"Doctor Dalkeith!" she asked, "is this horrible thing true—true?"

"Unhappily, Lady Tayne," he replied.

"You say that my husband, Sir Roland has left me, and has gone away—with—this person?"

"I am afraid it is but too true," he replied.

"Has he ceased to love me, that he has done this?"

"My dear Lady Tayne, I know nothing but the facts—nothing else. Your servants sent for me to break it to you, for they could not bear to do it themselves."

"My servants," she said, mechanically. She still held the flowers we had gathered in her hand, the lovely sprays of mignonette! suddenly they fell to the floor, and in a strange, hoarse voice, my mother cried: "I must follow him!"

Oh, wondrous power of love! My mother, who had been crippled and helpless so long, whose feet had never taken one step; my mother suddenly stood up, her face white, her eyes filled with wild fire. She stretched out her hands—into those dead limbs of hers seemed to spring sudden life.

"I must follow them," she said, and she took what seemed to us two or three steps and then once again she fell with her face to the ground.

"I knew it would kill her," said the rector. "I told my wife so."

He rang the bell.

"Send Lady Tayne's maid here and the nurse. Send for Mrs. Dalkeith and for the doctor!"

"It has killed her, sir," said Patience, with a white face.

"I am afraid so," he replied.

They raised her and carried her to her room; they laid her down, and the rector drew me to her.

"If any voice can call her back, my dear," he said, "it will be yours; if she can hear anything it will be that. Put your arm around her neck and speak to her."

I did. But, oh, Heaven! the white face fell helplessly on mine. Oh, my beautiful young mother—as I held her there a vision came to me of her, as I had seen her, with shining eyes and flying feet.

"She is with the angels of heaven," said the rector, gently. "My poor child, come away."

"Do you mean that she is dead?" I asked—"dead?"

"Yes, she is with the angels," he replied. "Thank Heaven for it! Dear child, she could not have lived and borne this—she would have suffered a torture of anguish. Now it is all over, and she is at rest. She must have died even as she fell."

Was I dying? My face fell on hers; an exceeding bitter cry came from my lips.

"Oh, mother—mother!"

And then Heaven was merciful to me, too—a dark shadow seemed to fall over me, and I remember no more.

When I awoke I was in my own room and the sun was shining—the birds singing. Emma sat by me. Two days and two nights had passed since my mother died.

I saw her once again. She had grown more beautiful even in death; loving hands had laid white flowers on her breast and on her hands—a sweet smile was on her lips.

The rector stood there with me.

"She has been murdered," I said; "that is the right word—murdered."

"Yes," he replied, "murdered! But she is among the angels of heaven. Laura, loving hands have placed these flowers on your mother's silent heart; do you know, dear child, what I should like you to place in her coffin? The sweetest flower that grows."

"No; I do not know."

"The flower of divine forgiveness. I know, although you have never told me, what hot, bitter hate swells in your heart against the woman who incited your father to this sin, and even against your father himself. I do not know if we can add to the happiness of the dead; but if it be so, lay your hand on your mother's heart and say so."

After a long time I did it. I forgave them. If I meet and can talk to my mother in Heaven I will tell her why.

She was buried. No news came from my father. Tayne Hall was closed, and I went to live with my mother's cousin.

That is the story of the sin; this is the punishment:

Some years afterward Sir Roland brought his wife back to England—he married her when my mother died—-but no one would receive them. They were banished from all civilized society, and to compensate herself for that, my mother's rival mixed with the fastest and worst set in England. The end of it was that, after completely ruining him, she ran away from him and left him as he had left my mother.

His death redeemed his life. He was found dead on my mother's grave, and I loved him better in death than in life.

That is what one wicked woman can do. There is one prayer that should never leave man's lips, and it is: "Lead us not into temptation."

THE END.



[Transcriber's Note: The following typographical errors from the original edition have been corrected.

pictuesque has been changed to picturesque.

stood lookinging at her has been changed to stood looking at her.

The quotation mark in "Oh, baby brother has been removed.

recumbent postion has been changed to recumbent position.

The quotation mark in "My mother grasped my hand has been removed.

A missing quotation mark has been added to "My life is spoiled, I cried.

A missing quotation mark has been added to "You will be compelled to recognize mine, Mrs. Eastwood, if you remain here, she said.

A missing quotation mark has been added to Why do you never think or speak of my mother?]

THE END