CHAPTER LXVI
Beatrix did not know how to refuse the mother's prayer. She knew that Laurel's heart was yearning for the child, and she did not really think that it would do her any injury to see him. She made her promise that she would not excite herself, and then she went after the little lad who was as usual at play with Trixy upon the shore.
She made Laurence promise that he would be very gentle and quiet in his mamma's room, and he very readily agreed to do so. She knew that he was a little gentleman who would keep his word of honor, and so she sent him in and waited outside patiently until that momentous interview was over.
Laurel kept the child for almost an hour. No one knew just what she said to him or how much of the past she revealed to him, but the boy came out with a face all glowing with joy and sought little Trixy.
To her, he confided his joyous news:
"I have a real, live papa, Trixy. He is not dead as we thought. He is good and handsome—as handsome as your papa, Trixy, dear, and when mamma gets well she is going to take me to him."
Trixy was delighted at the good fortune that had befallen her boylover. It formed an inexhaustible theme with them. They discussed it daily and compared notes on their papas in the most earnest fashion. Laurence was very impatient to have his mamma get well. The vague longing that had haunted him all his lifetime would be realized when he went home to that splendid papa whom already he loved in anticipation.
Laurel convalesced very fast. Since she had heard that her husband still lived, there was a great change in her. She was very grave and thoughtful, even amounting to sadness. Beatrix could not understand her. She was fonder than ever of her child, but there seemed to be a sort of passionate sorrow mingled with her love. She would fondle and caress him, and then she would weep bitterly over him.
"Why do you weep over your child?" Beatrix asked her, in wonder.
"I love him so dearly," answered Laurel, evasively.
"I cannot understand why that should be a reason for weeping over him. You ought to be quite happy over such a beautiful boy," said impulsive Beatrix, sighing, as she thought of her own little lad sleeping far away beneath the skies of England.
"I am happy over him," said Laurel. "But, oh, Beatrix, you do not quite understand me. Hitherto my little Laurence has belonged only to me. He came to me in a dark and troublous time when I was alone and friendless in the world. I worked for him, I made money for him, and I filled up the void in my heart with his baby love. But for him, I should have died. I could not have borne my life. And now we shall be parted, I and my little son. I shall give him to his father; but, oh, Beatrix, what shall I do without him?"
"I cannot understand you, indeed, Laurel," said simple Beatrix. "You are going home to your husband, are you not, dear? Surely you will not mind dividing the child's love with him. Think how selfishly you have kept it to yourself all these years, and you will not lose him or be parted from him. You know what the poet says: 'Half is his, and half is thine.' Depend upon it, Laurel, you will be happier in the child's love when his father shares it. It is only natural that you should be."
"You will understand my meaning better in a little while, dear Beatrix," Laurel answered, gently, and then she abruptly changed the subject.
"I have always wanted to ask you about Clarice Wells," she said. "What has become of her?"
Beatrix laughed, sweetly and gayly.
"I am glad you have not forgotten Clarice," she said. "She was a good girl, and she admired you very much. I was sorry to lose her when I left England, but I could not forbid the bans."
"She is married, then?" asked Laurel.
"Yes, and her marriage was quite romantic. Should you like to hear about it?"
"Very much," Laurel replied.
"You would scarcely believe it of one so devoted to the laws of Caste, and who lectured you so roundly for aspiring above your station, but Clarice is actually the wife of an English baronet," laughed Beatrix, "and it all happened in the most romantic fashion. I always thought that Clarice had a spice of romance in her nature. She betrayed it when she lent herself so readily to the furtherance of our girlish conspiracy."
"Yes," sighed Laurel.
"She met him—her baronet—in the Alps, where we were taking our little summer holidays," continued Beatrix. "He was summering there, too, and 'they met by chance—the usual way,' you know, Laurel. She saved his life—he was rolling down a precipice and she adroitly caught him back—she was always a quick-witted little thing. Well, he was grateful, she was interested, and, next thing, they fell in love. Clarice was very sensible at first. She refused to have anything to say to him, and I applauded her. But, really, Laurel, it was not so bad. He was not, 'to the manner born.' Until a year before he had been plain John Bull, a briefless barrister. He had succeeded to the baronetage by a series of accidental and unexpected deaths of heirs-presumptive, and he was plain and sensible, and forty years old at least."
"I do not think his age was any objection," cried Laurel, hastily, and blushing very much.
"No, indeed, and it did not prove so in this case," smiled Beatrix. "He would not take her No for an answer. He never rested until he made pretty Clarice 'my lady.'"
"It is very romantic. I shall make it a plot for a novel," declared Laurel. "I dare say Clarice would not scold me now for aspiring above my station," she added, with a pretty, pensive smile.
"I dare say not," said Beatrix, greatly amused. "Exceptions alter cases."
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