Chaste as Ice, Pure as Snow: A Novel

by C. Despard

"And remember, Adèle," said Arthur impressively, "no flirting in my absence. Mrs. Grey, I shall make you responsible."

Margaret laughed, and Adèle answered gayly, for her bright spirits were rapidly returning, "Pray, sir, with what am I to flirt? As far as I can see already, there are no objects but stones and waves, and I fear that on them my fascinations would be thrown away. Mrs. Grey, have you many visitors in this place in the summer?"

"Principally nurses and babies; I fear it will be dull for you."

"Dull!" said Adèle rapturously, "with you and the sea! Why, this is the kind of dulness I have been craving for. If you only knew how delightful it is to escape from soirées and dinner-parties, and, more hateful still, afternoon callers! But have you nothing else to tell Mrs. Grey, Arthur?"

"Very little more, Adèle. I think I told you, Mrs. Grey, that we had traced your little girl to Southampton. We sent an agent there, and to-day my solicitor, Golding, had a telegram from him. Travellers answering exactly to our description seem to have taken tickets to Paris. A sailor in one of the steam-packets remembers the child perfectly. He seems to have been struck with her beauty and the peculiar appearance of her companion. Paris is a large city, but I do not despair. Our man has his wits about him. We have communicated with the French police too, and they are on the alert."

Margaret sighed: "It is so difficult to be patient. I long to be off myself—my poor little darling!—but I suppose it would be useless."

"Worse than useless. You see we must proceed with great caution, and the man we suspect knows you. If he found out that you were personally on the track, he might take alarm and hide the child; but our agent is unknown to him. By the bye, have you a picture or anything of the kind of either or of both of them, your little Laura and this foreigner? If you have it may be useful."

Margaret turned pale: "Wait a moment," she said. She went with her candle into the next room, and opening a drawer took from it a little old leather box. The key was on her watch-chain, but her hand trembled as she fitted it into the lock. The lid flew open, revealing a little velvet-lined case, which seemed to contain only two or three yellow envelopes, a withered flower and two likenesses.

Sitting down, Margaret leant her head upon her hand, and two or three tears fell into the box. It was like the opening of a grave. The likenesses were miniatures, delicately painted and set in gold. She took up the one that lay uppermost, and looked at it through a mist of blinding tears. It was the portrait of a young girl; the face was not so beautiful as that which looked down upon it, for the features were irregular, but the artist had hit happily upon its principal charm: it was in the eyes, which were dark and lustrous, and in the low, broad brow, from which the hair swept back in soft waving lines.