Nevertheless, when this dwindled ghostly Laura appeared, and began to flit through the low-ceiled room and dark pa.s.sages of the farm--carefully avoiding any talk about herself or her story--always cheerful, self-possessed, elusive--the elder woman began after a little to have strange stirrings of soul towards her. The girl's invincible silence, taken with those physical signs of a consuming pain that were beyond her concealment, worked upon a nature that, as far as all personal life and emotion were concerned, was no less strong and silent. Polly saw with astonishment that fires were lit in the parlour at odd times--that Laura might read or practise. She was amazed to watch her mother put out some little delicacy at tea or supper that Laura might be made to eat.

And yet!--after all these amenities, Mr. Bayley would still be asked to supper, and Laura would still be pelted and harried from supper-time till bed.

To-night when Laura returned, Mrs. Mason was in a muttering and stormy mood. Daffady had angered her sorely. Laura, moreover, had a letter from Bannisdale, and since it came there had been pa.s.sing lights in Miss Fountain's eyes, and pa.s.sing reds on her pale cheeks.

As the girl approached her cousin, Mrs. Mason turned upon her abruptly.

"Dostha want the cart to-morrow? Daffady said soomat aboot it."

"If it could be spared."

Mrs. Mason looked at her fixedly.

"If Aa was thoo," she said, "Aa'd not flutter ony more roond _that_ can'le!"

Laura shrank as though her cousin had struck her. But she controlled herself.

"Do you forget my stepmother's state, Cousin Elizabeth?"

"Oh!--yo' con aw mak much o' what suits tha!" cried the mistress, as she walked fiercely to the outer door and locked it noisily from the great key-bunch hanging at her girdle.

The girl's eyes showed a look of flame. Then her head seemed to swim. She put her hand to her brow, and walked weakly across the kitchen to the door of the stairs.

"Mother!" cried Polly, in indignation; and she sprang after Laura. But Laura waved her back imperiously, and almost immediately they heard her door shut upstairs.

An hour later Laura was lying sleepless in her bed. It was a clear cold night--a spring frost after the rain. The moon shone through the white blind, on the old four-poster, on Laura's golden hair spread on the pillow, on the great meal-ark which barred the chimney, on the rude walls and woodwork of the room.

Her arms were thrown behind her head, supporting it. Nothing moved in the house, or the room--the only sound was the rustling of a mouse in one corner.

A door opened on a sudden. There was a step in the pa.s.sage, and someone knocked at her door.

"Come in."

On the threshold stood Mrs. Mason in a cotton bedgown and petticoat, her grey locks in confusion about her ma.s.sive face and piercing eyes.

She closed the door, and came to the bedside.

"Laura!--Aa've coom to ast thy pardon!"

Laura raised herself on one arm, and looked at the apparition with amazement.

"Mebbe A've doon wrang.--We shouldna quench the smoakin flax. Soa theer's my han, child--if thoo can teak it."

The old woman held out her hand. There was an indescribable sound in her voice, as of deep waters welling up.

Laura fell back on her pillows--the whitest, fragilest creature--under the shadows of the old bed. She opened her delicate arms. "Suppose you kiss me, Cousin Elizabeth!"

The elder woman stooped clumsily. The girl linked her arms round her neck and kissed her warmly, repeatedly, feeling through all her motherless sense the satisfaction of a long hunger in the contact of the old face and ample bosom.

The reserve of both forbade anything more. Mrs. Mason tucked in the small figure--lingered a little--said, "Laura, th'art not coald--nor sick?"--and when Laura answered cheerfully, the mistress went.

The girl's eyes were wet for a while; her heart beat fast. There had been few affections in her short life--far too few. Her nature gave itself with a fatal prodigality, or not at all. And now--what was there left to give?

But she slept more peacefully for Mrs. Mason's visit--with Augustina's letter of summons under her hand.

The day was still young when Laura reached Bannisdale.

Never had the house looked so desolate. Dust lay on the oaken boards and tables of the hall. There was no fire on the great hearth, and the blinds in the oriel windows were still mostly drawn. But the remains of yesterday's fire were visible yet, and a dirty duster and pan adorned the Squire's chair.

The Irishwoman with a half-crippled husband, who had replaced Mrs.

Denton, was clearly incompetent. Mrs. Denton at least had been orderly and clean. The girl's heart smote her with a fresh pang as she made her way upstairs.

She found Augustina no worse; and in her room there was always comfort, and even brightness. She had a good nurse; a Catholic "Sister" from London, of a kind and cheerful type, that Laura herself could not dislike; and whatever working power there was in the household was concentrated on her service.

Miss Fountain took off her things, and settled in for the day. Augustina chattered incessantly, except when her weakness threw her into long dozes, mingled often, Laura thought, with slight wandering. Her wish evidently was to be always talking of her brother; but in this she checked herself whenever she could, as though controlled by some resolution of her own, or some advice from another.

Yet in the end she said a great deal about him. She spoke of the last weeks of Lent, of the priests who had been staying in the house; of the kindness that had been shown her. That wonderful network of spiritual care and attentions--like a special system of courtesy having its own rules and etiquette--with which Catholicism surrounds the dying, had been drawn about the poor little widow. During the last few weeks Ma.s.s had been said several times in her room; Father Leadham had given her Communion every day in Easter week; on Easter Sunday the children from the orphanage had come to sing to her; that Roman palm over the bed was brought her by Alan himself. The statuette of St. Joseph, too, was his gift.

So she lay and talked through the day, cheerfully enough. She did not want to hear of Cambridge or the Friedlands, still less of the farm. Her whole interest now was centred in her own state, and in the Catholic joys and duties which it still permitted. She never spoke of her husband; Laura bitterly noted it.

But there were moments when she watched her stepdaughter, and once when the Sister had left them she laid her hand on Laura's arm and whispered:

"Oh! Laura--he has grown so much greyer--since--since October."

The girl said nothing. Augustina closed her eyes, and said with much twitching and agitation, "When--when I am gone, he will go to the Jesuits--I know he will. The place will come to our cousin, Richard Helbeck. He has plenty of money--it will be very different some day."

"Did--did Father Leadham tell you that?" said Laura, after a while.

"Yes. He admitted it. He said they had twice dissuaded him in former years. But now--when I'm gone--it'll be allowed."

Suddenly Augustina opened her eyes. "Laura! where are you?" Her little crooked face worked with tears. "I'm glad!--We ought all to be glad. I don't--I don't believe he ever has a happy moment!"

She began to weep piteously. Laura tried to console her, putting her cheek to hers, with inarticulate soothing words. But Augustina turned away from her--almost in irritation.

The girl's heart was wrung at every turn. She lingered, however, till the last minute--almost till the April dark had fallen.

When she reached the hall again, she stood a moment looking round its cold and gloom. First, with a start, she noticed a pile of torn envelopes and papers lying on a table, which had escaped her in the morning. The Squire must have thrown them down there in the early morning, just before starting on his journey. The small fact gave her a throb of strange joy--brought back the living presence. Then she noticed that the study door was open.

A temptation seized her--drove her before it. Silence and solitude possessed the house. The servants were far away in the long rambling bas.e.m.e.nt. Augustina was asleep with her nurse beside her.

Laura went noiselessly across the hall. She pushed the door--she looked round his room.

No change. The books, the crucifix, the pictures, all as before. But the old walls, and wainscots, the air of the room, seemed still to hold the winter. They struck chill.

The same pile of books in daily use upon his table--a few little manuals and reprints--"The Spiritual Combat," the "Imitation," some sermons--the volume of "Acta Sanctorum" for the month.