CHAPTER IX.

_ARTHUR ARRIVES AT MIDDLETHORPE._

Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer not More grief than ye can weep for.

Margaret Grey was sitting in her garden. It was a warm day. A faint haze, born of the vapor, paled the deep blue of the sky; not a breath of wind stirred the languid foliage of the trees; the flowers were bathed in light and color; through a gap in the trees came the glimmer of the sea, and faintly on the still air rose the murmur of lulling waves--scarcely waves, perhaps only movement, stir, the manifestation of ocean's ceaseless life. It was a day to rejoice in--a day when the pulses quicken and the heart is glad with unconscious, unreasoning gladness; when lovers look into one another's eyes and creep more closely together; when children laugh and sing, and even the dumb creatures seem to rejoice in being.

In _her_ face was no sense of gladness. She sat under the trees, a book in her hand, a shawl wrapt closely round her shoulders.

Every particle of color had left her face, even her lips were pale. The golden coronal of hair with which Nature had endowed her seemed to throw a ghastly shade over her face. It looked unnatural, like the glory of youth when its life and gladness have gone by. Only her eyes retained their beauty, for through their mournful wistfulness, their sometimes wild eagerness, the beautiful soul still shone, and in the week of hope, of beauty, of life itself, that soul was learning, slowly and painfully, it is true, but learning still, the lesson that, consciously or unconsciously, all must learn,--submission to the Supreme Will first and above all; not the mild sentimental "Thy will be done" of which hymnists and sermon-coiners discourse so glibly, nor even that "grace of patience" which her solicitor had recommended her to seek as a panacea for all her ills, but a something far above and beyond these--a something that, perhaps, only those who have suffered keenly can ever know--the laying down of self-will altogether, the recognition, through sorrows and contradictions manifold, of a Divine Love

"Shaping the ends of life."

A book was in Margaret's hand, but she did not often look at it, at least not for long. There seemed to be a disturbing cause at work that prevented her from fixing her attention on anything but the absorbing anxiety which held her.

It was toward the afternoon of the long day, and she had been sitting there since early morning waiting and watching. From time to time she would take out her watch and consult it, and once she pressed her hand to her side, murmuring, "Patience, patience! My God, shall I ever learn it?"

And the song-birds flitted backward and forward over her head, and the sea smiled and the earth rejoiced. There was no answer to the cry of the lonely heart. Patience; yes, patience, poor stricken one! for "when night is darkest, then dawn is near." I wonder who thinks of it when the black darkness is closing around them? Certainly Margaret did not.

She was sitting in the back part of the little garden; from her position she could hear the door-bell and the click of the latch of the front gate, but she could not see those who came in or went out, and through that long day there had been no sound of outside life to break in upon her solitude. It had begun to sicken her as she sat under the trees looking out upon the sunshine.

There was a sound at last--the stopping of wheels at the garden-gate, the latch pushed back with something of impatience, a ring at the door-bell that echoed through the house.

Margaret leapt to her feet and tried to rush forward. It was surely that for which she had been looking--a telegram to tell her something had been done. He had promised to use all possible despatch.

Alas, poor Margaret! The "he" in question was at that moment exciting himself very little about her or her concerns. He was not very far from her. He could have been seen by any who had chosen to take the trouble of looking for him, seated on a strong little black pony, jogging along with great contentment--a conspicuous object on the yellow sands.

In moments of strong excitement physical power sometimes abandons us: perhaps it is that the spirit would master the body, and forgetting its bonds rush forward alone to meet the coming fate, and that then the weakness of its natural home draws it back to its humanity.

It was something like this Margaret experienced. She rose, she would have pressed forward. In an incredibly short time she would have had the message in her hands, but her limbs refused to bear her. She sank back on the garden-seat, compelled, whether she would or no, to wait--to wait.

The delay was not long, but it seemed to her as if the moments were ages, each laden with an agony of suspense, while she sat still in her forced inaction.

Jane crossed the lawn at last with something in her hand, and Margaret covered her face and moaned faintly. If this should be disappointment, how could she bear it? It _was_ disappointment. The message turned out to be a card which Jane put into her hands, explaining as she did so that the young gentleman had come on important business, and wished particularly to see her, if only for a few moments.

"A young gentleman--important business," said Margaret faintly; "then it is not a telegram?"

"Who said it were?" asked Jane rather rudely. She knew very well that speak as she might her mistress would take very little notice of her now. "I said a young gentleman was in the parlor," she continued in a higher key, as if Margaret had been deaf, "and I've too much to do to be wasting _my_ time argufying. Everybody can't set doing nothing all day like _some_ folk I could tell of. Are you going to see him or are you not?"

"I will see him," replied Margaret quietly. "Ask him to wait a few minutes."

She had wondered only a moment before how she could bear the disappointment. It came, and she neither fainted nor wept, only there fell a chiller shadow over her heart--the darkness of her lot on earth seemed to deepen.

She watched with eyes from which all the light had gone out until Jane had re-entered the house, then she rose again, and this time no ultra-impetuousness delayed her. The name on the card puzzled her. She had a vague notion she had seen it somewhere before, but in her trouble her London remembrances were partially swamped. She scarcely knew even why she had decided to grant this young man an interview. She was only obeying a secret impulse: he might possibly be the bearer of a message.

She had not thought at the moment she left her seat that the parlor-window looked out upon the little garden; but so it was, and as languidly and with apparent pain she crossed the lawn its temporary occupant was gazing upon her.

Her appearance shocked him terribly. He had been in no way prepared for the change which that week of misery and loneliness had brought about. She did not look the same. Then, indeed, she had been sad, but the sadness had not absorbed her utterly--had not written on her face the haggard, weary hopelessness which it now bore.

The young man's heart contracted painfully; a sudden dismay seized him. He would have turned and fled. How could he bear to face this suffering? In its presence he felt weak and helpless as a child.

But he looked at her again, the white patient face with its halo of golden color, the weak languid steps, the beautiful outlines, the never-failing, unconscious grace, and as he looked the love of his heart surged in a great wave over his being. Unconsciously he clasped his hands, his brows knit, his form dilated.

"God helping me," he said in a low impassioned voice that swept upward from the innermost depths of his spirit--"God helping me, I will help her!"

Scarcely was the vow made before the door opened and Margaret and he were face to face. She looked at him for a moment, then held out her hand, smiling her recognition. "Sit down," she said with the quiet graciousness Arthur remembered so well, taking a seat herself at the same time; then suddenly she caught sight of what he brought, for Arthur had the scarf on his arm. Her quietness fled, she rose to her feet, and seizing his arm pointed to it eagerly: "Where did you find it? Whose is it? Why did you bring it here?"

She spoke and fell back on her chair, gasping for breath.