“This annoyed Arthur terribly. He likes quiet, and ease, and luxury, and, as he could not have these in his own house, he sought them elsewhere, and has travelled almost over the world. Twice Laura has been in a private asylum. She was there all the time we were abroad; but after our return Alice begged so hard for her to be allowed to come to Beechwood, that Arthur brought her back, and will never move her again.
“Mother died the winter after Laura’s return, and Clarissa the year following. As my husband was dead, and I alone in the world, I came here to care for my brother and Alice. Poor girl! Her life has been a sad one, though she knows nothing, or comparatively nothing, of the early domestic trouble between her parents, and how her mother was received at Beechwood.”
Mrs. Seymour paused here, and Magdalen, who had listened eagerly, asked, “If that child which died when it was four weeks old had lived, how old would it have been when Mr. Grey came home?”
Mrs. Seymour could hardly tell, for the reason that in her letter to her husband Laura did not give the date of its birth but as nearly as they could judge it must have been nine or ten months old, possibly more.
“Yes,” Magdalen said; “and the dress in the satchel,—did it never occur to you that it could not have been made for a four weeks’ old baby. It was meant for a larger child. And did you never think there might be a meaning in the words, ‘One is dead, and one is not,’ Mrs. Seymour?” and Magdalen grew more earnest and vehement. “There must have been two children instead of one,—twins, one of whom died and the other she left in the cars. I know it, I believe it. I shall prove it yet. She has always talked to me of two, and one she said was Madeline and one was Magdalen, and Mr. Irving told me that the woman in the cars called me something which sounded like Magdalen. Don’t you see it? Can’t you understand how it all might be?”
Mrs. Seymour was confounded and bewildered, and answered faintly, “Oh, I don’t know; I wish Arthur was here.”
“I am going to him,” Magdalen exclaimed, starting to her feet,—“going at once, and have him help me solve this mystery. Alice must not know till I come back, and not then, if I fail. I shall start for Cincinnati to-morrow. A woman can oftentimes find out things which a man cannot. Do you think your nephew will go with me?”
She talked so fast, and with so much assurance, that Mrs. Seymour was insensibly won to think as she did and assent to whatever she suggested; and the result was that in less than half an hour’s time Guy, who had been invited up to Magdalen’s room, had heard the whole of the strange story. He believed it, and indorsed Magdalen at once, and hurrahed for his new cousin, and winding his arm around her waist waltzed with her across the room, upsetting his Aunt Pen’s work-basket, and when she remonstrated he caught her in his other arm and took her with him in his mad dance. Exhausted, panting, and half indignant at her scapegrace nephew, Auntie Pen released herself from his grasp, and after a time Magdalen succeeded in stopping him, but he kept fast hold of her hands, while she explained what she wanted of him, and asked if he would go with her.
“Go with you? Yes, the world over, ma belle cousin,” he said, and greatly to the horror of prim Mrs. Penelope, he sealed his promise to serve her with a kiss upon her brow.
Mrs. Seymour was shocked, and half doubted the propriety of sending Magdalen off alone with Guy; but Magdalen knew the kiss was given to Alice as her possible sister rather than to herself, and so did not resent it.