CHAPTER III.

_THREATENED SEPARATION._

The rainbow dies in heaven, and not on earth; But love can never die: from world to world, Up the high wheel of heaven, it lives for aye.

Adele was in despair. By that evening's post a letter had arrived from her mother. Mrs. Churchill was on her way to Scarborough, and her niece was travelling with her. They were sleeping at York that night. On the following day they would call for Adele at Middlethorpe, and take her on with them. Again and again the date of her return to her mother's care had been deferred, in obedience to her wishes repeatedly and earnestly expressed.

Mrs. Churchill, always indulgent to what she looked upon as Adele's whims, had in consequence spent the month of September in Brighton, but her forbearance would extend no further. It was high time, she thought, that her daughter's absurd seclusion should come to an end. Her letter was written in a very decided manner. She wished to leave no loophole for excuse or further delay.

It seemed to Adele that the announcement had come just at the wrong time. In the long, heart-sickening anxiety of suspense, Margaret's strength was failing, and the young girl knew she was her chief comfort and help. She trembled to think how the much-tried endurance of her friend might fail if she were thrown suddenly on her own resources.

And Margaret had been given into her care by Arthur. The patient fulfilling of her task was a pledge of her love. It was not a hard task, for Adele's affection, which had partaken of the fervid nature of passion in the admiration of her young heart for Margaret's beauty, in the pity which had arisen on that first day of their meeting at the sight of her distress, had taken perhaps a calmer tone during these weeks of close intimacy, but withal a much deeper and firmer root.

Adele loved her friend so truly that she would willingly have sacrificed any happiness of her own for her good, and the idea of leaving her, of returning to the old rounds of tedious gayety, of knowing that in her absence the strong, brave heart was failing, the weakened spirit was giving way, even when the end might be very near, made her heart ache and throb.

She would not tell Margaret that night, for the business and discussion of the day had wearied her, but there was an almost unusual tenderness in her manner, which Margaret attributed to her fear of having unduly urged the non-signature of Mr. Robinson's papers.

Old Martha was ready at her post to help Margaret to bed. Adele sent her away peremptorily. "No one shall touch you to-night but me," she said, stooping over the arm-chair in which Margaret was sitting, and loosening her hair with gentle fingers; then, as Margaret smilingly protested, "Just for this once," she pleaded; and her friend did not see, for the long, blinding tresses, that slow tears were falling one by one from the young girl's eyes.

There was exceeding comfort in the passing to and fro of those busy fingers, for their every touch spoke eloquently of love. This it was that Margaret felt. Once she caught one of the busy hands and pressed it to her lips.

"What should I do without you, Adele?" she said softly. "Little one, I begin to fear I am loving you too much. My loves are unfortunate. It is the old story of the fair gazelle. Scold me well; I deserve it for my sentimental folly; still, the feeling is here--I can't get rid of it."

Adele had to choke back her tears before she could answer. When she did her voice was slightly husky: "I don't think loves can ever be unfortunate--quite altogether, I mean--for you know to lose for a time is not to lose for always, and where there is love, real true love, there must be lasting." She paused for a moment, as if in earnest struggle to express herself worthily, and then her voice grew more earnest and her eyes seemed to deepen: "It is charity--love--that abideth--the only earthly feeling we can never do without."

She had finished brushing and combing Margaret's long hair; she was sitting on a stool at her feet gazing into the fire.

"Adele," said Margaret, "you are wiser than I, or perhaps there's something altogether wrong about me. I cannot take the comfort you do out of these generalities. Child, child," her voice grew intensely earnest, "it is not this beautiful something, this 'charity which abideth,' that I want; it is my personal loves--my husband, my child."

The young girl looked up into her eyes; she answered with the calm assurance of faith: "Margaret, be calm: you shall have them. But do you know I never look upon all these things as generalities; if love is to last, our personal loves are to last too." She sighed. "I know I express myself badly. I wish I could make you understand what I mean."

"I think I _do_ understand," said Margaret thoughtfully. "Adele," she said after a pause, during which perhaps almost the very same thought had been passing through their minds, "our love, yours and mine and your cousin's, the strange tangle which your straightforwardness and self-forgetfulness unravelled, is certainly of the lasting kind. The future may throw us widely apart, but I think that neither here nor hereafter can it ever be the same as if we had not loved."

This time Adele did not answer, because she could not. The shadow of that dreadful separation was on her spirit. After a few moments' silence she said lightly that Margaret had talked quite enough--that it was time for her to rest; which dictum Margaret obeyed with great willingness.

