University of Virginia Library

46. CHAPTER XLVI.
THE CLOUDS BREAK OVER BEECHWOOD.

ACKNOWLEDGED by every one as the daughter of
the Greys, caressed and idolized by Alice, petted by
Aunt Penelope, and treated by Mr. Grey with the
utmost tenderness and deference, Magdalen would have
been perfectly happy but for one unfulfilled desire which was
the skeleton at her side. Between herself and Alice there
was perfect confidence, while she was learning daily more and
more to respect her father, who omitted nothing which could
tend to win her love. To her mother she was the same gentle
nurse who never grew weary, but who sat hour after hour by
the bedside, repeating over and over again the story of the
lost child, until Laura knew it by heart and would correct her
at once if she deviated ever so little. There was a change
gradually stealing over the invalid, a change both in body and
mind. She was far more quiet, and did not rock the cradle as
much as formerly, and once, when Magdalen had finished her
story for the second time that day, she said to her, “I think I
have heard it enough to know that baby is not in the crib, and

never has been. Take it away, — where I can't rock it again
and make Arthur so nervous.”

They carried it out, — Alice and Magdalen together, — and
put it away, each feeling, as they left it, as if turning from a
little grave. Laura never spoke of it but once, and that was
to her husband. Pointing to the place where it had stood so
long, she said with a smile, “Do you see it is gone? It will
never keep you awake again. Kiss me, Arthur, for I, too, shall
be gone before long.”

He kissed her, more than once, and put his arms about her,
and felt how small and thin she had grown; then looking into
her face he saw the change which only Magdalen had noticed.
The burden was lifting, the cloud was breaking, and Laura was
passing away. There was no particular disease, only a gradual
breaking up of the springs of life, and as the days grew longer
and warmer she drooped more and more, until at last she
never left her bed all day, and rarely spoke except to Magdalen,
who was with her constantly. Sometimes it seemed as if there
was a gleam of reason struggling through the darkness which
had shrouded her mind so long, but it never went much further
than such expressions as, “I think I do remember the boy with
the kind voice and soft blue eyes, to whom I gave Magdalen,
but I can't quite make out how that Magdalen and this are
one.”

“I would not try now; I'd go to sleep and rest,” Magdalen
would say, and obedient to the voice she always heeded, Laura
would grow quiet and fall again into the deep slumber so
common to her now.

In this way she lingered on for a few weeks, and then died
quietly one morning in early June, when her husband was in New
York and only Magdalen and Alice were with her. They knew
that she was failing, but they had not thought the end so near,
and were greatly shocked when, at a faint call from her, they
hastened to her side and saw the pinched look about her nose,
the deep pallor about her lips, and the sweat-drops upon her
brow.

“Let me go for aunty,” Alice said, but her mother answered,
“No, Alice, there won't be time. I'm going somewhere, going
away from here, and I want you and Magda to stay. It's
getting night, and the way is dark, and life is very weary. Give
me your hands, both of you, my children.”

She acknowledged Magdalen, and with a cry the young girl
fell on her knees beside the bed, exclaiming, “Mother, oh
mother, you do know I am your child. Call me that once
more.”

But Laura's mind was going out after one who was not there,
and she only whispered, “Where is Arthur? Allie, where is
your father?”

“In New York,” was the reply, and a shadow flitted over
the otherwise placid face, as Laura rejoined, “Always in New
York, the old, old story. I wish he was here; tell him, will
you, that I am gone, and before I went I left word I was sorry
I had troubled him so much. I'd like to kiss him again.
Magda, let me kiss you for him; give it to him for me, and if
I don't look very bad, ask him to kiss me back, but not unless
I'm decent looking. He's fastidious, and fancies pretty faces.”

She wound her arms about Magdalen's neck and her cold
lips gave the kiss for Arthur. It was their last; they never
moved again, and when Magdalen unclasped the clinging arms
from her neck and laid the poor head which had ached so long
back upon the pillow, she saw that her mother was dead. They
telegraphed at once for Mr. Grey, who reached home just at
nightfall. They had dressed Laura in white and laid her on
the couch with flowers in her hands and flowers on her pillow,
and as if in answer to her wishes, the old worn look had passed
entirely from her face, which looked smooth and fair and
younger than the face of forty is wont to look. Many traces
of her soft, girlish beauty clung to her still, and Mr. Grey, when
first he went into the room and drew aside the muslin which
covered her face, started, and uttered an exclamation of surprise
at the unexpected beauty of his wife. He did like pretty
faces, and he was glad that the Laura, who lay there dead, was

like the girl he had loved so passionately for a few brief months.
The sight of her as she was now with the placid look on her
white face and the long eyelashes shading her cheek, brought
back something of his former love for Laura Clayton, and
kneeling beside her he wept tears of sorrow and regret for the
life which had been so full of sorrow.

“Laura, poor Laura,” he said, and his hand fondled the cold
cheek which would never again glow beneath his touch, “I
wish you could know I am here beside you, and how sorry I
am for the past. Dear Laura, I wish you had forgiven me
before you died.”

“She did, father, and I am here to tell you what she said.”

It was Magdalen's voice which spoke and Magdalen who
knelt by the weeping man, calling him father for the first time in
her life! Passing the open door she had heard his words of
grief, and her first impulse was to comfort him. It was very
meet that there in the presence of the dead mother she should
call him father, and the name fell involuntarily from her lips,
sending a thrill of joy through his heart, and causing him to look
up as she knelt beside him and press her closely to his heart.

“Bless you, Magdalen, my darling, my daughter; bless you
for calling me by that name. I have longed so for it, have wanted
so to hear it. I shall be a better man. I am a better man.
I believe in Alice's God, and here by Laura's side, in His presence
and yours, I acknowledge my past transgressions. I renounce
my infidel notions, in which I really never did believe.
I wish to be forgiven. I pray that Jessie and Laura, both of
whom I wronged, may have met together in the Heaven to
which I am unfit to go.”

He was talking more to himself than to Magdalen, who, when
he had finished, told him of Laura's last moments, omitting
everything which could give him pain and telling him only of
the kindly message left for him. “She wanted to kiss you,”
Magdalen said, “and as you were not here, she gave it to me
for you. This was mother's kiss for my father;” and Magdalen's

lips were pressed against the lips of Mr. Grey, who broke
down entirely and sobbed like a little child.

Could Laura have looked into that room, she surely would
have been satisfied with the tears and kisses given her by her
husband, who sat there until midnight, and whom the early
morning found at her side. Had she been always as young and
fair and as dearly loved as when he first called her his wife, he
could not have seemed more sad or expressed more sorrow
than he did. Everything which could be done for a dead person
was done for her, and her funeral was arranged with as
much care as if she had been a blessing rather than a trouble
to the house over whose threshold they bore her, on a beautiful
summer's day, out to the little family cemetery on the hillside,
where they buried her beside the proud old woman, who made
no demur when the plebeian form was laid beside her.