"You'll take him my love, will you? But, Master Gregory, you carry a freight of which you do not know the measure; and, perhaps, you never shall, though you are very brave and honest, and not so impudent as you used to be,—and I'm not so sure that I like you so much better for that either, Monsieur Gregory."
Then she went and laid her cheek against her mother's, and said: "They've gone away for big game, mother dear; what shall be our quarry?"
"My child," the mother replied, "the story of our lives since last you were with me is my only quarry. I want to know from your own lips all that you have been in that life which once was mine also, but far away from me now, even though you come from it, bringing its memories without its messages."
"Dear, do you think that life there was so sweet to me? It meant as little to your daughter as to you. She was always a child of the wild woods. What rustle of pretty gowns is pleasant as the silken shiver of the maple leaves in summer at this door? The happiest time in that life was when we got away to Holwood or Marchurst, with the balls and calls all over."
Mrs. Malbrouck smoothed her daughter's hand gently and smiled approvingly.
"But that old life of yours, mother; what was it? You said that you would tell me some day. Tell me now. Grandmother was fond of me—poor grandmother! But she would never tell me anything. How I longed to be back with you!…. Sometimes you came to me in my sleep, and called to me to come with you; and then again, when I was gay in the sunshine, you came, and only smiled but never beckoned; though your eyes seemed to me very sad, and I wondered if mine would not also become sad through looking in them so—are they sad, mother?" And she laughed up brightly into her mother's face.
"No, dear; they are like the stars. You ask me for my part in that life. I will tell you soon, but not now. Be patient. Do you not tire of this lonely life? Are you truly not anxious to return to—"
"'To the husks that the swine did eat?' No, no, no; for, see: I was born for a free, strong life; the prairie or the wild wood, or else to live in some far castle in Welsh mountains, where I should never hear the voice of the social Thou must!—oh, what a must! never to be quite free or natural. To be the slave of the code. I was born—I know not how! but so longing for the sky, and space, and endless woods. I think I never saw an animal but I loved it, nor ever lounged the mornings out at Holwood but I wished it were a hut on the mountain side, and you and father with me." Here she whispered, in a kind of awe: "And yet to think that Holwood is now mine, and that I am mistress there, and that I must go back to it—if only you would go back with me…. ah, dear, isn't it your duty to go back with me?" she added, hesitatingly.
Audrey Malbrouck drew her daughter hungrily to her bosom, and said: "Yes,
dear, I will go back, if it chances that you need me; but your father and
I have lived the best days of our lives here, and we are content.
But, my Margaret, there is another to be thought of too, is there not?
And in that case is my duty then so clear?"
The girl's hand closed on her mother's, and she knew her heart had been truly read.