Then when the landlady appeared, quiet and respectful, but allowing her honest sympathy to be seen, to ask whether the little boy were troublesome and to say that it was his bed-time, Margaret turned to her comforter with something like hope in her face. "Child," she said, "you are right; God is merciful. I will trust Him."
They slept together that night, for Margaret's nerves were unstrung, she could not bear to be left alone; but both of them slept calmly, and a peace, verily Heaven-born, brooded over the small company of women in their temporary home within the circle of the sea-sounds.
[CHAPTER II.]
THE LAWYER GAINS HIS POINT.
With lips depressed as he were meek,
Himself unto himself he sold:
Upon himself himself did feed—
Quiet, dispassionate and cold.
Mr. Robinson in the mean time had not been idle. He could certainly never have presented so unsullied a front before the world if he had ever been idle where his own interests were concerned. During those weeks, while L'Estrange and Margaret's child had been wandering—while Arthur had been throwing himself into the task of unravelling the mystery that surrounded Maurice Grey and his desertion—while Margaret, sick at heart, had been waiting and watching—he had been putting all his energy into the task of winding up her affairs in such a way as to make it appear that in their management he had been guilty of nothing but a little pardonable imprudence. He had been obliged to sacrifice some of his own interests in the process, but this was a matter of very small moment.
Mr. Robinson was careful, even as regarded trivial sums, but he was too clever a man of the world not to know the impolicy of the "penny-wise, pound-foolish system." A small sacrifice that would have the effect of impressing the world with his upright character would, he knew, bring in returns fully commensurate to the outlay. He did not, therefore, hesitate to pay up, out of his own pocket, as he magnanimously put it to some highly-impressionable lady clients, that amount of Mrs. Grey's capital which had been lent on insufficient security to the bankrupt trader; but (and this he did not tell the ladies) for the whole transaction he made both sides pay heavily. The man of business was kept under the lawyer's thumb for further use, and Mrs. Grey, out of the capital sum, had to pay not only the expenses, which were heavy, but also certain sundries, including various advances of twenty pounds at a time for maintenance, setting on foot of a search for Mr. Grey and his daughter, letters innumerable, railway journeys and interviews. Mrs. Grey had even the pleasure of defraying the expenses of a trip to Paris taken by her lawyer at the moderate charge of five guineas a day, for the purpose of personally investigating the city with a view to the recovery of Mrs. Grey's daughter. That she had not been met with, either in the Bois de Boulogne or on the Boulevards, was not Mr. Robinson's fault. He carefully frequented both. "Honesty is the best policy." One of the ladies to whom Mr. Robinson mentioned this matter quite incidentally (it illustrated aptly some of her own affairs) put his name down instantly in her will for one thousand pounds; another reported the story to a lately-widowed friend, who at once appointed this upright man her solicitor and confidential adviser. Mr. Robinson held his head higher, and at the next cottage-meeting he attended gave out for the text, "Godliness hath the promise of this life and of that which is to come"—a fact, he proceeded to say, which was strangely borne out by his own late experiences. But this was incidental, a providential side-wind. The real object of his attention at this time was to get rid altogether of Mrs. Grey's affairs, which, as she had the power in her hands of appointing another trustee, he knew it was possible to do. He was anxious, therefore, to press the matter forward, that he might gain her signature acknowledging full satisfaction with his proceedings before any sharper eyes than hers could look into the business and so a contrary advice be given.
It was to accomplish this purpose that Mr. Robinson had planned an interview for the day succeeding that on which Arthur's letter had been received. That morning Margaret was better. The first paroxysm of disappointment had passed. Adèle's words of gentle wisdom had made her almost ashamed of her own impatience. Better than all, perhaps, it was a fine, clear October day. The sun was shining; the bare trees, waving gracefully in the breeze, wrote their delicate tracery against the clear blue sky, the sea had fallen to partial rest. Margaret's excitement had exhausted her. She slept late. When she awoke the sun was high in the heavens. Adèle had long left her side, but before she could look round inquiringly the young girl had opened the door gently and was creeping in to see if her friend were awake.
"Come in, Adèle," said Margaret. "Why, it must be late. How is it that you allowed me to sleep so long?"