The next day was that fixed upon by Mrs. Churchill for her visit. Adele could no longer delay letting Margaret know that a summons from her mother had come; but the morning is generally more favorable to hopefulness than the evening. Adele had begun to think matters were not so desperate as they looked. Possibly she might obtain further respite. She took in the unwelcome letter with Margaret's breakfast-tray, which had been delicately arranged by her own hands.

"Adele, you must go," was Margaret's comment on the letter. And she tried not to show how sorely she would miss her comforter.

Adele was slightly wounded: "Do you really mean it, Margaret?"

"I do indeed, dear. Your mother is quite right; you have sacrificed yourself too long."

"And _you_ can think I have been sacrificing myself!" said the young girl. "But no, you only mean to tease me."

There was something of the disquieting jealousy of that feeling which is always supposed to be more engrossing than mere friendship in her further words: "Perhaps you would not even miss me, Margaret?"

But the tears Margaret could not restrain, the sudden weariness in her pale face, spoke more eloquently than words. Adele threw herself down on her knees by her friend's side: "Forgive me, darling, but if you only knew--"

"--All the tenderness of this warm young heart," and Margaret smiled faintly, resting her hand, as if in silent blessing, on the bowed head.

"But look, dear," she continued after a pause, "your mother is coming, and I am anxious to see her, so she must not find me in bed. Will _you_ help me to dress this morning?"

Adele rose and brushed away her tears. "How stupid I am!" she cried, "and really I didn't intend to be so silly to-day, for, Margaret, I was just thinking--Mamma is so good and kind, she generally lets me do as I like; then, you see, she has never met you. I mean to dress you as you were dressed yesterday, and I want you to put forth all your fascinations. The result will be that mamma won't have the heart to carry me off."

"But, Adele--"

"But, Margaret. Put yourself in my hands, madam. Remember I am responsible for your safe-keeping to somebody--my somebody, not yours, Margaret. By the bye, I will urge Arthur's wishes. Mamma never likes to offend _him_."

And so Adele rattled on to hide her true, deep feelings, while once more she ministered tenderly to the friend she loved.

Mrs. Churchill, impatient as the time drew nearer to see her daughter again, had left York by an early train, and Margaret and Adele had not been long seated over their work in the little parlor before a travelling carriage, heavily laden with luggage, drove up to the door. She had brought her carriage and horses so far by rail, her intention being to post for the remainder of the way.

It was long since Margaret had met any stranger, and she felt a little nervous when the rattle of wheels came to her ears; but as from her station by the parlor-window she caught a sight of Mrs. Churchill's pleasant, kindly face, some of her painful anticipations fled.

Adele had run down the garden-path. She brought her mother in to introduce her to her friend.

The good Mrs. Churchill had been rather curious to see Margaret. Adele's enthusiasm and Arthur's boyish admiration had made her look for something remarkable, but she was scarcely prepared for the refinement, the style, the exquisite grace of her daughter's friend. It was a rare combination, even in those circles in which the rich and highly-connected widow moved.

Mrs. Churchill knew enough of the world to be quite sure at once that she was in the house of a lady--not only highly born and bred, but accustomed to the usages of society. Her good sense and kindly feeling led her to treat her hostess with all due deference.

"I have long wished to have the pleasure of making your acquaintance, Mrs. Grey," she said when Margaret had persuaded her to divest herself of bonnet and shawl, "I have heard so much about you from these enthusiastic children of mine. I call them my children, because Arthur has been almost like my own son, and I presume you are in the confidence of this little girl, and that she has let out her secret." Mrs. Churchill looked at Margaret rather curiously.

"Yes," replied Mrs. Grey quietly, drawing down Adele, who had been hovering about her nervously, to a seat by her side. "I heard long ago, both from your daughter and nephew, of this engagement; and much as I admire Mr. Forrest, I cannot but think, knowing your daughter as I do, that he is a very fortunate man."

Adele blushed: "Margaret, be quiet; you shouldn't say such things." But her smile belied her words; it was so radiant that it transfigured her face.

Her mother turned to her: "Adele, my dear, do you know that you ought to be very much obliged to Mrs. Grey for her long hospitality? Now I look at you I am surprised; I never saw such a change. When you left London you were colorless and sickly."

"Mamma, mamma!" protested Adele, "how very uninteresting!"

But Mrs Churchill persisted: "Yes, my dear, I speak the bare truth; now your animation has come back, you have gained flesh and color, you are _absolutely_ a different being. Mrs. Grey, what have you been doing with her?"

