"Oh! let me, dear. Mr. Helbeck is sure to be late. And Sister Rosa will look after him. Teaching Fricka has made me as hungry as that!"--and she opened her hands wide, as a child measures.

Augustina looked at her sadly, but said nothing. She remembered that the night before, too, Laura, would not go downstairs.

The little meal went gayly. Just as it was over, and while Laura was still chattering to her stepmother as she had not chattered for months, a step was heard in the pa.s.sage.

"Ah! there is Alan!" cried Mrs. Fountain.

The Squire came in tired and mud-stained. Even his hair shone with rain, and his clothes were wet through.

"I must not come too near you," he said, standing beside the door.

Mrs. Fountain bade him dress, get some dinner, and come back to her. As she spoke, she saw him peering through the shadows of the room. She too looked round. Laura was gone.

"At the first sound of his step!" thought Augustina. And she wept a little, but so secretly that even Sister Rosa did not discover it. Her ambition--her poor ambition--was for herself alone. What chance had it?--alas! Never since Stephen's death surely had Augustina seen Laura shed such tears as she had shed the night before. But no words, no promises--nothing! And where, now, was any sign of it?

She drew out her beads for comfort. And so, sighing and praying, she fell asleep.

After supper Helbeck was in the hall smoking. He was half abashed that he should find so much comfort in his pipe, and that he should dread so much the prospect of giving it up.

His thoughts, however, were black enough--black as the windy darkness outside.

A step on the stairs--at which his breath leapt. Miss Fountain, in her white evening dress, was descending.

"May I speak to you, Mr. Helbeck?"

He flung down his pipe and approached her. She stood a little above him on one of the lower steps; and instantly he felt that she came in gentleness.

An agitation he could barely control took possession of him. All day long he had been scourging himself for the incident of the night before. They had not met since. He looked at her now humbly--with a deep sadness--and waited for what she had to say.

"Shall we go into the drawing-room? Is there a light?"

"We will take one."

He lifted a lamp, and she led the way. Without another word, she opened the door into the deserted room. n.o.body had entered it since the orphanage function, when some extra service had been hastily brought in to make the house habitable. The ma.s.s of the furniture was gathered into the centre of the carpet, with a few tattered sheets flung across it. The gap made by the lost Romney spoke from the wall, and the windows stood uncurtained to the night.

Laura, however, found a chair and sank into it. He put down the lamp, and stood expectant.

They were almost in their old positions. How to find strength and voice!

That room breathed memories.

When she did speak, however, her intonation was peculiarly firm and clear.

"You gave me a rebuke last night, Mr. Helbeck--and I deserved it!"

He made a sudden movement--a movement which seemed to trouble her.

"No!--don't!"--she raised her hand involuntarily--"don't please say anything to make it easier for me. I gave you great pain. You were right--oh! quite right--to express it. But you know----"

She broke off suddenly.

"You know, I can't talk--if you stand there like that! Won't you come here, and sit down"--she pointed to a chair near her--"as if we were friends still? We can be friends, can't we? We ought to be for Augustina's sake. And I very much want to discuss with you--seriously--what I have to say."

He obeyed her. He came to sit beside her, recovering his composure--bending forward that he might give her his best attention.

She paused a moment--knitting her brows.

"I thought afterwards, a long time, of what had happened. I talked, too, to Augustina. She was much distressed--she appealed to me. And I saw a great deal of force in what she said. She pointed out that it was absurd for me to judge before I knew; that I never--never--had been willing to know; that everything--even the Catholic Church"--she smiled faintly--"takes some learning. She pleaded with me--and what she said touched me very much. I do not know how long I may have to stay in your house--and with her. I would not willingly cause you pain. I would gladly _understand_, at least, more than I do--I should like to learn--to be instructed. Would--would Father Leadham, do you think, take the trouble to correspond with me--to point me out the books, for instance, that I might read?"

Helbeck's black eyes fastened themselves upon her.

"You--you would like to correspond with Father Leadham?" he repeated, in stupefaction.

She nodded. Involuntarily she began a little angry beating with her foot that he knew well. It was always the protest of her pride, when she could not prevent the tears from showing themselves.

He controlled himself. He turned his chair so as to come within an easy talking distance.

"Will you pardon me," he said quietly, "if I ask for more information?

Did you only determine on this last night?"

"I think so."

He hesitated.

"It is a serious step, Miss Fountain! You should not take it only from pity for Augustina--only from a wish to give her comfort in dying!"

She turned away her face a little. That penetrating look pierced too deeply. "Are there not many motives?" she said, rather hoa.r.s.ely--"many ways? I want to give Augustina a happiness--and--and to satisfy many questions of my own. Father Leadham is bound to teach, is he not, as a priest? He could lose nothing by it."

"Certainly he is bound," said Helbeck.

He dropped his head, and stared at the carpet, thinking.

"He would recommend you some books, of course."

The same remembrance flew through both. Absently and involuntarily, Helbeck shook his head, with a sad lifting of the eyebrows. The colour rushed into Laura's cheeks.

"It must be something very simple," she said hurriedly. "Not 'Lives of the Saints,' I think, and not 'Catechisms' or 'Outlines.' Just a building up from the beginning by somebody--who found it hard, _very_ hard, to believe--and yet did believe. But Father Leadham will know--of course he would know."

Helbeck was silent. It suddenly appeared to him the strangest, the most incredible conversation. He felt the rise of a mad emotion--the beating in his breast choked him.

Laura rose, and he heard her say in low and wavering tones:

"Then I will write to him to-morrow--if you think I may."

He sprang to his feet, and as she pa.s.sed him the fountains of his being broke up. With a wild gesture he caught her in his arms.

"Laura!"