Look? I would rather look on thee one minute
Than paradise for a whole day—such days
As are in heaven.
Autumn had fallen upon the little village by the seaside where Margaret was waiting and hoping and longing, with still no tidings, or but very scant ones, of her lost. She and Adèle were left almost alone, for the bleak winds and stormy seas had driven away the few visitors. It was a very different scene from the one which Arthur had looked in upon on that sunny August day not so many weeks before, for now the balmy summer winds had given place to strong blustering gales; the trees, almost bare, shivered in their nakedness; and instead of the soft, continuous murmuring of rippling waters, there came ever and anon to the ear the boom of waves breaking in upon the shore. It was a dreary time. Chill mists and equinoctial gales divided the sea between them, while the dank earth-smell of decaying leaves and dying blossoms made the earth desolate.
The two women in the little cottage, knit together by so strange a tie, fought vigorously against the influence of the season, but there were times when it was too strong for them—times when Adèle would read danger in the stormy seas and long passionately for Arthur's safe return—times when Margaret would fear that her hope had been vain, that never, in all the long life that lay before her, would she see her husband again or know the mystery of his long forgetfulness.
Through it all Margaret and Adèle clung to one another; their mutual friendship was a source of great comfort to both. Adèle was unlike many others of her sex. The knowledge that Margaret was the woman who had first called out her cousin's force of character, instead of making her sick with jealousy, filled her soul with loving reverence for her who had been the cause of this awakening. She never hid her frank admiration, her untiring love and sympathy, from her companion; and what wonder that Margaret returned her feelings, honored her as she deserved, and reckoned her friendship the most precious thing her years of suffering had brought her? They were different, these two who had been thrown in so strange a manner upon one another's society—as different in character as they were in appearance; and perhaps, strange as it may seem, the younger of the two, who seemed little more than a child with her flaxen hair and bright blue eyes and general fragility, was stronger in some ways than the woman of queenly stature, of much experience, of many woes.
In any case, since that evening when Arthur left them the relations between them were partially reversed, for now it was Margaret who leaned upon Adèle for support and comfort. When her courage was about to fail utterly; when, weary and heart-sick, she was ready to arraign God himself for cruelty and injustice; when the long days which would have to pass before anything certain could be known seemed so hard to live through that she would clench her hands and pace up and down, seeking rest and finding none,—then the younger and more inexperienced would bring her strength, would speak with a calm assurance she was far from feeling, would use a gentle authority in enforcing rest that Margaret found it difficult to resist.
"I wonder how it is, Adèle," she said one day when, after a paroxysm of bitter weeping, the young girl had soothed her into something like rest—"I wonder how it is that you have such power? A few moments ago everything seemed hopeless. You tell me to hope, and my courage comes back. What makes you so certain?"
"I scarcely know," replied the young girl; she was silent for a few moments, then added in a low tone, "I believe in God."
Margaret put out her hand; it had grown thin and transparent during these last days: "Darling, I know, but He allows wrong."
"Not for ever," replied Adèle firmly, taking the offered hand in her warm grasp. "Margaret, be patient—your wrong will end—the truth will be known."