Margaret smiled: "I am so glad you think her looking well, and that her visit here has done her good, for I was beginning to think myself selfish for keeping her so long in this lonely place. I suppose the fresh sea-air has worked the miracle."

"The cure is not quite accomplished, mamma," said Adele coaxingly; but Margaret interrupted her:

"We can talk about that presently, dear; just now your mother wants rest and refreshment. Would you mind hurrying Jane on with lunch for me?"

She turned to Mrs. Churchill: "Our establishment is small, and I have been delicate lately, so your daughter kindly helps me in many little ways."

"Small indeed!" thought Mrs. Churchill, but she would not have said so for the world. She was far too much of the real lady to be able to take upon herself any fine-lady airs of superiority, and then she began to interest herself strangely in her daughter's friend. Mrs. Churchill would have been very much displeased could she have heard herself called impulsive; indeed, it was only in a certain way that she was so. Her impulses were generally inspired by some tolerably solid reasons. In this case her keen eye had instantly detected the lady, also the absence of all those qualities which go to make up the _intriguante_. This set her at ease at once, while the gentleness, the evident weakness, the traces of profound suffering, moved her kind heart as it had not been moved for long. She had not been in the cottage half an hour before, with true motherliness of intent, she made up her mind to take Mrs. Grey in hand.

"I am glad to hear Adele has been of any service to you," was her answer to Margaret, cordially spoken, and then she looked at Mrs. Grey as she had looked at her daughter. "I am sorry to hear of this delicacy, Mrs. Grey; you certainly look far from well, but I think so lonely a place as this would kill me in a few months. Why not try a change--a little gayety, for instance? Now, if you would allow me to return your hospitality to my daughter by taking you with us to Scarborough, I really think you would find the change would do you good. Then a little cod-liver-oil, quinine and port-wine, steel--But perhaps you are taking some of these?"

Margaret smiled: "Thank you very much for your kind interest in my health. No, I take none of these things, and I scarcely think they could do me good. As to a change, you are very good to propose it; I fear at present I could enjoy nothing. I could not enter into general society; I should only be a burden on your hands."

Mrs. Churchill looked across at Margaret's pale face and warmed into sympathy and interest: "But this is a dreadful state of things, Mrs. Grey. Nothing so insidious, I can assure you, as the creeping on of general ill-health; you ought to do something. Have you consulted a doctor?"

"A doctor could do me no good. My dear Mrs. Churchill, pray don't distress yourself on my account; I think you know enough of my history to understand me when I say that my illness is far more mental than physical. These weeks, which are bringing me hope, have been almost more trying to me than the years that went before."

"And how long is this state of thing to be supposed to last?" cried the impulsive and warm-hearted lady. "Now, Mrs. Grey, _will_ you take my advice? I am many years older than you--old enough, I imagine, to be your mother. You look incredulous. Well, have it your own way. They say I bear my years well, and I believe that in this case the _on dits_ are more correct than usual. You will allow, at least, that I have larger experience of the world than you. Shall I give you my secret--the true elixir of life, my dear? Never allow yourself to feel too deeply. Feelings have been the ruin of some of the finest constitutions."

"But what if they cannot be helped?" said Margaret, who was smiling through a half inclination to tears.

"My dear (_child_ I was about to say, but I don't wish to offend you), an effort should be made, for what does all the crying over spilt milk mean?" This was a favorite theme with Mrs. Churchill. "Why, as I have told Adele a thousand times, to fret one's self into a premature death because things don't go altogether as one could wish is clearly nothing more nor less than flying in the face of Providence; for how did we get our health and strength, and all the rest of it? and if we acknowledge that these are gifts of Providence, ought we to trifle with them? Come now, Mrs. Grey, what have you to say?" Her voice softened as she looked at the pale face and fragile form. "You must excuse me, my dear. You see I am given to speaking my mind, and I am interested in you; so it comes naturally somehow to speak to you as I might to this wilful little girl of mine." For Adele had come in during the latter part of Mrs. Churchill's harangue. She was listening with real pleasure to the energetic words, for she knew her mother well enough to be aware that she never took the trouble of lecturing in this manner any one who had not first made great way in her affections.

"This is mamma's pet subject, Margaret," she said; "what have _you_ to say? I always find her arguments unanswerable, but then they never converted me."

Margaret smiled: "I have to say, Adele, that your mother is perfectly right, that I deserve every word of her lecture, and that I intend to make an effort in the way of getting rid of these tiresome feelings and becoming strong again."

"Only if you have me to help you, Margaret," pleaded Adele.

But Margaret shook her head: "No, no; I have no right to keep you longer from your mother."

Adele turned pleadingly to Mrs. Churchill: "Mamma, mamma, leave me here a _little_ longer."

"Your 'littles' are elastic, Adele. For how many weeks have you been saying this?"

"And I suppose I shall say the same"--the young girl looked up saucily at her mother, blushing ever so slightly--"until Arthur comes back, mamma. _He_ wishes me to stay and take care of Margaret."

Mrs. Churchill was in a very good humor; she laughed outright: "You are certainly a pretty pair, and very well adapted to the task of taking care of yourselves. When that event, which you are always thrusting in my face, really happens, I shall have to engage an elderly female of strong common sense to look after you both and keep you in order--a pair of babies!"

"But, mamma, you haven't answered me."

"Mrs. Grey says nothing, Adele; perhaps she is tired of you, or perhaps--which to my mind would be the best of all--you could persuade her to change her mind and become our guest at Scarborough."

Adele's eyes glistened. Certainly her mother must have taken a strong as well as sudden fancy to her friend: "Oh, mamma, you have asked Margaret to stay with us? How good of you!"

Mrs. Churchill turned to her hostess in mock despair: "I believe this foolish child thinks I had nothing but her fancies in view. You must excuse her, Mrs. Grey; the excitement seems to have put her slightly off her head. Let me assure you once more that, purely for your own sake, I shall be most delighted if you will become our guest until your future is a little more decided."

Margaret put out her hand; she was touched by Mrs. Churchill's delicate kindness. "Thank you a thousand times," she said gently; "if I were even in a fit state for travelling I should not hesitate to take advantage of your kind offer, so attractive in every way. But Adele will tell you how it is with me at times; I cannot even dress myself. No; I must say good-bye to Adele, with many thanks both to her and to you, and return to my lonely life. I hope it may soon be over."

"_What_ may soon be over?" Mrs. Churchill turned round sharply, for there was a sad ring in the voice, which Margaret had striven to render absolutely calm. She met Mrs. Grey's quiet smile. "I see you mean that you believe your husband will soon return, but I do wish people would say what they mean." There was something of fretfulness in Mrs. Churchill's voice; she did not like to be puzzled, and her daughter's friend was puzzling her.

"I really think," she continued meditatively, "that my best plan would be to put up here at the hotel for a few days. By the bye, Adele, I left Mary there; I would not bring her on here until I knew more certainly about your arrangements. Yes, I think that will do. You and she could amuse yourselves together, and I should like very much to try the effect of quinine and port wine on Mrs. Grey. I brought a hamper of our own wine with me--exceedingly fortunate, as it turns out."

Margaret was weak. Do what she would she could not prevent the tears from filling her eyes. "You are too good to me," she said; "how shall I thank you?"

"By trying to get strong, my dear, and remembering first of all (you see you begin by breaking my rules) to take things quietly is the best policy. Now, Adele, put on your hat and drive to the hotel. Make them unload the carriage and bring Mary back in it. Are we trespassing too much, Mrs. Grey? You young people will have plenty to talk about, so you need not hurry back. Mrs. Grey in the mean time must give me some account of her symptoms. It may be that the worldly wisdom of a worldly old woman will do as much to help her as the romantic enthusiasm of the young folk who in the present day rule the roast."

Adele obeyed her mother to the letter. She left her and Margaret alone together for a good hour. She returned to find them fast friends. The cheerful optimism of the elder lady had strengthened the younger considerably, for Margaret wanted bracing, and Mrs. Churchill's sound common-sense was like a blast of north wind: it swept away sundry vapors, it invigorated the heart that a succession of evils had rendered distrustful of good. And Margaret's pathetic story, her truth, her goodness, her life of devotion--for all these had, insensibly to herself, shone out in her simple narrative--filled her hearer with admiration, elevated her conception of human nature, made her believe (a humanizing belief to many natures), in looking back upon her own mistrust, that her judgment was not always infallible.

For a whole week--and it was a real act of self-sacrificing friendship--Mrs. Churchill remained in the quiet village by the sea. The season was late, so she made up her mind to give up Scarborough and return from Middlethorpe to London. She dosed Margaret abundantly with quinine and port wine, she braced her mind by vigorous common sense, well-grounded cheerfulness and antipathetic banishment of any thing approaching morbidness or so-called sentiment. When she left she had the satisfaction of seeing her patient better. It is almost needless to add that the kind-hearted lady had not the heart to deprive Margaret of her friend. Adele remained at the cottage till the chill winds of early winter swept the waters, while still no certain tidings came to them of their wanderers.